'Twas the Night After Christmas (17 page)

Fowler relaxed a fraction. “Ah, I can well imagine that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, we can discuss business. You have no idea how much that would please me.”

That garnered a chuckle from the man. “Believe me, my lord, I’m well aware of how women can go on about such matters.”

“So you’ll come save me?”

“When you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

“Excellent,” Pierce said. “You won’t get the fine French fare you’d receive from my table here, but as you’ve probably noticed, the cook at the dower house is surprisingly good. I’ll send word to Mrs. Beasley that you’re coming.”

Tonight he would watch Fowler and Camilla to figure out just how intimate their connection was. After all, he couldn’t have his servants sneaking around behind his back, having assignations, and—

Hypocrite.

He could practically hear Camilla say it. And she’d be right, too. He’d never before cared a fig if any of his servants were courting. What they did in their free time was their own business. As long as it didn’t interfere with their work, they were free to hang from the trees like monkeys, as far as he was concerned.

Yet the thought of Camilla keeping secrets from him . . . Damn it, he had to know. He couldn’t stand being left in the dark.

And if she
did
fancy Fowler?

Pierce snorted. It wasn’t as if he had a claim on her. Just because she had a way of spreading balm over the pain that continually crushed his chest didn’t mean anything. Nor did the fact that she looked up at him with those soft, understanding eyes that
made him feel as if someone
did
care if he lived or died. And just because she soothed his temper and—

What an idiot he was.

It might be better for him if she
did
have a tendre for Fowler. Because then he could put his obsession with the pretty widow to rest once and for all, before he made a complete bloody fool of himself.

C
amilla generally didn’t mind having Mr. Fowler join them for dinner, but tonight she wished he hadn’t come. Especially since his lordship hadn’t returned to London. It was silly of her, she knew, but after she and Pierce had talked so intensely last night, she’d hoped . . .

Oh, she didn’t know
what
she’d hoped. That they might continue their intimate discussions this evening? That she could play mediator between him and his mother this time, and it might actually work?

That was foolish. Her ladyship hadn’t said one word today about last night’s events. Meanwhile, the servants said his lordship had slept until noon, and there’d been whispers about how he’d
drunk himself into a stupor last night. Clearly neither he nor his mother was ready to be honest with each other.

It was driving Camilla mad. And Mr. Fowler’s presence merely confused the matter. Perhaps that was why Pierce had invited the man—to escape discussion about anything weightier than the weather. Avoiding things did seem to be his favorite way of handling them.

She cast him a furtive glance from beneath her spectacles. Tonight he was playing Devil May Care Devonmont. He’d dressed more formally, in a tailcoat of black superfine, a waistcoat of white figured velvet, and silk breeches, looking fiendishly handsome as always. No sign of the conflicts that must have been raging within him showed in his faintly bored expression.

Her ladyship thrust her fork into a stewed cockle. “How lovely it is to have you here with us again, Mr. Fowler. It’s been a couple of weeks, hasn’t it?”

Mr. Fowler was finely dressed as well, though he looked nervous. That was understandable, given that he was dining with an earl and a dowager countess. “Yes, my lady, I believe so.”

“And how are things at the manor house?” Camilla asked, to put him more at ease. “Did Mrs. Perkins get over her nasty cold?”

“She did indeed.” He shot the countess a quick glance. “And she said she would send some of the maids to help the two of you with the booth at the fair tomorrow, if you need them.”

“That’s very kind of her,” Lady Devonmont said, then added, under her breath, “and rather unexpected.”

“Why unexpected?” Pierce asked in that low rumble of a voice that never failed to strum Camilla’s senses.

Lady Devonmont stiffened but doggedly kept eating her cockles.

Since this wasn’t the time or place to explain that the estrangement between her ladyship and his lordship was effectively carried on between the servants of the two houses, Camilla said hastily, “Because they’re so much busier over there than we are here. The manor house is quite a bit larger, after all.” She smiled at Mr. Fowler. “That’s why it’s so lovely of Mrs. Perkins to offer her help for the booth.”

