Читать книгу Indiscreet - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

CAMILLA PICKED UP her reticule and dug into it, finding the roll of banknotes she had stuck there earlier. Carefully she counted out twenty-five one-pound notes and handed them across the carriage to Benedict.

“Why, thank ’e, my lady,” he told her, again affecting a thick lower-class brogue and tugging at his forelock like a peasant.

“It is only half the money,” Camilla said crisply, refusing to let him draw her into irritation. “You will get the other half when you have finished your role.”

“Afraid I might run off as soon as we get there?” he asked in his normal voice, the usual sardonic smile playing about his lips. “I suppose that would be rather embarrassing.”

Camilla ignored his words. “What are you?” she asked. “An actor? A sharp?”

“You surprise me. An Earl’s granddaughter, so familiar with gambling cant?”

“I’ve heard enough of sharps and flats and the sort of gambling dens that innocents are drawn into. They use well-spoken apparent gentlemen, don’t they, to lure the young men in?”

“So I have heard.”

“You are not one of them?”

He shook his head. “I thought we had established that I was a common thief.”

“I am not aware that we had established anything about you,” she responded coldly. “The only thing that I am certain of is that I do not trust you.”

“No doubt you are a wise woman.” Again his dark eyes glinted with amusement. “But, then, a trustworthy man would hardly suit your purpose, would he?”

Camilla looked at him, nonplussed by his words. He was right. A scrupulously honest man would never have agreed to such a charade as this. The fact did not reflect well on her, she realized, since she was engaged in the same deception as he—worse, really, since it was her own family that she was deceiving.

She looked away from him, doubt sweeping over her for the first time. The warmth that the rum punch had brought her had gradually melted away, and there was a small, insistent throbbing at the base of her skull that betokened the beginnings of a headache. Had she really been inebriated, as this man had claimed earlier? Had she made a foolish, drunken decision that she would regret tomorrow morning?

She cast a sideways glance at him, wondering what she was doing, bringing a thief right into her family’s home. Was she simply being weak, deceiving her grandfather this way? Was she doing all this merely for the sake of her pride? Doubts assailed her.

“What?” he asked in a smooth, oily voice. “Having second thoughts, my lady? Wondering if your course is less than honorable? Or is it doubt about letting a thief have access to the treasures of Chevington Park? Perhaps you should have thought of that earlier, before you invited the viper into your bosom, so to speak.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Camilla said boldly, managing to keep the tremor out of her voice. “Even you would not be so stupid as to steal something, when it would be so obvious who had done it. When I could identify you.”

“As what? Mr. Lassiter, was it?”

Her eyes flew to his, startled.

“That’s right,” he went on. “You don’t even know my name, do you?”

“But…is it not Benedict?”

“Aye…my first name.”

“Your first name! But I thought Mr. Sedgewick meant your last name. What is your surname, then?”

“Why, Lassiter—what else?”

She merely looked at him, wide-eyed, momentarily bereft of words.

Suddenly, startling her even further, he reached across the carriage and grabbed her, pulling her across the carriage and into his lap. One arm went around her shoulders, the other around her waist, pinning her arms very effectively to her sides.

“What are you— Stop it! Let go of me at once!”

“You seem to have forgotten one other little thing in your rush to fool your family. A fiancé, you know, has certain expectations.”

He bent, and his lips fastened on hers. They were hard, almost bruising, pressing into her soft lips with an insistent force. Camilla gasped in surprise, and he seized the opportunity to slip his tongue inside, amazing her even more. She had been kissed only once or twice, and then only by gentlemanly beaux overcome by a moment of ardor. But she had never felt anything like this. His mouth seemed to feed on hers, hungry and urgent, demanding that she give in to him.

Just as suddenly as he had begun, he stopped, raising his head and gazing down at Camilla for a long moment. His face was flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and there was a glitter to his dark eyes. Camilla stared back, mesmerized, for once unable even to speak. She thought for an instant that he was about to kiss her again, but then he abruptly set her back on the seat across from him.

