Never Romance a Rake (10 page)

“Do sit back down, my dear,” Lady Sharpe urged. “We have merely surprised Xanthia, that is all. I shall rake Kieran over the coals for this, you may be sure. He has left us both in a devilish awkward position.”

Camille turned and made a faint curtsy to Lady Sharpe. “Thank you,
madame,
for your kindness and your hospitality,” she said coolly. “I should like to return to my room now.”

She felt the heat of their gazes on her back as she hastened across the room. Once she'd reached the corridor, she closed the door behind her and fleetingly fell against it, her knees shaking too much at that moment to manage the steps. But it did not matter. One could have heard Lady Nash's ensuing shriek of horror halfway up the staircase.

Lady Nash hated her. And everyone else would, too.

But somehow, Camille came away from the door, blinked back her tears, and straightened her spine. There was no point in panicking, or feeling sorry for herself, was there? This was the price she must pay for her parents' iniquities. Even the Bible said so.

She could not change who she was, nor make people like Lady Nash approve of her. In any case, she had lived through worse. She must soldier through it, and hope Lord Rothewell kept his word. He did not look like a reliable sort of man—but then, did such a creature exist? Rothewell, she supposed, was as good a bet as any.

Trammel was in the foyer having the chandelier winched down for dusting when Xanthia burst into the house in Berkeley Square. She had not bothered to knock. Though she was married now, this was still her home so far as she was concerned.

“Good morning, Miss Zee,” said Trammel over one shoulder. “Stop! Stop! That's far enough.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Xanthia shrilly. Was
everyone
topsy-turvy today? “Might I remind you, Trammel, my name is still on the deed to this house?”

The butler lifted his gaze from the mass of sparkling crystal, then his visage cleared. “Oh, no, not you, Miss Zee. It's the chande—” Here, the crystal prisms gave an ominous shudder—
“I said stop, blast you!”
Trammel was clearly shouting up the stairs now. “Stop, and tie it down
now
!”

The tinkling of glass halted at once. He came away from the staircase and looked at her consolingly. “I beg your pardon, ma'am,” he said, throwing his coffee-colored hands in the air. “Everything is just all helter-skelter today.”

“You don't say,” muttered Xanthia, surveying the array of crystal that dangled before her eyes. “Lud, that's a dusty fright, isn't it? But why are you bringing the chandelier down? We never light it. We never even look up at it.”

At that, the butler threw up his hands again. “One of the master's notions, ma'am.”

“In his cups again, is he?” Xanthia set one hand against the small of her back, which was aching from her enraged march across Mayfair. “And making unreasonable demands? Never mind, Trammel. I've come to have a word with him.”

“Actually, my lady, I think he might have been more or less sober,” said Trammel, leaning nearer. “Or was when he gave the orders about the house.”

“What orders, exactly?” asked Xanthia suspiciously.

Trammel cast his doleful gaze heavenward. “We're to clean it ‘from top to bottom, inside and out,'” he replied. “Carpets up, draperies down, every piece of plate polished, and even the attics to be aired out—by the end of the week, no less! And if we miss so much as a dusty corner, he's going to send us all to the devil.”

“And you believed him?” asked Xanthia.

“Oh, no, Miss Zee,” the butler assured her. “I have known the master for too long. But some of the new housemaids
did
believe him. He threw a book at Mrs. Gardener last week when she went in to dust the library. Passed out on the red chaise, he was. And how, pray, was she to see him back there?”

“How indeed.” Xanthia's hands balled into fists. If she had to hire her brother yet another housekeeper,
he
would be going to the devil. “Where is he?”

Trammel exhaled with relief. “In his study, ma'am,” he said. “But do have a care, please. Obelienne says his mood is very strange today.”

“Oh, I'll just bet it is,” she said, already halfway down the passageway.

Miss Obelienne was their cook, and had been for nearly ten years. She and Kieran were fortunate that Trammel and Miss Obelienne had agreed to come from Barbados to London with them. They seemed to be the only servants who were willing to put up with her brother. The others had been leaving like lemmings since Xanthia's marriage a few months earlier.

Despite her frustration, Xanthia did not fail to notice the familiar scents which assailed her nostrils as she moved through the shadowy depths of the house—the scent of well-polished cedarwood and warm spices and something uniquely Bajan which she could not name. These were the scents of their childhood, hers and Kieran's. They had carried them from the West Indies to England with them, and even now, they brought back memories.

She found Kieran standing at one of the windows which overlooked the garden, his massive frame blocking much of the light. He held a brandy glass in hand and did not turn round until she spoke.

“My God, it is barely eleven,” she said, trying to untie her bonnet. “Rather early for spirits, isn't it?”

He turned slowly, but looked entirely sober. “Eleven, is it?” He took a deliberate sip, eyeing her over the glass. “That would make it rather late, not early. I have not yet been to bed, you see.”

To her annoyance, the bonnet strings had snarled again. “Honestly, Kieran, have you lost your mind?” she cried, dropping her hands, with her bonnet half-askew on her head. “I have just come from Pamela's! Do you know what I found there?
Do
you?”

Some strange emotion sketched across his face. “Ah, that,” he said softly. He set his glass on his massive mahogany desk and circled around toward her. “Hold still,” he ordered. “You are making the tangle worse.”

“Honestly, Kieran!” she said again, as he bent over the knot. “What were you thinking? A woman you just met? Besides, you cannot possibly wish to be married.”

He crooked one dark eyebrow. “Can I not?” he murmured, glancing up from his work. “Have you some hidden power of omniscience you've been keeping from me, Zee?” At last he pulled the ribbons apart and gingerly lifted the bonnet from her head.

