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Their need for each other had become less than discreet.

Benedict Wincross appears in Camilla Ferrand’s life as quickly as the gunfire pursuing him. Though his name belies the fact, he is obviously no gentleman. But Camilla realizes Benedict may be just what she needs: a temporary fiancé to satisfy her family’s worries.

And Benedict needs something in return: an entrée into Chevington Park, Camilla’s estate, to conduct an undercover investigation into corruption—without Camilla’s knowledge. Each was drawing the other into a dangerous deceit—for even if they survived the danger of Benedict’s mission, how would they undo the love between them?

Praise for the novels of

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author

“Camp’s newest Matchmaker novel features her usual vivid characterization, touches of subtle humor and plenty of misunderstandings, guilt and passion. You won’t want to miss this poignant and charming tale.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Courtship Dance

“Delightful…Camp is firmly at home here, enlivening the romantic quest between her engaging lovers with a set of believable and colorful secondaries.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Wedding Challenge

“A beautifully crafted, poignant love story.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Wedding Challenge

“Lively and energetic secondaries round out the formidable leads…assuring readers a surprise ending well worth waiting for.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Bridal Quest

“A clever mystery adds intrigue to this lively and gently humorous tale, which simmers with well-handled sexual tension.”

—Library Journal on A Dangerous Man

“The talented Camp has deftly mixed romance and intrigue to create another highly enjoyable Regency romance.”

—Booklist on An Independent Woman

“A smart, fun-filled romp.”

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

Indiscreet

Candace Camp

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

1812

SHE WAS LOST.

Camilla had suspected it for some time, and now, as she pushed aside the curtain and peered out into the night, she was sure. Her post chaise was enshrouded by fog. She might as well have been sitting inside a cloud. She had no idea where they were. The carriage could be sitting ten yards from her grandfather’s house—or on the edge of a cliff.

“Wot should I do, miss?” the coachman called down from atop the conveyance.

“Just sit here for a moment.” It would be foolhardy to press on through this pea soup of a fog. There was no telling where they would wind up. “Let me think.”

With a sigh, she let the curtain fall and leaned back against the cushioned seat. This was all her fault, she knew. If only she hadn’t been so sunk in her thoughts, so immersed in her problems, she might have noticed the fog creeping in or seen that the hired coachman, unfamiliar with the local terrain, had taken a wrong turn. Indeed, she should have stopped in the village and hired a local postboy to show the driver the way. Instead, she had been cudgeling her brain for a way to get herself out of her predicament, so intent on the trap she had sprung on herself with her lie—why had Grandpapa told Aunt Beryl?—that she had not paid any attention to the coach’s progress. Well, now she would have to pay for that inattention.

Camilla opened the door of the chaise and leaned out. She could not even see the heads of the lead horses clearly. She looked down at the road. She could see that—clearly enough to realize that it was little more than a track through the heath, certainly not the road leading to Chevington Park. God knew where the London-bred driver had taken them.

Wrapping her cloak around her and tying it at the neck, she jumped lightly down to the ground. The driver swiveled around and looked down at her. “But, miss—wot are you doing?” He moved as though he were about to climb down. “I ain’t even put the steps down.”

Camilla waved him back. “That’s all right. No need to bother. I’m already down, you see. I am going to take a look around.”

The coachman looked worried. “Now, don’t go wanderin’ off, miss. You can’t see your hand in front of your face in this weather.” Bitterly he added, “Heathen place, Dorset.”

Camilla smiled to herself, but refrained from asking him whether London did not have fog, too. Instead, she inquired, “Have you a lantern? That would be of use.”

“Yes, miss.” He leaned over, handing down the lantern to her, still looking doubtful. Obviously, in his experience, young ladies of Quality did not go tramping about in the fog, lantern or no lantern.

Camilla ignored him and went to the horses’ heads, holding up the lantern to cast more light about her. The light did little to penetrate the fog, but it did illuminate the ground beneath her feet, enabling her to see the narrow cart track. The lead horse on the right rolled his eyes apprehensively at her approach, but she spoke in soothing tones to him and stroked his neck, and he quickly quieted down.

She turned back to the coachman. “The thing to do, I think, is for me to walk beside the horses and guide them,” she told him. “That way we can be sure of not going off the road or tumbling into a hole. I can see the ground in front of me quite well for several feet.”

The driver looked as horrified as if she had suggested stripping off her clothes and running screaming through the night. “Miss! ’Ere, you can’t do that.”

“Why not? It is the sensible thing to do.”

“It wouldn’t be proper. I’ll guide ’em.” He started to lay his reins aside, but Camilla’s voice stopped him.

“Nonsense! Who would stop the horses, then, if they should take it into their heads to bolt? I assure you, I am not skilled in handling the reins. However, I am quite capable of walking and watching the ground in front of me. Besides, I lived here nearly all my life. It isn’t logical for you to lead the horses.”

“But, miss…it just wouldn’t be prop—”

“Oh, hang propriety. Propriety won’t help us to get out of this mess, now, will it?”

She turned her back on him, ending the conversation, and walked back to the horses’ heads. She slid a hand beneath the strap of one of the horses’ bridles and started forward, holding the lantern aloft with the other hand. The horses plodded along docilely beside her.

The track was a trifle muddy—it had rained earlier in the evening—and Camilla kept to the grass beside the rutted trail to avoid getting her shoes caked with mud. However, the moisture of the bedewed grass soon crept through her shoes. The fog began to lift a little, revealing a patch of gorse or a briar bush here and there, but at the same time, it began to drizzle. Sighing, Camilla pulled up the hood of her cloak to protect her face from the chilly, persistent drops.

The drizzle, she soon noticed, was turning into a definite rain. Her feet slipped on the wet grass, but when she stepped into the track, the slick mud was just as bad. Moreover, the rain was beginning to penetrate her light cloak. She thought of getting her umbrella out of the post chaise, but she could think of no way that she could carry it and the lantern, and still hold the horse’s head. Her only other choice was to wait for the rain to stop, but she did not relish the thought of being stuck out here any longer than she had to be. So she trudged on, grateful that at least the fog was disappearing, reduced to wisps and patches.

Then, off to her right, she saw a movement, and she jumped, startled, letting out a squeak of surprise. She held her lantern higher and peered into the night. It was a man standing beside a small tree, almost hidden by its branches.

“Sir!” she exclaimed, letting go of the horse’s head and starting toward him eagerly. “Sir, can you help me? I fear we are lost, and—”

The man whirled toward her, frowning fiercely, his face pale in the dark. There was a long-barreled pistol in his hand. “Hush!” he hissed. “Do you want to get us all killed?”

At that moment, her lantern exploded in her hand, the explosion accompanied by a loud pop. The horses whinnied and danced nervously. The lantern, torn from her grasp, hit the ground and went out, plunging her into complete darkness. Camilla screamed and turned to run back to the carriage.

But before she could take a step, the man launched himself across the space separating them and rammed into her with all his weight, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Camilla hit the earth hard, the breath knocked from her. The stranger lay sprawled atop her, his weight pressing her into the ground. Camilla struggled to get out from under him, gasping for air.

“Stop squirming, dammit!” he growled, pinning her to the ground. “They’re firing at us. Silly chit, do you want to be killed?”

It was then that she realized what that pop had been and why the lantern had shattered. Someone had shot at her! She realized, too, that she had heard more pops as the man drove her to the ground. Camilla went limp with shock.

There were shouts in the distance, but no more bangs. Nearer to them, the horses, upset by the shots, were whinnying and dancing about, tossing their heads. The coachman, cursing, was struggling to control them.

The stranger lifted his head and looked behind them. Camilla stared up at him. His face was fierce and dark, all sharp angles and jutting cheekbones and black, slanting eyebrows. He looked, she thought, quite dangerous, and instinctively she was certain that it was he the others had been shooting at.

“Bloody hell!” He rasped the words out. “I think they’re coming after us.”

“What?” Her voice rose sharply. “What is going on?”

He shook his head and rose to a crouch. Before she realized what he was going to do, he had grasped her upper arms with hands of steel and jerked her to her feet, rising with her.

“Run!” he ordered, and with the word, he ran to the coach, dragging her along with him.

“Let go of me!” Camilla tried to wrest her arm away from him, but he was too strong.

There were two more gunshots behind them, and Camilla heard something splat into the side of the chaise. Her companion jerked open the door of the coach and tossed her up into it. Camilla screamed again as she hit the floor, and the carriage jerked and took off, the coachman apparently unable to hold the frightened horses any longer.

The stranger was clinging to the door. She thought he meant to crawl inside, too, but then, to her amazement, he grasped something on the roof of the carriage and used the door as a stepping-stone to climb onto the top of it.

“Watch out!” she shouted to the driver, and she heard the coachman’s shout of surprise and the sound of a struggle, then the thud of a body—undoubtedly the poor coachman’s—falling to the seat.

The coach gathered speed quickly, the horses panicked and with the bits between their teeth. The vehicle rocked and bounced along the rough path. Camilla grabbed hold of the seat, afraid that she would go sliding out the open door when the carriage tilted that way.

There were more shots, and she realized that they were hurtling straight toward the men who were firing upon them. She had a glimpse of dark shapes that resolved themselves into men and ponies. Suddenly a large man jumped out of the darkness, grabbing the door and swinging his feet up into the carriage. Camilla shrieked and scrambled away from him. As she did so, her flailing hand landed on her umbrella, lying there on the floor.

She picked it up and swung it hard at the man, cracking him on the shins. He let out a howl, and she gave him a hard poke in the stomach with the tip of the umbrella. He let out another cry of pain, and his fingers slipped on the door. He fell backward out of the carriage.

Camilla sat down on the seat, grasping the strap on the wall for purchase. With the other hand, she held her umbrella at the ready, keeping a sharp lookout for any other intruders. They tore along at a reckless speed, the door of the carriage swinging back and forth, the carriage jouncing wildly over the rutted track. Camilla was certain that they were going to overturn at any moment. It was raining in earnest now, too, and rain was slanting in through the open door.

She realized after a while that they were slowing down to a more sedate pace, and after a moment, she slid across the seat and grabbed the door as it swung back toward the carriage and pulled it firmly shut. She looked with distaste at the puddle of water that had formed on the floor, but there was little she could do about that. She could, however, remove her soaked mantle, the back of which, she discovered, was thoroughly smeared with mud from when the stranger had thrown her to the ground.

The stranger. Her eyes narrowed as her thoughts turned toward that man. Who was he, and what had he been up to out here in the wilds of the Dorset coast? He was up to no good, she was sure. Those men had been shooting at him, and, now that she thought about it, it was obvious that he had been hiding behind that tree—no doubt lying in wait for someone. It was no wonder he had looked at her with such fury when she called to him; she had broadcast his presence to the other men, giving them a chance to protect themselves. She wondered if he was a highwayman, or merely some ruffian looking to attack one of his enemies.

