A rap sounded at the door.
It was likely a fresh round of harlots. And he didn’t want any more painted faces and bare bubbies. He was tired to his bloody bones, sick to death of everything and everyone. Weary in a way he could not convey with words. His friend was dead. Nothing could ameliorate his guilt. He had wards to protect and a governess he should not want and no direction in his life or desire to live it.
“Be gone,” he growled, gazing up into the mural.
“I come bearing whisky, Whitley,” came the familiar voice on the other side of the portal.
Duncan.
He heaved a sigh. Kirkwood had become a trusted friend to Crispin. His only friend, in truth, now that Morgan was gone. Largely because Crispin spent a great deal of time and coin within the man’s walls. But, also, because he and Duncan understood the ugly underbelly of life. They’d taken stock of each other and possessed a hearty amount of mutual respect. Though they came from disparate backgrounds, they had much in common in their mutual bitterness and cynical views of the world.
And with his vast connections to both the lowest rabble and the highest nobility, Duncan ruled the underworld like a king while quietly keeping the polite echelons under his thumb. It was said half the peerage was indebted to him, and Crispin did not doubt the veracity of the claim. If there was one person a man needed to know and have by his side in London, it was Duncan Kirkwood.
Another knock sounded. “Have you gone deaf? I do believe I said your favorite word just now, and nary a response.”
“Haven’t you a hell to run?” Crispin called out grimly.
“The beast runs itself these days,” his friend responded, sounding irritatingly cheerful. “Do you want the whisky or not, Cris? It is an excellent year. Perhaps we can give the bottle a black eye together.”
Crispin folded his arms beneath his head and grinned. “Am I expected to pay for the privilege or are you about the nasty business of getting me soused so that I lose a king’s ransom at yourtapis vert?”
“The whisky is my pleasure.” An edge of irritation hardened his friend’s voice. “Damn it, may I enter or are youen déshabillé? The last thing I wish to see is your hairy arse. I shan’t be able to sleep for at least a week if I am forced to witness such a travesty.”
He grinned, not bothering to rise from the bed. Born in the stews of London, Kirkwood could nevertheless ape the upper crust of society that would forever remain above his touch with unprecedented perfection. Duncan had been born to a Covent Garden doxy but his father was the Duke of Amberly. Though the miserable old sod refused to acknowledge him, Duncan had taken his revenge by building the most sought-after hell in all London, with an apt name that his sire could not help but be aware of.
“Do you intend to play valet if I am?” he called, darkly amused.
“Fair warning, Your Grace.” Duncan’s tone was grim. The door opened, and he swept inside, dressed in his customary black, down to his shirt and cravat. Even the man’s ring was a skull. He was a dark, formidable presence on the best of days and a hulking menace on the worst.
Crispin sat up with great reluctance, and only because consuming whisky whilst resting supine was devilishly untidy. The chamber spun for a moment before settling. He noted the full bottle of spirits in Duncan’s grip and smiled. Here was an offering he would gladly accept this evening. Or morning. Afternoon? Of all the delights the establishment boasted, heavily curtained windows that rendered daylight immaterial was by far one of Crispin’s favorite.
“This bloody ceiling mural is appalling,” he offered by way of greeting.
“A gift from my predecessor,” Duncan acknowledged with a grim smile, retrieving two glasses and pouring three fingers into each.
Crispin eyed the whisky and debated whether or not he was motivated enough to rise and retrieve his glass. “Why are you here, aside from the obvious?”
Duncan took a sip of his own whisky, quirking a raven brow. “You declined the companionship of all my ladies.”
He snorted and rose, deciding he wanted that whiskey after all, if this was to be the nature of their interview. “I fail to comprehend your insistence upon referring to your lightskirts as ladies.”
Duncan scowled, offering him his glass. “Theyareladies, Whitley.”
Crispin had seen very little to suggest the veracity of Duncan’s claim, though it was true the occasional Cyprian ball overtook The Duke’s Bastard. On such occasions, theladiesturned themselves out with aplomb. Before long, however, the libidinous nature of the parties gathered always won out.
The last such soiree had been a blur of flipping skirts, wandering hands, bare breasts, and flushed cheeks, followed by the disappearance of most saidladiesto private quarters. Others had been content to perform in the ballroom with an audience.
“I regret to say yourladiesare the furthest one can reasonably get from the definition of a proper lady.” He took a healthy gulp of whisky, relishing its fiery race to his gut.
The need to numb his body and mind had never been stronger. Miss Governess’s face could not be shaken. How was it her lush form had burned into him as if a brand? A conflagration threatened to begin deep within him, and he could not countenance it. Would not.
He drank more.
“Ladies whose company you decline,” Duncan persisted, observing him in that uncanny fashion he possessed. His light-blue gaze seemed to dissect a man.
Bloody hell, his cheekbones had gone ruddy. He blamed it on the spirits and took another healthy gulp, finishing the contents of his glass. “Your whores are tired,” he snapped. “Would it be too much trouble to rotate them? Think of it thus, Kirkwood. A man does not always wish for the same horseflesh to pull his phaeton or his curricle.”
Duncan finished his whisky and replenished both their glasses before meeting Crispin’s gaze. “Each girl I sent you tonight was new.”
