by Edith Layton
“It’s what men of our rank get, my friend, when we get any choice at all. You know that.”
“No, actually, I don’t. My parents were unfashionably devoted to each other, as were yours, if I recall. I harbor dreams of a similar match.”
“That’s why your dreams and mine are still safe at harbor. We’re nearing thirty,” Crispin reminded him.
“What does that matter?” the earl asked. “I expect faithfulness in marriage. I don’t want to count shoes under my bed each night before I retire, and I’m too lazy to go seeking someone else after I settle on a wife. It’s only economical. Now I pass out trinkets to ladies for the pleasure of their company, but if you give a wife a bauble, it stays in the family. Sloth and economy. The idea appeals to me.”
“Then why are you still single?”
“I said the idea appeals to me,” Wrede explained. Crispin’s cough might have been born a laugh, but he covered it as the earl added, “But that is me. As for you…so you’ll have her, after all?”
“Yes,” Crispin said, and now there was definitely a smile in his voice. “I swear I’m not a monster of vanity, but I find I’m only human, after all. I would have refused even if she had begged me to continue our engagement, though I must say, I would like to have had the chance to try to change her mind.”
There was unholy glee in Crispin’s eyes as he added, “I’ve been thinking about holding a ball here, with flowers and footmen to attend footmen and what all—the whole lot, the most spectacular ball of the season, to announce my return to good fortune. I’ll invite Prendergast, too, and his whelps, if need be. And my Lady Charlotte. Then maybe, just maybe, I shall propose marriage to her again.”
“Maybe?” Wrede said with interest.
“All right…after an hour or two. But I’ll give her time to worry about it first. Not enough to make her frown too long, mind you. I don’t want a wife with wrinkles. And after our marriage--well, I’ve been thinking about that, too. I wonder if she’ll find many lovers after she’s had the eight children I think I’m going to require of her.”
“I see, you’re marrying her for revenge?” his friend said dryly.
“I’m marrying her because I want her. I want everything —everything—back the way it was. Just the way it was. That will stop my nightmares.”
“A restoration ball,” Wrede said thoughtfully. “Lovely theme.”
“Yes. So it is. I hadn’t thought of it that way. What a good idea. You’re a genius,” Crispin said.
“Of course,” Wrede said, and they nodded to each other.
Then two of society’s most eligible bachelors got down to the task of planning an engagement ball with all the enthusiasm and delight of any matchmaking matrons in the land.
*
Crispin took a deep breath and strolled into the flower-decked ballroom to greet his guests. This evening was of prime importance to him, and he wanted everything to be beyond perfect. And so it was. Everything from the linen on his tables to the clothing on his back was impeccably correct. He’d spent enough money to ensure it.
“Prendergast is a model of unmanly grace, isn’t he?” the earl of Wrede murmured as he joined Crispin and saw the older man his friend was staring fixedly at. “Those three kiddies of his are said to be his image. I suppose there’s no accounting for some tastes. Charlotte Barrington seems to be thrilled to be his chosen lady this evening, doesn’t she?”
“Is she? I wonder,” Crispin said cheerfully, before he left his friend and walked directly to Lady Charlotte, where she stood with Hugh Prendergast. She wore a gown of apricot silk with pink roses embroidered on its panniers. It was tight at the waist and bare nearly to there, too. Crispin’s eyes widened when he saw how much flesh she was displaying, until he remembered that she was on the arm of Hugh Prendergast. When Charlotte saw Crispin and then his rueful half smile, she smiled for the first time since she’d entered his house. But that smile faded as he walked to her—and past her—without a nod, to bow over pretty young Cissie Rule’s little hand, asking her to partner him in the first dance.
Crispin stood up with a different beauty for every dance. He never chose Charlotte, nor did he exchange a word with her, but he never stopped watching her. She danced with a variety of partners too, but she looked as though she might weep during the first dance. She was more sullen than sad during the second and third. She laughed too much and tossed her head too often during the fourth. But by the sixth dance she looked as if she was about to kill someone—her escort, her host, or maybe even herself.
