Never Romance a Rake (46 page)

The Tell-Tale Kipper

L
ady Rothewell sat at her desk, so deeply absorbed in a voyage reconciliation report, she did not hear the faint squeal of the door hinges, or feel the rush of cool air which washed up the stairs to stir the draperies behind her.

“Where is my little princess?” sang a soft voice from the threshold.

At that, her head jerked up to see a thin, familiar face peeking round the door. “Papa!” she cried, tossing aside her pencil. “What a lovely surprise!”

“Good morning, my dear.” Lord Halburne came in as his daughter dashed from behind her desk.

Swiftly, she embraced him. “I certainly did not expect to see you today,” she said, setting him a little away so that she might study his lined face. “What on earth brings you to Wapping?”

His expression turned wistful. “Ah, my princess, of course,” he replied, laying his cloak across a chair. “I was just struck by the wish to see her this morning. Remember, my dear, I am an old man, and must be indulged.”

Camille laughed and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Nothing would please me more than to indulge you,” she said. “Isabella is next door in the nursery. Will you have a cup of coffee first?”

“That would be most welcome.” Halburne's gaze was drifting about the room now. “Do you know, my dear girl, I still cannot fathom this.” His tone was musing, but not disapproving. “The fact that you come here—all the way to this place—just to…to do what, precisely?”

“Papa!” she chided, drawing him to a chair. “It is but two days a week, and I come because I wish to, not because—”

“Oh, no, my dear.” Halburne patted her hand affectionately, then sat down. “I do not criticize. I mightn't understand what you do, but I do understand this is what you want.”

“Merci.”
She smiled at him affectionately.

Halburne's gaze went to the map which covered the adjacent wall. “What I would have envisioned for you, Camille—an easy life as a lady of leisure—well, I see now that it never would have done at all.”

Camille laughed. “I am a lady of leisure—five days a week.”

“That's nonsense, and you know it,” he calmly answered. “The other five days of the week you are poring over those papers and ledgers your grandfather's solicitors keep sending. I have seen the stacks, dear child, in the study in Berkeley Square.”

“Kieran is helping with all that,” she replied. “After all, what is the difference, really, between a cotton mill and a sugar mill? Together, we are learning how to go on.”

Her father's gaze returned to her face, his eyes softening. “You have a good husband, my dear,” he said quietly. “If I had had the honor of choosing a husband for you, I could not have chosen better. I account myself fortunate that you have done so well for yourself—and all by yourself, I might add.”

Camille patted his hand again and blinked back a tear. Her father—her newfound, much-loved father who had come to her by such an amazing twist of fate—was but one of the many new blessings in her life. And since Isabella's birth, she inwardly considered, the woman who rarely cried had become something of a silly watering pot.

After the coffee came, they passed a few moments in idle conversation, catching up on the fortnight which they had spent apart, and discussing Halburne's visit to his country estate. The earl had remained almost the whole of the year in Town, even venturing out into society again, once or twice with his daughter on his arm. Society's whispers about Valigny had faded by midseason, and with them, much of Halburne's reclusion and melancholy.

Halburne had just broached the subject of a hobbyhorse he wished to buy for Isabella when Mr. Bakely came in with the morning's post, distributing it evenly over the three desks which the office now contained.

“Well!” said Camille's father, rising. “Bakely has things for you to do, I collect. Let me leave you to it. Perhaps Isabella's nurse will permit me to read to her again today?”

“She would not dare stop you.” Camille rose and kissed his cheek again. At only three months of age, Isabella paid no attention to books, but she had learned the rhythm of her doting grandfather's voice. “May we expect you for Wednesday dinner as usual?”

When Halburne was happily ensconced in the nursery, Camille returned to her desk and to her reconciliations, but her efforts were short-lived. In moments, Kieran came elbowing his way through the door, a wicker basket in the crook of his arms.

“Oranges,” he announced, setting the basket down on his desk. “The
Queen Anne
just came in. I plucked these right off the top of the best barrel.”

“Kieran,
mon amour
.” Camille rose, set her palms against her husband's lapels, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “How did you find things at the docks?”

“All on schedule, just as Xanthia said.” Kieran tilted his head at the dark gray cloak which lay draped across one of the chairs. “Halburne has dropped by?”

Camille smiled. “He's just back from the country and could not wait to see Isabella.”

“His little princess,” said Kieran, studying his wife's face.

She laughed. “Yes, he treats her like a princess, too.”

Kieran kissed her again, swift but hard. “I think someone should treat
you
like a princess,” he said suggestively. “Tonight, perhaps?”

Camille leaned nearer. “Oh,
you
may certainly do so,
mon amour,
” she murmured against his ear. “But I am no princess.”

To her shock, his hand came up to cup her cheek. “Oh, but I think you might be,” he murmured, his voice oddly gentle. “Indeed, I think you have known it all along in your heart.”

She drew back and laughed. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Do you remember, Camille, that story you once told me? About being a kidnapped princess?”

She nodded. “A child's fantasy. Lonely children have a great many, I fear.”

