by Candace Camp
“I’ll be glad to.” Oliver bit off the words, his gaze every bit as fiery as hers was cold. He swung around and stalked out of the room.
Vivian watched him go, fists clenched. She would have liked to pick up something and hurl it after him, but whatever Oliver might think of her behavior, she was not indiscreet enough to do something like that in someone else’s home. Instead, she stood stiffly, waiting until she heard the front door slam after Oliver. Then she rushed out of the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber, where she threw herself on the bed and indulged in a hearty fit of tears.
Finally, she rose and splashed water on her face to erase some of the evidence of her tears. Grimly she stalked out of the room and down the stairs to join Oliver. It was, she thought, going to be a long, silent drive back to London.
Camellia stared discontentedly out the window. Lily had been gone for only two days and already Camellia was at loose ends. She had industriously sat down to write letters to Rose and Mary, but she had never been much of a correspondent, and it had not taken long to finish those duties. Mending and such was done by the servant, and Camellia had never been much good at fine work with a needle. She could hardly go out and practice target shooting, as she had done at Willowmere, nor could she ride in London without a companion. Indeed, she found riding along Rotten Row so boring as to almost not be worthwhile. What did young women do in London?
A sharp bark made her whirl around. “Pirate!”
The scruffy-looking dog stood in the doorway, a well-chewed red ball in his mouth and his stumpy tail wagging furiously. He trotted forward and stopped in front of her, dropping the ball at her feet.
“Ah. You want to play catch, I see.” Camellia grinned. “Well, that might be just the thing.”
The garden behind the house was small, but with enough grassy area for the small dog to chase a ball. While the weather was by no means warm yet, it was at least no longer freezing cold outside. Camellia ran lightly up the stairs to put on a pelisse and gloves, choosing a woolen pair that she did not mind ruining, then returned to the sitting room. There she discovered that Pirate had set a small rag doll and a well-chewed bone next to the ball.
“Been raiding your cache, I see,” Camellia said with a chuckle.
One of the dog’s quirks was to take his treasures and hide them under the backstairs, an area that he had adopted as his den. Then, at his leisure, he would pull them out and carry them about to chew on or play with or offer as a gift to one of the residents of the house. (He seemed to be especially fond of presenting one of his trophies to ladies who came to call, perhaps because his offerings were so often met with gratifyingly shrill exclamations of disgust and horror.) The members of the household had grown accustomed to searching Pirate’s hiding place whenever some small possession of theirs went missing.
Camellia scooped up all three objects, dropping the bone in the trash on their way out to the rear garden. She threw the ball, then the rag doll, and Pirate chased them merrily, bringing them back to her—though in the case of the doll, he was apt to first spend a few moments shaking it to make sure it was thoroughly subdued. He was trotting back to Camellia after one of her throws, the red ball in his mouth, when he came to an abrupt halt, dropped the ball, and began to bark ferociously at something behind Camellia. Camellia whirled around to see a slender man in rough clothes pushing open the outside gate.
Her stomach dropped. “Cosmo!” Frozen for the moment with a swift and instinctive fear, Camellia stared at the man as he strolled forward and doffed his hat to her in a jaunty manner. At his insouciant gesture, however, a saving anger spurted up inside her, shoving aside all else, and she snapped, “What the devil are you doing here?”
Pirate charged up to stand next to Camellia, letting out a piercing series of barks.
“Now, is that any way to greet your dear old father?” Cosmo asked, eyeing the little dog uneasily.
“Stepfather,” Camellia corrected coldly, and crossed her arms in front of her, scowling.
Cosmo Glass had married Flora Bascombe a year after her beloved husband, Miles, died. Cosmo had been Miles’s partner in the tavern, and the girls’ mother, desperate to provide for her daughters, had married him. It had not taken long for her to discover the awful mistake she had made. At best lazy, at worst given to criminal enterprises, Cosmo Glass had been more a millstone around their necks than a provider. Even after their mother died, he had tried to use the girls for his own benefit, following them to England in an attempt to steal their property.