“Remember that,” he told her darkly, “the next time you decide to pretend some man is about to become your husband.”

Anger flooded Camilla, wiping away her astonishment, as well as the stab of fear she had felt a moment earlier. “How dare you!”

“I dare anything,” he returned flatly. “Do you think I care that you are a supposed lady, or that your family is respected? You know nothing about me, least of all my character. You were a fool to agree to this.”

“Then perhaps I should end it right now!” Camilla’s cheeks flamed with color. “Why don’t we stop, and you can get out and walk back to the inn?”

“Oh, no, my lady, we made a bargain, and I intend to see it through to the bitter end. Are you planning to renege on it?”

Camilla drew herself up proudly. “I never go back on my word. But don’t get the idea that you can claim any fiancé’s rights. I am paying you good money, and if that is not enough for you, then I suggest you leave right now. For you are not going to get anything else.” Her fierce gaze would have melted iron.

Her words seemed to amuse him, more than anything else, for he only smiled faintly and murmured, “You don’t scare easily, do you?”

“Is that what you were trying to do? Frighten me?” She gazed at him in perplexity. “To what purpose?”

“’Tis better not to go into a situation blind.”

“So you were testing me?” Her mouth twisted with exasperation. “Well, I can promise you, Mr…. whatever your name is…that if there is a weak link in this plan, it is not I.” She looked at him pointedly. He returned her gaze without expression, and after a moment, she drew herself up in her most prim, governess-like manner and said, “I believe it would be best if, instead of indulging in juvenile tests, we settled down to make certain of our story. Now, your last name is Lassiter, as you have said. I think that we could use your own name, Benedict, as your first name. That way, if I slip and say it, it won’t seem odd. I have never spoken of you as anything but Mr. Lassiter in my letters home, so they don’t know what your given name is.”

He nodded agreement. “Tell me, where do I live? How do I spend my time?”

“You live in Bath. Your parents have a small estate in the Cotswolds. You are a gentleman of leisure, and you write.”

“I what?” His expression turned pained. “I hope you don’t mean poetry.”

“Oh, no. You are a very scholarly gentleman. You are interested in ancient history, particularly the Romans. You have written several articles, and are working on a book.”

“Good Gad, you mean I will be expected to converse on the subject?”

“Oh, no,” she assured him airily. “Grandpapa generally dislikes scholarly subjects. I just thought it sounded like an admirable thing to be interested in.”

He grimaced and went on, “All right. Now, what else should I know about this paragon?”

“You are a most kind and well-mannered man—there is where you will need to work on your role. Mr. Lassiter would never dream of pummeling a coachman or wrestling a poor defenseless woman to the ground.”

“Sounds like a dull dog to me.”

“He is not! He is a superior gentleman.”

“Well, your description makes me wonder why any woman would want to marry him.”

“You obviously have no understanding of women.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Mr. Lassiter respects women, and he believes that women are as intelligent and as capable as men.”

Benedict cast her a sardonic look. “Doing it rather too brown, aren’t you? Don’t you think he is a little too perfect to be believable—intelligent, gentlemanly, a man who prefers a woman to be a bluestocking?”

“No. I wouldn’t have agreed to marry him otherwise. He will be perfectly believable, as long as you act that way.”

“You may be stretching the limits of my acting ability.”

“You are stretching the limits of my patience. Now, will you kindly pay attention and do what you are supposed to?”

“I shall try my humble best,” he promised sardonically. “Pray go on. Tell me about my most excellent qualities.”

They spent the remaining minutes of the journey in conversation about the fictitious Mr. Lassiter, with Camilla trying to remember everything she had written her grandfather about the man.

Finally, just as they passed through the gates to Chevington Park, Benedict thought to ask, “Do I look like him?”

An odd look crossed Camilla’s face. “What?”

“Do I resemble this chap physically? Surely you must have described him.”

