The Companion's Secret

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The Companion's Secret Page 13

by Susanna Craig


  “Remy, it’ll be down to you to help the girl. There must be some way to prove she’s innocent. But my hand must not be seen to be behind any of it, or it will only go worse for everyone involved.”

  One crisp nod. No hesitation. And Remy was gone.

  “Surely you can muster an ally in the Lords?” Fox suggested when they were alone. He did not add, though he might fairly have done so, that the task would have been easier if Gabriel had ever taken his own seat there. “My father, perhaps?”

  How like Foxy to overlook the problem posed by the Earl of Wickersham’s infrequent assumption of his own seat as his years increased and his health declined. How like Foxy to ignore his father’s patent distaste for his son’s choice of friend.

  Gabriel’s gaze fell on his desk. A towering stack of books awaiting crating. Topmost was the battered guide to the peerage. “I have another candidate in mind,” he said.

  “Merrick.” Fox’s gaze must have followed his own. “You cannot mean to go ahead with your scheme to wed Lady Felicity?”

  If the attainder were successful, it would touch his wife and any child of his she bore. He had no business marrying now, when he might condemn an innocent woman to life as an outcast, a sort of social death.

  On the other hand, Merrick’s desire to save his daughter’s pretty neck would ensure he’d do his damnedest to see that the charges against Gabriel came to naught. And perhaps, when presented with the possibility of destroying a blameless young bride rather than Gabriel alone, his peers would turn a deaf ear on Lord Sebastian Finch’s complaints.

  In a long career of dastardly deeds, he had done worse than marry Felicity Trenton.

  But not by much.

  He had not realized he had risen to his feet until Fox faced him, toe to toe. “God forbid your uncle’s plot succeeds, and you are…” This time, he could not seem to bring himself to finish the sentence. But he did not need to. “What would happen to her?”

  “I will see that she is well taken care of,” Gabriel insisted. “I have a substantial private fortune. I will find a way to arrange a settlement the attainder cannot touch. If the worst comes to pass, she would be left a very wealthy, and I daresay, a very eligible widow—perhaps more eligible even than she is now. After all, pity moves people in ways that prudence does not.” Fox still looked understandably dissatisfied. It was in his nature to protect, as much as it was in Gabriel’s nature to harm whatever he touched. “But if her heart should be broken,” he concluded, forcing a smile, “you have my blessing to swoop in and pick up the pieces, old thing.”

  “I do not wish her heart to be broken, Ash,” Fox said, his eyes suddenly cold. “Not even bruised. Lady Felicity deserves better. Her family will demand it.”

  He would never deny that she deserved better. But neither her father nor her brother was in a position to demand anything.

  Gabriel had for some time suspected that Fox had another champion in mind, however.

  “What about you, my friend?” he asked softly, testing. “Do you demand it?”

  At his side, Fox’s hand curled into a surprisingly formidable-looking fist. He did not look like a clergyman now. “I do,” he said, with unaccustomed resoluteness.

  “Careful, Foxy. A better man might take that as a challenge.” Gabriel had met more than one opponent at dawn, and he suspected Fox well knew the outcome of those encounters, although he had never asked. “Unless, of course, you’ve grown such a patriot you mean to spare His Highness the cost of a bullet.”

  Fox’s answering glare forced Gabriel to look away. Gabriel had thought himself fully prepared to make sacrifices to save Stoke from his uncle. Was his friendship with Fox to be one of them?

  “You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself, my friend. And I’ve never been one for violence,” Fox said. Slowly, his hand relaxed, though the set of jaw remained hard as granite. “But I think it’s time to remind you that, while I may not be a sportsman, I’m still reckoned a fair shot.”

  Gabriel shuddered in sympathy with the heavy oak doors as Fox slammed his way first out of the room, then out of the house.

  Out of his life.

  Chapter 11

  With a sigh of annoyance, Cami rose to shut her window against the lark’s song and discovered it was morning. Midmorning, in fact. The cool air that had crept into her room overnight had left her stiff. The wick of her candle guttered in a pool of wax; she had not realized she was no longer using its light to write by, but rather that of the sun.

