Return to the House of Sin

‘I’ve brought you food and tea.’ He indicated the basket he’d carried inside. ‘I trust you’ll find what you need.’

She answered with a smile that had him smiling too. Then he turned and left, anxious for a cleansing breath of sea air. Outside the door, Ferris approached, three steps from the corridor and apparently on his way to visit. Now there was a predicament he hadn’t anticipated. Ferris might stop by at any time. All this subterfuge and unavoidable explaining complicated what was planned to be a calm and thoughtful voyage home.

‘Let’s go above deck. I need some air.’ He motioned Ferris towards the stairs, thankful no discussion followed.

The day proved fine and they took a place near the wood railing, tacky from the salt and mist. Crispin released a breath of relief.

‘What troubles you, amico mio? Ferris smoothed a palm over his face, though his eyes never lost their close interest.

‘Not a thing.’ If only that were true. ‘I have a lot to attend to in London. The closer we get, the more I contemplate what needs to be done.’

‘It’s good then, that we have over a fortnight of travel ahead.’ Ferris nodded. ‘You have the funds you need?’

Ferris knew of the Underworld debt. Crispin had confided in the count early in their friendship and, with that, Ferris had kept Crispin informed of the most lucrative opportunities to regain wealth and profit. In time, Crispin honed his skill at cards to such mastery, most gamblers reconsidered before engaging in play. Subsequently, much of the amusement and distraction vanished, yet money begat money and there was always another fool who believed themselves a better player. Crispin had no difficulty amassing generous wealth.

Instead it was the larger issue, the unhealed condition of his heart, which lent him sleepless nights. He planned to confront Maxwell Sinclair, proprietor of the Underworld gaming hell, repay his debt and then disengage from the lingering truth once and for all. Crispin had once wanted Vivienne, but she’d chosen Max and the realization now, that his affection had been nothing more than infatuation or misplaced attachment at best, caused him to feel all the more foolish. He wouldn’t be known as a besotted sop who fled London with a broken heart. Redemption would be had. His travels had offered distance and clarity, as well as the chance to wall away finer emotion. He had no desire to become lost in an abyss of affection ever again.

‘Where did you go? You’re not listening to a word.’ Ferris slapped him on the back in a bid for attention. ‘You need to stop wasting time on the past. Didn’t you enjoy the pleasures of my home? The accommodations and lovely companions I provided?’

Crispin grinned, his answer honest. ‘Indeed, I did.’

Anxious for company and otherwise bored beyond imagination, Amanda was thrilled when Crispin returned that evening. She’d replaced her temporary foray into men’s tailoring with her yellow gown and folded Crispin’s breeches and shirt atop one of the trunks. Every morning he would deliver a basket with breakfast foods and leave with his arms full of clean clothing, only to return later in the day wearing them. The amount of inconvenience she’d subjected him to had her feeling grateful and somewhat indebted.

Perhaps Father could pay Crispin for his trouble. She didn’t know how to show her appreciation otherwise and simply a word of thanks would not suffice.