by Liz Carlyle
Ten minutes later, Camille was ensconced in Lady Sharpe’s private sitting room with a cup of coffee in hand. A proper cup, too. Not the cheap, watered-down brew which Valigny had insisted be served when there were no guests in the house.
Lady Sharpe was smiling at her with a brightness which was almost certainly forced. And yet throughout their brief conversation, she had thus far looked neither angry nor displeased. The countess was a round, sweet-faced woman well past her youth, but with an even temper and, Camille thought, a measure of good sense.
“And so you were brought up in the French countryside, my dear?” the countess enquired, leaning forward to freshen her cup. “It must have been lovely.”
It had been anything but lovely, but Camille thought it impolitic to say so. “Valigny’s uncle had a small chateau in Limousin,” she answered. “He allowed mother the use of it, and of his house in Paris, too, when he had no need of it.”
“He sounds very generous,” said Lady Sharpe.
He had been generous—but like most men, he had expected something in return. “Oui, madame,” she agreed. “My mother was most grateful to him.”
Lips slightly pursed, Lady Sharpe picked up her coffee, the cup chattering on the saucer. She was nervous, Camille realized, and there was a faint strain about her eyes.
“Well, my dear, now that we are a little bit acquainted,” said the countess, “do tell me about this…this betrothal you have entered into with my cousin.”
Camille lifted her chin a notch. “You disapprove, madame, I am sure.”
Lady Sharpe’s eyes widened. “I am not sure,” she answered. “One might be almost grateful that you are willing to have him. But Rothewell has never shown even the slightest inclination toward domesticity.”
Camille managed a weak smile. “You make him sound like a—a petit chien—a small dog, non? One which will not be trained to the house.”
“Yes, like a puppy.” The countess’s eyes danced. “There is some similarity, I would agree—though Rothewell is anything but small or cute.”
A long silence fell across the room then, and an air of seriousness returned. The countess wished to have an answer to her question. Camille held her gaze unflinchingly. “Lord Rothewell will have told you that this betrothal was agreed between himself and my father, oui?”
Lady Sharpe looked away. “He said something of it, yes,” she admitted. “But you had never met him before last tonight?”
“I have met him now,” said Camille.
“And you are willing to marry him?”
“Oui, madame,” she answered. “I have given my pledge.”
Lady Sharpe’s lips thinned. “But…but why?”
“Why?” Camille echoed. “I am long past the age, madame, when a woman should be married. And here in England, my bloodlines are thought questionable at best. Rothewell has agreed to have me. Do you not think I should be grateful?”
Lady Sharpe’s brows had drawn together. “But it all sounds so…so frightfully practical.”
Camille folded her hands neatly in her lap. “I am a practical woman, madame,” she said quietly. “I need a husband. I have no interest in romance or any other such banalités.”
“Oh!” said Lady Sharpe wistfully. Then her expression brightened. “On the other hand, you should suit Rothewell very well indeed, for a less romantic man I never knew. And if you expect so little of him—why, I daresay you will never be disappointed.”
Camille managed a serene smile. “Yes, madame, a very practical solution, is it not?”
Lady Sharpe hesitated. “Nonetheless, my dear, I fear your path may not be smooth,” she finally said. “Rothewell is someone for whom I care deeply—I see the good in him, you know—but he will not be an easy person to love.”
Camille felt her eyes widen. “Indeed, madame, I do not expect to,” she said. “This is but an arrangement.”
The countess looked a little horrified. “Oh, my dear girl!” she said, her hand fluttering to her chest. “You must never enter into a marriage with someone you cannot grow to love.”
“Pardon, madame?”
Lady Sharpe leaned intently forward. “People do it all the time, I know. But if a man is not worthy of your deepest affections, then on no account should you marry him. At best, you will be dooming the both of you to a life of quiet, empty misery.”
Camille was taken aback. “But as I said, madame, I do not look for romance.”
“Oh, heavens, child.” Lady Sharpe all but rolled her eyes. “Romance and love have absolutely nothing to do with one another.”
Camille was confused. “Oui, madame. If you say so.”
The countess looked a little pained. “Have you no regard for him at all, then?”
