‘I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe it’s you.’ Emotion caused her voice to crackle.
‘I’m here too.’ Ferris stepped forward and Crispin untangled himself from his sister’s greeting in order to make introductions.
‘We learned you were in Italy. Mother and Father are due to arrive here within the week. You’ve put us all through—’
‘I know.’ He curtailed his sister’s response in fear of what she might say next in front of the count.
‘You’ve put us all through a lot of worry.’ She heaved a cleansing breath, her eyes fresh with tears. ‘Are you all right? Let me look at you.’ She stepped back an arm’s length but her smile slowly faded.
Crispin’s did as well. Something was brewing whenever Sophie wore that expression. Why had he thought this was a good idea with a friend along for the first visit? ‘Ferris, can you give us a minute?’
‘Oh, it’s going to take longer than that.’ Sophie went into the drawing room, summoned a servant with a tug to the bellpull and asked the housekeeper to escort the count inside in wait for tea.
Ferris would not want tea.
Then Sophie rounded the newel post at the base of the stairwell, plopped the bouquet into an empty vase and came at him, eyes wide.
‘What is this?’ She grabbed at his hair, slipping the queue from the lengths and dangling it in front of his face like a dirty stocking.
‘So, I’m overdue for a haircut. That’s what you need to discuss with me?’ He snatched the strip of leather from her fingertips and retied his hair.
‘We can’t discuss the mountain of topics requiring conversation with your friend graciously waiting in the drawing room.’ She folded her arms over her chest and drilled him with an imploring glare.
‘Come on, Sophie, isn’t it enough that I’m home?’ He knew it wasn’t, but at the moment he needed peace more than argument, the reverberating impact of how thoughtlessly he’d behaved uncomfortable to accept.
‘No. Not after the months of worry and tears. And the gossip. Good heavens, Crispin, the tales we have all had to spin just to keep your reputation respectable. You can’t walk in here and expect to pick up where you left off.’ She pursed her mouth tight as if she held back from saying more.
‘Believe me, that’s the last thing I want to do.’
‘You left me to console Mother and Father, to try to explain how you ran off over a broken heart.’
‘That wasn’t all of it. Not even half of it. And I’m home now. I’m going to make everything right again.’ He breathed deep, steadfast with immediate plans.
‘You know I’d do anything for you. You’re my brother. Your disappearance has been my obsession for months, but you didn’t think once to send me a note, the smallest message to assure me you’d found no harm.’
The hurt in her voice proved his undoing. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘No. You didn’t. Not about anyone but yourself.’
‘I’m sorry, Sophie.’ He reached for her hand and squeezed it as he spoke. ‘I’m different now.’
‘From how you look and behave, I’d agree. But why are you dressed this way in only black and white? Where’s your cravat? Once you wore the most dashing waistcoats in London. It isn’t proper.’
‘I’m not proper.’ He shot his eyes to the drawing-room entrance, wondering how much Ferris overheard.
‘You can’t become something you’re not,’ Sophie insisted. ‘Why are you trying so hard?’
‘This is who I am.’ That answer caused his sister to laugh.
‘You want me to believe she’s ruined you?’ Sophie shook her head. ‘But this isn’t who you are and you can’t lay your poor choices on Vivienne’s shoulders. She’s happily settled with a darling child of her own.’
‘I realized only days after I’d left how foolishly I’d behaved and how wrong I was to misplace my feelings on Vivienne. There were other reasons I had to leave but I’m a better man for it now.’
‘I hope so, otherwise you’ve wasted a lot of time and emotion.’
When had his sister become so wise?
‘I made mistakes and I needed time to think about how to resolve them. I knew if I stayed in London, too many people would become involved. It was better for me to leave, though I regret not at least telling you where I was and that I hadn’t come to harm. You know, I worried that, once I spoke to you, if I sent Mother and Father a message or started to write you a letter, I’d come back and allow all of you to clean up my mess. This is something I need to do on my own.’
