She did the only thing she could conceive of doing, bowing her head to press a kiss to the top of his head, inhaling deeply of his scent, masculine and beloved. “I love you, Crispin.”
That was the only truth she could give him. Tears pricked at her eyes and she fought to keep them from falling, leaving her face pressed into the silken strands of his hair. God, how she loved this man. More than she could have imagined possible. It was bigger than she was, so easily capable of destroying her. And she did not care. Loving him was worth it.
He was worth it.
She knew in that moment without a doubt she would never give the ciphers to Kilross. She would uncover their contents and cast them into flames. If Crispin was somehow, against all reason, guilty of such treason, she would do her utmost to save him. She loved him too much. Even though he could never be hers, she could not bear to be the one who betrayed him.
She would face anything else.
Even penury.
There had to be another way for her and Father. Whatever it was, she would find it. Tonight, she would go without sleep until she discovered how great a chasm she would be forced to leap.
A sound tore from his throat, more a growl than a groan. With one more open-mouthed kiss to her bare skin, he withdrew to look down at her, searching her face. “Damn you, Jacinda. You have so much power, do you know that?”
How wrong he was, for in truth, she was powerless. Powerless to keep from hurting him, to keep from losing him, to stop what was about to unfold. Day by day, she had given him more and more of her heart and herself. Tonight would be the last.
She shook her head. “I have no power. I am at the mercy of the world.”
“As are we all.” He released his hold on her gown and gave it a savage tug. The sound of fabric tearing filled the air. Down it went, past her hips, falling to the floor in a whisper. “And as I have been at your mercy, Jacinda Turnbow.”
His hand slid to her nape, cupping her skull as if it were fashioned of fragile porcelain, a touch that belied the sudden ferocity that blazed from him. And then his lips were on hers. Molding. Melding. His kiss crushed and bruised. It took with a savagery that stole her breath. His tongue sank into her mouth. His teeth caught her lower lip and bit.
She understood the raw need in him because she felt it herself, the blossoming desperation. The need to mark and be marked. The steadfast knowledge this was to be their goodbye. She felt it in his kiss, heard it in the words that lay unspoken.
He broke the kiss, panting, his jaw rigid. “I have given you every chance to unburden yourself, wanting—nay needing—to believe the best of you. And yet you have not. So, tell me, madam, what were you doing in my study tonight?”
The question and the stinging accusation in his tone made her blood go cold. He knew. Somehow, he knew. Here was his test, revealed to her. And she had failed it miserably. Tell him everything, her heart urged. It is not too late. You have not yet gone too far.
But the ciphers mocked her from where they lay hidden, reminding her she did not know their contents, how they had come to be locked inside his drawer, or why. If she told him the truth, he would not stop until he hunted down Kilross. That much, she was certain of, and it would only give the earl precisely what he had wanted all along: Crispin. Whether he was guilty or innocent, she needed to protect him. What was one more lie in a sea of so many?
She raised her chin, meeting his gaze. “I was waiting for you.”
He brought his lips perilously near to hers once more. “And helping yourself to the contents of my desk, darling?” his voice was low and soft. Deceptively soft.
There was no way he could have known she had taken the ciphers unless he had gone to his study upon his return and sought to retrieve them, which meant… which meant he was not innocent at all, but guilty just as Lord Kilross had claimed. Her heart foundered.
“I do not know what you speak of,” she lied defiantly.
Crispin brushed his mouth over hers, a featherlight caress. Once. Twice. “Do not lie to me.”
Her eyes were wide upon him, her hands—free of the imprisonment of her sleeves—settled upon the tensed muscles of his upper arms. “I am not lying.”
“Yes.” His fingers tightened in her hair then. “You. Are.” He sneered. “What a stupid bloody fool I am, believing in you for a moment. Tell me, what was your intention in coming here to Whitley House? What devil’s bargain have you with the Earl of Kilross?”
At the earl’s name, everything in her turned to ice. “I came here because you hired me as governess,” she forced past lips that had gone numb. “Please release me.”
“Are you fucking him?” His question was a vicious snarl.
She flinched. “Release me.”
“Tell me the bloody truth, Jacinda.” He was breathing heavily, his eyes darkened like thunderclouds in an ominous sky. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I am the woman who loves you,” she said. “If you wish to punish me or to hurt me, I will not stop you.”
It was the most truth she could manage to reveal. For she did love him. Even if he was guilty. Even if the ciphers proved Kilross’ theory. She could not love him less. Her heart did not function in such a capricious fashion, one moment helplessly in the thrall of a person and the next not. Here was the truest part of her life over which she had no power, her heart. She could not control who she loved.
“Damn it.” He gripped her chin, tilting her head back. His eyes plumbed the depths of hers. “I have no wish to hurt you. All I want is the cursed truth, madam.”
“Do what you will to me,” she said quietly. “Go on, Crispin.”
“Where are the papers?” he bit out.
She met his gaze, unblinking. If she had to, she would save him from himself. That was how much she loved him. “What papers, Your Grace?”
“Shall I tear apart this chamber until I find them?” he gritted.
