by Edith Layton
“Pistols, then,” Wrede said with nonchalance, but his eyes were troubled. “Dusk. Tomorrow. At the dueling oaks?”
“Done,” Crispin said, turned on his heel, and was gone.
Crispin strode home. He refused to meet the eyes of passersby. But his expression was so thunderous no one stopped him this time. He thought furiously. He had a dozen things to do. One thing was foremost: he had to get home and be sure Dulcie didn’t go out. She must not know of this until he undid it.
He picked up his pace until he was almost running, impelled by his surging thoughts. She was his wife. There was no going back now. She’d given herself and her love. He’d given his word; it was his bond. There was even a possibility they might have forged another bond between them by now. She had already suffered too much because of this odd marriage; he would not expose her to the gleeful spite of his world. When she met them again, he was determined that she would be his wife in every way—or his widow, he thought, remembering his appointment with Wrede.
*
She wasn’t in the parlor or the sitting room. When he found her in their bedroom, he was filled with wild relief. And then great sorrow. He leaned against the doorjamb, catching his breath, watching her.
“Look! Isn’t it perfect? Oh, Crispin, just see!” Dulcie turned for him, a perfect pirouette. “Have you ever seen such a gown? I know it’s petty and doubtless vain and very foolish, but, oh, Crispin, I shall look so fine tonight. And you’ll have to hand over those pearls now. But you won’t be ashamed of me, I promise!”
He wasn’t, but he closed his eyes as though he were in pain.
She was spectacularly lovely. Her new gown was a confection; he was half convinced it was made of spun sugar and sparkling sugar dust. It was white shot with pink flowers and tiny sparkling gems. Wide in the skirt, low at the breast, it made her skin pink and her eyes bright. She looked as dainty as a pampered girl-child and as wildly tempting as a woman. He’d never seen anything like her in it.
“Crispin? Crispin?” she asked, as she stopped dancing in place. “Don’t you like it? Oh, what’s the matter?”
He couldn’t tell her. Not now. Not yet. Their marriage was too newly settled for him to tell her that she was, as of this moment, no longer his wife. When he’d remedied that, he’d tell her. If he was there to tell her, he thought, closing his eyes again as he was struck by the enormity of the folly of letting his rage rule him. But what Wrede had done—especially what he’d said about Dulcie—had hit Crispin like lightning, blasting away his good sense. Now he had to live with it, or find a way to die with it.
But, most important, he had to keep her safe from his folly as well as Wrede’s. He knew, from his own experience, that a disaster in retrospect was only an interesting memory if it was set right again. It wasn’t lying to keep her ignorant of danger. Not if it protected her from pain. No, he was decided. Whatever else happened, she wouldn’t know about any of this until she could no longer be hurt by it.
In the matter of his duel… He wouldn’t think of that. He had too much living to do in too little time to dwell on the possibility of death.
“Crispin, what’s wrong?” Dulcie asked again.
He took her hand and kissed it. One lie, then, he thought. Surely she could someday forgive him one lie.
“I have a headache,” he said. “I get them sometimes.”
True enough, and untrue enough to buy him time. Hadn’t she seduced him once in order to avoid a reality she wasn’t ready for? Turnabout was fair play. But it was only noon now. With all his best efforts, and even with best results, it would only be evening when they were done. And once pleasured and sated—especially once sated—she would be ready for a night on his arm on the town. As he’d promised. She wouldn’t be ready to lie in his arms, safe and away from the world in his bed, as he needed her to be.
“An indisposition,” he said, “only that, but it aches like the devil.”
“Mint tea,” she said with determination. “Willow bark. Not Dr. Hart’s powders. They’ll upset your stomach, no matter what his medicine show says. Then you must lie down in a darkened room. We’ll draw the curtains…”
“Play ministering angel later,” he said gently. “I have things I must do now. I just wondered what your plans were for the day.”
“Oh. Well, I certainly won’t wear this gown all day. I just had to see what it looked like when I was alone, without Annie telling me I look like an angel, and that sort of rot. But I do, don’t I?” she asked, giggling. “Heavens, what a gown!”
