“There’s no proof, of course. No witness.” An anguished tone entered his words. “Just the ravings of my stepmother, who no longer resides anywhere near London, thankfully.”
“I blame myself.” Cam continued, his gaze focused on the flames leaping excitedly in the fireplace. “I am the cause of my sister’s unsuitability. I should have protected her and her reputation. My efforts were not successful.”
Colin stopped rolling the glass between his hands. Cam had been in Macao at the time of Miranda’s debut. Missing. Gone heathen. How in the world could he blame himself for a broken engagement to St. Remy, if that were the case? A feeling of unease soured the whiskey in Colin’s stomach. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I should have written you, Colin. Told you what happened, but I didn’t wish to burden you with it. You had your brother’s death and Runshaw Park to contend with. Then,” Cam’s brow wrinkled, “well I just assumed Nick would tell you and I wouldn’t have to.”
“Will you tell me now?” It occurred to Colin that the sadness in his friend’s voice and face could not be because Miranda was the victim of a betrothal gone wrong. This was not about St. Remy.
Before Cam could speak again, a soft scratch came at the door.
“Come.”
A small, compact man marched into the study and executed a precise, exacting bow
before straightening with ramrod precision.
“Lord Cambourne, forgive the interruption.”
“What is it, Zander?”
Zander, the Gray Covington butler, was known far and wide as the most exacting of
masters. He ran the estate with meticulousness that was legendary, much to the envy of many in the ton, for no lord’s house was as well staffed or maintained as Gray Covington. The discipline and correctness with which Zander managed the estate of the Marquess of Cambourne would challenge the best of His Majesty’s generals. Close cropped red hair with just a glint of silver surrounded a sharp, but pleasant face. Not so much as a wrinkle was visible on his uniform, nor a spec of dirt. Zander reminded Colin of a toy soldier that had miraculously come to life in order to take command of Gray Covington.
Zander’s age and origin were of great debate. Sutton’s father had hired Zander years ago, claiming the diminutive man was from Brussels. The Dowager, however, insisted Zander was of Russian descent. Cam claimed the butler hailed from a small town in France. Regardless of his background, Zander was intensely loyal to the Cambourne family, with the exception of the former marchioness, , a woman who was not missed by the staff of Gray Covington, or anyone else.
“My lord, Lady Cambourne requests your presence, urgently. Lord and Lady Cottingham, along with their daughter, have arrived from London. And Lady Dobson,” a small note of distaste crept into his voice as if it pained him to say the name, “is,” he paused searching for the right word, “roaming about.”
“Good God. Lady Dobson is wandering through the halls of Gray Covington without supervision? Please inform Lady Cambourne that reinforcements are on their way.”
“Very good, my lord,” Zander snapped his heels together and bowed again.
“And Ridley? Zander, where have you put him?” Cam leaned in to Colin. “It’s times like this that I wish my father had a guest cottage built.”
Zander’s face remained as smooth as glass, but Colin noticed the small tic in the butler’s cheek at the whereabouts of Miranda’s suitor.
“I personally saw to his comfort, my lord and have shown him to a lovely room in the east wing.”
Colin lips twitched in amusement at Ridley’s plight. Zander placed the viscount in the little used east wing, as far from the family’s suite of rooms, and Miranda, as possible. The Cambourne’s only ever put their least welcome guests there as the rooms all faced away from the magnificent gardens. It would take Ridley at least ten minutes to reach the main part of the house from his chambers.
“Very good, Zander.”
The butler bowed, twisting his head to give his employer a rather pointed look.
Lady Cambourne’s instructions were clear it seemed, and the marquess was not to delay in following them. Zander strode from the study and in a telling move, refrained from shutting the doors behind him.
“Not very subtle, is he?” Cam said. “Alex probably threatened him with a lack of starch for his shirts. He always looks pressed as if someone took a large hot iron to his entire form.”
“About Miranda, you were going to tell me what happened.” Truthfully, Colin was rather desperate to know, and he certainly couldn’t ask Miranda. Not after her anger in the coach.
