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“Y ou might at least extend your felicitations upon my marriage.” The moment his father walked into the room, Crispin knew that this meeting would not end well. His father’s expression, a look Crispin deemed “stink-face”, heralded the old man’s obstinance.

“What marriage? That was a sham. I urged my friends to pay it no heed.”

“It wasn’t a sham to me nor to my wife. I’d love for you to meet her and her father as well.” He knew his father would deny him this simple act of courtesy. Sighing inwardly, Crispin walked to the mantel and straightened the clock, knowing it would irritate the man. It was a trick he’d learned in childhood. Earnest speaking fell on cloth ears; the only way to get his father to talk was to bait him into anger.

“That hick? He’s been pushing his goods like a costermonger all over Town. No respectable gentleman would open their door to him.” He walked over and pushed the clock back where it had been.

“It’s true he’s a tradesman. A successful one. He has full ownership of ports and ships.” Carmody’s hard work was looked down upon while his father had done nothing other than being born into a wealthy, titled family. It was the height of irony to mock a man who was willing to work to support his family.

“You not only sullied the family name by marrying the daughter of a tradesman, but she’s murky skinned as well.”

“I will not tolerate that language from you. She’s beautiful, and she’s my wife. That woman will birth your grandchildren.” Children? Where had that thought come from? Suddenly restless, Crispin crossed the room and turned a potted plant to better catch the sun streaming in through the window.

“I have another.”

“You devious old fool! You sold your daughter to that monster and let him kill her.” Crispin retreated to the corner of the room to keep himself from punching his father and resisted the urge to punch the wall instead. He’d never once been comfortable enough to sit and converse with his sire. Discussions with his father, while rare, tended to wear out his shoes as well as his patience.

“Don’t you dare pretend innocence with me, boy. I don’t know how you managed it or what you’ve done with her. It wasn’t your place to meddle in another man’s marriage. A man is the master of his own house,” he yelled, punching the air for emphasis “You had no right.”

“All this time, I thought you were simply stupid. Now I know your inaction was purposely cruel. Mother would be ashamed of you. I am ashamed of you.” In his thirty years, this was the strongest rebuke he’d ever given his father, and he knew it would not be taken well.

“I don’t know if you did it yourself or if you didn’t want to get your hands dirty, but you need to turn her or her body over to Lord Dunwoody. I’ll give you no rest until you do.” To prove his point, he’d followed Crispin around the room until he had him cornered.

“I don’t know where she is and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” Crispin shook his head. His father’s stance was meant to make him nervous, but the old man hadn’t noticed he was no longer a lad of eight. He was taller than his father and more physically fit. His afternoons at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing ring hadn’t gone to waste. Rather than tremble, he took a step closer so he could tower over the older man.

“Disloyal to the end, aren’t you? I’ll cut you off. You’ll see not a ha’penny from me until you come to your senses,” the old man wheezed out, growing red in the face and taking a step back.

“You don’t look well, Father. Please sit down.” His eight-year-old self would have been proud of him for standing his ground, but his present self was worried he’d given the old man an apoplexy.

“You’d be happy to see me die before I can change my will, wouldn’t you?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a single coin, and pressed it into Crispin’s hand. “This is all you’ll get from me.”

“Your death will bring me no pleasure, Father. I have, for my entire life, hoped we might achieve a camaraderie if not an understanding. I will mourn you keenly, along with the lost opportunity for our companionship.” Crispin shoved the coin into his pocket. Today was a turning point of sorts. A small victory indeed to stand up to one’s own sire. If he hadn’t caused so much havoc in the lives of his sister and himself, Crispin would have felt sorry for the frail old man he needed to help to a chair.

“You’re a fool.” His father spit out the insult as he lowered himself into an overstuffed chair with a huff.

“And so are you.”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Forgiveness is always on the table, Father. I hope one day we may make amends. If not for your sake, then for the sake of Mother’s affection for you.” Quitting the room without looking back, Crispin snatched his hat from the hall table and stormed outside. There was so much more he wanted to say. But what good to berate a feeble old man who could no longer do him any real harm? For the sake of the sins of his past? The man would never believe that he’d been a poor father.

