Page 43

M arianne had been out to a Society friend’s breakfast when Camellia slipped from the house to see Major Taverston, and was still gone when she returned. Camellia was thus able to hide in her bedchamber until her swollen red eyes were merely pink.

Why had she believed the major should be told?

The rationale she’d used to convince herself now seemed absurd.

Knowing that he’d fathered Neville could only cause him pain, and she had no wish to hurt him.

Obviously, she had , more than she’d known.

There was something sad, even pathetic, in the way he had tried to rub salt in her wounds by comparing his aristocratic birth and his property to Manfred’s.

Like a wounded animal, Major Taverston was dangerous.

The clock on her wall showed it was now a little after four. It was rude to be late for tea, so she hurried to the parlor. The floorboards in the dimly lit hallway creaked beneath her feet. Drawing close, she heard voices.

Bother. This was the day the viscountess was coming. How had she forgotten? Camellia picked up her pace.

The parlor was a cluttered, formally decorated room, that always struck Camellia as a bit much .

There were vases, candlesticks, and figurines in every niche.

The chairs were of rosewood and a fine chintz that was yellow with dark-red cherries.

The drapes, open to allow a view of the garden, were the same shade of red.

Marianne and Alice were seated on a Chesterfield sofa, upholstered with yellow-and-red stripes.

Marianne’s jonquil gown clashed with the sofa, but Alice was dressed in an exquisite deep-blue moire that complemented everything in the room.

“Ah, here she is,” Philip said. He rose and swept a hand toward Camellia, letting his quizzing glass fall to dangle by its chain.

Philip was not a tall man, but he had an aristocratic presence.

However, he wasn’t as imposing as the man rising to his feet from an adjacent chair. “Lady Bodwell, this is Lord Haslet.”

“Hazard,” the man corrected him. He smiled and bowed.

A viscount! Camellia hurriedly curtsied.

He was significantly older than Alice—gray at the temples with deep laugh lines by his eyes.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. Peers generally found themselves young brides.

Still, one could not deny that he was handsome.

Handsome, distinguished, and meticulously dressed in a gray jacket and fawn trousers.

His cravat was elaborately tied, and his boots were so highly polished they seemed to give off light.

“Lady Bodwell and I have already decided that she is Camellia ,” Alice said with a light laugh. “Come, sit with us.” She patted the sofa to show there was room. Camellia crossed the floor to reach them.

“I’ve never seen such a perfect dress,” Camellia said. Surely Alice was increasing, but the drape of the fabric made it impossible to tell.

Alice grinned. “Did you hear that, Haz?”

“Indeed, I did. And may I say I told you so?”

Face alight with laughter, she said, “Hazard dresses me now. Apparently, left to my own devices, I am a frump.”

Camellia smiled at the comfortable way they teased one another.

When Alice patted the sofa again, Camellia sat.

Marianne and Alice were talking about another event to raise funds for the orphanage.

She listened with half an ear. With the other half, she tried to catch what Hazard and Philip were discussing.

They sounded serious. Something political.

She heard “the Irish” a few times and once “Liverpool.”

Alice turned to her. “You must have been to Tunbridge Wells. You’re from Tonbridge, aren’t you?”

Camellia started. “Yes, I am.” She wasn’t sure how the topic had changed, but she tried to jump in. “From what I understand, it isn’t as fashionable as Bath, but I thought Tunbridge Wells was lovely.” More than lovely. She’d waltzed there with the major.

“And the waters?”

“Oh.” She frowned. “I couldn’t say. I didn’t take the waters.” Seeing Alice’s disappointment, she added, “But my brother did. And his valet said that it helped.”

“And what was your brother suffering from?”

“Alice is asking for her father, who has the gout,” Hazard called across the room. “Alice, my dear, please do not give everyone the impression that I am decrepit.”

“Your hearing is remarkably intact,” Alice called back.

At that moment, the butler entered the doorway with a silver tray in hand and announced, “Lord Stirling, you have a caller.”

Philip raised his hand, and the butler brought him the tray. He lifted a calling card from it, perused it, and frowned. “Well, yes. Yes, bring him up.” The butler turned to go. Philip said, “A fellow up for membership at White’s. I can’t imagine why he’s come.”

Conversation returned to Alice’s intention to visit Tunbridge Wells. Then the major stepped into the room. Camellia stifled a gasp.

Alice cried, “Crispin! Oh, how wonderful.”

