The Rake Revealed (14 page)

He was a damned fool.

Going to the Hall tonight to quiz Camille on what Morosett had spoken to her about had seemed like a sound idea when he had set out, but he knew it now for exactly what it was; a blatant attempt to see her again.

For that was the problem. That had been the problem since the first night he had met her. The relentless, nagging desire to see her again.

Well, he had certainly seen her, he thought in disgust. And he had even managed to keep the conversation on track, despite the fact that she had looked so damned desirable, that glorious hair finally free, glowing in the firelight. He had almost felt proud of himself, resisting temptation, for the woman was damn near irresistible.

But there had been a part of him that needed to do it. He needed to know he could ignore the attraction he felt for this woman and with a little effort on his part, he could put her out of his mind when his time in Lymstock was done, which it would be very soon. That need to prove to himself that he was indifferent to Lady Durham’s charms had been behind this last visit as much as his desire to discover what Morosett had been telling Camille.

He had failed in a most spectacular manner. He could no more be near the woman than take her in his arms. The attraction that had first gripped him ten days ago had grown, not diminished. He needed to finish his business here and be gone, before Camille Durham became a thorn in his side that no amount of pulling would dislodge.

As for making love to her…

Tapscott shook his head in disgust. Camille was no lightskirt, nor yet a married lady looking to escape the boredom of her marriage. If only it was that simple then he would not hesitate. He would make love to her and be done with it.

But Camille was not like that.

He should not have left her like that. God only knew what she must think of him. But the sight of her, face flushed with passion, skin gleaming pearlescent in the firelight had aroused him in a way that well nigh drove him to distraction. His desire, and the woman herself, were too much for him.

It was still raining and the night appeared unusually bleak. Tapscott paused in the mouth of the tunnel and listened to the mournful sound of wind and rain. He knew it was his mood, but it sounded like desolation. Soon, he would leave and he would not be seeing Camille again. He would travel to France or Spain or Italy and he might not return to England for months. The thought left him feeling cold inside and, with a curse, he stepped into the downpour, welcoming its inherent discomforts. They were a true reflection of his growing inner turmoil.

Two days later, Camille sat in her drawing room and studied the fire absently. Her nerves have been growing since the night Tapscott had paid a visit. In an effort to avoid thinking about what had taken place between them, she had thought about why his lordship had come to her. And what Mr. Morosett had said. Thinking about it had led to certain conclusions. Based on this, she had recklessly come up with a plan that had made perfect sense at the time, but which, now that she was about to execute it, seemed like madness itself.

Lifting her eyes to the pretty ormolu clock on the mantle, she saw that it was almost two o’clock. Rising to her feet, she rang the bell and Gillie put her head around the door.

‘Tea tray?’ the girl inquired.

‘Yes please.’

A tea tray for three.
She must be mad!
Still, if she had the whole thing wrong then what was the worse that could happen? Camille couldn’t quite decide on the answer to that, but she hoped it wouldn’t be
too
bad. She sat back down again and tried not to fiddle. Her mother always said that in times of difficulty, one should remain serene. At least outwardly. The thing was, she did not think she
was
wrong, which made the past few weeks quite absurd.

Her first visitor was prompt, as she knew he would be. Mr. Morosett arrived at two o’clock exactly. He entered with a smile, coming to greet her, as smooth as a polished stone as he bowed over her hand. He was, as ever, gorgeously dressed in an emerald green coat, black breeches, and an eye watering cherry-red waistcoat embroidered with tiny golden crowns.

‘Lady Durham, how charming you look today,’ he observed, eyes running over her blue cambric gown assessingly. ‘A new gown? I like it.’

Typical that he should notice, Camille reflected wryly. Most men paid scant attention to what a woman was wearing, let alone knowing if it were new or not. ‘Yes, indeed. My dressmaker was a happy discovery in Kingsdown. Please, do sit down sir.’

They sat and made inconsequential conversation. Camille’s heart wasn’t in it, waiting for a sound from the hall beyond the door to indicate that her second visitor had arrived. Lord Tapscott was as prompt as Mr. Morosett (she had not been nearly as sure of his punctuality as her first visitor) and entered the room with his customary smile. Camille’s eyes went to his face, searching it instinctively some sign of what had taken place between them the other night. She had decided not to even think of it, after having been unable to think of nothing else. She had acted shamefully and his lordship… Well, she did not even want to think about that. He had been within moments of seducing her and she would have let him, without hesitation.

Then he had walked away. Without a word. Without even a
look
.

No. She had thought about it until her head ached, filled with shame and a kind of physical frustration that had been more shocking, in its way, than her mindless capitulation. That she could still crave a man, even when he were nowhere near her. It had taken a great deal of effort on her behalf, but she had pushed the episode to the back of her mind, as much as she was able.

Lord Tapscott’s eyes rested on Mr. Morosett and they shared a long, hard look. Camille grimaced inwardly, gesturing to a chair. ‘How very good of you to join me, my lord. Please, take a seat and let me pour some tea for us all.’

He did not stop smiling, not for a moment, but she sensed a new wariness about him. The man was no fool for all that he chose to act like one at times. He would know that something was in the wind.

‘Lady Durham,’ he drawled, coming forward, ‘and Mr. Morosett. How charming.’ He took a seat. Camille could feel the tension coming from both gentlemen, as if sitting so close made each quiver with hostility. Still, there were advantages to a polite social drawing room and one of them was that neither man could act in a manner that would embarrass their hostess.