  As she stretched to ease the tension in her shoulders, she moved toward the washbasin, removed her spectacles, and splashed her face. Her hair still fell in last night’s tangled waves, but after the diligent application of a hairbrush, she soon made quick work of smoothing it into the usual neat, braided coil at the back of her neck. After changing into a fresh dress, she gave a vigorous toss of her head—a desperate attempt to restore her good sense to its rightful place at the forepart of her brain, from wherever it had scattered at the touch of Gabriel’s lips. All night her jumbled thoughts had jostled one another, refusing to arrange themselves into anything like sentences on the page. The sheets of paper littering her worktable—the closing scene of The Wild Irish Rose—were covered in scratches and spatterings of ink, just as if she had repeatedly thrown down her pen in frustration. Which she had. Gabriel—er, Granville was a problem that resisted a solution.

  Gathering up the papers she had rendered almost unreadable, she touched them to the still-glowing wick of her candle, which expired with the effort of setting them alight. A breath of air through pursed lips coaxed forth a genuine flame, and when the pages were burning merrily, she tossed them into the empty hearth. She would start fresh after breakfast.

  To her surprise, both Lady Merrick and Felicity were in the breakfast parlor. With one hand shading her eyes from the sunlight pouring through an east-facing window, her aunt moaned softly over tea and toast. Felicity leafed idly through her papa’s newspaper.

  “Good morning, Cousin.” Felicity did not look up as she spoke.

  Cami began to fill a plate from the sideboard. Her night’s labor, though fruitless, had given her an appetite.

  “What makes you such a lie-abed this morning, Camellia?” Aunt Merrick rasped out.

  She was spared from having to invent a reply when her aunt held out a stack of correspondence, carelessly smearing the corners through the butter. “Do sort this and see what can be avoided. Merrick will return any day and I do not intend to go out of this house until he’s spoken to Lord Ash and made him come to the point. I will not have the Trenton name humiliated.”

  Cami laid aside her plate, took the letters, and picked up a knife instead of a fork. A pile of invitations soon rose under her hand. Hostesses eager enough for success to court scandal, sending out cards to Lady Merrick and her daughter in hopes they might also secure the notorious Lord Ash. And failing that, to twitter behind their fans over the unfortunate young woman whose reputation had been sacrificed on the altar of her brother’s debts.

  Three-quarters of the way through her task, she came upon a letter, its direction written so poorly that it had been twice misdelivered. It was addressed to her. And the trembling hand that had penned the direction belonged to her sister Erica. With deliberate motions, so as not to draw attention to the letter, Cami broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  The single sheet was not crowded nor crossed, not even full. Just a few lines that listed forlornly across the page. Despite their mama’s best efforts, Erica’s hand had never been neat and even and ladylike. Erica herself was of “an energetic disposition,” in their mother’s gentle phrase. At times it was a great trial to her to sit still long enough to compose a letter; on another day, however, she might cover two sheets with her rambles. But, while this letter’s brevity was not entirely out of character, Cami still read signs of distress, or at least hurry, in the omission of
Erica’s customary embellishments: no stroke of the pen had been turned to leaf or flower or vine. And the words themselves confirmed her fears:

  Paris and his friends may succeed at last. But, they have lured Galen into their set. I fear for his safety. Of course, he will listen to no one—no one but you. I wish you would come, before it is too late.

  E.

  Though it might not be readily apparent to the casual reader—deliberately so, Cami suspected—the note conveyed a great deal of information. Paris’s “friends,” a group of patriots known as the Society of United Irishmen, had been working for years, first publicly, then in secret, to render Ireland a truly independent nation. Two years past, an uprising had failed when promised French support had not materialized. Erica’s intimation that they might at last have found a way to succeed sent a thrill of pride through Cami, chased by fear. Paris and the others, including Erica’s betrothed, Henry Edgeworth, would be risking their lives on behalf of their country. Was such a sacrifice necessary to reach their goal?