Xanthia was still glowering at him as he set the hat aside. “You have never shown the slightest interest in marriage,” she complained. “You have never even been seen in the company of a respectable woman—and no, I do not count Christine! And now this poor, poor girl.”

“What is so bloody poor about her?” he asked, going to his desk and pulling out a cheroot.

Xanthia began to wave her hand. “Oh, for God's sake don't light that thing!” she said. “I shall retch, I tell you.”

“I see.” Kieran pulled open a drawer and dropped the cheroot into it.

“No, you don't see!” Xanthia knew her voice was rising as she marched toward the desk, but she seemed unable to stop it. “My mouth hung open so long, she now thinks I disapprove of her. She was horrified.
I
was horrified.”

“
Do
you disapprove of her?” There was a hint of warning in his tone.

“Why, I hardly know,” said Xanthia. “I certainly do not want you to marry her!”

“Because—?” He arched his eyebrow again, as if to intimidate her.

“Because you will ruin her life, Kieran,” she said, “unless you mean to mend your wicked ways. And you don't, do you?”

“I am afraid it is rather too late for that, old thing,” he said. “I am a wretched old reprobate and habituated in sin.”

Xanthia circled round the desk and settled gingerly into a side chair. This was not going well. Since the babe had begun to grow, she had felt irritable and restless. Thoughts, sounds, smells, frustrations; everything was magnified tenfold. And that included her temper. Still, she mustn't take it out on her brother—even if he did deserve it.

“How on earth, Kieran, did you manage to meet Valigny's daughter?” she asked quietly. “Surely he did not formally introduce you?”

“No, I won her,” he said, picking up his brandy, “in a card game.”

“Oh, God!” Xanthia squeezed her eyes shut and set a hand on her belly. She was beginning to feel clammy, and a little weak in the knees. “Oh, I am going into labor! I just know it. And it shall be all your fault.”

To her surprise, Kieran lost a bit of his color, and came round the desk with a magazine in his hand. “You are just overwrought,” he said, gently fanning her. “Breathe, Zee, for pity's sake. You cannot have the child yet—
can
you?”

Xanthia did not open her eyes. “I think not,” she murmured. “But what does either of us know? I do feel as though I might faint. Please tell me, Kieran, that you did not just claim to have won Mademoiselle Marchand in a card game?”

“Well, I won the right to marry her,” he qualified. “It isn't quite the same thing, I daresay.”

Xanthia opened her eyes, and somehow pulled herself erect in the chair. “You are perfectly, serious,” she said.

“Quite so,” he said. “I was at Valigny's last night.”

“Yes, I know,” said Xanthia dryly. “I pried that much out of Pamela. Who else witnessed this debacle?”

“Enders and Calvert,” said her brother.

“Lord Enders! Horrors!” said Xanthia. “That vile man!—Oh, lud! Will either of them talk? If they do, you know, the girl will be quite ruined.”

“I have been musing on that.” Kieran sounded perfectly detached. “Calvert is marginally a gentleman. Enders I shall have to threaten. Valigny, too, before it's over, I daresay.”

How could anyone contemplate marriage with such an utter lack of emotion, Xanthia wondered? Mademoiselle Marchand might be improving her situation—but only a tad. “Her own father!” she whispered. “And with Lord Enders! How could he?”

Kieran lifted one shoulder, and tossed off the last of his brandy. “Valigny has no scruples—
and
he keeps low company. Myself, for example.”

“Well, you are a rank amateur compared to Lord Enders.”

“Thank you,” he said, “for your unshakable faith in me.”

Xanthia scowled at him. “So you really mean to go through with this?”

Kieran opened the drawer again, extracted a piece of heavy foolscap, and tossed it onto the desk. Xanthia took it. A special license. It was written out in crisp, blue-black ink, properly signed and sealed.

“How?” Xanthia demanded, rattling the paper. “How did you get this so fast?”

“Your old friend Lord de Vendenheim down in Whitehall,” said her brother. “He knows people who know people. And, as it happens, he owes me for a rather large favor, so this morning I went round to Whitehall and called in my debt.”

“He also owes me a thing or two, you will remember,” she said in an injured tone. “I very nearly got myself killed in that smuggling business of his.”

“Oh, no, my girl!” said Kieran, propping one hip against his desk. “What you got was
married
and
pregnant
—probably not in that order—neither of which was Vendenheim's doing.”

Xanthia lifted both hands as if she might tear her hair out. “This is not about me!”

Her brother looked at her unblinkingly. “But I should far rather talk about you than myself, my dear. It feels so much less…what is the word? Intrusive, I think, will do nicely.”

“Why, Kieran?” she cried. “Just tell me why you are doing this! I have my suspicions, you see. I want—no, I
need
—for you to tell me I am wrong.”

“Careful, my dear,” he said. “You are sounding just a little histrionic.”

He was right, but she hated to admit it. “Just answer the question,” she snapped. “Expectant mothers are not quite sane at the best of times, and just now I am favoring that silver paper knife on your desk.”

Rothewell cast a glance down at it, then shrugged. “You shall have to stab me in the back, then,” he said, going to the sideboard. “Because I need another brandy desperately enough to risk death. As to your question, I don't suppose you would believe I felt sorry for the girl?”

“Sorry enough to marry her?” Xanthia scoffed. “Not in a million years.”

She listened to the crystal stopper being pulled from the decanter. Her brother's hand was perfectly steady as he poured. It always was. Only his temper seemed to suffer from his bad habits. Kieran did not sleep when he should, eat when he ought, or stop drinking when any reasonable man would have done.
Moderation
was not in his dictionary. Nor was
marriage
, Xanthia could have sworn.