Of course, she mused, given where they were, it just might have something to do with “the gentlemen”—the name, uttered only in lowered voices, given to the men engaged in the age-old occupation of smuggling. Everyone knew about it, and, if truth be known, many an upstanding local citizen, even among the magistrates and judges, was known to turn a blind eye to the illegal trade. Indeed, many of them had a regular delivery of French brandy waiting on their back doorsteps in the early-morning light after a moonless night. There were those who, hating the duty laws, considered “the gentlemen” within their rights in evading the laws. The people of the outlying coastal areas were often known to resent the intrusion of the central government in what they considered their business. In the previous century, the smugglers had been so strong that there were even pitched battles between the Hawkridge gang and the soldiers. Though those lawless times had passed, the business of smuggling went on, especially now, with coveted French goods cut off from England by the war.

Camilla thought back to the man, remembering his face as he had loomed above her in the dark—the fierce upward slash of cheekbones and the hard mouth, the dark eyes beneath peaked black eyebrows, the dark, rough clothes. Yes, she decided, he had definitely looked as if he might be a smuggler, at odds with his fellows, or a highwayman looking to rob a traveler, or simply a ruffian seeking revenge upon someone. Whatever he was, she was certain that she was not in a safe position. She had seen him where he had not wanted to be seen, and she had been the unwitting cause of the other men shooting at him and chasing him. He had been furious with her earlier, and she had little doubt that he still was. This rough ride in the post chaise might be nothing compared to what happened when the vehicle stopped.

Which it was doing right now. Camilla could feel the chaise slowing down. In a moment, she knew, it would rock to a halt, and then he would jump down and come back here and open the door. He would pull her out and— Well, she was not sure what he would do, but she had no trouble imagining him doing anything from hitting her to strangling her, including the despoiling that old women always warned of in lowered voices to girls who were rash enough to go out unaccompanied.

Camilla took a firm grip on her umbrella. It had served well enough as a weapon before. Perhaps if she took him by surprise, she might disable him enough to get away.

As the carriage rolled to a halt, she crouched down beside the door and waited, the blood pounding in her ears, every nerve stretched, listening for his approach. She heard the thud as he jumped down, and the crunch of his boots upon pebbles as he strode to the door. The latch turned and the door swung outward. “Are you—”

Camilla erupted from her crouched position with a shriek, launching herself out of the chaise. She swung her umbrella with all her might at the man’s face, and the handle cracked satisfyingly against his cheek. The umbrella broke in two, and the man staggered back with a roared oath, his hand going to his cheek.

Camilla hit the ground running, screaming with all her might. She knew that they were probably too far away for anyone to hear her, but she had to try, just as she had to run. She lifted her skirts and flew across the ground, heading down the muddy road in front of the carriage. She didn’t even notice the rain falling on her, or the mud that pulled at her shoes.

He was after her in an instant. She could hear him behind her, but even though she ran so fast she thought her heart would burst, he caught up with her. His hand wrapped around one of her arms like an iron band and pulled her to a stop.

“Stop that caterwauling!” he snarled. “Dammit, woman, what is wrong with you? You’ll bring the whole countryside down upon us.”

Camilla did stop screaming, but only because she was out of breath. She sucked in a lungful of air as she whipped around and struck out at him with her doubled-up fist.

She hit only his chest, and it sent a dart of pain shooting up her arm. He let out a string of curses and grabbed for her wrist, but Camilla twisted and struggled, hitting out and kicking at him.

“Bloody hell, woman, would you stop it? Are you mad?”

They were both thoroughly soaked by the rain now, but neither of them noticed as they grappled in the dark. The man was far larger and taller than Camilla, and the conclusion was never in doubt, but she was fighting for her life, and she struggled wildly, connecting with several kicks and blows as he struggled to subdue her. He managed to wrap one arm around her and pull her off her feet, but Camilla twisted and reached for his face with her nails. He jerked back as her fingers scraped down his cheek, barely missing his eye, and he lost his balance and staggered backward.

They crashed to the ground, but their fall was softened by the mud into which they fell. The man received the brunt of the blow, and he loosened his grasp involuntarily. Camilla seized the opportunity to pull away from him, but before she could crawl to her feet, he had grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop, and she fell face-first into the mud. She came up spluttering and enraged, lashing out at him. He grabbed for her arms, trying to pin them to her sides, but she was slippery with rain and mud, and he could not get a good hold on her. They rolled across the muddy ground, grappling.

Camilla squirmed and twisted, trying to get away, and he tried to wrap his arms around her to pin her arms to her sides. Once, as they struggled, she felt his hand slide across her breast, and she sucked in her breath sharply at the intimate touch. It startled and alarmed her, almost as much for the strange, sudden heat that shot through her body as for the effrontery of the contact.

He, too, seemed surprised at the touch, and he froze for an instant. She seized the opportunity to try to rise, but he grabbed at her arm to stop her, and the sodden material of her dress ripped, leaving the sleeve in his hand. She tore away, and he lunged after her. They went sprawling in the mud again, his weight bearing her down into the soft muck. He grabbed her wrists, hauling them up over her head, and sat up, leaning on her arms to hold her to the ground. His legs clamped tightly around hers, holding her immobile beneath him.

The man gazed down at her, his chest rising and falling in rapid pants. He was soaked and smeared with mud, his rough dark shirt hanging open down the front, where buttons had been torn off in their struggle. His bare skin showed through the gap, sleek and tanned and wet. His hair clung to his head. There was a cut high on his cheekbone where she had hit him with her umbrella, and his eyes glittered fiercely.

Camilla’s throat went dry. The man looked elemental and furious, quite male and quite angry. Camilla was very aware of the suggestive nature of their position, of his weight upon her legs. She was conscious, too, of an odd feeling in the center of her being, a strange mixture of fury and excitement and some other elusive emotion she could not have named. His eyes skimmed down her, taking in the wet bodice that clung to her breasts, and she could feel the response of his body.

“Let go of me!”

“Not until I get some answers!” he growled back. “Who the devil are you, and what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” she gasped, outraged. “I have every right to be driving through here. It is you who are obviously up to no good, skulking about the countryside in the dark, people firing at you. Release me at once, or you’ll be in even more trouble than you already are.”

“You are hardly in a position to be issuing commands,” he reminded her, and a faint smile touched his lips.

His mouth was wide, with a generous lower lip, and he should have had an appealing smile, but his face was set in cold, sardonic lines that ruined any hint of charm. His amusement at her expense infuriated Camilla, and she lunged upward with all her might, trying to throw him off. He was far too heavy and strong for her, of course, and her efforts did little to dislodge him, but the glitter in his eyes turned dangerously brighter, reminding Camilla chillingly of the helplessness and intimacy of her position.

To hide her fear, she curled her lip in contempt. “It is obvious that you are a villain,” she said coldly. “I suggest that you refrain from turning yourself into a felon, as well.”

His eyebrows quirked up in inverted vees, giving his dark visage an even more demonic look. “Well said, madam. But I scarcely need remind you that without witnesses, it is hard to charge a man with a felony.” He paused, letting the threat of his words sink in, then smiled coldly and said, “Besides, I know of no felony that has been committed this night.’tis scarcely a crime to take charge of a carriage in order to save a lady from a gang of men who are attacking her.”

“You know as well as I that those men were not concerned with me,” Camilla shot back. “It was you they were firing at.”

His mouth twisted grimly. “Perhaps, but they would certainly not have been if you had not blundered into the scene, shouting and waving a lantern about.”

“How was I supposed to know that you were engaged in clandestine doings? I was seeking your help—a futile quest, obviously, but I was not as aware of your character then as I am now. I did not know that I was dealing with a thief.”

“I am not a thief.” He ground out the words.

“Ha!” Camilla shot him a scornful look. “What were you doing hiding out there on a foggy night, then?”

“That is none of your business, and if you weren’t such a blasted busybody, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“I should have known that you were the sort to try to shift the blame. As if I were responsible for your cohorts or your enemies or whoever those people were.”

“Lord, you’ve got a wasp’s tongue on you.” Suddenly, swiftly, he stood up, hauling her up with him. “But I’ve no desire to hang about here bandying quips with you. Those men might very well be upon us at any minute.”

He clamped one hand tightly around her arm and began to walk her toward the post chaise. Camilla dug in her heels. “Wait! I am not going anywhere with you.”

“I think you would be far better off back in Edgecombe than you would be standing around in the dark in the middle of the countryside with a large group of men with guns wandering about.”

“I didn’t say that I was staying here! What I meant was that you are not going anywhere in my carriage.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then dropped her arm and stepped back. “Of course. You are right. It is your carriage, and I have no claim to it. I shall leave you, then. Good day, madam.”

He turned and started striding away. Stunned, Camilla stared after him. Then she remembered that her coachman was unconscious—oh, Lord, might he even have killed the poor man?—and while she could handle a gig, it was quite beyond her powers to drive a coach-and-four. Not only that, there was a band of men with guns who were perhaps still pursuing her carriage.

“Wait!” she called, and when the stranger did not stop, she took a few running steps after him. “Stop! Please?”

He turned and looked back at her, his eyebrows raised inquisitively. “Yes?”

“Don’t go. I—I cannot drive the post chaise back to Edgecombe.”

“Mmm. Then it would seem that you have a certain problem with your carriage. Good night.”

“Oh, stop being so exasperating! I am telling you that you can go with me to Edgecombe.”

“You mean that you are allowing me the honor of working for you?” he asked sardonically. “How kind of you. But I am afraid I must decline the honor. You see, I think it would be better for me to walk. One man in the fog is far less noticeable than a great carriage.”

“Horses are faster.”

He shrugged and turned to walk off again.

“Stop! You cannot leave me here! No gentleman would leave a lady stranded like this.”

“Well, as you have no doubt realized, I am not much of a gentleman, and, frankly, I have yet to see any ladylike qualities in you.”

Camilla glared at him. “All right. Have you satisfied your need to insult me? Let us go, then. We both know that it would be absurd for you to walk when there is a coach right here. We do not like each other, but surely we can trade—your skill at driving the horses for the use of my post chaise.”

He said nothing, just walked back and swung up to the top of the coach. Camilla quickly climbed back in, and they set out again, this time at a speed more suited to the rutted track. It was fast enough to rattle and jounce Camilla around in her seat, and she suspected darkly that the awful man was doing it simply to annoy her.

Adding to her discomfort was the state of her hair and clothes. This morning she had been dressed quite charmingly in a sprigged muslin gown and green kid half boots, and her hair had been pulled up to the crown of her head, from which point it hung in a cluster of fetching curls. Now her shoes were a sodden mess, soaked through and caked with mud, inside and out, and her dress and hair were in almost as bad a state. She was wet clear through to her underthings. Her curls, too, were thick with mud, and she could feel it drying on her skin, as well.

How was she going to explain her state when she arrived at the Park? Tears welled up in her eyes. As if she did not have problems enough already, what with Grandpapa and the terrible lies she had woven…. To have to arrive looking like a ragamuffin seemed like the outside of enough.

