The Crystal Heart

The Crystal Heart

Mary Kruger

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Mary Kruger

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover design copyright 2011 by Princess Pages.

In memory of my mother, Madelyn Sweeney Kruger.

Chapter One

The four young men gathered around the fire in the Cocoa Tree in London that snowy evening had long ago passed the point of inebriation. They were beyond drinking, beyond gambling, beyond doing much of anything. Certainly they were beyond attending any of the various balls and routs being held during this brief Christmas season, for it was nearer to dawn than midnight. They were, quite simply, sated with life in the social world of the ton, and yet none had the energy to bestir himself to do anything else.

John Charles Winston, the Viscount Kirkwood, was bored. It was a failing he’d recognized in himself before, though he doubted anyone else would consider it such. After all, ennui was fashionable. He, however, did not like it one bit.

Lord knew why he should be bored, he thought, staring into the embers of the dying fire, late at night in dark, cold January. He had everything he could want, money, title, position. He was well-liked and sought-after. And hadn’t he just spent an agreeable evening roistering with his friends? He cast a quick look around the fireside at them, and his mouth quirked with amusement. Danbury was sunk so low in his chair that he was nearly prone; the young Earl of Monkford, recently come into his title, leaned his head on his hand; and Edward Radcliffe occasionally made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snore. No wonder. After the evening they had had and the wine they had consumed, it was a wonder any of them were still alive.

John sat upright, his elbows resting on his knees and a lock of hair falling over his forehead. He was the most foxed of all, having disposed of several bottles of the finest burgundy without help, and yet his mind worked with a clarity rare even for him. Not for him, the gift of drowning one’s sorrows in drink. All alcohol seemed to do for him was make him see them more clearly. What he saw now was his life stretching ahead of him, very much like this, days spent in idle entertainment, nights spent wenching, gambling, and drinking much too much. Eventually, of course, his father would pass on, and then he would be the Marquess of Ware. Things would change then. He’d have to do everything his father wanted him to do now: manage his estates, choose a suitable bride, set up his nursery. The thought was so repugnant that he snorted.

Danbury raised his head. What? he said, staring at John blearily.

I’m bored.

Can’t be. Danbury let his head fall back. With us for company, old man?

John grinned. Such as it is.

It’s the wine. He yawned widely. It will pass.

I’m not so sure. Rising, John stretched, and went to stand by the mantle, staring down into the flames. Don’t you ever get tired of it, Evan? We see the same people day after day, go to the same places night after night.

Heard of a new gaming hell, over in Piccadilly—

John’s hand shot out in a gesture of disdain. It’s just more of the same. One gaming hell is much like another.

Huh. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling us one woman is much like another. John shrugged, and Danbury stared at him, his gaze sharper now. You don’t mean that. Lud, you do! He sat up straight, shaking his head to clear it. You are in bad case, my friend. Monkford.

He reached over and pulled at Monkford’s arm. Suddenly deprived of its support, Monkford’s head jerked up, and he glared at Danbury with astonishment. I say. Can’t a man sleep in peace?

Not now. Radcliffe. Danbury gave Mr. Radcliffe similarly rough treatment, until he, too, roused. Wake up. Kirkwood needs us.

Lord help me, John said, but he was smiling. What kind of advice are you preparing to give me, Evan?

Needs us? What? Radcliffe sputtered, his mouth hanging open and his eyes blank. John don’t need anybody.

Kirkwood has just informed me that he is bored.

At this pronouncement, three pairs of eyes turned to John. Well, I am, he said, mildly.

How can you be? Danbury sat forward, wide awake now. I know town is thin of company this time of year, but that’s all to the good, you ask me. All the mamas are safe in the country with their marriageable daughters. He shuddered. Won’t catch me in parson’s mousetrap.

Lud, no, Monkford agreed, fervently. But there’s plenty of the other sort around. Saw the way you looked at that opera dancer at the ballet this evening, Kirkwood. Thinking of setting her up as your mistress?

John’s smile was faint. Perhaps.

Well, if you don’t, I will. Pretty little thing. And willing, I’ll wager.

Aren’t they all? John reached for the one remaining bottle of burgundy, upended it, and was rewarded by only a few drops splashing into his glass. With a shrug, he tossed them down. That’s the problem.

I don’t understand any of this, Radcliffe said, plaintively. Why is John bored? Why isn’t there any wine left?

