Chapter 4
C rispin did not fear mornings. They arrived with grim inevitability, whether one welcomed or ignored them, and he had long since learned to greet each sunrise as an adversary to be endured, not vanquished.
On this particular morning, he nursed his hangover with a coffee as black and bitter as his reputation, and thumbed through the paper as dust motes drifted through the sunlight that pooled over the desk.
His study was a good room for recovering. Stained mahogany panels rose from floor to ceiling, their surfaces crowded with books, maps, and the trophies of a life spent in elegant mischief. A faint, perennial haze of cigar smoke lingered in the air, testifying to late nights and illicit company.
He took another sip of coffee as he trailed his gaze down the columns.
There it was. His announcement. A wicked grin pulled at his lips.
Now, all of London would know that he and Lady Clara were betrothed.
He would wager every drawing room in London would soon be a whirlwind of speculation and gossip centered on him and Clara.
Well and truly satisfied, Crispin lifted his cup and relaxed back against the chair.
He had just begun to enjoy the quiet when a perfunctory rap at the door shattered his peace. It opened precisely one heartbeat later, admitting Parker, his long-suffering valet, whose face bore the stony neutrality only a lifetime of servitude could produce.
“Your morning post, my lord,” Parker intoned, presenting a silver tray as though it contained royal secrets.
Crispin allowed himself a moment’s irritation, then set down the cup and accepted the post.
Three invitations. Two to balls, one for a garden party he would sooner have burned the house down than attend.
Two missives from creditors, and a note from a past lover, which he flicked into the fire.
The last, a slim, cream-colored envelope, unadorned but for a blob of vivid blue sealing wax, the crest stamped deep into the surface, piqued his interest. Mapleton.
He turned the envelope over in his hands, admiring the violence with which it had been addressed.
Lady Clara, he mused, wrote as she lived, with barely restrained aggression.
And damn him, but he admired that about her.
There was no simpering artifice in her correspondence, only purpose, sharpened like a blade.
She was the sort of woman who made a man forget himself.
Each letter was a pointed thrust, the penmanship slanted forward as if determined to cross the finish line before her patience did.
It was the kind of passion that could upend kingdoms, and he could not decide if it made her maddening or utterly irresistible.
He slit the envelope with a monogrammed paper knife and unfolded the single sheet within.
Lord Oakford,
If you have any intention of seeing this charade concluded with minimal catastrophe, you will refrain from further improprieties until such time as I am permitted to plot our mutual deliverance.
Do not write. Do not call. Do refrain from making further announcements, and above all, do not involve yourself in any additional scandal. If you can manage that, I will endure the engagement for as long as strictly necessary.
If, however, you persist in your usual habits, I will be forced to take steps.
Respectfully,
Lady Clara Mapleton
He laughed aloud, a genuine sound that startled Parker into raising an eyebrow.
“Is there a matter of amusement, my lord?” asked the valet, perfectly deadpan.
Crispin spread the note on his desk, smoothing the creases with the tip of his finger. “Lady Clara has delivered terms. She threatens retribution if I misbehave.”
Parker allowed the faintest hint of a smile. “Shall I prepare the oubliette, my lord?”
“No need,” said Crispin. “I intend to outwit my intended, not incarcerate her.”
He took up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and let his hand hover over the page for a moment. It would not do to appear rattled. Lady Clara must know that she had met her match, and he would not be bested by mere stationery.
My Darling Clara,
I assure you that my interest in additional scandal is purely academic. However, since you have elected to take the reins of this farce, I shall await your instructions with the utmost anticipation.
Please note that my patience, unlike my reputation, is not limitless. Should I be forced into silence for longer than three days, you may expect me to descend upon your breakfast table like a highwayman, unwelcome yet impossible to escape.
Yours in mutual suffering,
Oakford
He blotted the letter, then sealed it with his signet ring—an extravagantly carved devil’s head, a private joke that had become widely known amongst the ton.
He stood, stretched, and moved to the tall, north-facing windows.
Beyond the wrought-iron fence of the square, London moved with its usual indifference.
But here on the upper floors of Oakford House, the world had already changed.
Clara had seen his announcement, and the news would be everywhere by noon.
He pressed his fingers to the cool glass and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.
The game was afoot. And Lady Clara, for all her icy indignation, was already proving quite amusing.
Crispin handed the missive to Parker. “Take this to Lady Clara’s residence with all possible speed,” he said. “And do try not to flirt with the housemaids. Lady Shipley is very particular about the virtue of her staff.”
Parker’s lips twitched. “Of course, my lord.”
As the door closed, Crispin poured himself a brandy and sat back in his chair. He did not mind that Clara despised him. In fact, he rather preferred it. Indifference was so dull, and anything more tender would be untenable.
The next move was hers.
He hoped, for both their sakes, that it would be spectacular.
As the day wore on, Crispin found himself increasingly preoccupied with Clara’s response, and as the sun began to set, he found himself disappointed. The minx had ignored his letter. In need of distraction, he went to the billiards room.
It was a study in masculine comfort with tiger maple panels, heavy damask curtains, and a vivid green slate table. In the angled light of half a dozen lanterns, the balls shone like tiny full moons, and the air was honeyed with tobacco and the faint, numbing tang of old brandy.
Crispin, sleeves rolled, collar undone, circled the table with the leisurely arrogance of a man convinced he would win even if he played with one eye closed. Edward, as ever, was his foil. Cool, methodical, a quiet predator who stalked his shots with the patience of a heron in shallow water.
“You are chalking the cue like you intend to duel me with it,” Edward said, breaking the silence that had grown between them.
Crispin dusted the blue cube over the tip with exaggerated care. He glanced at Edward, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “I do not require violence to best you, dear brother. I have finesse.”
