It was too easy to envision the spectacle he’d make, should he get lost there. Taking the wrong door from the Central Hall, stumbling into the Peers Court. Or losing his way from his seat to the water closet. Good God, the place was a maze.
He took a hard breath to channel his frustration. “The doctors’ orders were strict. But I’ll certainly be there for the third reading.” His memories would return by then, surely.
Noyes looked unsatisfied. Crispin added deliberately, “Unless you feel unable to handle it without me?”
“Oh! No.” Noyes grimaced. “But some of these northerners are still threatening to kick up a fuss. Not saying you should cross the doctors, but if you can find a chance to speak to Lambert and Culver, I’d be grateful. Stubborn asses.”
“Yes, of course.” Lambert and Culver, he repeated silently. Lambert and Culver. God above, he needed a secretary. Why on earth hadn’t he kept one? His wife claimed he had wanted discretion. One of his visitors earlier had made a jape about his “paranoia.” But it would take an uncommon dark secret to make a politician forgo an assistant. And the contents of Crispin’s desk, so far, had not yielded anything so interesting.
A silence had opened. Noyes was lingering, waiting for Crispin to walk him out.
But Crispin’s exhaustion felt leaden. If he stood up now, he felt certain he would topple.
Worse, he might not be able to find the way to the door.
“Keep me informed,” he said, his tone dismissive.
Noyes, flushing in surprise, nodded and hurried out.
* * *
Someone was pounding at the front door.
Crispin looked up from his desk, bleary-eyed. The scattered remnants of a late dinner sat on the table by the fire. No one had come to retrieve them.
The sight of the clock startled him. It was nearly midnight? The day had dragged, the hours ground down by fatigue. He hadn’t napped, though. Children napped. Men did not.
He forced his attention back to the blue book in front of him. Atticus would have needed no more than a week to wade through the records from the last session of Parliament. Crispin feared he would not be done for a month. He’d never had the knack for prolonged, studious focus. His attention wandered.
But tomorrow would bring new visitors, and while he would not know their names, he could damned well learn about the issues they would discuss. He would finish reading just this one report before he slept. So perhaps he would get no sleep at all. So be it. He would read and reread this report until it stuck. He had no bloody choice.
The knocking came again. Something frenzied in it now.
Frowning, he listened for Cusworth. Or a footman. Or a scullery maid, for all he cared—someone needed to answer the bloody door.
He caught the smell of a souring glass of milk, abandoned on his dinner tray.
The stench suddenly seemed unbearable. Milk! Drinking milk like an infant! Tomorrow he would have a brandy. The doctors could go hang.
Still knocking. Was nobody going to answer? If a caller arrived so late, was it not considered urgent to discover his purpose?
Very well, he would answer the door. He pushed to his feet—and the floor lurched. He staggered and caught himself against the desk.
Blue books thudded onto the carpet. Loose papers began to slide after them. He lunged to catch them.
Mistake.
Nausea rolled through him. He held still, stretched flat across the desktop, one brass-capped corner digging into his belly. He was gasping, the dying rasps of an old man.
Pathetic.
A muffled shout came from without—the visitor yelling for entry.
A harsh sound slipped from him. The staff was pathetic. He was pathetic. They were all of them bloody pathetic and useless.
Gritting his teeth, he stood. The floor rolled beneath him like the deck of a ship. He gritted his teeth and slowly made his way toward the door.
The doorjamb tilted around him. He leaned into it for a moment, cursing silently, then stepped into the hall.
The wallpaper was dark flocked velvet, the floral patterning soft beneath his palm. Like a blinded invalid, Crispin let the wall support him as he inched his way into the entry hall.
The sight of the empty foyer—the stairs so conspicuously vacant, the frantic pounding at the door so completely counterbalanced by the stillness inside his house—inflamed him. His frustration sharpened into resolve. He was going to sack every servant in his employ. He would start again from bloody scratch.
“I know you’re in there!”
