by Amelia Grey
“It’s good to see you, sir.” He shook his father’s hand and gripped his upper arm affectionately. Camden didn’t remember being taller than his father when he left home, but now he saw that he stood at least an inch or two higher than the master of the house. He also noticed his father had streaks of gray in his hair and in the beard he’d grown since Camden last saw him. Maybe he was a little thinner through the shoulders, too.
“It’s been a long time, son. Too long. I’d almost given up hope. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, sir. Hudson, how are you?” Camden shook hands and briefly hugged his younger brother. “You’ve grown up.”
Shorter than Camden and his father, Hudson was no longer a boy now that he was twenty-one. There was strength in the grip of his hand and hardness in the muscles of his upper arm, but his face was still full of youth and inexperience.
“I’ve been well, Brother, but I have to agree with Mama. I was beginning to think you had decided not to return to England at all.”
“I don’t know why you would have worried. London is home, and I promised to return one day.”
Camden let his gaze sweep all three family members. Yes, it was relief he read in each face. Had they missed him that much? He watched his mama dab the corners of her eyes and then her nose with an embroidered handkerchief. The ends of the square of cloth were raveling and showing age. His gaze skimmed down her dress. The fabric was faded and stained and hung loosely on her thin frame.
An uneasy feeling stole over Camden. He quickly scanned his father’s attire and found it old and worn like his mama’s, but that wasn’t the case for Hudson. His dark coat, trousers and white shirt looked crisp and new. His parents might be scrimping on their own clothing but they were seeing to it that Hudson was dashing.
“You’re here now, dear,” his mama said, coming to stand beside him. She wrapped a thin hand around his upper arm. “That’s all that matters. And see how you’ve filled out. But what has happened to your face? It’s so dark now. And your skin has so much color to it.” She picked up his hands and looked them over.
Camden gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and smiled at her. “It’s from working outside in the shipyard, under the hot sun.”
She pursed her full lips in a studious way. “Working in the sun?” She waved her hand. “I’m sure I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Hard work doesn’t hurt a man, Mama.”
“Well, you don’t look natural. I’ll ask the apothecary if he has a cream that will help lighten your skin.”
Camden chuckled under his breath. He saw no reason to tell his mother that he was the same color all the way down to his waist from working shirtless on the shipyard, or that most of the men who worked beside him looked just like him.
“Don’t worry, Mama, I think time will take care of the coloring.”
“He even sounds different,” Hudson said, looking at their father. “He’s picked up more than a different color of skin from his years in America.”
“I noticed,” his father said, handing a drink to Hudson. “It’s clear that the young man who went away is not the one who’s returned to us.”
“Enough about me,” Camden said and accepted the glass of wine his father had poured for him. “Let’s sit down. I want to hear about all of you. Letters have been far too infrequent between us.”
No one spoke or moved even though he’d invited them to. All eyes were latched on Camden. The quietness stretched and grew. Instinctively he knew something wasn’t right, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable.
“You all look well and healthy.” He would have liked to say happy but that was one thing he didn’t see any trace of on their faces. They looked tense and on edge. “Why don’t we sit down,” he said again.
His mama quietly headed for her favorite chair by the small Hepplewhite side table. His father took the worn brocade armchair on the other side. Hudson chose to stand behind their mother.
Camden looked around the parlor of the two-story town house as he walked to the thin-striped settee which faced his parents’ chairs. All was not right. He immediately noticed the silver tea service was missing from the rosewood pedestal table by the window. The marble-and-gilt clock was gone from the mantel, the seventeenth-century tapestry no longer hung on the wall over the settee and the expensive rug his mother had been so fond of wasn’t on the floor.
Suddenly Camden felt a chill in the room even though it was warm for a late spring afternoon. It was clear they had not been living well and were afraid to come right out and tell him. He didn’t want to bring up the subject and ask embarrassing questions when he’d been home for less than five minutes.
He placed his untouched drink on the round butler’s table in front of him and calmly said, “All right, we’ll skip the chitchat. Why doesn’t someone tell me why Mama wrote me that I was neglecting my family and my fiancée by not coming home sooner? What dire circumstance has happened to this family that required me to return home immediately?”
“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, dear,” his mother said, leaning forward. “We wanted you to come home because we love you, and we’ve missed you.”
Her tone was sincere. He believed she truly wanted him home because she loved him, but from the chilling atmosphere in the room he knew there had to be something more. Everyone was tense.
“And?” he finally said.
“You belong here,” his father said. “It was time for you to come home and marry the lady you promised to wed. Past time.”
His father’s clipped tone did nothing to ease the tension. “Why?” He looked pointedly at his mother before turning his gaze toward his father. “I allowed you to make the marriage contract for the benefit of this family. There was no time limit put on the date of my return that I’m aware of.”
“No.” The earl’s tone was brusque suddenly. “Surely Miss Whittingham’s father didn’t expect you to stay away so long. Nor, I assume, did your future bride.”
