Chapter 12
In the dead of night, they arrived in London.
It marked the beginning of the end of his time with Elizabeth.
"We've...arrived."
Neville's awe-coated statement pulled Crispin back from his musings. Crispin glanced over at the previously slumbering boy perched alongside his driver. "We have." And there was no place less Crispin would rather be. He forced a smile for the child's benefit. "You'll find the staff kindly," he promised, as he jumped down from his mount.
A groom hurried over to accept the reins just as the double doors of Crispin's Mayfair residence were thrown open.
Dutiful servants poured out of the white stucco townhouse like mice after a careless cook left out the cheese. Of course, regardless of hour, the world stood on alert, anticipating the wants and needs of a duke. It was an obsequious fawning his mother had reveled in, his late father had tolerated, and Crispin himself suffered through.
Crispin motioned to the youngest of the footmen. The livery clad servant shifted his path, and hurried over to Crispin. "Your Grace," he murmured, bowing.
"We will have a guest for the evening," he explained, squeezing Neville's shoulder. "May I present Mr. Neville Barlow. If you can introduce the young gentleman to Mrs. Willoughby and see she shows him to guest chambers, along with a meal, and anything else he requires.
He might as well have handed over a king's fortune for the grateful look cast his way by the boy.
"This way, Mr. Barlow," the footman urged, and relieving the child of his burden, he escorted him off.
With the pair gone, Crispin returned his attention to the servants scuttling about...young men stealing curious glances at the carriage.
Crispin followed those stares.
Of course, this was no ordinary return. This was the return of the Invisible Duchess, as the gossip columns had recently taken to writing of her. All the household had likely waited with bated breath for a glimpse of the mysterious lady.
His driver reached for the carriage door, but Crispin waved him off and strode over. As he opened it, he did not know what he expected to find. Elizabeth sleeping, perhaps? Pale? Her eyes heavy from sleep after a long day of traveling?
As clear-eyed as she was at the rooster's first crow, she peered past his shoulder and climbed her gaze up the two-hundred-foot structure. Behind her oval lenses, her eyes formed perfect circles. Heavens to Hades, she mouthed, never taking her gaze from it as he helped her down. Transformed into one massive residence by the purchase of neighboring townhouses by his late grandfather, the Huntington London townhouse was expansive enough to rival most noblemen's country manors.
And she'd never before laid eyes upon it.
They'd shared nearly everything and every part of themselves, and yet, it was a reminder that they'd also been divided by their stations.
After she'd looked her full, Elizabeth wordlessly accepted his hand and allowed him to help her down.
Her legs swayed slightly under her, and he shot a hand out to steady her. His fingers curved against her slender waist as he gripped her, the feel of her against him right.
Elizabeth's breath caught audibly, and she wet her lips, drawing his focus to her mouth.
He ached to explore those lush contours once more. To spar with their tongues until their breaths melded into one.
"Crispin," she whispered.
"Hmm?"
And why should they not? They were husband and wife, and...
A carriage rattled by, the rapid churning of the conveyance's wheels snapping the fragile moment.
He glanced up in time to catch the curious passersby peering at them until their conveyance disappeared from sight.
Elizabeth followed his stare.
"Come," he said tightly and led her on.
Her steps, however, were unhurried. Her alert stare took in everything, touching on the lit grounds of Mayfair.
Crispin followed her stare. Clouds hung heavy across the London sky, blotting out the fingernail moon and smattering of stars that could find space among the London fog and dirt.
Elizabeth stopped and stared at the lamplighter at work, a young child assisting in his efforts.
Crispin had always despised Town. As a boy and then young man who'd been forced to visit, he'd silently envied Elizabeth staying in Oxfordshire and counted the days until they were reunited. "It is miserable, isn't it?" Artificial light doused the streets.
He turned to go, but Elizabeth remained fixed to the pavement, watching the portly lamplighter as he lifted his brass-tipped staff to the crystal box. "On the contrary." Crispin slowed his steps. "I've never seen anything like it."
