The Rake Revealed (5 page)

‘And dreadfully pretty. It’s a charming combination, let me assure you. I think it safe to say that you may consider the world your oyster.’

Camille bit her lip, resisting the urge to smile. Men like Lord Tapscott needed no encouragement. ‘I am eager to familiarize myself with the local customs,’ she said instead, trying to sound severe. ‘I do not think I need to frighten my new neighbors by doing anything so shocking. But tell me, my lord, how do
you
amuse yourself locally?’ Apart from bedding local women and sustaining near mortal wounds, she added silently.

‘Very well, actually. This coastline has some truly fascinating Roman remains.’ He said it so seriously that she was momentarily taken aback.

Camille gave his lordship a swift, searching glance. Archeology? Really? ‘These remains, they are a fort, perhaps? Or a village? I am afraid I do not know a great deal about it.’

‘Knowledge on the subject is unnecessary,’ Mr. Morosett assured her. ‘You have my word.’

Lord Tapscott ignored this, launching eagerly forth. ‘Both, but that was often the case. Villages regularly sprang up around forts as the soldiers settled in and married the local women. After a few years it was just like any other English village, but for the Roman garrisons and the training.’

‘Please!’ Morosett sounded pained. ‘Do not get him to talk of it, Lady Durham. He can go for hours.’

Tapscott smiled, not in the least offended. ‘Poor Morosett. I’m afraid he’s been forced to listen to me rattle on rather a lot.’

‘And while naturally I am enchanted to do so,’ Morosett returned sweetly, ‘I insist that others share in the joy, my dear boy! Preferably when I am elsewhere.’

There was generally laughter from those who had overheard this comment, but Camille was puzzled. While Lord Tapscott might truly be fascinated by all things archeological, it seemed a very odd interest for the man, especially when she remembered the state of him in her drawing room. She had met others who had similar interests when she had stayed with her family in the Burgundy district. The town of Autun had boasted all manner of Roman remains and the village played host to various archeological digs. Of all the, generally mad, English archeologists she encountered, not one of them was like Lord Tapscott.

‘Miniatures?’ Camille wracked her brain. She could recall that her mother had a few, pretty little things kept on a shelf in a china cabinet. ‘I believe my mother had several from Limoges. They were quite delightful.’

Morosett sat up a little straighter in his chair and raised the quizzing glass to survey her with renewed interest. ‘Your mother collected Limoges porcelain?’

‘She had several pieces. All lost now, of course.’

‘And did she also collect Vincennes? Or possibly pieces from the Chantilly region?’ Mr. Morosett was leaning forward, expression intent.

‘Dear me,’ Tapscott observed with a touch of malice. ‘It seems I am not the only one who has trouble controlling my passions.’

Camille shot him a quick look, reflecting that both he and Mr. Morosett might be similarly enthusiastic, but it was only his lordship that made it sound a little risqué. She had not thought that her first proper English dinner would be so beleaguered. Archeology and French miniatures. It was bizarre.

Mr. Morosett’s smile was as bland as milk. ‘Forgive me, my lady. Of course, Tapscott is right. Neither of us should bore you, but I would be delighted to show you my collection if you would care to call. I have some very fine pieces.’

‘That would be enchanting.’ Camille murmured and the subject was dropped.

Considering he was sitting next to her, there was very little chance to engage Lord Tapscott in conversation for he was clearly much admired by the ladies and, as a result, his attention was ever sought. After dinner they retired to a very spacious drawing room where tables had been set up for cards. Not everybody indulged, of course, but many did and the evening passed very easily.

By ten-thirty, Camille decided that she had had enough fun for the evening. She was growing tired and, while it had been very pleasant meeting her new social set, she was ready for some solitude and for her bed. She bade Mrs. Harkness goodnight, assuring her that she had had a most enjoyable evening.

‘It might be some time before I am able to reciprocate,’ she apologized, taking the lady’s hand and pressing it warmly, ‘but when my household is in order, you will be my first guest.’

‘Oh my dear! If there is anything I can do, please let me know. I’m familiar with all the best places for the humdrum stuff that makes a household run. Or if I’m not,’ she added airily, ‘my housekeeper is. You can rely on me.’

Climbing into the carriage, Camille reflected that her entry into society had gone far more smoothly than she had anticipated. She had thought her arrival might meet with mixed feelings, but everybody had been entirely charming.

Settling back in her aged carriage, she thought once more of Lord Tapscott and his peculiar behavior. Why had he concealed his wound? Because that man who had shot him might be present? But no, that made no sense. Perhaps his attacker had not known it was Tapscott he had shot. It seemed the only logical explanation, that whoever shot him did not know his identity. It would also explain his insistence that she should not call a physician, but he had been dreadfully lucky. All too frequently an infection could set in after such a wound and carry a body off.

It was a mere fifteen minute carriage ride back to Kirkham Hall and a very fine night it was, the earlier showers that had made the afternoon so bleak having blown away. Mrs. Hibbert had left a candle burning in the hallway, but there was no sign of her. It would be better when she’d hired a maid, Camille reflected. Somebody who would wait up to help her undress and prepare for bed. Not that she couldn’t do that herself, but sometimes it was nice to have somebody to say goodnight to. Life had been very lonely of late, her friends having fallen by the wayside along with the remnants of her old life.

Weaving her thick hair into a braid, Camille hurried beneath the covers for it was chilly. A maid would also have a fire burning in the grate. Yes, she would see about employing somebody tomorrow.