All the Bascombes despised him, but Camellia’s feelings were the strongest. Only twelve years old at the time her mother married Cosmo, Camellia had been as scared of her stepfather as she was disgusted by him. Unafraid as she was in general, she had never been able to completely eradicate her initial fear of the man. That icy little finger of panic—and the shame Camellia felt at being even vaguely afraid of such a low, insignificant creature—spurred her to loathe Cosmo even more than her sisters did.
Pirate continued to bark and jumped forward to nip at Cosmo’s leg. Cosmo hopped to the side, whipping off his hat and waving it frantically at the dog. “Stop it! Get him off me! Get him off!”
Camellia was tempted to let the dog do what he pleased, but she gestured to Pirate, saying, “Stop! Sit!”
It was never a certainty that Pirate would do as ordered, but this time he plopped down into a sitting position between Camellia and Cosmo and stared at the man, growling softly.
Camellia turned a hard gaze on Cosmo. “Why are you still in England?” Her way of fighting any sort of fear was to attack the object of it head-on. “Fitz told you to leave. If he finds out you’re still here—”
Cosmo snorted. “That fancy bit of work? He don’t scare me.”
“That proves how foolish you are. He’s the best shot in England.”
“The likes of him ain’t going to soil his hands on somebody like me. I know what those swell coves are like. Too scared of what somebody’d say about them.”
“I wouldn’t try to test that theory if I were you,” Camellia remarked drily. “Why did you come here? I’m not giving you a handout, if that’s what you’re thinking. Neither will anyone else here.”
“Not a handout I’m looking for. Just a little bit of help.” Cosmo smiled in what he must have thought was an ingratiating way. “Won’t you do one little thing for your old papa?”
“Stop saying that!”
At the rise in Camellia’s voice, Pirate jumped to his feet, his growl deepening.
Cosmo cast a wary look down at the dog, but went on, “All I’m asking for is a little information. You don’t have to do nothing.”
Camellia frowned. “What do you mean? What kind of information?”
“Just tell me where this Stewkesbury fella keeps his jewels.”
Camellia was so stunned that for a moment she could not speak. Then fury flamed up in her. “What! Do you seriously think that I would tell you that? That I would let you steal my cousin’s things? Have you gone completely mad?”
“Now, Cammy . . .”
“Don’t even say my name.” Camellia clenched her fists. “You needn’t bother being afraid of Fitz. You better be afraid of me. If you come around here again, saying things like that, I’ll get out my pistol and remind you what a good shot I am! Now get out of here!” She took a step forward, raising her fist.
Cosmo took a quick step backward. “Now don’t be hasty, Cammy girl. Just wait and listen to what I have to say.”
“You couldn’t possibly say anything that would make me tell you where Oliver keeps his valuables.”
“Yeah? Well, you might think about what I could tell this precious Oliver.” He raised his chin pugnaciously. “What do you think about that? Huh? You got a sweet little life here, don’t ya? Wouldn’t want to risk losing that.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“What if someone was to tell this earl fella that you wasn’t r
eally related to him?”
“What?” Camellia gazed at Cosmo blankly. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Oliver knows that I’m his cousin.”
“He may know them others are his cousins. But I remember my Flora talking about how your birth record got burned up. Hard to prove who you are ’thout any records.”
A prickle ran down Camellia’s spine, but she said only, “Don’t be ridiculous. The other girls all know I’m their sister.”
“They could be lying. It’d look pretty suspicious if I was to tell that Stewkesbury fella that you was my daughter, that Flora was only your stepma, not your real one. Anybody what knows those Bascombe girls knows they stick together. They’d be happy to lie if it meant keeping the lot of you together.”
“Oliver knows better than that.” Camellia firmly pushed down the insidious little leap of doubt. “He wouldn’t believe you over us.”