And who in God’s name could this be? Who would come pounding on his door, screaming, after eleven o’clock?
Perhaps the bastard who’d tried to kill him. Yes, wouldn’t that be delightful? Because someone had tried to kill him. He’d nearly been victim to murder, at the hands of a phantom or a nun for all he knew, because his memory was a gaping dark hole. Why, perhaps he’d even smiled this very morning at the villain who’d half killed him. Who could say? Not he! He was worse than an idiot—he did not even know what he didn’t know. He was a bloody witless disaster—
He took a large breath. Enough.
Carefully, lest he lose his balance again, he unlocked and pulled open the door.
The man standing on the threshold was a stranger. Of course he was! What else was new?
Brown beard, squinting eyes, medium height. Dark suit expertly tailored. Glossy coach waiting on the curb below, driver hunching in the light rain.
“Done hiding, are you?” the man sneered, and shoved past Crispin, almost knocking him over. Crispin caught his balance on the doorframe, swallowed a curse, before turning to face the man.
His visitor had fallen into the hunched posture of a boxer: chin down, shoulders cocked, fists displayed. “I never thought you a fool,” the man snarled. Spit collected in the corners of his mouth, flecking his beard as he continued: “Disloyalty, I might have expected. But sheer idiocy, I never foresaw! Well done, Burke!”
The floor rolled again. Light rain misted his back. Crispin shut the door and leaned against it for balance. “Mind your tongue.” He borrowed his father’s iciest tones. “Or I will put you back outside.”
“Mind my tongue!” The man clawed his hands through his hair, dislodging his top hat, which fell to his feet and was promptly crushed as he stepped onto it, turning in a tight circle. “That’s a fine idea! You think I will be civil? I will crush you, Burke! Don’t think I won’t! Or—” The man pivoted toward him. “Or you will undo this,” he said fiercely. “We will let bygones be bygones. It’s not too late. Any man might make a mistake—”
“Hello, Uncle.”
Jane was descending the stairs. The man stiffened, his jaw squaring as he glared at her.
Uncle. Ah. This rabid animal was Jane’s former guardian, Philip Mason. No wonder she did not care to speak of him.
“You ungrateful, conniving little bitch,” Mason said.
“My, such eloquence!” Any other woman would have remained at a safe distance, but Jane, fearless, walked straight toward him. “No wonder you depended on Crispin to make your speeches for you.” Her smile looked cold.
Mason lunged for her.
Crispin’s vision hazed. One moment he was leaning against the door; the next, his arm had closed around Mason’s throat. He hauled the bastard backward and threw him up against the door.
Come into his house at midnight and attack his wife? “Careful,” he said, very low.
The whites of Mason’s eyes showed. “You’re mad. Mad! If I fall, you fall with me. Do you truly imagine otherwise? You have no secrets that I do not know. If you walk away from this friendship, I will—”
“Threats from the weak are more amusing than jokes.” Jane spoke clearly from behind Crispin, who adjusted his body to ensure Mason could not reach for her. “Is that not one of your favorite sayings? And without my money . . . why, how amusing you’ve become!”
Mason’s nostrils flared. “By God, I will make you—”<
br />
“Enough.” Crispin’s patience was done. “You are finished here. Come near my wife again, and I will end you.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed. “You will regret this very soon, I think.”
Had he felt, a minute ago, disoriented and drained? Crispin laughed. He seized Mason by the arm, hauled open the door, and threw him into the rain.
The door slammed.
“Thank you,” said his wife, her voice suddenly tremulous.
Crispin turned to her. She looked . . . shaken. “What is it?” he said. “He didn’t scare you?”
“No, of course not.” The denial was automatic, absent. “You—you don’t remember, do you?”
Bloody hell. His laugh now felt black, scraping. “How many times will you ask? Do you not think I would tell you if I remembered?”
She flinched. “I . . . of course . . . it’s only, you seemed . . .”
The world was spinning again. But he would not reach for support, not in front of her. “Only what?” he snapped.
