Mine Till Midnight

by Lisa Kleypas

  Poppy was busy with needlework, stitching a pair of men’s slippers with bright wool threads, while Beatrix played solitaire on the floor near the hearth. Noticing the way her youngest sister was riffling through the cards, Amelia laughed. “Beatrix,” she said after Win had finished a chapter, “why in heaven’s name would you cheat at solitaire? You’re playing against yourself.”

  “Then there’s no one to object when I cheat.”

  “It’s not whether you win but how you win that’s important,” Amelia said.

  “I’ve heard that before, and I don’t agree at all. It’s much nicer to win.”

  Poppy shook her head over her embroidery. “Beatrix, you are positively shameless.”

  “And a winner,” Beatrix said with satisfaction, laying down the exact card she wanted.

  “Where did we go wrong?” Amelia asked of no one in particular.

  Win smiled. “Her pleasures are few, dear. A creative game of solitaire isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

  “I suppose not.” Amelia was about to say more, but she was diverted by a cold waft of air that slipped around her ankles and turned her toes numb. She shivered and pulled her knitted blue shawl more snugly around herself. “My, it’s chilly in here.”

  “You must be sitting in a draft,” Poppy said in concern. “Come sit by me, Amelia—I’m much closer to the fire.”

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll go to bed now.” Still shivering, Amelia yawned. “Good night, everyone.” She left as Beatrix asked Win to read one more chapter.

  As Amelia walked along the hallway, she passed a small room that, as far as they had been able to tell, had been intended as a gentlemen’s room. It featured an alcove that was just large enough for a billiards table, and a dingy painting of a hunting scene on one wall. A large overstuffed chair was positioned between the windows, its velvet nap eroded. Light from a standing lamp slid across the floor in a diluted wash.

  Leo was drowsing in the chair, one arm hanging loosely over the side. An empty bottle stood on the floor near the chair, casting a spearlike shadow to the other side of the room.

  Amelia would have continued on her way, but something about her brother’s undefended posture caused her to stop. He slept with his head slumped over one shoulder, lips slightly parted, just as he had in childhood. With his face wiped clean of anger and grief, he looked young and vulnerable. She was reminded of the gallant boy he had once been, and her heart contracted with pity.

  Venturing into the room, Amelia was shocked by the abrupt change of temperature, the biting air. It was far colder in here than it was outside. And it wasn’t her imagination—she could see the white puffs of her breath. Shivering, she drew closer to her brother. The coldness was concentrated around him, turning so bitter that it made her lungs hurt to breathe. As she hovered over his prone form, she was swamped in a feeling of bleakness, a sorrow beyond tears.

  “Leo?” His face was gray, his lips dry and blue, and when she touched his cheek, there was no trace of warmth. “Leo!”

  No response.

  Amelia shook him, pushed hard at his chest, took his stiff face in her hands. As she did so, she felt some invisible force pulling at her. She held on doggedly, knotting her fists in the loose folds of his shirt. “Leo, wake up!”

  To her infinite relief, he stirred and gasped, and his lashes flickered upward. The irises of his eyes were as pale as ice. His palms came to her shoulders, and he muttered groggily, “I’m awake. I’m awake. Jesus. Don’t scream. You’re making enough noise to wake the dead.”

  “For a moment I thought that was exactly what I was doing.” Amelia half collapsed onto the arm of the chair, her nerves thrilling unpleasantly. The chill was receding now. “Oh, Leo, you were so still and pale. I’ve seen livelier-looking corpses.”

  Her brother rubbed his eyes. “I’m only a bit tap-hackled. Not dead.”

  “You wouldn’t wake up.”

  “I didn’t want to. I…” He paused, looking troubled. His tone was soft and wondering. “I was dreaming. Such vivid dreams…”

  “About what?”

  He wouldn’t answer.

  “About Laura?” Amelia persisted.

  His face closed, deep lines weathering the surface like fissures made by the expansion of ice inside rock. “I told you never to mention her name to me.”

