Page 55 of Yielding to Love

A guilty innocent. She’d used him. She robbed him of his honor, or at least, the last bit of honor that he’d believed remained to him. It was selfish of her after he’d been selfless with them.

She’d said it was awful. And complained that he hadn’t kissed her. Hadn’t bothered to kiss her.

The trick is that I only do the things I can do well.

Damn. What a liar he was.

Chapter Eighteen

A man might lose himself in the entertainments London had to offer. Crispin had been back in the city for a month, and he’d tried. Tried but did not succeed. And now, Jasper had summoned him to Chaumbers for the upcoming Christmas festivities. All the comforts and joys of the holidays in the bosom of his family. He wasn’t going to go.

He had a new personal failing to dwell upon. Early on in his adult life, he’d learned that lightskirts did not like to be kissed on the mouth. Easy enough, he didn’t need to kiss them. And he didn’t need a girl to flatter him with a performance of her pleasure. He knew the best way to truly please a trull was to finish his business quickly and pay her more than she’d asked. Camellia was no trull, but he’d treated her like one because he hadn’t known how to do anything else.

He regretted ever going to Tonbridge. He couldn’t fathom why he had gone back.

He turned up the collar of his greatcoat and trudged into the wind. Darkness was falling although it was only teatime. He needed that cup of tea; he felt faint. Weak. He should have taken a hackney cab. Tinsbury Square was farther than he’d thought.

He continued down Picadilly to his lodgings. He’d managed to lease a set at Albany, one left fully furnished by a dead man—he hoped that wasn’t a precedent. Four rooms, an entryway, and the all-important privy. He couldn’t have remained any longer at 8 Grosvenor Square. He was sick and trying to hide it, and Peters and Cook watched him too closely.

It was his own fault. He’d been courting illness since he’d left Tonbridge. Pains in his gut had begun weeks ago, but he’d pushed on, continuing down the easy path to ruin.

Now he was constantly fatigued. He routinely vomited his breakfast. If he ate anything during the day, he felt bloated like a dead fish in the sun, and didn’t dare venture far from his apartment. His clothes were loose; he’d lost at least two stone.

Albany was set back from the road by a small private courtyard. As he crossed it, Crispin saw a man standing outside the gate. Was it anyone he cared to see? Tall and slim, wrapped in a fashionable dark-blue greatcoat, top hat, walking stick—it was Hazard. He approached his old friend, resigning himself to being scrutinized.

“I’ve run you to ground,” Hazard said, by way of greeting as they entered the gated area. “Alice is peeved.”

“Peeved?” Crispin fished his key from his coat. “So you’re hiding?”

“Not peeved with me, you idiot. You refused three invitations to supper, then disappeared. You are a hard man to track down.”

“Not hard enough.” He opened his door and gestured for Hazard to go in.

Hazard stepped inside and unbuttoned his coat. “You keep it warm.”

“I like my luxuries.”

Hazard sniffed. “I’ll get to the point. Are you unwell?”

“No,” he lied.

“Take off your coat. Let me judge.”

“Do you think you’ll find me covered in boils?”

“Are you?”

Crispin glowered at him, but the man stood firm. He removed his coat, taking the paper-wrapped parcel that had been tucked inside and laying it on a shelf by the umbrella stand.

“You are too thin,” Hazard said.

“I am always too thin.”

“And you are pale. When did you last eat?”

What was he to say? Three days ago? He’d had nothing but tea and sugar for three days because he’d wanted to go to the Temple of the Muses, and didn’t want to shame himself by becoming publicly sick. And if he was going to be housebound, or, God forbid, bedridden, he wanted something to read.

“Breakfast. And I am starving.” He looked away. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’ll have to make it. I haven’t hired a valet yet. The poor sod will have to be valet, housekeeper, butler, and cook.”