“Pulling compliments out of me, are you? You don’t have to. I’ve never seen anything to equal you. And it’s not just the gown. But you’re not going out today, are you?”
“No,” she said, puzzled. “Do you want me to?”
“No, actually I want you to stay home,” he said with relief. “I want you to burst on the scene like a comet tonight. Surprise them all. Dazzle them. I’ve been thinking about it. If you go out today, you’ll take some of the surprise from it. Please do this for me, Dulcie. Remain unseen until this evening.”
*
First, Crispin scrawled some hasty notes and dispatched them. Then, after ordering his butler to admit no one until he returned, he went looking for Willie. He found him moping around the stable, looking disconsolate, kicking the ground as though he himself were a testy colt. When he saw Crispin, he didn’t look much happier.
“Willie,” Crispin said, calling him aside as his horse was being saddled, “here’s a chore for you: keep an eye on my lady. I don’t want her leaving the house today. If you see that she’s about to, for any reason, remind her of my wishes, will you?”
“Yeah,” Willie said, looking moodier than ever.
“The devil,” Crispin said, and bit off another curse when he saw the boy’s face. “Look you, lad, I haven’t time to chat. Is there a problem? Something I can tend to immediately? Otherwise, we’ll speak later. I’ve got to be halfway cross London and back by evening.”
“Nah. Nothing you could do nothing for, leastways,” Willie said with barest civility.
“So be it,” Crispin muttered. He mounted his horse and rode off, leaving Willie to stare after him, frowning.
Crispin rode until he saw the high gates to the massive building ahead of him. Then he swung down from his horse, tossed a waiting boy a penny, and strode up to the gate. His title was his admittance fee.
He was sorry to leave the sunshine and enter the building. The furnishings were old and good, but the huge entry hall was dark and malodorous, and the noise was indescribable. Crispin had heard something like it once, when he’d toured the exotic menagerie at the Tower. But there had been more light there, and confined and cramped as the animals had been, they’d smelled fresher. The noise they’d made had sounded better, too. He wondered, not for the first time, why this place was so popular with the upper classes.
It wasn’t long before a thin, pock-faced man in a yellowed wig joined him, bowing and rubbing his hands together, the picture of a concerned host.
“My lord,” the man said, bowing low. “Welcome. Come right in. How can we at His Majesty’s Royal Bethlehem Hospital assist you today? We’ve a group visiting even now. You may join them if you wish. Lord Stockwell and his party. No? Well, then, perhaps you’d care for a private viewing? Lord Stockwell’s party has ladies in it, and so perhaps you’d care for a viewing of the sort not usually offered to them?” He winked, but a loud wail from nearby made his shoulders jerk, and the wink became more of a twitch.
“Mr. Greaves,” Crispin said, “I’m here on business. I’ve come to see a new inmate. His name is Dr. Featherstone. He’s an elderly man, a vicar—or was, until recently.”
“I know him,” Mr. Greaves said, flapping his hands in dismay, “but surely you don’t want to see him! A disagreeable old fellow. Moody and pathetic, really. No sport to him at all, my dear sir, I promise you.”
“He’s the man I’ve come to see,” Crispin said, opening his purse.
>
“Ah! A relative?” Mr. Greaves said with interest, licking his thin lips as Crispin counted out coins for him. “I thought he had none. The party who brought him here said he was a charity case.”
“Dr. Featherstone is—was—a friend,” Crispin said.
“Ah. Well, then, my dear Lord West. Certain arrangements can be made. Our inmates can be made quite comfortable. Had I but known the vicar had such a friend, he would have had different accommodations, I assure you.”
“Understood,” Crispin said. “I wish to see him. Now.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Mr. Greaves said nervously, “but pray understand he is a new arrival. Such fellows are often moody. They complain a great deal. One mustn’t take what they say too much to heart.”
“Understood,” Crispin said impatiently. “Now?”
