'Twas the Night After Christmas (16 page)

Perhaps she really had just been waiting until he was old enough to be packed off to school. But if she hadn’t wanted to send him away, why not write to him? Why not try to see him? By that point, Mother’s parents had long been dead, so what hold could Father have possibly had over her that would keep her from a son she truly loved?

Unless she didn’t truly love you,
came the insidious voice that
had plagued him ever since that day at Harrow.
Unless she’s just working on you another way, for her own ends.

He gulped down some brandy, wishing it could wash away his suspicions. But too much had happened between him and Mother; too many questions were left unanswered. Father was dead—she had no reason to keep his secrets anymore. So why was she?

Damn it all!

He threw the glass into the fireplace, feeling only a cursory satisfaction from the sound of it shattering and the sight of the brandy flaring as it caught fire. This madness of incessant questions and uncertainties was precisely what he’d been trying to avoid. He had been better off in London, believing that Mother hated him, believing she merely wanted more of Father’s money.

But then you wouldn’t have met Camilla.

He stared blindly into the fire. Ah, yes. That was the rub.

Though why he cared about meeting some widow with a warm smile and a generous heart was beyond him.

She understands your pain.

She did. She saw right to the bone of it. Perhaps because she was an orphan, she knew what it was like to yearn for parents. That must be what drew him to her, along with her stubbornness and her loyalty to her charge and the way she made him want and want and . . .

Damn it all to hell! This was mad. He was imagining some intimate connection that simply didn’t exist.

Imagination isn’t what made you practically beg her not to leave.

Even as he’d said the words, he’d known they were unwise.
She would assume they meant something, when he’d only been clutching at the sympathy she offered.

Right, that’s all. And that’s why you’ve never told any other woman the things you told her tonight. That’s why you’re letting her get under your skin. Because she offers you sympathy.

He swore under his breath. All right, so perhaps there was a bit more to it than that, but only because of this situation with Mother. And all the talk of Christmas. And his painful memories of that day in the study—

No, damn it—he wasn’t going to let this affect him! He certainly wasn’t going to let
Camilla
affect him. Just because she turned that soulful gaze of hers on him didn’t mean he had to spill out all his hurts.

It was time he put her out of his mind. He was a rogue, damn it! He didn’t care about anything or anyone. He would go back to London tomorrow.

Taking up another glass, he filled it to the brim with brandy. Tonight he was going to get drunk and forget he’d ever come to this cursed place, forget he’d ever met the meddling Camilla. Then tomorrow morning, he’d be able to see everything with clearer eyes.

So he began to drink. And drink. And drink some more. He carried out his plan with such ruthless determination that by the time he went to bed, he was well and thoroughly sloshed.

Unfortunately, when he awoke midmorning, he was not only incapable of seeing everything with clearer eyes, he was incapable of seeing much of anything without wanting to retch.

Clearly his plan had gone awry. Especially since he belatedly
remembered that he’d promised to meet with Fowler this morning to discuss the servant gifts for Boxing Day. The man would await his leisure, of course, but Pierce never liked to keep his people waiting. Father had always done that, and though people said Pierce looked like his father, he didn’t want to resemble him in character, not if he could help it.

So Pierce rang for the footman acting as his valet at the dower house and then dragged himself out of bed to call for coffee. It took three cups to still the churning in his belly so he could be dressed. It took another three to steady him for the ride over to Montcliff Manor.

By the time he arrived there, it was nearly noon. So he wasn’t surprised to find Fowler hard at work in the study where Pierce did most of the estate business.

When Pierce entered, the man jumped up. “I hope you don’t mind, my lord, but I went ahead and started making a list. I thought if I laid everything—”

“It’s fine,” Pierce gritted out, wishing the man didn’t have to speak
quite
so loudly. “I meant to be here sooner.”

“No doubt it’s hard to sleep comfortably at the dower house,” Fowler said politely.

That was an understatement. “You know how it is—an unfamiliar bed and such. Takes some getting used to.” As did being around his mother, although being around Camilla took no getting used to at all. He’d never met a woman so easy to converse with.

