“Fisticuffs.”
“Impudent pup.” A foreboding chuckle escaped Uncle’s chest. “And by the time you regain consciousness you’ll be a widower. My condolences.”
Crispin shrugged off his jacket and began fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat.
“Crispin.” Catherine pulled on his arm, turning him enough to look into his face.
He smiled tensely at her as he undid the last button of his waistcoat. “This will distract him,” Crispin whispered. “You can get out and alert the staff. Do not come back in.”
“I will not abandon you, Crispin,” Catherine insisted sotto voce. “Uncle is dangerous when he is angry.” She took Crispin’s discarded waistcoat, hoping Uncle would believe she was merely helping her husband prepare for the impromptu duel.
“Believe me, Catherine, I have been wanting to do this since the day I met you.” Crispin’s eyes flashed with obvious anger when he glanced past her to where Uncle waited.
“But he has a gun.” She couldn’t help the tremor those words sent through her. Uncle would have no qualms about shooting a man dead in his own house.
“He set it on the mantel.” Crispin’s gaze fixed firmly on her. “Bring someone back here.”
Catherine nodded. He placed his long, crumpled cravat in her hand and gently squeezed her fingers before stepping around her to face Uncle. Catherine laid his discarded clothes on a nearby chair and watched the two men approach each other. Uncle had, indeed, set his pistol aside.
If only she could get around them and to an exit without Uncle noticing. Catherine kept her eyes firmly fixed on the two men looking daggers at each other. Each was down to his shirtsleeves, fists held in ready position, circling one another. Catherine inched closer to the terrace doors—the brawl about to explode prevented her from reaching the door leading to the corridor.
Catherine inched along the wall. If Uncle noticed her trying to escape . . . She wouldn’t think about it—the plan simply had to work.
Uncle’s massive fist flung through the air. Crispin slipped out of reach, untouched and unharmed. Another swipe from Uncle. Another near miss. In the next second, Crispin’s fist connected with Uncle’s jaw, sending him stumbling backward.
“Not as easy facing a grown man as an innocent woman or child, is it Thorndale?”
Catherine had never heard Crispin sound more livid. She didn’t think even Uncle looked as viciously angry as Crispin did at that moment.
“Greedy, grabbing wench! I ought to have strangled her the minute I laid eyes on her!”
“And I should have called you out the first time I saw you lay a hand on her.”
Neither man seemed to notice her moving further away. Encouraged, Catherine increased her pace. She reached the terrace doors just as Crispin landed a resounding blow to Uncle’s jaw.
Catherine hesitated. Suppose Uncle noticed she had left? What if he did something horrible? Went for his gun again?
The sound of quiet footfall up the terrace steps made Catherine’s heart race in panic. Did Uncle have others there? Accomplices?
In an instant, however, she recognized Philip. She ran toward him and the red-vested man at his side.
“Philip! You have to help! My uncle!” She pointed back to the open door. “He has a gun.”
“Hancock heard commotion.” Philip’s demeanor was uncharacteristically serious, almost authoritative. “We didn’t want to risk startling your uncle into anything rash by bursting through the other door. But if you are safe—”
“Crispin is still in there!”
Philip and the other man bounded from the edge of the terrace toward the doors, Catherine hot on their heels.
“Not used to your sparring partner fighting back, then, old man?” she heard Crispin bark as she stepped back through the doors.
Uncle’s face was bloodied and purple with rage. Crispin stood with his back to her. Catherine’s heart hammered. Philip’s friend inched carefully inside—Philip did the same, only moving toward the opposite side of the room.
Help him! Why weren’t they jumping in?
Crispin landed another punch, and Uncle bent over in pain. Perhaps Crispin didn’t need help after all. She had never in her life believed anyone could overpower Uncle.
Her breath caught in her lungs when Uncle straightened again. He held in his hand the tiniest pistol Catherine had ever seen.
She saw her husband stiffen at the sight of the gun aimed for his heart. Philip and the other man stood stock still, eyes focused on the weapon no one had expected.
“You are a fool, Cavratt.”
“Murder is a hanging offense.” Worry touched Crispin’s expression.
Please, no.
“You can’t inherit if you are dead.”
“This is not about the money!” Uncle’s voice rattled the windows and doors of the room. He looked demented. Deranged. There was no telling what he would do.
“Put down your weapon.” Crispin’s voice was calm.
Catherine held her breath, watching Uncle in horror. His jaw was set. His hand flinched. He was going to shoot.
Blinded by panic, Catherine shouted, “No!” and ran toward Crispin.
She felt his arms wrap around her. He turned her, placing himself between her and her uncle just as the air exploded.
* * *
For a moment Crispin couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Had he been fast enough? Was Catherine safe? Had Thorndale shot before he’d sufficiently shielded her?
He looked down at her pale face, panic threatening. Her eyes were open—a good sign.
“Are you hurt?” He clasped her face with his hands, nearly unable to breathe. If she was hurt . . . !
She shook her head. “Are you?”
“No.” Crispin’s heart raced. He had to keep Catherine safe. How long before Thorndale shot again or came after her in another way? Could he get her out? Crispin turned back toward Thorndale, prepared to do whatever he must.
