The Rake Revealed (11 page)

The morning drifted into the afternoon, which, in turn, moved sluggishly into evening. The rain continued its assault, turning the world into a watery blur. Camille toyed with the idea of remaining at home, but Lady Fallston’s ball was considered an important social event. Besides, the poor lady seemed so very
twitchy
. She would be a nervy mess, convinced that nobody would come and that would be a very great pity.

So, dressed in a ball gown of heavy, pale golden satin, her hair caught up, but for one large, plump curl that hung over her shoulder, Camille prepared to socialize with her set. Merry placed a heavy velvet cloak of topaz velvet around her shoulders and handed her a fur-lined tippet for her hands, before stepping back with a happy sigh.

Camille did not point out that she had been doing so for some time before Merry had arrived on the scene. Instead, she merely shrugged. ‘Then build up the fire and nap. I may be quite late.’

Kerrimere, the Fallston country residence, was an impressive stone building that was a true manor house. Footmen were waiting to usher the guests in, holding umbrellas up to lessen their discomfort as they hurried into the house. Clearly, a great many people had thought as she had, for guests continued to arrive behind her and the rooms were well populated, more so than she would have thought possible in the country. Some guests must have travelled some distance to attend.

Camille drew a deep breath, handed over her cloak and tippet, and sailed forward to be received by her host and hostess for the evening.

She had met both of the Fallston’s at Mrs. Harkness’ diner party, of course. Amelia Fallston, elegantly dressed in pale blue sarcenet and diamonds, gave her a wide smile. ‘Lady Durham, how brave of you, coming out in this dreadful weather!’

‘How could I not? My first English ball. I am very excited.’

‘Well, let’s hope we don’t disappoint, hey,’ Lord Fallston boomed. As thin and fragile as his wife looked, his lordship was the exact opposite, a portly gentleman with an enormous voice. They seemed like an odd couple, complete opposites really, but so often it was with marriage. It was almost certain that it had been an arrangement between the two families. Lady Fallston was considerably younger than her husband, forty to his fifty-five, perhaps. Camille wondered if the poor woman had ever been happy with the match and didn’t wonder that she might pine after the likes of Tapscott.

The ballroom, while not enormous, was certainly large enough to comfortably accommodate several hundred people and it glittered with light, a lustrous glow throwing a patina of gold that reflected the soft sheen of her gown. Camille smiled at this person and that, many of them unknown to her, trying hard
not
to look for Lord Tapscott. He might not even be here. While it was certain Lady Fallston would have invited him, there was not certainty that he would put in an appearance. Although, after showing up the other day, it was unlikely that he would show any discretion.

She was hailed the moment she walked into the ballroom by Clara Harkness and several young ladies, surely debutantes on the brink of enjoying their first Season.

‘Lady Durham,’ Clara said happily, ‘but how pretty you look!’

Camille smiled. ‘Not nearly as pretty as you, Miss Harkness. Your dress is as lovely as you are.’ And indeed, on this occasion neither mother nor daughter had gone too far and her pale blue silk dress suited her to perfection.

Clara blushed. ‘Thank you. These are my friends, Helena Goring and Olympia Farringdon.’

Introductions having been made, the three girls set about quizzing Camille about her gown, demanding to know who had made it for her. By the end of the conversation, she suspected that the little dressmaker would be receiving calls from some new patrons in the not too distant future.

For the first hour after her arrival, she was kept busy with the social necessities, undergoing introductions (not everybody had attended Mrs. Harkness’ dinner party), making conversation and, when the music started up, taking to the dance floor. She danced every dance, for she did not like to say no, and there seemed to be a great many gentlemen who were keen to stand up with her. The continuing absence of Lord Tapscott was both a relief and a disappointment, in almost equal measures. She did not like the way she craved a glimpse of him. It was far from the level of indifference she wished for, so it was a good thing that he had elected to stay away. Perhaps he had even left the area altogether, although she was sure that she would have heard if that was the case. The departure of the most popular rake around would certainly inspire regret in more than one ladies bosom.

