The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two Page 23

  Crispin did not reply this time, merely smiled quietly to himself and ran his fingers over the four coins in his palm. He had gotten his money’s worth. More than his money’s worth.

  The warm air coming through the window ruffled the pages of the book Sophie was studying. She was afraid to light a candle and attract attention to her presence in Lord Grosgrain’s study at the top of Grosgrain Place, so she was sitting next to the window, trying to see as much as she could from the light of the half-moon.

  After their return to Sandal Hall that afternoon, Crispin had announced that he had a delicate errand to attend to, on which Don Alfonso was not invited. Instead of voicing the protest he had prepared himself for, Sophie acquiesced quietly.

  In part, it was because she had errands of her own to do. As soon as Crispin was gone, she had dashed from the house, crossed the street, and scaled the side wall of Grosgrain Place, the wall facing away from Hen House, entering Lord Grosgrain’s study by the window. The purpose of her visit, she told herself, was to glean what he had been blackmailed for. The study was where he had kept his most important papers and was also the only room of the house that had ever really felt like his. It was here that they had met, at first weekly, then less often, to discuss the management of Leverage Holdings. It was here that they had been together for the last time, here that he had asked her for that fateful bill of credit, here that he had alluded to the Phoenix.

  More than six weeks had passed between meetings when Lord Grosgrain had summoned her to Grosgrain Place that final time. In the months before his death he had grown moody and distant. And profligate. Going over his books, Sophie saw that he had been forced to ask her for the twelve hundred pounds not only so his name would not be recognized but, more crucially, because he did not have it immediately at hand. Somehow, he had managed to spend through an enormous chunk of money in a very short time.

  But Sophie had noticed this before, puzzled over it the first time she read through his ledgers. She and Emme and Octavia had tried to guess what improvements to Grosgrain Place could possibly have cost one hundred thousand pounds when the Queen’s own palaces ran on one tenth that amount. Sophie had come tonight supposedly to look over those books again, to wonder once more where the money went, to seek, in vain, for a clue to the mystery of her godfather’s death.

  She knew now she had also come with another objective: she had come for guidance, her godfather’s guidance. She had come for a sane place to think about Crispin, a place to put her thoughts in order, a place permeated by the wisdom and stability that her godfather had always provided. This was the real reason she had acquiesced so easily when Crispin said he had errands to do. She needed time away from him, time to sort out the strange, amazing, feelings she was experiencing.

  She bit her lower lip as she remembered what she had done that morning, how she had told him she loved him, whispered it to him, and she wondered where the words had come from. She never thought she would say such words to anyone. It had happened without her realizing it, without passing through her mind. But she was not sorry. Indeed, she found she was rather glad. Excited even. But also a little scared.

  There could be no question of him loving her back, she knew. The Earl of Sandal was the most notorious bachelor in Europe, let alone England. And if he had returned with the express purpose of marrying a well-bred English lady, he certainly would not be considering her. Nor was she sure she would want him to. After all, marrying was something she had sworn never to do. People only married for financial gain, she reminded herself, and she wanted for nothing financially. She would rather, much rather, be the Earl of Sandal’s mistress and preserve her independence than be married to him, she told herself.

  And knew instantly that it was a lie. It was not that she wanted to marry him, exactly. What she wanted was simultaneously so much more and so much less than that. What she wanted, what she craved deep within her, was for him to love her back. The times he told her that he enjoyed being with her, those, even more than the incredible climaxes he showed her, were the high points of her life. It was as if a new world had been opened up to her, one of pleasure without shame, of desire and passion without dread, companionship without wickedness.

  She was no longer sure who Sophie Champion was, what she stood for. Everything she had ever known, everything she believed in, had been thrown into turmoil by Crispin. The axioms that had governed her behavior for so many years now rang false. Instead of feeling weakened by her feelings for Crispin, she felt stronger; instead of lessened, she felt expanded. She wanted to share all of herself with him, tell him everything, the whole truth about her life. Yet something held her back, stopping her mouth each time she began. And sitting surrounded by the comforting spines of her godfather’s library, she knew what it was. She was not sure if she could trust him.

  Or rather, if she should. She cast her eyes over Lord Grosgrain’s study, desperately searching for a sign, a hint, anything that would guide her.

  But there were no hints, no signs for her. She was completely on her own, as she had been ten years earlier before she went to live with Lord Grosgrain. He had spent the next decade preparing her, helping her grow strong, teaching her to trust herself, her instincts. No one could make this decision but her, she knew. Only she would be able to say.

  Disappointed but strangely tranquil, she decided to go. She had already been there for several hours, it was well past midnight, and who knew but that Crispin might be back. Looking trustworthy. She carefully restored Lord Grosgrain’s books to their various shelves, touching each one lovingly, and then backed out of the window. Paying especial attention not to make any noise, she slid along the windowsill and reached out for the trellis she had used to climb up. It was covered in thick clinging jasmine vines, which muffled the sounds of her footsteps and cushioned her grip. As soon as she had a good hold on the trellis, she began her descent, moving quickly lest anyone notice her against the gray granite of the building. One set of windows that had not been lit before now showed a faint light, and as she passed, Sophie leaned toward it to glance in.