Thorndale wasn’t there. An unknown man in a red vest stood over what Crispin was certain was Thorndale’s unmoving form. A Bow Street Runner? What was a hired investigator doing in his music room?
“I have impeccable timing,” a familiar voice observed from the direction of the French doors.
“Philip?” A Bow Street Runner and Philip? What was going on? And what had happened to Thorndale?
“Thought playing the hero would be the dashing thing to do.” Philip shrugged. “So I brought a Runner. Good thing, too. Grimes here is a crack shot.”
“He shot Thorndale?” Crispin looked from Philip to the Runner and back again. “You saved our lives.”
“I’ll send you my bill later.” Philip tugged at his canary yellow waistcoat.
“Is he dead?” Catherine’s voice shook.
Crispin pulled her tightly into his embrace. His heart had not yet stopped furiously pounding.
“No, m’lady,” the Runner replied. “There’s a doctor at Newgate. He’ll see to ’im.”
“Jason’s on his way.” Philip dropped into a chair near the pianoforte. “He’s bringing Thorndale’s solicitor and a couple of Grimes’s colleagues. His idea of a regular society gathering, no doubt.”
“The group o’ us can handle ol’ windbag, here,” Grimes assured them, motioning at Thorndale’s prostrate form on the floor. “And don’t you worry none, m’lady. He won’t bother ya no more. We’ll be sure of it.”
“Th-th-thank you.”
“Thank you, m’lady, for yelling out like you did. Distracted the blackguard just long enough . . .”
“He would have shot my husband.”
Crispin stroked her hair, closing his eyes a moment in an attempt to convince himself she was truly well and whole.
“I hate to contradict a lady,” Philip rejoined the conversation, “but Thorndale was aiming for you, Catherine. Not Crispin.”
Crispin’s heart dropped to his feet. He’d nearly lost her. The thought kept repeating in his mind. He’d almost lost her.
/>
“I should have left when you first asked me to,” Catherine said from within the circle of his arms. “If I hadn’t argued with you—”
“Shh.” He didn’t blame her, not in the least. But at the moment all words escaped him. The sight of Thorndale pointing a gun at her remained far too fresh yet. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.” He spoke to himself as much as to Catherine. She was safe. She was safe.
He spent the next half hour giving directions and overseeing the removal of Thorndale, who had regained consciousness, though he remained incoherent, out of Permount House and into a coach bound for Newgate Prison, where Thorndale would, if he recovered, await trial.
Jane retrieved Catherine within minutes of Thorndale’s being felled by Grimes’s bullet. Catherine’s pale countenance and clearly distressed eyes worried Crispin. She needed to lie down. She obviously needed to be away from the chaos and blood. So he’d reluctantly let her go.
Crispin pulled Philip into the sitting room before letting his lifelong friend leave. “I cannot thank you enough.” He dropped one hand firmly on his friend’s shoulder. “For myself and, especially, for Catherine.”
Philip began his trademark shrug.
“No! Stop! I am being serious. Drop all this and listen to me. You saved my life. You saved my Catherine. You have no idea . . . how . . . indebted I am . . .” No words seemed sufficient.
Philip’s face transformed one more time to the person he had been years before, to a man Crispin sorely missed. “I’d have shot the man myself, but Grimes has better aim. I didn’t want to accidentally kill my best friend.” Philip actually looked a little shaken.
“It was rather a close-run thing, wasn’t it?”
Philip nodded without a hint of the dandy he pretended to be.
“I am in your debt,” Crispin said.
“Well, then, if I ever find my life threatened by a lunatic, I will fully expect you to rescue me.” Philip smiled—not the empty-headed smile he usually affected, but a true smile.
“It’s a deal. And thank you again.”
Philip waved off Crispin’s gratitude as if it weren’t important. “You rather beat old Thorndale to a pulp before I arrived to save him from your violent temper.”
Crispin knew he was grinning like a schoolboy. “Cannot tell you how good that felt.”
“Do you still plan to flee London, then?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Crispin admitted.
“Suffolk is quite a sight in the late fall,” Philip suggested with a raise of his too-knowing brow. “Catherine would love it.”
“You mean Kinnley?”
“Unless, of course, you’re still planning to ship the poor woman off, leave her dangling on the edge of society. With her uncle no longer a worry, you wouldn’t have to wait on the annulment. This attack would probably strengthen your arguments, in fact.”
“I . . . It’s not like that . . . Things have changed . . .” How did he put it in words? “I can’t let her go like that.”
Philip nodded with understanding. “I’m happy for you,” Philip said genuinely. “You will be good for each other.”
“And if she doesn’t agree?”
“Tell her. Convince her,” Philip replied, making his way out of the sitting room. “Better yet,”—He turned back, a look of pure mischief on his face—“show her.”
Hancock bowed as he opened the doors of Permount House to allow Philip to leave.
Philip tugged foppishly at his waistcoat and offered an affected smile. “Perhaps I should go home by way of Hyde Park,” he said. “I appear to be quite in looks today.”