We drank it, you fool. Danbury remained watching John. As to why he’s bored, don’t see why he should be. Capital mill at Gentleman Jackson’s today. Handy with your fives, John. The Gentleman himself said you were made for the ring.

And I’ve the bruises to show for it, Monkford said, gingerly touching his chin. Danbury’s right. Plenty to do. Damned cold out, but there’s enough to do within doors. Gaming, don’t you know. You were prodigious lucky tonight, curse your eyes. He sank back into his chair, his face gloomy. Probably the opera dancer will favor you, too. That’ll make it three times in one day I’ve lost to you.

You can have her, John said, and the others stared at him. I mean it.

Lud! There really is something wrong with you, isn’t there?

I’m bored. John left the fireplace and began to prowl the room. Don’t you ever think, sometimes, that there has to be more than this?

What more can we ask? Danbury said. We’ve got everything we need, and then some.

I know. Lord, I know, and I’m not complaining. But it doesn’t seem enough, somehow. He stared down into the fire again. Sometimes I think I should do as my father asks and learn how to manage the estates.

Danbury hooted with laughter. You? Actually working? You wouldn’t last a week.

I think I would.

Gammon. You’d be back in town so fast your head would spin. This is where you belong, old man. Not holed up in the country, grubbing in the dirt.

Care to wager on that?

On what? On your going home?

No. On my working. Say for, six months.

Danbury stared at him. You’re serious.

I am.

Then damned if I won’t take you on. My new phaeton against your team of grays.

I’ll take a piece of that. Monkford sat up. I’ll wager the opera dancer.

You can’t wager a person, Mr. Radcliffe protested. It ain’t done.

What would you wager? Your poetry? Monkford jeered.

Mr. Radcliffe’s face got very red. My poetry’s dashed good! Everyone says so. No, I’ll wager—well, dash it, I don’t know what, but I’m in on this, too!

Accepted, John said, and the four young men grinned at each other. Gaming was one thing; a wager of this sort was something else altogether. Call for the betting book, and we’ll write it down proper.

You’ll be back in town within a fortnight, Danbury predicted, as the porter came in, bearing the club’s betting book.

We shall see. John inscribed his name and the terms of the wager, and the others followed suit. There. Done. He grinned. Shake hands with me, gentlemen. I’m off on an adventure.

Or folly. I’ve always coveted those grays, Danbury said, but he held out his hand. Best of luck to you, John.

I don’t expect I’ll need it. He snapped his fingers at the porter, who came up with his greatcoat and hat. I’m for bed. If I’m to find a position, I’ll have to start immediately. Good night, gentlemen. Sketching a brief bow, John turned, and left the room.

The three remaining men looked at each other. Easiest wager I’ve ever made, Danbury said. He won’t last a week.

Care to wager on that? Monkford said.

Capital idea. Porter! he bellowed. The betting book, if you will. And more wine. He grinned. This is capital.

One week later, John would not have agreed with that assessment. As he alighted from the public stage before a coaching inn in Dorset, of all places, he ruminated again on the folly that had brought him to such a pass. What had possessed him to make such a wager? To be shut up in the wilds of the country for six months—six months!—working for his keep, surpassed all bounds. He was a viscount, for God’s sake. Viscounts did not ride on public stages, rubbing elbows with farmers and tradesmen and who knew what other manner of people. No. Viscounts traveled in well-sprung private carriages, upholstered in leather and velvet, and did not have to cater to the whims and tyrannies of the coachman. But damned if he’d give in, now, at the beginning of the wager. He wouldn’t let Danbury have the satisfaction.

The stage rumbled away in a cloud of dust. Frowning, John brushed off his greatcoat, picked up his valise, and strode into the inn. Impatiently he pounded on the counter, and the innkeeper, a thin, bent man, came out from the taproom, wiping his hands on a dirty apron. A private parlor, my good man. And luncheon. Dashed cold out there.

The innkeeper continued wiping his hands, all the time studying John. At least, John thought he was. One of the man’s eyes had a cast in it, so that it was hard to guess exactly where he was looking. And who might you be?

I am Kirk—er, Mr. Winston. Just in time he remembered one of the terms of the wager. He was to secure his position on his own, with no help from either his title or his connections. Nor was he to reveal to anyone during the six months who he was. Damned inconvenient.

Winston, eh? Him that’s to work up at the big house?

Yes. I am waiting, man. Your best private parlor, if you please.

The man cackled. "Hee, hee. Hear that? Best private parlor, he says. You