Indiscreet

“I am not a thief.” He ground out the words.

“Ha!” Camilla shot him a scornful look. “What were you doing hiding out there on a foggy night, then?”

“That is none of your business, and if you weren’t such a blasted busybody, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“I should have known that you were the sort to try to shift the blame. As if I were responsible for your cohorts or your enemies or whoever those people were.”

“Lord, you’ve got a wasp’s tongue on you.” Suddenly, swiftly, he stood up, hauling her up with him. “But I’ve no desire to hang about here bandying quips with you. Those men might very well be upon us at any minute.”

He clamped one hand tightly around her arm and began to walk her toward the post chaise. Camilla dug in her heels. “Wait! I am not going anywhere with you.”

“I think you would be far better off back in Edgecombe than you would be standing around in the dark in the middle of the countryside with a large group of men with guns wandering about.”

“I didn’t say that I was staying here! What I meant was that you are not going anywhere in my carriage.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then dropped her arm and stepped back. “Of course. You are right. It is your carriage, and I have no claim to it. I shall leave you, then. Good day, madam.”

He turned and started striding away. Stunned, Camilla stared after him. Then she remembered that her coachman was unconscious—oh, Lord, might he even have killed the poor man?—and while she could handle a gig, it was quite beyond her powers to drive a coach-and-four. Not only that, there was a band of men with guns who were perhaps still pursuing her carriage.

“Wait!” she called, and when the stranger did not stop, she took a few running steps after him. “Stop! Please?”

He turned and looked back at her, his eyebrows raised inquisitively. “Yes?”

“Don’t go. I—I cannot drive the post chaise back to Edgecombe.”

“Mmm. Then it would seem that you have a certain problem with your carriage. Good night.”

“Oh, stop being so exasperating! I am telling you that you can go with me to Edgecombe.”

“You mean that you are allowing me the honor of working for you?” he asked sardonically. “How kind of you. But I am afraid I must decline the honor. You see, I think it would be better for me to walk. One man in the fog is far less noticeable than a great carriage.”

“Horses are faster.”

He shrugged and turned to walk off again.

“Stop! You cannot leave me here! No gentleman would leave a lady stranded like this.”

“Well, as you have no doubt realized, I am not much of a gentleman, and, frankly, I have yet to see any ladylike qualities in you.”

Camilla glared at him. “All right. Have you satisfied your need to insult me? Let us go, then. We both know that it would be absurd for you to walk when there is a coach right here. We do not like each other, but surely we can trade—your skill at driving the horses for the use of my post chaise.”

He said nothing, just walked back and swung up to the top of the coach. Camilla quickly climbed back in, and they set out again, this time at a speed more suited to the rutted track. It was fast enough to rattle and jounce Camilla around in her seat, and she suspected darkly that the awful man was doing it simply to annoy her.

Adding to her discomfort was the state of her hair and clothes. This morning she had been dressed quite charmingly in a sprigged muslin gown and green kid half boots, and her hair had been pulled up to the crown of her head, from which point it hung in a cluster of fetching curls. Now her shoes were a sodden mess, soaked through and caked with mud, inside and out, and her dress and hair were in almost as bad a state. She was wet clear through to her underthings. Her curls, too, were thick with mud, and she could feel it drying on her skin, as well.

How was she going to explain her state when she arrived at the Park? Tears welled up in her eyes. As if she did not have problems enough already, what with Grandpapa and the terrible lies she had woven…. To have to arrive looking like a ragamuffin seemed like the outside of enough.

Grimly she blinked her tears away. She refused to cry over this. If nothing else, her tears would leave tracks on her dirty cheeks, making it obvious that she had been crying. And no doubt he would think that she had been crying because of him. She grimaced as her thoughts turned to the obnoxious man who had virtually abducted her.

He was uncouth, low and thoroughly maddening. He had treated her reprehensibly. No man of breeding would have grabbed her so roughly or pinned her to the ground like that. She remembered the bold way his eyes had lingered over her breasts, revealed by the thin, wet material of her dress. It made her blush, even sitting there alone in the dark carriage, to think of the way his legs had clamped around hers, of how intimately his body had been pressed against her—and of the shocking movement his body had made as he looked at her. It had felt so strange—almost exhilarating, even at the same time that it was utterly improper and infuriating.

