Indiscreet

by Candace Camp

  He sat up, pushing aside the cover. Camilla realized that he was lying on top of her bedcovers. He had brought the blanket with him as he leaped over her onto the bed, spreading it hastily over them. She glanced at the bed beside her and saw that he had brought his pillow, too. A very efficient man, even in an emergency.

  “Is your grandfather so fearsome, then, that everyone jumps at his command?” he asked, searching the drawers for his clothes, which the maid had unpacked the evening before. “Even waking us up and dragging us out of bed?”

  “He can be something of a tartar. He’s used to getting his way, you see. He assumed the Earldom when he was only twenty-two. That was nearly sixty years ago, so it is almost as if he has been in command his whole life. Besides, he comes from a more autocratic time. He’s rather old-fashioned in his ways.”

  “I see. Then I suppose we had best not keep the old fellow waiting, had we?”

  He pulled on a clean white shirt and buttoned it up. Then he began to unbutton his breeches, and Camilla realized that he intended to strip them off and put on fresh ones right there in front of her. With a gasp, she scrambled off the bed and into the sanctuary of the dressing room. While she was there, she pulled off her nightgown and put on her chemise and the single petticoat that she could wear with the modern slim-lined skirts that were fashionable nowadays.

  Millie found her in the dressing room when she returned with Camilla’s dress, and if she found it odd that Camilla was whiling away her time there, she was in too much of a hurry to say anything about it.

  When she emerged from the dressing room, Camilla found Benedict fully dressed, even his cravat tied to perfection. He was waiting for her, lounging on the couch on which he had passed the night, looking both bored and aristocratic. He looked so much the picture of the refined, faintly contemptuous gentleman that so many young men of fashion strove to attain that Camilla had to smother a smile.

  He rose when she entered the room and swept her a bow. “How lovely you look, my dear—as always.”

  Even though she knew that the compliment was only another part of the image he was trying to create, Camilla could not restrain the flush of pleasure that rose in her. It was always nice to hear a compliment, she reasoned. It had nothing to do with the fact that Benedict was the one who had given the compliment to her.

  She sat down in front of the vanity, and Millie quickly brushed through her hair and twisted it up into a simple Grecian knot atop her head, finger-curling a few strands of hair around Camilla’s face into soft dangling curls. With that, she was ready, and they set forth down the wide hallway to the Earl’s bedroom, her hand formally on Benedict’s arm.

  With each step, the bundle of nerves in Camilla’s stomach grew larger and tighter. She hated the thought of lying to her grandfather, even if it was to make him happier. She wished that she had never blurted out the stupid fib in the first place.

  They stopped in front of the door to his bedroom, and Benedict looked down at her. “Nervous?”

  She nodded. To her surprise, he laid his hand over hers, where it rested in the crook of his arm. It was a comforting gesture, and the last thing she would have expected from this man.

  “Don’t be,” he told her in a low voice. “I’ll be there to help you out. And, remember, don’t explain too much. Real life is full of contradictions and mistakes. Only lies are perfect and smooth.”

  She nodded her understanding and gave him a small smile. He rapped lightly at the door.

  A moment later, the door creaked open to reveal a stooped man who looked older than time. He was bald except for a fringe of white hair that ran around his head level with his ears, and his skin was a network of lines. But his eyes were bright with intelligence, and when he saw Camilla, he broke into a wide smile.

  “Miss Camilla! I should say, Mrs. Lassiter. Come in, come in,” he said in a loud voice, and stepped back, holding the door open for them. “You are a sight for sore eyes. His Lordship will be so happy to see you.”

  “Hello, Jenkins.” Camilla beamed back at the man, raising her voice, as well. “It’s good to see you. You are looking quite well.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. It is kind of you to say so. My arthritis has been acting up a bit, but not enough to complain.” He then proceeded to complain about it all the way across the floor to the large testered bed beside the window. Since his steps were slow and shuffling and the room was large, they were privileged to hear a rather lengthy description of the condition of his various joints.

