Never Romance a Rake

by Liz Carlyle

  Rothewell set down his coffee with an awkward clatter. “No, Gareth, what she got in the end was a fiery grave,” he said. “She and my brother both. Somehow, I am not sure that was what she had in mind when she married him.”

  Nash held up both hands, palms out. “All right, I am well out of this,” he said. “I just came to buy a racehorse, then slink quietly home with my pockets empty and my mouth shut.”

  But Rothewell was still staring darkly at his old friend. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair. “Nash, I wish you every success,” he said, his voice gruff. “As for me, I am off.”

  Gareth jerked to his feet. “Where the devil are you going?”

  Rothewell picked up his walking stick. “Far away,” he snapped. “I’ve a sudden fancy for a hand of cards, a bottle of brandy, and a plump, promiscuous woman who’ll fuck me blind.”

  Even Nash’s eyebrows went up. “A little too soon for that, isn’t it, old chap?”

  Rothewell made no answer, and headed for the door.

  Behind him, a second chair scraped. “That man is a damned fool,” he heard Gareth say. “I had best go with him.”

  Rothewell whipped round to tell Gareth to go bugger himself, but in such haste that he did not see the gentleman who had just pushed through the door. They collided squarely, Rothewell nearly tripping over his feet.

  “Bonjour, my Lord Rothewell!” The Comte de Valigny backed up and made a pretense of dusting himself off. “By the way, I hear I missed the wedding!”

  Rothewell was fleetingly speechless. “You!” he finally managed.

  Valigny set his head to one side. “Mais non, not buyer’s remorse already!” he said. “She is a handful, my petit chou, n’est-ce pas? Worry not. You will be broken to the plow soon enough, mon ami.”

  Rothewell shoved his way through the door, followed by the sound of the comte’s pealing laughter.

  Camille went belowstairs with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. In France, the chateau staff had consisted of a handful of aged retainers who had been there forever, and who were officially in the employ of Valigny’s uncle. They had regarded Camille and her mother almost as guests who had overstayed their welcome. The keeping of a budget, however, Camille well understood, for the managing of such things had fallen to her at a young age, and there had been very little money. Economy and careful accounting had been necessary.

  She found Mrs. Trammel in the kitchen tongue-lashing the scullery maid and holding a lethal-looking carving knife in her hand. The cook was a tall, lithe woman of indeterminate age, with sharp, high cheekbones and ebony skin which was far darker than her husband’s. She spoke with a musical lilt unfamiliar to Camille, and wore a white scarf over her braided hair and small gold hoops, which swung from her earlobes. Her every move spoke of confidence, and the kitchen staff stood well back when she passed.

  Camille stiffened her spine, marched in, and introduced herself.

  “You may call me Miss Obelienne, madame,” she said when they were ensconced in her private sitting room. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Merci,” said Camille. “That would be lovely.”

  Miss Obelienne bowed and went out again, only to return with a kettle which was already hot. The tea, which was kept in an earthenware jar upon her worktable, smelled of herbs and flowers. Whilst it steeped, Obelienne cut slices of what looked like a cake without frosting, dusted with coconut.

  Camille picked at the cake, and sipped tentatively at the exotic brew whilst they discussed the running of the house. Two upstairs maids, she was told, handled the routine housework. The kitchen staff numbered four, the footmen three, and the stable staff another four.

  “Alors, there is no housekeeper?”

  Miss Obelienne shook her head. “She gave notice a fortnight past. The master, he is hard to live with when one is not accustomed to his ways. It is as well. She was not needed.”

  Camille was surprised when the cook explained that she and her husband now managed those duties between them. As to the shopping, two regular costermongers came round each morning, eggs and milk were brought in every other day from a farm in Fulham, and the preferred butcher was in nearby Shepherd’s Market.

  Miss Obelienne’s gaze fell to Camille’s cake plate. “You do not like it?”

  “It is unusual,” Camille hedged. “And very spicy. What kind of cake is it?”

  “Not a cake, madame, but a pone,” said the cook in her rhythmic lilt. “Cassava pone from the islands. Once it was the master’s favorite.” Her mouth turned down into a frown.

