EspeciallyJacinda.
In the morning, he needed to pay a call to the Earl of Aylesbury. But first, he needed to get back to Whitley House so he could destroy the ciphered letters. Even if everything in him longed to hunt down the Earl of Kilross and slaughter him in his sleep, he could not, for it was entirely possible the earl was nothing more than a pawn or an emissary. This was not a battlefield but his life, and he had to do everything in his power to uncover who was trying to tear it asunder.
Chapter Eighteen
Jacinda began poringover the ciphers the moment she returned to her apartments. Unlike the incredibly intricate numeric ciphers from the Peninsula that she and Father had been attempting to decipher, the messages from Crispin’s desk were alphabetic. A cursory examination of them led her to believe they relied upon a key phrase known by the sender and recipient. All she needed to do was study the pattern of the letters, watching for telling sequences and repetitions, and she would be able to make an educated guess at the phrase.
As afraid to discover their contents as she was to remain in the dark, she sketched out an alphabetic square much like the one she had used to decipher the message Kilross had provided as her test. While she worked, her mind fretted. Her hands trembled, dread churning her stomach into a sick sea. The more she considered the information Kilross had initially given her about Crispin versus the man she had come to know, the less sense it all made.
Why would Crispin plot against his friend? Why would a soldier who had fought with honor for years secretly collude with the enemy? She had witnessed the agony of his grief when he had spoken of the Marquess of Searle. It had not been feigned. The Crispin she knew was not capable of such treachery. Beneath his tortured exterior beat the heart of a good man.
No matter how she looked upon it, there were only two possible scenarios that made sense. Either the ciphers were not from the French, or they had somehow been planted to make Crispin appear guilty. But who would want to harm him, and why? How would Kilross have come upon his knowledge of the ciphers?
The more her mind spun with questions, the more frustrated she became. She made several guesses at the key phrase to no avail. Just as she settled upon a new phrase, a discreet tap sounded at her door, and she froze.
She knew at once it was Crispin.
Shaking, she scrambled to gather up the ciphers and the paper upon which she had been scratching out her attempts to break them. Folding them all, she stuffed them inside a book she had borrowed from the library but had yet to read. With a deep breath, she stood, smoothing the skirts of her brown muslin she had yet to change out of.
Another knock.
Would he take one look at her and see the guilt written on her face? Would he know she had gone through his personal effects yet again, that the evidence of her sins were tucked into a book he owned some scant few feet away? Willing her frantic heart to slow, she crossed the chamber and opened the door a sliver.
Crispin stood in the hall, candle in hand, bathed in a warm glow. He still wore his evening clothes, his cravat snowy-white perfection, his long, muscled thighs perfectly delineated in his buff breeches. Their gazes clashed, his burning with an emotion she could not define.
“Let me in, Jacinda.”
Not a question, not a lover’s plea, but a demand.
A cool prick of warning slid down her neck, but she stepped back wordlessly, watching as he stalked into the room, commanding it with his mere presence. She closed the door softly and spun to face him, girding herself for what he would say. Had he discovered her treachery? Had he realized the ciphers were missing from his desk?
He placed his candle on the writing desk where not even a minute before she had been scouring the correspondence she’d stolen from him. Shame skittered down her spine as she forced herself to meet his gaze.
She had never felt more wretched in her life.
“You baked the cheesecake,” he said into the silence, his low baritone doing unsettling things to the flesh between her thighs.
It was not what she had expected. Not at all. She blinked. “Yes.” She paused, wondering if she had displeased him. “I hope I have not overstepped my bounds. I enjoy making sweets, and I will own that plying Lady Constance and Lady Honora with the efforts of my labors has gone a long way toward making them more amenable to our studies.”
A brief smile flitted over his lips. “You are most adept at making those around youamenable, Cin.”
There seemed to be a warning hidden in his words, or perhaps a judgment. She could not be sure. “It is my duty as governess.”
“I do not refer to my sisters alone.” He moved toward her, stopping only when he was near enough to run a finger along her jaw. “But to me.”
She held herself still as he trailed his caress down her throat. “How have I made you amenable, Your Grace?”
His gray eyes darkened as it dipped to her mouth. “You make me forget everything and everyone but you. You walk into a chamber, and you are all I can see. All I want. Sometimes I even smell your scent when you’re not there. In my study just now, for instance.”
Her heart thudded with so much force she feared he could hear it. How was it possible the strains of her perfume had lingered behind when she had gone? Was he testing her? There was an almost imperceptible change to him as she studied him from beneath lowered lashes. He seemed harsher, the angles of his beautiful face sharper than normal.
“You should not have come here,” she whispered instead of responding directly to what he had said. For what could she say? Incriminating herself, confessing all, would do her no good now.
“No,” he agreed, his fingers going to the ties that fastened her gown in the back and tugging on the ends. “I should not have.”
Her gown loosened, the bodice gaping. “Crispin, what are you doing?”
“How did you come to be a governess?” he asked suddenly. “You never did mention it.”
