The Glass Orchid (10 page)

“Nice shot,” Wittingham said. “Even as distracted as you are, you can still beat me at carom. Must be the advantage of playing on your own table.”

Camden shrugged as he walked to the sideboard to fetch his brandy, deciding to ignore Wittingham’s mention of his distraction. He leaned against the wall to watch Wittingham take his turn. He had hoped he would be successful in hiding his mood from his friends. He had begged off spending the evening with Farber and Hollingsworth, claiming work but really just unable to endure the prospect of feigning any joviality or enthusiasm for a night spent drinking and gambling. Wittingham hadn’t been as easy to turn away; unlike Camden’s other friends, Wittingham paid attention to matters beyond his own quest for entertainment, and had insisted upon spending the evening with Camden at his townhouse.

Clearly, Wittingham had sensed something was occupying Camden beyond his usual frustration with his father and the shipping company, and was now trying to get Camden to talk about it. Camden didn’t want to talk about what was bothering him, however. He didn’t want to talk about it, think about it, didn’t want to have the goddamn images running through his mind. He didn’t want to relive his shame, how he had let his anger consume him, how he had behaved in such an uncouth, violent manner. He hadn’t been able to help it. When he saw Ashe handling Del so roughly, when she had cried out in fear or pain or both when the man had pushed her into the mirror — the edges of his vision had gone red and for a moment he had thought himself capable of actual murder.

Camden especially didn’t want to think about what happened after, how Del had looked at him, anguish written clearly on her face as she had told him it wouldn’t work, that he had essentially ruined any chance of anything happening between them. He had spent his life keeping himself firmly under control in order to achieve everything his father wanted from life, and now that there was something he actually wanted for himself, he had behaved the brute and driven Del away.

Camden wasn’t about to tell Wittingham any of it, though, no matter how subtly his friend pushed for answers. He wasn’t about to admit his faults out loud, wasn’t going to explain how he had felt when Del looked at him, wasn’t going to say how the whole thing ate at him now.

Camden heard the snap of the cue against ball and looked up from his brandy to follow Wittingham’s shot. His cue ball hit the object ball but swung wide of Camden’s ball. No count.

“Damn,” Wittingham said. “You’d think I was the one moping about over a woman, the way I’m playing.”

Camden jerked his head from the table toward his friend. “How did you know?” he said before he could stop himself.

Wittingham gave a wry smile. “I didn’t, exactly. I just see things and hear things. Things like my good, stoic friend Camden stepping out several times with some blonde beauty. I assumed there must be some attraction there. And given your rather wretched moroseness the past several days, I surmised the state of the attraction to be tattered at the moment, and perhaps not from your desire that it be thus.” Wittingham brushed past Camden as he went to pick up his own drink. “And now you’ve just confirmed it for me.” He gulped his brandy and then eyed Camden, his expression all feigned innocence.

Damn Wittingham and his way of extracting information. He should work for the bloody government.

“So tell me, Camden, who is she and what have you done to muck it up with her?”

Camden gritted his teeth. He resolutely avoided looking at Wittingham as he walked to the carom table to take his turn. He bent over the table and cleared his mind. He brushed aside the memories of Ashe, red-faced, belligerent, and threatening. He refused to think of how he, Camden, had been so angry, how the rage had bubbled so close to the surface, that he could have beaten Ashe to death on Del’s foyer floor and been happy to have done it. He wiped his mind of how Del had looked, fear and anger and frustration and helplessness all tangled together on her face. So achingly beautiful, so strong and vulnerable all at the same time.

He steadied his hands and slowed his breathing. The only thing he saw was the carom table before him, the only thing he felt was the warmth from the heated slate, the only thing he heard was the crack of the balls hitting each other.

Another count scored.

Camden was reassured. He was in control. He was still able to rein in any wayward thoughts or unruly emotions and focus solely on the task in front him. It calmed him, the knowledge that he still had himself on a tight leash.

Camden glanced at Wittingham as he backed away from the table. He consciously schooled his features into an expression of bland impassivity. “There’s no one,” he said. “Just the usual tiredness from work.”

