Part 16 (2/2)

”You do not understand,” Joel said, his hands sliding away from Camille's. ”When he informed me at our first meeting a few days ago that he intended changing his will in my favor, I refused the offer quite adamantly.”

”c.o.x-Phillips informed you? You refused his offer?” Avery said. Inevitably his quizzing gla.s.s had found its way into his hand, though he had not raised it quite to his eye. ”Rich and powerful men do far more telling than asking, my dear fellow. In many cases it is why they are rich and powerful.”

”It did not occur to me,” Joel said, ”that he would not take me at my word.”

”Joel,” Camille said, ”I am so sorry.”

Avery's quizzing gla.s.s swung in her direction, all the way to his eye this time. ”Extraordinary,” he said. ”It must run in the family. You refused a share of your father's fortune a few months ago, Camille, as did Harry and Abigail; Anna would have refused the whole of it if she had been able; now you are commiserating with this poor man because he has just inherited a fortune. It is enough to make me quite rejoice that no Westcott blood runs in my veins-though some will in my children's veins, I recall.”

”I beg your pardon,” Joel said again. ”Had I seen you, Netherby, I would not have blurted my news as I did.”

”And I have the distinct impression that my continued presence here as my stepcousin's escort would be decidedly de trop,” Avery said. ”I shall a.s.sume she has been delivered safely home and take myself off.” He proceeded to do just that without another word, returning the way they had come.

”It must seem peculiar,” Joel said, frowning after him, ”that I did not even notice he was with you.”

”I am flattered,” Camille told him. ”Avery usually draws all eyes wherever he goes. It is that extraordinary sense of presence he has cultivated. Everyone else might as well be invisible. But that's not what's important now. Joel, how do you know about the will?”

”Those three kinsmen of my great-uncle's have insisted that the will be read tomorrow morning,” he told her, ”even before the funeral on Tuesday. But he left specific instructions that his solicitor seek me out beforehand and inform me privately of the contents of the will rather than summon me to the official reading. Perhaps he hoped to spare me any unpleasantness my presence might arouse.”

”One could only wish,” Camille said, ”that my father's solicitor had exercised similar discretion.”

”Mr. Crabtree-my great-uncle's solicitor, that is-came to my rooms this afternoon,” Joel told her, ”even though it is Sunday.”

”So the other three will not know until tomorrow morning,” she said.

”No.” He frowned. ”I do not imagine they will be thrilled. But Crabtree a.s.sured me that if they try to contest the will, they will not succeed.”

”I do wish I could be hidden somewhere in that room tomorrow,” she said, ”as Anastasia was hidden in the branches of a tree in Hyde Park on the morning of the duel. I wish I could see Viscount Uxbury's face when the will is read. Are you very unhappy about inheriting?”

He hesitated for a few moments. ”I am almost ashamed to admit it,” he said, ”but I do not believe I am.”

Anastasia grew up at this orphanage, Camille thought, glancing ahead at it, and had recently discovered that she was sole heiress to great wealth. Joel grew up here and had just discovered that he was sole heir to a fortune. What were the odds? They must be millions to one-perhaps billions. Or perhaps not. It was, after all, an orphanage at which a number of the children were supported by rich benefactors, mothers, fathers, or other relatives. It had happened, anyway. She, on the other hand, had gone in quite the opposite direction. But she was not about to sink into self-pity.

”Then I am happy for you,” she said, even as she realized that everything would change now, that she was probably about to lose this newfound friend whom she had only just begun to think of as such.

His eyes searched her face. ”It has turned into a lovely day after all,” he said, glancing upward at blue sky, from which all the morning's clouds had disappeared. ”Shall we go for a walk? Or have you walked enough already? You have just come from the Royal Crescent, I suppose. But . . . along by the river? It is not far and there are some seats there.”

”Very well,” she said, and they made their way past the orphanage. But instead of crossing the Pulteney Bridge when they came to it, they turned down onto the footpath to stroll beside the river, past the weir, which was like a great arrowhead across much of its width, in the direction of Bath Abbey. The sun sparkled off the water and beamed warmly down upon them. A few ducks bobbed on the surface of the river. Children darted and whooped along the path, their accompanying adults coming along behind them at a more sedate pace. A couple of children on the other side were pulling a toy boat on a string parallel to the bank. Two elderly men occupied the first seat they pa.s.sed. One of them was tossing bread crumbs to the ducks. A middle-aged couple vacated the next seat just before they reached it, and they sat down.

”You really are quite happy with what has happened, then?” Camille asked, almost the first words either of them had spoken since they had started to walk.

”It is very base of me, is it not?” he said. ”I rejected what I thought was an offer a few days ago because I did not want to be used as a p.a.w.n in a game of c.o.x-Phillips's devising and because I abhorred the idea of allowing my affections to be bought when I would have given them freely and gladly all through my boyhood. He left everything to me anyway. I do not know why, and I never will know now. My first reaction this afternoon was horror and denial. But I must confess it was only a momentary reaction. Then reality struck me-I was rich. I am rich. At least, I believe I am. Crabtree could not tell me how large the fortune is, but he a.s.sured me it is sizable, and it includes that mansion on the hill and even a house in London. How could anyone resist a fortune when it is thrust upon him? I keep thinking of how it might change my life-of how it will change my life.”

He was leaning forward on the seat, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands dangling between, gazing at the river, his expression intent. Camille could sense his leashed excitement and felt somehow chilled despite the heat of the sun. Yes, his life would change, and he would change. There was no doubt about it.

”I could live in that house if I chose,” he said, ”with servants. And with a carriage of my own. I could go to London. I have a house there, though it is leased at the moment. London. I could see it at last. I could go to Wales or Scotland. I could go to Wales and Scotland, and all over the world. I could cut back on portrait painting and paint more landscapes just for myself.”

