He inclined his head, knowing that like it or not, egregious lapse of judgment or no, he was returning to Whitley House this evening. Or morning. Or whatever the bloody hell time of godforsaken day it was. “How long have I been here, Kirkwood?”
The proprietor’s brow furrowed. “I do believe this is the fourth day. Pray do yourself a kindness before you depart in the morning and avail yourself of the bathing chamber. With all respect, Your Grace, you stink.”
He’d lost four whole days. He had no doubt Duncan was correct and he did look like some festering soul that had been sent to the bowels of Hades.
Hell. Hewasa festering soul. He would never understand the unfair whims of a God that had taken Morgan’s life and left him behind to the agony of life after war. Of having to spend each waking moment drowning all memories of the atrocities he had witnessed and committed by pouring spirits down his throat.
He did not even take umbrage at Duncan’s words. In another time, another place, and when he had been a different man—a gentleman who had never known the evils of the world, who had never met the horrors of war or the bitter fear of staring death in the face in the throes of battle—he would have been affronted and horrified. He would have issued a crushing setdown and put Kirkwood in his place.
But he was the man who had watched the lifeblood seep from his enemy, the man who had held his comrades in his arms as they breathed their last. He had faced cannonades and swords and hails of musket fire. He had ridden into battle knowing he may not return alive.
That man felt as if he was unraveling in the fashion of a tapestry, one thread at a time until all at once, half of him was gone. He was empty and hollow and bitter and numb to his core.
And soused.
Thoroughly bosky.
In his cups.
“I cannot tup the governess,” was all he said. He could not, could he? Conscience and honor proved fiendishly elusive when one was drunk on Duncan Kirkwood’s fine whisky. “But perhaps there would be no harm in returning to Whitley House in the morn since I have no further business here. Do consider reevaluating the quality of your whores, Kirkwood. None of them are up to snuff. If you had half an eye for excellence, I would not be leaving your premises unsatisfied.”
Duncan snorted. “My eye for quality is unsurpassed, and that is why every lord in London worth his salt spends each night within my establishment. If anyone ought to consider evaluating anything, it is you. Swive the governess out of your system. But by all means, avail yourself of the bath first. I’ll have a fresh change of clothes sent round for you.”
Hell and damnation.He could not swive Miss Governess. Should not. It wouldn’t be proper, not with his sisters beneath his roof. His rogue prick stiffened against his breeches at the mere thought of stripping her out of her dowdy gowns and ridiculous caps. Baring her to his eyes and lips and tongue. Curse it, he had to stop that errant vein of thought lest he embarrass himself before Duncan.
“Do not send more quim this evening,” he growled.
His friend stifled a smile of amusement. “But of course.” He deposited their glasses on a nearby, ornately carved table before bowing.
Being embroiled in war had stripped Crispin of the heartily ingrained notions of hierarchy with which he had been raised. Moments such as these reminded him that, for all their familiarity and camaraderie, he was nevertheless Duncan’s better. Duncan catered to him, served him. The realization struck him in a raw place, and he did not like it.
He stepped forward, the chamber swirling around him, intent upon… bloody hell, he knew not what. “Thank you, friend,” was all he said. “I will accept your offer of a bath this evening, I think. Lord knows I probably need one by now.”
Duncan sniffed, then clapped him on the back. “There is no question of it, Cris. I offer irrefutable, olfactory evidence.”
“Go to hell,” he said without heat.
His friend offered him a sad smile. “We are already there, are we not?”
Crispin allowed the breath to flow from his lungs in a slow, steady exhalation. “Yes,” he acknowledged at last. “We are.”
Chapter Seven
The Duke ofWhitley was in attendance at the breakfast table, a shock to the senses, dressed for riding and unfairly handsome. His presence, solemn and arrogant and quiet and yet so very commanding, was all Jacinda could see when she arrived with her recalcitrant charges in tow.
For several mornings following his abrupt departure at dinner, he had been gone. Despite his demand she report to him twice daily on the progress of Lady Honora and Lady Constance, he had disappeared with no word to suggest when he might once again be expected.
The household had been unaware of his return. She could only assume he’d gone to his club or to his favorite hell, where he drowned himself in distraction and dissipation.
He stood and sketched a bow so elegant that it belonged more in a ballroom than here before his sisters and a mere governess. To her relief, Lady Constance and Lady Honora both performed passable curtsies.
Their lessons had progressed uneventfully for the last few days, and she was grateful for the reprieve. The mouse funeral had been a turning point, it seemed. Though she supposed the Portugal cakes she had whipped up for them—much to the horror of Cook—had aided in her storming of their battlements. Sternness and sweets worked wonders upon the two imps.
She dipped into a curtsy as well, knowing she must but careful to keep her gaze averted so the duke could not read the disapproval that was not her place to feel. It ought not to bother her that he was a dissolute rakehell and utter wastrel, but somehow it did. The false smile stretching her lips as she greeted him nearly broke.
Truly, why should she mind he had gone? His absence proved a boon, as it had enabled her to search his study, his library, and even his bedchamber. She had made a number of surprising discoveries during her quests. None perhaps more edifying than the dearth of evidence of his guilt.
But in addition to that, his chamber smelled like him long after he had gone, he preferred poetry over prose, and he had a heart after all. For in addition to his charitable endeavors regarding the dowager Marchioness of Searle, he also contributed handsome sums to several London orphanages.
