‘My lady.’ The count offered his arm and, with a scant glance to Crispin, she accepted the escort.
Disembarking was nothing short of chaotic, every passenger anxious to reach dry land, but the frenetic pace and crush of travellers lent itself well to their cause. With relief, there was no sighting of the crewman from the night before.
They came to the bottom of the ramp and Crispin put two fingers to his mouth to emit a sharp whistle. The surprising action produced a brawny man dressed entirely in black. It happened with such alacrity, she would have believed it impossible within the fray.
‘Bootler.’ Crispin nodded. ‘We have a change in plans.’
The count stepped forward and introductions were made. Bootler served as Crispin’s man-of-all-things and evidently communicated with his lordship on a level in no need of detailed discussion.
‘Have my carriage take the lady anywhere she needs to go. She’s London-bound and has no baggage.’ He spared a glance in her direction. ‘Secure the count’s trunks and my own are removed. We’ll see ourselves to Bedford Square.’
A timeless moment stretched, despite they stood within a jostling crowd of pleasure seekers and their conveyances. At last the count bowed over her hand, pressed a swift kiss and stepped away. Crispin watched with an indecipherable look in his eyes.
‘Safe travels to you, Lady Beasley.’ He didn’t move nearer and the desire to reach out, to touch him or somehow make the connection they’d shared much more than a journey across the ocean, died a pitiful, withering death.
‘Thank you.’ She doubted he heard her soft reply amidst the ambient noise of the crowd.
‘Right this way, milady.’
Bootler interceded and she had no choice but to follow. Without funds, she was grateful for Crispin’s generous and accommodating offer. She didn’t anticipate two days’ carriage travel alone with any degree of enthusiasm, but to be returned home would prove heavenly.
‘That was unexpected.’ Ferris eyed Crispin with shrewd appreciation. ‘I discover you’ve kept a woman in your quarters and then you dismiss her without thought.’
‘I’ve more important matters to contend with now that I’m home.’ Crispin surveyed the thinning crowd, his eyes settling on the sleek black coach and four across the lane where Bootler handed Amanda into the interior. Not wanting to give Ferris another reason to question the morning, he forced his eyes away. Thankfully his friend respected privacy and didn’t question, the count in possession of a bevy of secrets to call his own.
‘Not a very subtle allusion, amico mio.’ Ferris stifled a chuckle. ‘So, we are stranded then?’
‘Hardly.’ With a sharp jerk of his chin, Crispin summoned a different person, his appearance off-putting at first, the repellant white scar from eye socket to chin the stuff of nightmares. ‘I’ve many resources at my disposal. Stokes will take us wherever we need to go.’
Crispin introduced Ferris, though little was said in return. The three men climbed into Stokes’s carriage, an older, worn vehicle, and with a few quick coins paid to the lads who lingered near the dock for that very reason, the trunks were affixed to the back. Watching Amanda leave was more difficult than he’d anticipated and, while her safety was secure under Bootler’s watchful eye, he wondered at her welfare, relieved by the distraction of company and travel.
Somehow she’d managed to get under his skin, and now he meant to get her out.
‘You stayed away too long.’ Stokes broke the quiet, his legs extended within the interior, his pose casual.
Ferris looked out of the window, seemingly uninterested, although Crispin knew better than to believe the count didn’t listen. Any conversation exchanged could be shared.
‘Bring me up to date.’ The terse command sent Stokes into a listing of events and happenings at the Underworld gaming hell. Crispin had incurred an insufferable debt in an embarrassing debacle the night before he exiled himself from London. He’d left neither note nor explanation for his family, failed to contact them during the time he spent away, and knew from Stokes and other paid informants, his parents had hired an investigator.
He swallowed hard, aware his sister experienced the brunt of his departure. They were close or at least were at one time. But that was before Sophie’s closest friend, Vivienne, crushed his heart under her heel and chose to love a bastard. That was before he’d stormed into the hell blinded by reckless emotion, lost too much money to count, and made a fool of himself.
The time for redemption had come and he couldn’t be more ready.