He would find them with ease. But she had nothing left to lose. “Tear apart this chamber if it pleases you. You shall not find whatever it is that you seek.”
He set her from him as if he could not bear to touch her for another moment. “If that is how you wish it, then I have no choice. In the morning, I will be seeking an audience with the Earl of Aylesbury. When I return, I shall expect your cooperation. You will answer my every question. Until then, you are barred from leaving this chamber.”
Already, it was as if he was a stranger to her, and how it crushed her inside. She had known it may come to this. Only her foolish heart had propelled her onward, naïve in the belief that one more day and one more night would be enough. But this, the awful finality, his harsh coldness and barely suppressed rage… nothing could have prepared her for it.
“How do you propose to keep me within this chamber?” she dared to ask. “I have duties in the morning, and Lady Constance and Lady Honora will wonder—”
“Do not dare to speak their names,” he interrupted, his lip curling as if she were beneath his contempt. “You are dismissed from your post, effective immediately. And until I can discover just how deep your treachery runs, you will find yourself confined to this chamber.”
Uncertainty merged with outrage. “Do you intend to lock me within this chamber?”
“I have a man stationed outside the door. You will not be permitted to leave without my approval,” he said coldly.
The words settled in the vicinity of her heart like an ice-cold blade. “You have had a man stationed outside the door from the moment you entered?”
He inclined his head. “You stole from me. You lied to me. Even now, you continue to prevaricate when we both know I have caught you at your games. I do not trust you. Nor have you given me cause to do so. Until I can determine how great a risk you are to me, I cannot allow you to leave this chamber.”
He had planned this, then. Had known from the moment he entered that she had been within his study, had opened his locked drawer, and had taken the ciphers. But how he knew about
Kilross was a matter of question. And if he truly thought he could contain her in a chamber, and that she would meekly remain, awaiting him to mete out his punishment to her, he was wrong. She loved him, and she could not fault him for being angry with her. She had lied to him, after all. But she had only his best interests at heart, and his best interests did not lie in her remaining trapped in a chamber. But he could not know that, for she could not tell him.
Perhaps it was better this way. They had been doomed from the start. Better to end it now rather than later, when she had fallen even more in love with him.
“Very well,” she managed to say. “I think it best you leave now, Your Grace, for your lingering will only be cause for speculation and rumor. Unless you wish to tear my undergarments away as you did my gown and ravish me?”
He grimaced, raking a hand through his hair, her taunt hitting its mark. “I would never have to ravish you and you damn well know it.”
It was one of the few truths that had been spoken between them that evening. He turned to go, and for some reason she could not suppress the need to have the last word.
“I would never betray you,” she called after him softly, meaning the words more than she had meant any she had ever said, aside from when she had told him she loved him. Nothing had changed for her. She loved him, and she would fight to protect him, however she must.
He paused, his broad back still to her, and for a beat, she thought he would spin about and come back. But he did not. Instead, he stalked from the chamber, slamming the door behind him with so much force, the pictures hanging on the wall shook and swayed from side to side.
Only after he was gone did she allow her tears to fall. After an indeterminate span of time spent wallowing in her own loss and despair, she finally forced herself to return to the ciphers. It was going to be a long and ugly night, but she would not rest until she had the answers she sought.
*
She was lying. Damn her beautiful, treacherous hide.
Crispin stalked the confines of his study, feeling like a beast locked inside a cage. His fists itched to pummel something. The demons inside him roared and clawed, demanding to be unleashed. He longed for a whisky, but he knew the devil’s brew would not soothe the ache in his soul or the agony in his heart. Indeed, it never had, and he had relied upon it far too much in the misguided belief that it would.
He had nowhere to go and no one upon whom he could rely. Even on that dark day in Spain when he had woken to the realization that his best friend was dead, he had not felt so numbingly alone. The blackness he had been holding at bay beckoned, calling him with its siren lure.
If he went back to The Duke’s Bastard, he would thrash the Earl of Kilross to within an inch of his misbegotten life. Perhaps he would not even stop until he was covered in the man’s blood and watching him breathe his last.
And if he returned to Jacinda’s chamber, he did not know what he would do. He had never been as filled with rage and betrayal as he had been when he had returned from the club, unlocked his drawer, and found the ciphers missing. He had sworn he could smell the sweet perfume of jasmine lingering in the air, a suspicion that blossomed into a vicious poison when Nicholson confirmed he had seen Miss Turnbow exiting his study earlier that evening.
He had gone to her instantly, furious and yet desperate to believe she was not capable of such deceit. That the woman who owned his heart was not also abetting an enemy he had not even realized he possessed. His frenzied mind had returned, foolishly, to the cheesecake she had baked. How could a woman who had betrayed him so thoroughly also be capable of such domestic care? Who lovingly crafted a dessert for a man while plotting his downfall?
He had clung to the thought, to the hope.
But she had not assuaged his fears. Rather, she had proven them accurate.
Her denials had been futile, for he had read the flash of truth in her eyes. He felt the finality in her kiss. The frantic beating of her heart had given away her guilt. There he had stood, the woman he loved in his arms—bloody hell, the woman he had been determined to make his damned duchess—and he had known.