  Constantia, completely nude, was facing the window, her golden hair spread across an orange cushion, her perfect little body stretched across her chaise longue. A man kneeled before her with his back to Sophie, and as Sophie watched, he moved his head from her mouth, down her breasts, until, at Constantia’s insistence, he buried his face between her legs. Constantia arched up to meet his mouth, and Sophie knew exactly how she must be feeling. Exactly. Because the man was Crispin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sophie had received her sign. She almost fell from the trellis as she watched Constantia’s eyes close and her lips part in ecstasy. Sophie forced herself to move then, forced her stiff limbs to continue the climb down, and she had just reached the bottom when Constantia’s climactic cries spilled through the window.

  There was nothing surprising about it, really, Sophie told herself. The Earl of Sandal was entitled to have as many lovers as he wanted, she reminded herself. He was known for his conquests, she advised herself. On more than one continent. It was what she should have expected, what she did expect, what she had every right to expect.

  Forgetting all about her plan to try to peep into Hen House and check on the location of her blue taffeta dress, Sophie crossed the Strand and went directly back to Sandal Hall. She knocked and was admitted by the sleepy night porter at the main door, but did not ascend the stairs to what was left of Crispin’s apartment. Instead, she continued straight through the hall, straight out, out into the night, into the main garden. She did not pause to look at the rare Dutch flowers Crispin had just planted or to admire his knot garden, but strode past them all until she stood on the water steps, looking out at the Thames.

  She peered intently at the water, trying to lose the sight of Constantia, of Crispin, in its glassy surface, but it did not work. She felt vile, and foolish. Very, very foolish. T
he thoughts she had been harboring in Lord Grosgrain’s apartment now flooded back to her, mocking her. She stripped off Don Alfonso’s doublet, stripped off his breeches, pulled off his mustache, and dove, naked, into the water.

  When Crispin got home, half an hour later, she was still there. Unlike Sophie, he had taken the stairs to his apartment, taken them two at a time in his excitement to see her, but had found it empty. She was not in the library, where a bed had been set up for them. Or in the charred bedroom. Or the hanging garden. Or the privy. Or the armoire. Or under the desk. Or behind the clock. His labors that night had piqued his desire to see her to such an extent that he was about to rouse the household to tell them that Sophie had been stolen, when he glanced out the back windows of his chambers. From there he could see out over the Sandal Hall garden, and, beyond that, the Thames.

  What he saw that night, however, was neither garden nor river. It was something supernatural, something incredible. A thousand white stars danced on the surface of the water, swirling first in one direction, then in the other. They twisted over the river in complex patterns, eddies of magical light, curling tendrils of stars radiating out from a single dark space, at their center. As Crispin watched, the luminous points converged over the dark space, and then, from their midst, a creature emerged. The stars spilled over her as she rose from the water, dancing around her, glistening on her hair, her skin. Stars twinkled on her eyelashes, on the tip of her nose, over her nipples, along her knees as she emerged inch by inch. She was perfect, too perfect to be real, her skin glowing like marble in the dwindling moonlight, her hair streaming down her back, curving around her bottom, hugging her waist. Crispin was transfixed watching her, wondering where she had come from, at the same time knowing that there was only one person, one woman, it could be.

  He descended the stairs three at a time. He did not spare a glance for his flowers, for the new watering system he had installed, did not pause to run his fingers over the fresh green growth on his hedges, or to notice the holes being dug even at that moment by devious moles. He did not think about the fact noblemen simply did not cavort with naked nymphs in public, even on their own river steps, or that The Aunts’ windows overlooked the garden. No such mundane concerns could draw his attention from the shimmering magical being at the end of the garden. Standing on the river steps, her back toward him, with droplets of water clinging to her body like jewels, she seemed to be more dream than real.

  Indeed, Crispin felt as if he were in a dream, a wonderful dream, as he slid his arms under her breasts from behind and pulled her against him. “Sophie,” he breathed into her hair. “Tesoro.”

  He had approached soundlessly, and his chest was already pressing against her back, his arms already hugging her to him, before Sophie realized what had happened. She wanted to protest and pull away, but she could not bring herself to at first, the feel of him behind her was so wonderful, so natural, and when she caught what she thought was a whiff of Constantia’s perfume on Crispin’s clothes it was too late. At least, Sophie decided, she could show that she was not a fool, that she was as sophisticated and mature as the abhorrent centipede behind her. “Did you have a pleasant evening, my lord?” she squeezed out suavely.

  “Adequate,” Crispin answered lightly, too distracted by the silky tendrils of hair tickling his nose to give it much thought. “More than adequate, actually.”

  Sophie matched his urbane lilt. “You know, you and Constantia Grosgrain make a very handsome couple.”

  “Mmmm,” Crispin replied, following one curl around and under her chin with his lips.

  “I am being serious, my lord,” Sophie explained in the most blase of voices. “You should marry her.”

  Something in her tone caught Crispin’s attention. “Marry who?”

  “Constantia,” Sophie said impatiently.

  “Marry Constantia?” This was not the turn of conversation Crispin had expected. “Have you been talking to The Aunts?”