‘I understand, but that doesn’t excuse your behaviour,’ she continued vehemently. ‘And, you can’t become a bastard by choice.’
‘So you’re saying I behaved as one?’
‘You’ve accomplished that goal in spades.’ She grimaced, visibly upset with the path of their conversation.
‘There’s a lot you don’t know.’ He sounded disagreeable, but her badgering wore on his patience.
‘I will, though, as soon as we have more time to talk.’
‘You know, I described you to the count as an angel.’ Attempting to bring the conversation to a better place, he glanced towards the drawing room where Ferris waited.
‘And I am.’ She straightened her skirts and pasted on a brilliant smile. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Yes. Ferris won’t stay put much longer anyway.’ He reached out, clasped Sophie’s hand and gave a little tug. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘As have you, although I can’t say I approve. Father will be livid and Mother won’t allow you in this house until you cut your hair and discarded those dreadful clothes.’
‘I’ve my own house now in Bedford Square.’
‘You do?’ She lost her bluster with this news, her smile transformed into a frown moments later.
‘Yes. Much has changed but I’m the same brother on the inside.’
‘I’d prefer an unaltered outside as well. Are you really the same?’
‘Not in every way, otherwise I’d have failed greater than you believe, but one thing hasn’t changed, Sophie. You’re a sight for sore eyes.’
Her expression softened with genuine emotion and for a moment all their bitter words evaporated. Then she looped her arm in his and aimed them for the drawing-room door.
‘You, Brother, are simply a sight.’
They laughed their way into the room and with relief Crispin noticed Ferris had settled on the far side before the hearth, a book in his lap and brandy in his hand.
‘How did you manage that?’ Crispin indicated the glass with a wag of his chin.
‘I charmed the housekeeper. A lovely woman.’ He smiled and rose with alacrity to cross the room and arrive at Sophie’s side before Crispin could object.
‘Lady Daventry, I’m honoured.’ He waggled his brows with a broad smile. ‘Your brother did not deceive me. You are an angel fallen from heaven.’
Sophie blushed a pretty shade of pink and, through an act of compulsion, Crispin interceded. Perhaps a diversionary tactic was in order. ‘Have you received an invitation for the Frankley soiree?’
As intended, the question snared Sophie’s attention.
‘Yes, it’s the event of the season and I wouldn’t miss it. Besides, all our friends will be there. Are you thinking of attending? It would be the perfect place to reacquaint yourself with gentlemanly attire and introduce Count Este.’ She smiled gratuitously in Ferris’s direction.
‘I accept.’ Ferris was never at a loss to put the cart before the horse.
‘Mother and Father will be home by then, so you may escort me.’ Sophie canted her head towards her brother, seemingly intent on pigeon-holing him back into his role as constant companion.
‘I haven’t decided yet if I want to attend.’ He had business to settle. Important matters which pecked away at his conscience. He couldn’t think about socializing until he breathed easier.
‘I do.’ Ferris chuckled, aware of th
e problem he proposed and the likely reaction because of it.
‘You can’t very well deny your guest the pleasure he desires.’
Both men eyed each other. His sister was an innocent. She had no idea how her statement sounded to two jaded men, one of whom enjoyed more illicit liaisons than Crispin could count. No pun intended.
Yet faced with the threat of Ferris escorting his sister to the Frankley event, he’d no other choice and both his sister and friend knew that too.
Chapter Fourteen
It was two hours later when Crispin led Ferris up the gravel path and around to the side entrance of the Underworld in St James’s Square. Located at number eleven, the brick-faced two-storey building looked like every other structure on the street, though inside an entirely different world lived. In that way, the gaming hell stayed exclusive and practically hidden in plain view. Crispin was never a frequent patron and the one evening he’d entered and lost a substantial amount was the worst night of his life.
He shook away the remembrance and tossed a coin to the lad standing guard, before he slanted a glance over his shoulder. Then he entered the hell with Ferris in tow. Determined to stay calm, the immediate and intense reminder of the last time he’d stepped on this property, and the catastrophic decision he’d made to exile London, pulsed through him. With ruthless regard, the memory of that night returned on a rush of tension and wild energy. He breathed deep, worsening the condition, as the scent of cigar smoke, perspiration and blunt comingled to assault his senses.