She answered in a whisper. “You seemed so like him, for a moment.”
Like him? Like himself, did she mean? Why in God’s name did she sound so gloomy about the prospect? “I would bloody hope so! Isn’t that the damned—”
The world went dark.
“Crispin? Crispin!”
His eyes opened. He was sprawled on the floor, his wife kneeling over him, patting his cheek like an anxious nursemaid.
“I’ll send for the doctor,” she said.
“No.” He shoved away from her, ignoring her proffered hand as he lurched inelegantly to his feet. “You will not.” Doctors could do nothing for him. They could only cluck and frown and make predictions as vague and useless as a fortune-teller’s. You may recover your mind. You may not. He was sick of it.
His wife, usually so calm and cool-eyed, was all but fluttering around him. “But surely—”
“Leave me.” He did not mean to speak so harshly. But by God, he did not want her to witness such weakness. What must she think? Her husband had turned into a lunatic—worse, a lunatic child, coddled with glasses of milk, unable to walk properly, unable to keep his bloody balance. “Just go.”
“I . . .” She folded her hands together at her lips. “May I at least help you up the—”
“Go!”
Oh, well done. Shouting at his own wife, driving her to lift her skirts and flee as though from a predator. Or from her uncle.
Who had been, apparently, Crispin’s friend.
Bravo! He’d clearly made some fine choices in these last few years. No wonder somebody had tried to murder him.
He sagged back against the door, disgust like acid in his throat.
This could not continue.
He was half tempted to strike his own skull, hard, again and again. To strike until his brain resettled into its proper position and gave him his life back.
Instead, after a long minute, he pushed off the door and made his way toward the stairs.
* * *
Crispin Burke had subscribed to every newspaper published within fifty miles of London—including those whose editors deplored him. This made him a much more widely read man than her uncle. Jane had intercepted a maid yesterday and saved a stack from the fire; she sat now at the little table by the window in her bedroom, picking through the old issues, trying to work up an interest in what normally fascinated her most: the world, laid out and parsed in neatly numbered pages and intelligent, erudite prose.
But her mind kept wandering to the apartment next door. He had come upstairs at last. Quite a ruckus he’d made, opening and slamming every other door in the hallway, including the door to her sitting room, before entering his own. She’d been waiting, worrying despite herself, fretting as she donned her night rail and combed her fingers through her hair. It was not her place to overrule him and summon a doctor. She was not, after all, truly his wife. But if she had been . . .
He’d be in bed, no matter what he wanted. A medical professional would be standing over him and giving him what for, too. There was no call for him to push himself, to work without pause until midnight. And then, to tackle her uncle—
Well. At the time, she’d been terrified, because the ruthless face he’d shown Uncle Philip seemed to belong to the other Crispin, the man she hoped never again to meet.
Now, relieved of that fear, she belatedly felt deeply grateful. Crispin was ailing, but for her sake, he had summoned some deep reserve of strength and put on a cold and terrifying show. Even her uncle would not be stupid enough to come harass her again.
She closed the newspaper. Perhaps she should summon a doctor.
A thump came from nearby. She jumped to her feet. Had he fallen again?
She hurried to the door that separated their bedrooms, opening it before she could doubt herself.
His room was empty.
Something clanked, sharp and metallic. She turned slowly, following the noise as it came again.
Her bedroom was paneled in blond oak, a feminine match for the dark walnut in Crispin’s. The noise seemed to be coming from within the wall. She laid her hand to the smooth-grained panel and felt it move slightly.
Why, it was a door—a cunning door, with a hidden handhold in the carved panel frame. Breath held, she slid it open.
Steam billowed out at her. A hidden chamber! The room was lined in vividly glazed tiles, aquamarine and terra-cotta and scarlet. Exposed copper taps ran along the wall, emptying into a long, deep copper tub in which lounged—
Crispin Burke, utterly naked.