‘They’re all married now.’ Stokes grimaced as if by saying the word he might catch the disease. ‘It won’t take any effort to put some hurt on their establishment. Break a few of their runners’ legs or slice a lady’s pretty face.’ He slapped his right boot. ‘I always carry my knife.’
Ferris shifted his attention and Crispin responded. ‘I’ve told you before I’m not looking for violence. I have a score to settle that involves money and pride, not broken bones or blood.’
‘Your situation runs alongside mine. It was Max Sinclair’s worst luck I met you as you took your leave that night.’ Stokes drilled him with an intense stare.
‘That may be true, but I’ve no use for violence.’ Crispin unfolded his legs and sought a more comfortable position. Stokes’s mention brought Amanda’s attack by the crewman to mind in a vivid image of peril. Had he arrived only a minute or two later, any number of things would have occurred, none of them pleasant. A fresh spike of anger lodged in his chest like a thorn thrust deep. ‘We’ve two days’ travel ahead and I’m no longer in want of conversation. I’ve been up most of the night and I’m out of patience. Sleep or keep quiet.’ And with that he closed his eyes.
‘Amanda.’ Lady Matilda Beasley, her aunt through paternal relation, embraced her in a tight hug of affection. ‘Thank heavens you’re here. If only we could contact your father and assuage his concern.’ Enveloping her hand with both of her own, Matilda drew Amanda farther into the drawing room, her face bright with happiness.
‘You’ve heard from Father?’ Gladdened with her decision to come directly to her aunt and uncle’s home, she took a seat beside the hearth, her spirits lifted by this news.
‘Oh dear, yes. He wrote to me three weeks ago when you became separated. Unsure of your whereabouts, your father and Raelyn boarded the next available packet to England and are due sometime next week. I have his letter on the escritoire if you’d like to read it later. It was a good thing you wore that bright yellow gown. Several people on the docks confirmed they saw you board the wrong ship. Is it any wonder when they insist on writing the names in Italian? Why can’t they make it easier for travellers?’
Amanda couldn’t help but smile. Her aunt was her greatest champion, unwilling to believe idle gossip or accept either one of her nieces could do any wrong. Why, after Raelyn’s broken engagement, Matilda threatened to hunt down the beau in question and box his ears. Father had to persuade his sister to find another outlet for her outrage.
‘Still, I shouldn’t have made that error. I’ve caused so much inconvenience and worry. Raelyn must be angry she missed France.’
‘Your father can take her another time.’ Matilda set about pouring tea. ‘What’s most important is that you’ve returned to us safe and sound. Although I don’t think your father will be content until he sees you.’ She dabbed at the corner of her eye. ‘The way he worried over your safety…’ She sniffled. ‘Like I said, you can read the letter later.’
‘Thank you.’ Amanda sipped her tea, savouring the lovely exotic flavour, pearl oolong with a touch of honey. Aunt Matilda had travelled extensively with her uncle before he passed away and widened her view of the world far beyond England. Widowed now for several years, she embodied a rare sense of self-possession Amanda admired. Perhaps she should ask her aunt’s advice about the upcoming soiree. She didn’t dare bring up the subject of Crispin. Her feelings of disappointment and confusion weren�
��t fit for conversation without an onslaught of tears.
‘Exactly how did you manage alone aboard an Italian galleon?’ Matilda relaxed against the cushions of the settee, though she’d chosen the thread of conversation Amanda wished most to avoid.
‘I’m a little amazed that I did.’ She smiled and straightened her shoulders. ‘With hardly a mistake, I might add.’ Would she categorize Crispin a mistake? His kisses didn’t feel like mistakes? His kisses felt heavenly.
‘And how did you get here, child? Who delivered you in that fine coach and four?’ Matilda’s brows rose high with the question.
‘A kind gentleman, Lord Hastings, extended the courtesy.’ She didn’t wish to elaborate beyond the barest of facts. It was a safe assumption she’d never see Crispin again and that, most assuredly, was for the best. She swallowed another sip of tea to assuage the sinking feeling in her stomach.
‘Oh, we must thank him. When would you like to pay call? We can look him up in Debrett’s registry. I’m sure a few days is long enough for you to regain a bit of normalcy. Your gown…’ Aunt Matilda’s lips pressed into a frown as she struggled for the right word.
