Never Romance a Rake

by Liz Carlyle

  “Utilitarian?” Rothewell winced. “I like to think of it as practical. Simple elegance, and all that rot.”

  “What a canard!” Mr. Kemble rolled his eyes. “You don’t think of it at all—nor did your sister. Oh, I adore her, to be sure. But Lady Nash thinks taste is something one needs only at dinner.”

  “Pardon,” said Camille uncertainly, “but how shall Mr. Kemble help us?”

  “He keeps a sort of museum or—or a curiosity shop—in the Strand,” said her husband. “The place is filled to bursting with…things.”

  “Ambience, dear girl,” Kemble interjected. “I sell ambience and old money polish to those who do not have it—or those who simply want more of it.”

  “Vraiment?” Camille laughed lightly. “Pray tell me—how is this ambience delivered? In a bandbox? A portmanteau? Or can it be bottled?”

  Mr. Kemble grinned. “Why, I can deliver by the vanload, when necessary,” he said. “I am something of a connoisseur, you see, of all things elegant—and one of extraordinary discernment, if I do say so myself.”

  He was entirely serious. “Alors, you have been inside the house at Berkeley Square?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the dapper gentleman. “I worked with Lady Nash for a time. And the house—” Here, he paused to shudder, “—why, it’s rather like a mixture of day-old porridge and river sludge, n’est-ce pas? All bland and cold and brownish?”

  Camille laughed at the apt if rather odd analogy. “What sorts of things do you suggest?”

  Mr. Kemble laid a finger beside his cheek. “Well, let me see,” he murmured. “I just acquired a lovely silver epergne which would make for a magnificent centerpiece in that dreary dining room. And a gorgeous pair of Chinese foo dogs made of absolutely flawless jade, mounted on mahogany. Three full sets of medieval armor—and one set is a rare Milanese Missaglia, I am quite certain.”

  Camille smiled at him. “Non, not the armor, I think. But I should love to see all of it.”

  “I shall set aside the epergne.” Mr. Kemble smiled and reached inside his coat. “Why do you not call upon me next week, Lady Rothewell?” He extracted a fine silver case, and withdrew his card. Camille looked at it.

  Mr. George Jacob Kemble

  Purveyor of Elegant Oddities and Fine Folderol

  Number 8 Strand

  “And come alone, if you please,” Mr. Kemble added, cutting a glance at her husband.

  “Yes, please,” said Rothewell. “As in please spare me. Just send me the bills. They will be far less painful.”

  “A capital notion,” said Mr. Kemble, springing to his feet. “I’ll make tea, and we’ll have a lovely little chat.”

  By the time Mr. Kemble had bowed himself back down to the path, Camille noticed that the wind was growing cooler. It had been a strange day indeed.

  “We should go, oui?” she murmured, watching as the wind lifted Rothewell’s dark hair, making it look somehow softer. “But I daresay we must eat something first?”

  Rothewell glanced down at the food. “Aye, Obelienne went to a good deal of trouble,” he muttered, picking up the drumstick again. He had little more to say after that, but Camille kept up a light, pleasant chatter, and his black mood seemed to relent. He went on to eat a bit of the cake, a wedge of cheese, and an apple.

  Camille accounted it a small success, and repacked the satchel, feeling perhaps a little more hopeful about the world in general. The feeling, regrettably, was to be short-lived.

  When the food was in place and Camille safely on the seat beside him, Rothewell put on his greatcoat and drove his gig back through the trees and onto the carriage road which circled toward Park Lane. He glanced at Camille, who sat beside him, her spine perfectly straight, her bearing as regal as that of even the most highborn duchess.

  He was sorry Valigny was her father, yes, but for his part, he didn’t give a damn about the circumstances of her birth. He should have been proud to drive with her through the park—and he was—but his joy was tainted by the knowledge that he had played her a damned dirty trick in marrying her. And she was beginning to suspect it, too.

  Camille had said little of substance since Kem’s departure, but Rothewell feared that had more to do with the discussion Kem’s arrival had cut short. Good God, he was tired. He felt physically eviscerated, and this time the pain was caused by more than his malevolent innards.

