Edith Layton (10 page)

Camille decided on the spot that later, when they were alone, she’d tell her sister-in-law about Nell’s obvious interest in Dearborne. There was a limit to how much she was willing to protect the girl, and a few words from Lady Annabelle on her highest ropes were better than any lecture Camille could give to Nell. Still, Camille realized with a trace of sadness, there was absolutely no point in telling Dana more. He wasn’t going to be part of her life after all. And by the time his cousin went to live with him, the matter would be moot.

Something flickered in Dana’s dark eyes as he
watched Camille’s changing expressions before he turned his attention back to Belle. “You were saying, my lady?” he asked her. “About where I could find a likely chaperone for my cousin?”

He’d need one, Camille thought on a stifled sigh as she turned back to see Nell staring at a richly dressed young fop in his high-perch curricle.

“That’s Lord Breckinridge,” Camille told Nell under her breath. “He isn’t an out and out cad, only one of the most stupid men in Town. And yes,” she added before Nell could ask, “he’s rich. Also married.”

Nell didn’t stop smiling. But Camille did when she realized that what she said hadn’t blunted Nell’s interest in the idiotic Lord Breckinridge in the least.

So when Eric came riding up, he saw Nell look up at him with a charming smile as she walked along beside a grim and thunderous-looking Camille.

“Down, Rags! Muffin, stop that!” Camille shouted, scowling even more as her dogs tried to get to Eric, even though their efforts made his horse dance dangerously in place.

Eric laughed, reached into his pocket, and tossed something to the dogs, causing them to scramble at Camille’s feet and not at his horse’s.

“If you didn’t carry dried sausage for them in your pocket, they’d leave you alone,” Camille panted as she struggled to keep her pets in check.

Eric put a hand on his heart. “You wound me! You mean they don’t love me for my own sake? But
you do, don’t you, my lady?” he asked Belle. “Good morning, Bartlett,” he said with a nod to Dana. “And how are you this morning, Nell?”

Eric looked grand, Camille thought. He was dressed all in brown, and from the glow on his face to the smile in his eyes, there was no way anyone could tell he’d ever been sick a day in his life.

“We’ll do,” she said before anyone could answer him. “But no need to ask about you. You’re in fine fettle, aren’t you?”

“Better now that I’ve met up with you,” he said.

She had to grin. “Much luck it will do you. You’re riding, we’re walking.”

He slipped down from the saddle. “I can walk as well as ride. Might as well take a weight off Thunder’s back.” Taking the reins in one hand, he ambled to their side, leading his horse behind him.

Belle’s smile was real and warm. “Yes, come stroll with us, Eric. We’re going to walk until Cammie’s rambunctious beasts get tired.”

“Oh, an all-day affair,” Eric said. “Fine.”

And so it was, for Camille—until Rags saw a squirrel and tried to take off, with Muffin eager to join him. By the time Camille got their leads sorted out, it was Nell who was walking beside Eric, favoring him with the same rapt attention she’d given Dearborne and Breckinridge. And he didn’t seem to mind at all.

“My cousin,” a voice said at Camille’s ear, “is a handful, is she not?”

Camille looked up and into Dana’s concerned
eyes. He wasn’t so much taller than she, and it made his gaze seem more intimate.

“You’ll have to watch her,” she said honestly. “She doesn’t…That is, she’s new to Town,” she concluded weakly, because she didn’t want to seem to be disparaging his cousin.

She didn’t have to. “But she’s obviously not new to the world,” he murmured in worried tones. His dark eyes searched Camille’s so deeply and with such intensity she felt as stirred by his attention as she did embarrassed. But she couldn’t look away.

“It’s a great deal to ask,” he said as he gazed at her. “But will you help me with her, at least until I can take her under my own wing? So that she doesn’t ruin her chances for the future?”

Camille felt as let down as relieved that his request had to do with Nell and not herself. “I will,” she promised.

She was so confused by her own reactions that she was glad to look away and at Eric.

Until she saw he was too busy chatting with Nell to notice.

