'Twas the Night After Christmas (13 page)

Camilla swallowed hard. What on earth was she to say to
that
?

P
ierce was surprised that Camilla looked panicked by his appearance.

“A child?” his mother said with a brittle laugh. “You must have heard us talking, that’s all.”

“Probably.” His remark had merely been an excuse for entering the drawing room. He knew this old house well; sounds could travel and change within it. He didn’t really care what he’d heard. He’d just seized on a chance to talk to Camilla.

He was tiring of seeing her only during their stiff dinners with his mother and their slightly less stiff encounters after. He wanted to see her during the day, to catch her unawares in her natural environment, when she wasn’t on her guard against him—as she was in his bedchamber, thanks to his unwise kisses
that first night. She showed her carefree side only to his mother, never to
him
.

That was one reason he was still here after a week. At first he’d stayed to prove to her—and himself—that he was in complete control of his emotions when it came to Mother. That he was no longer bound to the pain of the past. But that soon changed into a determination to figure out why a woman as astute as Camilla continued to champion a woman like his mother.

He couldn’t understand her, and it nagged at him. So he had come in here, hoping that Mother might be upstairs napping and he could chat alone with Camilla in a place where she didn’t feel threatened.

No such luck.

He chided himself for the keen disappointment that shot through him. Apparently this idiotic behavior was what happened when he denied himself a woman he desired, something that had never occurred before. That would explain why he was reacting like some besotted arse.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave the room.

Something was going on. He could feel it. Camilla’s hands shook as she fiddled with some piece of fabric. And for the first time since his arrival a week ago, Mother wasn’t pretending to be happy to see him. Her mouth was set in a thin line, and she was stabbing her needle with sharp strokes into her embroidery.

“You’re back early, aren’t you, my lord?” Camilla said.

He focused on her. “It started to snow, so I came back in case it got too deep for riding.”

“It’s snowing?” Camilla said. “Oh, dear, I hope that doesn’t ruin things for the day after tomorrow.”

“What’s happening then?” he asked.

“The fair that’s held in Stocking Pelham twice a year,” Camilla explained. “I suppose you haven’t been to one in a while.”

“A long while.” Pierce shot his mother a veiled glance, wondering if she remembered. “I was about eight the last time. In fact, I believe it was the same one—right before Christmas.”

Mother had the good grace to color. “Yes, that was the one.”

When silence stretched out between them, Camilla sought to smooth over the awkwardness. “Your mother and I are running a booth to raise money for repairs to the church’s organ. It’s in bad need of refurbishment.”

“Ah.”

Feeling like an intruder, he scanned the room he’d avoided heretofore. He’d forgotten how cozy it was, with its large hearth, its faded but thick carpet, and the pianoforte his fingers itched to play.

Odd that Mother had done nothing to make the room more fashionable. It had the same peeling red wallpaper with a large pomegranate design, the same mahogany Pembroke table with its matching chairs upholstered in red velvet, and the same marble pedestal displaying a bronze bust of the first Earl of Devonmont. It even had the same cold draft coming from the window.

It all felt terribly familiar. He’d spent many an hour here as a boy, playing at Mother’s feet or sitting beside her on the bench as he learned to play the pianoforte.

Shoving that disquieting memory from his mind, he wandered over to the table and noted the walnuts, net, and festive ribbon. “What’s all this? Something for the booth?”

“Bags of nuts for our Christmas tree,” Camilla said.

That damned tree again. “You’re eating as many as you bag, apparently,” he quipped as he swept some shells to the side. Beneath the pile, he found a tin soldier.

He froze, recognizing it as one of his. He’d played with an entire set of them as a boy. His father had given them to him, no doubt to encourage him in warlike pursuits, but he’d pretended the tiny figures were all explorers and had sent them off on great adventures.

He’d wanted to take them with him to Harrow, but the rules hadn’t allowed it. Little had he known that it would be the last time he would see them.

“Are you planning to hang tin soldiers on the tree as well?” he asked hoarsely, unable to look at his mother as he turned the toy round in his hand.

“Why not?” Mother said with an edge in her voice. “There are plenty of them. They’d make an original ‘bauble,’ don’t you think?”

He lifted a bitter gaze to her. “They certainly make an inexpensive one. I’m surprised you don’t want something more costly, though.”

“I can’t imagine why you’re surprised by that,” his mother said sharply. “I’ve never cared about it before.”

“My lord, perhaps you would like—” Camilla began.

“Oh, don’t pretend with me, Mother,” Pierce snapped. He
was tired of waiting for Mother to show her true self. It was time to force her into it. “We both know that you care a great deal about money. For once in your life, be honest and admit that this entire farce is about your wanting to get your hands on Father’s fortune.”

She paled. “Camilla, dear, if you would leave me and Pierce alone to have a private word . . . ”

When Camilla rose, Pierce stayed her with a glance. “What my mother doesn’t want you to know is that my maternal grandfather, the baron, liked to live a bit too well for his income. Mother grew up in luxury, but by the time she was old enough to marry, Grandfather Gilchrist had been forced to economize, which I gather he wasn’t very good at. That’s why Mother cast her net for Father, so she could return to the wealth and prestige of her girlhood.”

He smiled coolly at his mother. Let her deny it to his face, damn her.

But her gaze on him was steady and unabashed. “Since you seem determined to air our family affairs before Camilla, pray do not mince words. As you know perfectly well, my papa wasn’t ruined by high living but by gambling. He amassed so many debts that he was in danger of going to debtors’ prison.”

That took Pierce completely aback.

