The Rake Revealed (3 page)

He must be a local
, Camille decided sleepily. He was familiar enough with her house to take refuge here. And of course, he had known Ned…

She should have been surprised.

Heavens knew, he’d hardly been in a fit state to get himself anywhere, but when she descended for breakfast at nine there was no sign of her intruder, just two neatly folded blankets on the couch.

She stared at them for a moment before shaking her head. If it hadn’t been for those blankets, she would have been inclined to think the whole thing a dream.

Camille sat down to a far more satisfying breakfast than she had so far enjoyed, it was amazing how much the standard of the food had improved, and considered the events of the night before.

Had she really discovered a wounded man in her yellow salon? An impossibly good-looking man from whose shoulder she had dug out a metal ball? It all felt so incredibly unlikely and yet it
had
happened. Still, with no way of knowing who he was or where he had gone, she had no way of checking her handiwork, although his absence seemed to suggest he had survived. Unless Mrs. Hibbert had decided to tidy the body away and, based on the housekeeper’s work so far, that seemed very unlikely.

After breakfast, she had Hibbert bring the coach around. She had been putting off the necessity of purchasing new clothing for too long. With only four gowns and associated underclothes to her name, it was time to dramatically extend her wardrobe. She had no idea if the local gentry intended to approach her, but it would be well to have the appropriate outfits on hand if they did. A man may be judged on his deeds and his words, but a woman, in Camille’s experience, was judged on the tone of her clothing. As things stood, she would be judged most unkindly.

Besides, it had been a long time since she had bought herself something new and she found herself craving
pretty
things. Like she used to have. It seemed like such a long time ago.

The town of Kingsdown, some three miles from Kirkham Hall, was a decent sized town and she found a dressmaker who was very eager to accommodate her requests. Camille went a little mad, ordering no less than two carriage dresses, four morning dresses, three walking dresses, and two ball gowns. To this she added two pelisses, several shawls, a cape, some spencers, hosiery, and smalls. The little seamstress who took her order was almost beside herself with joy and promised to have at least three of the dresses ready by Friday, even if it meant hiring extra pairs of hands. As it was Tuesday, this seemed very reasonable and they parted on excellent terms. From there, Camille went to the milliners and ordered several bonnets and from
there
to the boot maker, where she purchased three pairs of slippers and two pairs of boots.

It was all vastly extravagant, but Camille did not care. She had been assured by Mr. Mowbray that there were plenty of funds to be spent and she intended to enjoy herself. She was the new lady of Kirkham Hall and she must dress accordingly if she were to be accepted by her peers.

Returning to the Hall, she found that Mrs. Hibbert had done what she had asked for there was a new girl dusting in the green drawing room.

‘Hello,’ Camille said, pausing on the threshold.

The girl looked at her and blushed deeply, managing an awkward curtsey. She was not dressed as a maid, but had on a shabby grey gown that had certainly seen better days. Camille smiled at her and removed the need for the tongue-tied girl to say anything by leaving again, seeking out the housekeeper who was in the kitchen, muttering over the pots.

‘Mrs. Hibbert?’ The woman turned and looked at her warily. ‘I see you have hired somebody. That is most satisfactory. Do we have somebody else starting? And what of the gardeners?’

‘They’s coming,’ the woman snapped, then softened her tone, ‘I means to say, Agnes could start today and her sister Gillie is comin’ tomorrow. An’ I got Hibbert finding some more gardeners.’

‘Good. We must arrange the proper clothing for them. Good quality clothing,’ Camille added, catching the housekeepers eye, ‘that will keep out the cold, yes?’

‘Yes,’ the woman mumbled, hands twisting in her apron, ‘Though they don’t much care.’

‘Ah, but I care. They will have the correct uniforms and they will be of good quality. Do you understand?’

Mrs. Hibbert understood that, if she didn’t do what her mistress wanted, there would be consequences. Camille’s tone said as much and she nodded, a little sullenly. She clearly did not like the extra work involved in having a Durham, even by marriage, in residence, but there wasn’t a lot she could do about it.

