The Rake Revealed (4 page)

Mrs. Harkness did not seem inclined to linger, putting a hand on Camille’s elbow and nudging her forward gently. ‘And this, is Lord Tapscott,’ she announced, as if she were producing a promised treat. Her voice caused the gentleman who was in conversation with several others, to turn towards them, a smile on his lips.

Camille went very still, staring at the man she had been resolutely trying to forget for a little over a day.

The man whose shoulder she had dug a ball of lead out of.

He was every bit as handsome as she remembered, half stripped off in the yellow salon. More so, as his face was not strained from pain. Dark hair, blue eyes, square chin, and a straight nose. This perfect specimen was Mrs. Harkness’ rake.

How intriguing.

‘Lady Durham,’ he said, taking her somewhat nerveless hand in his own and bending over it. ‘How very good it is to meet you. Our hostess swore that you were a paragon, but I must confess we did not entirely believe her. I will be the first to admit that we were wrong. You are even more lovely than I imagined.’

A deep, delicious voice with a slightly husky edge. The kind of voice that a woman could fall into and not regret a moment of the journey. It made promises without saying a word. Her eyes sought his shoulder instinctively, but of course there was no indication that he had been hurt or that, even now, there must be a bandage over that hole she had sewn together.

At least she knew now that he had survived his injury.

‘Just you ignore him, Lady Durham,’ Mrs. Harkness said indulgently, ‘for he is the most shameless flatterer you can imagine. I swear, his tongue is positively coated in silver and he speaks nothing but flummery.’

Camille collected herself with an effort. Clearly he was not going to claim her as an acquaintance, not when his visit had been clandestine. Under the circumstances, she could hardly say anything either so she smoothed her face into a polite, social mask. ‘My lord.’

The blue eyes glinted down at her for a moment, but he played the perfect stranger. No doubt he’d had plenty of practice at dissembling. She assumed his midnight tryst had not been with one of the ladies present for surely the husband that had holed him would not countenance it. Or perhaps they had not realized who it was they were shooting at? Still, it was more likely that he had been caught with one of the local lasses, one of the serving wenches at the inn, perhaps, or a chambermaid.

‘And the servants have undoubtedly been robbing you blind.’ Mr. Morosett had come join them, his languid tone drawling out the words. ‘They usually do when they are left to their own devices.’

‘Perhaps.’ There was no perhaps about it, the Hibberts had most certainly been helping themselves in the absence of their lord. Just the same, her domestic matters were nobody’s business but her own. ‘But I can manage them.’

‘Really?’ Morosett raised his quizzing glass and surveyed her with interest. ‘A capable woman. How intriguing.’

‘In France servants try to take advantage as a matter of course. It is second nature to ensure they behave themselves, just as it is for them to try their fortunes,’ she returned placidly, wondering why she found herself disliking this man so much. It was based on nothing but instinct for he had done nothing to gain her displeasure. Still, she could not abide a puffed up male and the quizzing glass was clearly an affectation. That, along with his extremely foppish clothes; she had not seen shirt collars so high since Paris. She had certainly not seen anything like the green and mulberry striped waistcoat for a very long time and could only wish that she didn’t see anything like it again in the near future.
Mon dieu!
No. It was possible her opinion would change with closer acquaintance, but she found she could not like Mr. Morosett and had the feeling that her hostess shared her dislike in full. He seemed completely out of place here.

But his presence was not the only mystery. Camille was also wondering, if Lord Tapscott was a stranger to the area, then how he had known her husband and her house. For there had been no mistaking the genuine regret in his voice when he had offered his sympathy upon learning her identity, but if he was a local, he would surely know the local families and clearly that was not the case.

The man was an enigma, no doubt about it. Not that she was interested in discovering more, but it was curious just the same.