He cut an impressive figure in finely tailored civilian clothes: pale-blue superfine trousers and a dark-blue cutaway jacket, paired with a crimson waistcoat. It did not help Camellia’s state of mind. Why must he be so attractive?

Hazard rose and went to shake his hand. “White’s?

Ah, poor fellow. You are playing right into Jasper’s hands.

” He glanced around. “Who do you know? You must know everyone. Lord Philip Stirling.” He gestured with a nod.

Then, “Lady Marianne Stirling. And Lady Camellia Bodwell. Everyone, this is Major Crispin Taverston, one of Wellington’s finest.”

The major gave them each a stiff bow. He looked pained. “I didn’t know you and Alice would be here. I would not have interrupted a gathering—”

“Don’t be silly!” Marianne said, rising. She went forward to welcome him. “Philip and I are delighted to make your acquaintance. I was just about to ring for tea. Please join us.”

He pursed his mouth. “Thank you. But I came to speak with Miss Harr—with Lady Bodwell. If it is not too great an inconvenience.” The words would have been polite, but it sounded more like a command than a request.

Philip frowned. “Lady Bodwell is in mourning and not receiving callers.”

“Philip, really,” Marianne said, then tittered. “How stuffy you sound when Camellia is here having tea with our guests. And if Major Taverston is a respectable gentleman, he may certainly join us.”

“I’ll vouch for Crispin,” said Hazard. “I’ve known him for years.”

“That might not be to his credit,” Alice said, smirking.

Philip thrust out his chin. “Very well, but it is up to Camellia.”

She didn’t want to be browbeaten again. She’d said she was sorry. What more had they to say to one another? What else would he accuse her of? Nevertheless, refusing would be suspect, so she said, “I’ll speak with him.” Her voice was so weary Marianne looked startled.

“In private,” the major said, brooking no argument.

For a moment, the whole room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Then Marianne said, “Why don’t you go for a turn in the garden?” She pointed to the window. “Right out there.” The implication was clear. Camellia’s friends would be watching.

He turned to her. “Will you?”

“Yes, of course.”

She mumbled her excuse me ’s and beckoned for the major to follow.

They went down the staircase, then out a side door.

He walked stiffly and his face was strangely tight.

She led him into the garden, which was flush with towers of blue delphiniums, white puffs of hydrangeas, and fragrant roses that were pale pink to bright red.

They went down one path, then another. When she knew they were no longer visible from the parlor window, she stopped and faced him.

“Major Taverston, I suppose it is my turn to ask. Why have you come?”

He stared at her, then blurted, “The baby was mine.”

“Oh!” Her throat closed so tight she could not breathe. She became lightheaded; her vision swam. As she began to sink, he put an arm around her waist, catching her.

“Sit. Sit down.” He lowered her gently until she was sitting on the ground, then knelt in the dirt beside her. “Breathe slowly.”

She did. In a minute or two, the garden stopped spinning.

“Are you all right?” he asked. She nodded. He took a few shaky breaths of his own. “What…what was his name?”

“Neville,” she murmured. “For my brother.”

“Ah. Good.” He sat back on his haunches, staring at the ground. “Did Manfred know?”

She nodded again. “I told him. Before we were married. I had to be honest—”

“Of course. Of course, you were.” His face twisted, agonized. He spoke so quietly she had to strain to hear. “You came to me first.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I—” His voice cracked. “I never knew my own son.” His shoulders convulsed and he buried his face in his hands. She stared, helpless. She hadn’t known what to expect from him, but it was not this.

“Crispin.” She put a hand on his shoulder. James had spoken to her in confidence. She didn’t want to betray that. But she owed more to Crispin than to James. And she couldn’t bear to witness such hurt. “You were ill. It isn’t your fault.”

“You wrote me a letter, I think.” He caught his breath and swiped tears from his face. “I never read it. I don’t know what became of it.” He ground his fist into the dirt. “God, I hate myself.”

“You were ill.” She choked back her own tears. Deathly ill. Irrational with laudanum.

“He was my son. And I turned my back on him. And on you! That isn’t who I am. You must despise me. If I had known, believe me, if I had known—”

“I had to go to Manfred. I couldn’t wait any longer. There was no time.”

“I’m not blaming you. You did the right thing. The only thing. And God bless Manfred. He must have loved you very much.”

This , here now, was the man she had thought him to be.

“No. No, he wanted a son that much.” She hitched her shoulders. “I think he married me because I was with child.”