She laid her hand over his mouth. Then, glancing right and left to make sure no one was nearby, she pulled him behind a tree and kissed him.
He went rigid. Who could blame him? Her own wits seemed to take flight, so she watched herself from somewhere outside her body as she pressed her lips to his.
And then he made some noise in his throat and gripped her face in his palms, kissing her back, and she was embodied again, a creature of flesh, exhilarated and alive. The warm sunlight, the cool breeze, his lips, slightly rough, stroking her own. He opened her mouth with his and she went on her tiptoes in eager reply. Their tongues touched; a delicious thrill purled through her, strange, wild. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders—
“Shame!” came a sharp cry from nearby. They broke apart, Jane shrinking against the tree trunk, as an elderly woman shook her umbrella at them.
Crispin sketched the woman a mocking bow, then laughed as she hissed out, “Hussy.” With a sniff, she yanked her small dog away from them and stalked off in the direction of the college.
Grinning, Crispin turned back to her. “If that’s a Lady Visitor, you may have lost your chance at volunteering.”
She pressed her palms to her cheeks, which burned with the violence of her blush. “Forgive me,” she said breathlessly. “You must think me a trollop—”
“I think you perfect,” he said with relish, and seized her arm, tugging her back onto the sidewalk in the direction of the museum. “I command you to remain exactly as you are, Mrs. Burke, and to shock each elderly lady whose path we might cross, from now until eternity.”
Yes, yes—as long as he remained as he now was, she could gladly do so forever. She laughed, and the giddy sound of it awoke some small, sharp foreboding.
What are you doing? This can’t last forever.
But in that moment before her madness, as she had looked on his earnest face so alight with concern for her, his beautiful lips shaping promises, she had forgotten everything but the desire to reward him for coming so close to the ideal he’d once lived to mock. She would not regret it now.
CHAPTER NINE
Jane did not flatter herself that she had anything to do with their rapport as they strolled through the museum, pausing to peer at displays of artifacts from ancient Greece and Egypt. Crispin’s good humor was the key. But the novelty of embarrassing herself, and emerging unscathed—of being not criticized but praised—was heady indeed.
Here was a new lesson for her, then: it was possible to behave like an utter goose in front of a man, and then to take his arm again and stroll companionably onward, without feeling any awkwardness. It made her a little drunk, it seemed. She felt suddenly able to take other, smaller risks. To speak without thinking. To confide in him, as they admired sarcophagi, that she’d nursed a peculiar obsession with mummies as a girl, and had managed to squeeze herself so tightly inside a wooden box that she had got trapped there, necessitating a thorough greasing with butter in order to be removed.
“We would have been great friends, then,” Crispin told her. “I once got my arm stuck in a banister railing. I wasn’t so lucky as to be rescued with butter, though. I reeked of tallow for days.”
Speaking without thinking led to acting without thinking. They paused by a collection of peculiar masks, the sign beside which claimed they had been modeled from life. She found herself testing the truth of that statement by attempting to screw up her face. Was it anatomically possible?
“Almost there,” Crispin said. “Bit wider.” He hooked back the corners of his lips and bared his teeth.
Her giggling fit drove them out of the room, chased by a shushing guard.
She might gladly have stayed there with him until the museum forced them out at closing, but after two hours, he began to sway on his feet. With typical masculine pride, he denied his fatigue, so she, hiding a smile, pled exhaustion herself. On their way home, seated across from each other inside the carriage, she lapsed into a wondering, happy silence.
Somewhere in the past few years, she had stopped laughing. The only jokes she’d overheard were made at somebody else’s expense, designed to produce a snicker, not genuine mirth. But it seemed she had more laughter left in her than she’d guessed. Once she had relaxed her guard and begun speaking without a care for how she might sound, jokes had tumbled out. And Crispin had enjoyed them. She was funny; she’d forgotten that.
She’d forgotten so many things. How many times today had she surprised herself? Every room of the museum seemed to stir a new memory of happier times. Adventures with her parents. Girlish interests she’d once pursued confidently, heedless of whether such hobbies were feminine, appropriate, becoming.
Once home, Crispin disappeared for an hour—to nap, she suspected—before rejoining her for a light supper. How domestic, how peculiarly companionable, to sit afterward in the drawing room, reading by the fire as Crispin worked at his desk. Imagine living in a house like this one, with a chivalrous husband, and freedom to do exactly as one pleased—visit any corner of London, sponsor any cause, write and read and sip tea at perfect liberty.
It was very close to the vision that she had chased on her midnight flight from Marylebigh. But in that long-cherished dream, she was in a strange country, and always alone. She had no companion to visit museums with her, nor to laugh away a stranger’s disapproval when she embarrassed herself. No one to tell her she was perfect just as she was.
He doesn’t know you.
But that rehearsed caution began to ring hollow. Who else in the world knew so much of her? Who knew of her plans for her father’s fortune? Or that she had once hoped to matriculate at Bedford College? Who else could she have trusted with such facts, without fear of their scorn?
Nobody in the world.