Crispin shook his head in bewilderment. He would never understand why Philip acted the way he did at times, nor what had affected the drastic change in his friend. Perhaps someday Philip would confide in him.
Before Hancock had closed the door behind the baffling Earl of Lampton, Crispin was halfway up the stairs with one destination in mind.
He slipped almost silently through the door to Catherine’s rooms. She was pacing in front of the fireplace and looked up as he entered.
“Oh, Crispin!” Catherine threw herself into his arms, precisely where he needed her to be. “Is everyone all right? Is he gone?”
“Thorndale is on his way to Newgate.” Crispin hugged her close to him. “He will not be coming back.”
“I have never been more afraid in all my life.” She trembled as she spoke.
Neither had he. Thorndale had nearly succeeded. Crispin had almost lost her forever. He laid his chin on the top of Catherine’s head.
She leaned more heavily against him. “I’ve been a great deal of trouble, haven’t I?”
“As a matter of fact.” He couldn’t help a smile. Trouble did not begin to describe Catherine’s impact on his previously predictable life. “To begin with, you’ve turned this home into a hothouse.”
“I can hardly be blamed for being irresistible.”
She was decidedly irresistible. Crispin stroked her hair, not particularly caring that her hairpins weren’t equal to the task of holding her locks up against his interference. “For another thing, you turned me to a life of crime.”
He felt her laugh. “I thought we agreed your mother bore the blame for your tendency to steal pastries.”
“Either way, I have become a hopeless criminal—most ladies would object to that.”
“As well they should.” Her fingers rustled the open collar of his somewhat bloodied shirt “Worse yet, you are bruised like a prizefighter.”
“Just how do you know what a bruised prizefighter looks like?”
“Furthermore, you threaten me with your fountain.”
“I’m shameless.” He looked into her sparkling eyes and smiled despite himself.
“And . . .” Her expression clouded a little. “You claim you do not believe in love.”
“A belief I am beginning to doubt.” Crispin lightly kissing her forehead.
“Doubt?”
“Dismiss.” He kissed the tip of her nose.
“Dismiss?” She still seemed unsatisfied.
“Renounce, then.”
“Much better,” Catherine managed to say before Crispin covered her mouth with his.
Show her, Philip had said. Show her how much he cared for her, needed her, loved her. He did, desperately. He could never have imagined that when he kissed her in that garden—it seemed like ages ago—that kiss would lead him to this.
He held her as tightly and closely as possible. She returned the embrace with equal determination and didn’t pull away from his kiss.
“Catherine.” The word rasped out of him as he broke the seal of their lips. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers, breathing in the familiar scent of her. He could not bear the thought of her leaving him. “I cannot do this.”
He felt her pull back. Crispin dropped his hands to her shoulders, holding her in place. He opened his eyes and locked his gaze with hers.
“Please reconsider,” he said, desperation making his heart thud anew. “I know I haven’t been the ideal husband, and I often say and do stupid things. But I cannot simply let you walk away. Give me a chance, Catherine. Please. Come with me to Kinnley—even for just a fortnight or so. Give me a chance to court you properly before you insist on an—an annul—” Lud, he couldn’t even push the word out. “Just allow me a chance. Please.”
“You want me to come with you?” Catherine asked.
“I want you to stay with me,” he answered. “I won’t force you, but, heaven help me, I will fight for you. I’ll do whatever I must. If that means raiding every hothouse in the county or throwing myself in the fountain or begging you shamelessly, I’ll do so without a moment’s hesitation. I swear to you I will.”
“You don’t want an annulment?”
Crispin shook his head. “I haven’t for some time now.”
Her gaze dropped, a look of uncertainty on her face. Crispin brushed a strand of hair back from her face, waiting an
xiously for her next words.
“Because you feel sorry for me?” she asked.
He placed a lingering kiss on her forehead, knowing if he kissed her lips he’d never manage to say what he needed her to hear. “Because I can’t live without you.”
He felt her sigh, and her entire expression lightened. “Then you don’t regret walking in that garden all those weeks ago?”
“Providence, my dear. The heavens knew I needed you.”
She very nearly smiled. “You needed an accidental wife?”
“It seems to me”—He pulled her closer once more—“those are the very best kind.”
Her smile bloomed fully, and Crispin was lost. Who initiated the kiss that followed he did not know. He simply savored her, knowing he didn’t deserve the treasure he’d been given. When he attempted to break the kiss, Catherine didn’t allow him to, a turn of events he hadn’t foreseen but to which he didn’t object.
“I love you,” Catherine whispered against his mouth several moments later.
The old, rusted, battle-weary knight straightened his creaky armor as he bent his neck to kiss her once more. “And I will forever love you.”
About the Author
Sarah M. Eden read her first Jane Austen novel in elementary school and has been an Austen Addict ever since. Fascinated by the Regency era in English history, Eden became a regular in the Regency section of the reference department at her local library, painstakingly researching this extraordinary chapter in history. Eden is an award-winning author of short stories and was a Whitney Award Finalist for her novel Seeking Persephone (2008). You can visit her at www.sarahmeden.com.
Photo by Claire Waite.
Other books and audio books by Sarah M. Eden:
Courting Miss Lancaster
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 23