He paused once inside, Ferris at his elbow.
‘This is the place you’ve wanted to visit since leaving London?’ Ferris assessed the interior, his eyes gliding up the red-papered walls to the mural overlooking the gaming tables. He stared at it a time before he took in the multiple tables, most crowded and noisy as dandies and scoundrels lost their coin on a wager they believed they would win.
‘Don’t stare too long. I’ve no doubt they watch from that window above.’ Crispin nodded towards the mural, his eyes narrowed. He was immune to the thrum of temptation and promise of good luck, but not to the level of regret which still called his name.
‘You know their tricks then.’ Ferris stepped further into the crowd, his hand already in his pocket.
‘I’ve business to settle.’ He tossed the words out as Ferris claimed a place at the nearest faro table. ‘Don’t make trouble.’
The warning produced a smirk Crispin mirrored in kind as he moved towards the back of the hell intent on finding Max Sinclair or another of the proprietors. He brushed past Stokes, who lingered near a piquet table, and wondered idly at the man’s purpose. Then, with more important matters to claim his attention, he reached a familiar alcove where the owners liked to survey the floor and issue vowels to those in need of credit.
‘Daventry?’ Luke Reese appeared before him and blocked his path, their eyes matched, neither man willing to give way.
‘Look what washed up to shore, Cole? It must be low tide,’ Luke called over his shoulder to Cole Hewitt, who sat behind a desk littered with papers, chips, and a thick leather ledger. A fidgety stranger sat in the chair facing the hell owner, his face obscured by shadow.
Crispin watched the transaction, all too familiar with the unholy feeling of becoming indebted due to overextension and a false belief in Lady Luck. In kind to the stranger, he relived the sharp tension in his shoulders, the ripple of remorse in his stomach and hollow feeling in his chest as the stranger pleaded with words Crispin could not decipher.
Unbidden, a memory of Amanda intruded, her smile winsome, hair billowing around her shoulders. He didn’t wish to think of her here, surrounded by everything he loathed. The odd contradiction didn’t sit well, but then her image was gone as quickly as it formed. He shook his head and gathered his wits as Cole’s answer to the stranger overrode his thoughts.
‘Another line of credit? Who do I look like? Goodworth at the halfway house? We don’t run a charity here. This is a gaming hell. Sign on the line.’
Unwilling to watch the stranger’s unsteady scrawl as he promised away future funds, Crispin gritted his teeth and eyed Reese before him. ‘I’m here to see Sinclair.’
‘Then you do have a bit of luck tonight. Sin’s not around much any more, but you’ve picked the right evening to enter the hell.’ Reese turned and aimed for a door on the far side of the room. ‘Let’s go.’
Crispin followed with the heavy purse in his pocket, the burden of repayment sure to lighten his soul. He’d played foolishly all those months ago. Blinded by emotion and conflicted in decision, he thought to win a fortune and boost his confidence, mayhap impress the wrong person.
But not tonight. Tonight, his focus was razor-sharp.
They reached the top of the stairs, down a hall to a closed door, painted black like Crispin’s mood. A large hound who appeared part wolf lay across the threshold. As they approached, the animal’s ears cocked and a low growl reverberated in the darkness.
‘Cease, Ransom.’ Luke motioned him away. ‘There’s no trouble here.’
The hound melted into the shadows and Crispin waited in silence. Reese knocked in a series against the door. Then he entered, despite no answer had been received.
‘I brought you a gift.’ Reese nodded and left in two strides.
Crispin stood before Sinclair’s desk, surprised he felt no anger. Here was the man who had married the woman Crispin once believed he couldn’t live without. He knew it now as no more than infatuation and convenience grown out of a lengthy relationship. But Vivienne had chosen correctly. Max and she were suited for each other. And while he’d anticipated feelings of anger, jealousy and regret, he was taken by the realization he experienced none of these things. He would pay his debt, reclaim his pride and wash his hands of what once occurred here. He could move on without embarrassment, judgement or impulsive error, until he decided when he’d return.