Further introductions were made and Camille had no opportunity to question Lord Tapscott about anything. Not that she was sure that she wanted to question him further. Under the circumstances, it might be better just to forget the episode in her salon had ever taken place. Especially as popular opinion seemed to be that he was a bone fide rake and unfit for any respectable woman’s company.

Unfit or not, when Mr. Morosett cornered her before dinner to ask her all manner of probing questions about her experiences in France, Camille was extremely glad when Lord Tapscott wandered over to join them. By the look on Mr. Morosett’s face, he was not nearly as pleased by the interruption.

Tapscott gave her a lazy smile. ‘Is Balthazar trying to discover if you nearly lost your head to Madam Guillotine? It is rather one of his pet subjects.’

Camille arched an eyebrow, mentally grappling with the knowledge that Mr. Morosett had been christened Balthazar. ‘I am a little young for that. My family had already left Paris before the revolution. I hardly remember most of it.’

‘You are fortunate,’ Morosett murmured. ‘Many families died.’

Many families she had known. Fortunately, her father had sensed some months in advanced the way the wind was blowing and had removed his wife and child, taking up residence in the country. A sensible move. Madeleine, Camille’s mother, had been a daughter of the Baudelaire family and any who had remained in Paris had been arrested shortly after the revolution had begun, taking their final trip in a tumbrel on their way to an unpleasant end.

Not that Camille intended to share that with Mr. Morosett. For all his air of weary lethargy, there was something watchful about him. Those chilly grey eyes were almost
too
intense, which seemed a direct contradiction of his general air of ennui.

‘What a depressing subject,’ Tapscott yawned, ‘and hardly the thing to entertain a lady, dear boy. They like to hear only pleasant things,’ he gave Camille a slow, sexy smile. ‘Isn’t that right, Lady Durham?’

‘You think a lady’s ears are designed only for the lighter things in life?’ she inquired, amused.

‘Oh most assuredly,’ Tapscott agreed. ‘Compliments on how delightful your hair looks in the candle light, how your eyes sparkle, how lovely your dress is. Although,’ he added, eyes sweeping her thoughtfully, ‘in this instance I think I could guarantee my sincerity for all of the above are true.’

‘
Je suis flatté
,’ Camille said dryly, ‘but I think you have had a great deal of practice in saying those words, my lord.’

‘But never with so much assurance,’ he returned softly.

Mr. Morosett looked bored. ‘I am sure there are other ladies in the room who are desperate for your attentions, my dear Tapscott. Why, there is a positive gaggle of young and, sadly, not so young females clustered over there who have been sighing over you for a good ten minutes.’ He lifted an eyebrow at Camille. ‘You must know, my guest has proved remarkably popular with the local females. I am certain that is why he has lingered so long in the area.’

‘You have found me out, Morosett,’ Lord Tapscott replied easily. ‘I simply cannot resist a pretty face and a willing outlook.’

Which was a scandalous thing to say, but Camille was inclined to think it was more for effect than anything else. There was something odd about the exchange and she wondered if Lord Tapscott, who Mrs. Harkness had told her was a guest of Mr. Morosett, had outstayed his welcome and why, if that was the case, he simply did not leave. Clearly, there was more to this than met the eye.

They went through to dinner shortly after, Tapscott securing Camille’s arm by a clever sleight of hand that cut the chagrined Mr. Morosett out, and she could not but be grateful. She had never been over fond of serpents. Slipping her hand through Tapscott’s arm, she gave him wry glance.

Camille’s lips twitched. ‘Well I
was
the one who put my needle and thread to work. A lady likes to know her embroidery has not been wasted. I was relieved when no reports of bodies were circulated.’

‘I would never have inconvenienced you by dying in the vicinity of your house.’ He sounded quite shocked.

‘I am pleased to hear it.’

There wasn’t time for more for they were ready to be seated. Fortunately, Mrs. Harkness kept an informal table and there were no preordained seating arrangements, which meant that Lord Tapscott could take the opportunity to slip into the seat next to Camille’s. She was not unhappy to have him there, considering him a valuable source of information as to what took place in the neighborhood. Lord Tapscott seemed like the kind of man who got around in all the wrong places.