  Perhaps it was a just punishment. He was a man in his prime, with a beautiful, deeply desirable bride by his side, a sister who loved him, at least two good friends, and more money than any one man had a right to. And yet the whole of it—all the satisfaction and joy his charmed life should have brought him—was tainted by regret. Regret for the past, and regret for what was to come.

  He was ashamed. Always, he had always been ashamed. He wore his grief and guilt like a shroud, cloaking out life’s joy, and leaving only the hatred, which had lived inside him so long it had boiled down in the pit of his belly until it was like a black, burning cancer—perhaps quite literally. And now he had shared that shame—at least a part of it—with the last person he had wished ever to learn about it—and to what end? To let it eat at someone else? To make her think less of him than she already did?

  Already he held her at a distance. She was right about that. Was he now determined to drive her completely away by telling her the truth of what he was? He had committed adultery with his brother’s wife. And then his guilt and his intemperance had sent them both to their deaths.

  Annemarie had played him for a fool after her marriage, but he had let her. Perhaps there had been a little part of him that had done it out of spite. He had always loved Luke, but toward the end, he had hated him, too. Hated him for taking the thing he had most wanted—the woman he had burned for, but never really loved. And that was the most unforgivable part of all.

  All of these morose thoughts conspired to convince Rothewell that his afternoon could not get much more unsettling. Then he turned the curve to head down to Grosvenor Gate, and saw a familiar red-wheeled phaeton spinning merrily up the hill toward them. The driver wore a driving cape lined in red silk, and a black hat set at an especially rakish—and recognizable—angle.

  Damn it to hell.

  It was Valigny, all right—and this time he was not alone. Rothewell glanced over at Camille. Her hand was clutching the side of the gig, her mouth a thin, tight line.

  “Well met, my Lord Rothewell!” Valigny was grinning ear to ear as he drew alongside them. “And mon chou! Never has a bride looked lovelier. I believe you have already met my new friend?”

  Rothewell saw Camille stiffen her spine and lift her chin. Good. She was not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her squirm.

  “Bonjour, Papa,” she said lightly. “Oui, I have had the pleasure of meeting Madame Ambrose.”

  “Christine,” Rothewell acknowledged tightly. “Valigny.”

  Valigny leaned conspiratorially nearer. “Everyone in town seemed to be staring at Mrs. Ambrose and me today, Rothewell!” he said from the higher phaeton. “I wonder why? Perhaps they will say we have made a curious trade, you and I, eh? My daughter for your mistress?”

  Christine tossed her blond curls insouciantly. “Let them talk if they wish,” she said, curling her hand through Valigny’s arm. “I never shy from gossip—and certainly not now.”

  Rothewell’s horse jerked forward impatiently. He reined him in and leaned toward the other carriage. “Be honest, Christine,” he said quietly. “It is your intent to make people talk. Why else would you be with him?”

  “Alors, my friend, you give no credit to my beauty and charm?” said Valigny, laughing.

  But Christine paid Valigny no heed. Her lip curled with disdain as she looked down on them. She was up to something. A sudden chill ran down Rothewell’s spine.

  “Valigny has told me the most amazing story, Rothewell!” Christine gave a light, tinkling laugh. “My God! One does wonder what society will say when they hear how you met your wife.”

/>   The chill turned to a hard, cold lump in his heart. “You would not dare.”

  Her brittle smile faded to a sneer. “You think not?”

  Rothewell leaned over the edge of the phaeton. His voice when he spoke was barely audible. “Madam, I know not,” he said very quietly. “Do not try me in this regard.”

  “What balderdash!” Christine tossed her curls again, but Rothewell saw fear flicker in her eyes. “You have no power over me.”

  Rothewell dropped his voice even further. “One word of this, Christine, and I shall see you ruined, so help me God,” he said. “And I’ll have no shortage of witnesses—myself included—who can attest to your sorts of debauchery. And then we shall see which lurid tale the ton finds more titillating.”

  “Mon Dieu, Rothewell!” Valigny’s grin widened. “A gentleman does not kiss and tell.”

  Christine’s eyes blazed. “Oh, if it’s gossip you fear, Rothewell, then I suggest your blushing bride leave the park, if not London altogether.”

  “Perhaps you might flee to the south of France?” Valigny suggested lightly. “I have always found it most agreeable in the winter.”