‘I know.’ She eyed her skirt, arrowing fast to the faint stain she’d scrubbed vigorously with Crispin’s shaving soap. Her collar still carried the scent. Pity it would soon be washed away.
Chapter Twelve
Crispin sighed heavily as he sat in his study. Home at last. His home, not his father’s. His townhouse was situated in Bedford Square, on a most elite wedge of land with the finest construction. He’d completed the purchase through a solicitor while in Italy, the property and structure ripe for remodel and sold for less than it was worth due to the need for significant repair, but one would never know that now. His solicitor had secured the deal and consulted with Bootler to design and decorate with Crispin’s specifics. Now, seeing it before him and not just reading descriptions in lengthy letters, he couldn’t be more pleased.
He glanced at Ferris in an overstuffed chair near the fire, brandy in hand. His friend hadn’t spoken much through their travels. Perhaps Crispin’s foul temperament had something to do with that fact. He’d need to improve his mood and offer the count the same hospitality Crispin had experienced in Venice. Bootler entered and interrupted the unsettling conclusion.
‘You needed to see me, milord?’
‘Was the package delivered?’ He waited, impatient for the information.
‘Yes, to a residence on Marylebone Street, the home of Lady Matilda Beasley, widow and endeared relative.’
‘The permanent residence?’ He liked to collect as many facts as possible. Not that he had any plans to utilize the information.
‘No. That address is located on West Wigmore. There is a father and older sister who also occupy the location.’ Bootler paused the slightest. ‘Will you want the carriage, milord?’
‘Yes. After dinner.’ Crispin took a swallow of brandy. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Ferris glance in his direction.
‘Will you require gifts for your sister?’ Bootler waited.
‘Aah, Sophie,’ Ferris interrupted, at once alert to the conversation.
‘Find something suitable, Bootler. Eight o’clock shall be fine. You may go.’ Crispin set down his glass. ‘He’s the most efficient man I know. I should raise his wages.’
Ferris grunted his approval. ‘Sophie, at long last. After dinner.’
Crispin answered with half a chuckle. ‘You can rid yourself of those thoughts immediately or I’ll leave you here.’
‘That’s unnecessary and unkind. And besides, you described your sister as an angel. I only wish to see her myself and determine if this is true. How do you say—’
‘Hands off. That’s how you say it. So you can forget it. You’re too old for her anyway.’
‘You wound me. I’m thirty-four, amico mio, only five years older than you.’
‘Like I said.’
They laughed at the foolishness of their conversation.
‘What will you tell your sister for having stayed away so long?’ Somehow the discussion took a serious turn.
It was a question Crispin often asked himself. He should have written to Sophie for no other reason than to assure her he was intact. ‘I don’t know, but it won’t be easy.’
‘Very little is.’ Ferris rose and walked to the sideboard to refill his glass. ‘Your associate, Stokes… he’s an unsavoury sort, eh? You wouldn’t pursue the kind of retribution he desires?’
‘Of course not. I first met Stokes at university, but the years haven’t treated him kindly.’ Crispin stood and moved to the window. Traffic bustled through the streets. The distant noises of typical city life, the crack of a whip, yelp of a dog, seemed discordant, a restlessness he had no way to explain a-hum beneath his skin. He did nothing but indulge in decadence when he was abroad. Mayhap he needed to readjust to his old life and a fair degree of responsibility. ‘Stokes is set on revenge. Angry over a roll of the dice at the Underworld that emptied his pockets and crippled his finances. He fell into bottomless debt and lost everything. Instead of signing his vowels and accepting his debt like a good little gambler, he pulled that knife he carries in his boot and threatened the proprietors. Sinclair made quick work of leaving Stokes with a reminder of why that was a poor choice.’
‘I understand more thoroughly now.’ Ferris quieted a moment. ‘Your debt, it is recoverable?’
‘My debt is nothing by comparison, though my loss included pride and the disillusionment of what I believed to be a permanent relationship.’ Crispin scoffed. ‘I recognize it for misplaced infatuation now and regret the choices I’ve made.’ He finished his brandy. ‘But I’ve come out the better for them.’