E
ric paced in the parlor. He’d arrived too early, and that surprised him. Camille was always ready ten minutes before an appointment, much to her fashionably late sister-in-law’s perennial disgust. Maybe Belle was having some influence on Camille after all, he thought. He smiled. Not likely. It was much more probable that Camille was still in the stables, fretting over a sick horse or supervising the delivery of a litter of kittens. Miles and Belle were probably dealing with some last minute catastrophe of their own, a snag in Miles’s neckcloth or a tear in Belle’s gown. Or maybe even a last minute of lovemaking. They’d only been married for a year, after all.

He looked up as someone slipped into the room.

“Good evening,” he said, bowing. “You look lovely, Nell.”

That was the usual thing to tell a young woman on her way to a ball, but in this case it was only true. The girl looked exquisite. They were going to a costume ball, and she wore an antique gown with a laced waist and a sweeping bell of a skirt, her neckline low enough to show the tops of her pretty little breasts. Her hair was done up in inky ringlets, her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Even from where he stood, he could scent her sweet perfume. She’d have been a sensation tonight even if the dramatic tale of her rescue hadn’t gotten out.

“Thank you,” she said, curtsying low enough to show him even more of those lovely apple-shaped breasts.

He cleared his throat and raised his gaze to her face. “But since no one else is here yet, you’d better go find them. It isn’t proper for you to be alone with me. Not that I’d presume,” he added quickly. “But those are Society’s rules.”

Instead of retreating, she came further into the room, only stopping when she stood in front of him, and then only because she couldn’t get closer for the bell of her skirts. She looked up into his eyes and then lowered her own gaze, starry black lashes shadowing her petal-smooth cheeks. He backed a step and felt as foolish as confused when she took a step closer.

“But I’ve something in my eye,” she said plain
tively. “It stabs at me, and there’s no one else around. Can you help?”

The scent of gardenias was strong. She put her head back and bent toward him, her eyes closed. They were so close he could feel her soft breath on his face. Her rose-colored lips parted. The room was very still.

He heard voices somewhere in the outer hall and quickly stepped back. “I’ve hands like hams,” he said gruffly. “I’d do more harm than good. You’d best go find someone with defter fingers. Tell you what,” he said, moving away toward the door, “stay here. I’ll see who I can find.”

He left the room. She might or might not know the rules of Society, but he did, and they were nothing to trifle with. A speck in her eye might have earned him an instant wife or at least the contempt of his friends. Being found alone with an unmarried female, touching her face or staring into her eyes, would have been damning, however innocent his motivations. So he was delighted to look up and see his friend Miles coming down the stair.

“Belle’s slow this evening,” Miles reported. “Cammie’s no better. You’d think we were going to the palace instead of just another ball. And one held in public rooms, at that.”

“Women,” Eric said, “are mysterious creatures. You ought to know that by now, especially since you are married. By the way, Miss Baynes is in the
salon complaining of something in her eye, and I wondered…”

“Oh!” Nell said gaily, as she stepped out of the salon and into the hall, “no need to worry! I blinked, and it’s out.”

Miles smiled, looking at her as approvingly as any healthy male would.

“Excellent,” Eric said, looking at her with new speculation.

“Sound the trumpets!” Camille sang from the top of the stairs. “Here we are!”

Eric looked up and went still. “Well worth the wait,” he said gallantly.

“See?” Camille laughed. “He knows what’s good for him.”

She took Belle’s arm and came down the stair, merry as she could be, because she knew she looked well, if not wonderful, and as that was the most she could hope for, she was content.

Camille’s contentment didn’t last the night. She was as panicked as she’d be if Muffins or Rags ran away from her straight into traffic. Because it was nearly midnight, the ball was in full swing, and Nell had vanished.

Nell had disappeared from a crowded ballroom and been gone nearly a half-hour that Camille knew of. It might have been longer. While taking a breath after a rowdy country romp, she’d realized Nell hadn’t joined her as she was supposed to do after each dance. So Camille refused her next part
ner and started looking. Nell was nowhere to be seen either inside the ballroom or in the ladies withdrawing room.