His lordship said nothing, but she was sure she felt the tension tighten even further. He kept his blue eyes on her face, expression politely attentive.

Camille drew a deep breath. ‘The other night I had a conversation with each of you that I found most interesting. It was interesting, because it was so similar.’ She glanced at each of her guests from beneath her lashes, but it was impossible to see what was going on inside their heads. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She launched ahead. ‘You each seem to believe the other is a French sympathizer and I am wondering, why is that so? What has led each of you to believe that the other man is doing something wrong?’

When she stopped speaking there was silence. A long, drawn out silence that was fraught with unexpressed emotion. It was Lord Tapscott who broke it, sounding amused. ‘My dear Lady Durham, I really cannot imagine what you mean.’

Camille gave him a look. ‘Can you not? You say you are not working for the government and yet you are investigating Mr. Morosett’s business. You say he is...’

‘What do you mean, he is investigating my business,’ Mr. Morosett demanded, turning to look at his lordship frowningly.

‘
Exactement
,’ Camille said quickly. ‘You are investigating each
other’s
business. Asking the same questions. Now,
my
question is, could you not both be on the same side?’

There was another small, nerve-racking pause. Camille hoped she had not got this wrong. It had seemed to make perfect sense upon examining the conversations of the two men and their behavior since she had met them, so much so that she could not believe
they
had not seen it. Two men, asking the same questions, suspecting the other of, it seemed, much the same thing. And why not? There was so much confusion surrounding the traffic of the nobility into England as families continued to try and flee France and there had been much made of French spies coming into the country to infiltrate society and learn whatever they could of the English forces moving against Bonaparte. Much as Camille did not care overly much for Mr. Morosett, she had met too many dubious people in France to readily believe that the man was a spy or a traitor, but she had no trouble at all believing that he was affiliated with some kind of government department. There were many such men, now that more offices were being formed to deal with the goings on in Europe.

Lord Tapscott was a different matter entirely. She had no idea what she thought he was up to, but she could not bring herself to believe that he was anything but some kind of noble adventurer. However, if she were wrong…

Looking from one face to the other, Camille suddenly thought that she did
not
have it wrong, after all.

‘I am with Lord Sainsbury’s newly formed office investigating likely coastal harbors that are being used to ferry agents of the French regime into England,’ Mr. Morosett said abruptly. ‘And I have good reason to believe that Lord Lucius Tapscott is one of the key figures behind the organization that is facilitating their entry. He is a spy.’ Somehow, a small pistol had appeared in his hand. It was trained on his lordship with unnerving accuracy.

Lord Tapscott ignored the pistol, instead staring at Mr. Morosett incredulously. ‘Well, of course I’m a spy! For England, you fool. I work for Lord Asbury in the Foreign Office. We had a report that you, sir, were using your family home as a bolt hole for members of French Intelligence.’ Somehow, a small pistol had appeared in
his
hand.

Camille looked from one to the other and pursed her lips disapprovingly. She could only wonder where each of them had kept their weapons, for she had not seen them produced. There was a humorous side to this entire situation, no doubt. Certainly, it was beginning to resemble a French farce, both men holding guns as they eyed each other narrowly. Perhaps both gentlemen would see the humor at some stage, but right now she wanted all armaments put away, for she would not countenance such behavior in her drawing room.

‘So you were both investigating the other,
n’est-ce pas
? And the guns, they can be put away.’

Both men continued to stare at each other, as if not quite able to believe that they had got it so wrong.

‘I was told that you had become involved in the smuggling trade as a cover for less… shall we say… savory occupations,’ Mr. Morosett said, speaking slowly.

‘I have been smuggling, it’s true,’ Tapscott confessed, ‘but it wasn’t solely brandy that was coming over from Calais. We have been trying to get the Vicomte Châlon and his family into the country. He is, I believe, a particular friend of King George.’

Mr. Morosett’s pistol dropped slowly. ‘I see. And were you successful?’

Lord Tapscott grinned, tucking his own pistol back in the pocket of his jacket. ‘As it happens, yes. They left for London several days ago after spending several uncomfortable nights in your cellar, Lady Durham. I’m afraid your arrival has been very inconvenient. We have been using your house as a temporary shelter for our refugees.’

‘And you thought I would object,’ she said indignantly. ‘Me?

‘I was under the strictest orders not to tell anybody.’

‘It seems
incroyable
that you could keep to quiet about
that
. You have no difficulty bending other rules, it seems.’

Mr. Morosett grimaced. ‘This is all most vexing,’ he said, voice plaintive. ‘I was under the impression that you were a complete villain and yet now I find that we are, in fact, on the same side.’

‘Did you happen to shoot me the other night when I was down at the boat,’ Tapscott inquired suddenly.

Mr. Morosett raised his quizzing glass and surveyed his lordship through it. ‘It was you I hit? I thought I’d gotten lucky, but it was dark.’

‘Winged me. Damned fine shot.’

Camille rolled her eyes. ‘I presume, Mr. Morosett, that you opened that secret door in the green parlor when you were here the other day?’

For once, the man looked shamefaced. ‘I thought that his lordship might be using Kirkham Hall for his own ends and I wanted access to the place. I remember talk that there was such a passageway from when your husband’s people were here and thought I would take the opportunity to find the entryway.’

‘Yes, I understand perfectly, but this traipsing through my house must stop. Both you and his lordship cannot make free of it without my consent. It is no very pleasant thing, knowing that somebody can enter in the dead of night. If you wish to shelter people here, you are most welcome, but I would like to know of it.’