The Rake Revealed (9 page)

She gave the woman a warm smile. ‘Well I am very glad you were well enough to call on me.’

A tea tray arrived and polite small talk commenced. It did not take long for Camille to discover that Letitia Harkness and Amelia Fallston cordially loathed each other. It came out in any number of ways, all of them sly and, more often than not, politely vicious. Compliments that were not compliments at all, devious digs about secrets and indiscretions that lay in the past. After a time, Camille gave up trying to smooth over the conversational waters and sat back to listen, almost in wonder. Clearly the two ladies had known each other for many years for their vast repository of mutual antipathy indicated a long history. Under other circumstances, Camille might have found the situation uncomfortable, but there was something fascinating about listening to her two guests fling poisonous barbs at each other.
Another aspect of English life that I am unfamiliar with
, she reflected with an inward shake of the head. It seemed she had spent too long living a vagrant life on the heels of her husband and polite society had passed her by in France, making her miss the finer nuances. She really had a great deal to learn.

Just when it felt that things could not get any more uncomfortable, Gillie came into the room and met her mistress’s eye. Camille swore that the girl looked positively agog with delight. ‘Lord Tapscott,’ she announced, just a little breathlessly.

Camille wanted to fling her hands in the air and protest at the injustice of it. Of all the inconsiderate things he had done – turn up bleeding in her drawing room,
kiss
her – this was possibly the worst. The man’s timing was masterful. He entered the room, smile firmly in place as he surveyed the occupants.

‘Well now,’ he drawled, ‘how
very
pleasant.’

Lady Fallston blushed, Mrs. Harkness simpered, and Camille sighed, realizing that she would now have to listen to two mature matrons vie for the new arrival's attention. It hardly seemed fair.

All three ladies rose and he bowed over each of their hands in turn, the perfect gentleman. No matter how it might look, Amelia Fallston was clearly thrilled by his unexpected arrival, fixing her large, pale blue eyes on his face with an intensity that was painful to behold. Camille realized the lady truly did have a
tendre
for the man and her sympathy deepened. How uncomfortable, to care for somebody who could not reciprocate in full. If Lord Tapscott really was playing with the poor woman’s affections, then he should be ashamed of himself.

He did not
look
ashamed. Far from it, he looked exceptionally, devilishly handsome, his dark hair tousled, for it was windy outside, his blue eyes glinting with amusement whenever they looked at Camille. Damn the man, she thought crossly. He had a knack of drawing a person in, of making them feel as if they shared some kind of secret. That ability, along with those extraordinary good looks, would convince any woman to throw their hearts – and probably a great deal more - at him.

The moment that Tapscott arrived, the mood changed. Gone was the subtle sniping, replaced by more flirtatious sorties from both ladies.

‘My lord, is it true that you are staying with Viscount Morcombe,’ Mrs. Harkness demanded, face avid. ‘I do hope you and Mr. Morosett did not have a disagreement. Although, he can be a very unpleasant man at times. So up in his high ropes.’

‘No disagreement, no,’ Lord Tapscott said smoothly. ‘It’s just that Viscount Langdon and I share a passion for archeology and he very kindly asked me to stay with him for a week or so while I continue to explore whatever Boggart Bay has to offer.’

Mentally, Camille rolled her eyes. The viscount shared his enthusiasm for archeology? More like French brandy. Considering the rather strained relationship between the two, she wondered if Mr. Morosett had actually thrown his guest out or if his lordship had left of his own accord.

‘You could have stayed with us,’ Lady Fallston said breathlessly. ‘We have such a large house. If you tire of the viscount’s hospitality do come and spend a few weeks at Kerrimere.’

‘I’m sure Lady Fallston would be delighted to learn something of archeology from you,’ Mrs. Harkness said tartly. ‘Although, I doubt that Lord Fallston would find it quite so interesting.’

Camille winced. ‘I am sure there is nothing more tedious for those of us who do not share such enthusiasms,’ she said hastily. ‘Lord Tapscott is to be congratulated for finding another
fanatique
to share his interest, yes?’

‘I think there is always room to learn something new,’ Lady Fallston said stoutly.

Mrs. Harkness gave a little titter. ‘If the tutor is right, I am sure that is true in everything.’