“Regard?” Camille considered how best to put the woman at ease. “Lord Rothewell seems an honest man. That is admirable, n’est-ce pas? And I assure you, madame, that I shall be a dutiful wife so long as we live together.”
Lady Sharpe looked a little mollified and began once more to refresh their coffee.
What more could Camille say of the man? She had met him but a few hours earlier, and Rothewell had not accounted himself especially well. She could still remember his sneer as he jerked her against him. His words were still burned into her consciousness—especially since she’d tried to use them herself.
I think I should like you under my thumb, mademoiselle. In my bed. Beneath me.
Camille closed her eyes, and swallowed hard. Dear God, was she making a dreadful mistake? Was she about to unleash something she could not control? She had not forgotten his warning, or the heat of his body as he had all but pinned her to the door. The strange sensation of her stomach bottoming out.
The countess was looking at her assessingly. “Rothewell needs an heir, Mademoiselle Marchand,” she said, tilting the creamer over her cup. “You do wish for children, I hope?”
“Yes, madame,” said Camille honestly. “As soon as possible.”
Lady Sharpe set her hands on her lap. “Well, my dear, you seem a sensible woman. Now that I am relatively certain you know what you are getting yourself into, let us speak of the practicalities. I think some town bronze is in order, and then perhaps a wedding in the early spring would be—
“Non,” said Camille abruptly. “I mean—I do beg your pardon, madame—but I wish to be married at once. Lord Rothewell has agreed.”
“Has he?” Lady Sharpe looked at her a little strangely. “Well, that must be worked out between the two of you, I daresay. Let me be blunt, then, if I may? My job, as I understand it, is to—oh, dear, how must I put this—to put a little distance between you and your father?”
“Oui, madame,” said Camille. “Valigny is not thought respectable, I comprehend.”
“Oh, my dear, it isn’t quite that,” said the countess.
“Mais oui, it is precisely that,” said Camille. “I take no insult, madame, from what is so. Until three months past, I had scarcely spent more than a fortnight at a time in Valigny’s company, save for my infancy. But I wished to come to England. I thought it better to have his companionship than no one’s.”
“And you were quite right, to be sure.” Lady Sharpe gave a comforting smile and leaned over to pat Camille’s hand. She seemed so very kind.
Camille drew a deep breath. “Madame, if…if I might ask?”
“By all means, my dear.” The countess looked at her enquiringly. “What is it?”
Camille weighed her words. “Lord Rothewell has told you of my mother? Who she was?”
Lady Sharpe’s face fell with sympathy. “Yes, of course. I never met her, but I’m told she was a remarkable beauty.”
“And her…her husband? Lord Halburne? Do you know him?”
Lady Sharp slowly shook her head. “Sharpe once met him, I believe,” she mused. “But Halburne lives the life of a recluse and is almost never seen in town.”
Camille exhaled audibly. “Oui, that is what Valigny said,” she whispered. “But I was not s
ure…” Her words trailed weakly away.
“Whether to believe him?” Lady Sharpe waited for Camille’s nod, then patted her hand. “In this case, I daresay you can.”
“Bon,” murmured Camille. “I will not see Halburne, then? I will not—what is the phrase? Bump against him?”
“Bump into him,” Lady Sharpe corrected. “No, my dear. I rather doubt it.”
“Merci, madame,” Camille rasped. “Merci.”
But Lady Sharpe was looking pensive, and her mind was clearly drifting elsewhere. “I had a French governess as a girl,” she finally said. “A very well bred lady by the name of Vigneau. Her family was from St. Leonard. Was your village near there, by chance?”
“Oui, madame,” said Camille. “Not so very far. And there are many Vigneaus thereabouts.”
“Mademoiselle Vigneau was with me but briefly,” said the countess. “I was very fond of her, but alas, her family called her home, for they had arranged a brilliant marriage to a local nobleman.”
“How fortunate for her,” said Camille.
“How fortunate for us, perhaps.” Lady Sharpe was tapping her cheek again. “It should not be so great a stretch as to manufacture some vague acquaintanceship between all of us, I think. Something which would explain why you’ve come to stay with me.”