  History would answer yes, she supposed. Knowing how often men’s lives had been demanded in the cause of freedom, she had written The Wild Irish Rose in hopes of making people see Ireland’s struggles and forge a solution without bloodshed. Perhaps such a notion had been naïve. She loved Paris dearly, and of course she did not want to lose him, the closest to her of all her siblings, and not only in age. He was smart and determined and—oh, brave, so she must be brave in turn. She would try to see the honor in his sacrifice, if it must be made.

  But Galen was just a boy, though he would protest to hear himself described as such, no doubt. Young enough to listen to stories of war and hear only tales of thrilling adventure and glory, nothing of pain or loss or even death. Oh, Paris had better hope all was still well when she sailed into the Bay of Dublin, or he would know something of pain firsthand. At her hand.

  “Cousin Camellia?” Felicity regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. “What news?”

  For the briefest moment, she forgot Felicity’s dilemma. Forgot her own contribution to it. “My younger brother is in trouble,” she said, dropping the letter onto the table. “My sister has written begging me to come home. I must go immediately.”

  “Of course you must,” Felicity agreed without hesitation. Before his disastrous debts, and the equally disastrous plan to resolve them, she and her brother had been quite close. “But how will you get there?”

  “The public stage to Wales,” Cami replied matter-of-factly, for she had no money for anything else. Perhaps not even enough for that. “The packet from Holyhead to Dublin.”

  “But you can’t travel all that way alone.”

  Her uncle had sent a servant to accompany her to London, a fatiguing journey that had taken the better part of a week by private coach. It was a daunting prospect to imagine what the trip might involve if she were by herself. Nevertheless, family must come first. She lifted her chin. “I assure you, I can.”

  “But you would be…ruined.” The last word required a moment’s fortification before it could be spoken.

  Cami did not know whether to be charmed or annoyed by everyone’s sudden concern for her reputation. “You judge from your own experience, dear. No one will pay me the least mind, I assure you. I am not ‘lady’ anything. I am a servant. And a spinster.”

  A catalog of characteristics remarkably similar to the one she had given to Gabriel, though to prove a drastically different point.

  “Go to Ireland?” The hand that had been shading her aunt’s eyes fell to the table, making china and silver rattle. “Nonsense.”

  Felicity frowned with surprise. “But Mama, it must be important or her sister would not ask it of her.”

  “What good could you possibly do there, Camellia?” Aunt Merrick nodded toward the towering pile of invitations to be answered. “I have need of you here. I forbid it.”

  Cami had dreamed of the day she would earn enough with her writing to be independent—or, at least as independent as any woman could be. Able to go where and do what she would. She glanced toward Erica’s letter where it lay beside her untouched plate. She could not wait around for freedom to be granted. She must seize it. Rising, she laid her hands on the table in front of her for support. “I am sorry to defy you, Aunt. But you leave me little choice. I must go. I can only promise to return as soon as I am able.”

  Lady Merrick’s face grew red. “How dare you behave in this insolent fashion?”

  Cami bit her lip to keep from retorting, but to her surprise, her cousin threw off her usual restraint and stood. “Enough, Mama.” That lady’s face grew darker, beet red, nearly purple, but Felicity turned coolly away. “Come, Cousin. I will help you pack your things.”

  In the corridor, she squeezed Cami’s hand and pulled her toward the staircase. “You needn’t fear her.”

  Cami shook her head. She was not so much afraid of her aunt as for her. She had looked to be on the verge of an apoplexy.

  “Papa will make her understand,” Felicity continued. “Oh, Camellia—I do wish I had your bravery. I have so often wanted to prove to her that another person’s heart could be stronger than her will.”

  A reminder, though doubtless not a deliberate one, that by the time Cami returned from Dublin, Felicity would likely be married. Against her inclination. To Gabriel.

  Cami swallowed and mustered a smile. “There are many kinds of courage, Felicity.”