How desperately he had wanted to be wrong. Part of him had wanted to throw her upon the bed and lose himself inside her one more time. Part of him had been so disgusted, he could not bear the sight of her. He had not imagined her capable of such perfidy, but now he knew the truth, he questioned each moment.
Had everything between them been a carefully crafted lie?
Had her initial protestations of propriety been cultivated to make him want her all the more? My God, even her drab dresses and fichus had to have been part of the role she played. Her figure was lush as any courtesan’s, her beauty undeniable. How had he thought for a moment such a creature as she would be accepted in any household by a wife who wished to keep her husband’s eyes from wandering?
Who was the real Jacinda Turnbow? Was that even her bloody name?
How dare she do this to him? To them? To what they could have been?
With a cry of animalistic fury, he took up the beckoning decanter of whisky and hurled it against the wall. The resulting smash was not satisfying enough, so he reached for a glass and heaved it as well. Still not enough. He stalked to his desk, slashing his arm over the papers neatly stacked on its surface, sending a ledger, an ink pot, and his quills flying.
Chest heaving, he stared at the destruction he had wrought, the broken shards of glass, the dripping stain running down the wall, the scattered papers and spreading blot of ink on the Aubusson. Not enough. Her words taunted him, churning through his mind.
I would never betray you.
I am the woman who loves you.
Lies, damn her. He slammed his fist atop the polished surface of his desk. Once. Twice. Thrice. The last time with so much force, pain rattled up his arm and lodged itself in his gritted teeth.
She had swept into his life, lifting him from the darkness and into the light only to cast him asunder once more. But if she thought she could win this battle, she was wrong. He had faced musket fire and bayonets, sabers and thundering cannon. He had no fear, and where she was concerned, he would also have no more weakness.
By the time he was done with her, Jacinda Turnbow—or whoever the hell she was—would be begging for mercy.
Chapter Nineteen
The flame on her last candle sputtered out, sending a single plume of smoke curling into the air. It mattered not, for the sun had risen in the sky, and the familiar sounds of London coming back to life filled the street below. Jacinda reread the letter she had written for Crispin one final time.
Dear Crispin,
I cannot say how sorry I am for deceiving you. Please know I would never have done so had there been any other way. My father is but a humble decipherer in service to the Crown as his father was before him. In recent months, however, he has not always been himself, and his gambling debts left us at the mercy of the Earl of Kilross, who not only owns Father’s vowels but threatened to remove my father from service and take our home if I did not do as he asked.
He claimed to have knowledge you had conspired with the French, and were responsible for the Marquess of Searle’s death. All he required of me was that I take on the role of governess to Lady Constance and Lady Honora and search your belongings for ciphered messages, which I was to then decipher and provide to him.
I was desperate to save my father and myself, and though I know it is not a sufficient excuse, I hope you will one day forgive me for my part in this injustice. I could not have known what I would find within Whitley House was not evidence of your guilt but instead the other half of me I had not known was missing. I could not have known I would fall in love with you, or that I would come to love your sisters as though they were my own.
Nor could I have known the Earl of Kilross brought me here under false pretenses. I have destroyed the original ciphers that were placed in your drawer—not by you, as I know now, but by the earl or one of his emissaries. I will not rest until I can righ
t the wrongs I have aided in perpetrating against you.
Most affectionately yours,
Jacinda
Swallowing against a fresh rush of tears, she folded the letter into thirds. There was so much more she longed to say, but she was running out of time. Deciphering the messages from Crispin’s drawer had led her to a discovery all its own. The ciphers bore the same errors as the test cipher Kilross had given her. Words were transposed, jumbled out of order alongside one another. The mistakes were too many in number to be overlooked.
And as she had stared blearily at the deciphered messages in the early hours of the morning, what had never made sense to her at long last did. Crispin was not guilty of anything. The ciphers had been written by Kilross himself.
But going to Crispin with her evidence was out of the question. As it was, she doubted he would believe her. Even if he did, he would seek out the Earl of Kilross, demanding answers. A man so intent upon bringing about another’s downfall that he planted false evidence against him was a desperate man indeed. Perhaps even an unhinged one, and Jacinda could not bear for anything to happen to Crispin.
In her naïveté, she had brought this misery upon him, and it was now her duty to undo all the damage she had done. She did not dare hope Crispin would ever forgive her, but if she could lift this curse from his shoulders, she would.
With a shaking hand, she addressed the missive to him before standing.
All that remained for her to do was leave Whitley House without anyone being the wiser. First, she needed to dispense with the guard at her door. Once he was out of the way, she could escape via the same passageway she and Crispin had made use of the night of the masquerade. Taking a deep breath for fortification, she moved across the chamber, setting her plan into motion.
*
Crispin stared at the breakfast he could not stomach eating. Exhaustion mingled with the anger that would not be ameliorated by any number of smashed objects. He had not slept but had spent the night alternately pacing in his study and breaking nearly everything inside it to bits. The culmination had been his chair, which had been surprisingly difficult to destroy. But he had finally accomplished it by holding the legs and swinging it into his desk. The legs had made excellent kindling, as had the arms.
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection Page 24
