A Lady’s Code of Misconduct

by Meredith Duran

  “I didn’t know that,” Crispin said from behind her. “How admirable.”

  This poor fly. She felt sorry for it—trapped for infinity, suspended in limbo. “He left detailed records of his plans. My uncle paid them no attention. But I mean to see them through.”

  “That would make a fine tribute to him.”

  She replaced the amber and faced him. “Perhaps. But that’s not how I intend it. I believe in those plans, you see.”

  He frowned a little, no doubt hearing the edge in her voice. It was aimed at the man he had been, whose politics had stood against everything her father—and she—believed. “I imagine you’ll do a great deal of good.”

  She noted his choice of pronoun. He did not include himself in this prediction. Perhaps he was not entirely different from his other self, after all. She must keep that firmly in mind. “I think it a moral duty,” she said. “If one inherits the privilege of wealth, or of education or good family, one must use that privilege wisely. Men speak of progress like a machine, an engine that rolls forward without human direction, pulling everyone with it. But that isn’t true. If you read the newspapers”—the critical, adventurous, daring newspapers, not the conservative rags that her uncle favored—“it’s easy to see that many get left behind. Many, in fact, get crushed.”

  “You’re in an argument,” he said quietly. “With whom, I wonder?”

  She took a deep breath. Why not risk it? What, precisely, did she have to lose? “With you.”

  He blinked. “My . . . family has always had a sense of our obligations, I hope. Perhaps we aren’t visionaries, but we do lend our weight to reform. Why, my father was instrumental in defeating the Pittites in ’32.”

  Yes, Viscount Sibley was no friend of her uncle’s. He also staunchly opposed his son’s penal bill. “But you no longer see eye to eye with your father.”

  His mouth tightened. He looked into his lap, at the papers he held. “These aren’t your bank accounts,” he said quietly. “These are mine.”

  A startled silence opened. She felt suddenly foolish. She had been speechifying at him, warning him that her wealth was not to be squandered. But he’d been discussing his own fortune.

  And anyway, he was right; her quarrel was not with him, precisely.

  She made the concession of sitting down across from him. He handed over the documents.

  Nearly forty thousand pounds in the first account. In the next, a more modest sum of three thousand—more than most men would earn in a lifetime, to be sure. The third held seven thousand, give or take.

  It was no match against her million, but it made a fine start. “You may be counted a magnate yourself one day.”

  He did not smile. “Note the dates of deposit.”

  A quick glance showed them all to have been made in the last five years.

  “Tell me, Jane. How does an MP come into such money?”

  She realized now that she had misread him. He was not pleased by his newfound fortune. He was brooding. And that dark voice made him sound, once again, like himself: like the real Crispin Burke, who had amassed these funds through every method but honesty.

  She kept her own manner neutral. “I believe, like many MPs, you sat on the board of various companies.”

  He lifted a black brow. “None of them appear to have marked my absence,” he said. “So it can’t be said that I contributed much. And do companies pay their directors so handsomely? If that is so, I wonder that any of them turn a profit.”

  She took a long breath. He was a very handsome man. She had always noted it, albeit reluctantly, with resentment for the poor decisions of Mother Nature. But now, his exquisitely chiseled cheekbones, the hardness of his jaw so perfectly counterbalanced by the lush fullness of his lips—the entire stunning assemblage that constituted his beauty—seemed . . . more real, somehow. Harder to ignore. For his expression was unguarded, honest and vulnerable in its uncertainty.

  He looked touchable. Moreover, he looked like a man who wanted touching, and who would have welcomed her comforting denials.

  Her fingers curled tightly, trapping temptation. And after a long moment, he offered her a lopsided smile. “Well. Silence does speak louder than words. Am I rotten, then, Jane?”

  “I would not call you rotten.” It was not kindness, she told herself, that led her to lie—it was expediency, a leaf from the old Crispin’s book. She was not his true wife. It was not her job to do his work for him, to give him the true picture of who he’d been.

  But he didn’t believe her. She could tell from his face. “Do you know,” he said slowly, “when I woke . . .”