Grimly she blinked her tears away. She refused to cry over this. If nothing else, her tears would leave tracks on her dirty cheeks, making it obvious that she had been crying. And no doubt he would think that she had been crying because of him. She grimaced as her thoughts turned to the obnoxious man who had virtually abducted her.

He was uncouth, low and thoroughly maddening. He had treated her reprehensibly. No man of breeding would have grabbed her so roughly or pinned her to the ground like that. She remembered the bold way his eyes had lingered over her breasts, revealed by the thin, wet material of her dress. It made her blush, even sitting there alone in the dark carriage, to think of the way his legs had clamped around hers, of how intimately his body had been pressed against her—and of the shocking movement his body had made as he looked at her. It had felt so strange—almost exhilarating, even at the same time that it was utterly improper and infuriating.

She shifted on her seat, pulling her sodden dress away from her. She was growing more and more uncomfortable by the moment. The mud was continuing to dry on her, and her clothes were sticking to her flesh. Worst of all, her wet garments were quite cold, so that she was shivering almost continuously. She wanted to drape her cloak around her to help keep off some of the cold, but she hated to get mud all over the inside of it. Still…she could hardly just sit there and catch a chill. She was eyeing the cloak uncertainly when she became aware of the fact that the carriage was rattling over cobblestones. With a suppressed cry, she pushed aside the curtain and looked out to see that they had entered the village.

Within moments, they were turning into the yard of the Blue Boar. Camilla let out a sigh of relief. Though she had tried not to let herself think about it, she had been worried that the stranger would not really take her into the village at all, but, realizing the dangers of her being able to identify him, would abandon her on some dark and lonely road…or worse.

Now, with a cry, she jerked open the door of the carriage even before they came to a complete stop and jumped down from it. “Boy, see to the horses,” she called to the ostler, who had started across the yard toward their vehicle. “And look to my coachman, too. I fear we may have to send for a doctor.”

The ostler came to a dead halt, goggling at her, but Camilla did not notice. She was already hurrying to the front door, her only thought to get safely inside before the stranger atop the chaise could catch up with her.

As soon as she stepped inside the public room, all conversation came to a halt, and everyone swiveled around to stare at her. Camilla stopped short, dismayed at being the focus of so many sets of eyes. In her relief at reaching the Blue Boar, she had forgotten about her appearance, but now those stunned expressions reminded her of just how she looked. Her hand went to her mud-encrusted ringlets, and she glanced down at her wet gown, pressed to her body in a most improper way, one sleeve completely ripped away. A wave of deep red washed up her face to her hairline.

The keeper of the inn, a large, bluff man, started toward her from his post at the tap. Camilla saw him and was swept by relief. “Saltings! How glad I am to see you!”

She took a step or two forward, then stopped as he said, “Here, now, miss, what do you think you be doing? Coming in here like that! This is a decent inn, it is, and we’ve no use—”

“Saltings!” Camilla exclaimed, shaken. “Don’t you recognize me?” Tears of humiliation sprang into her eyes. This seemed the last straw, the perfectly awful end to a perfectly awful day—that Saltings, who had known her all her life, should mistake her for a common doxy. Was he actually going to toss her out?

The man stopped and peered at her. “Do I know you?”

“It is I! Camilla Ferrand!” Tears flooded her eyes. She could not hold them back, and they spilled over, coursing a trail through the smear of mud on her cheeks.

“Miss Ferrand!” he repeated, his jaw dropping. “Sweet Lord, what happened? What are you doing here this way?”

He went to her, gently taking her arm and steering her toward the smaller private room of the inn, then stopped. “Oh, dear, no, there’s a gentleman there.” He took another glance at Camilla beside him, muddy and disheveled and struggling to hold back her tears, then at the rest of his customers, all staring avidly.

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “there’s nothing for it. You can’t stay out here, that’s for certain.”

He rapped sharply on the door to the private room and pushed it open when a man’s voice inside answered. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Saltings said, ushering Camilla inside the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got a bit of a problem here. There’s a lady here, and, well, it wouldn’t be right for her to be sitting outside with the common crowd, sir.”

Camilla looked across the room, fighting to contain her tears. The gentleman sitting beside the fire—for it was just as obvious that he was a gentleman as it had been that the stranger on the heath earlier was a ruffian—rose to his feet, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment. He was dressed impeccably, from the crease of his simple yet elegant white neckcloth to the tips of his polished Hessians, and his hair was dressed in a similarly subdued yet fashionable style known as the Brutus.

He took one swift look at Camilla’s muddied state and said, “Precisely, Saltings. You are right. The lady must have the private dining room. The only thing is, I am expecting a visitor— Ah, there he is now. And looking, I might add, quite as if he had shared this young lady’s adventure.”

Camilla swung around at his words. “You!” she exclaimed with loathing.

There, in the doorway, stood her tormentor.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MAN GAVE Camilla a look that left little doubt that he shared her feelings. She straightened, bolstered by his irritation. It was some comfort, at least, to see that he was as filthy, wet and bedraggled as she.

“What the devil are you doing here?” the man asked roughly. “Am I never to be rid of you?”

“I might say the same about you.”

“I take it that you two have met,” said the gentleman by the fireplace, his voice as smooth and suave as if they were all standing in a London drawing room.

The stranger from the carriage ride grunted and moved into the room. Camilla said icily, “I am afraid that we were not properly introduced.”

“Ah, Benedict.” The gentleman sighed. “I fear you are ever lacking in manners.” He moved forward toward Camilla. “Allow me to correct his oversight. I, dear lady, am Jermyn Sedgewick. And this is, ah, Benedict, uh…”

“How do you do, Mr. Sedgewick? I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Camilla replied formally, trying to ignore the absurdity of the polite greeting in contrast to her grubby state of dress. She cast a flashing glance toward the other man. “I am sorry I cannot say the same about meeting Mr. Benedict.”

Mr. Sedgewick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He cast a grin toward Benedict. “I see you have made your usual charming impression.”

Benedict’s only reply was a noise resembling a growl. He turned away from both of them, striding over to the fire and holding out his hands to it. Mr. Sedgewick ignored him as he spoke to the innkeeper. “Well, Saltings, I think what we need here is a hot rum punch. Why don’t you bring us a bowl of it? I’ll do the mixing.”

“Of course, sir.”

Saltings bowed out of the room reluctantly. Camilla knew that he had been hoping to hear the details of what had happened to her and Benedict.

Sedgewick turned toward Camilla. “Now, Miss…?”

“Forgive me. Here you have been so kind, and I haven’t even told you my name. I am Camilla Ferrand.”

“Miss Ferrand. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, even under such deplorable conditions. Please come over here by the fire and warm yourself. I am sure you must be quite chilled.” He guided her toward the fire and into the chair beside it.

Camilla sank into the chair, grateful for its softness and for the warmth of the fire. She leaned forward, soaking up the heat. Benedict looked at Camilla, and his mouth twisted in a grimace. He withdrew to the other end of the fireplace, turning away from her and planting his elbow on the mantel. Sedgewick glanced from him to Camilla and back again, but he made no comment. The silence stretched out awkwardly.

At last there was a knock on the door, and Saltings bustled in, followed by the tap boy, carrying the inn’s best silver punch bowl and a trayful of ingredients. They set their loads down on the sideboard, and Saltings fussed around for a bit before Benedict pointedly opened the door for them and gestured a dismissal.

“Now, then,” Sedgewick said, advancing on the punch bowl. “This will fix you right up, Miss Ferrand. Normally, of course, it is not what I would consider giving a young lady such as yourself, but considering the chill of the night and the ordeal you’ve gone through, I think it will be just the thing to set you up.”

He began to mix the punch expertly, adding rum, sugar and lemons until he decided that the hot drink had just the right taste. He handed one silver cup of the mixture to Camilla, and she took the steaming drink gratefully. She had never had as strong a drink as this, for, as Mr. Sedgewick had pointed out, it was not considered a fit drink for women. However, Camilla considered herself no slave to tradition, and she was rather pleased to have the opportunity to sample a little of the sort of drink men consumed. It had a slightly unpleasant taste underlying the fruity sweetness of the punch, but, all in all, it was not as strong or as bad as she would have thought, and it was blessedly warm. The liquid rolled down her throat, warming it all the way, and burst fierily in her stomach. She finished off the cup and decided that she felt better already.

“That was excellent, Mr. Sedgewick, thank you,” she said, and he graciously refilled all their cups.

“Now, Miss Ferrand, you must tell me how you happened upon Mr., uh, Benedict.”

Camilla cast a stormy look toward that individual. “He abducted me.”

“Oh, God,” Benedict said callously, turning his back to the fire to warm it. “Not that again.”

“I was almost killed,” Camilla added, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering at Benedict.

“Benedict!” Mr. Sedgewick stared at the other man in astonishment. “What in the world happened?”

“She exaggerates. It was nothing.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We were shot at.”

“Shot at?” Sedgewick repeated incredulously. “You call that nothing?”

Benedict shrugged. “No one was hurt. They were some distance away, and I don’t think any of them could hit the side of a barn, anyway.”

“No one was hurt!” Camilla cried, raising her face from her hands. “What about my driver? I think you killed him!”

Benedict rolled his eyes. “I knocked him out,” he explained patiently to Mr. Sedgewick, then added to Camilla, “The reason he stayed out so long is that he’d been nipping at a bottle all evening. He was drunk. ’Tis no wonder you were lost.”

“Lost?” Sedgewick repeated. “My girl, you have had a dreadful day.”

Tears started in Camilla’s eyes as she thought about just how dreadful the day had indeed been, even before Mr. Benedict came along to persecute her. “You’ve no idea, sir.” Her voice roughened, and she stopped, trying to blink back her tears. “I think—I think this is the worst day of my life!”

And suddenly, surprising even herself, she burst into tears.

Sedgewick stared at Camilla, his face showing all a gentleman’s horror at being confronted with a sobbing female. “Dear lady,” he began feebly, “pray, don’t… I’m sure it cannot be that bad.”

“Oh, it is!” Camilla cried, covering her face with her hands. “You just don’t know. It is too, too awful!” Tears poured down her face.

“Well, it’s not a tragedy,” Benedict pointed out brutally. “I am sure you have been lost before, and will be again. We were never in any real danger. I told you.”

“Oh!” Camilla would have liked to shout at him that she was not absurd enough to collapse into sobs because her carriage had gotten lost, but she could not stem the tide of her tears enough to answer. At any other time, she would have been ready to sink through the floor with humiliation at giving way like this in front of two strangers—especially when one of them was as obnoxious and rude as Mr. Benedict. However, tonight, she was too weary and distressed to care.

“Shouldn’t have given her that rum punch,” Benedict told Sedgewick. “She’s bosky.”

Sedgewick cast him an impatient glance. “Don’t be absurd.”

Benedict shrugged. “I’m not. She’s in her cups.”

“I am not in my cups!” Camilla flashed, raising her head and glaring at him, her irritation at his rudeness cutting through her emotional outburst. She wiped angrily at the tears wetting her cheeks. “I am merely tired and…and overset. Everything is just…just ruined!”