She shifted on her seat, pulling her sodden dress away from her. She was growing more and more uncomfortable by the moment. The mud was continuing to dry on her, and her clothes were sticking to her flesh. Worst of all, her wet garments were quite cold, so that she was shivering almost continuously. She wanted to drape her cloak around her to help keep off some of the cold, but she hated to get mud all over the inside of it. Still…she could hardly just sit there and catch a chill. She was eyeing the cloak uncertainly when she became aware of the fact that the carriage was rattling over cobblestones. With a suppressed cry, she pushed aside the curtain and looked out to see that they had entered the village.

Within moments, they were turning into the yard of the Blue Boar. Camilla let out a sigh of relief. Though she had tried not to let herself think about it, she had been worried that the stranger would not really take her into the village at all, but, realizing the dangers of her being able to identify him, would abandon her on some dark and lonely road…or worse.

Now, with a cry, she jerked open the door of the carriage even before they came to a complete stop and jumped down from it. “Boy, see to the horses,” she called to the ostler, who had started across the yard toward their vehicle. “And look to my coachman, too. I fear we may have to send for a doctor.”

The ostler came to a dead halt, goggling at her, but Camilla did not notice. She was already hurrying to the front door, her only thought to get safely inside before the stranger atop the chaise could catch up with her.

As soon as she stepped inside the public room, all conversation came to a halt, and everyone swiveled around to stare at her. Camilla stopped short, dismayed at being the focus of so many sets of eyes. In her relief at reaching the Blue Boar, she had forgotten about her appearance, but now those stunned expressions reminded her of just how she looked. Her hand went to her mud-encrusted ringlets, and she glanced down at her wet gown, pressed to her body in a most improper way, one sleeve completely ripped away. A wave of deep red washed up her face to her hairline.

The keeper of the inn, a large, bluff man, started toward her from his post at the tap. Camilla saw him and was swept by relief. “Saltings! How glad I am to see you!”

She took a step or two forward, then stopped as he said, “Here, now, miss, what do you think you be doing? Coming in here like that! This is a decent inn, it is, and we’ve no use—”

“Saltings!” Camilla exclaimed, shaken. “Don’t you recognize me?” Tears of humiliation sprang into her eyes. This seemed the last straw, the perfectly awful end to a perfectly awful day—that Saltings, who had known her all her life, should mistake her for a common doxy. Was he actually going to toss her out?

The man stopped and peered at her. “Do I know you?”

“It is I! Camilla Ferrand!” Tears flooded her eyes. She could not hold them back, and they spilled over, coursing a trail through the smear of mud on her cheeks.

“Miss Ferrand!” he repeated, his jaw dropping. “Sweet Lord, what happened? What are you doing here this way?”

He went to her, gently taking her arm and steering her toward the smaller private room of the inn, then stopped. “Oh, dear, no, there’s a gentleman there.” He took another glance at Camilla beside him, muddy and disheveled and struggling to hold back her tears, then at the rest of his customers, all staring avidly.

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “there’s nothing for it. You can’t stay out here, that’s for certain.”

He rapped sharply on the door to the private room and pushed it open when a man’s voice inside answered. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Saltings said, ushering Camilla inside the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got a bit of a problem here. There’s a lady here, and, well, it wouldn’t be right for her to be sitting outside with the common crowd, sir.”

Camilla looked across the room, fighting to contain her tears. The gentleman sitting beside the fire—for it was just as obvious that he was a gentleman as it had been that the stranger on the heath earlier was a ruffian—rose to his feet, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment. He was dressed impeccably, from the crease of his simple yet elegant white neckcloth to the tips of his polished Hessians, and his hair was dressed in a similarly subdued yet fashionable style known as the Brutus.

He took one swift look at Camilla’s muddied state and said, “Precisely, Saltings. You are right. The lady must have the private dining room. The only thing is, I am expecting a visitor— Ah, there he is now. And looking, I might add, quite as if he had shared this young lady’s adventure.”

Camilla swung around at his words. “You!” she exclaimed with loathing.

There, in the doorway, stood her tormentor.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MAN GAVE Camilla a look that left little doubt that he shared her feelings. She straightened, bolstered by his irritation. It was some comfort, at least, to see that he was as filthy, wet and bedraggled as she.