She froze. Crispin was facing away from her, his dark head tipped back against the rim of the tub. A large mirror affixed to the wall in front of him showed her foggy reflection, her hair a wild loose cloud, her expression stupefied. She could see his face as well: eyes closed, face slack. Alarm flickered, then died: his bare chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
His bare chest. Broad, powerfully developed. Water glistened on the bunched brawn of his upper arms. His shoulders were thickly hewn, sturdy. His neck—damp, strong, and corded—lay at an angle that emphasized his Adam’s apple.
He shifted, and she saw the water lick at his navel. The mirror was not long enough to capture anything below his waist. A pity.
Good heavens! Shocked at herself, she stepped backward.
His eyes opened. As their gazes locked in the mirror, a current passed through her, hot and startling.
His hair was wet. It clung to his sharp cheekbones. A drop of water snaked down his jaw.
She fumbled frantically for the door.
“Wait.” He sat up, water sloshing. Rivulets ran down the rippled planes of his back. He did not look away from her in the mirror. “Jane.”
The sound of her name snagged her like a hook. Mouth dry, she faced him. The air held some dark mélange of spices, a peculiar soap.
“Your hair,” he said, very low.
He was staring at her as though at a marvel.
A peculiar tremor went through her. “I . . .” She touched her hair, this bane of her youth. The damp was causing her curls to frizz. You shouldn’t look at it so. Not with admiration—not at such an untamable mess.
Who had taught her to feel so?
The world, of course.
“So much of it,” he murmured. “My God. I had no idea. And your skin . . .”
Her skin? She took after her mother’s Italian ancestors, who had lived under a stronger sun. “I’m no English rose.”
His dark gaze moved down her. “You’re golden.”
That low, rough word stroked some secret pleasurable place in her. She felt light-headed, disoriented. That strange, seductive scent, spices like drugs. The humid air collected on her skin, making her wool robe feel muffling, itchy. She felt . . . crowded, though he had not moved. His broad bare shoulders, his large hands gripping the sides of the tub . . . He was an animal presence that filled the room, making it difficult to breathe.
She crossed her arms and loo
ked at the tiled floor. Step out, she told herself, but the tiles caught her attention. Each was unique, an intricate geometric design inlaid with colored stones.
“A Turkish bath.” His voice had shifted, smoothed. “Impressive, no?”
She cast him the briefest glance. Were they really going to have a discussion? For all that the tub concealed the most interesting half of him, he was still naked! “Yes, I . . .” She had never heard of such a thing. “It’s lovely.”
“And expensive.” And now, once again, she heard the old Crispin in him, that cynical edge that made her feel uncertain, unsettled. “It makes one wonder, doesn’t it?”
She hesitated, daring to find his gaze in the mirror again. “Wonder what?”
He lifted one solid, gleaming shoulder. “How I afforded it.”
She blinked. She certainly had theories—corruption, bribery, blackmail, cheating—but none that would speak well of him.
Happily, he did not seem to expect an answer. “Did I wake you?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to open your door.”
She crossed her arms again. “Did you want to speak with me?”
“No.” A peculiar smile twisted his lips. “I seem to have a new talent for . . . losing myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just as it sounds. I’m encouraged that you haven’t noticed. But in places I don’t know—places not known to me from childhood, like my parents’ house—I become . . .” He gave an impatient tug of his mouth. “Turned around.”
Her pulse hitched. That was, indeed, very odd. “But not all the time.” Then she would have noticed.
“It comes and goes. For several hours, I’ll be fine. And then, suddenly . . .” He drew a circle in the air with his finger. “The world seems rearranged.”
“Have you told the doctors?”
He lapsed into a short, brooding silence. “They warned me,” he said, “of every possible ailment under the sun. They said I might see double at times. That I might lose my vision temporarily from the headaches. But they never mentioned this. I don’t think it’s . . . a common consequence.” He shook his head, then blew out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he said more stiltedly. “For earlier. I should not have spoken so harshly to you.”
A Lady’s Code of Misconduct Page 10