He was led through the cavernous hall and down fetid corridors. The smell and the noises were worse here.
The old man was in a huge cell with dozens of other mad men and women. When they caught sight of Mr. Greaves the cell seemed to roil with their agitation. Some shook their fists, some shouted, some bowed and curtsied, and some began to sing.
“Dr. Featherstone,” Mr. Greaves called. “A visitor, my dear sir. Is he aware of such things?” he asked a burly man who stood guard nearby.
“He don’t say much, usually,” the man replied. “Sometimes, when the spirit moves him, he preaches. They likes it,” he added, jerking a thumb to the other inmates. “His sermons ain’t bad, really.”
“Doctor,” Crispin said, as he saw the old man shuffle toward the bars and squint at him, “Dr. Featherstone. Do you remember me?”
The old man peered at him. His scant white hair stood on end, as if he’d just risen from his bed, although there was nothing but straw on the floor to sleep on. He moved like an ancient tortoise, and there was not much more reaction in his old, dimmed eyes. But then he began to grin.
“My boy! Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “You bring such happy memories. I wonder, have you brought anything else? They don’t allow me much gin here. I cannot afford it, you see. I, of all people, should have known better, but I began to drink because it helped me forget the loss of my memory.” He chuckled. “Amusing, isn’t it? In time, of course, it did the reverse. Or so I think. How am I to know? I am a madman, am I not? But I have my good and my bad days. Today is a good one, because I see you. How are you, my dear Lord West?” Dr. Featherstone asked. “And how is your lovely wife, Lady Dulcie?”
*
It was evening when Crispin finally returned to his own house. Half a battle won was still no victory. He had a great deal of work yet to do tomorrow. And tonight. He sighed and paused at the foot of the stair, looking like a man with a pack of woe. Then he tugged his coat down, smoothed a hand over his hair, and went upstairs to his wife.
His heart sank when he saw her. She had her fabulous gown on again. He’d never seen anything so lovely—white and pink and flowing like some exotic butterfly. She was a fabulously beautiful woman. He crossed the room slowly, took her hand in his, and bowed.
“My lady,” he said, and kissed her hand.
And she was his lady, he thought with pride, as he stepped back and stared at her. “You are beyond beautiful,” he said, and sighed again, because he couldn’t show the world what she looked like tonight.
“Why so sad, then?” she asked. She was nervous, fragile in her delight. She was so pleased with how she looked that she was afraid to move, lest she destroy some of the wonder of it. She had the sense of being a spectator at the same time she was a vision, she was so unaccustomed to looking as she did. Every time she caught sight of herself in the glass she was astonished. But Crispin looked sad, and that caught at her heart.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked fearfully, wondering if she was entirely wrong about how she looked.
“Nothing—only that my head still aches. I was mad to ride out. I felt every step the horse took like a blow to my head. But you look lovely. Wait for me. I’ll dress. I won’t be long,” he said, wincing as if he felt a spasm of pain as he stepped back.
“Oh, no!” she cried, as he knew she would. “Not if you’re ill. There will be other nights,” she said bravely.
Never such a night as this, he thought, as he devoured the sight of her. He didn’t believe she could ever look so lovely again, because he’d never seen a woman look so beautiful. Now the pain on his face was real. He hated what he was doing, but he didn’t know what else to do.
“No, Crispin, truly,” she pleaded. “What pleasure would there be in it for me if you were sick? Go. Take off your clothes and then come back and lie down. I’ll take this dress off and order dinner for us. I’ll fix a posset too. It will make you better in no time.”
“You’ll do anything to get me out of my clothes,” he said with a half laugh, “Are you sure? I know how much you wanted to go…”
“But I didn’t,” she said, smiling. “The ball was your idea. Remember? I’m relieved, actually. Truly.” And since that was half true, she sounded sincere.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “Thank you,” he said, and hurried from the room before the truth showed on his face.
She fed him a light dinner and made so much of him that he felt worse than ever.
“Better?” she asked, hours later, when they sat in their high bed and the last of their dinner dishes had been taken out.