“No? What man goes around laying claim to a child that ain’t his? Tell me that. Pretty powerful proof, I’d say. And look at you. You don’t look like the rest of them. Not a single one of them is yaller-headed except you. That earl’d be bound to wonder. Even if he was stupid enough not to, I bet he wouldn’t like anybody else hearing that story—how he’s been taken in by a bunch of girls. How that girl he’s telling everyone is his cousin really ain’t.”
“So you want me to help you steal from Oliver so that he won’t be embarrassed?”
Cosmo nodded happily. “Men like that don’t like to be thought a fool.”
“Obviously it doesn’t worry you.”
Cosmo’s brows drew together, clearly aware that she’d insulted him, but unsure how.
“I am not helping you.” Camellia’s voice was flat, and the look in her eyes would have frightened a wiser man than Cosmo Glass. “Tell the earl whatever you want to. I’m sure he would like to have a nice laugh. Now get out of here.”
“All right. All right. You always were a prickly one. But you think over what I said. I’ll give you a little time. You’ll see it’s best for you.”
“Get. Out. Now.” Camellia advanced on him with each word, and Pirate, encouraged by her actions, began to bark again, running around them in circles and jumping forward every now and then to take a nip at Cosmo’s ankles.
Cosmo backed up quickly as Camellia marched toward him, and after Pirate managed to nose beneath the bottom of his trouser leg and sink his sharp little teeth into the man’s flesh, Cosmo let out a yelp and ran from the yard.
Even in her anger, Camellia could not help but grin at the picture he presented—rushing out of the garden, the little dog on his heels, yapping and lunging at his ankles. But the grin quickly fell from her face as she turned away. She stalked to the wrought-iron bench that sat at the edge of the garden and threw herself down into it.
Blast Cosmo! Was she never to be free of the man?
She thought for a moment of going to Fitz and telling him what had just happened. But it did not take her long to discard that idea. Camellia hated the idea of being beholden to anyone, even someone as pleasant and easygoing as her cousin Fitz. She took care of her own problems, thank you very much, without running to a man to solve them for her. That she felt a bit of unease at having to deal with her stepfather only served perversely to make her more determined to handle it on her own. She had no desire to let anyone, even Fitz—and especially not that slimy scoundrel Cosmo Glass!—think that she did not have the courage to deal with him herself. Besides, talking about her stepfather, especially to her proper English relatives, no matter how agreeable they might be, was too embarrassing. Even though he was no real relation to her, she could not help but feel a stab of shame at the thought of revealing his plan, as though his low, greedy actions tarred her with the same brush. No, she was determined to take care of Cosmo alone.
There was no question of her doing what he had asked. She had made that clear, and if he approached her again, she would reiterate her refusal. That was easy enough. The problem was to keep Cosmo from making good on his threat. It would not help Cosmo to spread his story about, but if she refused to help him, she knew that he was small-minded enough to tell his lies just for spite.
She remembered the suspicion with which Oliver had looked at her and her sisters when they first arrived. What if Cosmo’s tale reawakened Oliver’s suspicions, at least where she was concerned? The problem was that Cosmo’s story was all too plausible. He was right in believing that his claiming her as his daughter would work to his advantage. Men were much more likely to try to avoid the claim of paternity than to announce it—especially when saying that he was her father would appear to gain him nothing. Also, she did not resemble the other three sisters, and she didn’t have any proof of her birth.
Of course, Mary and Lily would swear that she was their sister, and surely Cousin Oliver would believe them. Still, she hated the thought of his looking at her with even the least bit of suspicion. Camellia was well aware that her blunt American ways had never sat well with the earl. Though he had never given any overt indication that he did not like her as well as the other girls, Camellia felt rather certain that he did not.