The room was warm and dancing had made her even warmer. After emerging from the retiring room, she did not immediately return to the ballroom, but slipped into a small parlor that a quick peep had told her was deserted. From there, French doors led out onto the terrace. Camille opened the door gently and let the cold, rain scented wind wash over her, cooling her overheated skin. The terrace was partially sheltered and she stepped out, enjoying the quiet. When she heard voices, she almost retreated back inside, but paused when she realized that she recognized one of them. Camille hesitated, hand on the door handle, and tilted her head, trying to hear above the constant soft susurration of the rain.

‘…do not… will not be…’

Fragmented words, but she was almost certain that they were being uttered by Lord Lucius Tapscott. Had she surprised an assignation? But no, for she was almost certain that the other voice, barely discernable, belonged to a man. Camille hesitated, then crept forward, edging in the direction of the voices. Her eyes had grown used to the darkness. In the opposite direction, the terrace was lit by the light from the ballroom that spilled out, showing up the wet slicked stone, but the low voices were coming from the opposite direction, where there was no light. She could hear them more clearly now. Lord Tapscott, definitely and… Mr. Morosett?

Moving slowly forward, being careful to keep her skirts lifted and out of the spray of rain that fell beyond the overhang, she edged along the terrace to where it angled around. It was here that the two men were having their private conversation, away from the crowds.

‘Do not pretend that you don’t know what I am talking about,’ Mr. Morosett’s voice, sounding decidedly less friendly than the last time they had spoken. There was a sibilant hiss to the words and an underlying anger that made Camille shiver. ‘I know what you’re about my lord. You think you can disguise your actions behind a flippant façade, but believe me when I say, I am not fooled for a moment.’

‘Indeed. Well let me tell you, I know what
you’re
about,’ his lordship replied evenly. There was no flippancy in his tone now. It was almost as cold as Mr. Morosett’s and edged with steel. ‘If I were you, Morosett, I would cut my losses and leave the area.’

‘How very strange. I was thinking much the same thing about you. I believe I saw you down in the cove yesterday evening, my lord.’

‘I would be interested to know what you were doing there.’

There was a small silence, then Morosett spoke, sounding vastly irritated. ‘You can continue to play act as much as you like, but I have been watching you Tapscott. And I will continue to watch you. Remember that.’

From her place of concealment around the corner, Camille raised an eyebrow. What an odd conversation. Both men had said very little, but each seemed to know what the other meant. She sensed that the conversation was coming to an end and turned around, hurrying back the way she had come. It would not do to be found listening to a private conversation, especially not when the two men had clearly taken such pains
not
to be overheard. That they had elected to speak out of doors, on a dark and rainy night seemed to suggest a strong desire for privacy.

‘
Tout cela est assez étrange
,’ she murmured, closing the door gently behind her with a shake of the head. Not for the first time she wondered if the English were a little mad. Their food, their love of shooting small animals of all kinds, their curious obsession with tea. Perhaps it was the climate? She walked slowly towards the ballroom, pondering what she had heard, trying to make sense of it. Something was clearly going on with both men, the tones of their voices had said as much, but what it was remained incomprehensible. Whatever it was, it seemed unlikely to be over a woman. Camille had seen enough of the world to understand
those
kinds of conversations and that had not been one of them.

Entering the ballroom, she looked around vaguely, then faltered to a stop at the sight of Lord Tapscott bowing over the hand of Lady Fallston. The woman was gazing up at him, radiant with happiness while she listened to whatever it was he was saying.

Camille did not gape openly at finding him here, but she was astonished by the sight of him. She had left him in conversation with Morosett and yet here he was. Unless it had not been him? But no, those deep tones were as distinctive as Mr. Morosett’s chilly ones. He must have
run
into the building.