Awe coated Elizabeth's words with such reverence, he squinted, attempting to see what it was that held her so fascinated.
"What is the hour?" she demanded, her voice animated. She whipped her gaze briefly from the pair working across the street.
Crispin fumbled for his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. "Nearly five minutes past one o'clock." And his wife was as alert as if she'd just arisen, fresh and ready to face a new day.
"Remarkable," she murmured and then spread her arms wide as the lamplighter descended the ladder and walked a handful of paces to the next post. "They've managed to turn night into day." She stared at Crispin, clearly expecting something. Tossing her hands up in exasperation, Elizabeth quit his side and rushed off, all but sprinting to the nearest lamppost.
The hovering servants exchanged glances, shifting on their feet.
Crispin dismissed them with a slight nod, wholly riveted by Elizabeth's palpable excitement. She brushed her gloveless palm over the metal post. "Do you know, gas lighting first appeared in Pall Mall in 1812, but they used wooden gas pipes?"
"Did they?"
She sighed. "Crispin."
He shook his head.
"Wooden gas pipes," she repeated. "There were numerous explosions and a few deaths."
He removed his hat and beat it against his leg. "Hence the perils of metropolitan living."
Elizabeth scoffed. "Nonsense. How many times did we sit with only the benefit of a single candle to light our books? Why, if we'd had this..." She spread her arms wide. Her eyes twinkled with her excitement, and at the sight of her in such an unfettered state of joy, he felt something shift in his chest. "The day is longer, and there is so much to see, and..." Her chattering drew to a stop. "What is it?"
Drawn like a moth to the flame, he drifted over. "It is you."
"Me?"
He dusted his knuckles down her satin-soft cheek. "I'd never considered it in that way." London had always represented a cage, a hated place he was expected to spend time because of his station and role in Parliament. What would it have been like sharing this place with her?
Elizabeth smiled, dimpling her cheeks. "Well, you should. There is good to be found in everything. If you simply look."
Another carriage rattled by. "It is late," he murmured.
"Yes." Yet, they stood there anyway.
For when tomorrow came, so would the ball, the one night he'd requested of her before he set her free, and there would be her eventual return to Mrs. Belden's.
Hollow at the thought, Crispin returned his hat atop his head. Taking the unspoken cue, Elizabeth fell into step beside him. This time, as they drew before the handful of limestone steps leading to the black double doors, only Aldis, the recently hired butler, stood in wait.
"Your Graces," he greeted, dropping a deferential bow as they entered.
With it, reality intruded, as it invariably did in this rotted place. "Aldis." He did a sweep of the foyer.
The blessedly empty foyer.
He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His faithless, single-minded mother, was nowhere in sight.
"Her Grace has not yet returned for the evening, Your Grace," the butler murmured.
Some of the tension went out of him. That meeting would come later.
Crispin looked up the stairwell where Mrs. Willoughby, made her descent.
"Good evening, Mrs. Willoughby," he greeted the plump, white-haired older woman. "Mr. Barlow--?"
"Has been shown to his rooms," she supplied, with a curtsy and a wide smile. She turned her focus to Elizabeth.
Crispin performed introductions between the two. "Will you show Her Grace to her chambers?" he asked, feeling Elizabeth's stare on him.
"Of course, Your Grace," Mrs. Willoughby said with her usual cheer. "If you will follow me, Your Grace."
Elizabeth lingered her gaze on him. Looking as though she wished to say something. Did she want him to follow her? Did she wish to continue their discourse on London? What was it?
In the end, silent in ways she'd never been, Elizabeth followed the housekeeper.
Crispin stared after the departing pair as they climbed abovestairs and then continued down the intersecting hall at the entrance of the landing.
When they'd gone, he turned to Aldis. "I require one of my mounts readied."
If he'd asked the man to fetch the king's crown, he couldn't have appeared more shocked. Aldis, wide-eyed, took in Crispin's rumpled garments, and he sniffed the air momentarily before mastering his perfect composure. "As you wish, Your Grace."
