Never Romance a Rake

by Liz Carlyle

  She blinked her eyes rapidly. “But every day, madame. Since the early winter.” Her voice was thready. “On the boat, mon Dieu, the master, he was so sick. My husband, he feared the master would die. Why do you ask me this? Is this a bad thing, monsieur? Mr. Ling tells me it has powers to make Lord Rothewell strong. Has he lied to me?”

  Mr. Kemble’s eyes met Camille’s. “Raw ginseng is harmless to most people,” he said quietly, “but too much of it can make one bleed more freely, it is thought.”

  Obelienne gave a sharp cry, her hand going to her mouth. Her keys hit the stone floor with a discordant jangle. “Mon Dieu!” she rasped. “The bleeding? I…I have caused this?”

  “No,” said Kemble firmly. “No, you did not cause it.” He set his hand on her arm and urged the cook back to her chair by the table. “You did not cause anything, Mrs. Trammel,” he said again, when she was seated. “Ginseng, in small amounts, it can actually settle dyspepsia. But too much can have an ill effect.”

  Obelienne’s eyes were pooling with tears. “I—I have poisoned him?” she whispered. “I have poisoned the master?”

  Kemble sat down beside her. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Lord Rothewell poisoned himself with his dissolute habits, and we all know it. But once he had begun to bleed…well, then a great deal of raw rénshn was perhaps not quite the thing. I think, my dear, that from now on, you should probably keep your green peppercorns and let Mr. Ling be.”

  “What do you make of it, Monsieur Kemble?” Camille asked, as they went back up the stairs. “Obelienne seems sincere, n’est-ce pas?”

  They had settled Miss Obelienne with a pot of tea and Camille’s repeated reassurances, then called for Trammel to come down to sit with her and hear a somewhat gentler version of what might have happened with the rénshn root. Camille had never seen the cook distraught, and she got the distinct impression that perhaps Trammel had not, either. In the end, Obelienne pledged faithfully to adhere to Hislop’s diet and never to use Ling’s magic root again.

  “I do not believe it was intentional,” Kemble agreed. “If Obelienne wished to kill him, she’d use cassava, or good old arsenic from the chemist’s.”

  Camille had never considered that it might have been deliberate. While it was true Obelienne had come to Barbados with Annemarie, she seemed devoted to Kieran. Certainly Trammel was. No, it had been overzealousness, perhaps, on Obelienne’s part, but not maliciousness.

  “How, precisely, does this root work?” she asked.

  On the landing, Kemble hesitated. “As I said, it is hard to know,” he answered. “I have but a passing acquaintance with the stuff. Certainly it causes a stimulation in the body, something like strong coffee. One should generally not consume them together.”

  Something in Camille’s brain seemed to snap into place. “His insomnia and restlessness,” she whispered. “Kieran often stays awake all night, and he’s constantly on edge. Xanthia said—why she said he’d been like that for months!”

  Kemble’s lips thinned. “I daresay it is related,” he agreed. “Ordinarily, one makes an infusion or a tincture of the stuff, but Obelienne has been grating the root like ginger. We’ve no way of knowing how Ling told her to use it. The poor devil’s English is abysmal, and given the lilt in her voice, her native tongue must be French Kwéyòl?”

  “Oui, she said as much,” Camille answered.

  Kemble resumed his climb up the stairs. “Well, it isn’t the cause of his troubles, though it almost certainly has worsened them,” he said pensively. “Whatever it was doing to him, Rothewell certainly mustn’t have any more of the stuff. And I think we’ve put the fear of God in poor Obelienne.”

  Rothewell sat alone on his bed, thinking of his brush with death and stroking the dog’s silky head. It had been, by God, a near run thing. And it was not over. But Hislop thought that this disease—this beast—might be within Rothewell’s control. Hislop had given him hope.

  The truth was, although he gave every impression of a man who was fully in control of his destiny—and of nearly everything around him—Rothewell knew in his heart it was just a façade. He had let his entire life run to ruin ages ago, he had never dreamed it might be possible to get it back again.