  Felicity went first to her own room in search of a small valise, something a woman could manage on her own. Alone in the quiet attic, Cami withdrew the length of red ribbon from the drawer of her worktable and secreted it in her writing desk, spooling it alongside the sheaf of ink-stained paper.

  So, this was the end of their story. Without even a proper good-bye, just a kiss that should never have been.

  There were worse fates for a would-be heroine, of course. She had always known that.

  Firmly, she closed the lid of her writing desk and snapped shut the latch.

  * * * *

  Though it was midmorning, Gabriel approached Trenton House with the same sense of nervous dread as a man keeping a dawn appointment. But marriage to Felicity was his last chance to better his odds. He knew the cards his opponent held.

  When he reached the steps, he trotted up them. His choices were too few to allow him the luxury of hesitation. Still, as he waited to be admitted, questions lingered in his mind. Would his uncle’s charge of treason find purchase among the men whose good opinion Gabriel had never cared to court? Could Adele somehow be saved, or must she join the lengthy tally of lives he had ruined?

  And why, why had he tortured himself with the taste of Camellia’s lips?

  Gall, wormwood—those were his portion. Everything bitter. Nothing sweet.

  He had to knock twice before the door was opened, and even then the butler ushered him in with an air of distraction. “I’m sorry, my lord. I do not think the family is at home today.”

  Not at home? Patently an untruth, of the sort butlers all over town were no doubt being asked to utter this fine day. Gabriel’s reputation had largely spared him from having to communicate, or rather not communicate, with those in good society. Now, however, he would have to learn how to tell such pointless, polite little lies. He cleared his throat and removed his hat. “Mr.…Wafford, is it not? Please do me the very great favor of telling Lady Felicity that I have something to say which I believe she—or at least, her family—will be eager to hear.”

  “I—” Denial swelled the man’s chest, but it could not quite push out his doubt. Even—no, especially—the servants must know of the expected proposal of marriage. The butler teetered visibly on the brink of indecision: follow orders to deny all visitors, or follow orders to encourage Lord Ash? With a crisp bow, he decided on the latter course. “Very good, my lord. Will you come up?”

  They passed the drawing r
oom, where Gabriel had first met Lord Trenton’s unfortunate sister. He had not anticipated an introduction to her cousin as well. But then, who could? The door was open, and he paused to allow his eyes to wander about the empty room. There Camellia had stumbled. There, for the first time, he had touched her. And there she had sat and scorched him with those brilliant eyes and that wicked, wicked tongue.

  Wafford cleared his throat, rousing Gabriel from his reverie. “Lady Merrick and Lady Felicity are in the breakfast room, my lord.”

  Gabriel turned sharply on one heel and followed.

  Felicity and her mother could be heard talking—perhaps arguing would be the better word—through the closed door. With a resigned expression, Wafford tapped a warning, opened the door for Gabriel, and announced him. The breakfast table was littered with the morning post, newspaper, and dirty dishes. The smell of eggs and kippers still hung on the air. When he entered, Felicity rose and curtsied. “Lord Ash. I was not expecting you this morning.”

  Lady Merrick shot him a scathing look. “Well, I was. After last night, I trust you’re here to propose to Felicity at last.” At those words, embarrassment flared in her daughter’s eyes, but the countess either did not see it or did not care. Gabriel made no attempt to reply. Did they know what had happened between him and Camellia?

  “Your attentions have given the impression that you intend to marry my daughter,” the countess continued. “But after your uncle gave her the cut direct last night, I’m sure every tongue in Mayfair is wagging.” Fury stiffened Gabriel’s spine, though he kept his face impassive. Trust Uncle Finch to find a way to make things worse. “If you do not come up to snuff soon, her reputation will be ruined. We will be ruined.”

  “If we are, Mama,” Felicity said, her words considerably more measured than her mother’s, “it will have been my brother’s doing, not Lord Ash’s.”

  “All Stephen did can be undone with his offer,” Lady Merrick countered, with a jerk of her chin in Gabriel’s direction. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said with a hard look for him as she marched from the room.

 

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