“What the devil are you doing here?” the man asked roughly. “Am I never to be rid of you?”

“I might say the same about you.”

“I take it that you two have met,” said the gentleman by the fireplace, his voice as smooth and suave as if they were all standing in a London drawing room.

The stranger from the carriage ride grunted and moved into the room. Camilla said icily, “I am afraid that we were not properly introduced.”

“Ah, Benedict.” The gentleman sighed. “I fear you are ever lacking in manners.” He moved forward toward Camilla. “Allow me to correct his oversight. I, dear lady, am Jermyn Sedgewick. And this is, ah, Benedict, uh…”

“How do you do, Mr. Sedgewick? I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Camilla replied formally, trying to ignore the absurdity of the polite greeting in contrast to her grubby state of dress. She cast a flashing glance toward the other man. “I am sorry I cannot say the same about meeting Mr. Benedict.”

Mr. Sedgewick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He cast a grin toward Benedict. “I see you have made your usual charming impression.”

Benedict’s only reply was a noise resembling a growl. He turned away from both of them, striding over to the fire and holding out his hands to it. Mr. Sedgewick ignored him as he spoke to the innkeeper. “Well, Saltings, I think what we need here is a hot rum punch. Why don’t you bring us a bowl of it? I’ll do the mixing.”

“Of course, sir.”

Saltings bowed out of the room reluctantly. Camilla knew that he had been hoping to hear the details of what had happened to her and Benedict.

Sedgewick turned toward Camilla. “Now, Miss…?”

“Forgive me. Here you have been so kind, and I haven’t even told you my name. I am Camilla Ferrand.”

“Miss Ferrand. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, even under such deplorable conditions. Please come over here by the fire and warm yourself. I am sure you must be quite chilled.” He guided her toward the fire and into the chair beside it.

Camilla sank into the chair, grateful for its softness and for the warmth of the fire. She leaned forward, soaking up the heat. Benedict looked at Camilla, and his mouth twisted in a grimace. He withdrew to the other end of the fireplace, turning away from her and planting his elbow on the mantel. Sedgewick glanced from him to Camilla and back again, but he made no comment. The silence stretched out awkwardly.

At last there was a knock on the door, and Saltings bustled in, followed by the tap boy, carrying the inn’s best silver punch bowl and a trayful of ingredients. They set their loads down on the sideboard, and Saltings fussed around for a bit before Benedict pointedly opened the door for them and gestured a dismissal.

“Now, then,” Sedgewick said, advancing on the punch bowl. “This will fix you right up, Miss Ferrand. Normally, of course, it is not what I would consider giving a young lady such as yourself, but considering the chill of the night and the ordeal you’ve gone through, I think it will be just the thing to set you up.”

He began to mix the punch expertly, adding rum, sugar and lemons until he decided that the hot drink had just the right taste. He handed one silver cup of the mixture to Camilla, and she took the steaming drink gratefully. She had never had as strong a drink as this, for, as Mr. Sedgewick had pointed out, it was not considered a fit drink for women. However, Camilla considered herself no slave to tradition, and she was rather pleased to have the opportunity to sample a little of the sort of drink men consumed. It had a slightly unpleasant taste underlying the fruity sweetness of the punch, but, all in all, it was not as strong or as bad as she would have thought, and it was blessedly warm. The liquid rolled down her throat, warming it all the way, and burst fierily in her stomach. She finished off the cup and decided that she felt better already.

“That was excellent, Mr. Sedgewick, thank you,” she said, and he graciously refilled all their cups.

“Now, Miss Ferrand, you must tell me how you happened upon Mr., uh, Benedict.”

Camilla cast a stormy look toward that individual. “He abducted me.”

“Oh, God,” Benedict said callously, turning his back to the fire to warm it. “Not that again.”

“I was almost killed,” Camilla added, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering at Benedict.

“Benedict!” Mr. Sedgewick stared at the other man in astonishment. “What in the world happened?”

“She exaggerates. It was nothing.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We were shot at.”

“Shot at?” Sedgewick repeated incredulously. “You call that nothing?”

