Chapter 37
Cilly watched Lady Camilla Rohman raise her skirts and take the stone front steps two at a time and closed her eyes.
They were doomed. Both of them. She wasn’t a little girl anymore and Cilly couldn’t swat her bottom.
She was a woman grown, and the woman grown was about to make a very big mistake.
Cilly watched her march right up to the front door of the impressive Sherbrooke townhouse.
Luckily she saw no one else in the square, a blessing, but there were windows, so many windows with possible eager eyes to track her unladylike run to the townhouse.
A single lady, a YOUNG single lady. She groaned when she saw the front door open, saw Cam step inside.
What would happen? She leaned her head back against the mostly clean squabs, closed her eyes and thought of the myriad ditches that could be her home in the near future.
Cam had told her every thought in her young head, until she’d met Alex Ivanov.
She’d spoken of him at first. After the debacle with that goose-brained idiot Pilcher Gayson and how he’d attacked her, she’d grown quiet.
It was impossible not to feel pride for Lady Deveraux attacking the hapless Pilcher with her cane and Finch with his trusty poker.
All the household spoke of it with great relish and delight and no doubt also spoke to every servant in the neighborhood, so within three hours, give or take, all of Bath knew what had happened.
Thank the powers above, Lady Deveraux had power in Society so Lady Camilla Rohman wouldn’t be blamed and called a scandalous hussy, no, it would be Pilcher to be punished, at least for a little while since gentlemen rarely paid for their bad behavior.
Bless Finch, who’d learned from Galson, Pilcher’s father’s valet, that he was in financial straits and badly needed money not for his heir, Sydney, but for himself, and thus Pilcher’s orders to wed the heiress, by hook or by crook, namely, Camilla Rohman, the prize of the current crop.
Cilly smiled briefly remembering how Lady Deveraux presented Finch with a bottle of her finest champagne, and together they’d laughed and toasted each other until they were both snoring on the sofa.
Bless Lady Deveraux, she’d also sent champagne to all the servants as well. When she’d met Finch the next morning, they’d commiserated about their aching heads. Before she’d left, Cilly was aware of Finch looking at her in just a certain questing way, and she’d blushed. Hmm.
But that was Bath, and this was London, a very different kettle of fish. Cam was chasing after a man and there wasn’t a way Cilly could help her if she was caught. Oh dear.
As for Cam, she felt her heart pound loud, fast strokes as she slapped the lion’s head knocker against the door. Then her heart leapt into her throat when the grand Sherbrooke front door opened and the estimable Mr. Plume stood in front of her.
He blinked, but no other emotion appeared on his pleasant face.
“Lady Camilla?” Mr. Plume was very smart, but then again even Mr. Plume’s idiot brother-in-law would recognize a young lady in love.
Was she alone? What was going on here? Oh dear, he knew to his boots this lovely young lady was chasing down Alex, now actually Lord Graham, Viscount Whitestone.
Mr. Sherbrooke had written to him, and he and the household had toasted Lord Graham—and didn’t that sound splendid?
He recalled three snifters of brandy he himself had downed in the celebration.
Lady Camilla looked scared, bless her, and excited, her lovely eyes nearly dilated.
She looked neat as a pin and really quite lovely in a pale green walking dress and the matching cashmere jacket, her lovely hair drawn back, plaited into thick braids stacked atop her head, little loose curls dangling around her face.
Cam cleared her throat so she wouldn’t squeak, and silently repeated, I understand theorems, I’m confident. I can do anything. “Good afternoon, Mr. Plume. Is Mr. Ivanov here?”
Mr. Plume gave her a gracious smile, a lovely bow, and quickly stepped back, waved her in.
Best to get her off the front stoop as quickly as possible.
“Ah, do come in, Lady Camilla. I see it’s beginning to sprinkle, a lovely Scottish mist, you know, but of course you do not have an umbrella, which I might add is very optimistic of you.
” He looked around, thankfully saw no one.
Still there was Lady Marchand across the square who loved nothing better than to spy on her noble neighbors.
“Thank you, Mr. Plume. Ah, Mr. Ivanov, could you tell him I’m here?”
“I fear not. He’s currently with Mr. Sherbrooke at King’s Head in Kent.” Should he tell her about the precious young gentleman’s new honors? No, it was not his place.