  “Yes, because you didn’t want to be reminded of her. But it doesn’t matter, Leo. You never stop thinking about her whether you hear her name or not.”

  “I’m not going to talk about her.”

  “Well, it’s fairly obvious that avoidance isn’t working.” Her mind spun desperately with the question of what tack to take, how best to reach him. She tried determination. “I won’t let you fall to pieces, Leo.”

  The look he gave her made it clear that determination had been a bad choice. “Someday,” he said with cold pleasantness, “you may be forced to acknowledge there are some things beyond your control. If I want to go to pieces, I’ll do it without asking your bloody permission.”

  She tried sympathy next. “Leo … I know what you’ve gone through since Laura died. But other people have recovered from loss, and they’ve gone on to find happiness again—”

  “There’s no more happiness,” Leo said roughly. “There’s no peace in any damn corner of my life. She took it all with her. For pity’s sake, Amelia … go meddle in someone else’s affairs, and leave me the hell alone.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The morning after Amelia Hathaway’s visit, Cam went to visit Lord Westcliff’s private study, pausing at the open doorway. “My lord.”

  He suppressed a smile as he noticed a child’s porcelain-head doll under the mahogany desk, propped in a sitting position against one of the legs, and the remains of what appeared to be a honey tart. Knowing of the earl’s adoration for his daughter, Cam guessed he found it impossible to defend against Merritt’s invasions.

  Looking up from the desk, Westcliff gestured for Cam to enter. “Is it Brishen’s tribe?” he asked without prelude.

  Cam took the chair he indicated. “No—it’s headed by a man named Danior. They saw the marks on the trees.”

  That morning, one of Westcliff’s tenants had reported that a Romany camp had been set up by the river. Unlike other landowners in Hampshire, Westcliff tolerated the presence of Gypsies at his estate, as long as they made no mischief and didn’t outstay their welcome.

  On past occasions the earl had sent food and wine to visiting Romas. In return, they had carved marks on trees by the river to indicate this was friendly territory. They usually stayed only a matter of days, and left without causing damage to the estate.

  Upon learning of the Gypsy camp, Cam had volunteered to go talk to the newcomers and ask about their plans. Westcliff had agreed at once, welcoming the opportunity of sending an intermediary who spoke Romany.

  It had been a good visit. The tribe was a small one, its leader an affable man who had assured Cam they would make no trouble.

  “They intend to stay a week, no more,” Cam told Westcliff.

  “Good.”

  The earl’s decisive reply caused Cam to smile. “You don’t like being visited by the Rom.”

  “It’s not something I would wish for,” Westcliff admitted. “Their presence makes the villagers and my tenants nervous.”

  “But you allow them to stay. Why?”

  “For one thing, proximity makes it easier to know what they’re doing. For another…” Westcliff paused, seeming to choose his words with unusual care. “Many view the Romany people as bands of wanderers and itinerants, and at worst, beggars and thieves. But others recognize them as possessing their own authentic culture. If one subscribes to the latter view, one can’t punish them for living as men of nature.”

  Cam raised his brows, impressed. It was rare for anyone, let alone an aristocrat, to deal with Gypsies in a fair manner. “And you subscribe to the latter view?”

  “I am leaning toward it”—Westcliff smiled wryly
as he added—“while at the same time acknowledging that men of nature can be, on occasion, a bit light-fingered.”

  Cam grinned. “The Rom believe no one owns the land or the life it sustains. Technically, one can’t steal something that belongs to all people.”

  “My tenant farmers tend to disagree,” Westcliff said dryly.

  Cam leaned back, resting one hand on the arm of the chair. His gold rings glinted against the rich mahogany. Unlike the earl, who was precisely dressed in tailored clothes and a deftly knotted necktie, Cam wore boots and breeches and an open-necked shirt. It wouldn’t have been appropriate to visit the tribe in the formal stiff-necked attire of a gadjo.

  Westcliff watched him closely. “What was said between you? I would imagine they expressed some surprise upon meeting a Roma who lives with gadje.”