She realized she had turned three pages without absorbing a word. I am going mad. To know something for a lie, and to begin to believe it anyway. To allow oneself to be caught up in a fantasy. That was not sanity, at any rate.
But she was done castigating herself. She had a plan of escape. Perhaps . . . she would not require it. But she was prepared.
Crispin rose and crossed the room. He poured himself a tumbler of brandy, and then splashed another finger into a second glass. “For you,” he said, carrying it over to her.
Her father had always allowed her to take his brandy glass in hand, to inhale its harsh, complex fragrance. As she lifted hers, the first breath transported her to the atmosphere of her childhood: indulgence, approval, a certainty of safety so complete that fear had been only an empty word.
Until today, she had not thought she would ever manage to recapture such feelings. But the laughter still lived in her. So perhaps there was hope.
She returned the glass to the table.
“Won’t you try it?” he asked.
“I was raised in a tradesman’s family,” she said with a smile, “so I will confess to a taste for coffee. But even I know that ladies don’t drink brandy.”
Crispin shrugged. “Who’s nearby to judge?”
Her smile widened. “Too true.” Besides, when had she ever desired to become a lady? A lady was the kind of woman praised by her uncle: taciturn, meek, obedient, and unimaginative. Jane had been raised to a different code of conduct—although, strictly speaking, hers had become a code of misconduct in recent weeks.
Why reform now? She retrieved the glass, taking a healthy sip.
Good heavens. With her fist to her mouth, she choked. “That is . . . quite . . . I believe I understand why ladies don’t drink brandy.”
He laughed. “Small sips to start.”
She returned the glass to the table. The firelight painted his face, causing a memory to twinge through her: his face cast in hellish tones by the firelight in the Cross Keys pub.
He looked different now. The playful light laid shadows beneath his high cheekbones and the curve of his full lower lip. But his dark eyes did not look devilish. In fact, he looked . . . troubled.
She closed her book
. “Is all well?”
“I had several letters waiting in the post,” he said. “Your uncle refuses to comply with his duties as the executor. Mr. Gaultier is taking him to court.”
“I’m not surprised.” More peculiarly, she was not even vexed. “We will win the suit, of course.”
“Yes, but it may take several weeks.”
That, too, should panic her. But she felt oddly serene. There was nothing to be done about it anyway. “What else?”
“The penal servitude bill. It went to committee today.”
Her calm shattered. She felt shoved to the edge of a precipice—dizzy, breath knocked away. “Did you—did you read through it?”
Crispin nodded. His expression revealed nothing. It was closed, meditative, inward looking.
Tell me you don’t approve of it.
She retrieved her drink. “And what did you think?”
“What are your thoughts?”
She choked again, though this sip had been quite small. Giving up on the brandy, she said, “My thoughts? On the bill?”
“Yes.”
Nobody had asked for her political opinion in . . . years. “I think . . .” She had a brief flash of memory: a lively debate around the dinner table. Her parents and two guests, lecturers from the local university. And you, Jane? Which do you consider to be the defining characteristic of humankind? Reason, or the immortal soul?
She could no longer recall her answer. But she did remember the self-assurance with which she’d formulated her reply, her eager and unquestioning sense of entitlement: of course her opinion mattered.
“Do you want me to be honest?” she asked slowly.
“Wait.” He took a long sip of his drink. “All right, yes.”
“The bill is devoid of human feeling.”
His brows arched. He laid down his glass. “Don’t mince words,” he said mildly.
“I would not know how.”
He blinked, then gave her a slow, charmed smile, all the more startling for how prepared she’d been for irritation. All at once, she remembered their kiss this afternoon—the gentleness of his touch. The taste of his tongue. Her glance fell to his mouth.
His own gaze grew hooded. “We can adjourn this discussion,” he murmured. “If you are in the mood for other . . . diversions.”
“No.” She cleared her throat. She would not squander the first opportunity in recent memory to speak her mind about politics.
“The bill,” she said with effort, and he, interpreting her tone correctly, leaned back and cocked his head, “shows a want of compassion and an equal want of good economy. The ticket-of-leave system is not perfect, but the answer to its flaws is not to revoke it entirely. Why should a man who stole a loaf of bread be locked away for years on end? And if his absence robs his family of their main provider, how much more likely are they to turn to crime themselves, if the only other choice is starvation?”
Crispin gave a nod. “Elegantly argued,” he said. “Yet from what I am told, a great many public personages are scheduled to speak, all in defense of the bill.”
“They’ve been carefully selected,” she shot back. “Besides, one would not find it difficult to locate supporters, more’s the pity. For months, the newspapers have been drumming up alarm, telling the people that garroters are marauding through the streets. Your attack seemed to prove it. Of course public sentiment has been swayed. But the newspapers craft their headlines to sell papers, not facts. If crime has gone up in London, it has not gone up to such an extent that we should repeat the mistakes of the past. And in fact, as your father has pointed out in the Lords, there is no real proof that crime has increased. This bill panders to popular sentiment without reason or cause.”
“Indeed.” He gave his glass a quarter turn, an idle and distracted motion. “Now tell me what my objection would be.”
“To . . . my arguments?”