Benedict shrugged. “No one was hurt. They were some distance away, and I don’t think any of them could hit the side of a barn, anyway.”

“No one was hurt!” Camilla cried, raising her face from her hands. “What about my driver? I think you killed him!”

Benedict rolled his eyes. “I knocked him out,” he explained patiently to Mr. Sedgewick, then added to Camilla, “The reason he stayed out so long is that he’d been nipping at a bottle all evening. He was drunk. ’Tis no wonder you were lost.”

“Lost?” Sedgewick repeated. “My girl, you have had a dreadful day.”

Tears started in Camilla’s eyes as she thought about just how dreadful the day had indeed been, even before Mr. Benedict came along to persecute her. “You’ve no idea, sir.” Her voice roughened, and she stopped, trying to blink back her tears. “I think—I think this is the worst day of my life!”

And suddenly, surprising even herself, she burst into tears.

Sedgewick stared at Camilla, his face showing all a gentleman’s horror at being confronted with a sobbing female. “Dear lady,” he began feebly, “pray, don’t… I’m sure it cannot be that bad.”

“Oh, it is!” Camilla cried, covering her face with her hands. “You just don’t know. It is too, too awful!” Tears poured down her face.

“Well, it’s not a tragedy,” Benedict pointed out brutally. “I am sure you have been lost before, and will be again. We were never in any real danger. I told you.”

“Oh!” Camilla would have liked to shout at him that she was not absurd enough to collapse into sobs because her carriage had gotten lost, but she could not stem the tide of her tears enough to answer. At any other time, she would have been ready to sink through the floor with humiliation at giving way like this in front of two strangers—especially when one of them was as obnoxious and rude as Mr. Benedict. However, tonight, she was too weary and distressed to care.

“Shouldn’t have given her that rum punch,” Benedict told Sedgewick. “She’s bosky.”

Sedgewick cast him an impatient glance. “Don’t be absurd.”

Benedict shrugged. “I’m not. She’s in her cups.”

“I am not in my cups!” Camilla flashed, raising her head and glaring at him, her irritation at his rudeness cutting through her emotional outburst. She wiped angrily at the tears wetting her cheeks. “I am merely tired and…and overset. Everything is just…just ruined!”

Benedict cocked a supercilious eyebrow. “A party canceled? A beau marrying another?”

Camilla jumped to her feet, her fists clenched by her sides, letting out an inarticulate cry of rage. “How dare you! How dare you trivialize my…my… Oh, I hate you! My grandfather is dying!”

She burst into tears again and threw herself back into the chair. Sedgewick cast the other man an admonishing look, and even Benedict had the grace to look abashed.

“I am sorry,” he said stiffly. “I had no idea….”

“Dear girl,” Sedgewick began, going over to her and reaching down to take one of her hands and pat it. “I am so sorry. If there is anything I can do…”

“There is nothing anyone can do,” Camilla said when her spurt of tears had subsided. She brushed the tears from her cheeks, once again disturbing the smears of mud, and drew a ragged breath. “He is old, and his body is failing him. He had a fit of apoplexy several months ago, and ever since then he hasn’t been able to leave his room. His doctor—” She swallowed hard. “His doctor said he hadn’t long to live, but he has kept hanging on.” She offered a watery smile. “He was always the stubbornest of men.”

“I am sure he’s had a long, full life,” Sedgewick said comfortingly.

Camilla nodded. “He has. And I—I’ve almost resigned myself to his death. It’s just— Oh, I’ve made the most awful mess of everything.” She gulped back her tears and raised large, beseeching eyes to Sedgewick. “Truly, I didn’t mean to. I did it all for the best, but now…well, now I have to tell him the truth. All of them. And I am so afraid it will kill him.”

The man frowned. “I am sure it cannot be that serious.”

“It is. I—I lied to him, you see.”

At her words, Benedict let out a noise of disgust and said with withering sarcasm, “Naturally.”

Camilla whirled toward him indignantly. “I did it for the best!”

“That is what they always say,” he retorted. “Deceiving you and then pretending that it’s for your own good.”

“Hush, Benedict. Don’t mind him, Miss Ferrand. Our Benedict has a warped view of the human condition.”