Benedict cocked a supercilious eyebrow. “A party canceled? A beau marrying another?”

Camilla jumped to her feet, her fists clenched by her sides, letting out an inarticulate cry of rage. “How dare you! How dare you trivialize my…my… Oh, I hate you! My grandfather is dying!”

She burst into tears again and threw herself back into the chair. Sedgewick cast the other man an admonishing look, and even Benedict had the grace to look abashed.

“I am sorry,” he said stiffly. “I had no idea….”

“Dear girl,” Sedgewick began, going over to her and reaching down to take one of her hands and pat it. “I am so sorry. If there is anything I can do…”

“There is nothing anyone can do,” Camilla said when her spurt of tears had subsided. She brushed the tears from her cheeks, once again disturbing the smears of mud, and drew a ragged breath. “He is old, and his body is failing him. He had a fit of apoplexy several months ago, and ever since then he hasn’t been able to leave his room. His doctor—” She swallowed hard. “His doctor said he hadn’t long to live, but he has kept hanging on.” She offered a watery smile. “He was always the stubbornest of men.”

“I am sure he’s had a long, full life,” Sedgewick said comfortingly.

Camilla nodded. “He has. And I—I’ve almost resigned myself to his death. It’s just— Oh, I’ve made the most awful mess of everything.” She gulped back her tears and raised large, beseeching eyes to Sedgewick. “Truly, I didn’t mean to. I did it all for the best, but now…well, now I have to tell him the truth. All of them. And I am so afraid it will kill him.”

The man frowned. “I am sure it cannot be that serious.”

“It is. I—I lied to him, you see.”

At her words, Benedict let out a noise of disgust and said with withering sarcasm, “Naturally.”

Camilla whirled toward him indignantly. “I did it for the best!”

“That is what they always say,” he retorted. “Deceiving you and then pretending that it’s for your own good.”

“Hush, Benedict. Don’t mind him, Miss Ferrand. Our Benedict has a warped view of the human condition.”

Benedict grimaced but did not reply, and Camilla turned back to Mr. Sedgewick, ignoring the other man. “I did do it for the best,” she reiterated. “I was trying to give him some comfort, to make his last days better. But I never thought that he would tell Aunt Beryl!”

“Well, of course not,” Sedgewick agreed, confused but sympathetic.

“But I haven’t been to see Grandpapa, not since that first collapse, and all because I cannot bear to face Aunt Beryl. She will ask all sorts of penetrating questions, you see, and would want to know where he is. It would be impossible. And now Lydia is there, and of course she can’t carry the burden of the lies. It’s not that she can’t lie to Aunt Beryl, for Lydia is capable of the most perfect whoppers, all the while looking completely innocent.” Her tone indicated a wistful envy of the said Lydia’s ability. “The trouble is that she gets carried away by them and winds up saying so many things that she gets all tangled up. So I had to come. And I have to tell them the truth.”

“You are not making the slightest bit of sense,” Benedict pointed out rudely.

“Benedict…”

“No, he’s right. I’m all muddled.” Camilla put a hand to her head and sighed. She gazed at Sedgewick for a moment, then gave a little nod, as if coming to some sort of decision. “You can be trusted, can you not? I mean, you would never tell another soul, would you?”

“Of course not!” The man looked offended that she could question his integrity even that much. “But you must not tell me if it makes you uneasy.”

“No, I feel as if I must tell someone or burst. I have been thinking about it all day, driving down here. All day—truth is, I’ve thought of little else for weeks. I don’t know what to do, how to extricate myself from this tangle I’ve created.”

“You have my word of honor,” Sedgewick assured her solemnly, “that anything you say will not go beyond this room. Feel free to tell us.”

Camilla cast an uneasy glance toward Benedict, who grimaced and muttered, “Trust me, Miss Ferrand, I shall not be telling your girlish secrets all over London.”

Hastily Sedgewick put in, “I will vouch for Benedict. He will not say anything. Now, tell me, what is this problem you are wrestling with so?”

Camilla hesitated, glancing toward the punch bowl. “Do you think… Could I have a bit more of that punch? It is so warming.”

“Of course.” Sedgewick politely took her cup and ladled more of the spicy brew into it, also refilling his and Benedict’s cups.

“You are going to wind up with an intoxicated female,” Benedict warned him dryly, taking his own cup and drinking from it.

“Don’t be nonsensical,” Camilla retorted. “I have neber, uh, never, been intoxicated in my life.”

“Hush, Benedict. Now, Miss Ferrand, please proceed.”

She took a sip of her drink, drew a deep breath and began. “Well, as I told you, Grandpapa was taken with apoplexy, and the doctor put him in bed and said he hadn’t long to live. Of course, I posted down to Chevington Park as soon as I heard.”

“Chevington Park?” Sedgewick repeated, surprised. “You mean…your grandfather is…”

“The Earl of Chevington.” Camilla nodded. She was looking down at the cup in her hands and so did not see the swift glance that her benefactor cast toward Benedict. “Yes. My mother was his daughter.

“My parents died when I was a child. So I was raised by my grandparents, as well as by my aunt Lydia—Lady Marbridge, that is. She was married to my uncle, the heir to the Earl, but he died when their son Anthony was just a child. So it was quite kind of her to take me on, as well. We all lived at the Park with my grandparents. I suppose that is why I am so close to my grandfather. My grandmother died a few years ago. I came to see my grandpapa as soon as I learned that he had been taken ill. The doctor said we should all be very careful not to upset him, that it would damage his health, maybe even send him into another fit. But I could not keep him from worrying about me. He was so very anxious, you see, because I am not married. He kept saying that I needed a husband to take care of me, which is, really, the most absurd thing, because I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

Benedict made a muffled noise, and Camilla turned to look at him sharply. He gave her a bland look in return and gestured for her to continue.

“As I was saying, he was fretting himself tremendously. You see, Grandpapa is rather old-fashioned, and he is convinced that I ought to be married.”

Sedgewick cleared his throat deprecatingly. “Well, it is the usual thing for a young lady to do.”

“Yes, but, you see, I am not the usual young lady. I don’t wish to be married.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes.” She nodded vigorously. “Marriage, you see, is an institution designed for the benefit of men, and I see little advantage for a woman in marrying.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, it’s true. Men, after they marry, are still free to do as they please, the rulers of their households, whereas their wives have no freedom at all. They are expected to obey their husbands and raise heirs and keep the house in order. And nothing else. They have no rights and no freedom.”

Sedgewick smiled faintly. “Come now, Miss Ferrand, surely you overstate the matter.”

“Do I?” She straightened, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “A woman’s property becomes her husband’s as soon as they are married. She, in fact, is considered his property, a chattel. He has the right to discipline her, to restrict her movements, even to beat her if he wishes. She cannot vote.”

“Vote? Good Gad, you wish to vote?”

“I don’t see why not. But that is beside the matter. The point is, whether I wish to or not, I cannot. I have had an excellent education, and my understanding, I think I may say without contradiction, is not small. Yet the stupidest fellow is allowed to vote, simply because he is a man and owns property, whereas I am not.”

“God help us,” Benedict commented dryly. “A bluestocking.”

Camilla shot him a look that would have blighted a less sturdy sort. “I fail to see what is so reprehensible about a female of intellect and education. No doubt you are the sort who thinks that women should tend to their knitting and not speak unless spoken to or have a thought in their heads that does not pertain to dresses and hairstyles.”

“No, Miss Ferrand, actually, I have had quite enough of empty-headed females.” He gave her a small bow, a faint smile on his lips conveying the distinct impression that he included her among that number.

Sedgewick turned the conversation back to its original track. “So that is why you have not married, Miss Ferrand?”

“Yes. I see no reason to give any man control over myself or my property. I am a person in my own right, and I shall remain so as long as I do not marry. Therefore, I am twenty-five years old and a spinster, and while I am quite happy in that condition, it has worried my grandfather for years. After he was taken ill, it plagued him even more. He would tell me how he could not bear the thought of dying and leaving me unprotected. And no matter how I tried to tell him that I was fine, that I had the property my mother and father left me, so I am quite able to live independently, he would not stop fretting about it. He told me it was an unnatural sort of life I was leading, living on my own, even though I have a companion, so it is perfectly respectable. But he wanted me to have children and a man to take care of, and all the things that he said were right and natural for a woman.” She paused, then sighed and confessed, “So I told him that I was engaged.”

Benedict let out a short bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s rich—the defender of women’s rights, pretending that she has snagged a husband.”

“I was trying to keep him from worrying!” Camilla snapped. “Of course, you would never think of such a thing as trying to save someone pain or worry.”

“Whatever your reasoning,” he pointed out mildly, “’tis still a lie.”

“Fine words from a thief!” Camilla retorted hotly. “Or smuggler, or whatever you are. You don’t hesitate to steal carriages and kidnap people, or to knock a man senseless or draw an innocent bystander into a fight, but you draw the line, of course, at telling a small fib to ease the mind of a dying man!”

“Benedict…” Sedgewick shot him a quelling look. “Pay him no attention, Miss Ferrand. Benedict has little use for us ordinary mortals and our petty problems. It’s perfectly understandable that you would have told your grandfather that story, so that he could die more peacefully.”

“Thank you.” Camilla smiled at him gratefully and took another sip of her drink. It no longer felt like fire as it rolled down into her stomach; it merely sent a pleasant warmth spreading throughout her, lifting her spirits a little. She felt better already, she thought, and she realized that confession must indeed be good for the soul.

“You are a very understanding gentleman,” she told Sedgewick with a warm smile. “I am so glad I told you. You see, I didn’t want to lie to Grandpapa, but it seemed a small enough thing to do to make him happy. He was so sick that he didn’t ask me much about the man or how we had met.” She smiled faintly. “He didn’t even lecture me on the impropriety of becoming engaged without the man coming to ask for my hand from him first. He was quite happy about it, and after that he rested more quietly. Then he began to improve a little, and soon he began to feel much better. Before we knew it, he was cursing his valet and wanting to get up and go downstairs, and ringing a peal over the doctor’s head for not letting him. The better he felt, the more he asked me about my fiancé, and it became most awkward. Of course, I had to make everything up, and I felt so awful about lying to him. I regretted ever having told him, but I couldn’t tell him that I had invented the whole thing. I was afraid it would upset him so that he would have apoplexy again. Finally, I could not bear it any longer, and I fled back to Bath. But then I kept getting letters from him asking about my fiancé, wanting to know when I was going to bring him to Chevington Park to meet him. I have been trying ever since to figure out a way to get out of it.”

“Just tell him the fellow cried off,” Benedict suggested callously. “That will put an end to the matter. It is quite believable. If your escapade tonight was any indication, you would give any man adequate reason to get out of an engagement.”

Camilla swung on him. “You have the gall to blame me for what happened tonight? Anyway, my fiancé is not the sort of man who would ‘cry off’ an engagement, as you so vulgarly put it.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “That’s rich. Since your fiancé exists only in your imagination, I would imagine that he can do anything you wish.”

