Never Romance a Rake (37 page)

“And it could not wait?” Warneham had gone to the sideboard and was pouring two tots of brandy. “And never mind the papers, Rothewell. You look ill. Too dashed ill to ride hell-for-leather from London into a drenching rainstorm.”

The baron looked up and held his gaze as Warneham pressed the brandy into his hand. For an instant, their fingers wrapped round one another's, and a long, expectant moment passed.

“Yes, I am ill,” Rothewell finally agreed. “And no. I very much fear, my friend, that this is something which cannot wait.”

Outside Berkeley Square, the air was cold and heavy with the tang of smoke and fresh horse dung. Camille could feel a strong rain blowing up from the south, tossing the last of the dead leaves along the near-silent streets. An umbrella hooked over her wrist, she set off at a brisk clip, ducking her head against the wind and pulling her long, sweeping cloak close about her.

In Grosvenor Square, Halburne's imposing town house seemed to loom up from the incipient autumn mist, daunting as a citadel. And in looking at it, Camille's heart gave a strange little lurch. This was the house in which her mother had briefly lived. Here, she had begun her life as the Countess of Halburne. A respectable life of wealth and privilege. Could it have been as dreary and loveless as
Maman
had made it out?

Her mother's tragedy aside, the house appeared to be quite the nicest in Mayfair, so it was unlikely Halburne had moved elsewhere in the years since her mother's leaving. Camille paused on the steps to extract her card, which unfortunately still bore her maiden name, then rang the bell and stiffened her spine. Perhaps Halburne would think better of her for having paid this call and discourage whatever gossip and questions came his way. Or perhaps not. But she would have the satisfaction of having attempted to make peace, and of having taken a little wind out of the sails of society's gossips.

The servant who answered the door was old and frail to an almost startling degree, and attired in ill-fitting butler's garb. He opened his mouth to speak then, to her horror, staggered backward with a strange, guttural sound, barely clinging to the doorknob.

“
Monsieur?
” said Camille uncertainly. “Might I help—”

To her shock, the butler's eyes rolled back in his head. As if in slow motion, he collapsed in a heap on the rug. The last to go was his hand, which slithered limply off the brass doorknob to the sound of Camille's short, sharp scream. Her umbrella clattered to the marble floor.

Camille had no recollection of stepping inside the house, but by the time a footman came rushing down the stairs, she already knelt in the foyer, her cloak puddled about her as she loosened the butler's starched stock.

“
Mon Dieu,
he collapsed!” she said as the servant knelt. “I am so sorry. When I rang the bell, he answered…then he just fell. Is he ill?”

“No, just old, poor devil.” The footman smacked him lightly on the cheek. “Fothering? Fothering?”

“Oh,
mon Dieu
!” Camille whispered again. She had killed Halburne's butler! Could this ill-conceived visit get any worse?

“I think he's all right, miss,” said the footman uncertainly. “But he ought not be answering doors at all. Yank the bellpull, if you please. I'll need help getting him up.”

Camille did as he asked. “He's frightfully pale,” she murmured, as the butler began to groan and flutter his eyes. “
Monsieur,
can you hear us?” She knelt again by the footman, praying. “I think we must send for a doctor.”

Just then, a tall form came striding down the hall. “Fothering? Good God! What the devil happened here?”

Camille looked up into the deep brown eyes of Lord Halburne. He had jerked to a halt halfway across the hall and was looking at her strangely. For the first time she noticed his left sleeve hung empty and was pinned to his coat.

Swiftly, she rose, heat flooding her face. “I am so very sorry,” she managed. “When he opened the door, your butler collapsed. I do hope it is not his heart.”

“Who the devil are you?” Lord Halburne barked.

Something inside Camille withered at his tone. Hastily, she presented her card. A second footman had come to help, and the two of them were lifting the butler under his arms as he moaned.

“I am Lady Rothewell,” she said, making a quick curtsy. “My card, I fear, is not current.”

She passed it to him, and he glanced at it. His right hand, she noticed, shook as if palsied. “I see,” he said, his mouth twisting. “Well. My God.”

He walked to his left and pushed open the door to a large, well-lit drawing room. He was not a pale man by any means, but his color seemed to have drained away. “Kindly take a seat. I will join you once I've seen to Fothering.”

Camille curtsied again. “
Merci,
my lord.” Clearly he was worried for his servant, as well he should be. Just as clearly, he knew who she was—and he was not pleased to see her.

Camille's every nerve was on edge as she awaited Halburne's return. Through the open door, she could hear Fothering grumbling at the footmen who were helping him up the last of the steps. He had recovered enough to become querulous, thank God.

In an attempt to ward off her anxiety, Camille let her gaze roam about the room. It was an elegant, high-ceilinged chamber hung with pale blue watered silk and adorned with a great deal of opulent molding and woodwork. The furniture, surprisingly, was French and heavily gilded, whilst the painted ceiling—a view of the heavens and the apostles—was the work of a near master.

A matched set of massive full-length portraits flanked the fireplace; to the left a beautiful woman in a high Elizabethan collar carrying a terrier pup in the crook of one arm. In the other hand, a pearl rosary lay across her open palm, the small gold crucifix dangling from her fingers. The right portrait was of a distinguished-looking gentleman with a pointed black beard wearing the stiff, brocade doublet and paned hose of an earlier century. A golden globe and a brass sextant sat beside him on a carved desk. The Halburne dynasty was a long one, it would appear. And a wealthy one, too, given the opulence of the art and décor.

