Edith Layton (3 page)

She wasn’t a bluestocking, because she enjoyed sports as much as books. Sometimes her speech was rough, she admitted. But she’d spent more time with boys than girls when she was growing up, because she had more in common with boys. In
all, she was definitely an oddity in fashionable London and had to work hard not to embarrass her beloved brother and sister-in-law. It pained her that she might have failed.

“Camille, honestly, I never meant to wound you,” Miles suddenly murmured, mistaking her silence for continued insult.

“Oh, I know that,” she said, surprised. “I’m brooding about something else.”

“Eric will be fine,” he reassured her. “Rafe will know what to do.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “Thank you.”

She felt warmed. She loved her brothers, though neither had been close during her lonely childhood. Miles had been at sea, trying to repair the family fortunes, and Bernard was sent away to school early. Her mama had little time for any of her children; she’d lavished all her love and attention on first one husband and then the other. Even now she was in Bath, hoping to find a third husband. Camille’s childhood companions had been her pets, dogs, cats, and horses. They’d given her love in return, but no guidance on how to be feminine.

Still, for a wonder, no man had ever run screaming from her. Just the reverse, she thought smugly. She’d garnered her share of offers even before her brother had made enough money for her formal come-out and had already gotten five decent offers of marriage in this her first Season.

But though the proposals she received were
heartfelt, they were never ones she wanted to hear.

“I say, Cammie, you and I deal so well together, let’s get married, what do you think of that?”

“What fun we’ll have together Miss Croft. You know horses as well as hazard. In short, you understand a chap and don’t kick up a fuss over nonsense like other girls do. And you’ve got a sense of humor. You don’t need the flowers and the poetry. You’re sound as a winter apple and sane as you can hold together. I ain’t so bad, neither. So will you marry me?”

“A fellow doesn’t have to worry about minding his manners around you, Camille, he can be himself. I’m tired of doing the pretty for all these Incomparables with their temperamental fits and starts. I want to go home. I’ve got parents itching for grandchildren, a good income, and a fine estate. How about it? Want to get shackled?”

Those were the more romantic offers. But she hadn’t got even a hint of that from the one man she most wanted to hear it from. He could have asked her any old way. Sometimes, when reality rode her hard, she doubted he ever would. But she wouldn’t accept anyone until he at least asked someone. So long as he was free, she was caught.

It could happen, she told herself fiercely. Hadn’t all the men who’d offered for her been friends? Anything could come from friendship. She had to believe that.

Eric Ford was everything she wanted. When he
spoke, she had trouble hearing the words because the deep timbre of his voice thrilled her so much, and that was a pity, because he was so smart and she hated to look stupid. When he took her hand, her heartbeat faltered. It wasn’t just because his hand was so big that it made hers seem dainty, although that was a delight.

She wasn’t entirely blind, though. He had his faults. It was just that she loved them all. He was so big and blond that it took a moment to realize he wasn’t classically handsome or even spectacularly so. On closer consideration, it could be seen that his face was a jot too broad, his nose a bit too large. In fact, if he’d been a smaller man, he mightn’t have been as eye-catching. But he dominated a room, and not just because of his size. A woman felt protected in his shadow, and she could be sure he’d move that shadow if he thought she wanted to be in the sunlight. Because he was as kind as he was bright.

No, she didn’t worship him; she just wished she could marry him. The effect he had on her was tumultuous and had been since the day she’d clapped eyes on him at her brother’s wedding. It only intensified when she’d seen him at her first formal appearance in London.

When Miles had come home and restored their fortunes, he had promised her a Season, complete with gowns and parties. A Season hadn’t tempted her that much, but oh! Eric did. She’d come to Lon
don to please her brother and her sister-in-law, but she stayed because that was where Eric was. She’d immediately quizzed her brother about him, trying to be casual so he wouldn’t know how his friend had affected her.

“Did you meet him when you were in the navy, Miles?” she’d asked at breakfast the morning after she’d met Eric, sifting in her questions about him along with comments about the ball.

“No, he was army. We met years before, at school.”

“Why did you never bring him home?”