Camille gave an inward sigh. Well
this
was pleasant! Somehow, she had thought English polite society would be more… polite. She ordered more tea and wondered if it would be considered very rude if she left her guests to it, but there was no escaping the fact that she was now a hostess responsible for others' comforts and disappearing wasn’t an option. Looking up, she met Tapscott’s eye once again and could have sworn that he divined her thoughts. She dropped her own eyes before returning to the task of trying to smooth the ruffled temperaments of two ladies who were determined to capture the attention of the one man, a man, she thought wearily, who had the most appalling timing imaginable. What did he mean, turning up like this? After that kiss, what did he mean by turning up at all?

He certainly didn’t help matters with his subtle flirting with
her
and her indignation grew. She had thought, with his continuing absence, that he shared her dismay over their unfortunate interlude, but clearly she had attributed far too much sensitivity to him. Despite her best efforts, several times their eyes had caught and she had seen something far more intimate in the depths of his than anyone could consider proper. A heat that stirred an answering fire within her. She tamped it down firmly, annoyed that he should be able to stir her interest so easily, but truthfully, he did stir her, rousing emotions that were a great deal more difficult to disregard when he was present. She only hoped she could conceal her responses, for nothing was more demoralizing than showing a man like Tapscott that he had made another conquest.

Awkward as the conversation was, it became infinitely more so when another guest was announced. Gillie entered the room and caught her mistress’ eye meaningfully. She was clearly having an interesting afternoon. ‘Mr. Morosett.’

Camille looked at the tall figure standing behind her maid with a touch of incredulity.
Four
callers? After days of not seeing a soul, her rapidly filling drawing room was disconcerting, to say the least.

Once again, a ripple went through the guests already in place, heads turning to survey the new arrival.

‘Mr. Morosett,’ Lady Fallston trilled, ‘how nice to see you.’

Morosett had lifted his quizzing glass and was surveying the room and its occupants with lazy curiosity. He dropped it and came forward, a smile on his thin lips. He was exquisitely turned out today in a coat of royal purple superfine, a waistcoat of delicate lilac and a pair of black breeches. His neckcloth was folded with such intricacy that it boggled the eye, while the points of his collar were perhaps just a
little
too high for country life, but not enough to raise an eyebrow. He looked quite exotic, a man who should rightly be in London, walking along Bond Street or sitting in the bow window at White’s as Camille had heard the dandies liked to do each day, showing off their tailor’s efforts. She suddenly wondered what he was doing in Kent. Yes, he owned Barstock Keep and the Season was over, but he seemed oddly out of place in among the provincials. Usually a man such as this retreated to the comforts that Europe had to offer. He moved forward with languid elegance, coming to bow over her hand.

‘My dear Lady Durham.’

‘Mr. Morosett,’ she replied with a curtsey, ‘I am quite overwhelmed today, as you can see. So many people have come to call.’

‘I fear I am trailing sadly behind,’ Mr. Morosett agreed, his eyes sweeping over Lady Fallston and Mrs. Harkness and lingering, for a moment, on Lord Tapscott, who inclined his head cheerfully. ‘One so does not like to be
tragiquement fin
.’

‘Oh, but you are most welcome,’ she assured him as he bent over the other lady’s hands. They settled themselves once more. ‘May I offer you tea,
Monsignor
? Or I have a Madeira you might prefer.’

‘I would prefer Madeira,’ Tapscott observed sweetly, replacing his teacup with alacrity.

Camille bit her lip. ‘Then certainly, let me offer you both a glass.’

It was, she reflected afterwards, a curious afternoon. There were undercurrents that she could not understand; Lady Fallston’s intense fixation with Tapscott, the subtle barbs from Mrs. Harkness, and the quite incomprehensible comments from Mr. Morosett, largely directed towards his newly departed guest. It was clear that neither man held the other in high regard, but they behaved with perfect civility, even if it did border on the cutting at times.

After a time, Mr. Morosett came to the point of his visit. ‘I hope you do not mind, my dear lady, but I have recalled that your husband’s mother possessed a small collection of porcelain, some of it quite old. Did you know?’

‘I am afraid not. Edward and I did not discuss such things. I’m afraid I do not know where they might be. I have not made a full account of all the rooms yet, but have only focused on three or four to begin with.’