Mr. Morosett sat opposite them. He gave her a small smile and she returned it politely. It was some time before she could engage Tapscott in conversation; his attention was monopolized by a young lady who clearly thought him a delightful dinner companion. Camille smiled, listening to the giggles, wondering if
she
had ever felt that young, which was rather sad as she was only four and twenty. Still, a man like Lord Tapscott, a shocking flirt, did not come into rural Kent every day and Camille could hardly blame the girl for her enthusiasm. Good-looking rakes were hard to find. His lordship would make a thrilling change from the usual country squires with their preoccupation with shooting, fishing, and horses. Her own dear Ned had told her that she would probably find his neck of the woods dreadfully dull, filled with the worthy and the wordy. Back in France, when the world seemed to be going to hell, the rural charms of sleepy Lymstock seemed like a mirage of sweet sanity.

But now, looking around the table, Camille understood what he’d meant. The local gentry were kind-hearted, but there was an element of the parochial she had not encountered before. She wondered how it would feel, living among these people, after twelve months. More, she wondered if she would retain her sense of perspective after twelve years.

‘Well, Lady Durham,’ Lord Duffy, sitting on her left hand side, said jovially as he helped himself to a large portion of sliced beef. ‘What do you think of the area?’

‘From what I have seen, it is charming. Such views. I have not had the opportunity to explore as yet, there is much to do at Kirkham, but I am sure I will find it all to my liking.’

‘Aye, tis a nice enough place. Do you shoot?’

For a moment the question threw her. The memory of the conflict she had left behind was still too fresh in her mind, but then she realized that he was talking about hunting. ‘I am a reasonable shot.’ She was an excellent shot. Her father had made sure of that.

‘Good, good. Marvelous hunting across the moors. Old Leadbeater is planning a shoot in two weeks time. Bit of a tradition.’ Lord Duffy deposited an enormous forkful of meat into his mouth and chewed doggedly. For some reason Camille was reminded of a cow, but that might have been because his lordship looked almost bovine himself. When he swallowed, he continued on where he’d left off. ‘The locals all gather for a day of it. Early start, late finish, but by God we bag a few.’

‘It sounds very interesting,’ Camille said politely, resolving to be busy on the day of Leadbeater’s - Had she met him? Was he here? - shoot. She had never quite grasped why the English enjoyed the wholesale slaughter of their bird and animal life, but decided it might be wise to keep such thoughts to herself. Despite the fact that she was half English, she had never lived in England, only coming for the occasional visit. Some of the ways of her father’s people were, as her mother used to say
incompréhensible et étrange
.

‘Wife doesn’t shoot,’ Lord Duffy added gloomily, preparing to deposit another enormous forkful of beef in his mouth, ‘but then, that’s the ladies, hey?’

Which made Camille wonder what he thought
she
was.

On her other side, Tapscott touched her arm lightly. Turning her head, she met his smiling blue eyes. ‘It’s because you’re French,’ he explained kindly. ‘Everybody knows that French women are quite different to English women.’

Camille narrowed her own eyes at him, suspecting devilment. ‘Indeed? How so, my lord?’

‘Oh, well,’ he waved his own fork, laden with nothing more taxing than a small slice of roast chicken, ‘it’s because you’re
foreign
, you see. People will be quite happy to excuse foreign ladies anything. I should take advantage of that if I were you.’ And he gave her a melting smile, before slipping the chicken into his mouth. He did
not
look like a cow when he chewed, Camille noted. He managed to retain his quite absurd good looks even when his jaw was moving rhythmically.

‘And how would I take advantage of it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Take to wearing breeches and smoking a pipe. Call on people after ten at night. That kind of thing. Nobody will hold it against you.’

‘Because I am foreign?’