  “Surprise,” Cam agreed, “along with pity.”

  “Pity?” The earl was not so enlightened as to comprehend that the Rom considered themselves vastly superior to the gadje.

  “They pity any man who leads this kind of life.” Cam gestured loosely at their refined surroundings. “Sleeping in a house. Burdened by possessions. Having a schedule. Carrying a pocket watch. All of it is unnatural.”

  He fell silent, thinking of the moment he had set foot in the camp, the sense of ease that had stolen over him. The sight of the wagons, vardos, with dogs lazing between the front wheels, the contented cob horses tethered nearby, the smells of woodsmoke and ashes … all of it had evoked warm childhood memories. And longing. He wanted that life, had never stopped wanting it. He had never found anything to replace it.

  “To my mind there is nothing unnatural about wanting a roof over one’s head when it rains,” Westcliff said. “Or owning and tilling the land, or measuring the progress of the day with the use of a clock. It is man’s nature to impose his will on his surroundings. Otherwise society would disintegrate, and there would be nothing but chaos and war.”

  “And the English, with their clocks and farms and fences—they have no war?”

  The earl frowned. “One can’t view these matters so simplistically.”

  “The Rom do.” Cam studied the tips of his boots, the worn leather coated with a dry film of river mud. “They asked me to go with them when they leave,” he said almost absently.

  “You refused, of course.”

  “I wanted to say yes. If not for my responsibilities in London, I would have.”

  Westcliff’s face went blank. A speculative pause. “You surprise me.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a man of unusual abilities and intelligence. You have wealth, and the prospect of acquiring much more. There’s no logic in letting all that go to waste.”

  A smile touched Cam’s lips. Although Westcliff was an open-minded man, he had strong opinions about how people should live. His values—among them honor, industry, and advancement—were not consistent with the Rom’s. To the earl, nature was something to be managed and organized—flowers must be contained in garden beds, animals must be trained or hunted, land must be cleared. And a young man must be steered into productive enterprises, and led to marry a proper woman with whom he would build a solid British family.

  “Why would it be a waste?”

  “A man must raise himself to his fullest potential,” came the earl’s unhesitating reply. “You could never do that living as a Roma. Your basic needs—food and shelter—would barely be met. You would face constant persecution. How in God’s name could such a life appeal to you, when you have almost everything a man could possibly want?”

  Cam shrugged. “It’s freedom.”

  Westcliff shook his head. “If you want land, you have the means to purchase large amounts of it. If you want horses, you can buy a string of Thoroughbreds and hunters. If you want—”

  “That’s not freedom. How much of your time is spent directing estate affairs, investments, companies, having meetings with agents and brokers, traveling to Bristol and London?”

  Westcliff looked affronted. “Are you telling me in earnest that you are considering giving up your employment, your ambitions, your future … in favor of traveling the earth in a vardo?”

  “Yes. I’m considering it.”

  Westcliff’s coffee-colored eyes narrowed. “And you think after years of living a productive life in London that you would adjust happily to an existence of aimless wandering?”

  “It’s the life I was meant for. In your world, I’m nothing but a novelty.”

  “A damned successful novelty. And you have the opportunity to be a representative for your people—”

  “God help me.” Cam had begun to laugh helplessly. “If it ever comes to that, I should be shot.”

  The earl picked up the silver letter seal from the corner of his desk, examining the engraved base of it with undue concentration. He used the edge of his thumbnail to remove a hardened droplet of sealing wax that had marred the polished surface. Cam was not deceived by Westcliff’s sudden diffidence.

  “One can’t help but notice,” the earl murmured, “that while you’re considering a change in your entire way of life, you also seem to have taken a conspicuous interest in Miss Hathaway.”

  Cam’s expression didn’t change, the barrier of his smile firmly fixed. “She’s a beautiful woman. I’d have to be blind not to notice her. But that’s hardly going to change my future plans.”

  “Yet.”