“I mean that the sort of man I have told my grandfather he is would never do such an ungentlemanly thing. You cannot understand that, no doubt, but most gentlemen have a code of honor.”

“Oh, aye, that’s a bit out of my reach, miss,” he replied, adopting a thick accent and tugging at an imaginary forelock like some dim-witted farmhand. “Not being used to Quality, like.”

“Do shut up, Benedict,” Sedgewick said mildly. “Obviously she could not tell her grandfather that either of them had broken off the engagement, because the old gentleman is not supposed to be upset.”

“That’s it exactly,” Camilla agreed, pleased to see that he understood. “Grandpapa is still in ill health, and the doctor says not to disturb him. He says it is a miracle that he hasn’t gone already. So I kept putting him off about when Mr. Lassiter and I were going to come to Chevington.”

“Mr. Lassiter?” Benedict asked.

“My fiancé.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“Would you let her get on with the story, Benedict?” Sedgewick asked. “I still haven’t heard about Aunt Beryl. That is what I’m waiting for.”

“Her!” Camilla said with much disgust, her lip curling. “She decided that Grandpapa needed her care to improve, so she moved to Chevington Park, girls and all. Aunt Lydia says she just took advantage of the fact that Grandpapa is too sick to kick her out. Well, he can’t, very well, when she came there on an errand of mercy. But I am sure that she has been driving him mad. And it put the housekeeper’s nose out of joint, as if she couldn’t take care of the house unless one of the family was there to keep an eye on her. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, Grandpapa told Aunt Beryl that I was engaged. I never dreamed of his doing that. Of course, when I told him the lie, I didn’t expect him to even be alive a few days later.”

“I see. And Aunt Beryl’s knowing it puts a whole different light on the matter, I presume.”

“Oh, yes.” Camilla shook her head sadly and took another sip of her drink. Despite the awful situation she was in, she was beginning to feel quite mellow. “Aunt Beryl is the worst of my relatives. She has two of the most insipid daughters, whom she is always trying to marry off, and it has been a source of great pleasure to her that I have not married before either of them. However, she is always afraid that I will yet tie the knot before she unloads her brood on some poor, unsuspecting men.”

“Haven’t you told her of your philosophical position against marriage?” Benedict asked, his lips curling in an amused way that Camilla found quite irritating.

“Of course I have, but she doesn’t believe me. She thinks that I am simply making excuses for being an old maid, and that I would jump at the opportunity to marry, just as her daughters would.”

“An understandable misapprehension, considering the fact that you are pretending to be engaged.”

Camilla frostily ignored Benedict’s interruption, speaking only to Sedgewick. “Aunt Beryl didn’t believe it—that I was engaged, I mean. Apparently she and Grandpapa had quite a quarrel about it. Lydia learned all about it when she went down to Chevington Park. The doctor was so angry that he told Aunt Beryl not to bring the subject up again with Grandpapa. But Lydia writes me that the two of them keep sniping at each other about it. Aunt Beryl makes pointed remarks about the fact that I have not brought my fiancé to visit. Lydia says that Grandpapa defends me.” Tears sprang into her eyes at the thought of her grandfather’s loyalty. “Oh! I feel so wretched! I have lied to him, and I cannot bear to think what he will think of me when he finds out. Because he must find out. Lydia wrote me that I have to come. Grandpapa keeps asking for me. She is right. I must go. I have to be with Grandpapa. I am afraid that it won’t be much longer before he—”

She broke off, her throat clogging with tears. Sedgewick reached out and patted her hand. “There, there, my dear.”

Camilla smiled at him waterily. “You are very kind. None of this is your problem, and you have been the kindest of men to listen to me.”

“But what are you going to do?” he asked.

“I must tell them the truth.” She sighed. “Lydia thinks that we can stave off Aunt Beryl’s questions and barbs, but I don’t see how. I am certain that she will ask me all sorts of things about my fiancé that I won’t be able to answer. Things one should know. She will want to know what family he belongs to and how he is related to this person or that. I would be bound to get caught in a lie, and that would be even worse than telling everyone that I am not engaged. And what sort of excuse can I give for his not coming with me? I mean, it is a family crisis, and he wouldn’t let me travel down here all by myself. But I don’t think that I can bear to confess that I lied about it all and have Aunt Beryl look at me in that pitying, superior way she has. And Grandpapa—what if it upsets him so that he dies? It is just too awful to contemplate.”

She stood up abruptly, setting her cup down on the table with a clatter, and began to pace agitatedly about the room. “If only I could think of some way out of it! I have been cudgeling my brain for days. All the way down from London, I could think of nothing else. But I came up with nothing…nothing!”

There was a long moment of silence, then Sedgewick said quietly, “What if I thought of a solution?”

Both Camilla and Benedict swung toward him in astonishment.

“What the devil—” Benedict began.

“What?” Camilla asked, hope rising in her face. She started toward him eagerly. “Do you mean it? Have you really thought of a way out of my predicament?”

He nodded. “Perhaps. If you are willing to risk it.”

“I would do anything!” she exclaimed rashly. “Just tell me what it is!”

“What you need to do is arrive at Chevington Park tonight with a fiancé.”

“What?” Camilla frowned, confused. Had the fellow not understood what she had been telling him? “How could I— Who—”

Sedgewick smiled and nodded toward the other man in the room. “Benedict will be your fiancé.”

CHAPTER THREE

CAMILLA GAPED AT Sedgewick.

Across the room, Benedict expressed her fears more forcibly. “For God’s sake, Jermyn, have you run mad?”

“Not at all. If you will think about it, you will see that it is the perfect solution.”

“I see that it is perfect insanity,” Benedict retorted. “If you think that I am going to become engaged to that…that…”

Camilla turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling dangerously. “To that what, Mr. Benedict?”

“Come, come, Benedict, you are usually not so slow,” Sedgewick told him lightly. “Of course, I don’t mean actually engaged. I am talking about a pretense of it. You will ride to Chevington Park tonight with Miss Ferrand. In the morning, you shall meet her relatives, talk to her grandfather and so forth. You stay a few days, then you say that you have to get back to the city, and you leave. The Earl will be reassured and happy, the dragon of an aunt will be routed, and you…well, you will spend a few days at Chevington Park, which I understand is an elegant country house.”

Benedict narrowed his eyes and started to speak, then pressed his lips tightly together. He turned away, growling, “You are as silly as she is. It is impossible.”

“Why? You are well able to act the part of a gentleman, aren’t you?”

Sedgewick’s gray eyes twinkled. “A trifle rude, perhaps, but then, some lords are.”

“Oh, I don’t need a lord,” Camilla stuck in. “Simply a gentleman will do.”

Benedict turned on her. “Don’t tell me that you are actually considering such a harebrained scheme!”

Camilla had had no intention of agreeing to Mr. Sedgewick’s plan. However, Benedict’s sneering tone made her decide that it was worth thinking about after all. Her chin came up, and she glared back at Benedict defiantly. “Why not? It would suit my purposes. And however rough your manners are, you do speak like a gentleman. We might be able to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes for a few days—as long as you avoided talking to everyone as much as possible. I will pay you for it, of course. Wouldn’t that be a better way of making money than thievery? And it will answer my problem. It will make Grandpapa happy, and then, later, I can just pretend that I realized that we should not suit. Or better yet—” her face brightened “—I shall say that you died! That would be perfect.”

“Perhaps for you.”

“Well, only insofar as my family is concerned, of course.”

“It would be a trifle awkward, don’t you think, if they happened to meet me again a few months from now?”

“Don’t be absurd. Why should they meet you?”

“I could run into one of them on the street in London. I am free to walk in London, despite my lack of gentility.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose I shall have to stick to the story that we broke it off.” She sighed. “Pity. The dying story would have been much more dramatic.”

“You’re right,” Sedgewick agreed, his expression disappointed, though his eyes twinkled merrily. “However, I suppose we shall have to be content with the plainer tale.”

“Would everyone kindly stop talking this nonsense?” Benedict burst out. “I am not going to pretend to be your fiancé. I can’t believe that you would even consider it. It is obvious that you are drunk.”

“I am not!” It was true, Camilla acknowledged to herself, that she felt very warm and cheerful, and that her mind was a trifle, well, fuzzy, but she had merely been relaxed by the rum punch. It had not influenced her thinking. “I am open-minded enough to see the value of Mr. Sedgewick’s idea. It would work admirably for both of us. You are simply too stubborn to go along with anything that anyone else says.”

“I am glad that someone appreciates my endeavor,” Sedgewick said lightly, taking out his snuffbox and expertly flipping it open with one hand. “Pinch, my dear Benedict?”

The other man let out an inarticulate growl. “Obviously I am the only person in this room with any sense.” He stalked toward the door and opened it, then turned back. “It doesn’t matter what you two bedlamites cook up, because I am not going along with it!” With that parting shot, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Sedgewick and Camilla stood for a moment, looking at the door, then turned toward each other. Sedgewick gave her a long, considering look, then asked quietly, “Are you willing to do it?”

Camilla gazed back at him, wide-eyed. Was she? This plan would no doubt shock a conventional female like her aunt down to her toes. However, Camilla had always prided herself on not being conventional. She was independent and generally unafraid to tackle any situation. Of course, it was odd that a stranger like Mr. Sedgewick was so willing to help her out of her troubles, but just because a man went out of his way to be kind, that did not mean that she should reject his help. The worst aspect of the plan was having to be around such a rude, insufferable man as Benedict for several days. However, she was quite competent and reasonable, and she was sure that she would be able to manage both the situation and him. Fate had dropped this opportunity into her lap, and she would be foolish not to take advantage of it.

“Yes,” she responded firmly. “I am willing.”

Sedgewick gave her a small smile. “Then I will go talk to Benedict. In the meantime, you may use this parlor to, um, freshen up.”

Camilla almost giggled at the inadequacy of his polite words to describe the daunting task that lay before her. She was caked all over with mud, and she could not imagine how she would ever get it all out of her hair and off her skin without taking a complete bath.

“I shall tell the maid to bring in a pitcher and basin. I’m sure you have a change of clothes in your post chaise.” When Camilla nodded, he went on, “I’ll have my man fetch your bags, then, so you will be able to get into some clean clothes.”

Camilla nodded. “Thank you.”

“No trouble at all.” He started toward the door, then hesitated. “You might want to fortify yourself with another cup of punch, as well.”

* * *

BENEDICT WALKED NO farther than the bench in front of the inn and sat down on it to light a cigar. He had no doubt that Sedgewick would be following him in a moment. For all Jermyn’s exquisite manners, he was like a dog with a bone when he got his mind set on something, and Benedict was sure that he was not about to give up easily on his latest idea.

He had barely gotten his cigar lit when Jermyn came out of the inn and strode over to the bench. Sedgewick stood for a moment, looking down at him. Benedict blew out a cloud of smoke, studiously ignoring the other man.