Come the afternoon, Camille had good reason to be thankful that she was setting the place to rights because she had her first callers. She was in the front parlor, sorting through a desk of assorted papers, trying to make sense of them, when Mrs. Hibbert put her head round the door.

‘Mrs. and Miss Harkness have come callin’. Do you want I should tell ‘em you’re home?’

Camille looked up in surprise, although it stood to reason that some of her neighbors would drop by once word had gotten out that Edward Durham’s wife had returned to Kirkham Hall, if only to sum up the new arrival and spread the word to the local gentry. She pushed the papers back into the drawer and stood up, shaking out her skirts.

‘Thank you, Mrs. Hibbert. You can show them in. And please, prepare a tea tray.’ This earned her a glowering look, but Camille returned it without blinking and the woman turned and left the room, shoulders hunched.

Camille looked around her. The front parlor was probably the least shabby of the receiving rooms and at least it boasted a delightful view across the sea. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate and Agnes, her new maid, had spent a good hour polishing the surfaces so the faint, pleasant odor of beeswax hung in the air.

After a minute, Mrs. Hibbert ushered in two females, one young, one middle-aged, but both remarkably similar in looks, which must surely make them mother and daughter. They were smiling tentatively, eyes trying to look everywhere at once as they took in their surroundings, undoubtedly with the view to reporting their observations faithfully later to family and friends. To be the first to meet the new mistress of Kirkham Hall and to see what she’d done with the place would be worth dining out on.

Camille moved forward, smiling. ‘How nice of you to call.’

The older of the matched set blinked, her own smile widening. ‘I do hope that it’s all right! One is never sure how long to wait. Too little time and the person feels overwhelmed. Too much time and they feel as if the neighborhood is neglecting them.’ The words came out in one rather breathless rush. ‘I am Mrs. Harkness from Stanley Manor and this is my daughter Faith.’

Camille smiled at Faith who was looking at her with large, pale blue eyes. The expression in them was a little wondering. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Harkness. It is very kind of you to call on me. As you can see, the house is in need of a restorative. I am taking still taking stock, so you will forgive the mess, I am sure.’

‘Oh, of course, of course,’ Mrs. Harkness cried. ‘We understand perfectly.’

Camille led them to the group of chairs before the fire and they sat. Faith Harkness continued to stare at Camille and she was beginning to wonder if perhaps the girl was a little simple. ‘Miss Harkness,’ she murmured, hoping to break the ice, ‘what a lovely dress you’re wearing.’ It wasn’t a lie, exactly. It was a very nice dress, but the peach cambric did nothing for the girl’s complexion and it was far too fussy, wreathed in ribbons and bows.

‘Thank you,’ the girl said, then in a burst of surprising candor. ‘What very pretty hair you have! I do not believe I have ever seen such a color before.’

Surprised, Camille put up a hand to touch the deep, auburn mass. Without the ministrations of a maid, another thing she supposed she must find for herself, she kept her toilette simple. Her thick hair, an unusual shade of deep russet-red that her father had called titian, had been inherited from her mother. Most mornings she plaited it and then coiled the thick rope of hair into a loop at the back of her head, but tendrils inevitably escaped to curl around her neck and face in stubborn rebellion. As was ever the case with such a shade, her skin was very pale and inclined to freckle, if she didn’t take care.

‘How kind of you to say so.’

‘We were very sorry to hear about poor Lord Durham,’ Mrs. Harkness said and there was genuine sympathy in her voice. ‘He was such a fine man.’

‘Bonaparte,’ Camille explained, spreading her hands. ‘The bane of many. My father was an Englishman, a surgeon in the war. He married my mother, a Frenchwoman whose family Bonaparte all but exterminated. You can understand my distaste for the man, I am sure.’

Mrs. Harkness perceptibly relaxed. She had been unsure of Camille’s standing, although she was prepared to be friendly. Camille had married an English gentleman, after all, but having learned that her mother was a French noblewoman whose family had been persecuted by the revolution and that her father had been English… Well, her acceptance into local society was assured.