No, he wasn’t going to think about her anymore, remember?

Frowning at his unruly tendency to let her invade his thoughts,
Pierce took his seat behind the desk. Fowler moved around to the front and sat down.

Nearly fifty, Miles Fowler was an interesting fellow. Born a bricklayer’s son, he’d won a spot as a poor scholar at Harrow. He’d excelled in all his subjects and had so impressed his school chum the Viscount Rathmoor that the man had hired him as his estate manager.

But then Rathmoor died some years ago, leaving his son, Pierce’s schoolboy nemesis George Manton, to inherit everything. Typical of the arse, Manton apparently alienated so many of his servants that several sought other positions, including Fowler.

Pierce never regretted stealing the man out from under Manton’s nose. Fowler was a damned good estate manager. Nothing got by him, and he had an impenetrable code of honor.

Unfortunately, he was also very diligent, and today Pierce wasn’t in the mood for diligence. His brain still felt like mush as he stared down at the documents and tried to focus.

“I do hope your lordship is finding the rest of the dower house comfortable,” Fowler ventured when Pierce remained silent a long while.

It would be infinitely more comfortable if there were no people in it, he wanted to say. Except that wasn’t true. He liked having Camilla there.

Damn it, there he went again, thinking about her. “It’s fine.”

“Good. Because there’s something of great importance regarding your stay there that I wish to discuss.”

The strain in Fowler’s voice came through clearly, forcing
Pierce to pay attention. He sat back in his chair to stare at the older man. “Go on.”

“I was shocked to receive a letter from Boyd this morning expressing his concern for her ladyship and wanting more particulars about her condition. Imagine my surprise to hear that you came here last week because of a message from Mrs. Stuart informing you that the countess is deathly ill.”

Uh-oh. He should have sent a note of reassurance off to Boyd at once, but in the midst of everything, he’d forgotten that he’d told anyone about Mother’s supposed illness. And he hadn’t intended to stay here so long.

Fowler was watching him with consternation. “Since you haven’t mentioned it and the servants here have heard nothing of it, I can only assume that either your mother never
was
deathly ill or she had a miraculous recovery between the time you left London and the time you arrived here. The servants at the dower house can be very closemouthed about her ladyship, but I doubt that even they would keep such a situation quiet for long.”

“You’re right,” Pierce said smoothly. “My mother is fine.” If that term could
ever
be used in connection with her. “It was merely a misunderstanding.”

Sadly, Fowler was too sharp a fellow to let Pierce slide that one past. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what exactly was the nature of the misunderstanding? I thought when I hired Mrs. Stuart that she was a forthright woman. I can’t imagine why she would alarm your lordship by inventing some tale about her ladyship being deathly ill.”

Inwardly cursing Fowler for being so perceptive, Pierce debated
what to tell the man that wouldn’t have him marching over to chastise Camilla.

“Because if I’d dreamed that the woman had any propensity to lie,” Fowler went on, “I would never—”

“It wasn’t Mrs. Stuart’s fault,” Pierce said firmly. “It was Mother’s. She actually had been ill, and she gave Mrs. Stuart to understand that she was more ill than she was.”

That was sort of true; Mother had claimed to be pining for him. And if Camilla was to be believed, she really had been.

Fowler’s face cleared. “Ah. I see. So Mrs. Stuart was overly hasty in informing you?”

“Exactly. You know the sort of careful woman she is. And once I realized that matters weren’t as bad as I’d feared, I was so relieved that I decided to stay on a few days.” When Fowler looked perplexed by that, he added, “In case Mother has another bout of illness, you see.”

The man nodded, though it was clear that he still found the situation odd and was simply too discreet to say so.

Although Fowler knew that Pierce and his mother were estranged, he didn’t know the reasons for it. Pierce hadn’t wanted his own feelings to be reflected in how Fowler treated the residents of the dower house.

“But you
are
pleased with Mrs. Stuart,” Fowler persisted. “She hasn’t done anything to . . . concern you?”

Clearly the man was worried about how Camilla’s behavior might reflect on him, as the one who’d hired her.