Camden didn’t like the sound of the word “bride.” When he first left England, he told himself that if he stayed away long enough the young lady would get tired of waiting, find a husband of her choosing and force her father to break the engagement. That never happened. Which led him to believe that his fiancée was not a young lady he needed to rush home to. If she was beautiful or intelligent surely some other man would have been clamoring for her hand long before now.
“I’m quite willing to bow out of this engagement without any consequence if that’s what the young lady and her father would like.”
“No!” The word echoed throughout the room.
It surprised Camden that his mother, father, and Hudson, who’d just perched on the arm of the small sofa, said “No” at the same time.
“What’s going on?” he asked again. “All of you are acting like I’m about to sit on a cushion filled with needles.”
“Nothing is wrong,” his father said.
“Nothing that your return doesn’t take care of,” his mother added with a bright smile as she tucked her handkerchief under the sleeve at her wrist.
Camden couldn’t let it go. His father had needed money when the marriage contract was arranged, and an uneasy feeling in his stomach had Camden believing that was the case now.
“Sir, just tell me what is going on here,” Camden said.
“All right,” his father said in an exasperated tone. “Mr. Whittingham threatened terminating the engagement if you didn’t return by this Season’s end and start making plans for a wedding.”
“I’ve already stated I’m agreeable to letting the young lady out of the engagement.”
“We’re not,” the earl said.
“We need that money from—”
“Norine.” Wilson cut off his wife’s soft voice, and he gave her a stern warning with his eyes before returning his attention to Camden.
But his mother had already taken the bloom off the rose. He now understood the circumstances and the dire need for him to hurry home
. They needed money. His parents wanted to make sure the engagement wasn’t broken.
“Quite frankly,” his father continued, “I had to agree with Whittingham that a wedding was long overdue. I’ll send a message to him right away that you are home, and we can start making arrangements immediately.”
Camden felt a tightening in his chest. For six years, he’d been his own man. It wasn’t going to be easy to walk back into the life his father had laid out for him. His natural inclination was to revolt even though he’d known from childhood that he’d be the ninth Earl of Lockshaven one day.
There was only one good reason for continuing with this arranged marriage, and it was the same reason he’d agreed to the engagement when his father asked him years ago. He didn’t know this lady who was to be his bride. They had never met. Therefore, he didn’t have an emotional attachment to her. He had no intention of falling in love so why not let his father pick his bride?
He’d given his heart to one lady, and she had betrayed him. He would never be foolish enough to love again. All he needed was someone to share his bed when he so desired, and to give him sons. No doubt one woman could do that as well as another as long as she was respectable.
“Wait,” Hudson said with a good-natured smile on his young face. “I have a better idea than simply sending word to her father. Your fiancée has been attending every ball this Season, Camden. She’ll surely be at the Worsters’ tonight. Come with me. You can observe her from a distance, and when you’re ready I will present you to Miss Mirabella Whittingham.”
“You’ve met her?” Camden asked.
“Yes, last Season. I think you are the only one who hasn’t met her.”
Camden picked up his drink and took a long sip. In his youth such an escapade might have intrigued him. “I’m too old for games.”
“Not that old, brother dear.” Hudson chuckled. “You can’t tell me that the idea of watching your fiancée when she has no idea you are even in the country doesn’t hit your fancy.”
Hudson was wrong. His idea held no appeal to Camden. The betrothal had been set. In fact, he’d be quite happy if his bride held no attraction to him whatsoever. All of a sudden, sparkling green eyes, strands of auburn hair gently fluttering in the night breeze, moisture-kissed skin and silk molded to breasts that were the perfect size flashed across his mind. He wanted to see her again.
“I believe I vowed to never attend another party. My sentiments haven’t changed.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hudson said. “You’ve come back from America a new man. The past is behind you. Leave it there. Everyone else has forgotten what happened, and so should you. Besides, this will be the perfect time for you to meet Miss Paulette Pemberton.”
“Aha, your true reason for wanting me to go with you to the Worsters’.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with Camden,” his father said. “I should just send word to Whittingham.”
“Surely Camden hasn’t lost his sense of adventure. I truly want you to meet your Miss Whittingham. But I would also like for you to meet Miss Pemberton, the beautiful young lady who is trying to steal my heart.”
“Hold to it tightly, Brother. You’ve only one.”
Hudson smiled. “A heart was made to give away.”
Camden thought that once, too, when he was Hudson’s age. “Then why do only the foolish fall in love?”
“No, not the foolish, Camden, the brave. So, will you come with me and surprise your fiancée with an unexpected appearance?”
He looked over at his younger sibling. Camden supposed it would show some amount of courage if he attended a ball or two. Maybe it would be best for the ton to know that he was not hiding away from Society the rest of his life because of what happened six years ago. And he had to admit that some part of him wanted the chance to see the sprite he’d met last evening.
“All right. I’ll go.”
Hudson lifted his glass in salute to Camden. “Good. I knew that sneaking a peek at your fiancée before she knows you have arrived in Town would be too much of a temptation to resist. Do we have your permission, sir?”
“I will agree.”