Crispin made his way down Wimpole Street, gathering his thoughts. His meeting went as badly as he feared. The only possible good news was that if his father still didn’t know where Mary-Alice was hiding out, neither did Dunwoody. He’d long expected his father to withdraw financial support. Bolstered by his savings and share of Birdy’s dowry, he had enough socked away for a few years.

But, of course, he intended to live more than just a few years. How would he continue to support both his wife and his sister? He needed occupation. Neither the church nor the army was an attractive option. He wasn’t pious enough for one yet too moral for the other. Trade was out of the question if he ever hoped for reconciliation with his father.

He’d increase his investments. Nothing risky. He needed slow but reliable returns. Of course, there was an investment opportunity waiting back at Mivart’s. Suppose he were to invest in Birdy’s father’s ships. Hard to believe he was even considering it. He must be losing his mind.

For the first time, he had someone other than himself to fend for. Birdy deserved a comfortable life. She’d given up much for him. Love . Uninvited, the word intruded into his brain. Damn. After their vows, neither had spoken the word.

It was a simple word. Why was it so difficult for him to say it? Perhaps she thought the notion of love was foolish. She’d not yet uttered the syllable either. Somehow she knew just by looking at him that he didn’t deserve unconditional love. Someone would eventually tell her of his mortal failure. He could keep her away from gossips for only so long.

Fool , he chastised himself. The only way to keep that from happening was to tell her himself. She’d think he was a coward. He’d never be trusted again. How could she ever love someone who failed so spectacularly to rise to the occasion? His father might not matter anymore but it did not erase the dark stain on his past. He had to find a way to tell her.

He was standing outside Mivart’s windows and saw the reflection of his face, contorted into a fierce scowl. Taking a deep breath, he tried to fake a smile. He didn’t need his father. Birdy was his family now and it was her love he craved.

What? Crispin blinked twice before he believed the sight in front of him. Across Brook Street, his man, Butterworth, was helping a woman from a coach. No, not just a woman. It was his wife, Birdy. Where had they been?

“Butters,” he called out, making his way to the coach. As if the world slowed its rotation, he watched in morbid horror as a lone rider thundered down the street. The horse’s iron shoes clattered against the granite setts laid into the road at the hotel entrance. The sound echoed in his ears as he futilely reached out for Birdy.

The rider, with his hat obscuring his face, hugged the animal’s mane and steered directly through the small gap between Butterworth and Birdy, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Crispin grabbed at the rider as he passed by but could only gather a handful of the man’s coat before he too was knocked into the street. Within seconds, helping hands were shoved into his face, helping him to gain his feet.

“My wife,” he said, waving them off. “Please help my wife.” Struggling to his knees, he could see neither Birdy nor Butterworth through the gathered crowd.

“Birdy,” he called out as he stood. “Birdy.” He pushed his way through the crowd to find Butterworth sitting in the street holding his bleeding head and Birdy being pulled out from under the coach.

“Oh, my God. Birdy, speak to me.” Breath catching in his throat and stomach tightening with dread, he reached for her arm. “Speak to me.”

“Crispin.” Her voice was strong, but her face a mask of worry.

“Are you harmed? What hurts you?” Slowly helping her to her feet while looking for signs of blood or damage, he cursed Dunwoody anew. For surely, he caused this calamity.

“I fell on my arm, but it doesn’t feel broken,” she said at last. “I believe Mr. Butterworth got the brunt of it.”

“Let’s get out of the street and back to our rooms. He may decide to ride by again. Where in the devil were you?”

“I’ll tell you once we get inside.”

In an abundance of caution, Crispin sent their regrets to all social invitations for a week after the incident with the horse and rider. Crispin tried hard to keep her entertained, but there were just so many games of cards and chess they could play before she lost her mind. She begged him to allow this one evening out with friends he trusted.

Tonight’s invitation, from a couple they’d seen at the Mumford’s house party, was to attend a performance at the theater followed by a small midnight supper to be attended by only three couples.

After all, there’d been no more threatening notes slipped under her door. Crispin now rendezvoused with Mr. Shaw alone as they often met on dark corners in unsavory neighborhoods. Mr. Shaw’s latest report was that Dunwoody hadn’t left his house in days and would now only communicate via sealed notes passed by his footman. Tonight should be safe enough to leave the hotel for a few hours.