“Later,” Cam set down his glass, running a hand through his hair as he stood. “If you’d ever seen Alex in a temper than you would know that it is in my best interests to hurry to her side. I’ve faced down a Chinese warlord and felt less fear.”
10
Helping himself to a glass of wine, Colin winced with distaste as he took a sip. French. Probably expensive. Still tastes like sour fruit. He’d never developed a taste for the stuff, though he dutifully tried. He preferred whiskey or even brandy, but neither was currently being served in the drawing room.
After Zander’s interruption earlier in the day, he’d had no time to resume his conversation with Cam. The Marquess of Cambourne had dutifully gone to fulfill his responsibilities as host. After being introduced to the Cottinghams and barely sparing them more than a cursory glance, Colin excused himself. He was not presentable, he explained, after the journey and needed to retire to his rooms before dinner.
Secretly, Colin wished to catch a glimpse of Miranda. And unlike Ridley, Colin’s chambers were in the family wing.
Walking down the corridor he had paused at Miranda’s door, sensing her presence on the other side. Placing the flat of his palm against the door, he willed her to open it. Since the day in the Dowager’s sitting room at Cambourne House, Colin found it increasingly difficult to hold on to the anger that had sustained him for the last six years. Especially after seeing the pain in Miranda’s face earlier.
Colin purposefully came down to the drawing room a bit early, hoping that Miranda would appear. Instead he found only Lord Hamill curled into a large wing-backed chair, snoring softly in his evening clothes.
The attendees of the Dowager’s house party slowly filtered in and flitted about, admiring the formal drawing room of the Marquess of Cambourne. Tapestries and objects d’art were littered about, so much so that the room resembled a museum more than a place for gathering. This was not a room that the family used often for themselves. The drawing room was specifically designed to inspire awe in anyone visiting Gray Covington. Every alcove, painting, and tapestry fairly resonated with the wealth and power of the Cambournes.
It was a beautiful room.
High vaulted ceilings gave way to gentle arches through which one could spy tiled hallways. One hallway led to the formal dining room, the other, to the conservatory. The ceilings were painted by a gifted artist, for only someone with such talent could have created the scene above his head. If one were to lay on the back lawn of Gray Covington and tilt their gaze to the sky, one would see the same view. The ceiling mimicked the sky above the estate at twilight, with the sun beginning to set just over the arch to the dining room. Fluffy clouds and a flock of ducks dotted the darkening blue sky as the edges of Gray Covington’s magnificent gardens could be seen.
Tapestries, ancient and mellowed with age, hung from the walls, each panel depicting a Greek myth. The designs were so intricate, Colin often marveled at the skill of those long ago Cambournes responsible for such beauty. The remains of an old castle lay entombed at the far end of the woods and Colin imagined these tapestries once hung there. The Cambourne family stretched back to the time of William the Conqueror, holding this land since the arrival of the Normans in England. Once upon a time, Colin had fought the Battle of Hastings with Nick and Cam at that old castle.
He adored this room. When visiting Gray Covington Colin would s
prawl out on his back against the Persian rug that now lay beneath his feet. Imagination running wild, he’d invent stories, only to scratch them out later in his journal. Even the tapestries spoke to him. On one wall, the Kraken threatened Princess Andromeda as Theseus, his sword drawn, hastened to save her. The trials of Hercules, including his battle with the hydra, took up most of the left side towards the entrance to the conservatory while Persephone’s marriage to Hades hung at the far end of the room. A pomegranate lay next to Persephone’s sandaled feet while the god of the underworld lurked over her shoulder. He could still hear Miranda’s footsteps as she trailed behind him, adoration shining from her eyes as she clutched a raisin cake to her chest. She would break off a piece and offer it to Colin if only he would tell her the story of Persephone again. Just one more time.
Self-important lad that he was, Colin often shooed her away.
Loss crashed over him like waves against a rock. His anger towards her, once so fierce and thick, had softened. His bitterness still festered, but the edges frayed. Colin’s gaze lingered over Persephone’s beautiful, doomed face. Had Persephone truly forgiven Hades for his deceit?
“What a lovely room,” Lady Cottingham, standing just to his left, uttered in her annoying, breathless way. “So grand and majestic. Why it’s absolutely breathtaking.”