It was too cold for her to be outside, but that wasn’t what worried Camille. She was more upset at the thought that Nell could be somewhere inside, either in one of the private rooms in the massive opera house or in some convenient dark niche, closet, or hallway. That was where secret lovers had their trysts. She’d seen plenty of them squirming in each other’s arms in the shadows as she’d hunted for Nell. That was why she hadn’t told Miles, Belle, or even Dana Bartlett about his cousin’s disappearance.

Nell’s life could have been in danger, though Camille doubted it. There were few murderers in the
ton
. But there were plenty of seducers. And it seemed to Camille that Nell had returned the salacious smiles of every one of them before she disappeared into that last dance from which she hadn’t returned. More likely Nell’s reputation rather than her life was at stake. That was why Camille hadn’t raised an alarm yet. If Nell was caught at her own foolishness, as Camille suspected might be the case, it could cast a shadow of scandal on Miles, Belle, and herself. It would definitely ruin Nell. She was not, after all, a member of the society she found herself in.

No matter what was preached on Sunday, Camille knew that a woman of birth and means could disgrace herself with a man and yet survive
it. Of course, she’d be taken out of London into the country, where an arranged marriage would quietly be made for her.

But Nell didn’t have a noble background, and who could say if her newfound cousin Dana would take her in if he found her carrying on? Unless, of course, Camille thought, whatever man Nell had disappeared with was willing to marry her and save her name by changing it to his.

Camille was very worried about that.

Because Eric was gone too.

And Camille knew it might all be her own fault. She’d been the one to insist that Nell come to the ball. After all, they’d discussed the invitation in front of her.

“Young Lord Ragland and his dewy bride are giving a ball,” Belle had said. She often read out invitations to the family at breakfast to see who was interested in them. “But they haven’t the houseroom for one yet.”

“No,” Miles said absently, his nose still in the newspaper as he lifted his coffee cup. “They can’t have ours. Ragland’s an ass.”

“They don’t want ours,” Belle went on. “They also say,” she read from the card she was holding, “they want to ‘share the joy they found in Venice on their honeymoon.’”

“Should have stayed there, then,” Miles muttered.

Camille giggled.

“And so they’ve rented the opera house and sent
invitations for a grand ball.” Belle said, ignoring him. “The theme of which, of course, is to be Venice. What fun!”

“Can we go?” Camille asked.

“Can we?” Belle asked Miles.

He peered out from the side of his newspaper. “Can I survive if we don’t?”

“I don’t think so,” Belle said seriously.

They all laughed, even Nell, who had been sitting, as usual, mute as a mouse. It was only when everyone was done laughing that she asked, in her soft, small voice, “Am I to come too?”

Camille felt terrible and shot an agonized look at her sister-in-law, because Belle usually didn’t seem to be aware of her guest. It would be cruel to say no after saying how grand it would be, Camille thought, holding her breath. Belle might sometimes be unaware of people she considered beneath her, but she was seldom cruel.

Belle glanced at Camille, pursed her lips, and sighed. “Yes, you may, of course,” she told Nell. “We’ll ask your cousin too, if you like.”

“Thank you. I’d like that very much, and so would he. I know he would,” Nell said. But it was Camille she smiled at as she said it.

When they arrived at the opera house, Camille saw why Belle wanted to be there. Their hosts had dreamed up an inspired notion. Where else could a sumptuous canvas backdrop depicting St. Mark’s Square support the merry illusion that they were actually in Venice? There were other theatrical de
vices to add to the effect: artificial waves made of wood marked off the dance floor, false gondola poles stood at the sides of the room, servants pretended to row stage set half gondolas. Musicians and serving men were all in Venetian costume. Even so, they didn’t catch the eye as much as the guests did.

Each guest seemed determined to outshine the others. They were dressed in stunning representations of the Italian Renaissance, perhaps even gaudier than the original had been, certainly more outrageous.