Sinclair had yet to raise his head from where he studied a ledger full of signatures and numbers.
‘Take a seat, Daventry.’
The knowledge that Sinclair likely stood at the window overlooking the floor registered, otherwise how would the hell owner know? At last Sin pushed aside the ledger and stood. They stared at each other.
‘I’m not here to socialize.’ Crispin accomplished cool indifference in his voice. He slid a hand into his pocket, produced the pouch and tossed it on the desktop where it landed with a thud. ‘I’m here to clear my name.’
‘Your debt was forgiven before you left London.’ Sinclair didn’t touch the money. ‘At Vivienne’s request.’
‘I didn’t need a favour then and I don’t need one now.’
‘She worried for your sister and family.’ Sinclair angled half a grin with the statement. ‘But regardless of your disappearance, it kept your funds intact nonetheless.’
‘Then extend my gratitude to your wife, Sinclair.’ The statement was sincere and again he applauded his self-possession. He held no resentful emotion. At least not for this particular mistake of his past.
‘I can find a use for your donation.’ Sinclair moved the purse aside. ‘There’s always another lad who needs steady work and an opportunity to provide.’
‘Then we’re done here. We’re square.’ Straightening his shoulders, Crispin held Sin’s attention.
‘All four corners.’
A beat of tension stretched between them.
‘Unless you’d care to game this evening.’ Sin slid his focus to the window, an eagle’s view of the floor below.
‘Not tonight.’ Though an evening soon. Crispin wouldn’t be deterred from redeeming his reputation. He moved towards the door, only stalled when Sinclair spoke again.
‘You needn’t have run from London.’ Sin eyed him directly. ‘Life has a way of straightening out jagged angles.’
‘I didn’t run from London.’ Crispin straightened his shoulders. There was a time when he didn’t know his heart from his h
ead and the reverse was true. He’d needed time away from the city. That was all. ‘I left so I could sort out my purpose.’
‘And you have?’ Sin asked without judgement.
‘I have.’ Crispin nodded, taken aback by the exchange, almost as natural as friendship. ‘I’m a better man now than before I left.’
‘Then your time wasn’t wasted.’
‘Not at all.’ Crispin turned, ready to end the conversation.
‘When you leave, take Stokes with you. He’s a nuisance who never fails to weasel his way in. We put him out like the trash but he keeps returning and we have no use for him here.’
Crispin nodded once and headed for the stairs. He’d collect Ferris and pass on Sin’s message if Stokes remained, but otherwise he had no other business here. At least not at the moment.
Amanda exited the modiste with a footman two steps behind, his arms laden with several boxes of gowns, gloves and the necessary fripperies packed neatly in paper until she returned home. Father and Raelyn were expected later in the day and she wished to accomplish every errand on her list so nothing would detract once her family reunited.
On a whim, Aunt Matilda had ordered a new gown as well, and now stood at the counter of the dress shop debating the choice of pearl or onyx buttons. Impatience caused Amanda to wait outside, unwilling to be dragged into a lengthy button discussion. Other stops included a perfumery and milliner, while Amanda had her heart set on a new book. Perhaps with a gothic novel in hand or a volume of popular poetry, she could banish her recurring memories of Crispin Daventry and the lush seduction of his kiss. No man should have such a pleasantly formed mouth.
With this distraction lodged in her brain, she backed away from the carriage as the footman strapped her purchases to the boot, but soon realized she’d snared her shirts on the extended carriage steps. It was mid-morning with the busiest bustle of pedestrian traffic afoot. She could not, would not, commit an embarrassing blunder to be witnessed by every flibbertigibbet in London.
She wrapped her gloved fingers around the stem of the carriage’s lantern in an attempt at a casual pose, but her sleeve snagged and tore a jaunty hole before she could remedy the issue with her gown.
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