'Twas the Night After Christmas (4 page)

Though he cast his eyes down, he thrust out his chin like a little man and mumbled, “Yes, Mama.” Then he let Mrs. Beasley take his hand and lead him from the room.

Only after Camilla heard their footsteps dying away on the stairs did she let out a breath. It wouldn’t do to have his lordship discover both her deception regarding his mother
and
Jasper’s presence.

My, but he had come quickly. Since the earl never answered his mother’s letters, Camilla had assumed it would take him a while to get around to reading the express. And that even then he might not care.

Clearly she’d made a disastrous assumption.

But what was she supposed to have done when she’d found the countess sobbing on the evening of her fiftieth birthday? Lady Devonmont had spent the entire day hiding her feelings about her son’s absence, but once alone, she’d apparently been unable to do so.

When Camilla, in trying to comfort her, had said that she was sure he would come for Christmas, the countess had dismissed the very possibility. She admitted that she hadn’t seen him at Christmas in some years. Then she’d mumbled something about having only herself to blame for that. But Camilla had scarcely heard that.

Not see his own mother at Christmas? How could he? Camilla might not have had a family growing up, but she knew how one ought to work. The parents loved and supported their children, and in return the children did the same, even as adults. What sort of man trampled over a mother’s love without a thought?

Obviously, a man who needed reminding of what he owed the woman who had raised him. So Camilla had fired off her letter without considering the consequences.

Well, she was considering them now. He might very well dismiss her for her deception. Although really, it wasn’t
that
much of a deception—his mother
had
been feeling poorly, and Camilla was almost certain it was all for lack of him. So it did seem—

“Who the devil are you?”

Startled, Camilla spun around to find a finely dressed gentleman standing in the sitting room doorway. Heaven save her. His lordship had come.

She curtsied deeply. “I am Mrs. Stuart, my lord. That is, I assume you are—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said impatiently. “I’m your employer.” He scanned her with a narrowed gaze as he entered the room. “And
you,
madam, are not what I was expecting.”

Nor was he. His mother had spoken of an asthmatic child with a slim build and slight frame, so Camilla had imagined the earl as a fashionable coxcomb with extravagant manners and dress, a perfumed handkerchief eternally pressed to his nose.

Fashionable he might be, but this was no coxcomb. The Earl of Devonmont was an imposing fellow indeed. She’d once seen a portrait of his father in Montcliff Manor, and they were very like. Both were lean and tall, with eyes the color of mahogany and hair a shade darker, and both had the same brooding stare.

The present earl was less formally dressed, but he wore his clothes better. His exquisitely tailored frock coat of brown cashmere skimmed broad shoulders, while his buff trousers and striped waistcoat showed the rest of his figure to good effect. His snowy cravat emphasized his strong jaw, and he had a high brow somewhat altered by a frown fierce enough to frighten small children. Not to mention paid companions who had vastly overstepped their bounds.

“How’s my mother?” he asked, his voice hoarse and his hands
seeming to shake as he removed his gloves and tossed them onto a writing table.

Or was she imagining his distress? Oh, Lord, she hoped so. Because if he was as upset as he seemed, then she
really
had gone too far when she’d sent that letter. Although it did mean he might care for his mother more than she’d realized.

“Well, sir,” she began, nervously pushing up her spectacles. “I believe I should probably explain . . . ”

“Pierce!” Lady Devonmont cried from the doorway. “It’s wonderful to see you, my boy.”

He couldn’t have looked more shocked if a ghost had risen from the grave to speak to him. Relief seemed to flicker briefly in his eyes, but it was swiftly supplanted by anger as he realized the deception that had been played on him.

Casting Camilla a hard glance that made her shiver, he faced his mother with an unreadable expression. “You’re looking well,” he said civilly, though he made no move to approach her.

Her smile faltered. “So are you.”

“I was told . . . ” His voice cracked a little before he got control of it. “I was under the impression that you’ve been very ill.”

The countess paled. “I’ve been a little under the weather, but nothing of any consequence. I told you that in my last letter.”

Her mention of letters made his jaw go taut. “So you are not near to death, as I was led to believe.”

Lady Devonmont lifted her chin. “I’m sure you can tell that I am not. I don’t know who would lie to you about such a thing.”