  His unhappiness should not move her. But . . . it was the other Crispin whom she resented. This man, whoever he was, had shown himself thoughtful, considerate, gentle. He respected her wishes. He apologized when he erred. He kissed her so softly . . .

  He asked for her opinions, and never sneered at her replies.

  “Go on,” she said unsteadily. God save me. “When you woke?”

  He set a fist against his lips. The bareness of his ring finger struck her again. How much handsomer he looked without his sneers and gaudy jewelry. “I was glad,” he said. “I was . . . relieved. To know I had come so far, that I had made something of myself after all. I don’t know how much I told you of my childhood, of my family . . .”

  A decent woman would stop him from speaking. Enticing him to confide in her was akin to doing a violence to him, for in his right mind, he would never offer intimacies.

  But what if this is his right mind? a small and dangerous voice whispered. What if this is the true Crispin?

  She found herself leaning closer. “You told me very little.”

  “Perhaps that was wise.” He paused. “There is little in it to compliment me.”

  In his childhood? She thought of his mother’s loving concern for him, his sister’s clear adoration. “I don’t believe that.”

  He shrugged. “I was born impatient, I think. Careless, given to hijinks, ungifted at schoolwork, unable to focus on anything for too long.” His fist fell; with his thumb, he began to crack his knuckles, one by one, methodically. “But I had charm. I could endear myself; I could make people laugh. That was never quite . . . enough, though. I think my parents hoped for another Atticus—who, as you may have noticed, is a wondrous disciplined sort.” A strange smile flickered over his lips. “A fine thing that he was born first. Only . . . perhaps, if I had been the youngest . . .” He flattened his fist against the arm of the chair, stretching his fingers, relaxing them. Then, abruptly: “Did I wear a ring on this hand?”

  She followed his gaze. A faint band of paleness marked the ruby’s absence now. “Yes. A cabochon, a ruby.”

  He flinched as though she had struck him. Then, before she could speak, he shoved to his feet and stalked across the room to the liquor cabinet.

  “Whisky,” came his voice, savagely cheerful. “Just the thing. And you, dear wife? Will you partake?”

  It was the other Crispin’s voice. But for the first time, she did not quail to hear it. She was building a feel for this Crispin; she could sense that his displeasure was self-directed. What had sparked his temper? “No, thank you.” With a pointed glance to the grandfather clock—it was unseemly early for a man to tipple—she said, “I wonder if the doctors would approve of —”

  “Oh, this is medicine,” he drawled, and slugged down a healthy dram before turning to consider her. “Your ring, Jane? Where is it?”

  She glanced down at her bare hand. “I . . .” He meant her wedding ring, of course. “We married in haste. There was no chance to procure one.”

  “Well, then.” He set the glass down. “We must rectify that.” His smile looked sharp. “God knows I have the money.”

  She hesitated. It would be wrong, so wrong, to encourage this charade.

  “The jeweler’s will be open by now,” he went on. “Let’s slip out before the visitors come knocking.” He laid down his glass and smiled at her.


  Why, she did not give a fig for what that other Crispin would think. She wanted to know this one. Her curiosity felt like an elemental drive, ferocious as hunger or thirst. She wanted to know why news of the ruby ring had upset him. She wanted to spend the morning with him.

  She was a fool. She was setting herself up for a great punishment, a deadly fall.

  But as she rose, she could not keep from smiling back at him.

  * * *

  “Do none of them please you?”

  Jane turned away from the window. “No, they’re all lovely.” Crispin had brought her to a shop on Regent Street which was cunningly modeled to resemble the interior of a jewelry box. The walls were covered in blush velvet swags, the ceiling mirrored. Diamonds the size of a child’s fist glittered in the glass cabinets. The air was softly perfumed.