“He spent vacations at his own home. He’s devoted to his family. They live in the country. His father’s a retired colonel. His stepmother, a charming woman, is like his sister, Rafe’s wife, Brenna, in looks. It’s strange to think of them as brother and sister. She’s as dark and exotic as her Welsh mama. They say Eric is as fair as his late mother was. Different as they are, both he and Brenna are handsome as they can stare. But then,” he’d added, because of his wife’s raised eyebrow, “of course I’d notice that. I have a fondness for exotic ladies. Luckily, I got the best one for myself.”

“Why isn’t he married? Something deep and dark and secret? Did some exotic female break his heart?” Camille asked with mock melodrama and was instantly sorry. Her sister-in-law, Belle, looked stricken.

Miles reached out and took his wife’s hand. “As
a matter of fact, he had a fancy for our Belle,” he told Camille, though his eyes never left his wife’s. “Who would not? But my luck held. As you can see, she preferred me.”

Camille had felt ill. Not only would she not hurt Belle’s feelings for the world, she herself was as far from exotic as she could get without leaving the country.

“No, not so,” Belle said softly. “Eric never meant it. All that flirtation was merely for effect. In fact, it seems to me that he’s always preferred whomever he thought he couldn’t get.”

Camille had turned her face away, afraid her sudden joy at hearing that Eric hadn’t really succumbed to Belle’s dark charms might be noticed.

She’d seen him often since then. She made sure of it. “Of course I could go with other men,” she’d told Miles and Belle in as pitiable a voice as she could muster, “but I feel most comfortable with Eric, because he’s your friend.” It was a gamble. They might guess how she really felt. She couldn’t help that. But they loved her, and she could trust them to keep their knowledge to themselves.

And so, as a friend, and one of Miles’s few unmarried ones, Eric came along with them to the theater and the opera and for walks and drives. Once he’d even invited her for an afternoon all by herself, with her maid for propriety, of course. They’d gone to Astley’s Amphitheatre to see performing equestrians and trained horses. Camille hadn’t slept the
night before and had been light-headed with happiness when she got there—until she’d looked around and seen that it was exactly where a kindly uncle would take a child who was visiting the city.

The more she found out about him, the more he delighted her. His likes and dislikes dovetailed with her own. He was athletic, he liked animals and the countryside. He read books and cared about politics and never minded that she did too. But however he looked and sounded, Camille was no fool, and she’d learned in a hard school. Her mother’s second husband had been a handsome, charming villain. Camille knew how to judge a man. She judged Eric one of the best.

She had nothing to offer him but conversation, laughter, friendship, love, and devotion. She knew that. But she dared dream that would be enough, and all the novels she’d read fueled that dream. Now she had her chance.

Eric hadn’t found someone else to love in London, at least, not yet. He didn’t seem smitten by the recent crop of Incomparables, nor did he have a current mistress. She knew, because she’d asked every gossip she’d met. Little by little, her dream had grown ever more possible—until tonight.

She believed he would survive the beating he’d just received. After all, he was still walking and making sense. Nor was she daunted by his illness—malaria might be dreadful, but she refused to believe he could be felled by it. If it was chronic, it
didn’t matter. She’d see him through that and more. The question was whether he’d want her to.

Camille stole a glance at the perfect profile of the girl Eric had rescued. She sat gazing out the window at the darkened city, her secrets still as mysterious as she was. Young, beautiful, a tragic victim saved by a gallant stranger. They’d been thrown together by fate. And fate had a way of uniting chance-met lovers, or at least, it did in every novel Camille had read.

She swallowed hard and prayed her own fantasies were more powerful than the fictions she imagined, because she was so weary of fantasy and so very eager for life. And she couldn’t see how her life would mean very much without Eric in it.

T
here was nothing to do but wait and worry. Camille was good at the worrying, if not the waiting.

“Rafe will not enjoy your pacing a hole in his carpet,” her brother commented, looking up at her as she passed by him again. “Would you care to sit? Or else stalk somewhere else? Like at home?”

“Oh, bother!” she said, plunking herself down into a chair. “You wouldn’t say that if I were a man. Why is it only the women who are supposed to sit calm and collected when they’re not?”