“Well?” Jermyn asked at last. “Would you like to explain why you are refusing such a golden opportunity?”

Benedict cocked his head to look at him. “Golden opportunity? For what? Making an even bigger hash of things? Wasting what precious time we have? Good Gad, Jer, I think you have gone mad.”

“At least I’m not blind. Or is it hopeless? Have you given up?”

That remark brought Benedict surging to his feet. “No man, not even you, can accuse me of giving up.”

“Oh, give over, Rawdon,” his friend retorted equably. “I know better than anyone how little likely you are to give up. When everyone had given you up for lost there in the Peninsula, I was the only one who was certain that you would find your way back to your own lines—and bring back your comrades as well, even though you had caught two balls in your leg. After all, I was the one who had had to suffer to the bloody end through every ghastly childhood escapade you dreamed up. However, I cannot understand why you are so unwilling to do this.”

Benedict goggled at him. “You have come unhinged, Jer. Anyone could see that it’s utterly impossible. Pretend to be engaged to that…that hoyden? It wouldn’t last a day. We would be at each other’s throats in a half hour. No one could believe that we are wanting to marry each other.”

“Why not? She’s an attractive woman…underneath that mud, I mean.”

“How can you tell? Hell, it’s not her attractiveness. I’ll grant you that she has a pleasant face.”

The other man groaned. “Pleasant? Didn’t you see those eyes? Blue and sparkling…”

“And a passable figure.”

“Now, I know you haven’t changed that much. No matter what Annabeth did to you, surely you can still appreciate a damn fine figure.”

“Oh, all right. Yes, she has a most delectable body.” Benedict’s voice roughened faintly on the words as he remembered how that body had felt as it slid through his hands, the brief moments when his fingers had brushed over her ripe breasts as they struggled. “And no doubt she has skin like an angel beneath all that mud. But that is beside the point. It is not her physical appearance that is the problem. It is her personality. We have been at each other like hammer and tongs from the instant we met.”

“You think there are not husbands and wives who are the same way? You must have lived too sheltered a life in the military.”

“Of course I’ve seen battling couples. But surely they were not like that when they were first betrothed.”

“Nonsense. There are some who simply love to fight. Remember Capston? He and the baroness couldn’t get through the day without a disagreement, but he was mad about the woman.”

“Capston was mad, period.”

Sedgewick shrugged. “So? These people don’t know you. How are they to know that you are not mad, also? Besides, there are other reasons people marry, you know, besides compatibility. There are bloodlines, wealth, titles—”

He stopped abruptly, casting a guilty glance at Benedict. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Yes,” Benedict retorted flatly. “I am well aware that there are those who marry for wealth and titles. And it is precisely because of my experience, Jermyn, that I do not want to get involved in this. Do you think that I could trust my safety and the safety of all our agents to a woman?”

Sedgewick sighed. “Not all women are like Annabeth. Not all would sell their souls or their bodies for a title.”

“Oh, Annabeth did not break our engagement simply because I had lost the title. There was also the estate.” He smiled grimly. “And I know that not all women are like her. There are some whose price is much lower—and doubtless some who would look even higher. But I will not put my faith in a woman again, much less give my secrets and my life into her hands. Least of all a hellion like that one.”

“But there is no need to! That is the beauty of it. She need know nothing about us. Or about our little project. She needs a fiancé for her own purposes. She is too busy worrying about her problem to wonder what you are doing or why you are willing to do this for her.”

Benedict snorted. “She would not wonder why I was willing. She thinks I would do anything for money.”

“You haven’t done a great deal to give the girl a good impression of you,” his friend pointed out. “And that’s all to our advantage. Thinking you are a scoundrel, she will not question your hiring yourself out as her fiancé. She will never dream that you are a spy in the midst of her family. You do not have to trust her. She will be as deceived as the rest of them.”

Benedict looked at his lifelong friend. Jermyn’s bland good looks and impeccable manners had always hidden an active and scheming brain. It had usually been Jermyn who came up with the tricks they pulled as lads, though it had just as usually been the dark, willful Benedict who was blamed for them, while the blond, angelic Jermyn was forgiven for going along with his mischievous friend. Benedict often thought that if the war with Napoléon had not come along, giving Jermyn a chance to turn his devious, imaginative skills to the task of defeating the enemy, Sedgewick would have wound up in Newgate—and doubtless would have somehow inveigled Benedict to be there with him.

“And you see nothing wrong in deceiving an innocent young woman in this way? In planting a spy in her household and embroiling her in a vipers’ nest of treachery and murder?”

Jermyn pulled back, one hand going to his chest in a dramatic fashion. “Benedict…you think that I would harm this young woman in any way? I wonder that you should even want to claim my friendship.”

“There are times when I do not,” Benedict retorted bluntly. “And don’t put on that innocent air with me. I think that you would do anything necessary to find out what has happened to our agents and to save our ‘little project’ from being destroyed.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Jermyn raised a cool eyebrow. “My dear friend, I have worked long and hard to establish those men in France, and their services are invaluable to our government. Knowledge is priceless. It is what wins wars. Right now, we are utterly without knowledge.”

During the past four years, while Benedict was with the army on the Peninsula, fighting Napoléon’s armies directly, Jermyn had been in the Home Office, battling the French on a secret front. He had established a network of spies within France, calling the project Gideon and planting men, both Englishmen and French émigrés, inside the other country, whence they kept him supplied with news of the enemy. Rumors, stolen documents, the mood of the people, financial and political conditions, news of troop movements and morale, of supplies and problems—all were funneled out of France and into Jermyn’s office. For the past few months, since Benedict was forced to leave the army because of the injuries he had suffered in battle, he had joined his friend in his dark, desperate conflict.

Benedict knew how invaluable their work was, and, though he chafed at being relegated to a passive, waiting role in the government offices, he had given it his usual full devotion. And, like Jermyn, he knew just how catastrophic was the danger that was now threatening the spy ring—and, by implication, England itself, for the destruction of the Gideon network in France would create a huge hole in the whole war effort. The army, the government, would once again be without the knowledge it so desperately needed. Worse, there was always the possibility that the French might be sending in spies or saboteurs of their own through the very channels that Jermyn, through the Gideon network, had created.

“You are right,” Jermyn went on implacably. “I would do almost anything to keep that network of agents in France intact and unknown, to keep them from being hunted down and killed. Those are my men out there, Benedict, and it is my responsibility to keep them safe, just as it was your responsibility to bring your comrades back to safety. You didn’t let your wounds stop you, and I am afraid I cannot allow the prospect of some minimal danger to one woman stop me.”

He stopped and sighed. “I know that sounds callous. But what would you have us do? Lose this chance? Benedict, this is a golden opportunity. You can get inside Chevington Park. You will be accepted as an insider, one of the family. They will talk to you.”

“Yes, but it hardly seems likely that anyone in the Earl’s family is connected with the smuggling.”

When Jermyn set up the spy ring, smuggling had seemed the logical way of bringing messages and people into and out of England. With trade with France barred legally, only the illegal trade in French brandy and tobacco from the United States offered an opportunity for passage in and out of France. The smugglers had been operating for centuries quite successfully, and it required only paying the smugglers to get them to bring in a few letters or human cargo, as well. Richard Winslow, one of Jermyn’s friends and coworkers, had been their connection to the smugglers who operated in the area of Edgecombe. Unfortunately, to keep news of the operation from getting out of the notoriously leaky Home Office, only Winslow had known who his contact among the smugglers was.

The flaw in this scheme had become obvious a few weeks ago, however, when Winslow had died, apparently by his own hand, taking the secret of the smugglers to his grave. Both Jermyn and Benedict had been astonished that the serious, dedicated Winslow had killed himself, thereby endangering the spy ring, but they had not been suspicious until a week later, when the messenger they were awaiting from France did not arrive. They did not know whom to contact in Edgecombe, so they could only wait and worry as weeks passed without word from him.

Growing ever more suspicious, they began to look into Winslow’s death again. On closer inspection, they had realized that the suicide note did not exactly match Winslow’s handwriting, though it had been a very good copy. In the face of that, certain inconsistencies about his death that they had dismissed before now loomed large, and they became convinced that Winslow had been murdered, rather than being the victim of his own melancholy.

They continued to receive no messages from France, and they became even more convinced that their messengers were being killed, as Winslow had been. There was a traitor working against the network. Their fears were further heightened by a message from a known French spy that had been intercepted on its way to France. One terse line in the message had conveyed the fact that “we have a man in place in Edgecombe, and we will pick them off one by one.” It was clear that Gideon was in danger.

Unfortunately, they were still in the dark about the identity of the French agent at work in Edgecombe. The Frenchman who had sent the messages fled before he could be arrested, and his whereabouts were unknown. Moreover, they did not even know how to get to their friend among the smugglers to warn him about the danger. Only Winslow had sent the messages or directed the agents where to go. Only Winslow knew the identity of the man with whom he had dealt.

It was for this reason that they had come to Edgecombe over a week ago: to gather information about the smugglers and hopefully discover not only whom they should contact, but also what had happened to their agent and who was trying to harm Gideon. Unfortunately, in the time they had been here, they had learned almost nothing. Jermyn had tried mingling with the villagers, but none of the locals would talk to him about the smugglers. However law-abiding the citizens were, the smugglers were, after all, their own, and they protected their own. Benedict, on the other hand, had kept a low profile, wandering the heath and shore for signs of the smugglers or their contraband, investigating caves and trails and spending every evening for a week lying in wait for them in the likeliest-looking places. He had discovered as little as Jermyn.

“No one in Chevington’s family is likely to be one of the smugglers, that’s true,” Sedgewick admitted now. “However, you know we have discussed the possibility that Winslow’s killer was someone he was at least acquainted with, another ‘gentleman,’ perhaps.”

Their suspicions had been aroused by the fact that the murder took place in Winslow’s study late at night. The doors and windows of the house had been locked, none of them forced, and there had been no sign of a struggle. The servants had heard nothing except the gunshot and had admitted no one into the house that evening. Lord Winslow, in fact, had not even been at home until late in the evening, and no one was sure when he had come in, as he had told the servants not to wait up for him.

Sedgewick and Benedict surmised that the killer must have entered the house with Winslow or been admitted by him. It would seem likely, therefore, that the killer was someone he knew—or at least someone who had appeared sufficiently like a gentleman that Winslow had had no suspicions about letting him into his house.

“Yes, I know.” Benedict sighed. They had been over this ground many times since the man’s death. “Still—the Earl of Chevington?”

“It could be someone connected with the family, or someone who would come into contact with them. The social life of Edgecombe must revolve around the Earl. Anyone with any pretensions of gentility must call on them. Besides, if you are engaged to the Earl’s granddaughter, you will have entrée to everyone, not just the gentry and the family. The servants will talk to you, the villagers. You’re bound to be able to find out something about the smugglers.”

“You can’t be sure of that.” Benedict sighed. “They are the most closemouthed group I have ever met.”