Tonight’s performance was an eclectic collection of several individual acts, from singers to acrobats to clowns. The current feature, a balding man badly reciting three of the seven soliloquies from Hamlet gave Crispin an excuse to pop out for refreshments. With Butterworth standing guard behind her in the Morgan family private box, there was no reason to feel uneasy. And yet, she did.

Someone was there behind her. Someone she did not know. She could feel it with every fiber of her being. Keeping her eyes fixed on the stage, her muscles tensed for action. Slowly, while pretending to adjust her long skirt, Birdy slipped her knife from its hidden sheath.

Using the blade as a mirror, she used it to reflect the candlelight. Let whoever was there know she was armed and willing to fight. While the actor poured his heart into Shakespeare, Birdy shifted her feet and made ready to pounce. The reflection in the blade revealed a dark shadow that she knew sheltered someone with evil intent.

Where was Mr. Butterworth? He would not have left her unattended. Not after what had happened last week. As Hamlet contemplated to be or not to be , Birdy made her move.

Turning away from the stage as she found her feet, Birdy leapt over her seat toward the shadowy corner. In the dark, her blade hit nothing but brocade draperies, but her left hand landed on something solid and alive wearing rough wool. Damn . She was out of practice and her lovely evening gown wasn’t up to the task of hand-to-hand combat.

The captured shoulder shook off her grip and slipped into the hallway. Picking up her bothersome skirt, Birdy prepared to run him down. Two steps later, she stumbled over something, or someone, lying on the floor.

“Butterworth?” The poor man was on the floor rubbing his head as he had the previous week. “What happened?”

“Got conked on the head. Again.” The man moaned and bent forward with his head in his hands. “Was only out for a few moments, I think. Were you harmed, madam?”

“I’m well. Your poor head cannot take much more of this. I think we should leave.”

“His lordship, they might have got him.”

Birdy scrambled to her feet, not knowing which way to turn. Butters was right. Where was Crispin? She had to find him. Sparing only another second, she followed her attacker down the hall toward the stairwell. Damn her long skirts and ridiculous heeled shoes. He was going to get away.

Breathless at the bottom of the stairwell, she scanned the hall for any abnormal movement. Seeing none, she hid her knife in the folds of her skirt and walked toward the theater entrance. The man was nowhere to be seen.

Wracked by indecision as she stood at the door, she looked up and down the lane. It would be foolish to take to the streets in her current attire in a town in which she was unfamiliar. Despite her thirst for a measure of justice, it was wiser to return to Mr. Butterworth, so they might search for Crispin together.

Turning away, she heard a familiar voice calling out.

“Birdy, don’t move.” Crispin ran up the steps and pulled her into his arms. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“Where were you?” she asked, enjoying the comfort of his arms around her. She’d never been so happy to see someone. Perhaps it was Crispin who shouldn’t be allowed to venture out alone.

“I was returning with our refreshment when I saw Butterworth on the ground and you sitting at his feet. You were staring daggers at the fellow running away, so I followed him, hoping to get some answers. I lost him outside. I can only think he’s another one of Dunwoody’s men.”

“We need to get Mr. Butterworth out of here. He took another blow to the head, and it will throb like the devil soon enough.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. I thought it was safe. Upon my honor, I thought it was safe. We’ll fetch him together.” Crispin wouldn’t let her out of his sight and even kept his hand on her arm as they went back to collect Butters, still sitting on the floor with a dazed expression and blood on his face. They helped him up and out to the carriage.

Holding a handkerchief to his wounded head, Mr. Butterworth sat between them on the long, quiet ride back to Mivart’s. Once there, Crispin settled Mr. Butterworth into his room so they might keep watch of him overnight for signs of a concussion.

“Let us remove ourselves from this town,” Birdy said from the doorway as Butterworth drifted off into a fitful sleep. “It’s time.” Whatever point they were trying to prove to Dunwoody wasn’t working. They’d made no move to find the child or discover Lady Dunwoody’s whereabouts, why were they still being harassed?

“Agreed,” Crispin replied, hanging his head for a moment as if conceding defeat. “Callum Mumford’s family has a hunting lodge we might be able to let.”

“No,” Birdy said, shaking her head. “Your association with him is well known. We need to go somewhere unexpected for a while. Somewhere we don’t know anyone.”