“Do you see me stalking the room like a caged cat?” he answered mildly.

“Well, if you think quarreling like cats will pass
the time better, I’m at your service,” Camille said too brightly.

“Camille!” Belle exclaimed with a frown.

“I’m sorry,” Camille said, burying her face in her hands.

“It’s all right,” Miles said gently. “If tearing each other to pieces would help Eric, I’d be glad to let you have at me.”

“It won’t, I’m sorry,” Camille said miserably.

“All’s forgiven and forgotten.”

“We’re all worried,” Belle said. “But if pacing makes you feel better, Camille, do it.”

“Yes, only do it in the hall,” Miles said. “There’s a nice long one out there. Mind you don’t frighten the footmen. That Rafe mightn’t forgive you for. Good help is hard to find.”

Camille smiled. The tension in the room lifted. But only for a moment.

The physician had been up there with Eric for nearly an hour, and Rafe and Eric’s sister, Brenna, hadn’t come down yet.

As soon as Brenna had got word of her brother’s condition, she’d fled the ball, along with Belle. They’d gotten to Rafe’s house only moments after Eric had been settled in a bed there. Brenna had gone immediately upstairs to join her husband and brother. Moments later the doctor arrived. No word from them had been heard since.

Rafe Dalton, his wife, and infant son lived in a lovely house in a prime part of London, near a green square, around the corner from the park.
The spacious rooms were beautifully furnished with modern furniture in the Egyptian style. High windows let in air and sunlight during the day; new gaslights high on the walls provided a warm aura by night. Those walls were covered with stretched silks in shades of light blue and green—to compliment Lord Dalton’s blazing red head, his friends always joked. But not tonight. Now the house was filled with suspense and dread. No one raised a voice lest they miss hearing anyone come down the stair. Conversations stopped and eyes looked up whenever there was a footfall in the outer hall. So far, those footfalls had only been from the servants coming into the salon where the guests sat, with offerings of food and drink.

Miles and Belle passed their time in murmurous conversation.

Camille was too preoccupied with thoughts of Eric to be sociable, and because she hated the fact that she could do nothing, she again got up to pace. She glanced over at a chair near the window. The unknown girl Eric had rescued sat there so quietly it was easy to forget her presence. She’d been given a glass of something fortifying, told that she was safe, and advised to relax. Then she’d been left alone in her shadowy corner. She still sat withdrawn, acting more like a criminal than a victim. Even though she’d been told her story would be heard and help would be forthcoming, Camille belatedly realized the poor creature must be worrying herself to bits, wondering about her fate.

Camille went and perched on a chair next to her. “Do you need anything?” she asked. “I know you told us you hadn’t been hurt, but we’ve been so busy worrying about Eric that we hadn’t thought to ask. I mean, do you need to use the convenience? Would you like something to eat? There’s cakes and wine, but maybe you want something more substantial?”

The answer came soft and low. “No. Thank you.”

“Well…Oh, my goodness!” Camille said, as the thought occurred to her. “Is there anyone you’d like us to send word to? We never thought of that!”

Miles and Belle looked up sharply at Camille’s exclamation.

The girl seemed to shrink from their stares. “No, thank you,” she whispered, drawing the hem of her skirt in. “I don’t know anyone in London. That’s part of my problem.”

“Camille,” Miles said sharply, “I told Miss Baynes there would be time for that later. Let her be.”

“She wasn’t troubling me,” the girl said quickly.

Oh, wonderful,
Camille thought glumly.
Now the heroine has to protect me from my own brother.
“I wasn’t bothering her, Miles,” she said defensively. “I just asked if there was anything she needed.”

“I suspect she’s a bit overwhelmed,” Miles said. “Don’t worry, Miss Baynes. When Lord Dalton comes downstairs, we’ll hear you out and try to resolve your problems. It’s just that there’s a more pressing one now.”

Even her happily married brother was quick to defend the unknown chit, Camille thought glumly. Beauty was obviously as powerful a defense for a woman when she was among gentlemen as it was a danger when she met up with rogues. That was a thing she herself would never know.

