The moment was too intense, too full of joy and sadness, hope and futility, to be translated into any commonplace verbiage. Then, as she fiddled with the restless beast’s dark hidebound reins, she believed her ears were deceiving her. The delicious, masculine lips were definitely moving. She must be hearing him aright!
“Daniel, may I present to you my affianced bride?” Camden’s words were cool and smooth. He hoped the appellation would at once save the lady’s blushes and spare him the necessity of uttering her name.
In the event, it did both. Mr. Pelliat was too stunned at the revelation to inquire any further.
Melinda, it must be said, did not even think that the stranger was not possessed of her name or ancestry. She merely blinked in stunned disbelief. The earl grinned at her reaction. He would have to, he could see, kiss her adorable little lips shut again.
Then the world, for both of them, was shattered.
“Your lordship, this cannot be! You are aware—that is, I have explained—that is. . . . My lord, there is no getting around it. I have checked and double-checked. Ethically speaking, your lordship, you are already betrothed.”
Miss Melinda St. Jardine felt ready, this time, to swoon in earnest. She teetered a little in the saddle, feeling unaccountably foolish and more than a little humiliated.
When the magnificent man she had unthinkingly flung her heart to did not deny the charge, she knew it to be true.
A quick look into his sardonic brown eyes confirmed the fact. Obviously, he had a short memory. She wondered what rosy beauty could proudly count him as hers. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was not her. He had trifled with her, aroused strange passions in her, and now she, at least, would pay the price. She remembered her own arranged betrothal and straightened up with pride.
If she could not have her heart’s desire, then at least she would fulfill the terms of her grandfather’s will. If it hurt the insufferable man at least a pinprick, it would be worth it. Fury overtook softer reason. She steeled her heart. The marquis would have been proud of her. She owed him that much, at least.
No more than a moment had elapsed, but the moment was sufficient. She straightened herself up and announced, in ringing tones that she, too, was similarly circumstanced. With a brief crack of the whip and a curt nod of the head to Pelliat, she galloped across the verdant green grass farther than even the earl’s keen eyes could discern. He would have been surprised to learn that keener eyes than his followed the galloping figure long after he had turned in polite but unanimated discussion with the lawyer. Venus, it should be noted, did not blink once.
“Beg pardon?” Vivid eyes blazed in disbelief. The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. “Madam, it is monstrous but I have it on the best authority!”
“And what authority may that be, pray?” Melinda was always at her haughtiest when troubled.
“I was sent the communication through his lordship’s own man at law. He is, I assure you, a most eminent colleague. I cannot think that he has not outlined the implications to his lordship.”
The elegant grandfather clock chimed the hour, but Melinda hardly heard it. She was regarding her man of law with interest.
“Is he aware of the settlements?”
“I believe he is, Miss St. Jardine.”
“Then the man has whistled away a fortune.” Her tone was disbelieving.
“In truth he has, but I believe I may account for that, ma’am.”
“How so?”
“Lord Santana is one of the wealthiest men in all England, Miss St. Jardine. He can afford to be . . .” The lawyer cleared his throat awkwardly. He had been about to make a most miserable blunder.
Miss St. Jardine, astute beyond her years, understood at once.
“Choosy, you mean?”
The man opened his mouth to think of some wild explanation, then gave it up as hopeless. He nodded.
Melinda stared at him thoughtfully. “May I see the letter?”
Mr. Pendleton shrugged. If the cursedly abrupt missive would serve to convince her, so be it.
Melinda trembled as she read the note. He was a beast, this Camden! To write so scathingly of someone he had never met, to impute the worst of motives to someone he knew nothing of! When it was he who had played for her, he who had won her!
“Thank you, Mr. Pendleton. I believe you have done all you can on my behalf. I appreciate your interest in this matter, but shall now proceed as I feel fit.”
The old man nodded in agreement. Better the lass make other plans for herself than throwing her cap at windmills. My lord, as everyone knew, was not for sale.
SIX
“I refuse to budge, Jane, until I am bathed in essences of rose oil and lavender.”