“Of course I’m pleased with her. Mother seems to like her a great deal.”

Relief spread over Fowler’s hawkish features. “That’s good. Very good.” Fowler glanced away. “I thought her ladyship might enjoy having someone young and lively about her. Mrs. Stuart has such a cheery nature that it would be hard
not
to like her.”

The man had written similar things about Camilla before, but hearing him speak them gave Pierce pause. “And the lady is quite pretty, too,” he ventured as he kept a keen eye on Fowler’s face, “which is always an added advantage.”

Fowler’s startled gaze swung back to Pierce. “Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”

That was a feigned response if Pierce had ever seen one. “I noticed at once,” he said, then added dryly, “but then, I’m considered quite the rogue, and we rogues always notice such things.”

An uneasy laugh escaped Fowler. “You’d be wise not to let her ladyship see you ‘notice’ Mrs. Stuart. Your mother wouldn’t approve.”

Interesting. “Why not?”

“Lady Devonmont thinks the world of the young widow. She’s very protective of her and would be most upset if she thought that you . . . that is, that anyone might try to take advantage of the lady.” He added hastily, “Not that you would do such a thing, of course, but your mother might . . . interpret any friendliness toward Mrs. Stuart in that way.”

Pierce gave the man a hard stare. Was Fowler trying to warn him off Camilla? And how did he know so much about the relationship between Mother and Camilla anyway?

“You sound as if you spend a great deal of time with my mother and Mrs. Stuart.”

“Not a great deal, no.” He tugged nervously at his cravat. “But when they invite me to dinner, I generally accept.”

“Do they invite you often?”

“Once every couple of weeks. They’re amiable ladies, and I sometimes crave a bit of female companionship.”

As did every man. But a widower might crave it more than most. And Fowler wasn’t too old or ugly to attract a woman, either. Indeed, most women would probably consider him well-favored. His position as estate manager to a wealthy earl would also open the door of many a female heart.

Camilla’s? Would she be attracted to Fowler?

A ridiculous thought. Why, the man must be twenty years her senior!

Father was nearly twenty years Mother’s senior, and it didn’t stop him . . . or her.

“Female companionship can be useful,” Pierce said blandly, determined to ferret out the truth.

“It certainly can.” Fowler sighed. “With Mrs. Stuart’s past experience working at an orphanage, she is always full of sound advice about how to deal with the various servants at the two houses. She has this way of getting right to the heart of the problem—”

“I know exactly what you mean. She’s very astute.”

“And eager to help and sensible without being overly pushy, as some women are. Between her and her ladyship—” He broke off, coloring a bit, as if realizing how he was gushing about Camilla. “Well, anyway, they are both very informative.”

“I see.” Oh, yes, he saw a great deal. Fowler had his eye on Camilla. And why wouldn’t he? She had an open heart, a sweet
manner, and a great deal of common sense. And all of that came in a body that was most appealing. Any man with eyes would want to bed her.

Or court her.

He scowled. Yes, Fowler would aim for that, wouldn’t he? He was a respectable widower, probably eager for a second wife. He had no children, so he would want a son.

But did Camilla welcome his attentions? She’d never mentioned the man, but then, she wouldn’t. Most employers didn’t approve of their servants courting each other.

Was it possible she’d nurtured some secret tendre for Fowler all this time? That Fowler nurtured some secret tendre for her?

There was a very easy way to find out. “Well, then, you should come to dinner this evening,” he said, priding himself on the fact that he sounded nonchalant.

Never mind that he’d sworn to return to London today. He didn’t feel much like traveling right now anyway, not with this devil of a headache. Besides, it was past noon already, not the best time to start a trip. And what difference would one more night make?

“Come to dinner,” he repeated. “It’s the least I can do to make up for interrupting a long-standing tradition.”

“Oh, no, it hasn’t been anything so settled as that, my lord,” Fowler said hastily, his cheeks now scarlet. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your time with your mother.”

“Nonsense. It will be nice to have an ally at the table,” he said tightly. “The two ladies are wearing me out with all their talk of Christmas preparations.”