She looked at the girl again and felt guilty. Maybe this poor creature didn’t know that either. Maybe she’d never been among gentlemen. The girl was watching her, wide-eyed and wary.

“Well, then,” Camille asked her, “is there
anything
I can do for you?”

“You’re very kind,” the girl said softly. “I didn’t think that a woman of your class would be that kind to me…after the way we met.”

“A woman?” Camille blurted, flustered. Surely she and this Nell were of an age? Was she being insulted? She met the slight the same way she’d meet a compliment, straight on, with incredulous honesty.

“Well, first off,” she said a shade too heartily, “I’m not a woman exactly. That is, I am. But I’m only just turned twenty-one. You see, a woman is usually someone who has at least a decade more to their name. Well, at least, that’s how I…” She paused, flustered, as it occurred to her that she really was now legally a woman and not a girl anymore.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I thought you were older,” the girl said.

Camille felt even worse. “Well, there you are,” she finally managed to say stupidly. Not wanting to
show her hurt, she added, “And our class is like any other, you know. There are good and bad people in it. How old are you?”

Now was it Nell who hesitated? A second later, she said, “Eighteen, my lady.”

A beautiful younger girl, Camille thought sadly. “I’m not a lady. My brother’s a viscount, but he inherited that title from an uncle. I’m plain Miss Croft, Camille Croft.”

Nell nodded. It would be easier chatting up a clamshell, Camille thought. At least then she wouldn’t expect an answer. The girl sat straight, her slender hands twisting in her lap, clearly apprehensive, as though she were being threatened. It was odd how one’s companions changed one’s sense of self, Camille thought. Because if Eric Ford made her feel dainty, this delicate creature made her feel like a hulking brute of a girl—woman, she corrected herself with painful honesty.

“Well,” she persisted. “If there’s anything you want, you can tell me, you know.”

The girl nodded.

“Don’t hesitate,” Camille added.

“I won’t,” Nell said, ducking her head. “Thank you.”

Camille rose, tired of feeling like an ogre.

Then Rafe Dalton came striding into the room.

“He does well,” Rafe reported.

It seemed everyone in the room let out their breath.

“That is to say,” he went on, “he has the fever
and the blasted shakes, but I’ve seen him worse, and so has Brenna. It appears the intensity of the fever is abating over time. But he still suffers from it. Even so, we can expect him to get better faster and for the effects to be less each time he has an attack. As for that other attack…” His eyes slid to the corner of the room where Nell sat. “The beating he got dazed him, but no real harm was done. He didn’t lose consciousness and is in no way addled. He’ll ache, but he’ll do. And he’s staying on here until he’s well enough to fight me with more than words for the right to go home. So don’t worry. Now,” he said, openly looking at Nell, “let’s find out more about it.

“Miss Baynes,” he said, turning his full attention on her, “how did you come to be on the street and why did you accost my friend?”

“Rafe!” Miles exclaimed as the girl shrank back. “Couldn’t you phrase it a little more gently?”

“Well, I said it as best I could,” Rafe said with a scowl.

“That’s probably true,” Miles said with a smile, “but she doesn’t know that.”

“Sorry if I frightened you,” Rafe told Nell roughly, “but I’m trying to get to the bottom of this.”

“Perhaps I might try?” Miles asked.

Rafe shrugged.

Camille gaped. They were not only arguing about whether the girl was insulted but also wondering how to talk to her! Though Nell might well
be the innocent heroine of some romantic tale, the girl had, after all, caused Eric’s injury, and they had a perfect right to ask her any questions they wanted to. But the men were tiptoeing around her, and these were men who had sometimes worked for the War Office during the late wars, men accustomed to dealing with all sorts of spies and double-dealers. Camille was astonished. She looked at Annabelle and saw her amused smile.

Of course, Camille thought with a twinge of sadness, she was the only one who was surprised. Beautiful women expected that sort of treatment and understood when it was offered to others of their fortunate sisterhood, whatever their social station.

“Miss Baynes, please don’t distress yourself,” Miles said. “Lord Dalton is a man of few words, and those always to the point. But though his question might not have been phrased delicately, it is the one on our minds. Could you please tell us the details of your meeting tonight with our friend Eric? And don’t worry. We aren’t here to condemn you, only to get at the truth. The damage to our friend is done. We only want to prevent more.”