Mother shifted her gaze to Camilla. “Pierce’s father bought up all of Papa’s vowels and offered to forgive them entirely in exchange for my hand in marriage. So yes, I married him. It seemed the best course of action at the time.” She rose abruptly, her color high. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get someone to bring us some tea.”

Pierce stared, thunderstruck, as his mother swept from the room. What the hell was she talking about?

“You didn’t know,” Camilla said in a hushed tone.

He glared at her. “She’s lying.”

“Why would she? That would mean telling the sort of secret about her family that no woman could want known. And telling it before me, who isn’t part of your family.”

Her logic beat at his defenses. “Then why is this the first time I’m hearing it?” Shoving the tin soldier into his coat pocket, he paced beside the table. “My cousins told me she married Father for his fortune. And it took a great deal of wheedling for me to find out the little I know—that Grandfather was practically penniless when Mother married Father. There was no mention of gambling debts.”

Abruptly he realized why. Who would have told him? Father’s last solicitor had been hired well into the marriage. The Waverlys were from Father’s side of the family; they would know only what they’d been told. And Father would have been too proud to let it be known how he’d acquired his wife.

Consumed by a need to hear it all, Pierce strode out the door, with Camilla following. They both stopped short when they found the countess standing there, breathing hard, clearly trying to regain her composure.

“Father
bought
you?” he demanded.

Setting her shoulders, Mother faced him. “Don’t be so dramatic. He courted me like any other gentleman. He just made sure that his suit would be received more favorably than most. I could have refused him. No one forced me to accept, not even
your grandfather.” She tipped up her chin. “I made my own choice.”

He stared at her. Perhaps. But somehow it didn’t seem quite as mercenary as before. “I didn’t know,” he rasped. “I never knew any of this.”

She looked perplexed. “But I explained it in my letters.”

Pierce felt the familiar guilt like a punch to his gut.

She must have read it in his face, for she paled. “You didn’t read them.” When he let out a low curse and turned away, she murmured, “I thought you just . . . couldn’t forgive me for . . . I understood that, considering. But you didn’t . . . you haven’t even . . . ”

Releasing a low moan, she turned for the stairs. “Pray excuse me. I feel a sudden headache coming on.”

Camilla watched as his mother fled, then whirled on him with eyes flashing. “You didn’t read them?
Any
of them? I thought you might just have been ignoring what they said, but not to read them at all . . . ”

The outrage in her voice roused his own temper. “Don’t condemn me without knowing the entirety of the case.” He nodded jerkily toward the stairs. “Didn’t you hear her speak of my not being able to forgive her? Don’t you wonder what it is I can’t forgive her for?”

“Oh, I’m sure you blame her for all sorts of silly things.”

“Silly thi—” He choked out a laugh. “Ask her about my matriculation from Harrow, about every school holiday.” He scowled at her. “Ask her what happened when I came into my majority. I daresay she won’t answer you. And until she does, you have no right to judge me.”

“Why not tell me yourself?” she demanded.

“You’re not going to believe any of it unless you hear it from her. That has become perfectly clear.”

Besides, before he destroyed Camilla’s faith in his mother, he needed to know more of the truth. He was obviously missing a few pieces.

Wheeling around, he walked away and headed toward his father’s old study, the one place where he might find answers. But when he reached it, he halted at the door. He couldn’t bring himself to go in there—not after the last time.

In any case, if Father had left documentation, it would be at Montcliff Manor, not here, since he and Mother moved into the manor when Pierce was twenty-two. And after Pierce inherited, he went through every inch of the place, looked over all his father’s papers for some indication of the truth. He found nothing.

Perhaps you should have read her letters.

Mother’s expression when she realized he hadn’t swam into his mind. She’d looked wounded. Shocked. Betrayed.

The eight-year-old inside him wanted to shout, “Good! Now you know what it’s like to be ignored and abandoned!”

But the mature man felt shame—then anger at himself for even feeling shame. Why was he letting her affect him? For all he knew, she was inventing this to suit her needs. Had she given any proof in her letters? Referred him to anyone who might confirm her tale?

Damn it, he should have read them, if only to be prepared for
whatever she threw at him. That would have put him ahead of the game when he came here. Now he had to muddle through this as best he could.

Had she really written to him about Grandfather’s gambling? She must have—she’d assumed he’d read the letters, so there’d be no point now in her lying about
that
. What else might she have told him? Something to explain her complete lack of interest in him until two years ago?

No, at Father’s funeral, she’d refused outright to give him answers. There was no reason to think she had put them in a letter, especially given her reticence to talk about the past since he’d been here. But the fact that he’d so thoroughly misunderstood the nature of his parents’ marriage made him wonder what else he’d misunderstood.

He threaded his fingers through his hair. If Grandfather had sold her to Father, if it really hadn’t been a love match, then perhaps Father had been behind her refusal to see her son. Might he have threatened her with something to keep her by his side and away from Pierce?

That made no sense. Why would Father essentially abandon his only heir? Why would he demand that she do the same? Besides, that day when he’d come here at twenty-one, she had been just as cruel as, if not more so than, Father when—

He spat an oath. It made far more sense to believe that Mother had thrown in her lot with the man who could give her everything, and Pierce had been an inconvenience. When he was in school, he always read of Lord and Lady Devonmont flitting to
this dinner or that ball in Bath or York or London. They’d seemed to be going incessantly to house parties with the loftiest members of society.

At the same time, it was getting harder and harder to see Mother as some . . . frivolous, money-grubbing female who’d snagged an earl to move up in society.

His throat tightened. This was why he hadn’t wanted to come here, damn it! There were no answers here, just more questions, more opening of wounds he thought he’d sewn shut with steel thread.