Colin steeled himself for the embrace of the ladies Cottingham.
Lady Aurora Cottingham and her daughter, Lady Helen Cottingham immediately sought Colin out after entering the drawing room, reminding him of a pair of bloodhounds about to corner a rabbit.
Towering over her smaller daughter, Lady Cottingham’s stout build and thick fingers betrayed her more common beginnings. Swathed in a gown of deep violet, her dimpled figure rippled beneath the thin silk. A headpiece of precious stones sat perched atop her faded yellow hair, twinkling in the candlelight.
Lady Cottingham reminded Colin of a giant blueberry. A very determined blueberry.
The descriptions of Lady Helen did not do her justice. Pale golden hair the color of spring wheat was coiled about her head with a tiny cascade of curls gently touching her perfect ears. Her features were delicate and refined, at complete odds with her mother’s appearance. Cornflower blue eyes gazed at Colin with frank appraisal.
“Lord Kilmaire.” Lady Helen bobbed, taking her time in straightening up. All the more to give him a view of her more than generous bosom.
“Lady Helen.”
No virgin should exude such raw sexuality, if indeed she was one. Colin doubted it the moment her falsely innocent eyes ran down the length of him. He surmised that Lady Helen, if not already compromised, was well on her way to ruination. Lady Helen reminded Colin of an over-ripe peach begging to be plucked.
No wonder her parents wanted her married as soon as possible.
“I must tell Lord Cottingham how marvelous it would be to have tapestries such as these hanging in our drawing room at Crestmont. I’m in the process of remodeling parts of the estate as Lord Cottingham’s cousin’s taste was not our own. I imagine Runshaw Park has a room such as this.” The faded gold curls at her temple wiggled in anticipation of his answer.
“I’m afraid this room is rather unique to Gray Covington. Runshaw Park pales in comparison. No tapestries of such beauty, I’m afraid.” Colin bestowed a polite smile on the her.
My father sold all the tapestries at an auction before I turned twelve. And no amount of paint or plaster would hide the cracks in the ceilings of Runshaw Park.
“Oh, that is a shame, Lord Kilmaire.”
Colin nodded. There was not a doubt in his mind that in addition to knowing more about the state of disrepair of his estate, Lady Cottingham could probably recite the whole of Colin’s dubious pedigree. She probably fell asleep each night with Derbett’s Peerage clutched to her chest like a talisman. Lady Cottingham, formerly a dairy farmer’s wife, would note that the earldom was one of England’s oldest and ignore the fact of Colin’s mad, Irish mother. She would tell herself that Colin’s scar was the result of a duel, and not a carving knife. She would strive to ignore the string of tragedies that marked the Earl of Kilmaire and his family.
Lady Cottingham’s gaze traveled over his left cheek before lifting to examine the ceiling once more. “I cannot imagine how such was painted.”
Oh, how she wanted to ask him about that scar. He could see it in every small twitch and shuttered glance. She was horrified yet titillated, only her determination to present herself as a woman of good breeding prohibited her from questioning him. The dairy farmer’s wife that she had been not so long ago wished to gape at his puckered flesh and boldly ask if the Mad Countess were truly insane.
Perhaps I should trade her the story of the scar for some advice on the dairy cows at Runshaw Park.
Lady Cottingham looked at him with expectation, no doubt waiting for him to enlighten her.
“I’m told the artist,” Colin said, trying not to sound bored, which he was, “spent the better part of a year on the project,” he looked up, “lying on his back to paint it. Very much like Michelangelo.”
The giant blackberry before him quivered. Confusion clouded Lady Cottingham’s face for a moment.
Lady Cottingham had no idea who Michelangelo was.
Her mouth opened to reply, lips quivering, to further delight Colin with her limited efforts at conversation but changed her mind. She merely nodded in agreement before turning to examine the tapestry before her.
He could almost hear her mind working. Have I met Lord Michelangelo at the opera?
Lady Helen took full advantage of her mother’s embarrassment and attention to the tapestry. Leaning into the space between herself and Colin, she gave a small half shrug, pushing the top of her generous breasts upward until they appeared ready to spill from her bodice. She blinked artfully at Colin her eyelashes fluttering madly. The move was so practiced Colin assumed Lady Helen rehearsed it in front of a mirror.