“And so you shall be, Miss Melinda, so you shall be! You will be wanting to make your curtsy to the new marquis and his bride with every advantage on your side. Mind you, you might just as well bathe in pig swill, for even then you shall be at an advantage!”
“What an unkind thing to say, Jane!” Melinda, however, could not suppress a small chuckle at this image, despite her own woes.
“Well it be true, ma‘am, and you know I don’t hold for roundaboutation! Their lord- and ladyships arrived last night they did and it was not a sovereign dished out to anyone it was! There was Peggy drivin’ ‘erself ’alf balmy gettin’ together a cold collation of Westphalian ham, roast fowl, a seasoned lamb, and a decoction of truffles and new peas, and all scoffed down it was without so much as a common thankee! My lord commented on the burgundy in unfavourable terms, and beggin’ yer pardon, ma‘am, you know it was only the best for yer grandfather and Cunningham not one to water down the spirits, like, so what the new lord can have agin it I cannot be sayin’ and that be fact!”
“Perhaps he is accustomed to the wines of court. He has stopped a long while in Paris, I hear.”
“Very likely! Poor Mrs. Darren is in a fair flutter because she has it of Smithers that my lord intends installing some Frenchified cook in her place!” Jane’s bosom heaved in indignation. “Fine thing it be when the Marquis of Fotheringham becomes frogified. I dessay his lor‘ship—God rest ’is soul—will turn in ‘is grave! Lord Peter was always a wastrel and a ne’er-do-well. Better thing for all of us if Lord ’Enry—your dad—was born the first.”
“If he had, like as not he would not have been permitted to marry my mother, Jane! A marquis and a gypsy woman? I think not. As it was, the wedding was a nine day’s wonder. Have done bemoaning the past. One cannot cry over spilt milk, Jane, and at least I have the advantage of a fortune!”
“Be careful, ma’am! I don’t believe Lord Peter will let you keep it without a fight.”
“He has all that was entailed to him and no choice besides. My grandfather was most specific.”
“Which is why he entrusted you to Lord Santana’s care. No need to glare at me, ma’am. The truth be the truth and that is all there is to it. It is as plain as a pikestaff the marquis expected some havey-cavey goings-on. As a woman alone you are easier game than as the Countess of Camden. Makes sense like.”
“And what if the earl has some other chattel in mind for his countess?” Melinda tried to keep the bitterness from her voice, but found the effort taxing.
“Then he is bird witted and undeserving of you! Come, come, Miss Melinda! I have known you only a year but a right pleasure it has been! You have character, me love—you are not the sort to let a little setback get the worst of yer! If me lord wanted you leg shackled to Camden, no doubt ‘e was in the rights of it! The man ain’t married—see if you can nabble ’im then!”
“Nabble? Nabble? A little distasteful, Jane!” Melinda chewed her lip. Her options were closing in on her. It was time to set aside gypsy ways—ancient nomadic beliefs, spiritual guidance, visions of destiny. The only man she had ever dreamed of was not to be hers.
Well, she would make the man she was fated for take his due. She had been lost in a game of cards—well, the player would collect his
earnings. That was the unwritten law in such matters of honour, and at all costs, since her heart was already lost, she would do as Fotheringham bade. Passion for peace. Not an equal swap, perhaps, but it was the duty her birth demanded. Laura Rose demanded it, too.
Besides, the sooner she could escape Lord Peter battening on her for finances the better. Let him have Dewhurst Manor. She would be glad to be quit of it under a new master.
But how to change the earl’s mind? If he were presented to her in society he would no doubt avoid her like the plague. She set aside the thought that even if he were scrupulously polite, she would not be able to resist giving him the crushing set down his curt note deserved.
She hardly noticed Jane withdraw from her chamber, leaving a freshly pressed sprig muslin of cornflower blue draped invitingly over the sofa. Her thoughts were elsewhere entirely. By the time she’d collected herself enough to don the gown, darkness had crept in stealthily and the long wax candles needed lighting. In the distance she heard the dinner gong sounding. The marquis and marchioness were no doubt taking up their places.