He shook his head. Yes, because Crispin was nothing if not predictable. No one would dare expect him, immaculately attired and not steeped in scandal, to venture out at this ungodly hour with his garments in their currently sorry state.
And so it was, not even thirty minutes later, Crispin found himself striding through the crowded floors of Forbidden Pleasures. Raucous laughter rolled around the floors of the gaming hell, punctuated by the intermittent squeal of a whore and the clinks of coins hitting coins.
Doing a sweep of the room, Crispin settled his gaze on the gentleman seated at the center back table. Occupied as he was with a cheroot in one hand and a tumbler of whiskey in the other, Hugh Madsen, the Earl of Fielding, still managed to perfectly balance two blonde whores on his lap.
As Crispin wound his way through the crowd, greetings went up, but no one gave more than a passing look at his presence here. A crimson-haired beauty stepped into his path, halting his determined march. "Are you looking for company this evening, Your Grace?" she purred. Her husky greeting carried over the din.
"Not at this time." And certainly not with this woman or any other present. Crispin tossed several coins to the young woman to soften the blow and then continued on. The only one whose presence he craved in every way was now tucked away in his London townhouse. It is where I should be... with her...
And yet, his mind and emotions were all jumbled, and he could not be under the same roof with her. Not until there was some clarity.
He reached Fielding's table.
His friend glanced up lazily, and then the other man's patent boredom was transposed into wide-eyed shock as he took in Crispin's garments.
The earl dismissed the pair. "I'm afraid we'll have to continue our discussion later, loves."
They pouted. "We can entertain you and your friend," one of the pixielike beauties invited. She drew the scandalously plunging bodice of her gown lower, putting her enormous breasts on full display.
It was an all-too-familiar carnal offering found in this den of sin, more common than a bow or curtsy among Polite Society. Forbidden Pleasures was a place where honor was left at the door and sin triumphed over all.
"I'm afraid business calls." The earl lifted his knees up and down, dislodging the two women from their perches.
The pair hadn't even completely sashayed off before Crispin was reaching for a seat. "I need help," he said without preamble.
The other man saluted him with a nearly empty whiskey. "You need a bath, and if one wishes to be truly precise..." He flicked the diamond stickpin at the center of his immaculately tied snow-white cravat. "A new valet."
With a sound of impatience, Crispin tugged out the chair and waved off the servant who rushed over with a glass. "It is--"
"Never tell me." Fielding waggled his brown eyebrows. "Your wife?" he ventured with a cynical drollness that contradicted the earlier brevity. "You did not find her?"
"On the contrary," Crispin said under his breath.
Other than his parents, the only one who knew of Crispin's hasty elopement and the bride who'd taken flight was the man before him. It was a secret he'd kept, but through the years, he'd made no effort to hide his disdain of Elizabeth.
"Ah, you found her, and that is the problem." Fielding tossed back the remainder of his drink. "That makes far more sense."
No. Nothing made sense anymore. Crispin dragged a hand through his hair.
"Oh, this is bad indeed," his friend muttered. "You, smelling like horseflesh, in dusty garments better fit for kindling, and now messing your hair?" His mouth hardened, and he set his empty glass down. "Let me assure you," he said, dropping his elbows atop the rose-inlaid mahogany tabletop, "whatever she's done to have you so tangled up, she is not worth it. Never was." Grabbing the half-empty bottle, he splashed several fingerfuls into his glass. "Never will be." He paused with the glass at his mouth. From over the top of it, Fielding grinned. "Though, in fairness, none of them are."
"She is," Crispin said quietly. "I want you to help me win her."
His friend choked on his swallow, drawing in great, gasping breaths.
Crispin leaned across the table to slap him between the shoulder blades, but the other man waved him off.
"M-mad."
Yes. He'd always been more than a little mad for Elizabeth Brightly. She was one who could speak circles around any scholar and was passionate in every pursuit she took on.
After his paroxysm faded to a lingering cough, Fielding dragged his chair closer. "You want to win her. The woman who left you, without so much as a note."
