My Sweet Folly (48 page)

“Sir?” Robert prompted.

Dr. Joyce kept shaking his head. “I made considerable notes upon Mrs. Cambourne’s condition. I wonder—if I might be so entirely and unforgivably presumptuous—I wonder if I might ask her to condescend to appear at lecture I am to give upon—”

“No,” Robert said firmly. “That will not be possible.”

“Of course not.” The doctor’s cheeks grew ruddy. “You must accept my excuses for such audacity. But knowing what I saw—what you have done here, sir—”

“Good day,” Robert said brusquely, nodding. “Lander will see you out.”

“Of course. Of course.” The chastened doctor scuttled out of the drawing room. Robert closed the door behind him.

“What could he mean?” Mrs. Paine was looking at Folie with barely suppressed excitement. “Whatever did he mean? Dear me, one would think the man had witnessed a miracle!”

“I have no doubt that he did,” the older lady said wisely. “I saw him cure Mr. Bellamy myself.”
 

“Who cured Mr. Bellamy?” Mrs. Paine demanded.
 

“Why, Mr. Cambourne, of course!” She nodded at Folie. “You are blessed indeed, Mrs. Cambourne, in your husband.”

Folie shook her head quickly, groping for some reasonable reply. But she was afraid to make any mistakes—she knew that Dr. Joyce must be part of the grand scheme, and she did not want to create any more glaring public contradictions than she already had by her very presence. She looked in dismay toward Robert, hoping that he could pass it off lightly.

Instead, he looked back at her with an unreadable expression. The moment seemed to spin out to an agony of mortification. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she mumbled at last. “Mr. Cambourne and I are not married. I am Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Oh.” Folie could see Mrs. Witham-Stanley’s face change even as she said it. “Forgive me.” Their visitors all looked from Folie to Robert; the other ladies seemed—at least to Folie’s apprehensive vision—to grow stiff with affront.

“Miss Melinda is with you?” Mrs. Paine asked kindly. She turned to the callers. “Have you met Miss Melinda Hamilton? No? She is a darling girl—so unfortunate that her season was interrupted, but now that Mrs. Hamilton has recovered so beautifully, all can go on gaily! Will the Dingleys be returning?”

“No, no,” Folie said. “I am only here because I had to consult Mr. Cambourne upon—urgent business.” She waved her hand vaguely. “It was all so quick—Miss Melinda could not come.”

“Oh! You have come alone?” Mrs. Paine asked. Folie could see her storing that scandalous tidbit away like a diligent squirrel.

“Melinda could not come,” Folie said. “It was really impossible.”

“How vexing. But you will remain at least a few days? Where are you staying?”

“I—” Folie looked at Robert. She was sinking fast. “I really have not thought of that. This was a very hasty trip—I could not make arrangements ahead—I really must attend to that, but I haven’t yet had a moment to think of it.”

“My poor dear! Do not trouble yourself over that trifle, then! Of course you know our home is open to you. You must stay with us.”

Folie began to trip over her tongue, completely at a loss. She made helpless noises, wringing her hands in her lap.

“No,” Robert said, in the same brusque tone he had used to dismiss the doctor. “That will not be possible, I am afraid.”

“Nonsense, sir,” Mrs. Paine said. “She cannot stay here alone with you, and I will not hear of her going to a horrid hotel! Even if you are to move out of your own home, Mr. Cambourne—to have her stay in this great huge place by herself? No, no—it is out of the question. I know that you haven’t any relatives in town, Mrs. Hamilton, but consider us your family for the nonce.”

“Thank you,” Folie said meekly. She glanced at Robert. “It might be for the best—”

“No,” he said. “It will not do.”

“Well!” Mrs. Paine ruffled a little. “I cannot see any objection!”

“Truly, I believe Mrs. Paine’s kindness could be the solution.” Folie was thinking of Melinda’s prospects. If she insisted upon staying here now, with Robert, the knowledge would be all over Mayfair by evening. Bad enough, that she had already been discovered here in town without a decent companion—she desperately did not want Melinda’s reputation and future to be tarnished by any hints of improper behavior by her stepmother.

“No.” His answer was adamant. He scowled at her. “What are you thinking of? Mrs. Paine, we are much obliged to you, but it is impossible.”

“But, sir—” Mrs. Paine was sitting stiffly at the edge of her chair. “Why ever should it be impossible?”

“Circumstances,” Robert said. “Private circumstances.”

Their neighbor looked at him, her eyebrows lifting. “Allow me to be frank, Mr. Cambourne. I’ve every sympathy for your desire for privacy, but perhaps, as you are not very well acquainted with our London ways, you should listen to those who are more experienced. I do not know how it may be in India, but in London, it does not look well for Mrs. Hamilton to be here.”

“I am perfectly aware of that, madam. I thank you for your advice and interest.”

“As a gentleman,” Mrs. Paine persisted, “I apprehend that you do not quite understand how delicate a lady’s reputation can be, and how easily damaged. A pretty young widow’s in particular.”

His face had begun to change. Folie had seen that look; hunted and yet hostile. She gripped her hands uneasily together.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “However, there are other circumstances in this case—”

“I know you would not wish to compromise Mrs. Hamilton or her stepdaughter in the slightest manner!”

“Mrs. Paine—”

She grabbed Christopher, clapping her hands over his ears. “Mr. Cambourne!” she hissed in agitation. “Do you not understand me? People will suppose she is—’’

“Thank you, Mrs. Paine!” he snapped, cutting her off. “You need not sully anyone’s ears with your insinuations, madam. In fact, you may tell the entire city that we are engaged. Now that she is recovered, Mrs. Hamilton and I are to be married in a private ceremony this afternoon.”