For once Camden thanked God he had a fiancée. If not, he’d be tempted to find out the identity of that intriguing young lady from the previous evening.
***
Good heavens! Even at three parties a night, Mirabella wasn’t sure she could possibly manage to put her finger down the neckcloths of every eligible gentleman Sarah had danced with last Season. Thank goodness Mirabella had narrowed the field by eliminating the tallest men, and she had discounted those who had spent the entire winter away from London.
The task she’d set for herself was enormous. Sarah had left her so little to go on. The second week of the Season would begin tonight and already Mirabella knew she had to come up with some other plan if she was going to succeed in finding the man who had seduced Sarah. She wouldn’t rest until she found him and had him branded an outcast by all of Society.
Forcing herself to push all that to the back of her thoughts for the time being, Mirabella knocked lightly on the door frame. “Papa, are you sleeping?”
“No, Mirabella. Come in.”
She pushed open the door and walked into the second-story bedroom of their large town house. Bertram Whittingham lay propped up on fluffy pillows, a heavy velvet robe closed snugly around his chest.
Mirabella was always impressed at how her father managed to look distinguished even though he was pale and gaunt. Although he seldom left his room, she insisted that Newton keep his gray hair and beard neatly trimmed and his clothing and bedding changed each day.
She wished she could confide in her father about Sarah’s secret, but she couldn’t. She knew he wouldn’t feel the same way she did about finding out who was responsible for Sarah taking her own life. He would be outraged should he ever find out what Mirabella was doing. It was early evening. Dusk lay on the air outside the window. It was that time of day Mirabella disliked most. Too light for lamps and too late for sunshine.
Mirabella did everything possible to keep her father’s bedroom from looking and feeling like a sickroom. She brought in fresh flowers every other day, and she insisted the windows be opened each morning. She wouldn’t allow his medicine bottles to be left on the night table by his bed.
“I’m trying to get through the Times, but I don’t know why I bother. There’s seldom anything worth reading in here except the reviews of the latest plays. I always get a chuckle out of those clever writings. When I get better, we’re going back to Drury Lane to see another play.”
Her spirits lifted. If he was talking of going out, maybe it meant that all the medication he was ingesting was making him better. “That sounds wonderful, Papa. As soon as you’re feeling up to it, we’ll make plans. Everyone is talking about a new satire that is playing now.”
Bertram folded the paper and laid it on top of a stack of other London newspapers. “There’s a scandal about the Lord Mayor, and everyone’s complaining about the heat when summer is not even upon us yet. I’d much rather read the poetry you write.”
She smiled. “But it’s not nearly as clever or interesting as what’s written in the newsprint. Would you like for me to bring you a book from the library? You’ve only read that new book of poetry by Lord Byron one time.”
He placed his index finger on his closed lips for a moment. “Actually I read it twice before I sent it down to the library.”
“You’re a sly one,” she said, pulling and tugging on the bedcovers, smoothing out every wrinkle. “Shall I bring it up anyway—or something else?”
“No, no. I’ll get Newton to bring up something for me later tonight. No need for you to worry with it or with the blankets.” He gently pulled the end of the covers out of her grasp.
Mirabella put a mock expression of surprise in her face and placed her hands on her hips. “When would it be a worry for me to do things for you?” She bent and kissed his forehead, then plopped on the edge
of his bed and smiled at him. “I do believe you look better today, Papa. You have more color to your cheeks and there is a sparkle in your eyes.”
Her father chuckled. “Dear girl, you’ve said the same thing every evening for the past two months, and I’m still not strong enough to walk down the stairs by myself. Do you ever give up?”
“Never.” She smiled at him. “And I say it today and every day because it’s true,” she insisted, knowing she was fibbing, but it was the only way she knew to keep up his spirits. She was sure he’d be doomed if he ever gave up hope of getting better.
His green eyes glinted mischievously. “Then I must be the healthiest looking sick man in all of London.”
Mirabella laughed. “Oh, Papa, I’m so happy when you feel good enough to tease me. You know, I still think one of the things that keeps you so weak is all the medication the doctor gives you.”
“Hmm.” He fingered his gray beard as he thought about what she’d said. “It is a lot, but I’m sure the man knows what he’s doing. He’s up on the latest medications. Now, tell me how many parties you attended last night, who you saw and who you danced with.”
He always changed the subject whenever she mentioned his illness. She knew he didn’t want her to be upset by his declining health, but how could she not be? She loved him. He was all she had now that Sarah was gone and Aunt Helen had left for their country home in Kent.
“Uncle Archer and I attended three parties. We stayed so long I felt quite distressed that I kept him out late.” She didn’t want to talk about anyone in particular that she’d danced with. The less she told her father about the parties, the better. She didn’t want him suspicious of anything.
She would have loved to tell him about the gentleman she met on the street, but she couldn’t share that meeting with anyone, not even her trusted maid, Lily. That man had intrigued her so that she hadn’t been able to sleep last night for remembering everything they said to each other. Maybe she would have shared it with Sarah were she still here, but no one else.