“Well…I certainly did not picture him looking like you,” Camilla admitted. “He would not be so large and so…physical.” Her brow wrinkled. “But I’m not sure I said anything to Grandpapa about his size. I might have said he was of average height.”

She looked at him doubtfully. Benedict’s six feet would hardly be called average. But at least she had not mentioned whether his shoulders were wide or whether his long legs filled out his breeches to perfection. She tried to remember exactly how she had pictured her imaginary fiancé, but she had some difficulty. She had not really thought that much about his looks, only about his characteristics, and besides, the actual man sitting in front of her kept intruding on the image she tried to conjure up in her brain. He had an irritating habit, she was finding out, of dominating whatever scene he happened to be in.

“I said his hair was brown.” Camilla looked at Benedict’s short, thick black locks. “That should be close enough.” She paused. “However, I think I said his eyes were gray.” There was no possibility that anyone could have mistaken this man’s gleaming dark eyes for gray. “Well, he probably won’t remember, anyway.”

“Hopefully.”

At that moment the carriage pulled to a halt in front of the house. Camilla pushed open the door before the lantern boy could get to it to open it, and stepped out. Benedict followed her. Camilla looked up at the venerable old house, warm affection on her face. Benedict followed her gaze. It was a graceful house, built in the shape of the letter E, and the white of its native stone gave it a warmth that was enhanced by the lights that blazed beside the massive front doors and poured out the windows.

“Oh, dear.” Camilla belatedly noticed the multitude of lights. She had been hoping that her family would have given up on her and already gone to bed, so that she and Benedict would not have to face all of them now. Obviously that was not the case.

As if to emphasize that fact, the double front doors were opened wide and held by two liveried footmen, and a rotund man dressed in sober black came rushing down the wide stone steps toward them, a grin stretching across his face.

“Miss Camilla!” he cried. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

“Purdle!” Camilla flew forward and gave him a hug. “You shouldn’t have waited up.”

“As if I could go on to bed, not knowing where you were, and leave you here to be greeted by the footmen?” The beaming man looked affronted by the idea.

“No,” Camilla agreed. “I can see that you could not.” She turned toward Benedict. “Dear? Do come here and meet Purdle. He is the butler, and has been running all our lives for years. Purdle, this is Mr. Lassiter. He—”

“Yes, yes, I know!” He grinned broadly at Camilla’s companion. “The Viscountess has told us all about him. Congratulations, sir. Much happiness, miss. ’Tis a wonderful thing. And, I must say, His Lordship is very happy. The news has picked him right up. He’s looking forward to seeing you, too, though I’m sure that comes as no surprise to you, miss. He wanted to stay up to greet you himself when you came in, but the draft the doctor gave him put him right to sleep after supper. The doctor said it was too much excitement for him. ’Course, the Earl will be mad as hops tomorrow morning, when he wakes up and finds out he missed your arrival.”

Benedict eyed the butler in fascination as he ushered them up the steps and into the house, talking without ceasing. He had never seen a butler quite like this one, beaming and chattering like a magpie. Of course, he reminded himself, he might have known that nothing and no one connected with this girl would be normal.

“It looks as though everyone else is still up,” Camilla said, a little questioningly, as Purdle swept them through the wide front hall.

“Oh, yes, the whole family,” he agreed, not noticing the way Camilla’s face fell. “Well, except the young master, of course.”

“Anthony?” Camilla named her cousin, who at eighteen, was the old Earl’s heir and the closest to her of anyone in her family. When her parents died, his mother, Lydia, had raised Camilla, and the two of them had grown up like brother and sister.

“Yes. He retired early this evening.”

“Anthony?” Camilla repeated in disbelief. Her cousin was the liveliest of souls, always getting into some mischief or the other. He would be the last person she could imagine going to bed before everyone else, especially when she was expected tonight. “Is he sick?”

“Oh, no, miss. He’s, well, he’s been retiring earlier the past few months. Since, um, Mrs. Elliot came to visit.”