  But it was possible. And if it was remotely possible, he would do it. Yes, he would eat Hislop’s damned diet and lie abed for what would doubtless feel like weeks on end with his beautiful, seductive wife just beyond his reach—in the most important way, at least. Yes, he would do anything and everything which was required of him to survive this illness and ensure its eternal banishment from his life. He would pray to God that Hislop was right. Because he had a life to live. He always had, but for some reason, it had taken Camille to make him see it.

  He closed his eyes, and remembered his own foolishness. He had lost a lot of blood—more than he wished anyone to know. He had driven his body to near exhaustion, and for reasons even now he did not fully grasp. But now his life had perhaps been returned to him, and he was not fool enough to waste a God-given second chance.

  As if sensing his mood, Jim shifted nearer, and laid his head upon Rothewell’s thigh. He cast his brown eyes up at Rothewell and gave a faint, enquiring snort.

  “Yes, I wonder, too, Jim,” he said, his hand never leaving the dog. “She’s been gone a while now, hasn’t she?”

  Suddenly, the spaniel pricked up his ears. Then Rothewell heard her footsteps coming up the stairs, light and quick. Unmistakable to him now. Like her delightful scent, the sound of her movements and even the soughing of her breath as she slept—all of it was unique, comforting, and instantly familiar to him.

  When she entered the room, her gaze alit on him, and she smiled, her brown eyes softening. Kemble came into the room behind her, looking his usual arrogant self. As if unaware of Kemble’s presence, Camille flew across the room and bent over him to lightly kiss his lips.

  “Mon cœur,” she said in her soft, throaty voice, “I missed you. And you will never believe the story Mr. Kemble has to tell…”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A return to Tattersall’s

  Rothewell was in the conservatory enjoying the life of a semi-invalid, stretched languidly out on a chaise in the midmorning sun, when his wife came in looking especially radiant. In the fortnight since Dr. Hislop’s visit, she had nursed him faithfully and nagged him unmercifully. Rothewell had savored every minute of it.

  Today, Camille wore a yellow silk day dress which contrasted beautifully with her dark, opulent hair, and a smile so new and so brilliant he was only now becoming accustomed to it. “Bonjour,” she said cheerfully, dropping the Times onto his lap. “Trammel has brought your paper.”

  “Have you finished your chores?” he asked in a faintly injured tone. “If you are going to force me into seclusion, the least you can do is bear me company whilst I suffer.”

  Camille grinned and held up the book which she’d hidden behind her skirts. “Oui, mon chéri,” she said. “Trammel has brought me one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels from Hatchard’s—Gaston de Blondeville. I am going to be a lady of leisure this afternoon.”

  Rothewell watched her settle onto a comfortable settee opposite him and tuck one leg girlishly beneath her—a most unladylike pose. But in all other ways, Rothewell reflected, Camille was every inch a lady: well-bred, intelligent, and lovely. Rothewell still marveled that he’d won her hand, and wondered if he would ever stop feeling guilty about the way in which he’d done it.

  When she looked at him now, it was with hope and with joy. It was as if she loved him; her face lighting up, her smile and her eyes going instantly soft. Was it possible she did love him? And was it remotely possible he could do that love any justice? Perhaps. Perhaps he could, at the very least, show her how he felt about her when he was cut loose by this damned interfering physician they had set upon him.

  Irritated, Rothewell snapped his paper open, then wisely quashed the feeling. The truth was, Hislop’s advice, Kemble’s interference, and Camille’s nursing
had likely saved his life, he inwardly admitted. He was feeling better than he had in years. He did not care for his diet of poached eggs, beef tea, and boiled chicken. His beloved cheroots had been surrendered forever, and his brandy, too, quite probably. He was rising at dawn and going to bed at dark like some rustic farmer. But at least he could eat a little now and sleep like the dead. His eyes were no longer bloodshot, and Miss Obelienne had finally got over her terror at having very nearly killed him.

  But what would it have mattered, really? The truth was, he had been well on his way to killing himself—and Obelienne had seen the signs of it. She had merely tried to help in her own way. Perhaps if he had been less prideful, and a little more amenable to the advice of others…but he had not been.

