Dear God.
Crispin stiffened, his eyes flicking to hers at last, and she read the distress there before he looked away, keeping his face an impassive mask. “How do you suppose the murder of an innocent woman will aid you in your quest for vengeance, Kilross?”
“She is your whore, is she not?” Triumph gilded the earl’s voice. “Why else would you be here if it were not so? But perhaps you make your decision, you ought to know just how duplicitous she is. Not a scant five minutes before your unexpected arrival, she gave meeverythingI wanted.”
There was no doubt as to what Kilross implied. He was suggesting she had not only betrayed Crispin but had willingly given herself to the earl. Struggling to find her breath, she beseeched Crispin with her eyes, trying to convey what she could not say.
Robbed of air, she mouthed the words.
I would never betray you.
I love you.
He nodded, the only sign he had taken note of her desperate attempts to communicate with him. “Let the lady go, Kilross. Face me on the field of honor if you must.”
“I do not wish to duel you, Whitley. I want to see you suffer.”
The conviction in the earl’s tone had not wavered. He was set upon his revenge, and he would not settle for anything less. But Jacinda was not about to surrender. She was no meek miss, and she was not about to allow Kilross to harm anyone she loved. The time to act was now.
In a burst of action, she stomped his foot and elbowed him in the gut with all her might. The force of her blows made his grip upon her go slack, and she took advantage, twisting away from his grasp. As she made a dash for freedom, a gunshot echoed through the chamber.
Terror unfurling, she looked back at Kilross to find him crumpling to the floor, red spreading over his chest. She pressed a hand to her heart and looked back to Crispin to discover he was not alone. Father had joined him, and it was his pistol, held in his shaking hands, and not Crispin’s, that had discharged, a small curl of smoke emerging from the barrel.
Somehow, Crispin and Father had saved her. Together. Her heart thudded at the sight of them, the two men she loved above all else, standing together. And only then could she allow the relief to wash over her. Only then could she accept what she saw before her.
It was over. Kilross was dead.
The room seemed to spin about her then. Shock descended. Darkness claimed her, and she fell headlong into it.
Chapter Twenty
Crispin had neverbefore played the role of suitor.
Indeed, the notion had not once entered the realm of his thoughts. He did not attend Almack’s. He did not pretend to drink orgeat. Nor did he eschew the waltz. When he kissed, he always used his tongue, and when he loved a woman… well, bloody hell, he had never lovedanywoman until one flame-haired siren had swept into his study one day.
Now, he could not imagine living his life without her at his side. It had taken him a few days to get his affairs in order. Engaging in an unmitigated amount of caution lest any hint of scandal taint Jacinda, he had kept his distance from her until the inquiry into Kilross’s death was at an end. That had been completed yesterday, and Crispin wasn’t about to spend another day without knowing that she was his. With her father’s approval, and with a special license in hand, he was en route to his destination, prepared to court her like a lovesick swain.
Because a lovesick swain was precisely what he was. But he was not alone as he arrived at Jacinda’s father’s modest townhome far from his own Grosvenor Square address. No indeed, his sisters had accompanied him.
The minxes had insisted, and in truth, he knew Cin harbored a tender place in her heart for the two hellions. If bringing them along might further his cause, he was not above bringing them to her.
As their carriage came to a stop, he gave each hoyden a careful, stern stare. “You are both to be on your best behavior this morning. I am in love with Miss—” here he caught himself, for in the wake of the revelations that had unfolded, he had come to know that Jacinda was not an unwed miss at all, but instead, a soldier’s widow. “Ahem, withMrs.Turnbow.”
“Of course you are,” Nora said, rolling her eyes with a dramatic flourish. “Con and I have known as much from the moment you could not stop staring at her and ordering her about.”
Had he ordered her about? He did not think it possible. The incident involving the dead mouse returned to him then, and he could not help but to smile as he recalled her defiance. Only later had he learned she had forced Con and Nora to dispose of the thing. And he silently applauded her for it.
“Quite silly of you really, going on and keeping us in suspense without courting her in the slightest,” Con added with an eye roll of her own. “But now that you have recognized the error of your ways, we would dearly love to have a new sister, and there is no one we should like better than Miss… er, Mrs. Turnbow.”
Yes, she was perfect for him in every way. Perfect for them.
He could only hope that she felt the same way.
“Either way,” he continued, undeterred, “I will thank you not to ruin this for me.”
He, Con, and Nora were ushered into the modest brick affair by a smiling house maid, who directed them to Sir Robert’s study, where Mrs. Turnbow could be found. She was seated alongside her father, head bent over a sheaf of papers, quill in hand. Her fingers were ink-stained, her brilliant sunset hair was confined in an artless bun, she wore a simple gray morning frock, and he had never seen a more beautiful sight.
“Mrs. Turnbow,” he greeted formally, offering her his most elegant bow.