“I shall propose at dinner,” Crispin confided happily to the earl. And then—seeing the murderous look the lady flashed him before she gave off a long trill of artificial laughter at something someone said, he added, with laughter in his own voice, “I don’t think Charlotte can take much more of my teasing, and though I admit I’ve enjoyed this little jest, the time for games is over. I will have her before this night is out,” he vowed, flashing a wolfish smile that made his friend wonder just how much of the lady he would have before he asked for her hand.
Crispin, finally bowing to his fate, began to make his way toward the beautiful little blond woman who was so pointedly trying not to notice his approach.
A footman intercepted him halfway there. The man was flustered and apologetic and so warm with embarrassment that Crispin could smell the damp heated wool of his livery even above the mingled aromas of many perfumes, hot melted candle wax, wine and beer, banked flowers, and sweat. It was a very successful ball, and the air was stifling and redolent of human pleasure. But the scent of the footman’s agitation was acrid.
“My—my lord,” the footman stammered, “there are persons to see you in the house.”
“There are a great many of them,” Crispin said calmly, only half listening as he watched Charlotte pretending not to see him.
“Stroud said I was to fetch you,” the footman persisted.
“Now? He couldn’t have meant now,” Crispin said, astonished at the footman’s presumption as well as his anxiety, wondering if he’d gotten into the wine cellar.
“Right now. Immediately,” the footman said unhappily.
Crispin knew that his butler, Stroud, would never interrupt the master at his ball for something trivial. He would, however, send a footman to fetch him for a matter of life and death. Crispin wondered what it could be that couldn’t wait. He flashed a look to his friend Wrede, and nodded to the footman. By the time he’d left the ballroom, the earl was at his side.
“I’ve no family to die at a moment’s notice—everyone who matters to me is either dead or here. I can’t imagine what Stroud thinks is important enough to disturb me now,” Crispin muttered as he strode into the hallway.
“Perhaps it’s only a murder—the cook doing away with a scullery maid or some such,” Wrede said comfortingly. “Last year Bigelow’s rout was interrupted when one of the footmen stabbed a downstairs maid in a jealous rage. Quite made the night, you know.”
“They’re in the salon, my lord,” the footman said worriedly, and flung open the door to the salon as Crispin arrived there.
A number of people were waiting in the salon, and they all fell still when the two tall elegantly dressed noblemen appeared in the doorway.
“My lord,” Crispin’s lawyer said the moment he saw him, “forgive me, but this is a matter that cannot wait.” He hesitated, and then, as he saw Crispin’s eyes widen, he gave words to what Crispin had just seen and couldn’t believe, “Your wife and her parent demand to be seen.”
“My wife?” Crispin said no more. He let stillness fill the room as he gazed at her, so everyone else could also fully take in how ridiculous it was.
She wore a gown made of some shiny brown stuff that didn’t suit the chair, the room, or the house she was in. Her eyes, those strange whiskey-colored eyes he remembered so well, were wide with fear. And rightly so, Crispin thought murderously. He wanted to kill her.
He’d been trained to be a gentleman before she
was out of the nursery, however, so he only cleared his throat and forced a smile on his ashen face. “I see. Charming. What sort of a joke is this?” he asked with just the right sort of amused anticipation, as though he really thought it was a jest.
“No joke, my lord,” Mr. Phipps, his lawyer, said immediately, his voice quivering with indignation. “The woman states she is your wife, and she has produced papers to verify the union,” he added, with a look to his employer that was as good as a plea for him to deny it so he could throw the baggage out.
Crispin extended one long hand, and the lawyer placed the paper in it. A smooth-faced, fattish young man made as if to snatch the paper back, but was stopped by a touch from another man who appeared from the shadows—Harry Meech, Crispin thought, his eyes narrowing. Very interesting.
He gazed at the paper. It was just as he remembered it. He sighed and handed it to Wrede, who studied it closely through his quizzing glass.