“Ah.” It was clear to her now. Anthony abhorred Aunt Beryl, perhaps even more than Camilla did. She always seized every opportunity to lecture him about his duties as the future Earl and to opine about the fact that her own husband had been the second son and therefore Anthony would inherit instead of her own sons, who were, by implication, much more worthy of the honor and position than Anthony.

“Precisely. No doubt you will see him soon enough.”

“Yes. I am sure I will.” She was certain that Anthony was not asleep; she would slip down the hall to his room once the others were in bed.

“Here we are.” Purdle stopped before a double set of doors that stood open, leading into the blue drawing room, a large, formal room that was rarely used by her grandfather. Camilla was sure it was by Lady Elliot’s command that it was being used now. Though Lydia was higher in rank, being the dowager Viscountess and the mother of the future Earl, Camilla had no doubt that she had let Aunt Beryl take the reins of the household. Lydia was intimidated by the older woman’s poisonous tongue, and, moreover, she had little liking for running things, anyway. Aunt Beryl, on the other hand, lived to command.

Purdle stepped inside the room, addressing Aunt Lydia. “My lady, Miss Camilla has arrived.”

He stepped aside for them the enter. Camilla drew a deep breath and looked up into Benedict’s face. He smiled down at her, transforming the harsh lines of his face into handsomeness and startling her so that for an instant she could not move. Then she realized that he was assuming a loverlike expression for their charade. She tried to adjust her face into the same sort of look as she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

They stepped inside the room and stopped abruptly. It seemed as if the room were filled with people, and every eye was on them. For a moment the faces were an unrecognizable blur. Everyone in the room froze where they were, staring at Camilla and Benedict.

Then the multitude of faces resolved into several distinct people. The two young women were Aunt Beryl’s daughters, Amanda and Kitty. They had fair, painfully curled blond hair and vague-colored eyes that seemed about to pop out of their heads. Kitty was plump, and Amanda was as thin as a stick, but both were incessant gossips and gigglers, and Camilla was usually bored to death by their company within five minutes. Aunt Beryl, with the same pop eyes and fair hair, though starting to go gray, as her daughters, was seated in one of the wingback chairs near the fire, a shawl thrown around her shoulders to ward off the chill to which the low neckline of her evening dress exposed her.

The other older woman—though it took a second, longer look to realize that she did not belong to the same generation as Aunt Beryl’s daughters—was Aunt Lydia. Lydia was possessed of a creamy complexion upon which much care and many unguents were lavished, and her figure was as slender as if she had never borne a child. With her Titian red hair and vivid blue eyes, she was still one of the reigning beauties of London, and no one who did not know her would have guessed that she could have a son who was eighteen years old. She was staring at Camilla and Benedict as if she had never seen Camilla before.

These four women Camilla had expected to find at Chevington Park, though she had hoped that Aunt Beryl and her daughters would have gone on to bed by the time she arrived. What she had not expected to find here were the three men: her cousin Bertram, Aunt Beryl’s oldest son and one of the leading dandies of London, as well as two young men whom she had never seen before in her life.

“Aunt Lydia,” Camilla said, smiling and starting toward her aunt with outstretched arms.

“Dear girl,” Lydia murmured, rising to her feet and reaching out to enfold her niece in a graceful hug, all the while staring at Benedict with a peculiar look on her face.

“Camilla.” Aunt Beryl rose ponderously, though she did not extend her arms for a similar hug.

Camilla curtsied to her politely, exchanging greetings with her aunt and cousins. Her gaze flickered curiously toward the two strangers, but she hurried on, eager now to get her lying over with. She turned toward Benedict, holding out her hand toward him. To her relief, he started toward her with alacrity. She realized with amazement that he looked every inch the gentleman…and quite handsome, too. Amanda and Kitty were gazing at him with their mouths open.