Belle had gone to the trunks in her mama’s attics and come up with perfect costumes for them all. She herself wore a blue gown with wide panniers. Nell had been lent one that was striped bright pink and white. Camille was ecstatic with the gown she’d been given. It was daringly low at the breast, permissible to wear because its antiquity made its boldness acceptable. She refused to wear the heavy wire cage fashioned to hold up its skirts—the petticoats that came with it were enough for that. The gown also had froths of ivory lace sleeves and hem. That, as well as age, cooled the brilliant gold of the fabric. And it fitted as though made for her.

When she looked at herself in the spotted mirror up in the attics, Camille was only sorry she hadn’t been born a century or two earlier, when fashion flattered figures like hers. Wide at the skirt as it was low at the breast; it nipped in her waist to make it look tiny. The whalebone stays were merciless, and
breathing was hard. But it was only for one night. And what was being short of breath to looking like a princess?

Now Camille stood at the sidelines of the room and squinted against the dazzling light, searching for a glimpse of Nell’s gown. It was hard to find, because many guests were dressed in such brilliant colors and other women also wore period costumes. Some of the men wore shirts of many colors with puffed, slashed sleeves, and their form-fitting tights had ribbons tied on their legs. Some ladies wore eye-masks, some men had on commedia dell’ arte masks with enormous noses and jutting chins.

Other guests chose standard formal wear instead, as Eric and Miles had done. When they got to the opera, they’d paused on the stair and surveyed the room in amazement.

“Thank God,” Camille heard Eric murmur to Miles, “none of those fops decided to wear a codpiece for authenticity. I don’t think I could deal with that.”

She’d been about to say, “I don’t think
you’d
have a problem,” but just in time remembered she was a lady and this wasn’t a stable.

He looked wonderful to her as he was in his dark jacket, white linen shirt, satin breeches, and white stockings, and she thought it would have been a pity if he’d worn a mask to hide that wonderful face. They’d had one dance, then he’d disappeared. She’d danced the rest of the time away with other partners. Even now, a few hours into the ball,
everyone was still clearly having a grand time.

But Camille wasn’t, because soon supper would be served and there’d be no way to conceal Nell’s absence. Camille felt hurt and betrayed.

“Cammie? What’s the matter?” Eric asked. Camille looked up to see him smiling down at her.

Her hand flew to her breast. She couldn’t answer right away. She was surprised by his sudden appearance at her side and not sure what she should say. “Where have you been?” sounded presumptuous. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his answer if she asked, “Where’s Nell?”

She started to blurt, “I can’t find Nell,” but couldn’t. The words died on her lips—because she looked at his.

His lips were firm and shapely, but they were also red. And they looked smudged with rouge.

She tried not to show the pain she felt and tried to think what to say.

He saw the direction of her gaze and frowned. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, touched it to his lips, and then looked at it. “Lord, like a boy at a jam pot,” he said, with a chuckle. “You’d think I’d have learned to be more fastidious.”

Camille thought her heart would crack.

“Have you tried that punch?” he asked as he dabbed at his mouth again. “Too sweet, I know, but I’m partial to strawberries, and I’d had too much wine, so I was really thirsty. The punch only made me thirstier…. What’s the matter?”

The handkerchief showed red smudges; his mouth no longer did.

“Nell’s gone!” she blurted, so suffused with relief there was no room for tact.

“I know,” he said with a frown.

She stared.

“I’ve been looking for her,” he said. “I saw her in a set with Copley almost an hour ago and remembered I’d promised her a dance. But when the music stopped, she was gone and so was he. I didn’t want to raise a hue and cry for her sake. But I don’t trust Copley, and she is new to Town. That was a while ago. I was just going to ask you where she was.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “When I saw her last, about a half-hour past, she was with Osborne, though.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “Osborne’s a fool, not a cad, though he does keep bad company too often for my taste. Come, let’s dance. It’s so crowded that’s the only way to see the whole dance floor. She’s such a little slip of a thing, for all we know she may have been dancing all this time.”

Camille took his hand.

So I get to dance with him so he can search for her,
she thought as she stepped into the dance with him.
And though “thing” is not the most lover-like description, still, I’d never be called a little slip of anything.

But she could not regret the dance for any reason.