  An old man sat up in the huge bed, a dark green velvet cover across his lap. Despite being in bed, he was dressed in a snowy white shirt, with a starched cravat tied beneath his chin and a heavy green satin dressing gown embroidered with Chinese dragons over the shirt. His hair, unlike that of his old valet, was a thick shock of white, worn longer than was now fashionable and clubbed back into an old-style queue. He was freshly shaven, and his skin was ruddy. He had blue eyes, paler than his granddaughter’s, and though they were hooded with age, their gaze was sharp. There was a distinct downward turn to one side of his mouth, and when he spoke or smiled, that side of his face did not move as much as the other, a sign, Benedict assumed, of the man’s earlier apoplectic fit.

  “My lord,” Jenkins announced in stentorian tones, “here’s Miss Camilla to see you.”

  “Yes, I can see that, you old fool,” the Earl grumbled. “Stop shouting. I’m not deaf.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The valet seemed not to mind the other man’s stricture. Indeed, Benedict wondered if the old fellow had even heard it.

  The Earl waved at the servant in dismissal, and Jenkins began his slow, shuffling way back to a chair in the opposite corner of the room. The Earl held out his hand toward Camilla, and she quickly went around to the side of the bed and took it, leaning forward across the mattress to kiss his cheek.

  “How are you, Grandpapa? Still growling at everyone, I see.”

  He made a “humph” noise but held on to her hand, motioning for her to sit on the bed beside him. “Better than I can convince any of these fools of, I’ll tell you that. Of course I growl at them, otherwise they’d all be convinced I have one foot in the grave.”

  “You? Never!”

  The old man’s eyes twinkled at her, and he reached up to pinch her cheek between his forefinger and thumb. “You always were a saucy one. I like that. Never could abide the fragile, meek sort. Your mother was one of those. Could hardly believe she was my daughter. Lucky thing Ferrand found her. She was so mousy I didn’t think anyone would come up to scratch.”

  “Grandpapa! You’re talking about my mother!”

  He shrugged. “I know that. She was my daughter. Doesn’t mean I can’t speak the truth about her. At least she smiled. That’s more than I can say for that damned Beryl. What the devil she’s doing here, I don’t know. I never could abide her.”

  “She came because you were sick,” Camilla pointed out.

  “Well, there you have it—exactly why she shouldn’t have come. If you don’t like someone when you’re well, how can you stand them when you’re sick? I ask you. Seems a damnable thing to me. No doubt she reasoned that I would be too ill to kick her out.” He scowled. “Or else she’s trying to hurry my demise, the way she’s starving me.”

  “Starving you!”

  He nodded. “Got Cook feeding me pap. Said I shouldn’t be eating so much red meat. Got me on bread and water, practically. Told Purdle and Jenkins not to bring me any more liquor, except a little wine with dinner. Now, I ask you, what’s that except trying to do me in? Damned woman.”

  “I can’t imagine any of the servants obeying her against your wishes.” Camilla knew how much the housekeeper resented her aunt’s interference, and she also knew how loyal all the household was to her grandfather.

  “She’s got them all convinced it’s going to kill me if t
hey let me eat what I want or have a glass of brandy after dinner.” His face reddened with anger. “Damn doctor told them to follow her orders. I told the fellow what I thought of that. Kicked him out and told him never to come back, but he still keeps showing up here. Damn leech.”

  An affectionate giggle escaped Camilla’s lips. “He’s the only doctor in Edgecombe. You have to see him.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me. But it’s him keeping me sick, I tell you. He won’t even let me get out of my bed and go downstairs, unless the footmen carry me down there and set me in a chair. Felt like a damn fool, I’ll tell you.” Dismissing the subject of his doctor, the old man swiveled his head and scowled at Benedict from under his bushy white eyebrows. “Is this he?” he barked. “Come here, boy, where I can see you.”