Wittingham arched a brow. He stared at Camden silently, making no move to the billiards table to take his turn.

Camden grew uncomfortable. “What?” he said defensively.

“I am merely trying to decide whether to allow you your obfuscation, or if I should call you on it.”

“I’m not obfuscating,” Camden insisted, though he knew he did not sound convincing.

“So we’re going with ‘tiredness from work’ then, are we?” Wittingham tossed his cue stick on the table, surrendering to Camden’s insurmountable lead. “Perhaps you ought to take a holiday from work, go have some fun.”

Camden made a snorting sound, as if Wittingham’s suggestion was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. “My father would never allow it.”

Wittingham leaned against the billiard table and drained his brandy glass. He was as impeccably dressed as ever, his waistcoat pristine, his cravat expertly tied in a complicated knot, his expression smooth and mostly aloof with just the slightest hint of his usual snobbish disdain for life in general. It was only because Camden knew him so well that he could identify the signs of slightly drunken and somewhat exasperated concern. Wittingham’s eyes were slightly red-rimmed, his
S
’s faintly sibilant, his posture just a touch less than impeccable, and he looked like he wanted to grab Camden by the shoulders and shake him. He leaned in a bit, and for a moment Camden was afraid he would do just that.

“Have you ever considered,” Wittingham said as he walked to the sideboard to pour himself another brandy, “telling your father to sod off?”

“Wittingham, really,” Camden said with all the careful patience of a reassuring adult speaking to an outrageously fanciful child — or to a man gone regrettably insane. “Stop talking nonsense and — ”

“No, I mean it. Tell your father exactly where he can stuff his stupid company and his never-ending demands and go off on a much-needed, well-deserved, and long-delayed holiday.”

Camden was about to tell Wittingham exactly why that was such a ridiculous suggestion when he realized he wasn’t sure what to even say. Why
shouldn’t
he have a holiday? He had been working non-stop for almost two months, never taking a full day off, and rarely even taking the evening off. His father would never approve, of course, but perhaps it
was
time to stand up to his father. He had defied him once, when he went to see Del, and the skies hadn’t fallen, nor had the ground swallowed him up for his impertinence.

Except —

He
had
lost his control, he had let his anger swell up and overtake him, and the only thing worse than all that was the fact he had done it in front of Del. She had seen his basest, most ungoverned self. And then she had looked at him and told him it wouldn’t work; he didn’t deserve to be around her.

In the end, his father had been right: lose your self-control and you lose everything.

So, no, Camden would not be telling his father to sod off or stuff it or whatever other ill-advised imperative Wittingham could come up with. He needed to pacify his father right now, not provoke him. And he needed to regain his discipline, not entertain fanciful notions of taking off on holiday in a fit of petulant rebellion. He most certainly did not need to waste his time pining over a doomed relationship like some Shakespearean star-crossed lover.

Camden realized he would gain nothing by arguing with Wittingham, however. The man, for all his haughty priggishness, was a stalwart friend and an unrelenting interrogator, and Camden knew he would not let up until Camden admitted the error of his ways.

“Perhaps you are right,” Camden said, pleased that he sounded convincing. “Perhaps I should take some time away from work, go on a holiday. I’ve certainly earned it.”

“Finally you are talking sense, man,” Wittingham said. “Come, let’s start your holiday now. I’m sure Farber and Hollsworth haven’t lost all their money or passed out yet, surely we can catch up with them.”

“Not tonight, Wittingham, I’m exhausted from — ”

“Eh, no. No excuses,” Wittingham said. He took Camden by the arm and propelled him from the room, grabbing their coats and hats on the way out. “Tonight, you will have fun in spite of yourself.”

Del tightened the reins as Liath snorted and threw her head, the flighty horse startled and peeved by the sound of snapping twigs and crunching leaves beneath her hooves. Del shifted and pulled her riding habit down to more fully cover her leg. She cursed the necessity of wearing heavy skirts and perching in the awkwardly balanced sidesaddle. Oh, to be able to wear breeches and sit astride the horse, so she wouldn’t feel at every moment as though she were about to pitch head first into the dirt.