Mr. Fowler served himself some ham. “I confess that until she said it, I didn’t even know that you ladies were having a booth. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The fair has become quite a big undertaking this year. All the females in town are quite aflutter over it. Apparently some woman read a poem by an American fellow about hanging up stockings by the chimney for St. Nicholas. Now the ladies have all got it into their heads to make ornamental stockings for sale there.”

Camilla blinked at him. Did he not realize the “woman” was his employer’s mother? Oh, dear.

“This woman has got them convinced that hanging Christmas stockings will become all the rage,” he went on in a faintly condescending tone. “An absurd notion that will never catch on.”

Her ladyship’s eyes narrowed on him. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because it’s silly.” Mr. Fowler cut his ham. “If people start hanging stockings, what will we have next—handkerchiefs hung by the staircase? Caps hung by the windows?”

“Mr. Fowler—” Camilla began.

Her ladyship cut her off. “It’s no more silly than hanging dead tree branches in a hall, or dangling mistletoe from a ribbon and expecting people to kiss each other when they pass under it.”

The oblivious Mr. Fowler lifted an eyebrow. “On the contrary, my lady, those are all time-honored ways to celebrate the season. But hanging a stocking is just doing laundry. Hardly festive, I should think.”

Lady Devonmont blinked, then gave a rueful laugh. “You do have a point, Mr. Fowler. Though in truth, if you read the poem yourself, you might understand what a charming idea it is.” Her eyes gleamed at him. “And why the woman in question is producing such stockings to raise money for refurbishing the church’s organ.”

“Wait, I thought that’s what your booth—” Though he paled a little as the truth dawned on him, he fixed her with a steady gaze. “Forgive me, my lady. I see that I have inadvertently insulted you.”

Her ladyship flushed at his gentlemanly apology. “On the contrary, sir. I confess to having a bit of fun at your expense, and it was very wrong of me.” She flashed him a tentative smile. “But truly, I should read the poem for you later. You might find the custom of hanging stockings not quite so silly after hearing it described properly.”

Beneath the warmth of her smile, he relaxed. “While that sounds enticing, I should much rather hear you play the pianoforte. You do it so well.”

This time when the countess flushed, it was with pleasure.
Camilla narrowed her gaze on Mr. Fowler. He’d asked her ladyship to play the last time he’d been here, too. And the time before. Her suspicions about how the man felt toward the countess grew stronger by the minute.

“I’m not the only one who plays the pianoforte,” the countess pointed out.

“My playing is wretched and you know it,” Camilla put in.

“Actually, I was speaking of Pierce. He used to play as a boy.”

Pierce stiffened. “That was a long time ago, Mother. I’m sure we would all rather hear
you
play.”

Lady Devonmont gazed softly at him. “You used to enjoy hearing the Sussex Waltz.”

“I’d forgotten about that.” Pierce sipped some wine. “And as I recall, you played a livelier version of it than most.”

“Your mother plays a livelier version of everything,” Mr. Fowler put in. “She likes lively music. As do I.”

“Is that why you always request that she play?” Camilla asked.

After a furtive glance at her ladyship, Mr. Fowler met Camilla’s question with a smile. “I request that she play because then I know I will get to hear
you
sing, Mrs. Stuart.”

“Oh, yes,” Lady Devonmont chimed in. “You must sing, my dear.”

“You must indeed.” Mr. Fowler turned to Pierce. “You may not have discovered this yet, my lord, but Mrs. Stuart has the voice of a nightingale.”

Pierce pinned her with his dark gaze. “I had no idea. Then we should definitely have a performance later.”

Camilla stared at him, perplexed by the edge in his voice. “I’m always happy to entertain you, my lord. And Mr. Fowler, too, of course.”