  No, he had been his usual angry, arrogant self, wallowing in his own grief and intent on doing himself harm without troubling himself to see what he was doing to those around him. Those who cared deeply for him. Xanthia, Pamela, the Trammels, Gareth, and most of all, Camille, he hoped.

  And then there was Luke, of course. Luke had never been vindictive. He had been protective. Of him. Of Xanthia. And of Annemarie and her daughter. Luke would never have wished him ill, and mourning Luke’s death inside a bottle of brandy would never bring him back. Rothewell’s mind had always known that, of course, but only now was his heart beginning to accept it.

  Rothewell was stirred from his reverie by the sound of a servant approaching. One of the footmen entered the conservatory and presented a silver salver to Camille. She looked up from her novel, startled.

  “A caller, ma’am,” said the footman. “The Earl of Halburne.”

  “Ça alors.” A little unsteadily, Camille picked up the card. “Lord Halburne?”

  Rothewell sat more erect. He had heard quite enough about Halburne’s ugly interrogation of his wife. But she had come to peace with the man’s bitterness and put it behind her.

  “You do not have to see him ever again, my dear,” he said. “Would you like me to send him packing?”

  For an instant, she hesitated, her hand shaking ever so slightly. “Non,” she finally said. “I shall see him. What more can he say to make me feel worse about Maman than I already do?”

  “Very well,” said Rothewell to the servant. “We will receive him here together.”

  Camille nodded. “Merci.”

  Rothewell watched as Camille straightened her leg and smoothed the pleats of her skirt. She was anxious, and it made him angry that it should be so. She did not deserve to be stung by the lash of Halburne’s diatribe. She was no more responsible for her mother’s actions than she was for that bastard Valigny’s.

  But then, Camille felt guilty for Valigny’s sins as well. And Rothewell was beginning to understand what she, perhaps, already knew. As a parent, her mother had been selfish, yes, but Valigny was reprehensible—and knowing that the blood of such a scoundrel coursed through her veins was perhaps the greatest burden Camille bore.

  Rothewell was surprised when the Earl of Halburne entered the brightly lit conservatory. Beneath his expensive, well-tailored clothing, Halburne seemed somehow more frail than Rothewell had expected, though in fact he could not have yet reached sixty. And though he carried himself like a man to the manner born, there was an aura of unmistakable weariness about him; one which Rothewell would have sworn was not normally in his nature.

  Rothewell stood as his wife made the introductions. “Do have a seat, Halburne,” he said coolly. “But for my wife’s sake, I do hope this can be brief.”

  Halburne looked back and forth between them, as if judging his welcome and finding it wanting. “I rather fear it mightn’t be,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Lady Rothewell, for granting an old man a little of your time.”

  “Bien sûr, my lord.” Camille smiled weakly. “I hope your butler has recovered from his fall?”

  Halburne blinked almost owlishly. “In truth, Lady Rothewell, that is in part what brings me.”

  Camille looked alarmed. “Mon Dieu, he still suffers?”

  “See here, Halburne,” said Rothewell gruffly, “this is a sad business, but my wife did nothing but drop the knocker on your door, with every intention of—”

  “No, no.” Halburne held up a commanding hand, looking suddenly like the aristocrat he was. “That is hardly what I meant, Rothewell—and this business is far sadder than you know.”

  Camille looked worried. “Pray continue, monsieur,” she urged.

  Halburne looked fleetingly at a loss for words. “Fothering, as I told you, is an old man,” he said awkwardly. “Indeed, he was in the employ of my father, and—very briefly—my grandfather before him. And when he saw you, Lady Rothewell, standing on our doorstep that day, he knew, I suppose, what no other person on earth knew, save one—the Comte de Valigny.”

  “What?” Rothewell demanded. “And what can your butler possibly have to do with my wife?”

  An uneasy expression flitted over his face. “Because your wife, Lord Rothewell,” said Halburne quietly, “is my daughter.”

  A moment of dead silence held sway, then, “Mon Dieu, you must be mad,” said Camille breathlessly. “How can he have imagined such a thing? How can you have believed it?”