Benedict grimaced but did not reply, and Camilla turned back to Mr. Sedgewick, ignoring the other man. “I did do it for the best,” she reiterated. “I was trying to give him some comfort, to make his last days better. But I never thought that he would tell Aunt Beryl!”

“Well, of course not,” Sedgewick agreed, confused but sympathetic.

“But I haven’t been to see Grandpapa, not since that first collapse, and all because I cannot bear to face Aunt Beryl. She will ask all sorts of penetrating questions, you see, and would want to know where he is. It would be impossible. And now Lydia is there, and of course she can’t carry the burden of the lies. It’s not that she can’t lie to Aunt Beryl, for Lydia is capable of the most perfect whoppers, all the while looking completely innocent.” Her tone indicated a wistful envy of the said Lydia’s ability. “The trouble is that she gets carried away by them and winds up saying so many things that she gets all tangled up. So I had to come. And I have to tell them the truth.”

“You are not making the slightest bit of sense,” Benedict pointed out rudely.

“Benedict…”

“No, he’s right. I’m all muddled.” Camilla put a hand to her head and sighed. She gazed at Sedgewick for a moment, then gave a little nod, as if coming to some sort of decision. “You can be trusted, can you not? I mean, you would never tell another soul, would you?”

“Of course not!” The man looked offended that she could question his integrity even that much. “But you must not tell me if it makes you uneasy.”

“No, I feel as if I must tell someone or burst. I have been thinking about it all day, driving down here. All day—truth is, I’ve thought of little else for weeks. I don’t know what to do, how to extricate myself from this tangle I’ve created.”

“You have my word of honor,” Sedgewick assured her solemnly, “that anything you say will not go beyond this room. Feel free to tell us.”

Camilla cast an uneasy glance toward Benedict, who grimaced and muttered, “Trust me, Miss Ferrand, I shall not be telling your girlish secrets all over London.”

Hastily Sedgewick put in, “I will vouch for Benedict. He will not say anything. Now, tell me, what is this problem you are wrestling with so?”

Camilla hesitated, glancing toward the punch bowl. “Do you think… Could I have a bit more of that punch? It is so warming.”

“Of course.” Sedgewick politely took her cup and ladled more of the spicy brew into it, also refilling his and Benedict’s cups.

“You are going to wind up with an intoxicated female,” Benedict warned him dryly, taking his own cup and drinking from it.

“Don’t be nonsensical,” Camilla retorted. “I have neber, uh, never, been intoxicated in my life.”

“Hush, Benedict. Now, Miss Ferrand, please proceed.”

She took a sip of her drink, drew a deep breath and began. “Well, as I told you, Grandpapa was taken with apoplexy, and the doctor put him in bed and said he hadn’t long to live. Of course, I posted down to Chevington Park as soon as I heard.”

“Chevington Park?” Sedgewick repeated, surprised. “You mean…your grandfather is…”

“The Earl of Chevington.” Camilla nodded. She was looking down at the cup in her hands and so did not see the swift glance that her benefactor cast toward Benedict. “Yes. My mother was his daughter.

“My parents died when I was a child. So I was raised by my grandparents, as well as by my aunt Lydia—Lady Marbridge, that is. She was married to my uncle, the heir to the Earl, but he died when their son Anthony was just a child. So it was quite kind of her to take me on, as well. We all lived at the Park with my grandparents. I suppose that is why I am so close to my grandfather. My grandmother died a few years ago. I came to see my grandpapa as soon as I learned that he had been taken ill. The doctor said we should all be very careful not to upset him, that it would damage his health, maybe even send him into another fit. But I could not keep him from worrying about me. He was so very anxious, you see, because I am not married. He kept saying that I needed a husband to take care of me, which is, really, the most absurd thing, because I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

Benedict made a muffled noise, and Camilla turned to look at him sharply. He gave her a bland look in return and gestured for her to continue.

“As I was saying, he was fretting himself tremendously. You see, Grandpapa is rather old-fashioned, and he is convinced that I ought to be married.”

Sedgewick cleared his throat deprecatingly. “Well, it is the usual thing for a young lady to do.”

“Yes, but, you see, I am not the usual young lady. I don’t wish to be married.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes.” She nodded vigorously. “Marriage, you see, is an institution designed for the benefit of men, and I see little advantage for a woman in marrying.”