Colin wasn’t the least impressed. Or interested.
“I’m not overly fond of Greek mythology, Lord Kilmaire. All those gods and goddesses one has to remember. The only one I can remember is Aphrodite.” She cast him a seductive look beneath her lashes. Her breasts pressed lightly against his forearm.
“Romans, Greeks, Egyptians,” she continued, “I can’t keep them all straight, I’m afraid. It’s all so much dust now, at any rate.” A slightly bawd laugh left her lips. “I’d much rather concentrate on the present.”
Colin gave her a courteous nod.
Lady Helen seemed not to notice Colin’s lack of interest.
“I’m a bird watcher.” She lowered her voice an octave as if imparting some great secret. “I find them to be incredibly fascinating creatures. There are so many beautiful species, all with their own small quirks. And I adore feathers.” A giggle burst from her lips.
A hand raised to Colin’s lips to hold in the yawn that threatened. “Do go on.”
“I’ve begun keeping a journal, a trophy book of sorts, where I track down those birds that others find difficult to spot. I am a relentless hunter, Lord Kilmaire. I record my assessment of each specimen, my observations and such. I even draw sketches. Possibly I’ll share my findings with the Royal Museum at some point, or perhaps one of England’s universities. I feel certain that as an expert in this field, my observations have merit and would be welcomed.”
Colin found that highly unlikely, though he respected her passion. It was the only appealing thing about Lady Helen besides her dowry.
Lady Helen’s eyes glistened with feverish intensity as she proceeded to relate the details of her intrepid search for a particular species of thrush. Apparently, the bird made it’s home in the wooded meadows surrounding Gray Covington.
Colin reminded himself that he didn’t have to find Lady Helen fascinating. He thought they would probably get along well. She’d probably cuckold him before their first wedding anniversary.
He doubted he would care.
“Few ladies, my
lord, let alone a countess, would climb a tree to gain a glimpse of a ruby throated thrush.” A pout crossed her lips as the brief brush of her fingertips pressed his forearm in a suggestive manner. “But, I have.”
Lady Helen should learn the fine art of subtly.
“Helen,” Lady Cottingham turned from the tapestry to her daughter, nostrils flaring as if she were a deer scenting danger. “I do not think it appropriate to mention your unladylike behavior to Lord Kilmaire.”
Lady Helen shot her mother a mutinous look but dutifully took a step back from Colin.
“I’m afraid my daughter can be a bit reckless, Lord Kilmaire.”
“Not at all, Lady Cottingham.”
As if climbing a tree made one reckless. Or possibly Lady Cottingham assumed that the very idea of her daughter’s exposed calves would incite lust in Colin. Why he might forget himself, so overcome by the thought of her ankles that he would pounce on Lady Helen and ravish her.
Lady Cottingham worried needlessly.
“Perhaps we can go birdwatching during our stay at Gray Covington?” Lady Helen murmured in a low voice.
Colin waited for Lady Cottingham to chastise her daughter again, but the lady’s attention was drawn to the entrance of the drawing room. Her cheeks reddened and the fingertips of one gloved hand fluttered against her neck.
“It would be my pleasure, with your parent’s permission, of course,” Colin answered loudly enough for Lady Cottingham to hear. Unfortunately, Lady Helen’s mother wasn’t listening.
Lady Helen’s rosebud mouth pursed a bit, not caring for his answer. “Of course, my lord.”
Did the chit think he was stupid enough to agree to an assignation? For that was what Lady Helen implied. Her parents would happen upon them, of course, and Colin would need to do the honorable thing.
Shouldn’t I want that? Cut the courtship short. Return to Runshaw Park with my pockets lined with Lady Helen’s dowry?
Lady Helen wished to float about the ton as a countess. Colin wished to return to Runshaw Park. They were each other’s means to an end. There was little shame in that, he reminded himself. Virtually every other marriage in the ton was cut from the same cloth. He would never care for her, nor would she care for him.
MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3 Page 14