“Of course,” Pierce echoed, his eyes boring into her. “I’m merely surprised I hadn’t heard of this talent of yours before. But perhaps you save it for special guests, like Mr. Fowler.”

What was
that
supposed to mean? “I save it for when I have accompaniment. You’re always in such a hurry to leave us for your cigars in the evening that I never have the chance to offer.”

“Well, then, I’ll have to put off my cigar smoking tonight,” he said tersely. “I don’t want to miss hearing you sing.”

“Oh, and Mr. Fowler, you must sing, too!” the countess exclaimed. She cast Pierce a bright smile. “Your estate manager is quite the fine tenor.”

“Is he, indeed?” Pierce said, shooting Camilla another of those shuttered glances he kept throwing her way.

“He certainly is,” his mother went on blithely. “When he and Camilla do duets, you’d think you were listening to paid opera singers in London.”

“You would certainly know, Mother,” Pierce snapped. “You went to opera houses plenty enough when I was in school. I was always reading about it in the papers.”

As the countess paled, Camilla tensed, wondering if he was going to drag poor Mr. Fowler into his fight with his mother now. Then Pierce forced a smile and added, “My parents used to be such gadabouts, Mr. Fowler. I never knew when their escapades would turn up in the
Times
.”

“I didn’t have to worry about that with my parents,”
Mr. Fowler said amiably. “My mother was best known for her figgy pudding. It’s hardly something to make the papers.”

“Depends on what she did with her figgy pudding,” Pierce said dryly. “If she shot it out of a cannon, I can guarantee it would make the papers.”

They all laughed, breaking the tension. From there, the conversation drifted to a discussion of what was worthy of being mentioned in the papers.

With a relieved sigh, Camilla turned her attention to her dinner, hoping there would be no more crises. It was hard enough playing arbiter of the dispute between the countess and Pierce. She didn’t think she could handle it if the estate manager jumped in, too.

•  •  •

Once again, Pierce felt like an intruder. Clearly Camilla, Mother, and Fowler had spent plenty of time in one another’s company. They shared jokes he didn’t understand, told tales about the servants that he’d never heard, and seemed quite at ease together. In the midst of so much camaraderie, how was he supposed to tell exactly how Camilla felt for Fowler?

She’d certainly dressed sumptuously for the man. Her dinner gown of rose satin was bedecked with puffy things around the skirt, and it had smaller puffy things at the bodice that drew attention to her ample bosom. So did the necklace of paste gems nestled between her lightly freckled breasts. She’d never worn that before. Or the gown, for that matter. Had she been saving it for Fowler?

If so, she’d made a good choice. Pierce couldn’t stop looking
at her, wondering what it would be like to lick his way down the smooth hollow between her breasts to find one taut nipple with his mouth—

Bloody hell. This was maddening.

He cast a furtive glance at Fowler, but the man was too polite to stare at Camilla’s bosom. Fowler did glance at her a great deal, but he glanced at Mother a great deal, too. That proved nothing except that he was enjoying their “female companionship.”

As for Camilla, Pierce could tell that she liked Fowler. She’d obviously tried to head the man off when he was blundering into insulting Mother. But was that just the act of a kind woman? Or a woman taking the side of a man she hoped to marry one day? She didn’t seem to smile at Fowler with any particular regard, but could he trust that?

After all, Camilla was good at hiding her feelings. She had never once let on to Mother that she and Pierce were spending time together in secret every night.

So Camilla might be madly in love with Fowler and just being discreet. Though it was odd that she would choose discretion for something like that when she was never discreet about other things. Like her championing of Mother.

“What do you think, my lord?” Fowler asked, breaking into his tangled thoughts. “Shall we forget about our brandy and cigars for one night, and go right to the music?”

“Certainly,” Pierce said.

He rose to help Camilla from her chair, but Fowler beat him there, damn his eyes. Pierce watched her face—she didn’t blush as
Fowler offered her his arm, but she did flash the man a soft glance as she clasped it. Something very disquieting settled in Pierce’s chest.