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 hadknown.
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? Tothem? 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 onher 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.