“Yes, I remember this,” Crispin said, his voice filled with all the disgust he felt. “I told you I had to turn my hand to all sorts of work, Wrede,” he explained. “This was one of those…odd employments.” Pointing to Harry Meech, he said, “He is a fellow who operates out of the Fleet prison. He provides false bridegrooms for debtors, among other things. This girl,” he said, indicating Dulcie and noting how much paler she grew before he turned away from her, “was such a one. For a fee, I went through a charade of marriage with her to free her from her debts. And that was an end to it. Or so I thought. Or so they promised me. Obviously they’ve heard of my recent change of fortune and have come here to see how much money they can extort from me.”
Crispin passed a hand over his eyes and said wearily. “Pay them, Mr. Phipps. Nuisance value. And do so before they demand something more. Pay them, promise them payment, or call the footmen to toss them out. Anything to get them out of my sight.”
Harry Meech spoke up sweetly. “Ah, but that won’t suffice, my lord.”
Crispin cocked one eyebrow, and Harry took a quick step back.
“Mr. Phipps?” Crispin said with emphasis.
“He’s right,” Mr. Phipps said with difficulty, as Crispin stared at him. “The papers are in order. I don’t know how they did it, my lord. But they have done it. According to these papers, this woman is your wife. Your legal wife.”
CHAPTER 5
This was even worse than Dulcie had thought it would be. It had taken days for Jerome and her father to wear her down, and she’d finally come with them only because she couldn’t bear not knowing what was happening. She’d told herself it might be worse if she wasn’t there, but now she knew that couldn’t be true—nothing could be worse. She didn’t belong in this house, and she couldn’t bear the look in his eyes. It was more terrible than any name he could have called her. She shivered.
“I didn’t want to come here,” she blurted suddenly, before Harry or Jerome could stop her. “I didn’t credit the marriage, either. I don’t want to be married to you.”
She knew the viscount had recognized her immediately. She’d seen it in the widening of his eyes. But he had ignored her until she spoke. Now she wished she had kept silent.
“Oh. Yes. Of course. You don’t want riches. You don’t want a title,” Crispin said sarcastically, glancing down at her. “I see. Certainly.”
“Believe me,” she said, shamed because of the way he looked at her but also determined to make him believe her.
Her expression must have touched him, because his tight mouth softened into the beautiful lines she remembered—but only for a moment.
“Then why are you here?” he asked. “Why didn’t you just tear the damned paper up? Then there would have been no marriage, because I assure you, I have never thought of it—or you—since that day.”
“They had the paper,” she whispered weakly, averting her eyes because the look in his was so chilling.
“Of course,” he said, dismissing her. He looked at his lawyer and demanded, “How did they know my name?” “The vicar recognized you,” Mr. Phipps said.
“The vicar? But he was an old madman,” Crispin said.
“Now, now, my lord. You’ll hurt poor old Dr. Featherstone’s feelings,” Harry Meech cautioned him jovially.
“Featherstone?” Crispin said, startled. “Hiram Featherstone? But he was minister in my parish—a hundred years ago, or so it seems. I remember him from when I was a boy. He must be dead this age. That old man in the Fleet? No, it couldn’t be. Featherstone was a brilliant man.”
“Oh, still is. Now and again. When’s the moon’s shining right. Here, Doctor,” Harry said, turning to a rumpled figure slumped in a chair so near the fire that the man’s boots were steaming, “the viscount wants to chat. Here!” he shouted. “Are we in tonight? We never know, with the dear doctor,” he explained merrily. “Sometimes he’s with us in body, and sometimes in spirit, but then, he’s usually deep in spirits, isn’t he? We kept him to two bottles tonight, so maybe you’ll be in luck, my lord. Hey, old man,” he shouted, shaking the vicar’s shoulder. “Here’s the viscount to see you.”
“The prince will see me, too,” the old man said, waking. “Yeah, doubtless. But first a word with the viscount, eh?” Harry said.
“We could, of course, have the old man examined,” Mr. Phipps said with sudden hope. “If he’s a madman, then he has no right to wear the cloth. The marriage could be invalidated.”