  But Rothewell was still eyeing his former mistress. “My wife and I are going nowhere, Christine,” he said, taking up his reins. “Be damned to you.”

  Christine glanced down dismissively. “You might wish to reconsider, for your wife’s sake,” she returned. “Lord Halburne has returned to Town unexpectedly—for the rest of the year, and into the season, they say. And if I am not very much mistaken, that is he just there—by the Serpentine, do you see?—the gentleman with a newspaper under his arm?”

  Camille’s head jerked toward the water, her face a mask of horror.

  “Oui, oui, that is Halburne, to be sure!” Valigny set his fingertips to his chest and pulled a face of specious sympathy. “You see one never forgets, mon chou, the face of an old acquaintance!”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Gathering Storm

  Camille’s skirts swished about her ankles as she paced the floor of her bedchamber. Rothewell had followed her in, and tried twice to touch her shoulder in an attempt to soothe her, but his wife was having none of it. “Non,” she finally snapped. “Just…Just leave me alone. Please. I beg you.”

  Even the dog had flung himself onto her bed and lay cowering, his silky black ears limp upon the coverlet, his fanlike tail still for once. Rothewell felt frustrated, and very, very angry. He was not, however, leaving.

  “I don’t think this is the time, Camille, when a husband abandons his wife,” he said firmly. “Not if he cares for her.”

  Camille flashed him a withering, watery look. “Mon dieu, how can my father do this?” she cried, turning to cross the room again. “How can he laugh at me? Whatever he is—and even if I am just his bastard child—am I not his own flesh and blood? Does he not care for me in even the slightest way?”

  Rothewell’s heart ached for her. By God, Camille had deserved better than this—a faithless father and a distant husband. “I think it’s time someone put a period to Valigny,” he said almost to himself. “I begin to think I would be doing you the greatest of favors to simply call that bastard out and make you an orphan.”

  It was not, apparently, the best way to comfort his wife. Camille turned on him, her face twisted with grief. “Oui, a brilliant notion!” she cried. “That will solve all my problems, n’est-ce pas? I shall be left a widow! And Valigny will waltz away laughing, as he always does.”

  Rothewell did stop her then, catching her firmly by both shoulders. “Camille, he won’t walk away,” he vowed. “Not from me.”

  “Très bien,” she said, dashing away a tear with the back of her hand. “The alternative, then? My husband will shoot my father dead and be banished forever. That will damp down the gossip, assurément.”

  He bit back a curse. “Camille, I just want to—to fix this for you.”

  “Oh, Kieran, don’t you see?” She set the heel of her hand to her forehead as if it ached. “You cannot fix who my father is. You cannot make him love me.”

  Rothewell did then what he should have done at the outset—he forced her to stop, and drew her into his arms. He was learning, it seemed, for Camille came willingly, all but collapsing against his chest. “I am so sorry, my dear,” he murmured, as she set her cheek to his lapel with a sob. “I am as angry with myself, I daresay, as with Valigny.”

  “Pourquoi?” she said through tears. “What did you do to cause this travesty?”

  Rothewell struggled to find the words. “I should have stopped that damned card game,” he said. “I should have put an end to Valigny’s mockery then and there. But I didn’t, because I was half-drunk and—well, truth be told, half-maddened by you—so I left the truth of it hanging over your head like a sword.”

  “Oui, you could have walked out,” she answered. “And left me with him. Would I be any better off?”

  Rothewell bit back a curse. “I could have stopped it,” he said vehemently. “All of it. A gentleman would have done so. Afterward, when I considered the risks, I warned Valigny to keep his mouth shut but—”

  “Did you?” she interjected. “When?”

  “The day after I left you at Pamela’s,” he said. “And I don’t think, honestly, he gives a damn about spreading rumors—but Christine—oh, she’s spiteful and unpredictable.”

  “Non.” He felt Camille shudder in his embrace. “Non, this was all predictable, Kieran. All of it. Especially Lord Halburne. The moment I set foot on the ferry at Le Havre. The moment I wrote my letter to Valigny to ask his help. Oui, even then the die was thrown.”

  “Camille, that simply is not so.”