As her gaze traveled from the paintings to a lovely rosewood pianoforte, Camille heard a noise behind her and whirled about to face the door. Lord Halburne stood upon the threshold, watching her warily. She had the strangest feeling he had been doing so for more than a moment.

“Your butler,” she uttered. “How is he, my lord?”

“He will doubtless recover,” said Halburne, coming fully into the room. “At the moment, he is merely bruised and embarrassed. Will you have a seat, Lady Rothewell?”

“
Alors,
this has happened before?” asked Camille, taking the chair he indicated.

Halburne sat down opposite, still holding her card in his hand. “Once, yes,” said the earl coolly. “Fothering has weak blood. He was pensioned, but insists upon working when the regular butler is off.”

Camille felt a little relieved. “How admirable,” she replied. “I hope,
monsieur,
I did not give him a fright.”

Halburne's next words were blunt. “What do you want of me, Lady Rothewell?”

Camille could not hold his gaze. “You know who I am, then?”

“Oh, I rather think I do,” he said tightly. “But perhaps you should explain.”

Camille dredged up her resolve. “I am Dorothy's daughter,” she said, keeping her voice emotionless. “I arrived in London some weeks past. I would have called upon you as a courtesy to tell you so, but I understood you were in the country.”

“So I was.” Halburne narrowed his eyes. “Might I ask why you've come to London after all these years?”

Camille hesitated. She had expected indignation—perhaps even outright dismissal—but not this combative suspicion. “I came to be married,” she said. “My father brought—”

“Your father?” he said sharply.

Camille felt her cheeks grow warm. She felt like the worst sort of fool. “The Comte de Valigny,
oui
.” On impulse, she jerked to her feet. “I beg your pardon. This was a mistake,
monsieur.
I came merely to apologize in advance for the gossip which my presence—and my father's—will inevitably generate. If I could spare you from it, I would.”

“I am afraid I don't perfectly understand, Lady Rothewell.”

Camille had already started toward the door, but she stopped and turned around. Halburne's hand was clutching his chair arm as if he meant to spring from his seat, but he did not.

“My mother was a vain and foolish woman,
monsieur,
but I loved her,” she finally said. “And yet one cannot be insensible to the…the inconvenience, I suppose, which her behavior caused you. I regret it. That is all I wished to say.”

At that, Lord Halburne did jerk from his chair. “Good God!” he said affectedly, pacing toward the front windows. “The inconvenience? The
inconvenience
?”

Camille watched the stiff set of his posture. “Whatever one would properly call it, my lord, I do not wish to make it worse,” she said quietly. “
Bonjour,
Lord Halburne. I shall find my way out.”

“Wait.” His voice was gruff; he still would not look at her. “What…What did she tell you of me?”

Camille shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Little, my lord,” she said. “Indeed, she rarely spoke of her life in England.”

“Little?” he rasped. “Not how we met? What I looked like? How long I courted her?”

Camille swallowed hard.
“Non, monsieur.”

At last he turned from the window. “Did she tell you why we parted?”

Camille hesitated, then hung her head. “
Oui,
” she whispered. “Because she wished to go with Valigny to France.”

Halburne set his fingers to his temple. “But he never loved her.
Never
. It was…just a lark to him.” The man was shaking now. “All of life was but a lark to him. For God's sake, could
none of you see that?
”

“
Maman
could not,
monsieur,
” said Camille quietly.

Halburne came away from the window then and paced twice across the drawing room. Camille was uncertain what she should do. Stay? Go quietly? Tell him to go to hell? But that would not do. And in truth, she understood much of his anger and confusion.

Suddenly, Halburne stopped pacing. “She was just too young,” he muttered. “Just seventeen, and I nearer thirty, and far too stern. I know that now. And I was not a handsome man, God knows. But after all those months—when she finally said
yes
—I…I thought she meant it.”

Camille did not know what to say. She wished very desperately she had never come here to witness this man's pain. “I am so sorry,
monsieur.
”

Halburne's jaw was set at a grim angle now. “I forgave her, at first,” he gritted, turning to face her. “Did you know that? Did she tell you?”

“Non, monsieur.”
Camille dropped her gaze. “She did not.”

His hand was clenched into a fist. “Valigny left me no choice but to demand satisfaction,” he gritted. “But I brought Dorothy back here. To start again. To wait out the duel and the gossip. I was willing. I loved her that much. But even then, her only thought was for Valigny. She begged me to spare him.”

Camille tried to smile sympathetically. “She never realized he would fire first.”

“Fire first?” Halburne looked at her incredulously. “The notion is ludicrous! I was known to be a crack shot. No, I deloped. I did what Dorothy asked. I fired into the air.”

“I…I beg your pardon?”

“
I deloped,
” Halburne slowly repeated. “Then the bastard shot me.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Camille sank into a nearby chair, horrified.

It was the worst breach of gentlemanly etiquette imaginable. To shoot an unarmed man? Particularly one who had just forgiven so egregious an insult?

“Your…you arm?” she managed to whisper.

Halburne gave a terse nod. “The shot severed an artery,” he said. “They said it was hopeless. That I was as good as dead. Dorothy fled with Valigny to France.”

Camille swallowed hard. “What madness!” she whispered.

The earl misunderstood. “What choice did I have?” he asked. “Had I killed him as he deserved, he would have died a romantic death—a poet's death—and she would never have forgiven me. I could not win. I know that now.”

He was quite right. Camille wished the earth would open and swallow her whole. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but words failed her.