Camilla froze, waiting for the accusation that was sure to come.

His gaze didn’t so much as flick to her. “It’s of no matter. A misunderstanding, I’m sure.” He jerked up his gloves, his motions oddly mechanical. “So I’ll be returning to London in the morning. It’s too late to set off tonight.”

“Of course.” With a forced smile, his mother pretended not to care.

Only Camilla noticed how her shoulders shook.

Or perhaps not only Camilla, for his lordship turned for the door quickly, as if he couldn’t bear to look at his mother one moment more. “Have Mrs. Beasley send dinner to my room,” he ordered. “The footmen have already put my bags in the Red Room, so I might as well remain here for the night instead of at the manor.”

“Certainly, Pierce,” the countess said in a voice tinged with bitterness. “Whatever you wish.”

Something in her tone must have pricked his conscience, for he paused at the door. Then he stiffened and walked out without a backward glance.

Camilla could only gape after him, then turn to gape at his mother. “I can’t believe it! That is the most despicable behavior I’ve ever witnessed!”

“Do not blame him, my dear. He has his reasons.” She watched after him, her gaze thoughtful. “At least he came when he thought I was ill. That’s something, isn’t it?” Ignoring Camilla’s lack of a response, she added, “And I got to see him for a bit, too. He’s very handsome, don’t you think? He grew up
to be so strong and tall. He was such a sickly child that I never expected—”

“How can you ignore his abominable treatment of you?” Camilla broke in.

“On the contrary, he treats me better than I can expect, given . . . ” She managed another determined smile. “You don’t understand, my dear. Better to leave it alone.”

“How can I? He tucks you away here in the country—”

“Because I prefer the country to town, and always have.”

“That’s not the point! He acts as if you don’t even exist!”

“Ah, but there you’re wrong. He acts very much as if I exist,” she said acidly. “Or he wouldn’t demand that I stay out of his way whenever he’s here.”

“And that’s another thing. When he came this summer, I didn’t know you well enough to say anything about his avoidance of you, but now—”

“Good Lord,” her ladyship said, whirling on Camilla. “
You’re
the one who told him I was near to death.” When Camilla looked guilty, the countess scowled at her. “Are you mad? Do you realize what you’ve done?”

The reproach, coming from the generally mild-mannered lady, took Camilla by surprise. “I-I suppose I shouldn’t have presumed, but—”

“You certainly shouldn’t have. You could lose your position over it.” At Camilla’s stricken expression, Lady Devonmont added hastily, “Not that
I
would dismiss you, my dear. Surely you realize I can’t do without you.” Her ladyship began to pace. “But my son could very well send you packing.”

“I know,” Camilla said, letting out a relieved breath. She could deal with his lordship’s temper as long as Lady Devonmont didn’t hate her.

The countess rounded on Camilla with her shoulders set. “Well, I shan’t let him. He has every right to be angry at me, but you’re an innocent bystander, and I won’t let him punish you for your ill-considered actions.”

“They were
not
ill-considered! And I’ll tell him so myself, if it comes down to it.”

Lady Devonmont flashed her an impatient glance. “You will do nothing of the kind. You have your boy to think of.” She mused a moment, a sudden look of calculation on her face. “But since Pierce didn’t mention that you were the one to write him, perhaps he’s not so very angry about it, after all. So we’ll leave it alone, make no more mention of it.” She paced before the fire. “Yes, that’s how to handle it. And if he tries to dismiss you, I’ll hire you myself, using my pin money. He gives me enough for that.”

Guilt attacked Camilla with a vengeance. “My lady, I don’t want—”

“Nonsense, that’s the only thing to do.” Lady Devonmont pressed her hand to her forehead. “I have a bit of a headache, so I think I shall lie down for a while before dinner.”

Camilla sighed. That was one thing about Lady Devonmont; she always made it perfectly clear when she wanted to end a discussion. “Of course. I’d be happy to read to you, if you like.”

“No need for that.” She glanced at Camilla. “Though if you don’t mind telling Mrs. Beasley about his lordship wanting a tray in his room . . . ”

“Certainly.” She was being sent off. Miraculously, her ladyship had overlooked her impertinence.