  He waved toward the side of the bed where Camilla sat and where the window let in the warm glow of the morning. Benedict obediently went to stand beside the bed and executed a polite bow toward the old gentleman. It wasn’t an elegant bow, such as Mr. Sedgewick or Camilla’s own cousin Bertram made, but then, she knew, her grandfather would think someone who gave him such a bow was a frippery fellow, a “court card,” as he would say.

  “Papa, this is Benedict Lassiter. Benedict, this is my grandfather, the Earl of Chevington.”

  “Good morning, sir,” Benedict said. “I am glad to see you in good health.”

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, young man?” the Earl demanded gruffly. “What do you mean whisking away our girl without even asking me for her hand?”

  “Oh, Grandpapa…” Camilla moaned. “You know I don’t believe in such antiquated customs.”

  Both the Earl and Benedict ignored her comment. Benedict looked the old man straight in the eye and said, “It was wrong of me, sir, and I must beg your forgiveness.” He smiled, and the stern lines of his face lifted and changed. “But, you see, I could not wait, not for a woman such as Camilla. I am sure you understand that. I trusted that you would not judge me ill, despite my impatience, that you would let me prove my worthiness to you after our marriage.”

  “Humph. A very pretty speech, I must say.”

  Camilla, staring at Benedict in amazement, had to agree. It was straightforward, yet respectful to the Earl, and subtly suggested a strong affection for Camilla. Despite the Earl’s rather slighting words, she knew that he approved of what Benedict had said, and she wondered how Benedict could have guessed that this was the tack he should take with her grandfather. Perhaps it was because the two men were alike.

  The thought startled her, and she immediately discounted it. The old Earl was nothing like this man pretending to be her husband. Her grandfather was a man of strong principle, one who would never waver from his duty, a nobleman in the truest sense of the word. He might be autocratic and old-fashioned, but Camilla knew that there was no one she would trust more, no one she would be more likely to turn to with a problem—or, at least, that had been the case until he became ill. How could she even think of comparing him to this man who was perhaps a thief, certainly someone willing to give up his own identity in order to get a little money, and who was even now calmly lying to the Earl? It was absurd!

  It was just something about the expressions on their faces, she thought as she looked at them. That was what had made her think that somehow they were alike. Benedict was a tall man, a commanding presence, just as her grandfather was, and he had that rather arrogant way of looking at one, as if he expected everyone to do as he said. With her grandfather, it came from years of breeding, of training, of being regarded with the awe and respect that was afforded the Earl of Chevington. She wondered how Benedict had acquired it. Was he that good an actor? It made her wonder if perhaps he was not from the lower classes, as she had assumed. He might be an illegitimate son, she surmised, or maybe even a man from a good family who had fallen into disgrace, or from a family that was genteel but poverty-stricken. It seemed to her that surely he must have grown up around aristocrats, to be able to imitate the look, the stance, the attitudes, so easily.

  She remembered Anthony’s suspicions. A penniless son of a good family might easily have become a bureaucrat such as an excise man. Or he could be in the army, she supposed. After all, it was always the army that was trying to catch the smugglers and put an end to their activities. Could Anthony be right, and there was some other, deeper motive for his willingness to pose as her husband? He would bear watching, she decided.

  “Do you think that a few charming words will make me give you my blessing?” the Earl went on belligerently.

  “I had not thought about it,” Benedict replied. “Frankly, sir, it does not matter to me whether you give our marriage your blessing. However, for Camilla’s sake, I do hope that you will do so. She will be far happier.”

  “Stop being such a sham, Grandpapa,” Camilla interjected. “You and I both know that you are pleased I am married. It is pointless trying to intimidate Benedict.”

  “Mmm.” The Earl regarded him unblinkingly for a moment, then said, a little grudgingly, “I suppose I must welcome you to the family.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Do you play chess?” the Earl asked hopefully.

  “Oh, Grandpapa…no. You aren’t going to make Benedict play chess with you, are you?”