  She felt a little light-headed. Smothered, really. But the rings lying on the counter, cushioned by a swath of apricot velvet, were very fine. She stepped forward hesitantly, conscious of the carefully bland smile of the jeweler. He had recognized Crispin when they entered. “All my mother’s jewelry comes from Howell and James,” Crispin had told her. But she wondered if he had forgotten his own purchases. Mr. Howell’s greeting sounded too familiar, too eager, and when Crispin introduced her as his wife, he made the briefest pause before modulating his tone to a more subdued geniality.

  She knew Mr. Burke had kept lovers—not even courtesans, but married women. She had seen the proof with her own eyes. So what if Mr. Howell had mistaken her for one of them? She should be flattered to be placed in company with the beautiful Duchess of Farnsworth.

  In fact, she should not care at all. She was not Crispin’s wife.

  “Perhaps I don’t need a ring,” she said. These were rich, ornate, breathtakingly lovely pieces—delicate, twisting gold bands cleverly inset with precious stones. She would have to abandon the ring when she fled, for she was no thief. He would find it afterward, transformed into a token of betrayal. What an injustice to do to such beauty. Why had she agreed to come?

  “Nonsense,” he said. “What wife does not need a wedding ring?”

  “A clumsy one.” She manufactured a laugh. “I have never worn a ring, or a pair of earrings, or a bracelet”—for she had seen him eyeing those as well—“that I haven’t managed to lose by night’s end.”

  “Splendid news for Mr. Howell,” Crispin said with a smile. “We’ll be visiting him regularly.”

  She sighed. “Mr. Burke . . .”

  He took her hand and placed it on the glass counter. “Behold the fairest hand in England,” he told the jeweler. “In your expert opinion, sir, which ring would do it justice?”

  If Mr. Howell’s study of her hand appeared mildly skeptical, Jane could not blame him. She had spent years wielding a needle, and not always carefully. The rhythmic, repetitive act of sewing had sometimes been a comfort to her, removing her mind from her predicament, lulling her thoughts into a numbed slumber. But in her blackest moods, she had sometimes not bothered to mind her aim.

  The fingers of her left hand bore numerous small scars. Sometimes a little pain—a reminder, in its own curious way, that her body, at least, remained in her control—had helped to counterbalance the larger pain of her helplessness.

  “Well,” he said, and cleared his throat. “You are quite right, Mr. Burke, to flatter your wife’s hand. It is a rare combination, shapely and graceful. I think it would be a pity not to highlight such beauty.” He reached, naturally, for the most ornately jeweled ring—the most expensive, too, Jane did not doubt.

  “I prefer that one.” She laid the forefinger of her free hand on the glass counter, to indicate a gold band that Mr. Howell had not pulled out for them.

  “That band is very popular, madam.” Mr. Howell made this sound like an indictment.

  “It’s quite plain,” Crispin said hesitantly.

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Burke,” said the jeweler. “It is intended for those with a care for . . . economy. I fear it would not best express the rare and extraordinary nature of your sentiments.”

  Hogwash. “And here I thought that a love expressed through jewelry was the flimsiest kind,” Jane said lightly. “I will take that ring, sir, and none other.”

  With a sigh, Mr. Howell bent to retrieve it. “Have you a matching ring for a gentleman?” asked Crispin.

  Here was the first sign that he had forgotten more than his recent experience. “Gentlemen do not wear wedding rings,” Jane said gently.

  “Is there a rule against it?” He stretched out his fingers, displaying the paler band of skin that testified to his missing ruby. “I would like,” he said more quietly, “to cover that up.”

  That ring held no sweet memories for him. She wanted desperately to know why he had worn it.

  “I do believe I have a broader band in gold.” Mr. Howell held out the ring to Jane, but Crispin took it. “If you will give me one moment, I’ll check in the storeroom.”

  “Very good.”

  Jane turned away to the window again as Mr. Howell went rummaging. It was one o’clock, and in sharp contrast to the muffled serenity of the shop, the street outside was choked with traffic. Matched grays trotted past, hauling a glossy carriage whose black lacquer reflected the stucco terrace building in which Jane stood. Horsemen, buggies, pedestrians in lace-fringed gowns, footmen staggering beneath packages, young boys hawking penknives, vendors waving prints, a grand dowager in bombazine with a poodle on a leash . . . The entire world was parading down Regent Street. Jane squinted across the road. As she and Crispin had stepped out of the carriage earlier, a man crouched on the curb had been playing an odd tune through a quill dipped in a tin bucket of water. He had now gathered an audience of bored-looking dandies in top hats and paletots.