Unfortunately, his lordship probably wouldn’t. And despite everything she’d said to Lady Devonmont, the woman was right. Camilla had risked much with her deception. She deserved to lose her position over it.

But she hadn’t dreamed he would have such a visceral reaction after the way he’d been behaving, never answering his mother’s letters, never coming to see her. Camilla had expected him to flit in, say a few words to his mother, pretend to be relieved that she was well, and flit out. And if seeing his mother coaxed him into staying for a bit, all the better.

Not in a million years had Camilla expected him to be alarmed at the possibility of his mother dying. And then angry that he’d been deceived.

Indeed, the more Camilla thought about that as she headed for the kitchen, the angrier
she
became. What could Lady Devonmont possibly have done to deserve such behavior? How could any man resent a woman of such grace and kindness? It was unfathomable.

Her ladyship thought she should leave it alone, but she just couldn’t. If not for the countess, Camilla might be working for some condescending matron who insisted that Jasper be left at his uncle’s. So as long as Lady Devonmont was on her side, she would fight for the woman, even against the earl. Her ladyship was the closest thing to a family that Camilla had ever had.

She entered the kitchen, where Mrs. Beasley was whipping the servants into a frenzy with preparations for dinner.

“Is Mr. Fowler going to be here for dinner, too?” Cook asked the housekeeper as she basted a pork loin. “He don’t like pork, y’know.”

“I don’t think he’s coming,” Mrs. Beasley said. “I hope not, anyway. With his lordship here, he’s sure to put on airs.”

“I doubt that,” Camilla interjected. “Mr. Fowler never puts on airs.”

Mrs. Beasley eyed her askance. “That’s only because he’s sweet on you.”

“Oh, please, not that again,” Camilla murmured. “Mr. Fowler is nearly old enough to be my father.”

“That don’t mean nothing,” said Cook, who saw romance blooming everywhere she looked. “And he’s always asking how you’re getting on with her ladyship, always wanting to know what you two are up to. He’s got his eye on you—I’m sure of it.”

Camilla did think he had his eye on
someone,
but not her. Of course, if her suspicions were correct and he was sweet on the countess, she could never tell the servants such a thing. They would be appalled.

It was fruitless anyway—Lady Devonmont always said she didn’t mean to marry again, and in any case, the social gulf between Mr. Fowler and her was nigh unto impassable. Especially when her ladyship might not even share his feelings.

“Like most widowers,” Camilla said, “Mr. Fowler is merely desperate for another woman to look after him.”

“True, true.” Cook cast her a considering glance as she tucked back a gray curl. “Though it would be a good situation for you, given Master Jasper and all.”

Camilla sighed.
Any
marriage would solve her problem of what to do with her son as he got older. But she’d married for practical reasons once, and except for Jasper, that had proved oddly unsatisfying. If she ever remarried it would be for love, and she felt nothing like that for Mr. Fowler.

“Did his lordship
say
anything about Mr. Fowler’s coming to dinner?” Mrs. Beasley asked. “It’ll be a trial for Cook to do a large meal on such short notice. She’s got her hands full preparing the plum pudding for Christmas so it can sit a couple of weeks.”

“No trial at all,” Cook retorted. “I’ve already got the pudding steaming, which it has to do for a few hours. So I can cook whatever dinner you want.”

“Actually,” Camilla said, “his lordship is only staying the night, and he doesn’t intend to come down to dinner. He wants a tray sent up.”

Cook gaped at her. “Well, don’t that just beat all? Waltz in here with no warning and then not even have the decency to join his mother for dinner.” She sniffed. “I suppose he thinks to get a better meal up there at the manor, with that foreigner cooking the food and that snooty Mrs. Perkins running the place.”

“That foreigner” was his lordship’s French cook, and Mrs. Perkins was the manor housekeeper. The two cooks were archrivals, as were the two housekeepers. Mr. Fowler had hired both sets of servants upon the earl’s inheriting the estate and inexplicably pensioning off the old ones. Apparently Lord Devonmont had wanted to install his own, who now took on airs because they served the earl. They were fiercely loyal to him.

Meanwhile, the dower house servants were equally loyal to
her ladyship. So with the countess and her son estranged, neither group mixed with the other to any great degree.