Never Romance a Rake (22 page)

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Rothewell!” said Nash jovially. “Do join us. I was just about to bankrupt myself.”

Rothewell crossed the room, propped his walking stick against a nearby table, and sat down. “Don't let me stop you, old fellow,” he said. “My sister can afford to keep you up in a pretty grand style, I daresay.”

“Yes, I know.” Nash grinned, showing his very white teeth. “Isn't marriage a fine institution?”

“He has no idea,” said Gareth, laughing. “Not
yet
.”

“Actually, I am now qualified to render an opinion on that lofty subject,” said Rothewell, looking about for a servant. “Have you any coffee round here, Nash?” he asked. “I could do with a pot.”

Nash motioned to no one in particular, and three of the lackeys dashed off to do his bidding. Then he centered his gaze on Rothewell. “Now,” he said quietly, “about that first part, old boy. I think you must tell Warneham your news, for I have not.”

Gareth leaned forward in his chair. “Kieran, what have you done?”

“I was married,” he said. “Late yesterday.”

The golden-haired duke fell silent. “Ah,” he finally said. “There was some issue with—er, the lady's honor?”

Rothewell shook his head. “No, not precisely.”

“Well, either there
was
or there
wasn't
, Kieran,” said Gareth. “There's nothing imprecise about it. But keep your counsel, please. Just tell us what we're to tell people.”

“That we decided life was short,” he answered. “And that there was no point in waiting to do that which we'd planned to do anyway.” It was a surprisingly honest answer, if not a complete one.

Gareth fell back into his chair. Neither he nor Nash had believed he meant to do it at all. He could see that now.

“Yes, well,” said Gareth. “Well, we wish you very happy, I'm sure. And Lady Rothewell?”

“What about her?” asked Rothewell.

“We wish her happy as well,” he hedged. “Do you think…Kieran, do you think she
will
be? I don't mean to give advice, but—”

“Then don't,” Rothewell interjected. “Camille has what she asked for. We will rub along well enough, I daresay.”

A servant appeared with a tray carrying the coffee and set it down between them. Nash poured, his gaze focused on the spouting coffee as he spoke. “Sometimes, Rothewell, women deserve just a little more than they ask for,” he said pensively. “Those are the rare ones, I'll grant you. Still, one might give it some thought?”

Rothewell took the proffered cup. “Like fidelity and love?” he suggested. “Or jewels and gowns? The latter she may have as it pleases her.”

“And the former?” Nash asked.

Rothewell sipped at his coffee. “It is not in my nature,” he answered. “If it ever was, it long ago deserted me.”

Gareth made a dismissive sound. “Balderdash!” he said. “This is a second chance for you, Kieran. She is a lovely and gracious girl. You could make her fall in love with you, you know—and love her in return if you would just let sleeping dogs lie.”

His coffee cup half-raised, Rothewell turned to face him. “Now why is it, Gareth, that I suspect you are just about to roust up those sleeping dogs?” His voice was cold. “I do not presume to give you advice, and I will thank you to do the same for me.”

But Gareth's expression had stiffened in a way which Rothewell knew meant trouble. “Sometimes, Kieran, you are a bloody damned idiot,” he said, his voice low and a little angry. “You are still grieving over a woman who was never worthy of your grief. You were just a boy, and Annemarie played you for a grass green fool. Face it, Kieran. She got precisely what she wanted in the end—
and it wasn't you
.”

Rothewell set down his coffee with an awkward clatter. “No, Gareth, what she got in the end was a fiery grave,” he said. “She and my brother both. Somehow, I am not sure that was what she had in mind when she married him.”

Nash held up both hands, palms out. “All right, I am well out of this,” he said. “I just came to buy a racehorse, then slink quietly home with my pockets empty and my mouth shut.”

But Rothewell was still staring darkly at his old friend. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair. “Nash, I wish you every success,” he said, his voice gruff. “As for me, I am off.”

Gareth jerked to his feet. “Where the devil are you going?”

Rothewell picked up his walking stick. “Far away,” he snapped. “I've a sudden fancy for a hand of cards, a bottle of brandy, and a plump, promiscuous woman who'll fuck me blind.”

Even Nash's eyebrows went up. “A little too soon for that, isn't it, old chap?”

Rothewell made no answer, and headed for the door.

Behind him, a second chair scraped. “That man is a damned fool,” he heard Gareth say. “I had best go with him.”

Rothewell whipped round to tell Gareth to go bugger himself, but in such haste that he did not see the gentleman who had just pushed through the door. They collided squarely, Rothewell nearly tripping over his feet.

“
Bonjour,
my Lord Rothewell!” The Comte de Valigny backed up and made a pretense of dusting himself off. “By the way, I hear I missed the wedding!”

Rothewell was fleetingly speechless. “You!” he finally managed.