Camilla drew breath to introduce Benedict, but before she could speak, Aunt Lydia flashed one of her sparkling smiles at Benedict and walked past Camilla, saying brightly, “No, you’ve no need to tell us, Camilla. We all know that this must be your husband.”

Her aunt’s words were followed by a complete silence. Camilla gaped at Lydia. Aunt Beryl’s shrewd eyes flickered from Camilla’s stupefied face to Benedict’s.

“How do you do, Mr. Lassiter?” Lydia went on, as if she had said nothing out of the ordinary. “I am Viscountess Marbridge. Camilla’s aunt.”

Benedict recovered well, smiling at the Viscountess and giving her an excellent bow. “How do you do, my lady? It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He turned toward Camilla, and a look of pure fury flashed from his eyes. He was certain that she had played him for a fool, had for some strange reason maneuvered him into this situation.

Lydia, too, looked at Camilla. “Oh, dear,” she said, pouting prettily. “I hope I haven’t completely spoiled your surprise.”

“Oh. No, of course not,” Camilla responded faintly.

Lydia started across the room away from them. Benedict, smiling warmly down at Camilla, curled his hand around Camilla’s wrist and squeezed it in a most unloverlike grip. Bending close to her ear, he whispered, “What the devil do you think you’re doing? Whatever you hope to trap me into, I promise you, it won’t work.”

Camilla could not control the irritation that flashed over her features. “I have no idea what’s going on,” she whispered back, baring her teeth in what she hoped would pass for a smile. “I know nothing about this.”

Benedict’s eyes told her that he would like to pursue the point further, but by that time Aunt Lydia was upon them. She took Camilla’s hands in hers, squeezing them significantly. “I know you wanted me to keep the news a secret, but I was simply so elated when I received your letter that I could not resist telling everyone the news. Please say you will forgive me.”

“Yes. Certainly.” Camilla had recovered her poise and her senses well enough to know that she had no choice but to play along with her aunt’s outrageous statements.

“So unexpected,” Aunt Beryl put in, and Camilla could feel Aunt Beryl’s eyes boring into her.

She forced herself to meet her other aunt’s gaze, hoping that she looked adequately calm and in control. “Yes, wasn’t it?”

Lydia went on, “I am sure you must be very tired after your journey.” Squinting at Camilla, she leaned closer to her and whispered, “My dear, is that mud on your neck?”

Camilla put a hand to her neck. “Yes, I am rather tired,” she agreed, seizing on the opportunity to get out of this room and be alone with her aunt. “My—our coachman got lost.”

“How dreadful. You must go up to your room and rest.” Lydia took her arm, starting toward the door, but Aunt Beryl’s voice stopped her.

“Now, now, Lydia,” Aunt Beryl said in a jovial tone. “We won’t allow you to steal Camilla away like that. Will we, girls? We are simply agog to hear all the details of the wedding. It isn’t often that something so…unexpected happens. And you must meet Mr. Oglesby and Mr. Thorne.”

“What? Who?” Lydia asked vaguely, then turned toward the two young men whom Camilla did not recognize. “Oh, yes, of course.” She led Camilla and Benedict toward the mantel, where Cousin Bertram and the two young men stood.

Camilla followed her reluctantly. She had no desire to have to make polite chitchat with strangers. All she wanted was to get her featherbrained aunt alone and find out why she had pushed this outrageous pretense on Camilla.

But Aunt Lydia was rushing on, saying, “Camilla, Mr. Lassiter, this is Edmund Thorne, a, ah, friend of mine from London. He has been so kind as to visit us the past few weeks.”

Mr. Thorne was a stocky young man with a starched cravat so high that he looked as if it might choke him at any moment. His brown hair was arranged in seemingly careless curls that Camilla suspected he had spent hours getting just so.

He bowed deeply over her hand, saying, “Fair Diana—for Aphrodite, you see, can be no other than Her Ladyship.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“But no.” He put out a hand dramatically, as if to stop something. His other hand went to his brow. “Ah, yes, I see it. But of course—the fair Persephone. I feel the muse upon me. Lady Marbridge is Demeter, so filled with joy at seeing her daughter again at last—though, of course, no one could believe that Her Ladyship is old enough to be your mother. More a sister.”