Mr. Plume watched her face fall, saw her stiffen her spine.
“Ah, King’s Head is on the coast, near Dover.”
Mr. Plume nodded.
What is this? What the devil is King’s Head?
And why not Queen’s Head? Dover isn’t all that far from London.
Is there a train there? Some tracks needing fixing and they’d called Alex?
Cam cocked her head to the side. “But why, Mr. Plume? Did Alex—Mr. Ivanov—wish to go to this King’s Head near Dover, on the coast?
He perhaps wanted to see the white cliffs?
Did he wish to visit Dover Castle? Isn’t this very odd? ”
Mr. Plume’s face was closed.
He was like Osbourne, never said a word about the family. “Ah, I had written him a note, telling him of my rather hurried departure to Bath to my aunt Deveraux. I never received an answer from him and, well, I was concerned he could be ill, you know.”
Mr. Plume knew very well. “No, Lady Camilla, neither he nor Mr. Sherbrooke is ill. I fear Mr. Ivanov never received your missive. Please come into the drawing room. I have a lovely fire set against the chill, which there usually is in London, even in our supposed summers. That’s right, just follow me.
You can have a nice cup of tea, perhaps a nutty bun, though I doubt Cook has made any since neither gentleman is in residence, but perhaps some tasty seed cakes.
Come, Lady Camilla. I shall fetch your letter to Mr. Ivanov, if you like. ”
Cam realized she did want her letter back. It was too pathetic she’d even written to him. And he’d left without telling her. What will you do next? Weep? Stiffen your spine. “Mr. Plume, could you please send someone to tell the hackney carriage to wait for me? And ask the lady to come in?”
Mr. Plume gave her a fatherly smile. “I think it best that I dismiss the carriage and you and your companion”—thank heavens she wasn’t alone—“will be taken to Ormond Square in the Sherbrooke carriage.”
Five minutes later, Cilly sat beside Cam in the drawing room, each with a cup of tea in her hand. Cam smiled at Mr. Plume, said in her most imperious voice, “Please tell me the reason for Mr. Ivanov’s and Mr. Sherbrooke’s abrupt departure for this King’s Head near Dover, on the coast.”
Mr. Plume tried to stiffen his spine, be polite and tell her nothing at all, but he fell prey to the misery he saw in her very pretty eyes.
He sighed and gave it up. “Mr. Ivanov is no longer a man without a memory, saved, as you know, as a young boy, by Mr. Sherbrooke, who, I’m sure you already know, made him his ward.
We discovered quite by remarkable happenstance he is actually Graham Hepburn, Viscount Whitestone.
He and Mr. Sherbrooke immediately left for Dover, to King’s Head, the estate of Lord Graham’s father, Vereker Hepburn, Earl St. Lucy. ”
Whatever it was Cam had expected wasn’t this.
This was in a different universe, or beyond.
Lord Graham? Then it struck Cam with the force of a bolt of lightning.
He was now a lord and she was a lady. She burst into the biggest smile Mr. Plume had ever seen.
She raised her teacup, toasted him. “Mr. Plume, what is your first name?”
“Ah, it’s Ellison, Lady Camilla.”
“You have given me such wonderful news that if ever I have a child, his name will be Ellison. Thank you, thank you.” She set down the teacup, grabbed Cilly’s hand, and dragged her, nearly danced from the room. She called out over her shoulder, “King’s Head, you say, Mr. Plume?”
“Wait, Lady Camilla! Let Jeffrey fetch a carriage!”
Now five minutes later, Cam and Cilly were on their way to Ormond Square.
Cam wanted to dance, maybe shout out a ditty or two.
Now she could tell her father she could be a viscountess, Viscountess Whitestone, and she would assist her husband with improving train boilers.
She would observe train problems, she would learn mechanical theorems to make improvements. She would kiss his face off.
Cilly marveled, watching her excitement turn the air around her vibrant with happiness. Life was the strangest series of happenings. Who could predict a rainbow when a blizzard had threatened?
But what if Mr. Ivanov—no, Lord Graham, Viscount Whitestone—didn’t love Cam? Cilly closed her eyes and prayed. Finch popped into her mind—Edward, lovely name. When would she see him again?