  “It would be no hardship,” Benedict said quickly. “Indeed, sir, if you would like to, I would enjoy a game of chess very much.”

  Chevington let out a laugh of glee. “Jenkins! Get out the chess set. Mr. Lassiter, pull up a chair.” He pulled himself straighter in his bed and rubbed his hands together. “Wonderful. I haven’t had a game since I don’t know when. None of these people will play with me. Well, except Anthony, but he’s too fidgety. Drives me mad, always jumping up and pacing about while I’m trying to think. The rest of them think I’ll have another fit if I play—not that any of them are any good. I’d as soon play with a child as have to play chess with Lydia. And Beryl’s even worse, always prosing on about something or other.”

  Camilla looked from her grandfather to Benedict worriedly. “Grandpapa, are you sure you should?” She was not afraid that a game of chess would excite her grandfather so much that he would have another fit of apoplexy, but she did not like the idea of his spending that much time with Benedict. There was so much more possibility of a slipup.

  “For heaven’s sake, girl, don’t turn into a ninny like all the others. I am not going to pop a blood vessel over a game of chess. Why don’t you run on along and visit with your aunt? Lydia’s been most anxious to see you.”

  “Uh, well, I thought I might stay and watch.” Camilla liked even less the idea of Benedict being trapped alone with the old man. Her grandfather was a clever man, no matter his age or his present infirmity. She had seen him trip up more than one person who thought that his wits were no longer sharp because of his condition.

  “Don’t fuss,” the old man ordered peremptorily. “We shall be fine. I promise I won’t interrogate the fellow. Much.” He winked at Benedict.

  Jenkins brought the set and put it on the bed, and Benedict began to set up the pieces. Camilla lingered beside him, trying to think of a reason to stay. Benedict looked up at her and smiled.

  “I will be all right, my dear. You would only be bored if you stayed. I’m sure you and the Viscountess have a good deal to talk about.”

  Camilla remembered then that she had promised to tell Aunt Lydia this morning all about her supposed marriage to Benedict. She felt even less like leaving. However, with both her grandfather and Benedict practically shoving her out the door, she could hardly stay here. With a sigh, she leaned over and kissed her grandfather on the cheek, promising to come back and visit with him that afternoon.

  When she had walked out of the room, Benedict turned to the Earl. “Now, I presume, is when I should tell you about my finances and what sort of allowance I am
giving Camilla.”

  The Earl waved his hand, dismissing the topic. “Can you take care of her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And will you squander her money?”

  “Her money is and shall remain her own, to do with as she will,” Benedict answered truthfully. “I am not even aware of how much she has.”

  The old man looked surprised, but only shook his head. “All these modern ideas… Well, she is a self-sufficient little thing, always has been. ’Course, old Marlin will take care of her, right and tight. He’s been my agent for years, and his father before him.” He paused, studying Benedict. “Do you gamble? Drink? Chase after other women?”

  “No. I neither gamble nor drink to excess, and I am no libertine.” Benedict tried to repress his indignation at the questions. It was, after all, the old man’s right to pry into his affairs if he was married to his granddaughter.

  The old man cackled. “Don’t like being asked questions, do you? Well, neither would I, if I were in your shoes. But I’m not, and my only concern is my granddaughter. I won’t ask you if you love her. Foolish notion. In my day, people didn’t go about spouting off about love—leastways, not where marriage was concerned. You married for family and property, and if you were lucky, you liked your spouse well enough.” He shrugged. “Well, it don’t matter whether you love her now or not. If I know my girl, you will soon enough.”

  Benedict could think of nothing to say in response.

  “Well, let’s get to it,” the Earl went on impatiently, as if it were Benedict who had been delaying the game, and waved toward the board.

  They began a game. Benedict found himself enjoying it more than he would have thought. The old man still had his wits about him, and he took the first match from Benedict. Benedict came back and won the second.

  “We shall have to play again,” the Earl said, settling back among his pillows and grinning. “You’re the only person here who will give me a decent game.”