"I know what she did." Now, however, and more important, he knew why she'd done what she had.
His friend carried on in a furious whisper. "The same woman who made you a subject of the ton's scrutiny." When the last thing any gent, particularly an unfortunate one saddled with a ducal title, needed was more attention.
"She left to save me." And ultimately, in her absence, he'd been broken.
That effectively silenced Fielding.
Crispin explained his parents' roles in manipulating both him and Elizabeth, including everything from the threat of his lost fellowship at Oxford to the miserable place she'd been forced to call home the past nearly ten years.
When he'd finished, the earl was quiet.
Grabbing the decanter, he topped off his glass and pushed it across the table.
Crispin shook his head.
"It's one damned whiskey, and if this doesn't merit a drink, then nothing else will. Drink." His friend clipped out the order.
Crispin took the glass and downed the whiskey in a long, slow swallow. The liquid burned a scorching trail down his throat. He grimaced and set the empty tumbler down.
"I said to take a drink, not finish the contents in a single gulp," Fielding drawled. Reclaiming the glass, he poured another and pushed it across the table once more.
"I'm not looking to get soused," Crispin muttered, but nonetheless, he accepted the offering and took a sip.
"Some moments call for a good sousing."
Despite the reputation he'd earned these past years, Crispin had never been one of the carousing sorts. But yes, in this, Fielding proved correct. If there had ever been time for a gent to drink, this was it.
They sat in a companionable silence that was eventually broken by the other man.
"Now"--the earl leaned back in his seat--"as you are the more logical in our pair, let us speak this through rationally. A fellow does not simply abandon ten years of resentment." He shot a hand up, and a servant came forward with a glass.
"He does if he finds out he's been the bloody arse, guilty for crimes he accused another of." Crispin directed that utterance into the amber contents of his glass.
"Ah, but you've managed an arrangement any gent would envy you for." As he
enumerated a list of points, he lifted a finger. "You're leg-shackled." Fielding shuddered. "But to a woman who is... invisible. You're free to carry out your own pleasures without a nagging wife underfoot. And then when the time for an heir comes?" He poured himself a drink. "Then you don't have to bother with a simpering virgin."
A simpering virgin? There'd never been anything simpering about Elizabeth, and there never would be.
"Fielding," he warned.
His friend sighed. "Very well. But I would not be a friend if I did not point out that your union is perfect as it is."
For most lords, yes. They were self-absorbed gents who preferred bedding their mistresses and wagering away their fortunes at the club he and Fielding even now frequented. "Help me," he repeated in grave tones. Crispin curled his fingers around the cold glass. It was not every day a man humbled himself, but pride had cost him Elizabeth once before. He'd be damned if he let her go this time without attempting to woo and win her.
"You don't need my help, Huntington." Fielding shoved his chair back onto its hind legs and balanced the mahogany seat at a precarious angle. "You've managed to charm every last dowager and eager widow in London."
Crispin's ears went hot.
"Ahh, I take it Her Grace has heard tales of your... exploits," the earl surmised.
"They weren't..." Crispin scrubbed a hand over his face. "Fielding," he warned. It was late. He had, at most, twenty-six hours before the terms of his latest agreement with Elizabeth were satisfied, and then she'd be free to go on her way. Panic sent his heart into a triple beat. "Tell me what to do."
"Fine. Fine. You want to know what to do?" He brought the chair back into a steady, fully upright position. "Go home. Because arriving in Town with your wife in tow, and then abandoning her that same night while you dally with a whore at your club, is hardly going to endear the lady to you," Fielding said dryly.
"I'm not dallying with whores."
"I know that. And you know that." The earl flicked a hand out toward a nearby hazard table. The two dandies observing them immediately averted their stares, training them on the velvet table. "But the stories, as they invariably are, in London will be spun with only the most scandalous thread. And after you return home?" Fielding grinned. "Make love to your wife."
He exhaled his frustration. "It is not that... simple." It never was. "I want to woo her."
Fielding widened his smile. "It is always that simple, Huntington. You want to woo her, then make love to her."