“A dangerous thing in your hands.” Edward lined up his shot, the cue cradled in long, elegant fingers.
With a crisp crack, the ivory balls scattered, two dropping neatly into opposite pockets.
He straightened and looked at Crispin with a knowing smile.
“Are you going to tell me what is actually going on, or shall we continue pretending you are not engaged to a woman who loathes you?”
Crispin leaned against the table. “She does not loathe me. She is merely... spirited.”
Edward arched a brow. “She slapped you once at Vauxhall.”
“Misunderstanding.”
“You kissed her at the ball, and in the garden.”
“Observant.” Crispin studied the table, then took a reckless shot, sinking a stripe with a flourish.
Edward circled the table, stick in hand, gaze on Crispin. “Mother is already planning the guest list. Clara’s mother wept into her handkerchief when she thought no one was looking. And you have made your engagement known to all of London, yet I know that marriage is the last thing you want.”
Crispin sighed and moved to take his shot. “It is a temporary arrangement.”
Edward watched him, eyes narrowed with the kind of gentle judgment that only a sibling could muster. “Then you had better end it quickly.”
Crispin paused. “She was about to be ruined. Again. Because of me.”
Edward frowned. “You are admitting that?”
Crispin hesitated, his hand tightening briefly around the cue. A flicker of something, guilt, perhaps, ghosted across his expression. “I have never denied it.”
“You have never admitted it either.”
Crispin straightened, his jaw tightening. “There’s no harm in pretending. She gets a reprieve from the gossips. Mother gets a future daughter-in-law to crow about. And I get a little... entertainment.”
Edward rolled his eyes. “You are playing with fire.”
“That is the point.” Crispin set his glass on the rail, and stalked around to survey the next shot.
“She is magnificent when enraged. I believe she would set the whole city aflame if she could, and I cannot help but admire her for it. That kind of fire, that refusal to be cowed…makes her more dangerous than half the men in Parliament. And far more captivating.”
“Clara Mapleton is not a game.”
“I am beginning to suspect that.”
Edward took a sip of his brandy, studying his brother. “What happens when she finds a man she actually wants to marry?”
“Then I let her go, of course.”
“Do you really think it will be that simple?” Edward arched a speculative eyebrow.
Crispin nearly laughed, then saw the way Edward’s mouth twisted on the last word.
“She would be bored to death within a week if I did not play along. As would I.” He leaned in, voice pitched low and intimate.
“Besides, the ton is insatiable. If it were not my engagement to Lady Clara, it would be a rumor of your elopement with a Polish ballerina, or Mother’s tragic addiction to French lace. ”
Edward sighed. “Very well, but do not make it worse. For either of you.”
“That is always my aim,” Crispin said, pocketing the final ball with a flourish. “To make nothing worse.”
Edward laughed. “That may be the biggest lie you have ever told.”
Crispin lifted his glass. “To illusions, then. The lifeblood of every well-bred lie, and every well-dressed scandal.”
They clinked glasses, the firelight dancing between them.
Edward set the cue aside and leaned both hands on the table, the pose oddly parental. “You are not as heartless as you want them to think.”
Crispin almost replied, almost said something true. Instead, he shrugged. “Why bother being kind? The world is more interesting when it is at war.”
Edward shook his head, picked up his drink, and retreated to the window seat. “One day you will mean it, and then we will all be sorry.”
The room went quiet, save for the metronome tick of the mantel clock and the distant music of carriages in the street. Crispin chalked his cue, preparing for the next shot, but for once he missed on purpose, the white ball leaping the rail and thudding to the carpet.
He grinned, shrugged, and looked to Edward, who was gazing into the darkness beyond the window.
“Rematch?” Crispin asked.
Edward nodded.
Crispin reset the table, arranging the balls with deliberate precision.
He liked the sound they made, the soft click of strategy in motion—order before chaos, control before the fall.
He liked even more the knowledge that, in the grand game of society, every strike set another ball spinning, another rumor circulating, another heart tumbling toward disaster or triumph.
But even as Crispin relished the chaos, a nagging thought took root.
This had started as a jest. An impulsive moment born of mischief more than malice.
A moment’s indulgence, nothing more. But the feel of her lips still haunted him, the heat of her against him, lingering like an echo.
He never expected her to reveal their identities, and he most certainly did not bet on her announcing an engagement with fire in her eyes and defiance in her voice.
Playing along had seemed the only reasonable choice at the time.
But Lady Clara Mapleton was proving far more dangerous than he had anticipated. She was less a complication and more a tempest he had foolishly invited in.
He wandered to the window as Edward lined up his shot, brandy in hand, staring out over the garden now bathed in moonlight.
Her presence lingered there in the shadows.
Fiery, unpredictable, unlike any woman he had ever known.
She had challenged him, kissed him back, then lied, as if daring him to question the truth of it.
The memory burned, not with shame, but something sharper and far more compelling.
“She is not what I expected,” Crispin murmured, almost to himself.
Edward raised an eyebrow. “And what did you expect?”
Crispin took another sip of brandy. “A bored debutante with a sharp tongue and no spine.”
“You underestimate her.”
“I am beginning to see that.”
Edward set his cue aside. “You may think you are in control of this farce, but mark my words…the masks fall away, and the stage is turned. She plays her part well, but it is only a matter of time before you find yourself the one performing for her amusement. She will turn the game on you before it is done.”
Crispin gave a faint smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes. “I rather hope she does.”
And as he set his brandy aside and approached the table, something stirred within him. Something that unnerved him more than any scandal ever had.
A dangerous curiosity that threatened to unravel the rules he had always relied on.