Camille blew out the candle and settled back into the not-quite darkness, for a chink had been left in the curtains and moonlight crept in. She thought of Lord Tapscott again. What a curious guest he had made. And his host, another odd man. Roman artifacts and French porcelain? Two very odd men…

Camille closed her eyes and drifted into sleep and, under the circumstances, it was little wonder that her dreams were full of strange and wonderful things.

Among the honeycomb of tunnels that wind and water had driven into the cliffs close to where, at that moment, Camille Durham was falling into sleep, Lucius Tapscott made his way carefully, guided by the discreet beam from a partially shuttered lantern.

Despite the circumstances, for his business hardly concerned the fairer sex, he was thinking of the lady herself. The oh-so-intriguing new lady now residing in Kirkham Hall. Her presence was as delightful as it was a nuisance for he had plans for the hall that did not include the owner being in residence. Ideally, his agile brain should have been giving him ways and means of turning her out, but nothing short of intimidation or barefaced trickery came to mind as a means of doing so. And Lady Durham did not strike him as the kind of female it would be easy to dupe and he could not bring himself to frighten her.

As he had discovered on their second meeting, Lady Durham was appealing in every way. The calm appraisal of his injury when she had found him in her parlor and the swift decision to help him had been the act of a courageous woman. Any other female would have screamed and called for help. He knew her circumstances to be unusual, she had weathered a difficult time in France, but it had left a mature woman who had been tempered by experience. A mature woman with the face of an angel, he thought wryly, remembering his first sight of her, standing in the doorway with a candle in her hand. He’d retreated to Kirkham Hall to regroup and dress his wound as best he could and had not expected to see anybody, let alone the vision of loveliness that had appeared.

What kind of woman would have met the arrival of a strange man in her drawing room with such equanimity? What kind of woman would have known how to dress a wound? Even if he had sought out a surgeon, it was doubtful he would have found better treatment.

After he had returned to Barstock Keep, and what a journey
that
had been, her face had remained in his head. A lovely, ethereal creature with a head of rich auburn hair restrained in a plait. The kind of hair that longed to be free so it could behave as nature intended; wild and thick and lush. For some reason she had made him think of a warrior woman, the Boadicea of polite drawing rooms everywhere. Even in the midst of his pain, he had wanted to free her hair and run his fingers through it.

It had been Camille Durham he had thought of when he had finally fallen into bed and into an exhausted sleep. He was inclined to think she had saved his life.

He paused, tilting his head to listen to the sounds of the night around him, but could hear nothing that did not belong. If he didn’t know for a fact that a French ship lay in the small, natural harbor not three hundred yards away, he would have assumed that the night was empty of anything but what nature had intended. He certainly hoped if anybody was about, that was exactly what they
would
think.

He began moving again, placing his feet carefully while his unruly thoughts skittered back to Camille Durham. Tonight had merely reinforced those first impressions, for she had been every bit as beautiful as he remembered. Clearly, Morosett thought so too for Tapscott had caught the interest in those cool gray eyes when they had rested on Camille.

He grimaced at the memory.
I do not think so. She is most assuredly not the woman for you, my cold and uncomfortable friend.

Not that Camille’s affairs had anything to do with him, but he was damned sure that they had even less to do with Morosett, no matter what the man might think. While it was a tragedy that Edward Durham had perished in France, his wife was still very young and very beautiful and it was likely there would be another man in her future, when she had recovered from her loss. A woman like that… Well, the concept of bees and sweet nectar came to mind. He hoped that whoever managed to capture her favor would treat her well, for life seemed to have been a hard on the lady. The loss of her husband and family; it was a lot for one person to bear.

He had already decided that it would be best if he did not see a great deal of her. She was a distraction, pure and simple, and he did not need distractions right now. He had business in this place and soon enough, that business would be coming to a head and he would move on. There were plenty of women to flirt with, plenty of beds and willing bodies to keep him warm, if he let them.

But Camille Durham’s bed was not one of them.

Having met her again to tonight, he knew that, knew it would be best if he avoided her all together for. Apart from her house, which must still play a part in the proceedings to come, Camille was out of bounds, if only because of the fact that he
wanted
to see her again. He wanted to say shocking things to her to bring that delicate color to her cheeks. He wanted to whisper wicked observations about her neighbors so that those green eyes danced. Wanted to casually touch her hand, or her shoulder, or any part of her that he could reasonably touch. He wanted to flirt with her and make her laugh, just to see the elusive dimples in her cheeks appear. He did so love a pretty dimple on a woman and Camille Durham’s were divine.

She was divine.

Which was why he had decided to avoid her. Every bone in his body told him that she was trouble and he did not need trouble at this stage of the game.

Of course, he also knew himself too well to think that he would abide by his own good advice. Lady Durham produced some very fine nectar and he was only a man, after all.

Having rounded the curve of the cliff, he caught a glimpse of the water, a restless, heaving shadow fifty feet below him. He was heading towards the curve of rock that sat almost directly below Kirkham Hall. He paused in inky shadows of a scrubby patch of trees and listened again, senses tuned to what was happening around him. Nothing but the soft sough of the wind and the dull, relentless wash of the water below greeted him. Putting two fingers to his mouth, he gave a low whistle. Almost immediately, an answering one fluted nearby. Tapscott stepped out into the faint glimmer of moonlight and waited for a sturdy figure to reach him.

‘How goes the tide tonight?’ he asked, as soon the man was in earshot.

‘Fair winds and a nice swell. We are traveling well,
mon
ami
.’

‘I am delighted to hear it.’ Tapscott rubbed his hands together in anticipation. ‘Let us see what a clever fisherman you are then, François. What have you brought me tonight?’