Page 72 of Yielding to Love

Good. There could be no escape from St. Helena.

Whistling tunelessly, Crispin walked the half mile to the sparse, tiny chamber in the sailors’ inn that had been his home for the last month, finished packing his valise, and wrote a quick dispatch to Wellington. His last. The operation had been smooth. The wily old general had not slipped from their grasp. His exile was assured. And Crispin was done. He thanked Wellington for the confidence placed in him. Then he resigned.

Next, he used his knife to pick out a few stitches at the edge of the mattress on his bed. He reached in to retrieve the code book Colquhoun had given him, and sat down to construct an encoded dispatch, this one to the spymaster, which said essentially the same thing—except for the thank you. Although in theory, Colquhoun reported to Wellington, the duke’s supervision was a myth. Colquhoun had given Crispin additional instructions which had come from higher up. Most likely from Sidmouth, the Home Secretary. Liverpool, the Prime Minister, was far too decent a man to assign anyone this sort of task.

Napoleon’s prison ship was a source of infinite curiosity. While it sat in the harbor, sightseers and well-wishers ventured near in boats of all sizes, everyone straining for a glimpse of the one-time emperor. Most were annoying rather than dangerous, but the general had a following, even in England. “Steps were to be taken” to prevent anyone from helping Napoleon to escape. If he nevertheless managed the feat, he must be killed. And, of course, the assassin would have to disappear. Perhaps to Canada, Colquhoun had suggested. Though India could also be arranged.

Killing Napoleon would not have weighed very heavily upon Crispin’s conscience. Not after witnessing the devastation the man’s ambition had caused. Nevertheless, he was relieved it hadn’t been necessary.

He put the code book into the stove and watched it burn, stirring the pages until nothing remained but ash. After scrubbing his hands thoroughly, perhaps more thoroughly than need be, he tucked the letters into his bag. As soon as he reached Exmouth, he could pass them off to a courier who would see that they reached the intended recipients in Paris.

Feeling unburdened, Crispin trotted downstairs, bypassed the dining room, said goodbye to his host, and stepped outside where a post-chaise-and-four awaited him. His intention was to travel by easy stages to London. Three days. Perhaps four. He hoped to sleep through most of it. Preferably without the plaguing nightmares.

It was early August. He would arrive, he hoped, after the end of the London Season. He didn’t want to get swept up in the Marriage Mart, especially not at the very end of it when the unchosen misses grew desperate. Unfortunately, Parliament was no longer in session, so Jasper and Vanessa might have left the city. Probably Hazard and Alice also. He supposed Reg and Georgiana would be in Cambridge. And Olivia and Benjamin would be at their cottage at Chaumbers. Homecoming was different when his siblings were dispersed into three different homes.

If no one was in London, he would head for Chaumbers as soon as he sold his commission. Never again. Never again would he lend his arm to such slaughter.

He tossed his valise into the carriage, then climbed inside. He rapped on the roof to signal the driver to go.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming. Or where he had been. They all thought he was in Paris with Wellington. They’d be very glad to see him, whenever he found them, but not half so happy as he would be to see them.

Crispin leaned back and closed his eyes. Thank God he hadn’t had to disappear.

*

There was no one at 8 Grosvenor Square except the servants who maintained the place when everyone else was gone. Crispin had known there was a strong possibility no one would be there. Nevertheless, he felt unreasonably miffed. He assured the housekeeper she needn’t air his rooms. He would be returning to his set at Albany.

He walked to Picadilly, avoiding carriages, men on horseback, pedestrians, pickpockets, and hawkers of flowers and hatpins. He inhaled the scent of London’s summertime squalor, and told himself he enjoyed the smell of home. Still, an unanticipated prickle of unease came over him as he crossed the courtyard of Albany and put his key into the lock of his set of rooms.

There it was. Empty as Christ’s tomb. The furnishings were all draped in white linen dustcovers, giving the room the eerie appearance of a graveyard. This was not something he had done before leaving. He suspected Vanessa would have seen to it. He stepped inside and started to uncover a chair in his parlor, but shuddered and stopped.

He could not bear the thought of spending his first night back in London alone. Especially in this place where he had been closer to death than he’d been at Waterloo.

But where might he go?

Hazard. Hazard and Alice could still be in the city.

He left his apartment and walked to Hazard’s townhome. The street was much quieter here, its residents more refined. He knocked. The door was opened by a narrow-faced porter who informed him the viscount and viscountess were not at home. The pronouncement was definitive and quick—the man did not bother to take Crispin’s card and see if Hazard was at home to him—so Crispin believed the pair were truly gone.

Which left what?

He had other friends in London, but the thought of walking around knocking on doors, begging for company, did not appeal to him. Unfortunately, he’d left England before Jasper had had the chance to submit his name for membership at White’s. He supposed he should return to 8 Grosvenor Square, have one of the kitchen maids cook something for him, then stay the night in his old rooms.

Or, he might go to George Street and see if the Hindoostanee Coffee House was still there. He could get a good curried rice. Decide from there.

He stood on the side of the street outside Hazard’s house tapping his fingers on his hip, ignoring the occasional passers-by.

How ridiculous. How could he be so indecisive over something that mattered so little? He’d go to 8 Grosvenor Square. At least there, the servants knew him.

*

Crispin spent a week in London, trying to reacclimate himself to his old life, but he was having a difficult time remembering what that life was. He knew his old self didn’t wake thrashing and crying out in the middle of the night, dreaming of the battlefield—the piled-up bodies of men and horses, some still twitching in their death throes—the circling crows and scrawny dogs—the scavenging peasantry, who would hurry a soldier along to his Maker if it helped them to snatch a brass button. His old fearless self would have returned to Albany, not quailed at the thought of so much solitude.

He had tasks, so he performed them. He spoke with an army agent and filled out the papers to sell his commission. He bought a pianoforte and arranged to have it shipped to his cottage in Binnings. He visited an employment agency to advertise for a valet and a cook. And he went to Jasper’s tailor to order three new jackets and a half dozen shirts and trousers. For fun, he put them on Jasper’s account.

He felt industrious, but very much alone. The aloneness was his own fault, so, finally, he wrote to his siblings, telling them he was in London, then waited for a response. Three days later, he had a letter from Jasper.

We are coming to London. DON’T GO ANYWHERE.

For the first time in a long time, Crispin felt himself smile.