  “Ever,” Cam returned, pausing as he heard the unnecessary intensity of his own voice. He adjusted his tone at once. “I’ve decided to leave in two days, after St. Vincent and I confer on a few matters regarding the club. It’s not likely I’ll see Miss Hathaway again.” Thank God, he added privately.

  The handful of encounters he’d had with Amelia Hathaway were uniquely troubling. Cam couldn’t recall when, if ever, he had been so affected by a woman. He was not one to involve himself in other peoples’ affairs. He was loath to give advice, and he spent little time considering problems that didn’t directly concern him. But he was irresistibly drawn to Amelia. She was so deliciously serious-minded, so busy trying to manage everyone in her sphere, it was an ungodly temptation to distract her. Make her laugh. Make her play. And he could, if he wished. Knowing that made it all the more difficult to stay away from her.

  The tenacious connections she had formed with the others in her family, the extent she would go to take care of them … that appealed to him on an instinctual level. The Rom were like that. Tribal. And yet Amelia was his opposite in the most essential ways, a creature of domesticity who would insist on putting down roots. Ironic, that he should be so fascinated by someone who represented everything he needed to escape from.

  * * *

  It seemed the entire county turned out for the Mop Fair, which according to tradition had been held every October the twelfth for at least a hundred years. The village, with its tidy shops and white and black thatched cottages, was almost absurdly charming. Crowds milled about the distinctive oval village green or strolled along the main thoroughfare where a multitude of temporary stalls and booths had been erected. Vendors sold penny toys, foodstuffs, bags of salt from Lymington, glassware and fabrics, and pots of local honey.

  The music of singers and fiddlers was punctuated by bursts of applause as entertainers performed tricks for passers-by. Most of the work-hiring had been done earlier in the day, with hopeful laborers and apprentices standing in lines on the village green, talking to potential employers. After an agreement was made, a fasten-penny was given to the newly hired servant, and the rest of the day was spent in merrymaking.

  Merripen had gone in the morning to find two or three suitable servants for Ramsay House. With that business concluded, he returned to the village in late afternoon, accompanied by the entire Hathaway family. They were all delighted by the prospect of music, food, and entertainment. Leo promptly disappeared with a pair of village women, leaving his sisters in Merripen’s charge.

  Browsing among the stalls, the sisters f
easted on hand-sized pork pies, leek pasties, apples and pears, and to the girls’ delight, “gingerbread husbands.” The gingerbread had been pressed into wooden man-shaped molds, baked and gilded. The baker at the stall assured them that every unmarried maiden must eat a gingerbread husband for luck, if she wanted to catch the real thing someday.

  A laughing mock argument sprang up between Amelia and the baker as she flatly refused one for herself, saying she had no wish to marry.

  “But of course you do!” the baker declared with a sly grin. “It’s what every woman hopes for.”

  Amelia smiled and passed the gingerbread men to her sisters. “How much for three, sir?”

  “A farthing each.” He attempted to hand her a fourth. “And this for no charge. It would be a sad waste for a lovely blue-eyed lady to go without a husband.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Amelia protested. “Thank you, but I don’t—”

  A new voice came from behind her. “She’ll take it.”

  Discomfiture and pleasure seethed low in her body, and Amelia saw a dark masculine hand reaching out, dropping a silver piece into the baker’s upturned palm. Hearing her sisters’ giggling exclamations, Amelia turned and looked up into a pair of bright hazel eyes.

  “You need the luck,” Cam Rohan said, pushing the gingerbread husband into her reluctant hands. “Have some.”

  She obeyed, deliberately biting off the head, and he laughed. Her mouth was filled with the rich flavor of molasses and the melting chewiness of gingerbread on her tongue.

  Glancing at Rohan, she thought he should have had at least one or two flaws, some irregularity of skin or structure … but his complexion was as smooth as dark honey, and the lines of his features were razor-perfect. As he bent his head toward her, the perishing sun struck brilliant spangles in the dark waves of his hair.