  “No.” Sophie tried to ignore his arms around her, the heat of his body against her back as she looked out into the night. “You would be good together.”

  “Mmmmm.” Crispin went back to studying her curls, not seeing any reason at all to continue in this vein.

  But Sophie, setting a new standard for worldliness, went on. “And it would make so many people happy. Not the least of which would be you, my lord.”

  Crispin dragged himself away from the contemplation of the sweep of Sophie’s neck to seize on one of her words. “Happy. Right now what would make me happy would be to strip off my clothes, dive into the water, make love to you looking at the stars, and then fall asleep with you in my arms. I am sweaty, amorous, and exhausted.”

  Sophie stayed worldly. “I can imagine. It must have been hard work.”

  “Backbreaking,” Crispin confirmed. “My shoulders and knees are completely worn out.”

  The picture of him kneeling in front of Constantia, bending down toward her, flashed before Sophie’s eyes, and she shivered. But she could not keep herself from asking, sophisticatedly, “Why didn’t you lie down?”

  “Lie down?” Crispin was incredulous. “There was too much to do, and not much time. I wanted to get back to you.”

  “To me?” Sophie repeated hollowly. “You wanted to get back to me?”

  “Yes, to tell you all about it. I knew how excited it would make you.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Sophie said coolly. “I don’t need to hear any more than I already have.”

  Sophie’s lack of interest surprised Crispin. “But I have not gotten to the good part yet. There was a lot of resistance to overcome—”

  “It certainly did not look like it to me,” Sophie murmured under her breath, pulling her back away from his chest slightly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Anyway,” Crispin continued, “I finally managed to pick the lock and slide into the main chamber, and you will never believe what I found inside.”

  “A paradise unlike any you have ever known?” Sophie asked flatly.

  “Paradise? No, I would hardly say that. Inside it was more—”

  “It?” Sophie was outraged. “You call her ‘it’?”

  “What would you have me call it?”

  “At least use her name,” Sophie said, pulling away from him completely now but not facing him.

  “What name? I didn’t know it, or, if you prefer, she, had a name. Anyway, she was immense and ready—”

  “How can you say that? How can you talk about her that way, as if she were just some sort of gaping empty space waiting for you to fill her up?”

  “Isn’t it—” Crispin corrected himself, “Isn’t she? Isn’t that what a warehouse is, an empty space to be filled up?”

  Sophie swung around to face him for the first time. “A warehouse? You call her a warehouse? Is that all women are to you, a place to stash your, your, your merchandise?”

  “My merchandise?” Crispin repeated, his eyes wide. “What the devil are you talking about, Sophie?”

  “The same thing you are. Although I did not expect a man of the world like you, Lord Scandal, to have recourse to quite so many euphemisms.”

  “Euphemisms? What euphemisms?”

  “‘Lock.’ ‘Entrance chamber.’ ‘Warehouse,’” Sophie listed them on her fingers. “Why didn’t you just say you were making love to Constantia Grosgrain in her dressing room?”

  “I was what?”

  “I saw you. Saw you with your head between her legs. ‘Trying to break into her warehouse,’ I suppose you would say.”

  Crispin just stared at her for a moment. Then, as it all sank slowly in, he opened his mouth. And began to laugh uncontrollably.

  “My god, Sophie. My merchandise,” he spluttered to himself through his laughter. “You thought that
I—”

  “This is not funny, my lord,” Sophie insisted, struggling to maintain her worldly veneer. “Were you or were you not picking Constantia Grosgrain’s lock tonight?”

  Sophie’s phrasing elicited new peals of laughter from Crispin. “It is strange that you should ask the question that way,” he said, struggling to smother a chuckle. “Because, in a manner of speaking, I was. But not the manner you are thinking of.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sophie demanded.

  “I was picking a lock that belonged to Constantia’s late husband. Your godfather. A real lock,” Crispin hastened to explain, still laughing. “The lock on his laboratory.”

  “Was that before or after you made love to Constantia in her dressing room?” Sophie asked, disposing once and for all of the euphemisms.

  Crispin, sensing that she was really upset, suppressed his merriment. “Sophie, I did not make love to Constantia Grosgrain in her dressing room tonight.”

  “There is no need to deny it,” Sophie told him, glowering. “I saw you.”

  “You saw me? Tonight? In the dressing room? With Constantia?” Crispin rearranged the words, hoping they would make more sense. “But I was not anywhere near her dressing room tonight.”

  “Then where were you?”

  “In Saint Martin’s Fields. At the counterfeiter’s warehouse.”

  “I thought you said you were at Lord Grosgrain’s laboratory,” Sophie snapped. “Or was that just another metaphor for Constantia’s nether parts?”

  “I beg you, Sophie, to leave Constantia and her—her lock”—Crispin threatened to burst into laughter again—“to leave them out of our discussion. I went to Lord Grosgrain’s laboratory. What I found was a counterfeiter’s paradise.” Noting the disbelieving expression on her face, Crispin continued, “It was a warehouse full of coin presses fitted out with dies to make the gold pieces of a dozen kingdoms. And in sacks along the walls was over a million pounds worth of false currency, ready to be shipped out.”