  “Was it indeed?” Camille murmured. “It certainly is unique.”

  The cook took this as a compliment. “Miss Xanthia’s ships bring me spices and roots to make many exotic things.”

  “Oui, I can taste ginger and nutmeg,” said Camille, wiping a crumb from her lip. “What is cassava?”

  Miss Obelienne motioned for her to follow and crossed the room to a locked cabinet. After sorting through the keys in her apron pocket, she opened two mahogany doors to reveal an arrangement of apothecary drawers. She drew open a large one at the bottom and extracted something which looked familiar.

  Camille studied it, searching for the English words. “Une patate douce?” she finally asked.

  “Non, not a sweet potato.” The cook snapped the tuber in half to expose its creamy flesh. “A root, oui. But in the islands, we make a sort of flour of it.”

  Camille reached for it. “May I taste?”

  The cook drew it back. “Non, madame,” she said. “If not properly prepared, cassava is deadly.”

  Camille jerked her hand away. “Deadly?”

  Miss Obelienne smiled faintly and dropped the root back into the drawer. “I show you the spices.” She was distant, Camille noted, but not unfriendly. She began drawing open the smaller, upper compartments, obviously proud. The air grew redolent with sharp fragrance. “Nutmeg. Cinnamon. Ginger. Allspice,” she recited. Then the names became even more exotic. “Aniseed, cumin, mace, tamarind, saffron…” There were thirty or more before she was done.

  Camille was amazed. “All these come from the West Indies?”

  The cook shook her head. “All over the world,” she said. “Miss Xanthia has many hand-chosen for me. A few I get in the markets.” She pulled open another drawer containing a small cloth bag with some harsh black markings which appeared to be an oriental language.

  “What is that?”

  Miss Obelienne upended the bag and two small gnarled roots spilt into her hand. “Rénshn,” she said, her smile oddly mischievous. “Man root. From China.”

  Camille tried not to blush. “Rénshn,” she echoed. “What is it for? Sweets? Or savories?”

  “It is not quite a spice,” said the cook, holding it up for further inspection. “It makes a man…vigorous. Potent.”

  Her cheeks flaming, Camille sniffed it. It had no noticeable odor save for that of earth and gardening. She wondered what Miss Obelienne was suggesting. “Xanthia’s ships bring this?”

  “No, madame.” Miss Obelienne stuffed the roots back into the raw silk sack. “Covent Garden Market.”

  They returned to their cake and tea, now tepid. “In the past,” the cook continued in her lilting voice, “Miss Xanthia approved the menus each week. You will wish to resume this, madame?”

  Camille considered it. “What have you been doing in her absence?”

  Obelienne’s eyes narrowed. “The master, he does not eat,” she said bitterly. “You must see that this is remedied.”

  Camille’s smile was muted. “I shall try,” she said. “But I fear he will prove hard to manage.”

  “Oui, madame, but you must do it.” Her gold hoops swung as she reached for one of the baize ledgers on her worktable—a worn book labeled Menus. “I will show you a typical week in Miss Xanthia’s time.”

  She opened the ledger and passed it to Camille. Camille scanned the tidy columns. Many of the dishes were decidedly French, others Camille suspected were of West Indian origin
. “You have experience with Continental cuisine, I see,” she remarked.

  Obelienne inclined her head almost regally. “I come from Martinique,” she explained. “My mother was cook to an important French family.”

  Camille regarded her with new interest. “You speak French, oui?”

  The cook’s smile was faint. “Bien sûr, madame,” she answered. “But mostly Kwéyòl, which you might not understand.”

  This, then, explained the unusual rhythm of her voice. But Camille was still confused. “You worked for the Neville family in Barbados, n’est-ce pas?”

  Again, the slow nod. “Oui, madame, but my mistress was from Martinique. She was sent to Barbados, and I was sent with her. I was a young girl in those days—a maid of all work, you would say. After a time, my mistress, she married. Into the Neville family.”

  “Into the Neville family?” Camille echoed.