”You could buy yourself a new coat and new boots,” she said.

He turned his head sharply toward her as though he had just remembered she was there. ”You resisted a fortune,” he said. ”Or one quarter of a fortune at least. How did you do it, Camille, when the alternative was penury?”

It would not really have been taking charity, would it? Her father had made a will after Anastasia's birth but had neglected to make another during the twenty-five years that followed. He had always acted as though they were his legitimate family, Mama and she and Harry and Abby, though he had never displayed any real love for any of them. Perhaps he had come to believe it. Surely he had intended to see them well provided for. Perhaps he had forgotten the earlier will. Or perhaps he had always meant to make another but had never got around to doing it. Or . . . perhaps he had deliberately enjoyed the joke of what was bound to happen after his death. Who knew? But surely Anastasia was being fair, not merely charitable, in her belief that the four of them should share the part of his property and fortune that was not entailed. They might have accepted without feeling unduly beholden to her.

”I was not the only one concerned, you see,” she said. ”Harry lost far more than I. He was the Earl of Riverdale, Joel. He was fabulously wealthy. He had been brought up to just the sort of life he had begun to live. He would have lived up to his responsibilities even though he was still sowing some rather wild oats. Everything, the very foundation of his life, was s.n.a.t.c.hed away. And my mother lost far more than we did. She had married well and fulfilled her duties as countess and wife and mother for more than twenty years before everything, even her name, was taken away. And, quite unfairly, she had to bear the guilt of having given birth to three illegitimate children. She was left with nothing, though she did tell us today that the dowry my grandfather gave my father when she married has been returned with all the interest it has accrued. She will be able to live independently, though modestly, after all. I suspect it was Anastasia rather than her solicitor who thought of that way of helping us. Even Abby lost more than I. She was to make her come-out in society next spring with all the bright prospects that would have offered for her future. Instead she has had her youth taken from her and all her hopes.”

”Hope is something that lights her eyes from within,” he told her. ”She has not given it up, Camille. Perhaps she is fortunate to be so young. She will adjust her hopes to her circ.u.mstances. And youth has not been taken from her. She exudes youthfulness.”

He was looking very directly at her, his head turned back over his shoulder. She was going to miss him, she thought, and berated herself for having allowed herself to become attached to him in so short a time. Was she that needy? Of course, there was the complication that she had lain with him and that she had enjoyed the experience and that he was powerfully attractive.

”You are an incredibly strong person, Camille,” he said. ”But sometimes you build a wall about yourself. You are doing it now. Is that the only way you can hold yourself together?”

She was about to utter an angry retort. But she was feeling weary. Her feet were sore. ”Yes,” she said.

His eyes continued to search her face. ”Yet behind the wall,” he said, ”you are amazingly tenderhearted. And loyal hearted.”

A little boy dashed past at that moment, bowling a metal hoop and making a great deal of noise. A woman-his governess? his mother?-called to him from some distance behind to slow down.

Camille felt a bit like crying. It was becoming an increasingly familiar feeling, as though the tears she had not shed from the age of seven until a week or so ago were determined to make up for lost time.

Joel sat back so that his shoulder was touching hers, and looked out toward the river. ”Or,” he said, ”I could sell the houses, invest all the money somewhere, and forget about it. Would it be possible? Would it always be there, beckoning and tempting me? Or I could give it all away. But would I then forever regret having done so? What do you think, Camille? Do you ever regret having said no?”

Did she? She had never allowed herself to think about it. But the thought had seeped in anyway, specifically the realization that she had turned her back on more than just the money. She would not easily forget that fleeting look of yearning on Anastasia's face earlier when Camille had congratulated her on being with child. And she would not forget Avery's scold as they walked down the hill on the way home-and that was what it had been. And she would not forget Alexander's suggestion that she allow herself to be loved. Was that what the money meant to Anastasia? Love? Was that what she, Camille, had rejected?

Joel turned his head again when she did not immediately answer. Their faces were very close-uncomfortably close. His eyes looked intensely dark beneath the brim of his hat. ”An honest answer?” he said.

”I do not regret this road of self-discovery I am on,” she said, ”though it is incredibly painful.”

”Is it?” His eyes dropped to her lips.

”You will feel pain too,” she told him. ”Being forced out of the life one has always led without any great deal of introspection is painful. Most people never have to do it. Most people never really know themselves.”

”And you know yourself now?” His eyes smiled suddenly beneath the brim of his hat. ”You did not on the day we went to Sally Lunn's. You told me so.”

She knew something then with mind-shattering clarity, and it was something that would have shocked Lady Camille Westcott to the core. She wanted him to kiss her even though they were in a horribly public place. She wanted to go to bed with him again. Was this self-knowledge? Was she promiscuous? But no. She had never wanted any such thing with any other man and could not imagine ever doing so. And what did that tell her about herself?

”I am learning,” she said.

His gaze did not s.h.i.+ft. It was most disconcerting, but she would not lean away from him or look away either. She was no longer that prim, oh-so-correct aristocrat. It was a beautiful day and she was sitting by the river on a public path with a man she desired in a most shocking way, but she would not feel either shocked or ashamed. Even though he was going to change and move into a world where she could not follow. She had guarded her feelings all her life, and where had it got her?

His lips touched hers very briefly before he seemed to remember where they were and sat back again, his shoulder against hers. The boy with the hoop came roaring back along the path, the same female calling plaintively to him from behind. A mother duck was gliding across the river, five ducklings coming along behind her in a slightly crooked line. An infant squealed with delight and pointed at them while she bounced astride her father's shoulders and her mother held a hand behind her lest she pitch backward.

”Joel,” Camille said, ”take me home with you.”

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