Miss St. Jardine’s head spun with sudden, intoxicating excitement. It was not the rose oil and the lavender that was causing this heady sensation—nor was it the prospect of meeting with her prosy, sadly proper relatives in law. Her pulses were racing because the gypsy in her was rising to the fore.
She had a plan and it would either be her making or her total undoing. The redoubtable Miss St. Jardine would be casting off her silks for a while. Like a chameleon, she was going to slip deliciously into her alter ego, transforming herself from languid mistress to lowly maidservant. The gamble, she knew, was not without risk.
The third Earl of Camden rather uncharacteristically dropped the sauce bowl. Though a series of minions instantly rectified the matter, the reason for his folly hardly moved. Instead, she clutched convulsively at the dish she was cleaning and stared at the nobleman as if transfixed.
“It is you!” Santana said the words matter-of-factly, but it seemed to him that his entire being was shaken to the core. The serving maid turned inquiring eyes at him. They were blank and unrecognising.
Mistress Farrow laid down the tureen of soup she was preparing for the lackey’s disposal upstairs. The shock of seeing his lordship grace his own kitchens was quite oversetting, particularly to one slightly past her prime. She cast a quick look at the new scullery hand and noticed that the excellent Sevres china was perilously close to being crushed against her ribs. The earl was staring at the hired help strangely. Such goings-on in her kitchen!
“Is there ought amiss my lord? The girl came with excellent fine references but if you are not satisfied. . .”
A slow smile crossed Guy Santana’s face. He could not make head or tail of what was happening, but he was perfectly certain upon one point. He was satisfied. Well satisfied.
“Not at all, Mistress Farrow. I trust your judgment entirely. And what did you say the girl’s name was?”
“Dwight, my lord.”
“Dwight? Unusual name, that. Set that dish down, Dwight. I do believe it is an heirloom and I shall be very sorry to see it cracked.”
The girl cast luminous, disbelieving eyes at his familiar and—yes, she admitted it to herself—beloved features. How could this be? What impossible quirk of fate caused this man of all others to be standing in the Earl of Camden’s kitchens for all the world as though he owned them?
“I do own them.”
The words were quietly sardonic and Melinda felt her face flushing at the impertinent, quizzical manner he had stripped bare her thoughts. That he revealed them to her was ominous. Was he challenging her? She thought so, for his eyes were twinkling lightheartedly and there was an air of triumph about him that made her certain he understood her heart, if not her motives.
She had better have a care, for this one was blessed with the gypsy sight, gentleman or no. And how did he come to cross her path in this ridiculous manner? The very man she had firmly forsworn to appear here in the place she least expected it. She shivered.
Was destiny a more unfathomable tie than she had given it credit for? Did it refuse to be cheated so strongly that the passionate man of her dreams refused to be extinguished by reason and calculated logic?
The Marquis of Fotheringham—her noble grandfather—had wished her to marry my Lord Santana. Though the notion stuck in her gullet, she’d determined to do just that. A sneak preview through the kitchens seemed like an excellent thing, for a man’s reputation was often said to hinge more reliably upon what his servants thought than, indeed, upon what all of glittering society thought.
And tonight of all nights, she was to have had her first glimpse of the man who was her intended. Whether she would hold him to his obligation or slip quietly out through the servant’s exit was as yet a matter of ignorance. She wanted to bide her time, be canny in her judgments, for though she raged at the brevity and insolence of the note he’d penned to her man of law, he was nevertheless held in exceptionally high regard by all who worked for him.
A strange enigma. Melinda licked her lips. She could be reconciled to her fate if the man was kind and generous and not too stuffy. She thought of his famed cat and her lips quirked. They would have something in common then, if ever they did finally meet!
“Dwight, be so good as to carry up my tea.”
“Me, milor’?” Melinda slipped into her servant’s role with ease. She had ever had the gift of languages, so Santana’s suspicions were no more confirmed by her lowly accents than by her ugly scullery mobcap. He vowed to get rid of it at the first opportunity, for it was disastrous upon her head and entirely covered the glorious mane of wild jet hair he knew to lie beneath.