That was fairly said, Camille thought, and waited for the girl to speak.

“I am so ashamed,” Nell said. She ducked her head, and when she looked up again, there were tears tracing down her lovely pale cheeks.

“If you’re in any pain,” Miles said quickly, “we can go on at some later time.”

“No, no,” Nell said with a weak and wavering smile. “Nothing hurts but my feelings, and that isn’t your fault. You see, I came to London only a week ago—only a week!” she murmured, as though in disbelief. She straightened, locked her fingers together, and held her hands in her lap, like a little girl giving a recital in class.

“I was born and raised near Eastwell, in Kent.”

Belle interrupted, “That’s where I heard the name! I thought it sounded familiar. Are you related to the Baynes of Rye? Viscount Baynes was a schoolmate of my father’s.”

Nell shook her head. “I can’t say. My father didn’t see eye to eye with his family after his marriage to my mama, so I don’t know any of them. And now Papa can’t tell me, as he’s dead. Nor can my mama, though she’s alive but not—in her right mind. She became ill a few years ago and is getting feebler every day. That’s why I came to London. When she no longer recognized me, I knew it was time to seek help from any relatives I could find.” She looked down, as though shamed.

It was remarkable how her long lashes formed fans on her pale cheeks when she did that, Camille thought, as fascinated as she was envious that the girl’s sorrow became her so well.

“My mother didn’t have a big family,” Nell went on. “At least, I don’t think so. I never saw them any more than I did my father’s. Her side were prosperous farmers, but his were of higher rank. Neither married where their families wished, so they were
estranged. Papa started a mercantile business, but when he died, it was sold. We lived on the profit, but when Mama began to fail, I went through her dower chest and found letters. She had an older sister, who lived in London, and they’d corresponded years ago. I thought if I came in person I could find her and appeal to her for Mama’s sake. She needs more care than I can give her now.

“I arranged for a neighbor to look after Mama and took the mail coach to London. When I arrived a week ago,” she said, looking up, eyes wide, bright with fear, “I was met at the coaching stop by the kindest little old woman. I thought my aunt had sent her, because she seemed to know so much about me.”

Miles frowned. Rafe nodded. Belle sighed.

“Yes, I was a greenhead,” Nell admitted sadly. “She asked as many questions as she answered, but I didn’t see that, not then. She said she’d take me to my aunt, but instead she took me to a terrible place—a brothel! She locked me in a room and wouldn’t let me out, although I cried and screamed.”

“What is the name of the place?” Miles asked.

Nell shook her head. “I don’t know. I saw the women and heard men coming and going, but I never heard any names. They brought me food, but I wouldn’t eat. I only drank from the wash water they brought me too. I had sense and remembered things I’d heard, if too late.”

“Good thing,” Rafe said darkly.

“Yes,” Nell agreed, looking up again. “I was afraid they’d drug me.”

“They likely would have,” Miles agreed.

Nell bowed her head and went on. “They took away my traveling bag and left me only the clothes I stand up in. I begged to be let go, but no one listened. I prayed the rest of the time. And then, just last night, when the old woman who brought me dinner said I’d better eat fast because they were going to send me company that night—I knew I had to do something. So when she turned her back to set her tray down, I pushed my handkerchief into the doorjamb so it wouldn’t close tight. After she left, I drew the door open, slipped out, and made my way down the stair.

“I got out through the back door, but I didn’t get far. The streets were so dark and frightening, I started running. I supposed I shouldn’t have done that, because it drew attention. That’s how I met that man you saw tonight. He asked if he could help me, and I told him my whole story. I said my aunt would reward him if he took me to her. But he said I’d be a better reward.

“He dragged me with him along the street and said he’d kill me if I fought or screeched for help. The next thing I knew he was offering me to your friend. I didn’t know that’s what he meant to do, but I hoped that would be my salvation. Your friend looked so strong, and he appeared to be a good man…one who wouldn’t need to buy…
company. You know the rest. Ah, but it’s been such a terrible time!”