Nor could I have known the Earl of Kilross brought me here under false pretenses. I have destroyed the original ciphers that were placed in your drawer—not by you, as I know now, but by the earl or one of his emissaries. I will not rest until I can right the wrongs I have aided in perpetrating against you.
Most affectionately yours,
Jacinda
Swallowing against a fresh rush of tears, she folded the letter into thirds. There was so much more she longed to say, but she was running out of time. Deciphering the messages from Crispin’s drawer had led her to a discovery all its own. The ciphers bore the same errors as the test cipher Kilross had given her. Words were transposed, jumbled out of order alongside one another. The mistakes were too many in number to be overlooked.
And as she had stared blearily at the deciphered messages in the early hours of the morning, what had never made sense to her at long last did. Crispin was not guilty of anything. The ciphers had been written by Kilross himself.
But going to Crispin with her evidence was out of the question. As it was, she doubted he would believe her. Even if he did, he would seek out the Earl of Kilross, demanding answers. A man so intent upon bringing about another’s downfall that he planted false evidence against him was a desperate man indeed. Perhaps even an unhinged one, and Jacinda could not bear for anything to happen to Crispin.
In her naïveté, she had brought this misery upon him, and it was now her duty to undo all the damage she had done. She did not dare hope Crispin would ever forgive her, but if she could lift this curse from his shoulders, she would.
With a shaking hand, she addressed the missive to him before standing.
All that remained for her to do was leave Whitley House without anyone being the wiser. First, she needed to dispense with the guard at her door. Once he was out of the way, she could escape via the same passageway she and Crispin had made use of the night of the masquerade. Taking a deep breath for fortification, she moved across the chamber, setting her plan into motion.
*
Crispin stared atthe breakfast he could not stomach eating. Exhaustion mingled with the anger that would not be ameliorated by any number of smashed objects. He had not slept but had spent the night alternately pacing in his study and breaking nearly everything inside it to bits. The culmination had been his chair, which had been surprisingly difficult to destroy. But he had finally accomplished it by holding the legs and swinging it into his desk. The legs had made excellent kindling, as had the arms.
Still, he was not satisfied. Nothing healed the gaping wound inside him. Nothing could chase the sickness swirling in his gut. Nothing could change the fact the woman he loved had betrayed him so thoroughly and viciously, that he did not know how he would ever recover from the staggering treachery of it.
He would have to face her today.
Would have to craft some sort of plan for dealing with her. For dealing with Kilross as well, a man he had spoken a scant handful of words to if his recollection served. Thus far, he had no notion of why such a man would be so invested in seeking his downfall. Nor had he any inkling why a woman who had been tasked with orchestrating it would also go to such great lengths to do so. Had bedding him been necessary?
His hand clenched, the knuckles sore from the abuse they had received in the night. Had telling him she loved him, writhing beneath him, and sucking his bloody cock been necessary? Her betrayal was personal. It ran him through like a lance.
Nicholson appeared suddenly in his peripheral vision, clearing his throat. “Forgive the interruption, Your Grace.”
“I bloody well told you I wish to be alone,” he snarled at his butler, slamming his fist upon the table with so much force the cutlery danced.
Nicholson remained stalwart, not even wincing. “Yes, Your Grace. However, there is a Sir Robert Smythe at the door, and he is most adamant about an audience.”
“I know of no Sir Robert,” he said, making a dismissive gesture as if to shoo an unwanted fly. “Send him away.”
The butler cleared his throat again. “He is asking for an audience with Miss Turnbow, Your Grace.”
It was no secretMiss Turnbowwas currently a prisoner in her apartments, with a rotating guard courtesy of Duncan positioned outside her door. The action had been met with perplexity by his domestics. He had not given a damn. The woman was a viper, and she needed to be contained whilst he decided what he would next do with her.
His gaze narrowed. “Explain to Sir Robert that Miss Turnbow is not at home.”
“I already have, Your Grace, and I am afraid he is quite adamant.”
Beelzebub and hellfire.He rose from his seat. It was not as if he was going to eat the bloody breakfast before him anyhow. And if Nicholson could not chase the blighter away, Crispin would. There was also the possibility a visitor for her might have some information regarding her that would prove useful.
His strides lengthening at the notion, he stalked to the front hall, surprised to find a tall, thin bespectacled gentleman with a shock of hoary hair that looked as if he had been raking his fingers through it. He held a hat in his hands that looked as if it had seen its heyday some thirty years earlier. But there was something familiar about the man’s face. The shape of it, perhaps, and he possessed a warm brown gaze with such unique striations of color that Crispin had only seen it before on one other person.
Her.
Good God, could it be possible the man before him was her father?
“Sir Robert,” he clipped out abruptly, offering a curt bow. “I am the Duke of Whitley. What brings you here?”
“I have come for my daughter,” he said in a booming voice, eschewing a return bow altogether. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”
“Who is your daughter, sir?” he returned tightly. “I cannot answer your query until you answer mine.