He set his hands lightly on her shoulders. “But if you think about it, Camille, this one turned out to be true,” said Kieran. “You really
had
been kidnapped by the evil Comte de Valigny. You really were stolen from your father. Perhaps…Perhaps something deep in your heart knew that all along? Perhaps you always knew that something was missing?”

Camille had never before thought of it in that way. It sounded tragic indeed. “Ah, but there is one difference between the fantasy and the reality,” she said, her face brightening. “In reality, it was not my kingly father who rescued me from the evil comte, but instead a dark and dashing prince—the Black Prince, I shall call him.”

“And you, my dear, are my Black Queen,” he answered, his gaze holding hers. “That, at least, is how I once thought of you. So dark. So aloof and so utterly regal in your disdain of me. Indeed, you made me feel like a lowly commoner by comparison.”

“Kieran,
mon cœur,
you will never be that,” she murmured, her eyes searching his face. “Every morning when I awake to find you beside me, I feel rich beyond measure. It occurred to me yet again today when Papa arrived unexpectedly. How very blessed I am to have the three of you in my life when, little more than a year ago, I had nothing. No, less than nothing.”

Her husband shook his head. “No, my dear,” he answered. “It is the three of us who are fortunate, for we have you, the center of our little universe. The thing around which we all revolve. The thing which gives us light and warmth.”

She looked away, a little embarrassed by the fervor in his voice. After more than a year of marriage, Kieran was still a serious man of few words, but from time to time…yes, he could say enough to set her to blushing.

“How very silly you are today, my dear,” she said, returning to her desk. “Now, do not let the time get away from you. Mr. Hayden-Worth is still expecting you for luncheon,
n'es-ce pas
?”

Kieran's expression shifted to one which was far more serious. “Yes, we are to dine with the Anti-Slavery Society at one.” Swiftly, he glanced at the clock. “Mr. Buxton plans to bolster his push for abolition, and we want to see how we can help.”

“I still don't understand,” said Camille stridently. “Why won't Parliament simply
act
? Can anyone doubt the rightness of Buxton's cause?”

Kieran shook his head, his eyes grim. “Whitehall is dragging its heels by continuing to negotiate with the colonial governments,” he said, beginning to sort mechanically through his post. “Hayden-Worth says it is time we built the fire a little hotter, and I am beginning to agree.”

Camille lifted her eyebrows. Indeed,” she murmured. “What sort of fire does Anthony have in mind, I wonder?”

“Buxton says we must take our case to the British public.” As if the post could not hold his attention, Kieran tossed it down and went to the window which looked out over the Pool of London. “Once the people understand what slavery is, Camille,” he said, staring out into the cold brilliance of the morning, “once our citizens see that simply stopping the slave trade was not enough, and that the horrors will go on until we have total abolition—then Parliament will have to act. The pressure will simply be too great.”

Camille joined him at the window and stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder. It was how they lived now. The very foundation of their marriage. Shoulder to shoulder.

She was so very proud of him, and of his many efforts—here, helping Xanthia at Neville's. At home with the estate and all the other business interests which required his constant attention. But she was especially proud of his new association with Anthony Hayden-Worth, a politician who was still young enough and energetic enough to think all the world's ills could be fixed if one simply worked hard enough. Perhaps he was right.

“With Anthony in the Commons, and you and Nash in the Lords…” she said musingly. “Well, the three of you will make a formidable force, I think, allied with Mr. Buxton.”

He turned to face her, his smile faint. “And speaking of that alliance, I suppose I'd best head back to Westminster.” He paused to embrace her again. “I shall just go and kiss Isabella, then see you both at home, shall I?”

“Kieran, wait,” she said, following him as he strode toward the door. “What am I to do with all these oranges?”

He regarded her a little sheepishly. “You know, I've a desperate wish for one of Obelienne's orange sponge cakes,” he confessed. “After all, I am not precisely
fat
yet. And I thought—well, I thought if we mashed one of the oranges up with a little sugar, perhaps Isabella might think it a great treat?”

“Oh, Kieran, she is still far too young!” Camille laughed. “Besides, Isabella is not a pet, you know, to be fed wicked tidbits from your pockets. And speaking of wicked tidbits, did you by chance slip Chin-Chin one of those overspiced kippers this morning?”

Kieran's expression went blank.

Camille shot him a warning look. “Oh, don't come the innocent with me, my dear,” she said darkly. “They are perfectly indigestible, as Mr. Kemble says. Trammel found the resulting evidence next to the sideboard—and it stained the carpet, I might add.”

Kieran drew her back into his arms and kissed her again, this time more thoroughly. “Don't scold,” he said when at last their lips parted. “I warned you, my dear, when you agreed to marry me.”

“What?” she demanded. “What, precisely, did you warn me of?”

“That I was a very wicked man,” he said. “And hopelessly unrepentant.”

“Well,” said Camille, her eyes twinkling, “that, at very least, will make Chin-Chin happy. After all, he actually
approves
of your bad habits.”