  Halburne shook his head. “In truth, he imagined very little, Lady Rothewell,” said the earl. “He knew precisely what he had seen, once he regained himself. Indeed, I suspected it, too, from the moment I saw the name on your card and the look of your face. But I had to be sure. Dear God, after so many years…I had to be sure.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. “I can’t think how this happened. After almost a fortnight’s time, I am still—well, heartsick, I daresay, is the word.”

  Camille looked stricken. “Mais non, this cannot be.”

  Rothewell was worried. All the color had drained from Camille’s face. He set his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “This does sound like a pack of nonsense, Halburne,” he said brusquely. “You mean to suggest that Camille is your daughter, and you did not know? Her mother had to know. What are you saying? That she lied?”

  Rothewell realized there was a ring of truth in his own words. Camille’s mother had to have been a tad unhinged to abandon a gentleman like Halburne to chase a ne’er-do-well of Valigny’s ilk. Could it be she had wished to believe Camille was Valigny’s?

  Halburne had opened his hand expressively, but his gaze was fixed on Camille, drinking her in. “It is possible, perhaps, that Dorothy did not know,” he said almost apologetically. “Or that she simply convinced herself otherwise.”

  Camille was slowly shaking her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Non, c’est impossible,” she said quietly. “It cannot be. You wish to persuade me that you are my father? Not the man I have believed all my life? How can you even suggest such a thing after all these years?”

  “My dear girl, please forgive me.” Pain sketched across Halburne’s face. “I do not mean to distress you. I did, however, get the impression that you were not…well, overly attached, perhaps, to the comte? I know it is far too late to right old wrongs. Do you wish me to the devil now? You have only to say the word, and I shall leave you.”

  Rothewell was still studying his wife. “No,” he said, rising to join her on the settee. “It is best, I daresay, the truth comes out. My dear?”

  “Oui.” Camille cast a sidelong look at him, and he glimpsed hope in her eyes. “It is best—if it can be true.”

  “Rest assured, my dear, that it is.” With his only hand, the Earl of Halburne reached inside his coat beneath his carefully pinned sleeve and withdrew a silk pouch. “It was your dark red dress that so distressed Fothering,” he said, awkwardly shaking a gold frame from the little bag. “He thought, you see, that he was looking at a ghost.” He offered the frame to Rothewell.

  Gingerly, Rothewell took the miniature portrait and tilted it from the sun’s glare. He barely suppressed a gasp. The woman in the frame could very well have been Camille. Her dark hair was piled high, and the squared, ruched neck
line of her wine-colored gown was reminiscent of fashions some six or seven decades past. But the eyes…the dark, honeyed complexion…good God.

  With a warning in his eyes, he tilted the frame toward Camille. She drew in her breath sharply. “Mon dieu!” she said. “Who is she?”

  “My mother,” said Halburne quietly. “Her name was Isabella, and she always favored red. Beautiful, is she not?”

  “Breathtaking,” Rothewell said.

  “As a very young man, Fothering was her personal footman. He was deeply attached to her.”

  “Isabella,” Camille whispered, still staring at the miniature. “Alors, she…she was French?”

  Halburne shook his head. “Andalusian,” he said. “From a great trading family in Cádiz, but her father was a diplomat. It was an arranged marriage, and brief. She died when I was six.”

  Rothewell lifted both eyebrows. “The likeness is amazing.”

  Halburne gave a dry laugh. “Lord Rothewell, that is nothing,” he remarked. “Gainsborough painted my mother shortly before my birth. The portrait hung in the library of my country house until I sent for it last week. I should like you both to see it. The portrait is utterly haunting when one compares it to Lady Rothewell. The same hair, with the deep widow’s peak, the same high cheekbones and slender nose. Identical eyes. It is no wonder poor Fothering keeled over.”

  Camille still looked disbelieving. “But my mother…she always called Valigny my father,” she said quietly. “I was born in Paris almost ten months after my mother left England.”

  “How do you know?” murmured Rothewell. “Have you anyone else’s word?”

  Slowly, she shook her head. “There was a Bible,” she said. “Some papers.”

  All easily forged, thought Rothewell. This was making a frightening amount of sense.

  Halburne’s expression softened. “Sometimes children enter this world on their own timetables, not ours,” he said. “Ten months is not unheard of.”