Just then, there was a sound at the door. Camille looked past Lady Sharpe’s shoulder to see a very tall, very willowy woman in a dark blue carriage dress standing in the passageway. Lady Sharpe turned around in her chair.
The lady was flushing. “Oh dear,” she said. “You have a caller. I thought to find you alone at such an hour. Forgive me.”
Lady Sharpe rose and went to the door, both hands outstretched. “My dear, you must come in,” she said. “And you are right. It is too early for a caller. But Mademoiselle Marchand, you see, is my houseguest. Do come and meet her.”
The woman did so, impatiently unfurling the ribbons of her bonnet as she came. Unless Camille missed her guess, the lady was a few months gone with child.
“I really must apologize,” she said again, lifting off the hat to reveal a somewhat severe arrangement of dark, glossy hair. “I slipped right past poor old Strothers rather than be announced. I was hoping, you see, that you might have the little one down already.”
“In a little while, perhaps,” said Lady Sharpe, urging the caller toward Camille. “Xanthia, may I introduce Mademoiselle Marchand? This is my cousin, Lady Nash.”
The lady already had her hand out, her smile widening. “You are French, are you not?” she said almost excitedly. “Of course one can see that from the cut of your gown and pelisse. You make me feel perfectly gauche—and perfectly fat.”
“You are too kind, madame,” murmured Camille.
“Now do sit down, my dear,” said Lady Sharpe, going to the sideboard for another cup.
“Well, I can stay but a moment,” said the lady, settling gingerly into the chair. “My carriage is waiting, for I’m just on my way down to Wapping.”
“Yes, I see.” Camille realized Lady Sharpe was uneasy. “And did your brother mention nothing…er, nothing of my houseguest to you?”
“Kieran?” said Lady Nash, her expression mystified. “Lord, no.”
Camille felt her heart sink. Kieran?
Dear God. This was Rothewell’s sister. Camille wished a hole might suddenly open beneath her chair and swallow her up.
But Lady Nash was still speaking, and dropping lump after lump of sugar into the coffee the countess had thrust upon her. “In any case, I’ve not seen him since Wednesday. Why? Has he made Mademoiselle Marchand’s acquaintance?”
“Well, yes,” the countess said. “And left me in an awkward position, it would seem. Kindly chastise him for it, if you please.”
“Why, I never overlook the opportunity to do so.” Lady Nash glanced back and forth between them. “Now really, ladies. The cat’s clearly got into the cream pot. Will one of you kindly drag him out again?”
“Indeed I shall,” said the countess a little lamely. “Though your brother may not thank me for spoiling his surprise. Mademoiselle Marchand, you see, has just accepted Rothewell’s proposal of marriage.”
The lady froze, one hand set protectively on her belly. “I…I beg your pardon?” she said. “What did you just…?”
“Kieran and Mademoiselle Marchand—Camille—are to be married,” she said again. “You must give her your congratulations.”
The lady looked horrified. “Is this a joke?”
Camille felt her face flame. Dear God, how had she imagined this might work? Everyone could see what she was. Everyone was going to hate her. She should never have poked the first toe into the English Channel, let alone sailed across it with her scoundrel of a father.
“Xanthia!” Lady Sharpe chided. “You should be happy for them.”
Lady Nash had lost her lively color. “You are perfectly serious, then?” she said. “Well. Well, of course, Mademoiselle Marchand, I do wish you very happy. It is just that I am…shocked. Yes, that would be the word which leaps most readily to mind.”
“Merci, madame,” said Camille. She rose stiffly from her chair. “It is an arranged marriage, if that matters. We but recently met. I shall leave you now. I am sure you have things which are better discussed in private.”
Lady Nash caught her hand as she passed. “I do beg your pardon,” she said swiftly. “I am stunned, Mademoiselle Marchand, that is all. And my manners have slipped. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Do sit back down, my dear,” Lady Sharpe urged. “We have merely surprised Xanthia, that is all. I shall rake Kieran over the coals for this, you may be sure. He has left us both in a devilish awkward position.”