Valigny set his head to one side. “
Mais non,
not buyer's remorse already!” he said. “She is a handful, my
petit chou, n'est-ce pas
? Worry not. You will be broken to the plow soon enough,
mon ami
.”

Rothewell shoved his way through the door, followed by the sound of the comte's pealing laughter.

Camille went belowstairs with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. In France, the chateau staff had consisted of a handful of aged retainers who had been there forever, and who were officially in the employ of Valigny's uncle. They had regarded Camille and her mother almost as guests who had overstayed their welcome. The keeping of a budget, however, Camille well understood, for the managing of such things had fallen to her at a young age, and there had been very little money. Economy and careful accounting had been necessary.

She found Mrs. Trammel in the kitchen tongue-lashing the scullery maid and holding a lethal-looking carving knife in her hand. The cook was a tall, lithe woman of indeterminate age, with sharp, high cheekbones and ebony skin which was far darker than her husband's. She spoke with a musical lilt unfamiliar to Camille, and wore a white scarf over her braided hair and small gold hoops, which swung from her earlobes. Her every move spoke of confidence, and the kitchen staff stood well back when she passed.

Camille stiffened her spine, marched in, and introduced herself.

“You may call me Miss Obelienne,
madame
,” she said when they were ensconced in her private sitting room. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“
Merci,
” said Camille. “That would be lovely.”

Miss Obelienne bowed and went out again, only to return with a kettle which was already hot. The tea, which was kept in an earthenware jar upon her worktable, smelled of herbs and flowers. Whilst it steeped, Obelienne cut slices of what looked like a cake without frosting, dusted with coconut.

Camille picked at the cake, and sipped tentatively at the exotic brew whilst they discussed the running of the house. Two upstairs maids, she was told, handled the routine housework. The kitchen staff numbered four, the footmen three, and the stable staff another four.

“
Alors,
there is no housekeeper?”

Miss Obelienne shook her head. “She gave notice a fortnight past. The master, he is hard to live with when one is not accustomed to his ways. It is as well. She was not needed.”

Camille was surprised when the cook explained that she and her husband now managed those duties between them. As to the shopping, two regular costermongers came round each morning, eggs and milk were brought in every other day from a farm in Fulham, and the preferred butcher was in nearby Shepherd's Market.

Miss Obelienne's gaze fell to Camille's cake plate. “You do not like it?”

“It is unusual,” Camille hedged. “And very spicy. What kind of cake is it?”

“Not a cake,
madame,
but a pone,” said the cook in her rhythmic lilt. “Cassava pone from the islands. Once it was the master's favorite.” Her mouth turned down into a frown.

“Was it indeed?” Camille murmured. “It certainly is unique.”

The cook took this as a compliment. “Miss Xanthia's ships bring me spices and roots to make many exotic things.”

“
Oui,
I can taste ginger and nutmeg,” said Camille, wiping a crumb from her lip. “What is cassava?”

Miss Obelienne motioned for her to follow and crossed the room to a locked cabinet. After sorting through the keys in her apron pocket, she opened two mahogany doors to reveal an arrangement of apothecary drawers. She drew open a large one at the bottom and extracted something which looked familiar.

Camille studied it, searching for the English words.
“Une patate douce?”
she finally asked.

“
Non,
not a sweet potato.” The cook snapped the tuber in half to expose its creamy flesh. “A root,
oui
. But in the islands, we make a sort of flour of it.”

Camille reached for it. “May I taste?”

The cook drew it back. “
Non, madame,
” she said. “If not properly prepared, cassava is deadly.”

Camille jerked her hand away. “Deadly?”

Miss Obelienne smiled faintly and dropped the root back into the drawer. “I show you the spices.” She was distant, Camille noted, but not unfriendly. She began drawing open the smaller, upper compartments, obviously proud. The air grew redolent with sharp fragrance. “Nutmeg. Cinnamon. Ginger. Allspice,” she recited. Then the names became even more exotic. “Aniseed, cumin, mace, tamarind, saffron…” There were thirty or more before she was done.

Camille was amazed. “All these come from the West Indies?”

The cook shook her head. “All over the world,” she said. “Miss Xanthia has many hand-chosen for me. A few I get in the markets.” She pulled open another drawer containing a small cloth bag with some harsh black markings which appeared to be an oriental language.

“What is that?”

Miss Obelienne upended the bag and two small gnarled roots spilt into her hand. “
Rénsh
n,
” she said, her smile oddly mischievous. “Man root. From China.”

Camille tried not to blush. “
Rénsh
n,
” she echoed. “What is it for? Sweets? Or savories?”

“It is not quite a spice,” said the cook, holding it up for further inspection. “It makes a man…vigorous. Potent.”

Her cheeks flaming, Camille sniffed it. It had no noticeable odor save for that of earth and gardening. She wondered what Miss Obelienne was suggesting. “Xanthia's ships bring this?”