“Viscount? Viscount West?” the old man gasped. He struggled to his feet and, brushing Harry aside, limped toward Crispin. He gazed hard at him, then his seamed face wrinkled into a smile. “Why, see? It is no other. Crispin George Thomas Knightly, of Darnley Hall. Oh, my boy,” he said, his old eyes filling with easy tears, “how good to see you again. And how is your lovely bride? I remember your wedding day so well. How honored I was that you chose me to officiate. Just weeks past, wasn’t it? “They told me another name,” he said wisely, touching a shaking finger to the side of his nose, “but this time the voices couldn’t deceive me. No, I knew it was you, and so I wrote down your name. And so it was, and so it is. So good to see you again. Such a lovely ceremony. Pure and simple. No fuss, nothing elaborate. Not like old Squire Moffit, who released a flock of doves, eh? Remember that wedding, lad? You were but a boy—all of eight, weren’t you? And so worried about the doves getting overheated in their baskets that you let them out before time, on the green. What a wedding! But no one scolded you. Think what a mess they would have made in the nave. All the village was there. Oh, those were glorious days, were they not? Before the darkness came. Before the mists…”
“You’ll never prove him dotty,” Harry told Mr. Phipps confidently. “He’s only half in the bag half of the time. That’s better than most members of Parliament.”
“I remember,” Crispin assured the old man gently, taking his trembling hand in his. “Yes, sir, I do remember.”
*
Crispin, Mr. Phipps, and the earl stood in a huddle by the door while all of the others, except Dulcie, fell upon the tray of refreshments Crispin had called for.
“I suppose that you believe, as I do, that the certificate is valid enough for them to make considerable trouble,” the earl said to Mr. Phipps.
“Agreed,” Mr. Phipps said nervously.
“Is there no way out of this?” Crispin asked, his fists on his hips, his eyes furious.
“Immediately? Short of murder, I think not. Time. I need time,” Mr. Phipps said.
“Time? How long? An hour? Two? Mr. Phipps, I don’t have time,” Crispin said through clenched teeth. “There’s a lady in the other room tonight. A young woman to whom I have given my heart. Tonight I was going to ask for her hand. What can I do right now?”
“I—I don’t know quite what we can do now, my lord,” Mr. Phipps said.
“Then think harder, man,” Crispin said angrily. “How long do you expect me to wait until you can free me of this girl who claims to be my wife?”
“There’s no cause to shout at me,
” Mr. Phipps said boldly. “I did not marry her, my lord.” Then he stopped, aghast at what he’d said.
Crispin laid a gentle hand on the lawyer’s shoulder. “No,” he said with a sigh, “you didn’t, did you? I did, damn my eyes. All right. What are my options?”
“How much money do they want?” the earl asked.
“Yes,” Crispin said eagerly, his spirits rising. “Trust you, Wrede, to get to the heart of it. I was thinking of idiotic things like honor and responsibility—you saw to the crux of it. Of course. How much, Phipps?”
“They haven’t said. But I wouldn’t advise offering a lump sum in the heat of the moment,” Mr. Phipps said cautiously. “It would be sure to cost much more than careful dealing with them over the weeks would. That way we can whittle down their demands with threats and pressures. None of them are anxious to have their background held up to the light, I am sure.”
“I haven’t got weeks,” Crispin said, thinking of Charlotte dancing in Prendergast’s arms even as he stood in the salon fighting for his freedom. “I barely have hours. I can’t afford to risk having people discover my monumental stupidity. This must end now. We’ll bargain, if you think we have to, but we must do so now, and the marriage papers must be in the fire before we leave this room.”
They waited until their unwanted guests had their hands and mouths full, and then Crispin sauntered over to them and broached the subject.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, forcing himself to speak in a friendly tone, “time’s a-wasting. You picked an unfortunate night to visit. My other guests must be wondering what happened to me, and so we’ll have to cut the negotiations short—shorter than my lawyer would have wished.” He nodded to Harry Meech, whose mouth was full of bread and roast pigeon.
“So, then, let’s have done with it,” Crispin said. “Tell me the sum you want, and we’ll discuss it. Then, if we are all agreed, you will hand me the papers, I’ll hand you the sum—and farewell.”
“Well, my lord,” Harry said thickly, because he hadn’t been able to swallow all that was in his mouth but wanted to be the first to speak anyway. “Shoun’t we say, ’ow much is your freedom worth?”