“Quite.”
She knew precisely what his objections would have been a month ago. He would have mocked her as a softhearted idealist, or, if that did not deter her, he would have demanded to know if she wished to live beside prisoners released on tickets-of-leave. Never say you hadn’t entertained the notion? he would then purr. That’s right; it won’t be you forced to share a street with criminals. But the deserving poor, the decent hardworking laborers who keep you in comfort—who cares for their happiness? Their safety means nothing, not when you might instead show how merciful and forgiving you are.
He had been a masterful debater, that other Crispin.
This Crispin was still waiting, his brows lifted expectantly. She shifted in her seat. “You . . . feel that crime has risen thanks to the ticket-of-leave system.”
“Yes, so I read. But the draft cites no proof. Nor can I see how petty thieves and swindlers might be converted into garroters simply by receipt of early release.”
“I don’t think you felt you needed proof,” she said, flustered. “You’ve gathered great support for your effort, after all. Many people feel as you do.”
“They feel so,” he said. “Is that the kind of politician I am, then? A mere panderer?”
“No, not at all.”
She winced and wanted to call back the words, for they opened a line to his next question, which he fired instantly:
“Then what was I? Please do explain, Jane. For I can find no sentiment in that bill that seems supportable by fact.”
She took a deep breath. “Your aim is to become prime minister, Crispin. And Palmerston and his cabinet are staunchly opposed to this bill. If you manage to push it through, his government may topple. So this bill—I don’t think you placed as much import on its content as on what it might do for your career.”
She could not read his expression, but as he stared at her, the silence began to make her nervous. She was only speaking the truth. Did he not believe her? “Also,” she heard herself say, “there’s a great deal of profit in prisons.”
“Profit?” He repeated it softly, as though the word tasted strange. “Profit, how?”
She hesitantly quoted her uncle: “A prisoner is a captive audience. He, or his loving family, will pay a great deal for the smallest comforts. Meanwhile, his labor comes free. Why, as a business, criminals are far more dependable than stocks, with a better return besides.”
She heard his long breath. “And I suppose,” he said flatly, “that I have friends who could use that free labor.”
She bit her lip. “You have . . . many friends. I don’t know all of them.”
With a black smile, he sat back. “I thought that I had woken into a nightmare. Perhaps I was right. But what I failed to remember was that I was the monster.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You are not a monster.” You, the man with me now.
He did not misunderstand her. “And the man you married? What of him, Jane?”
“He . . .” What an impossible bind to be placed in! No newlywed wife would speak ill of her husband without inspiring questions about why she had wed him, convenient or no. “He made mistakes,” she said. “It is . . . not easy to succeed in politics. Compromise can so quickly become corruption. But that doesn’t mean there was any . . . deliberate evil in it.”
Crispin’s slow nod, his distracted look, belonged to a man in deep thought. “Then we must fix his mistakes,” he said finally.
“We?”
“We. You know far more of politics than I do at present. You know your uncle’s friends, who happen to be my own. And you have a political mind,” he went on, his tone casual, as though this acknowledgment were not the most wondrous amazing remark he had made to her yet. “You say this bill has support—but together, perhaps, we can find a way to dismantle it.”
“You wish to defeat your own bill?”
He saw the shock in her face, for he took a quick breath and sat forward. “Look here: I won’t deny that I’m ambitious. That hasn’t changed. To become prime minister would be . . .” He shook his head. “Exquisitely satisfying,” he
said softly. “For a number of reasons. To be recognized, so universally, for one’s work—”
“It wasn’t that.” The words spilled from her. “It was power you wanted. Not admiration.”
He gave her a long, level look. “I don’t remember enough to argue. But what good is power unless used wisely? This bill . . .” His mouth twisted. “I don’t know how I justified it—I only know what I feel now. What kind of legacy would this make? It would be no cause for pride. I cannot support it, Jane.”
She felt her last defense, her sole remaining shred of caution, collapse. “You are changed.”
“And I mean to prove that,” he said quietly. “To you, and to myself. But I need a partner in this business. Someone I can trust to keep my secrets.” He reached for her hand. “May I count on you?”
Some startled unhappy feeling twisted inside her. Yes, she wanted to say, of course. But he could not trust her entirely. She was lying to him.
In this matter, though . . . She squeezed his hand. “Yes.”
His smile was quick and beautiful. “A toast, then: to bringing down this bill.”
Their glasses clinked. She took the smallest sip of brandy, which still tasted as hot as a flame. Such faith in Crispin’s face—no trace of wariness. As though he really did trust her completely. She cleared her throat. “ ‘Need no one, trust no one.’ That was your motto once.”
“Was it?” Briefly he frowned. “Well, based on what I’ve seen of my so-called friends, it seems a sound policy . . . with the single exception, of course, of you.”
The brandy felt like acid in her throat. “I will help you.” Her voice was thick. “I promise, I will do everything I can to help.” That was the truth.
If her ferocity was too overstated, he did not remark on it. “We’ll start with Atticus, I think.”
Atticus! Cautiously she said, “I thought you two did not . . . get along.”