After that, the conversation was most cordial. Mrs. Harkness invited Camille to a small soiree she was giving the following evening. ‘Nothing too extravagant, you understand,’ she assured Camille cheerfully. ‘Just a small gathering. Quite informal. And,’ she cast a quick glance at her daughter, ‘you can meet our scandalous rake.’

‘A rake,’ Camille repeated, raising an eyebrow. ‘Here? How… surprising.’

‘Oh yes!’ Faith rather sallow skin flushed to a deep pink. ‘He is a dreadful creature, of course, but
so
exciting. He is staying with Mr. Morosett at Barstock Keep. They will both be there tomorrow night.’

‘But… a rake,’ Camille repeated, bemused. Lymstock seemed such an unlikely thing to boast in this quiet neighborhood.

‘My dear, the very best kind. Wickedly good looking, outrageously charming, and shockingly suggestive,’ Mrs. Harkness assured her, rising to her feet. ‘Of course, I do not allow my dearest Faith to be alone with him,’ at this, Faith blushed even more deeply, her skin turning a mottled red, ‘but he is undeniably entertaining.’

‘And what is your rake’s name?’ Camille inquired, amused.

‘Lord Lucius Tapscott. Now then, shall we say seven o’clock?’

Camille hesitated, but only for a moment. She would need to meet her neighbors at some stage and this seemed to be the perfect opportunity. ‘That is very kind of you. I would be delighted.’

Her entry into local society had commenced.

Despite the fact that none of Camille’s new dresses would be ready in time, she did possess one dress that was suitable, a lovely thing of blue-green silk, the last one her mother had bought her when they were living in Dijon. It was a tiny bit loose on her, but looked well enough for all that.

She’d had Hibbert, with the assistance of one of the newly hired gardeners, clean and polish the carriage. It was an aged brougham, an unwieldy thing, but it would do well enough and at least there were decent horses in the stables to pull it. So it was she arrived at Stanley Manor, a large, well -proportioned house possessing rather fine gardens in slightly dated style, and was warmly welcomed by her hostess and Mr. Harkness, a portly man who greeted her loudly, bending over her hand with a courtliness that was as outdated as her carriage. The guests were assembled in a large drawing room that glowed with candlelight.

‘My dear Lady Durham,’ Mrs. Harkness trilled, ‘I am delighted you could come. We are all here, as you see, and everybody is most eager to make your acquaintance.’

Camille nodded and smiled. She was not daunted by being the object of so much curiosity. Indeed, as somebody who held the odd position of being a stranger, but in possession of her husband’s house, she had expected to excite considerable interest. As she intended to live a life of unexceptional dullness, she knew she would be accepted in time. After a few years it would be just like she had always lived at Kirkham Hall, a part of the unremarkable scenery.

The idea was soothing and Camille found herself looking forward to it. No more tension. No more excitement. She was planning on being the most boring widow in Kent. She would learn to embroider, to grow flowers, and rusticate. Kirkham had a library and she intended to add to it.

Boring and uncomplicated. Nothing could be better.

Mrs. Harkness circled the room, performing introductions as she went. ‘And this is Mr. Morosett. He lives not half a mile from here.’

Camille inclined her head and smiled, noting the man’s narrow face and cold grey eyes that were as chilly as an overcast day. His evening dress was that of a dandy; more suited to a ballroom in one of the major metropolises than a country drawing room, surely. Tall and thin, he reminded her of a serpent for all of his stylish clothes. ‘Lady Durham,’ he drawled, eyes running over her in a way she didn’t much care for. ‘What a lovely face to brighten this dull gathering.’

Which might be a nice compliment for
her
, but was hardly flattering to her hostess. Camille gave a depreciating shrug, suddenly very Gaelic. ‘My dear Mrs. Harkness could not possibly have a dull gathering, I am sure. She has far too much
élan
for any such thing, but I thank you for the pretty sentiment, sir.’

‘I rarely give praise lightly, Lady Durham,’ Mr. Morosett murmured and Camille half expected a forked tongue to flicker out between his thin lips. ‘Believe me when I say it is well deserved.’