‘Very sensible. Houses can be so draining,’ he agreed lazily. ‘But I was hoping that I might be able to reacquaint myself with those pieces your husband’s mother collected. I saw them some years ago and can still recall that one or two were very fine. I would like to add them to my own collection and was hoping we could make some kind of arrangement.’

‘Certainly,’ Camille agreed, thinking that the request was no stranger than anything else she had listened to so far. Mr. Morosett had made his interest in French figurines all too clear. ‘Did you wish to look today?’

Something flickered on his face, an avid look that was gone so quickly she doubted that she saw it at all. He shook his head and smiled. ‘Another time will do just as well. You are very kind, my dear. I will call again.’

Camille nodded and shortly after that the party began to break up. As was fitting, all four of her guests left together so she was spared any private conversations, something she could only be grateful for. Even if Lord Tapscott had wanted to linger, and she feared he might want to, the determined companionship of Lady Fallston saw them both walk out the front door together.

Gillie closed the front door on them, then looked at her mistress. ‘Talk about a full house.’

Camille knew she should probably start training the girl into the correct etiquette for a career as a housemaid, but she had been exemplary when there were guests and she was right. It had been a full house. ‘I wish that Mrs. Hibbert knew how to make coffee,’ she said, rather plaintively. ‘I would so like a cup right now.’

‘Fancy a nice cup of tea instead?’

Camille shook her head. That was one thing she had yet to learn to love. The drinking of tea. How the English loved it. ‘No, but please ask Mrs. Hibbert to make hot chocolate. Do not let her tell you we have run out, for I saw it in the pantry yesterday.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Gillie said gleefully and departed to enjoy her favorite pastime of exchanging hostilities with the housekeeper.

Camille trailed slowly back into the drawing room and took her chair by the fire once more. She felt quite worn out. For a few moments she contented herself with staring at the fire and enjoying the peace, but then she thought of those miniatures.

Mr. Morosett would be back, she knew he would. Sooner, rather than later if his enthusiasm was anything to go by and as pleasant as his manner was, she still could not say that she cared for him very much. She certainly did not want to trail through rooms with him in search of some
stupide
figurines. It might be as well to find them before he returned, just so she could keep the visit as brief as possible. Rising to her feet, Camille commenced her search.

An hour later, fortified by a cup of hot chocolate, Camille had found all manner of things in the rooms she had yet to explore fully. So many odd things. Stuffed animals, a collection of walking canes, aged and ancient paintings and tapestries, and an entire cupboard of Belgian crystal. There were plenty of figurines, whole cabinets of them in fact. Shepherds and shepherdesses, Grecian dancers, more animals of the woodland variety. There were trunks of things she could not even recognize, so ancient their purpose had become esoteric.

In a pleasant green parlor that lay at the rear of the house, she found what she thought might be Morosett’s pieces, six of them in a old oak crystal cabinet. She recognized the style; they looked like the ones that her mother had once had. They were pretty enough, although Camille had always found such things insipid, but at least she could clean them and have them ready when he did come to call. Shaking the dust out of her skirts, she looked around her. The room was obviously little used for calico sheets covered most of the furniture and the room had the desolate air, as if it had been abandoned for a long time.

Moving across to one of the floor length windows, she pulled the drapes opened and blinked at the light that flooded in. The view into the back gardens was really quite charming. When the new gardeners had brought the beds into some kind of order, it would be lovely. She moved across to open the second set of drapes, reflecting that this would make a very pleasant sitting room. There was plenty of light and a nice fireplace with a white painted mantle decorated with a frieze of carved oak leaves and pinecones. The room had a feminine feel, as if it had once been the provenance of a lady. There was a portrait of a woman over the mantle and Camille moved forward to study it, wondering which Durham lady it featured. On the way, the heel of her shoe caught in a frayed piece of rug and she lurched forward, hands going out instinctively to break her fall. She did an awkward little hop, catching hold of one of the carved pinecones on the frieze to steady herself. There was a distinct click, then a grating noise, the sound of a mechanism scraping into life, and Camille stared in astonishment as a panel beside the fire place drew back into a recess, revealing a dark opening. A waft of chill air came through it, making her skin prickle up into a rash of tiny bumps.