Beside her, Benedict made an odd strangling noise, which he turned into a cough. Cousin Bertram raised his quizzing glass and studied Mr. Thorne.

“Really, Mr. Thorne,” Bertram said dryly. “They would hardly be Demeter and Persephone then, would they?”

“But such a nice thought, Mr. Thorne,” Lydia assured him kindly. Turning to Camilla and Benedict, she added, “Mr. Thorne is a poet, you see.”

“Ah.” Benedict nodded. “No doubt that explains it.”

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Terence Oglesby,” Cousin Bertram began, clearly dismissing the boring subject of Edmund Thorne.

Cousin Bertram was a dandy, and it showed. From the top of his hair, coiffed in a style known as Windswept, down to his tasseled boots, rumored to be polished in a special blend of champagne and bootblack, he was the very picture of the man of high fashion. While he did not indulge in the most excessive of styles, such as enormous boutonnieres in his lapel or coats so padded at the shoulders and so nipped in at the waist that his silhouette resembled that of a wasp more than a man’s, it was obvious that he considered his clothes as his art. It took him almost two hours in the morning to dress, for he often used as many as ten fresh cravats before he had one arranged to his liking, and the fit of his coats was so nice that it took his valet, as well as his butler, to ease him into it. Indeed, it was said about one of his coats that his valet had to slit it partway up the back to get him out and sew him back up in it when he put it on.

His companion was dressed in similar finery. However, Terence Oglesby obviously had no need of fine accoutrements in order to be noticed. He was, quite simply, the handsomest man that Camilla had ever seen. Everything about him was golden—his skin, his hair, even the pale sherry-brown of his eyes—and his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped figure required no enhancement from his clothes. He smiled now at Camilla and bowed over her hand, and Camilla had little doubt that he had entrée into many of the best houses of London.

“Have you been here long?” Camilla inquired politely.

Oglesby merely smiled and turned toward Cousin Bertram, who answered, “Oh, a few weeks now. London’s gotten dreadfully boring, full of hungry mamas pushing their daughters on the Marriage Mart. So Terence and I decided to rusticate for a while.”

Knowing that Bertram lived to be seen, and thrived in the social scene of London, Camilla had grave doubts about the truthfulness of his explanation. The truth more probably was that his notoriously tightfisted father had cut off his allowance after he plunged too deep at cards or got himself far in debt to the moneylenders.

Accurately reading the speculation in Camilla’s eyes, Cousin Bertram sent her a wink, as though to confirm her suspicions.

“Now, stop monopolizing your cousin, Bertie,” Aunt Beryl scolded playfully, her mouth stretching in the grimace that she employed as a smile. “Come over here, Camilla. And bring Mr. Lassiter. We want to hear all the details of the wedding. Don’t we, girls?”

Camilla hesitated, her heart sinking. There was a glint in her aunt’s eyes that told Camilla the woman did not believe that she was married. She could understand why. She knew that she must have looked as if she had been slapped in the face when Lydia called Benedict her husband. What had Lydia been thinking of? Now Aunt Beryl was going to quiz her for all the details of a wedding that she knew nothing about, and Camilla could not imagine how she was going to invent them without tripping herself up.

Much to her surprise and relief, Benedict reached out an imperious hand and took her arm, stopping her. “No, my dear. I am afraid I must exercise a husband’s right and not allow you to indulge in a cozy gossip with your cousins this evening. You are much too tired.”

Camilla turned to him, gaping. He had spoken in the tone of one used to command, and there was on his face a haughty look that brooked no denial. He appeared for all the world as if he were the one born to generations of Earls, rather than she. He turned toward Aunt Beryl with an expression of hauteur and faint condescension that was precisely the attitude that would impress and quell her, no matter how much it might make her bristle with indignation.