“Not once they have accepted you as one of their own,” Sedgewick pointed out. “The Earl is regarded with love and respect by the people around here. I’ve found that much out. They have a tremendous loyalty to the Chevingtons. Why, I’d lay you odds that that young woman in there could find out in a few well-chosen questions what you and I have been idling here trying to discover for over a week.” At his companion’s dark look, he waved a quieting hand. “No, no, don’t worry, I am not suggesting that you enlist her help in asking the questions. I am merely saying that if you are known to be her fiancé, they will answer you, too—not as readily, perhaps, but far more quickly and easily than they have answered me so far.”

“That would not be difficult, since you and I have learned virtually nothing. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been out on that damnable heath again this evening. And I would have found them tonight, too,” he burst out irritably, “if it hadn’t been for that blasted girl! They were right there. They fired at me.”

“Trust me. Once you reflect on it calmly, you will see that running into Miss Ferrand was a godsend.”

His companion snorted derisively. “This is absurd. This time your scheme simply will not work.”

“Why not? At the moment, you are the only obstacle.”

“Well, to begin with, what if one of these people recognizes me? I mean, we do move in the same circles. I might have seen them at parties. What if one of them says, ‘Hallo, Rawdon,’ when my name is supposed to be Mr. Emerson, or whatever it was she made up.”

“Lassiter, I believe,” Sedgewick supplied. “It’s very unlikely. You have been out of the country for four years, and you weren’t Lord Rawdon when you left, you were still plain Benedict Wincross, with another heir between you and the title. You have been back only a few months, and you know as well as I do that you never go to parties. Besides, these people have been rusticating down here for the past few months. Miss Ferrand said so. They would not have been anywhere in London to see you. And even if someone did realize who you were, you could always make up some faradiddle about a secret engagement. Secret engagements are always handy things.”

“Particularly for those who don’t have to participate in them,” Benedict said sourly. “Since having the whole scheme blown sky-high by someone recognizing me doesn’t bother you, what about the fact that we are placing our trust in this chit about whom we know nothing? There isn’t a chance in hell that she won’t somehow give the game away.”

“She has every reason not to. She wants her family to believe that you are her fiancé as much as—or more than—we do. She will do her utmost to maintain that illusion.”

Benedict grimaced. “Even with the best goodwill, she can still make a mistake.”

“She seems a bright enough girl. Not lacking in spunk, either. I can’t picture her giving it away through fear or timidity.”

“No.” Even Benedict had to give a reluctant grin. “There’s little likelihood of that. Still, I doubt she is accustomed to such deception.”

“What?” His friend looked at him with comic dismay. “Is this Benedict Wincross speaking? The man who swore to me four years ago that all women are steeped in treachery?”

Benedict had the grace to flush. “They are taught to deceive from the cradle, and you know it. I warrant that even Bettina, the best of women, has led you a merry dance from time to time.”

Sedgewick chuckled, seeming not at all disturbed by this description of his wife. “Indeed, that she has. Thing is—I rather enjoy following your sister’s steps, you see.”

“It is the grand scale of the deception that I doubt she could maintain. False smiles and a few sweet lies are a far cry from maintaining a fiction for days before all one’s relatives. Moreover, this woman seems more—direct, shall we say?—than most.”

“Perhaps. But, still, I think she is clever—and saving oneself from the tooth-and-claw of a vicious aunt is no mean motivation.”

“Perhaps she is capable of such pretense, but how the devil am I supposed to act moonstruck about a woman whose every word seems designed to raise my hackles? I have not been with that woman for two minutes running without wanting to wring her neck.”

“Just look at her as you did at Annabeth,” Jermyn retorted unfeelingly. “For God’s sake, Benedict, this playacting is vital to the existence of our network. You cannot let that whole group of men, all our efforts, be destroyed just because you don’t like a woman.”

“Dammit, this isn’t a mere whim of mine! This trumped-up story will not work!”

“What if it does not? We know nothing now, and our entire network is in grave danger of being destroyed. Not to mention the fact that we obviously have a very clever enemy among us who could be bringing in more enemies through the very channel we established. How will it be any worse if you are discovered to be an impostor? How much less could we know? How much more could our network be destroyed? How much more danger could our country be in?”

Benedict gazed back at him for a long moment, caught by his argument. Finally he said in a truculent voice, “I don’t want to waste my time when I could be out looking for the smugglers.”

“We both know this way of looking for them will be faster and easier.” Sedgewick paused, then raised an eyebrow. “Or is it that I’m wrong— Perhaps you are dragging your heels not because you dislike the woman…but because you like her too much? Is that why she stirs you up so much? Is that why you are so determined to avoid being around her? Because she makes you feel things you thought were long dead?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Benedict said roughly, tossing his cigar down on the driveway and grinding it out savagely. “Bloody hell! All right, I will do it. But, by God, Jermyn, you better be right about this. Otherwise, Gideon will be lost.”

He turned without another word and strode back into the inn.

* * *

STILL FEELING CHEERED by the warm drink within her and by Mr. Sedgewick’s sympathy, Camilla turned to the almost Herculean task of setting her appearance to rights. She could well imagine what both her aunts would say if they saw her looking like this.

As soon as the maid brought in a pitcher of water and a basin, as well as rags and towels, she stripped off her filthy clothes and scrubbed away at the mud with a wet rag. When she had managed to rid herself of nearly all of the dirt, she put on clean undergarments from her trunk. As she dressed, she thought about the inevitable gossiping the servants of the inn would indulge in. No doubt by tomorrow it would be all over the village that Lady Camilla had arrived here last night looking like a hoyden, covered with mud and with a strange man in tow.

It would really be better, she realized, if that loathsome Benedict person did agree to pretend to be her fiancé. At least it would explain his presence in her carriage. If she told the real story, Aunt Lydia would go into near hysterics about the danger she had been exposed to, and Aunt Beryl would find it a golden opportunity to lecture her on her foolish, heedless ways and the danger into which they could lead her. It was enough to make her hope that Mr. Sedgewick would be able to talk Benedict into it.

Of course, it would be awful having to pretend for several days that she was in love with him and wanted to marry him—indeed, it was daunting to think of even having to be in his presence that long. She was quite sure they would have difficulty not getting into a roaring argument every few minutes. Mr. Benedict was, after all, the most irritating man she had ever met.

No one would expect them to bill and coo, of course; that was not the sort of behavior encouraged by people of her station in life. Even engaged couples were usually chaperoned and stayed a chaste distance from each other. There was none of the public hand-holding or kisses such as Camilla had seen the parlor maid, Lizzie, and the butcher’s son engage in. No, if there were a kiss or embrace exchanged, it was usually done in secret.

However, they would be expected to be together a lot of the time, and it would probably be thought odd if they did not take a few quiet walks alone together. She remembered the sort of warm glances that had been exchanged between her friend Henrietta and her fiancé, Malcolm. There had been something in Malcolm’s eyes when he looked at his future wife that even now, when she thought about it, made a faint flush rise in Camilla’s cheeks. He had not been crude, but seeing him, no one would have been mistaken as to his feelings for Henrietta. Even Camilla, the avowed opponent of marriage, had breathed a few wistful sighs over those looks.

It was that sort of signal—the whispers with heads close together, the sighs, the looks across a roomful of people—that let everyone know that a couple was in love, and an engaged couple who never indulged in such behavior would look a trifle odd.

Still, as long as the two of them maintained that they were engaged, who would have the nerve to dispute them? They might be labeled cold, and someone as suspicious as her aunt might wonder about them, but the sheer audacity of pretending to be engaged would be enough, she thought, to convince even that woman that they were telling the truth.

Sedgewick’s scheme made sense…in an outlandish sort of way. Once he talked Benedict out of his stubborn refusal, surely Benedict would see the advantages of being paid money for nothing more difficult than living in a nice house and pretending not to dislike her for a few days. And surely she could endure Benedict’s presence for the same length of time, knowing that it would ease her grandfather’s mind…not to mention put Aunt Beryl’s nose out of joint.

On that pleasurable reflection, she called in the maid, and the two of them tried to wash the mud out of her hair. It was no easy task to do in the parlor, with only a pitcher of water and a washbasin to work with. Camilla bent over the basin while the maid poured the pitcher of water carefully and slowly over her hair. It took four pitchers of water and much carrying and emptying of the basin before the water ran through it cleanly. Camilla did not even bother with trying to lather it with soap. She would take a good, soaking bath once she got home. For right now, all she needed was the semblance of cleanness. At least one could see that her hair was black now. So she wrung out her wet hair as soon as it was no longer caked with mud and knelt before the fire to brush out the tangles while the maid left the room to pour out the dirty water one last time.

She thought nothing of it a few moments later when the door opened again, for she assumed it was the maid, who had scurried in and out of the parlor several times already as she helped Camilla to clean up. However, when she heard the thud of boots upon the wooden floor, she swung around with a low cry.

It was Benedict who had entered the room, and he turned toward her now at the noise she made. For an instant they froze, staring at each other. Camilla was dressed in only her chemise and petticoats, not having wanted to get her dress wet while she washed and brushed out her hair. Her damp hair lay like a dark cloud over her shoulders and down her back, and her eyes were huge dark pools. Her skin was warmed by the golden glow of the firelight. Her breasts swelled up over the top of the chemise, and the lace-trimmed white cotton cupped the full globes. She made an entrancing picture there, curled in front of the fireplace, her ripe curves clothed in chaste white, her hair down like a child’s, thick and luxuriant, inviting his touch. She seemed at once innocent and sensual, a woman to stir desire.

A blush surged up Camilla’s throat into her face, and she raised her hands to her shoulders, covering her luscious breasts. “Sir!”

He stepped back, a little jerkily, as though pulling himself from a trance. “A thousand pardons, Miss Ferrand.” He made an elaborate bow, then added with great irony, “How fortunate that we are engaged, else your reputation would now be in shreds.”

“Then…you have agreed?”

“Yes, I have agreed to Sedgewick’s scheme, God help me.” He turned and strode to the door, where he looked back at her. “I am going up to Sedgewick’s room. He hopes to make me look the part of a gentleman. You had better lock this door if you don’t want any more unexpected guests.”

As soon as he left, Camilla darted to the door and turned the heavy key, as he had suggested. She turned back to the room, pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks to cool them. She thought of the look in the man’s dark eyes, the way they had run rapidly down her figure, and she shivered, once again feeling that odd quiver deep in her abdomen. For a moment she wavered, wondering if she should cry off from their agreement. There was something about this man that seemed dangerous.

But then she straightened her shoulders and marched across the room to the chair where her dress lay. She pulled it on and fastened the neat little row of buttons up the front. She would not let this ruffian scare her away from her purpose. She would pretend she was going to marry him, and she would do such an excellent job at it that no one would suspect the truth.

She wrapped her still-damp hair into a knot at the base of her skull and pinned it securely, then pulled on her gloves and tied a chip-straw hat on her head. It would hide her wet hair, and the cape in the post chaise would cover the wrinkles in her dress that came from being packed in a trunk. That ought to do in the dim light of candles. As late as it was, she hoped that Aunt Beryl would not even be up to see her enter the house.