Del glanced at her pocket watch. She had been riding for nearly an hour, and must be close to the pond where she was supposed to meet Jane, but she could see no sign of it. Finally, after several more minutes, she spotted a copse of trees nestled in a shallow valley, and she knew the pond was just ahead.

Goodness, Jane had told her the pond was secluded, but this seemed a bit extreme. There was nothing else in view, no house or cottage or barn or road, just rolling hills and quietly grazing sheep.

Liath snorted again and sidestepped, the sudden shift in balance nearly throwing Del from the saddle. They had entered the copse, and the horse clearly resented each
thwap
and scratch from the low-hanging branches.

“Steady, girl,” Del said as she gently stroked Liath’s neck. “We are almost to the pond and the indignity will soon pass.”

Del scanned the area, looking for Jane. When her friend had suggested the picnic, Del had tried to beg off, preferring to be glum and morose in the privacy of her own home, but Jane had been insistent.
You need to get out
, Jane had told her.
Fresh air and cold water will set you back to rights
. Del had tried to protest that there was nothing about her that needed righting, but Jane had not let it go. Now, here in the valley, with the sun sparkling off the ripples of the pond and the breeze gently rustling the autumn-touched trees, Del was glad she had finally agreed to the picnic. She did need this, she realized. She had been shut up in her townhouse, alone, for weeks, pretending she was merely feeling a bit under the weather and needed some time to rest. While she had been able to convince herself of that for the first few days, it was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend, to herself or anyone else — particularly Jane — that she would regain her usual demeanor anytime soon. A day spent outside of London, lazing near the water, eating and napping and perhaps swimming, was exactly what she needed.

Del dismounted and wrapped the reins around a low-hanging branch, giving Liath enough lead to graze. She smoothed her hair and skirts, her body and clothes both stiff and rumpled from the ride. It appeared Jane had not yet arrived, and Del was thankful for the time alone to stretch her legs and revel in the quiet solitude. She loved Jane, but once her friend arrived it would be all excited chatter and gentle ribbing, with no restful silence to be found.

Liath’s whinny drew Del’s attention to the trees behind her, where the rustle and snap of the trees and the jangle of a horse’s bit told Del that Jane had arrived. She began to call out a greeting but the words died on her lips.

The horse that emerged from the trees carried not Jane, but Camden.

He wore no hat, coat, or cravat, and his linen shirt was open at the throat, exposing a triangle of hard chest. Like the other time she had seen him astride a horse, his mien was comfortable, carefree, almost cheerful. It transformed him, this happiness, into something Del barely recognized. He didn’t look like the staid and serious young man of her acquaintance. This Camden looked wild, his blond hair blowing in ungoverned waves around his tanned face, flushed from exercising in the fresh air. His hands were ungloved, his fingers rough and strong around the reins. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and Del watched the muscles in his arms flex and contract as he guided his horse through the brush. She had seen such a thing described in every gothic romance novel she had read — how the hero was all untamed raw power and animalistic grace. The trite phrases always made her groan when read in print, but seeing the actual physical embodiment of them sent a shiver of excitement through her.

She was so enthralled with watching Camden that she almost forgot to wonder what he was doing at the pond. It was too remote and removed from London for it to be mere happenstance that they would both appear here at the same time. How did he know she would be there? Why had he decided to confront her? She was about to call out to him, demand answers, but the startled and confused look on his face stopped her. He was as surprised as she to find himself in the present company.

“De — Miss Beaumont,” Camden said as he dismounted.

“Mr. Camden,” Del replied, trying to sound nonchalant. It jolted her that the man she had been working so hard to erase from her memory should now be standing before her.

Camden looked around, as if he expected someone else to be hiding in the trees.

“You look confused,” Del said.

Camden cleared his throat. “I am a bit. I hadn’t expected to find anyone besides Wittingham here.”

“Wittingham is a friend of yours, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“You were to meet him here for a picnic?” Del asked, gesturing to the blanket rolled up behind his saddle and the leather satchel overflowing with food he carried in his hand.