Camille turned and made a faint curtsy to Lady Sharpe. “Thank you, madame, for your kindness and your hospitality,” she said coolly. “I should like to return to my room now.”
She felt the heat of their gazes on her back as she hastened across the room. Once she’d reached the corridor, she closed the door behind her and fleetingly fell against it, her knees shaking too much at that moment to manage the steps. But it did not matter. One could have heard Lady Nash’s ensuing shriek of horror halfway up the staircase.
Lady Nash hated her. And everyone else would, too.
But somehow, Camille came away from the door, blinked back her tears, and straightened her spine. There was no point in panicking, or feeling sorry for herself, was there? This was the price she must pay for her parents’ iniquities. Even the Bible said so.
She could not change who she was, nor make people like Lady Nash approve of her. In any case, she had lived through worse. She must soldier through it, and hope Lord Rothewell kept his word. He did not look like a reliable sort of man—but then, did such a creature exist? Rothewell, she supposed, was as good a bet as any.
Trammel was in the foyer having the chandelier winched down for dusting when Xanthia burst into the house in Berkeley Square. She had not bothered to knock. Though she was married now, this was still her home so far as she was concerned.
“Good morning, Miss Zee,” said Trammel over one shoulder. “Stop! Stop! That’s far enough.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Xanthia shrilly. Was everyone topsy-turvy today? “Might I remind you, Trammel, my name is still on the deed to this house?”
The butler lifted his gaze from the mass of sparkling crystal, then his visage cleared. “Oh, no, not you, Miss Zee. It’s the chande—” Here, the crystal prisms gave an ominous shudder—“I said stop, blast you!” Trammel was clearly shouting up the stairs now. “Stop, and tie it down now!”
The tinkling of glass halted at once. He came away from the staircase and looked at her consolingly. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, throwing his coffee-colored hands in the air. “Everything is just all helter-skelter today.”
“You don’t say,” muttered Xanthia, surveying the array of crystal that dangled before her eyes. “Lud, that’s a dusty fright, isn’t it? But why
are you bringing the chandelier down? We never light it. We never even look up at it.”
At that, the butler threw up his hands again. “One of the master’s notions, ma’am.”
“In his cups again, is he?” Xanthia set one hand against the small of her back, which was aching from her enraged march across Mayfair. “And making unreasonable demands? Never mind, Trammel. I’ve come to have a word with him.”
“Actually, my lady, I think he might have been more or less sober,” said Trammel, leaning nearer. “Or was when he gave the orders about the house.”
“What orders, exactly?” asked Xanthia suspiciously.
Trammel cast his doleful gaze heavenward. “We’re to clean it ‘from top to bottom, inside and out,’” he replied. “Carpets up, draperies down, every piece of plate polished, and even the attics to be aired out—by the end of the week, no less! And if we miss so much as a dusty corner, he’s going to send us all to the devil.”
“And you believed him?” asked Xanthia.
“Oh, no, Miss Zee,” the butler assured her. “I have known the master for too long. But some of the new housemaids did believe him. He threw a book at Mrs. Gardener last week when she went in to dust the library. Passed out on the red chaise, he was. And how, pray, was she to see him back there?”
“How indeed.” Xanthia’s hands balled into fists. If she had to hire her brother yet another housekeeper, he would be going to the devil. “Where is he?”
Trammel exhaled with relief. “In his study, ma’am,” he said. “But do have a care, please. Obelienne says his mood is very strange today.”
“Oh, I’ll just bet it is,” she said, already halfway down the passageway.
Miss Obelienne was their cook, and had been for nearly ten years. She and Kieran were fortunate that Trammel and Miss Obelienne had agreed to come from Barbados to London with them. They seemed to be the only servants who were willing to put up with her brother. The others had been leaving like lemmings since Xanthia’s marriage a few months earlier.
Despite her frustration, Xanthia did not fail to notice the familiar scents which assailed her nostrils as she moved through the shadowy depths of the house—the scent of well-polished cedarwood and warm spices and something uniquely Bajan which she could not name. These were the scents of their childhood, hers and Kieran’s. They had carried them from the West Indies to England with them, and even now, they brought back memories.