As if sensing her eyes, his lordship turned his head and their eyes met and locked for a long moment. Camille felt suddenly breathless, as if she had run up a dozen flights of stairs. It took considerable effort to school her face into a polite social mask and start walking again, but the sense of breathlessness remained.

As she knew he must, he approached her at the first opportunity. She had gone to talk to a small group of her new found social acquaintances, suddenly eager for the protection they could afford her. She was not quite certain why she felt in need of protection, or even from whom she was being protected, although she suspected it might be herself. That glance, and her reaction to it, had been disconcerting. She did not need her heart to race at the sight of Lord Tapscott.

Of course, she knew the moment he arrived in her orbit, would probably have known even if the two ladies she was with did not start to preen, touching their hair and adjusting their posture as the best looking man in the room approached. Neither lady was probably aware of their actions, Camille reflected wryly. It was just the effect the man had on a susceptible female. And when it came to his lordship,
all
females were susceptible. The curious thing was, the two gentlemen who also made up part of their group did not seem to mind the arrival of the popular newcomer, greeting him heartily. It was a rare gift, she thought with an inward shake of the head, that a man could be so appealing to a woman and not have other men hate him for it.

‘My Lord Tapscott,’ Dorothea Hurstbridge fluttered happily. ‘And here, none of us thought you were coming.’

‘How could I miss such a dazzling occasion?’ That familiar voice inquired, from somewhere just behind Camille’s left shoulder.

She half turned, feigning nonchalance, lifting her eyes to his face with a small, polite smile. Forewarned was forearmed and she was ready for the insidious jolt of awareness that merely looking at him caused, but she was ready for it and carefully expressionless. Not for the world would she let him think her one of his devoted disciples.

‘My lord,’ she said pleasantly.

His eyes lingered on her face, drifting down to her lips for a moment. The glance was unexpectedly intimate and scattered her careful indifference, for she could feel warm suffuse her face. ‘Lady Durham. You look extraordinarily lovely tonight.’

She moistened her lips, hoping her voice would not betray her. ‘How kind of you to say so. You had everybody a little alarmed, my lord. They thought you were not coming.’

‘It’s true,’ Helene Darley, a great friend of Mrs. Hurstbridge, pouted. ‘I protest, it is shameful of you, sir. We poor ladies are all pining for a dance.’

‘All of you?’ Lord Tapscott inquired, eyes moving back to Camille again. ‘Even you, Lady Durham?’

‘I have already danced many dances tonight,’ Camille returned with a small shrug, ‘and I am feeling quite fatigued. I would be more than happy if you were to turn your talents to others more deserving.’

It wasn’t quite a set down, not when she had said it with a smile, but it was far from encouraging. Most men would have retired with good grace, but then, Lord Tapscott was not most men. Unfortunately.

‘I am wounded by such an unkind dismissal,’ he said with mock despair. ‘What do you say? Mr. Hurstbridge? Lord Vickers? Should a man have to tolerate such treatment?’

The two gentlemen chuckled. ‘I should think myself well out of it if I were you,’ Lord Vickers said frankly. ‘Can’t say dancing is a favorite occupation of mine. Not that I don’t enjoy squiring a pretty lady around the dance floor,’ he added, catching an affronted look from Mrs. Darley. ‘Always a pleasure, I’m sure.’

‘Not all dance partners are as sought after as our Lord Tapscott,’ Mrs. Hurstbridge said sweetly. ‘Unlike a great many men, he is very light on his feet.’

‘I think she has loosed a mortal arrow with that barb,’ Lord Tapscott said sympathetically.

‘Our loss is your gain,’ Mr. Hurstbridge said cheerfully. ‘I’m sure Mrs. Hurstbridge would be delighted to take a turn with you.’

Which, Camille thought with some satisfaction, left his lordship no choice, but to offer his arm and escort the lady onto the dance floor.

It might have been thought that, with so many women after Lord Tapscott’s fleet-footed talents, she might have been spared his attentions, but, after only half an hour, he appeared at her side with such suddenness that she jumped.