He closed the book he’d been pretending to read. “Much, actually,” he said. “Very much.” He laid the book down and looked at her. Her face was scrubbed clean and shiny, and she wore a night chemise, tied at her neck. He remembered how she’d looked earlier and how she looked without any gown at all. He nudged the ties apart with one finger. “Much, much better,” he said, and kissed the rapidly beating pulse at the base of her throat.
He felt how her breath caught. He took her lips, and then her body into his arms. They made love slowly. She was careful with him because she wondered if his head still ached. He was exquisitely gentle with her because his heart ached each time he remembered how he was deceiving her. It seemed to him that he didn’t deserve such pleasure. It seemed to her that he needed her desperately, and her pleasure knew no limits. They made love in total silence. He was afraid to speak his true mind, and she was silent because the pleasure she felt was too intense for words. She was afraid she might speak of love. She never forgot, even at the height of her pleasure, that he had never spoken a word of love to her, though she couldn’t have wanted a better lover.
When they were done, they lay silent in each other’s arms, listening to the fire grumble and sigh.
“Dulcie?” Crispin said quietly. “Thank you. I don’t deserve you. I shall try to, though.”
She smiled, and then, vastly content, she slept.
He waited until her breathing slowed and steadied. Then he tucked the coverlets around her, bulking them high at her side, where he had been. He rose from the bed, pulled on a nightshirt, and left her. He went down to his study and closed the door. He had many things to do before dusk tomorrow. But two things had to be done immediately. He wrote a long, detailed letter of instructions to his lawyers and passed hours composing a shorter one to Dulcie. Then he scrawled her another note—only one brief line. That was the one he took back upstairs with him.
He approached their bed just before dawn so he could see how she looked in the rising light, and so she couldn’t see what showed plain in his eyes: it was nothing less than his heart.
She woke to find a note from him on his pillow.
“Wait for me,” was all it said.
She rose and dressed, wondering what it meant and where he was. He didn’t return all morning, and she fretted at being alone and uninformed. She paced, and kept peering out the window, and was pleased when she heard a commotion at the door. A visitor was arguing with the butler, obviously outraged at being turned away. By now Dulcie was so eager for distraction that she went straight to the door to oblige
Lady Charlotte.
CHAPTER 18
“You? Still here?” the lady asked in astonishment.
Dulcie took a step back. She’d ordered an unhappy, reluctant Stroud to let the lady and her chaperon in. She’d been about to ask them into her sitting room, maybe even offer them some refreshment the way she was sure a real lady would. But now she could only stand at the door and stare—and try to defend herself in as ladylike a manner as she could. Not for the first time that day, she wished Crispin would come back quickly.
“Why, yes,” she said as haughtily as she was able. “This is my home, after all.”
“Oh, my,” Lady Charlotte said, “oh, my, my. She doesn’t know,” she said to her stern-faced companion. “Or perhaps she does. Perhaps Crispin has decided to keep her on, in another position. Or she thinks he will. Oh, how I’ll make merry with him about this—for years.”
“Are you sure you still want him?” the older woman asked with a sniff.
“No wonder you never wed,” Charlotte told her. “I’m more realistic than you, dear aunt. No man is perfect. Crispin is more nearly so than some others. I’ll have him. And I’ll keep him in line, too, see if I don’t.”
They spoke as if she weren’t there at all, Dulcie thought in confusion. But she didn’t try to understand more. She was afraid to because of her temper as well as because of what the lady was saying. She only knew that whatever they were up to, she had to get them out. And do it in a way that wouldn’t anger or distress Crispin.
“My husband is not at home now. I don’t know when he’ll return,” Dulcie said. “Would you like to leave a message for him?”
“Your husband is not at home or abroad,” Lady Charlotte told Dulcie, looking her up and down. “Your husband is no more, in any case.”
“Crispin’s been hurt?” Dulcie gasped, growing white. “No. The viscount is fine. But he is not your husband anymore—if he ever was,” Charlotte said.
Dulcie stared at her.