“Mrs. Elliot, I look forward to talking with you tomorrow. But right now I must insist that we retire. Poor Camilla has had a very tiring day, I’m afraid—the exigencies of traveling, you know—and I fear that her constitution is far more delicate than she would like us to believe. No doubt she would, if left to her own devices, weary herself in satisfying your curiosity. Fortunately, she now has a husband to take care of her. And I must insist that she retire for the night.”

He smiled benignly at Camilla, and she shot him back a look that should have wounded. Instead, it only made a small light of suppressed amusement flicker in his dark eyes. She would have liked to tell him what he could do with his “husbandly rights” and his talk of her “delicate constitution,” but right now it suited her own wishes too well to be taken away from Aunt Beryl.

So she smiled up at him with sickening sweetness and batted her eyes, cooing, “Whatever you say, dearest.”

She found her reward in the flummoxed expression that stamped her aunt’s face—as well as in the involuntary twitch of Benedict’s lips that told her he wanted to laugh at her antics. He had such nice lips, too, she thought, firm and well cut, with just a hint of sensual fullness in his lower lip. She found herself looking at him for a moment longer than was necessary, and only the quizzical look in his eyes brought her back to her senses and made her turn away.

“Of course,” Aunt Beryl countered. “That is most understandable. I have put you and your husband in your old room, Camilla dear. I am sure you know the way.”

Camilla stiffened. “The same room?”

She stopped as she realized how idiotic her words sounded. Of course a husband and wife would have the same room. She looked at Lydia, hoping for a way out, but her aunt was mute, her eyes wide with horror.

“Uh, that is…I—I assumed that we would have two rooms. Connecting rooms.” A flush rose up her face.

“Newlyweds?” Aunt Beryl said and tittered, raising a hand to her mouth. “But, my dear, how odd.” Her eyes were avid with curiosity.

Camilla’s blush deepened. “Um, well, yes. I mean, ’tis not uncommon. There are…well…” She stumbled to a halt, casting a desperate look at Benedict.

Benedict took over smoothly. “What my wife is trying to say, is that there are special circumstances. Unusual ones, which make it far better if we have separate rooms.” There was a long pause, and then he went on, “In short, I am afraid that Camilla snores. It makes it very difficult for me to sleep.”

Camilla let out a strangled noise, and Benedict turned toward her blandly. “Yes, my dear?”

There was a muffled laugh from the direction of Kitty and Amanda, and Cousin Bertram seemed to have suddenly acquired a cough. Camilla thought with great delight of boxing Benedict’s ears. There was nothing she could do or say. She had wanted him to say something to get her out of the dreadful situation; she could hardly deny his words now.

“Oh, my.” Aunt Beryl looked from Benedict to Camilla, and Camilla could see a flash of triumph in her face as she went on, “But, dear girl, separate rooms are rather difficult right now. What with all the guests we have, there is so little space available. Why, to give you two connecting, or even adjoining, rooms, we would have to open up the west wing, and you know how your grandfather detests that. And it could not possibly be done tonight. The servants are all in bed.”

Camilla gritted her teeth. She could hardly insist, in the face of what Aunt Beryl had said. It was obvious that the woman did not believe this story of a marriage—and that was no wonder. It was all one lie built upon another, and each one more outrageous than the last. She thought about giving up and telling the truth, admitting to her aunt that it had all been a lie. It would be easier than trying to maintain this charade. But then she thought of her grandfather’s happiness when she had told him that she was engaged, and how he would react when he found out it had all been a tissue of lies. His disappointment in her would be hard enough to bear, but worse than that, his anger and distress might well be enough to call on one of his attacks.

So she clamped back the words that wanted to rise from her throat. Pulling her lips back into a smile, she said, “Of course. It isn’t that important. Benedict exaggerates sometimes, don’t you, darling?”

Bidding the others good-night, Camilla put her hand on Benedict’s arm, and they left the room.