She went to the door of the parlor and opened it. The public room beyond was empty now, except for Mr. Sedgewick, who turned and smiled at her. “Ah, splendid. Miss Ferrand.” He came forward to take her hand and raised it to her lips. “You are even lovelier than I had realized. It would be clear to anyone but your dragon of an aunt that if you are unmarried, it is entirely through your own choice.”

“What a pretty compliment.” She gave him a little curtsy.

“’Tis no less than the truth.” His gaze moved past her and fastened on the staircase beyond. “Here is your fiancé. And looking more the part, I must say.”

Camilla turned toward the stairs. It was all she could do to keep her mouth from dropping open. Gone was the rough-clothed, muddy lout of earlier in the evening, and in his place was a man who was every inch a gentleman. He had obviously bathed and shaved. His dark locks, still damp, had been ruthlessly combed into order. He was clean-shaven, and his cravat was starched and snowy-white, tied in a simple yet elegant fall. Though his breeches and coat were plain black and his waistcoat a conservative dark-figured one, they were undeniably expensive and well cut, and his boots were polished until they held a mirror gleam.

“Mr. Sedgewick,” Camilla breathed. “What have you wrought? But, surely, you cannot wish to give up your clothes.”

Sedgewick cast a look at Benedict, his eyes twinkling, and said, “Don’t give it another thought, dear lady. I was happy to do so.”

“I should think so,” Benedict put in sourly, effectively terminating any hope that he might have changed with his clothing, “considering that I—”

Sedgewick cut in. “Yes, yes, I know—you earned them. So you told me earlier.” He turned back toward Camilla. “Do you think he will do, Miss Ferrand?”

“Yes. Although I had not given anyone a hint that my fiancé had such a bearish personality.”

“Ah, well, ’tis something it would be quite natural to hide.”

“Let us go,” Benedict growled. “The man’s already taken down my portmanteau. Your portmanteau, I should say, Sedgewick.” He turned toward Camilla, hand out. “The money?”

“What?”

“I believe we had an agreement?”

“Oh! Well—” She cast a helpless glance toward Mr. Sedgewick. “What should I pay him?”

“I’m not sure.” He frowned at Benedict. “What do you usually get for such a thing?”

“I have never done such a thing.” Benedict thought for a moment. “I’d say a hundred quid.”

“A hundred pounds!” Camilla exclaimed.

“Benedict! I say!”

Benedict raised one amused eyebrow. “A man’s got to live, hasn’t he?”

“But that’s more than a servant would make in…in years!” Camilla protested.

“Ah, but you couldn’t take a servant in to meet your family, now, could you?”

“It is only a few days’ work.”

“It’s not the time, though, is it? It’s my keeping our little secret. I’ll take fifty pounds, and not a penny less.”

“Oh, all right. I have money in my reticule in the chaise. But I haven’t that much there. The rest of my money is in my trunk….” Her voice trailed off as she thought about the fact that she would be alone in the dark night with this man. What was to stop him from knocking her over the head and taking all her money? Certainly not her coachman, whom he had already rendered unconscious once tonight.

Her face must have given away her thoughts, for Benedict grinned evilly. Mr. Sedgewick hastily put in, “Don’t worry, he would not dare take your money and run. Remember, I will have seen the two of you drive off, and if anything should happen to you, he would be hunted down immediately.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Camilla smiled at Sedgewick, who smiled graciously back, then turned to give Benedict a scowl.

Sedgewick escorted them out of the inn, and the innkeeper hurried out to see her off, too. “There now, my lady, I’ve replaced that fool of a driver of yours, and I’m sending a boy with a lantern, too, to light the way. Don’t you and your man worry a bit.” He leaned forward, grinning, and whispered, “’Twill make your grandfather happy to have you marrying, my lady, and there’s no doubt about it. A fine strapping gentleman, too, if I may say so. We’d been wondering a bit why he and that other one were hanging about, but now I see that he was only waiting for you to arrive.”

“Thank you, Saltings.” Camilla felt a twinge of guilt. She hated deceiving people, and she realized that this was only the next of many times in the chain leading from the lie she had told her grandfather.

Sedgewick handed her up into the carriage, and Benedict climbed in after her, sitting down on the seat across from her. Sedgewick closed the carriage door, and with a sharp cry from the driver and a slap of the reins, they started forward.

Camilla looked at the stranger across from her and wondered what she had gotten herself into.

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.

CHAPTER FIVE

“WHAT THE DEVIL is going on here?” Benedict growled at Camilla once they were safely out of earshot of the drawing room.

“I don’t know,” Camilla moaned. “Obviously Aunt Lydia must have told them I was married to Mr. Lassiter, but I cannot imagine why. What am I going to do?”

“Well, nothing at the moment, except try to act normal. Your aunt Beryl is already suspicious enough. Your carrying on about getting two rooms didn’t help any.”

“What did you expect me to do?” Camilla flared. “We can’t sleep in the same room!”

“No? Then what can we do? Do you want to go back in now and tell Mrs. Elliot that you have made the whole thing up? That I am not your husband? That you never even had a fiancé? That you lied to your grandfather? To her? That your other aunt lied to everyone, as well? Do you want her running in to spill that load of news to your grandfather?”

“What an awful muddle I’ve made of everything.”

“You have to make the best of it now,” he told her unsympathetically. “At the moment, I think that means being my loving little wife. We shall decide how to deal with the rest of it later.” He took a firm grip on her arm and propelled her across the hall, toward the stairs. “Where is your bedroom? Up here?”

Camilla nodded, irritation at his high-handed attitude rising in her. “Just a minute. What do you think you’re doing? You are not in charge here.”

“Obviously, neither are you,” he retorted, inexorably leading her up the stairs. “As for what I am doing, I am getting us up to a room where we can close the door and hash this out without worrying about servants or relatives hearing us.”

Camilla grimaced. She could hardly argue with his reasoning, but the way he was assuming command rankled.

“Camilla! Psst!”

Both of them turned to see Lydia at the bottom of the stairs, following them. She waved to Camilla to stop and hurried up after them. “Oh, my dear,” she cried softly as she neared Camilla, holding out her hands toward her. “My little love, can you ever forgive me? I am so, so sorry.”

Her big blue eyes sparkled with tears, and her flushed face bespoke her agitation. Camilla took her hands and squeezed them.

“Of course I can forgive you. Anything. You know that.”

Others, such as Aunt Beryl, called Lydia a “fribble,” and Camilla had often enough bemoaned her aunt’s vague, haphazard ways, but there was no one with a warmer heart, and Camilla loved her dearly.

“Thank you. You don’t know how that relieves me. I was worried that you would hate me.”

“I could never hate you.” Camilla took her arm and led her down the hall to her bedroom, Benedict following behind them. “But I don’t understand what is going on. Why did you say he was my husband?”

They reached the door of Camilla’s bedroom and walked inside. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and an oil lamp was lit, giving the room a soft golden glow.

“It was terribly bad of me.” Lydia caught her lower lip between her teeth, looking chagrined and absurdly youthful. She was only thirty-seven, and over the years had retained her good looks. “If I had only thought about it, I would have realized that it might cause trouble. But I simply could not stand it anymore. You know how Beryl is.”

“Well, I don’t,” Benedict put in bluntly. “My good woman, what are you talking about?”

“Why, the reason I said you were Camilla’s husband. It was because of Beryl. She was driving me quite mad—all those sly digs and innuendos. She was convinced from the first that it was all folderol, though how she could tell, I’m sure I don’t know. Your letters sounded so convincing that sometimes even I thought that you really had gotten engaged. But she would make remarks in that insinuating voice of hers— You know what I mean. So vastly irritating. Your uncle Varian always used to say he wanted to pinch her lips shut whenever she began to talk that way.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Camilla said, trying to bring her back on track. “But what happened this time?”

“She kept asking why you were so vague about your wedding plans. She said it didn’t sound natural, a bride-to-be not bubbling over with news of her trousseau and her dress. Well, that is true, but I can quite understand why you wouldn’t think of putting things like that in your letters, my love, since you have no interest in marrying. I should have thought of it, for that is exactly how I was when Varian and I were engaged, always talking about my dress and flowers and—”

“Mrs. Elliot…” Benedict reminded her flatly.

“Oh. Well, one day she said, in that silly jesting way of hers that isn’t joking at all—you know what I mean. Anyway, she said, right there in front of the Earl—I am positive she meant to do it that way—that she thought you didn’t mean to marry at all, because you hadn’t set a date. She didn’t go so far as to say that you had made the whole thing up, although I’m certain that’s what she wished to say, for she knows that the Earl won’t listen to her speak an ill word about you. That is why she always couches her statements in that pseudolaughing way. But she said, with a false little titter, that she thought you must be getting cold feet, and she reminded him how you had always been so set against marriage. ‘So unnatural in a gel that age.’” Lydia imitated her in-law’s drawn-out vowels and nasal tone to perfection, even adding the way Aunt Beryl had of lifting her chin and stroking down her throat.

Camilla had to chuckle. “So you, of course, decided to tell her that I had already married.”

“I didn’t mean to. But she was looking at me in that way, you know, and I opened my mouth and somehow it just came out. I told her I had gotten a letter from you, and that you and your Mr. Lassiter had gotten married two weeks ago.”

Camilla let out a low groan.

“I’m sorry, Camilla, but once I’d done it, what could I do? I didn’t think it would do any harm. It seemed no worse for you to pretend to be married than to pretend to be engaged. And it was so pleasant to see Beryl sitting there with her mouth opening and closing.” She paused, then added, a trifle resentfully, “I never dreamed you would actually bring a man with you. I thought you would arrive by yourself, with some excuse why Mr. Lassiter could not come. And since we would only be talking about him, what difference would it make whether he was your fiancé or your husband?”

“Of course,” Benedict agreed. “A mere trifle.”

Lydia smiled at him, pleased by his understanding, and said, “Exactly. I am so glad to hear you say so.” She turned to Camilla. “Where did you find him? I don’t understand how you managed to come up with him.”

“I paid him,” Camilla told her bluntly.

Lydia’s eyes widened. “You mean you can buy a husband?”

“Actually, she only bought a fiancé,” Benedict stuck in. “Now that I am a husband, perhaps I should charge more. What do you think, Camilla?”

“I think this is scarcely the time for humor.” She turned back to her aunt. “I didn’t mean that I purchased a husband, Aunt Lydia. I meant that I am paying him to pretend to be my fiancé.”

“How odd,” Lydia said thoughtfully.

“But that doesn’t matter now. What is important is the fact that Aunt Beryl thinks we are married—and she put us in the same bedroom!”

Lydia moaned. “This is terrible. Your reputation will be ruined! Whatever are we to do? Oh, drat my wretched tongue!”

“It’s all right, Lydia. Don’t worry about it. We will manage to scrape by.”

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