“I was rather enjoying Mr. Shaw’s reports on Dunwoody’s lack of progress in finding my sister. Odd he didn’t check in today. I suppose I should tell him we’re leaving town. He’ll miss our money.”

“Mr. Shaw might be a useful man to have around. Suppose we hire him on a more permanent basis. There’s nothing left for him here, either. He can be your batman or however such a servant is titled. I believe Mr. Butterworth will enjoy being demoted back to valet. It will be much easier on his head.”

“Mr. Shaw said he worked in the stables. I’ll pinch my father’s coach and four and offer our spy the position of coachman.”

“Coachman to where?” Birdy bit her lip to keep from voicing her recommendation. If Crispin revived the subject, she’d tell him what she knew. Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s words, “be careful what you wish for” echoed in her head.

“If I knew where to look for my sister’s child, I’d start there.”

“Despite my earlier enthusiasm for the action, you can’t simply snatch him from his cradle and run. What good is it to know his location if you can’t do anything about it?”

“Just to see him. To convince myself that he’s still alive. My sister was so convinced, and Dunwoody’s actions point to it but, I want to see for myself.”

“If that is where your heart leads, I have an idea of where to start.” Birdy waited for Crispin to consider her words before she said more.

“What do you know that you haven’t told me?”

“I know nothing for certain. I didn’t want to suggest something you didn’t want or encourage something that you would not be satisfied with.” Birdy waited for Crispin’s flash of irritation to fade before she continued. “Lord Dunwoody has properties in Lincolnshire, Dorset, and Scotland.”

“Lincolnshire? Wait, my father visited him there once when I was a boy. Where was it? Oh, think stupid brain, think. Grimsby! My father visited him in Grimsby. We’ll start there.”

“As soon as possible, I hope,” Birdy said in earnest. London had ceased to be charming a month ago. She yearned to see trees and hills.

“We’ll get Butterworth through the night. Tomorrow I’ll arrange everything and offer Mr. Shaw a position. We can be ready to set off by the end of the week.”

“I’ll ask my father to join us, but I think I already know he’ll decline.” Determined not to interfere with her marriage and intent on filling his ships, her father kept his distance other than an occasional shared meal at the hotel.

“Your father has his own agenda now. I’d like to think he trusts me to take care of you now that we’re married. Don’t say it,” he turned away and shook his head. “I failed you at the theater. I will regret the decision to leave you alone for the rest of my life.” Quitting the chair beside the bed, Crispin began pacing the room in front of her near the door.

“I won’t be telling him about tonight. It is between us as man and wife.” Just like she hadn’t told her father of Crispin’s metamorphosis at the Mumfords’.

Crispin was unlike the loud, often overbearing and brash men of the trading post. Crispin hid his true self, but he wasn’t weak. He could fill a room with song, laughter, or just his quiet presence. In the evenings as he sat, his legs crossed, cigar smoke swirling overhead as he focused on a book or newspaper, she enjoyed the simple pleasure of watching him. When he focused his blue eyes on her, giving her a wink or a secret smile, she felt cherished. When she beckoned him to her room, he’d smile in a way that highlighted the dimple in his cheek, toss his newspaper or book aside and carry her to the bed. She would fall asleep, smiling, in his arms.

“Do you trust me, Birdy? Do you really trust me to keep you safe?”

“You cannot guarantee my safety. No one can. I trust you to try.” She sighed inwardly. She’d not meant to sound pragmatic, just cautious. She was so close to giving her heart away, it frightened her.

“That’s not exactly the ringing endorsement I was hoping for. But I suppose I don’t deserve it.”

“Crispin, come, stop pacing and sit with me. Our marriage has to be more of a pretense to bore Lord Dunwoody. We dine, we shop, we make love…but something’s missing. I don’t want a pretend life with a pretend happiness. I’ve seen the real you and that’s the man I want. You hold so much of yourself away from me. I feel I’m knocking on a locked door.”

“Not here, Birdy,” he said, nodding toward a slumbering Butterworth.

“And so the door stays locked.”

“I thought I was prepared for how much my life would change. I was not. I worry for you, I worry for my sister, her child, and damn it, now I worry for Butterworth and your father as well. One more near miss, one more accident, or one more devastating revelation is going to send me to Bedlam.”

“You are not walking this path alone. Why do you insist on carrying all the burden?” Her voice sounded scolding, and she immediately regretted it.