  “Does something catch your eye?” came Crispin’s voice at her ear.

  “All of it,” she said honestly. “I’ve seen nothing of London.” Her aunt and uncle’s surveillance had been total, and then . . .

  Then Mr. Burke had been attacked.

  How distant it all seemed now! Sitting rigidly in his parents’ drawing room, Jane had been terrified to speak up. The archbishop’s work had been quick. The marriage record looked authentic. But her palm had sweated so fiercely around the paper that she had feared she might smudge the lines.

  How shocked his family had been to see that paper.

  How furious, hers.

  “Surely you’ve been to London before,” said Crispin. “This can’t be your first season.”

  He’d forgotten, of course. She looked at him. “The Masons kept me in the country. An heiress is not easy to keep unmarried, you know.”

  Amazement widened his eyes. How unguarded this Crispin was; how generous with his shows of emotion. What had the other Crispin been trying so hard to hide?

  She was beginning to have suspicions. She remembered his elder brother’s rudeness, and Crispin’s own strained confession. My parents hoped for another Atticus . . . Mr. Burke had stopped bothering to court approval. Instead, he’d welcomed condemnation.

  This Crispin was braver. He had not let his own history harden him yet.

  He was still holding the ring. She smiled at him. “I don’t think that one will fit you.”

  “Ah.” He smiled back at her, a wide and lovely smile that caused her heart to trip.

  She would miss this man when Mr. Burke came back.

  May he never come back.

  Was that very sinful to wish? Was she a villain to do so?

  “Give me your hand,” he said. When he put the ring over her fingertip, he glanced up through his lashes. “I suspect this moment properly requires some poetic remark.”

  She laughed. “Typically it comes from the minister.”

  But she’d misjudged; he was quite serious. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I can’t remember asking you to marry me,” he said. “It’s . . . ludicrous.”

  Yes, she was a villain. She’d seen firsthand how his infirmity pained him. How co
uld she be grateful for it? “It’s all right, Crispin.”

  “Listen to me,” he said, his gaze steady. “I doubt almost everything, Jane. I find more evidence every day that my memories won’t be pleasant. But I know I did one thing well. I did very well in marrying you.”

  Her lips parted. If it had been true, it would have been the loveliest praise ever offered her.

  He gave a rueful tug of his mouth. “Well, I was never a poet,” he said, and pushed the ring over her knuckle.

  It felt cool and firm against her skin. Weighty, as a wedding ring should be.

  “Here we are,” said Mr. Howell, bustling back into the showroom. “See if this fits you, Mr. Burke.”

  The band was broad enough to conceal all evidence that he had once worn another. “Perfection,” said Crispin. “Have the bill sent to . . .”

  Jane opened her mouth to supply his address, but Mr. Howell stepped in smoothly. “Yes, of course. The regular arrangement, sir.”

  * * *

  “Have I bought you other jewelry?” Crispin asked as they stepped back into the sunshine. “Enough to have a . . . regular arrangement?”

  She thought of the jewels at the Duchess of Farnsworth’s throat. “You have a mother and a sister, Crispin. I’m certain you never let their birthdays pass unremarked.”

  “Ah. Yes.” He relaxed visibly, then took her arm, drawing her out of the way of an oncoming stampede of sashed and beribboned children. They stepped into a patch of shade provided by a baker’s awning to wait for the coach.

  Sunlight gleamed off her ring. She held out her hand, tilting it until the band glinted.

  “Where next?” Crispin asked, startling her.

  She tucked her hand into her pocket. There was no call to admire the symbol of her lies. “Was there some other errand to run?”

  He grinned. “You wanted to see London. Where shall we start?”