Her unedifying accents neither further enlightened him, nor did they deceive him. The shape of her eyes were too distinctive, too intoxicatingly beautiful to be mistaken. Besides, his masculine impulses were not generally aroused by his house staff. In matters of importance, his instincts were unerring. This, he knew with certainty, was a matter of singular importance.
One of his lazy smiles played across the length of his lips. The minx was playing May games with his heart. Well, it was she who had entered his domain. He might just as well amuse himself, teach her a lesson, and play a few games of his own. That she would be his bride, in the end, was not in contention. He had not burned for her seemingly forever to have his will thwarted now. Whatever she was—hoyden, angel, lady, or gypsy queen—she had a mark about her that proclaimed her his.
A pox on her origins! She would be the next Countess of Camden or there would be no other. She was gaping at him now, her jaw wide open, stupid incredulity in her eyes. He hid a grin, for the situation was more than faintly amusing, especially as Mistress Farrow was regarding him as a man not quite in full possession of his faculties.
“The footmen, my lord . . .”
“What of them?”
“They will take up the tray! I daresay Dwight has never seen the inside of a home as splendid as Camden Castle, my lord! She has no livery. . . .”
“Then procure her some!” My lord’s tone was unusually autocratic.
Mistress Farrow blinked in bemusement, then nodded doubtfully. “I daresay I could find a few lengths of cambric. . . .”
“Velvet, Mistress Farrow! Black velvet with buttons of silver and laces of emerald green. She shall match Venus, for the shape of her eyes are exactly those of the cat. Had not you noticed?”
Melinda froze in fascinated horror as she was stared at appraisingly by the Camden staff. From the under butler to the lowliest of scrubbing hands, the scrutiny was intense and strangely devoid of amusement. If my lord was mad, his entire staff appeared to be equally so. No one so much as snickered at his lordship’s strange appraisal.
Mistress Farrow, indeed, was relieved to have the resemblance so pointed out. It quite explained, in her mind, his lordship’s unusual interest in the third scullery maid. She was too respectable to have anything havey-cavey going on under
her roof, but one of my lord’s sudden fancies—that was different!
If the girl was going to be used as a mascot like Venus, she only hoped she could stand the creature. Heaven knew, it had a villainous reputation for scratching and hissing. She breathed a sudden sigh. At least she wasn’t being called upon to look after the beast anymore. Whilst it might rankle that the animal ate far too many of her feather-light pastries of salmon and coddled turbot, not to mention its predilection for the finest of her turtle soups, the housekeeper truly bore it no malice.
In truth, she was rather proud of Venus, for his lordship’s reputation had increased enormously with its quirky introduction to society. The feline was inimitable, too, for when Colonel Marbridge had appeared with a poodle upon his lap, he had been laughed out of Lady Jennings’s drawing room. A similar fate had occurred to Lady Chichester’s canary and Lord Rothbart’s sinister fruit-eating bat. That had been met with shock and active distaste, with the result that the poor man’s invitations to anything other than common squeezes had declined miserably.
And now, by the gleam in her master’s eye, Mistress Farrow could only imagine he was up to one of his tricks again. Well, then, let him have the scullery maid. Heaven knew, there was plenty more lining up at the servant’s entrance looking for work.
“In truth, she does have cat’s eyes, you lor’ship, though the vivid colour is nothing, I’m afeared, like our little Venus’s ! Still, if it be velvets you be after, I reckon we can rustle up a swatch or two. Your dear mama—”
“Mistress Farrow, I beg you, leave my dear mama out of this!” The earl sighed in resignation. His housekeeper was one of those old retainers far too fond of quoting his dear departed parents. Still, they adored him, so there was not much he could do beyond giving them the odd smiling set down when their prattling became tiresome. He could feel the girl’s interested eyes upon him and cursed. The last thing he wished to appear to her was a little lad still in leading strings!
The Black Cat Page 6