As Cosmo had pointed out, it did not matter whether his claim was the truth. That he had raised the issue would be enough to create a scandal. Camellia’s gallop in the park had proved to her just how little it took to cause gossip, as well as how quickly that gossip could get around the city. She had no illusions that news she might not be a true Talbot would not spread like wildfire through the ton. Dora Parkington and her mother, Camellia thought, grinding her teeth, would be all too happy to help.
Stewkesbury despised scandal. He would be furious . . . even if he would only show it in that tight-lipped British way of his. Camellia hated for him to be put in such a position after all the kindness he had shown them. Not to mention that a scandal would be dreadful for Lily. The Carrs would be appalled, and the wedding would be buried in the avalanche of gossip.
No. She simply could not allow Cosmo to go about telling his story. Somehow, she was going to have to stop him.
Chapter 13
The drive home from Sir Rufus’s estate was as chilly and silent as Vivian had imagined it would be. Vivian’s anger had faded by the following morning, however, and she hoped that Oliver, too, would regret the way they had parted. When that happened, he would doubtless seek her out at some social function and they would be able to apologize to each other and reestablish their rather bumpy relationship. But it was imperative that he seek her out, so there was frustratingly little that Vivian could do except turn up at as many events as she could.
Vivian was resigned to this course, buoyed by her confidence that it would not take Stewkesbury too long to come around, but it presented her with a ticklish situation in regards to her friendship with Eve and Camellia. If she called on them at Stewkesbury House, she might run into Oliver, and he might think she had arranged the visit precisely to run into him. That would never do. However, she needed to take Camellia with her on calls to the various leading ladies of the ton if Vivian was to establish the girl properly. Even more important, Vivian felt sure that Camellia was feeling rather downhearted now that her sister had left on her tour of the Carrs’ various relatives, and it would cheer Cam up to have a little company.
Finally Vivian sat down to pen a note to Eve suggesting that the three of them pay a few visits together the following day. Fortunately, as she was struggling over how to express the idea that Eve and Cam should come to her home to begin their calls without arousing their curiosity as to why she was reluctant to call at Stewkesbury House, the butler entered the room to announce that Miss Bascombe was here and he had put her in the smaller drawing room.
“Oh, dear.” Vivian stood up quickly. Had Camellia walked over here by herself? It would be another black mark against her if anyone found out.
But Grigsby, perspicacious as always, added, “Miss Bascombe was accompanied by her maid.”
Vivian smiled. “Thank you, Grigsby.”
Camellia, who looked, Vivian thought with approval, quite stylish in her sprig muslin dress and green spencer, rose and came forward. “Hello, Vivian. It occurred to me after I got here that I had probably committed some horrid error by coming to see you without an invitation, but at least I remembered to make my maid walk over with me.”
“You are always welcome in my home. You needn’t an invitation. But I am pleased you remembered your maid. And your dress is lovely. Which bonnet did you wear with it?”
“It has a green velvet ribbon.”
“The one we saw in Turlington’s window?”
“Exactly.” Camellia laughed. “How can you remember such things?”
“Oh, my dear, I rarely forget a fetching bonnet.” Vivian led Camellia to the couch and sat down beside her. “You look complete to a shade. I am sure the young men are lining up to dance with you.”
“I always have partners,” Camellia admitted, sounding a little surprised. “Although I can’t imagine why. No matter how hard I try, I always seem to say something that makes some girl gasp and start fanning herself.”
Vivian chuckled. “Many young ladies love to ply their fans; they think it makes them interesting.”
Camellia cast her a doubtful look. “I suppose. All I can see is that it makes people look at them.”
“Then their goal is accomplished.”
“But do men really fall in love with someone because she’s always astonished by everything?”
Vivian shrugged. “Some men do seem to be strangely drawn by a lack of intellect. But clearly not all. It sounds as though you have your fair share of admirers.” Vivian paused, studying her friend. She remembered her brother’s words to her before he left, and she could not help but wonder if Camellia had any liking for Seyre. Camellia and Seyre had not talked long, of course, but surely Camellia must have had some feelings about him, one way or the other.