“So there’s no relation?”
“I would hardly be setting out tea things if my father were an earl.” Camilla ducked her head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“So you don’t know Lady Judith Worth.”
Judith. A separate wash of forlorn desolation hit Camilla. Once, when she had been younger and even more stupid, her uncle had offered to take her in. Her and Judith and Benedict—and not their younger sister Theresa. She could scarcely recall why any longer—something about Theresa being difficult.
Camilla had said yes to the offer. He’d said she could have gowns, lemon tarts, and a come out, after all. Judith, her eldest sister, had tried to argue.
He doesn’t love us, her sister had told her.
I won’t starve, Camilla had responded, stupid at twelve.
It seemed a fitting punishment for Camilla, that she’d been granted none of her wishes—not the gowns nor the come out nor the lemon tarts. She’d spent every year since yearning more and more desperately for the love she’d dismissed out of hand.
She’d chosen to live without it; still, somehow, the demons on her shoulder whispered that she might still have it. Someday.
“Ah,” the bishop said. “You do know her.”
Camilla hadn’t seen Judith once in the years since—Judith had made it clear she was unwelcome.
Camilla shook her head and spoke through the lump in her throat. “I don’t. How would I know the Marchioness of Ashford?”
A pause. She could feel her longing, an almost tangible presence in her chest.
She’d heard the news about Judith’s marriage shortly after Rector Miles had taken her in. He was the one who had impressed on her the seriousness of her misbehavior. He had told her that she should not long to be loved so, that it would drive her to destruction. He’d told her that she hadn’t earned the right to such care, that the impulse that welled up inside her insisting that she might one day belong somewhere was the devil trying to seduce her.
Judith was married to a marquess, of all things. It was what Camilla had dreamed about when she’d abandoned her family. Rector Miles was right; Camilla didn’t deserve what Judith had. Still, she could not stop herself from dreaming.
The bishop was watching her with a troubled air. “You seem to know her well enough to know of her wedding. Interesting, for someone who claims not to be related.”
Camilla exhaled. “Well. Who doesn’t follow the nobility? Particularly when one family—entirely coincidentally—shares one’s name.”
“Hmm.” He didn’t sound as if he believed her. Rector Miles must have disclosed something of Camilla’s past if he knew her abandoned last name.
She hated admitting the truth. She hated even thinking it. “It really is the best that I’m no relation, don’t you think?”
“Is it?”
“Well—what you’ve described. The treason.” She swallowed. “Judith—I mean, Lady Judith’s new marriage. The family’s position in society must be terribly precarious.” She could hear her own voice shaking as she spoke. She pressed her hands into her skirts to stop them trembling.
“Is that so?”
She felt speared by his eyes. “There was talk after the father and the brother had that incident, you know. People said the family was nothing but bad blood.”
He examined his fingernails. “You do know quite a bit about them.”
“If people thought someone like me was related to the likes of them?” Her whole being ached, just thinking of what it would mean. “I imagine it would ruin whatever progress they’ve managed to achieve in society.”
“Someone like you. What are you, then?”
What are you. Not who. He looked at her like a thing, and under his gaze she felt like one.
The rector had made her say it—once—when she arrived here. She knew she was flawed to her core; she didn’t want to have to say it again.
“Nobody,” she whispered. “I’m nobody.”
The rector must have told Bishop Lassiter the truth, for him to subject her to this interrogation. He must have told him how he found her eighteen months ago.
Kissing a footman she had no business kissing.
Miles had impressed on her the consequences of her conduct—rumor is, your younger brother is going to Eton now. Maybe the family name can be rehabilitated. Maybe…
Maybe would be never, if the truth about Camilla ever came out.
“That whole business has nothing to do with you, then?”
“No.” She whispered the word hoarsely. “Nothing.”
“Camilla,” said the rector, “I’m filling out my logbook for yesterday. Do you remember who I discussed?”
The relief she felt at the change of subject was immense, a weight lifting from her shoulders. She liked being helpful; she had an excellent memory, and she’d often assisted him by providing names. “In the morning, before the bishop arrived? Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Miss Jones. Mrs. Landry. After the bishop, I wasn’t about.”
“Very well.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Wait—I do recall one name. Mrs. Martin—you discussed her while I was setting out the tea things.”
He didn’t smile at her. “That’s very helpful. You should endeavor to be helpful, Camilla. That’s the only way you’ll make progress.”