“I owe you that. You didn’t create this mess. You knew the stakes, you knew how desperate I was, and you still helped. Why?” He stopped his pacing and stood in front of her awaiting her answer.

“Maybe I needed something too.” That was all she was willing to admit at the moment. This was not the time to tell him how she’d hoped to marry a man who would help her family stay out of the clutches of the Hudson Bay Company. Marrying a savior was a childish dream and she was foolish to have thought life would be that easy.

“Children?” He guessed incorrectly. She let his question hang in the air, unanswered. To correct him would invite her to supply the correct answer. One more burden might break him.

“A husband,” she said at last. Let him make of that what he would.

“You should get some sleep, Birdy. We’ve much to do tomorrow. I’ll stay the night here in a chair watching over Butterworth.”

“You need sleep as well.” She was bone tired and knew he must be too.

“I will. I promise.”

She didn’t know what time it was when Crispin slipped into her bed. His warmth was welcome, and she happily snuggled into his offered arms. Surprised by his nakedness, she hesitated before closing her eyes again.

“You awake?” she heard him whisper.

“I am now,” she answered, turning to face him. Rather than drifting back to sleep, she rested her hand on his chest to feel his beating heart. “I need you.”

“I need you too, Birdy.”

“Show me,” she said. “Show me how much you need me.”

Caressing her face, he kissed her eyelids before covering her mouth with his. They fumbled with her sleeping gown for a moment, reducing them both to giggles before she could once again enjoy the warmth of his skin.

As if he intended for his body to say what he could not speak with words, each touch was thoughtful and tender. Each kiss lingered on her lips. Gently pushing her hands away, he signaled his intention to worship her body while her only burden was enjoyment.

Raising her hands in surrender and resting them on the pillow, she allowed him free rein over her body. Every inch of her was kissed and caressed, and she knew each touch was a declaration of unspoken love.

When his clever fingers found their way between her legs, she obliged by spreading them wider for him. The slight movement was the only invitation he needed, and he took advantage of her offer. One long finger was followed by another until she could not help but pump her hips to edge herself a little closer to climax.

Breath came in shallow gasps by the time he positioned himself above her. He entered her gently, bracing himself with one arm and cradling her bottom with his other hand. As her mind screamed for the sweet release from frantic friction, his movements were slow and deliberate. He was pacing himself and it was driving her wild.

Abandoning to surrender at last, Birdy wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him tightly to her. Scratching her fingernails lightly across his broad back, she dared him to quicken his pace and give her what she craved.

Neither had spoken a word since he began, and she didn’t want to be the one to break their reverie. Biting her lip, she could only concentrate on enjoying their bodies silently. When at last his hips began to pulse in earnest, the cadence of their bodies coming together was interrupted only by the sound of their ragged breaths.

As if standing on the edge of a cliff, she yearned to be thrust over the edge to ecstasy. Shifting her hips between them, the edge of the cliff suddenly disappeared behind her. Wave after wave of sensation radiated through her body until she could no longer breathe. Above her, Crispin made an inarticulate noise that reminded her he’d fallen over the edge with her.

Their bodies were still entangled as he drifted off to a deep sleep. Unwilling to wake him, she extracted herself slowly, immediately missing his warmth. Knees still a bit wobbly, she made her way to the washstand and performed a quick and quiet wash of her sex. She’d bathe properly in the morning, but she refused to spend the rest of the night sticky.

Leaving Crispin to slumber, she pulled on a thick dressing gown and made her way to the connecting room to check on Mr. Butterworth. Concussions were tricky things, and she hoped poor Butters recovered quickly.

The man was breathing easily and appeared to rest well. The shawl she’d worn to the theater was still draped over the back of a chair, so she gathered it up and wrapped it around her. She’d take her turn watching over him while Crispin slept. Settling herself into an overstuffed chair, she tried to clear her mind.

She was unsuccessful because one question kept finding its way to the forefront of her thoughts. Would it always be this way? Crispin, unable to speak of his emotions, would show them only with his body, behind closed doors. Would that be enough for her?

Birdy searched her heart and still did not find any regret. They were newlyweds, married a month, and many things could still change between them. Would change, she imagined, as they grew old together. She was going to grow old with Crispin Morgan. She wasn’t sure if this filled her with joy, or dread.