Folie felt as if the floor had sunk into the basement under her feet. The room fell silent. She just managed to keep herself from exclaiming,
What?

She gathered her senses and shook her head vigorously. “But—Robert...”

“Everything is arranged, my sweetest,” he said, giving her a pointed glare. “I’m sorry that we could not keep our secret. Pray do not exercise yourself over it.”

Folie took the hint. She said nothing more. He had landed them in the soup now. Of course he was inventing anything that might throw Mrs. Paine off her dogged notion. Folie would have staked her whole jointure that he hoped his announcement would shame them all into going away with their tails between their legs. And then this “engagement” could be forgotten.

It was a grandly foolish attempt, hastily conceived and hopeless. But let him extricate himself. It served him quite well, she thought, for the mean, low things he had said of marriage and wives.

“Oh!” Mrs. Paine cried, recovering from her stunned silence. “But how splendid!” She hurried over and clasped Folie’s hands. “Oh, what a shock! Forgive me! Do forgive me.”

“No, no,” Folie murmured. “It’s quite all right. You could not know.”

“Do tell me what I can do! Have you a proper bouquet?” She looked over her shoulder at Robert. “Are the flowers ordered?”

“Yes, everything has been taken care of.”

“What nurseryman did you use? Not that paltry fellow in Shepherd’s Market, I hope! Have they been delivered yet?”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Witham-Stanley said, “I used him myself just last month—I was wholly disappointed. His lilies were perfectly atrocious. I cannot endorse him.”

“Cancel it!” Mrs. Paine straightened up militantly. “You may leave the flowers to me. Depend upon it, I shall see that you have the loveliest bouquet you can conceive!”

“And pray let me send over a plum cake!” Mrs. Witham-Stanley exclaimed. “But what sort of bride cake have you planned, Mr. Cambourne?”

“We have a plum cake,” he said swiftly.

“But is it to be iced? My cook creates the most splendid marchpane icing for a decoration. You have not seen the like. I should consider it an honor, my dear Mr. Cambourne. I’ve recalled so much of that dream of my sweet mother—you don’t know what pleasure it has given me! If you had not brought it into my mind, what would I have done?”

“And I have a recipe for a French kickshaw,” Miss Davenport offered shyly. “I should be happy to have one made up for the occasion.”

Folie bit both her lips together. Robert looked as if a calamity had overtaken him.

“You are all very kind—” he said. He glanced at Folie. She sat still, wickedly innocent.

“Come, Christopher! We have much to do! I vow I shall pick out the most perfect blooms myself.” Mrs. Price took her son’s hand. “Oh—I’ve just had the most charming notion! Would you like for Christopher to stand up with you, and hand Mr. Cambourne the wedding ring? I’ve just bought a new lace collar for his blue velvet coat—he is such a darling in it!”

“I shall allow Mr. Cambourne to answer that,” Folie said.

Mr. Cambourne gave her a baleful look. She smiled back virtuously.

“What a delightful idea,” he said dryly.

“Oh, you will not regret it!” the boy’s fond mother promised, growing a little teary. “It will be so sweet—you will want to weep.”

Mrs. Witham-Stanley sighed. “How I wish I could see it!”

“Why, you must come!” Robert’s voice was loaded with mockery, though no one else but Folie appeared to hear it.

“What fun!” Mrs. Paine cried. “We can help Mrs. Hamilton to dress!”

“May I bring Mr. Bellamy? He would be so crushed if he should hear that I attended without him. He can talk of nothing but Mr. Cambourne this and Mr. Cambourne that since you cured him of the headache!”

“Everyone come!” Robert said, with the expansive tone of a man who has partaken of too much strong drink.
 
“Why not?”

TWENTY

“I can only suppose that you have taken leave of your senses,” Folie said, after the drawing room had been cleared of their callers, all ushered off by Lander to their various projects and plans.

“Yes, you have driven me perfectly mad,” Robert said savagely. “From your first letter, now that I think of it.”

“What ever are we to do now?” she demanded. “We cannot actually marry!”

“Don’t look at me as if it’s my doing! As of this morning, I was perfectly content to spend yet another night as a wretched bachelor.”

She gasped.
“You
are
the one who claimed we were engaged!”

“What else was I to say, for Heaven’s sake? That I mean to keep you here as my dolly-mop?”

“I could have gone to Mrs. Paine’s,” she said. “I would be happy to!”

“Nonsense.” His voice rose. “How can you be so heedless as to suppose you could be safe there? Or put
her
family in danger? And come away from that window!”

Folie stood where she was, lifting her arms like a bird’s wings. “Oh, yes, what terrible peril I must be in, here in a Mayfair drawing room! Perhaps they will fly in at the windows and abduct me!”

He strode forward, grabbing her arm and hauling her bodily away. “You make me want to strangle you.” His voice had gone cold and quiet. He let her go instantly, but somehow the transformation from hot wrath to icy control was more alarming than any threat. He stood staring at her with the chilling stillness of a cobra that might strike at any moment. “Do not cross me in this, Folie.”

She could not hold his eyes. It was true that it was her fault. If she had not come to London in such a silly, happy rush...she turned her face aside, her eyes suddenly burning with shame and consciousness.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not intend for this to happen.”

“No, I cannot suppose that.”

“I’m sure that if we put our minds to it, we can concoct something. Perhaps—the way the gentleman pretended to be a doctor. Perhaps we could only have a mock wedding.”

“Hmm,” he said, in a tone she could not interpret.