  “Oh, oui. To Luke Neville, madame. The master’s elder brother. He is gone now.”

  Camille remembered what little Xanthia had said regarding her brother. “I don’t know much about him,” she confessed. “Lord Rothewell has never really spoken of his brother.”

  “Oui, he drinks brandy instead,” said Obelienne flatly. “To make the spirits go away. But in their place, devils come.”

  Camille did not know what to make of that remark. Obelienne was looking at her impassively from across the worktable.

  “Well,” said Camille as cheerfully as she could, “it would appear you have the kitchen in good hands, Miss Obelienne. I should look over the household accounts next, I suppose?”

  Again, Obelienne regally inclined her head. She pulled another ledger from the stack, opened it, and passed it to Camille. “You have the look of her,” she said quietly.

  “Pardon?”

  “My mistress.” Obelienne let her dispassionate gaze drift over Camille. “Non, not the face. Not like the daughter. But the similarity—oui, it is there all the same.”

  “The daughter?” Camille was confused. “You are speaking of my husband’s niece?”

  Obelienne slowly nodded. “You, too, are very dark and very beautiful,” she said quietly. “Like Annemarie. And so I will pray, madame, for you.”

  “Pray?” Camille looked at her sharply. “Pourquoi?”

  “I will pray that your beauty does not become a burden to you.”

  The remark would have seemed insolent, had not Obelienne appeared entirely sincere. But Camille’s head was beginning to swim with names and grim warnings. “Merci,” she said awkwardly, reaching out for something more tangible; something she understood—an accounting ledger. “Now, what have we here? Are these the greengrocer’s receipts?”

  As if the strange moment had never occurred, Obelienne bent her head to the account book.

  Camille spent the remainder of the morning meeting with Trammel, who was a good deal less enigmatic than his wife. Chin-Chin followed at their heels, venturing off only to sniff at a chair leg or poke his head behind a drapery as Trammel introduced the footmen and the maids, and asked Camille a great many questions about how she wished things done. Throughout it all, Camille simply kept her nose up a notch and pretended she knew what she was about. The manufactured confidence seemed to work. The servants bowed and scraped as if her marriage actually meant something.

  At the same time, no one seemed especially shocked by the sudden appearance of a wife. Their impetuous ceremony aside, it seemed generally assumed that Lord Rothewell’s marriage was one of convenience. His sister had married and gone. Someone was needed to keep house. At least no one expected starry-eyed bliss from Camille.

  “Have you been with the family very long, Trammel?” she asked, as they looked over the china and plate.

  Trammel pulled out the next drawer. “Yes, ma’am. Since I was a young man.”

  Camille put the teacup she’d been toying with back on the shelf. “So you came from Barbados,” she said musingly. “Were you ever a—that is to say, legally, were you…” Her words faded.

  “A slave?” Trammel suggested. He cut her a sidelong glance as he moved deeper into the pantry. “No, my lady, I was hired by Mr. Neville—Mr. Luke Neville—but he had a title by then, of course. He needed a servant to oversee the house properly. We were acquaintances.”

  “As in friends?”

  “Yes, after a fashion,” he agreed. “Mr. Neville was some years older than his brother and sister, and ran Neville Shipping out of Bridgetown. My father was in the business of refitting the ships which came into port, and he owned a large inn, which I managed for him.”

  “Oh, my.” Absently, Camille bent down to scoop up the dog. “All that will be a tremendous responsibility for you someday.”

  Trammel flashed a dry smile and set his hand down upon the pale marble top of the dish cupboard. “No, he has other children,” he said, looking at his bronze skin. “White children. Legitimate children.”

  “You…you were not acknowledged?”

  He shrugged and reached up to lift down a huge silver bowl. “Inasmuch as the children of a man’s mistress can be,” he said. “You must understand, ma’am, that Barbados is not like England. There are many shades of skin—and kin—in the islands.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Camille quietly. It seemed as if there was at least one thing she and Trammel shared. “The uncle,” she said, “the old baron, I mean. Did you know him?”

  Trammel shook his head. “Only by reputation.” The words—and his tone—held a wealth of meaning.