Even that tiny amount of guarded praise had her glowing. In the years since she’d left her sister, she’d had little enough praise. Deservedly so. Camilla had that chorus of devils on her shoulder and no matter how she sometimes felt about the rector, he’d made sure that any rumors of her would not harm her family. She had to remember that.
“That will be all, Camilla.”
She escaped, feeling scraped raw.
Judas, it was said, betrayed Christ for thirty silver pieces. Camilla had sold her family for lemon tarts. It seemed fitting that she had nothing.
In a parable or a Greek myth, she would have been doomed to yearn for love hopelessly, forever. But this wasn’t a parable or a myth, and that legion of devils on her shoulder still gave her more hope than her single angel.
It’s been bad, they whispered, but just hold on. Don’t look back; look forward, and it will all come out right. Any day now. Just hold on to your hope.
The rector had told her not to listen to that hope. It sounded sweet, he told her, but it would lead her astray. Foolishness, said her angel, but its voice was small in comparison.
One day, said those devils. It will all be better one day.
Camilla took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and tried not to believe her devils. As always, she failed.
“Camilla!” The call came from below stairs. Camilla jumped. “Camilla? Where are you?”
She came back to herself again, and locked her bitter loneliness away. She tied it up with hope in the center of her heart. With any luck, it wouldn’t escape again, not for a good long while.
Chapter Five
It had been three days since Adrian arrived in Rector Miles’s household, and he still hadn’t discovered what he needed. A substantial part of the problem? Being a valet was hard work—particularly since Adrian did not know how to be a valet. Now, he had been told there was a red wine emergency.
Adrian didn’t have time for emergencies, he thought, dashing up the servants’ stair.
What he wanted to do was finish the task his uncle had set to him. But Miss Winters had avoided him the entire second day he’d been there, blushing when their eyes met, looking pensive and thoughtful, as if she’d been reprimanded. The cook knew nothing. Miss Shackleton, the other maid, shook her head and said to speak with Miss Winters. It was all dreadfully inconvenient.
The sooner he found evidence, the sooner he could quit, return to his uncle, and be back about his business.
More saliently, if he didn’t find something soon, he was going to end up sacked.
Possibly, he thought, as he arrived at the room where Lassiter was staying, he would get sacked today. He was absolute shite at being a valet, an
d his inexperience would be exposed at any moment.
When he’d interviewed for the position, he’d promised he was a veritable genius at removing stains. It had been a lie; he knew nothing about removing stains. He knew how to make extremely vibrant stains that would bond with the surface of bone china upon application of heat and not come off no matter what one did with the piece afterward. He had a wealth of expertise in dyes and metal oxides and glazes. Knowing about those processes had allowed him to construct realistic-sounding sentences that bore absolutely no relation to reality.
Luckily, there was one person who knew less about stain removal than Adrian, and it was Bishop Lassiter. The man had listened to Adrian make up some rubbish about vinegar and sunlight and… Adrian couldn’t even remember what he had said. It had worked, though, which was a miracle. His lies rarely worked.
But it wouldn’t last. He’d just been told that the bishop had spilled red wine down his front at lunch, and was waiting for him in his room.
Adrian opened the door.
A quick glance—nobody in the chair, nobody standing at the window, bed stripped of sheets….
Strange. Lassiter would be up shortly, no doubt.
Adrian crossed to the wardrobe, opened it, and started sorting through the clothing, looking for an appropriate change.
The shirt the bishop had worn two days ago should have done, except it had been stained with mustard. Adrian had tried to launder it, but…who knew mustard was so discoloring? Not Adrian. That yellow blotch would betray him.
Damn. That left—
His train of thought was interrupted by a noise on the other side of the room. He turned to see Miss Winters straightening, feather duster in hand.
Of course. He should have realized someone else was here, with the linen piled in a white heap in the corner.
Miss Winters had been avoiding him ever since that first night. She took a step back from him now, even though she stood on the other side of the room. They’d had almost thirty-six hours of monosyllabic exchanges, thirty-six hours of her almost looking at him before catching herself in the act and blushing.
“My apologies for the interruption,” Adrian said, “but I’ve been told the bishop will be up momentarily. He spilled something on himself at lunch.”
“No.” Miss Winters frowned. “He didn’t.”
“But—”