‘Regret and choice are closely tied together.’ Ferris came to stand in front of the desk. ‘And you choose to consort with this dishonourable Stokes person?’
‘He has his uses.’ Crispin shook his head in the negative. ‘He served as a pair of eyes while I visited Venice. He’s kept me informed. Nothing more.’
‘I hope not, amico mio. He cannot be trusted.’ Ferris smiled, slapping Crispin on the back in friendship. ‘You said you’d show me the best part of London, not the worst. Now tell me a little more about your sister. Shall I bring her flowers?’
Amanda twirled for the second time before the full-length cheval glass in Madame Monique’s dress shop. Located on Bond Street, the modiste’s French-style gowns were the talk of the ton and, with the magic of Aunt Matilda’s influence, Amanda had secured the last available appointment. Nothing distracted like a bit of shopping. The soiree and pinnacle of the social season was only two weeks away. A sudden thrill shimmied through Amanda as she admired the way the stunning design fitted her body. Madame Monique had praised her slim silhouette, high bosom and slender hips, clucking with delight as she pinned and adjusted the original pattern.
‘You’re a dressmaker’s dream.’ The modiste appeared behind Amanda, her wide smile reflected in the glass. ‘And the ripe berry colour we’ve chosen compliments your ivory complexion. Every gentleman at the event will be drawn to your loveliness.’
Amanda flitted her eyes towards her aunt, embarrassed and at the same time pleased at the praise. She had never considered herself a natural beauty and to hear the modiste expound on her appearance surprised in the best way.
‘You do look wonderful, Amanda.’ Matilda joined the modiste in an audience of two. ‘I like how you’ve lowered the neckline with tasteful discernment. My niece is demure and does not need to advertise what lies beneath the silk.’
‘Aunt Matilda…’ Amanda stifled a bubble of laughter.
‘Aah, but we want the bees drawn to the honey, do we not?’ Madame Monique shook her head vigorously. ‘I’ll take in a bit more here.’ She reached forward and pinched the side seams, tightening the fine-spun silk around Amanda’s waist and hips. ‘Yes. That’s perfect.’
‘With a few select jewels and matching
earbobs, we’ll have created every man’s dream.’
‘Aunt Matilda…’ Amanda’s admonishment fell on deaf ears.
‘Her hair?’ Monique continued. ‘What will you do with it? It’s so thick. You can’t pile all of it atop her head. It will look like a hive for the bees.’
Amanda stared at her long, wavy tresses. She rather liked it down about her shoulders. With the cutaway sleeves the modiste designed, her hair lent an ethereal air to her reflection.
‘Indeed.’ Matilda tugged lightly at a few lengths cascading down the back. ‘Let’s discuss the options.’
Her aunt launched into a fast-paced list of suggestions while the modiste listened intently. Amanda returned her attention to the cheval glass. She’d never looked so mature and the image pleased. If only Crispin could she her out of that soiled yellow gown and dressed in elegance. She dashed the idea away as soon as it formed. She had to stop thinking of him as if he remained in her life. London was a city of tens of thousands of people. Crispin was lost to her, in kind to their kisses aboard the ship.
Yet they weren’t lost. Not hardly. Every evening at bedtime and most other minutes in between, whenever she recalled the pressure of his mouth upon hers, the intense pleasure which surged through her and wrapped around her heart was overwhelming, proving a whirling delight in her stomach that had nothing to do with the motion of the ship and everything to do with desire. Even now, a ripple of blissful knowledge shimmied through her in a trail of tingling memory.
Still, he’d left her with nothing more than a carriage ride home, hadn’t he? Unaffected and forgettable, he’d secured her safety and taken nothing aside from kisses. She’d believed him a good man, had glimpsed the evidence of his character, though he had insisted otherwise. Perhaps she saw things that weren’t there as a way to comfort her own loneliness aboard ship.
‘Then that’s settled.’ Having missed the extent of her aunt’s conversation, Amanda wondered what plan they’d concocted for her hair. She smiled, assured she was in good hands, and stepped down from the platform, ready to redress.
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