  “Someone once suggested he was cruel,” said Camille vaguely. “Perhaps it was Lady Nash.”

  Trammel studied the silver bowl. “The man was possessed by devils, or so his slaves said,” the butler murmured. “But then, what else would one expect them to say?”

  Possessed by devils. It was hauntingly similar to what Obelienne had said of Rothewell.

  The remainder of the morning passed without incident, and Camille’s starry-eyed bliss looked even more improbable when Rothewell did not return home for luncheon. She ignored the stab of irrational disappointment, asked the attending footmen to take Chin-Chin for a walk, then ate a meal of cold roasted chicken in the dining room alone.

  As she did so, her gaze drifted about the space which, like the rest of the house, was a little bare. Or perhaps bleak was the better term? Oh, each room was furnished with life’s essentials, and they were of fine quality, too. But there was no character. No soul. No paintings or portraits. No needlework or flowers or even empty vases. It was the house of a family with no memories.

  Or perhaps the house of a family with memories they wished to forget? Suddenly, a vision of Rothewell’s scarred back flashed before her eyes. Camille dropped her fork onto the china plate with an awkward clatter.

  It had been horrible. Deep, disfiguring welts cut into the flesh across the whole of his back. But the scars were white with age, and if the memories of them left Rothewell with any emotion stronger than aggravation, one could not have discerned it by his response.

  “If you think this looks bad, you should have seen his slaves,” he had said. “Or my brother.”

  Camille shoved back her chair and rose. She could not think about the inhumanity of it. She could not concern herself with the hurts he might have suffered or the cold emptiness of his home. She could not begin to worry whether he ate, or if he was ill. If she did, it was but another step nearer that slippery slope of emotional attachment. She could not grow fond of him. She could not.

  But it was almost too late, and she knew it. Her fingertips going to her mouth, Camille pondered it. Surely—surely—she was not falling in love with the infernal man? Surely it was just simple lust? She was, after all, her mother’s daughter.

  But had not her mother also fallen for a scoundrel? And once done, no amount of Valigny’s maltreatment had been unable to undo it.

  Surely she was stronger than that. Wiser than that. She had to be. It was one thing to feel sorry for Rothewell and quite another to be a fool
for him. She had to live with him, yes—at least for a time. And she desperately wanted his child. She wanted to make love with him, but not love him, and the line between those two things was beginning to seem so agonizingly fine, she could only pray for the ability to walk it. For if she slipped, she feared she would be tumbling into an emotional abyss.

  So deep was she in these contemplations that she leapt when the dining-room door suddenly swung open.

  “Camille!” Rothewell’s sister swept in, her arms open. “I just had to drop by. Yesterday seemed so…unfinished.”

  “Unfinished?” Camille smiled and accepted Xanthia’s embrace.

  “Kieran is such a wretch!” his sister declared, her eyes dancing good-humoredly. “Have you any idea how much he frustrates me? I was hoping for a big wedding.”

  “Mais non! Even I did not wish that. I am sure your brother did not.”

  Xanthia drew back and caught Camille by the elbows. “Well?” she demanded. “Where is he?”

  Camille felt her eyes widen. “Why, he said he was going out to meet Nash. Do you need him?”

  Xanthia’s gaze darkened. “Do you mean to say he is out?” she asked. “Out on the first day of his marriage?”

  Camille let her hands fall, and Xanthia did likewise. “You need not chastise him, Xanthia,” she said. “This is a marriage of convenience. It would be best if we all accepted that.”

  Xanthia tossed her shawl across a chair as if she meant to stay. “Perhaps the two of you might make a little more of it if he were to actually remain at home,” she complained, drifting deeper into the room. “Besides, his appearance worries me. I wish he would rest. The night of our dinner party, I feared he was having another sick spell.”

  “Another?” Camille pounced upon the word. “How often does he have them?”

  Halfway down the length of the dining table, Xanthia spun around. “Why, I don’t know,” she said. “Kieran will tell me nothing, the stubborn man. He claims his stomach is merely dyspeptic—which one cannot doubt, given how he abuses it.”