  “Oui, predictable!” she insisted. “I should never have done it—but I did, because I am little better than the blood in my veins. Like Valigny, I was greedy. I wanted my inheritance. I thought…I thought I could become—oh, independent, I suppose, if I had to. To protect myself—and my child, if le bon Dieu were gracious enough to give me one.”

  “Oh, Camille!”

  “Do not say that!” she cried. “It sounds mad, oui, but I had no choice. I knew I could not live as my mother had done. But I should have known my coming to London would stir up the past. And now Lord Halburne is here—and suddenly I cannot face that past. To think that he—and the rest of London—will learn of what Valigny did to me…Mon Dieu, Kieran, is it not enough that I must know my father laughs at me? Must all the world know it, too?”

  He pulled her toward the bed. “Sit down, Camille,” he said, urging her onto the mattress. He joined her there and began to smooth away her tears. “I am so sorry, my dear. You are a lovely and gracious woman. If Valigny does not see how lucky he is—and if you will not let me throttle him—then at least let me speak to Lord Sharpe.”

  “Lord Sharpe?” she said, snuffling. “Why?”

  “If my threats haven’t frightened Christine into silence, Sharpe’s will, for he pays her allowance, and a great deal more, too,” he answered. “Whatever pleasure he is taking from her now, Valigny cannot mean to marry Christine or maintain her in any way—and Christine is cunning enough to know it.”

  Camille gave a lame shrug. “Valigny scarcely has two sous to rub together,” she admitted. “But to involve Lord Sharpe again? Mon Dieu, even that is a mortifying notion.”

  “Christine is the one who should be mortified.” Rothewell squeezed her hands. “Not you, my dear. You are the only victim in this whole debacle.”

  She held his gaze for a moment as if searching for the truth in his face. And then her lower lip trembled tellingly, and she launched herself against him, sobbing in deep, gulping heaves.

  “Come, now,” he murmured, pulling her onto his knee as if she were a child. “What’s all this?”

  She refused to look at him. “I am ashamed!” she cried. “Ashamed of my mother. Ashamed of Valigny. How could I let this happen? Why did I imagine someone as scandalous as I could come to London and magically avoid a scandal?”

/>   “Shush, my dear, shush.” Soothingly, Rothewell kissed the arch of her eyebrow, then her cheek. “You are not scandalous.”

  Rothewell wasn’t an intuitive man by any stretch, but even he could see that her despair had little to do with Halburne and far more to do with the pain of her father’s very public betrayal. Her mother’s vain foolishness. The sad circumstances of her birth.

  With loving parents, Camille could have brazened out the whispers and society’s sidelong glances. Instead, this afternoon, Valigny had used her plight for his own amusement—and not for the first time. Rothewell was beginning to think that perhaps there were worse torments a child could face than a malevolent uncle’s whip.

  “I shan’t let anything blight your future, Camille,” he said firmly. “I swear it.”

  That brought her head up. Her damp, faintly accusing gaze caught his. “But what if you aren’t here?” she whispered hoarsely. “Do not lie to me. Oh, Kieran, do not make me a promise you cannot keep.”

  God knew he was no hero, but he didn’t know what else to be. So he let his hands cradle her face as he kissed her again, this time on the lips, long and lingeringly. “I shan’t,” he vowed, knowing even as he said it that it was likely a lie. “I will do it, Camille. I will take care of you. Of this. All of it. I swear it. I’ll even take you away if you wish. To—to Cheshire, if you like. To my estate.”

  “It is far away?” she asked as his lips brushed over her cheek.

  “Two hundred miles,” he said. “And if that isn’t far enough, we have Barbados.”

  She had closed her eyes almost dreamily. “Je ne sais pas,” she whispered. “I—I do not know. I am not a coward, Kieran. I am not. And I think perhaps I wouldn’t like myself very much if I became one.”

  “No, my dear.” Rothewell pulled her fully into his lap and reclined against the headboard. “No, you are no coward, I have discovered, much to my peril.”

  She made a little sound, something between a laugh and a sob. He kissed her again, tilting his head low to do so. It was a kiss, he hoped, of reassurance.

  He felt strangely proud of her. Camille had kept her chin up in the face of Christine’s venom and her father’s cruel laughter. She had a grit few people possessed. She was a survivor.