“Is your business worth more than knowing that the Church of England is led by men of good character? I know Lassiter’s doing something. I even have some idea as to what it is—he has a little too much money, and he has explained it by claiming excessively lucky investments for too long.”
Adrian shook his head.
Denmore nodded, as if he heard everything Adrian wasn’t saying.
“I know it’s a great deal to ask of you. I know how lowering it must feel for you. But it’s no more than you ask of me. If I could diminish Lassiter’s influence, I could choose to lower myself and accept you.”
Accepting me is not lowering. Adrian took another deep breath. He loved his uncle. He loved his uncle. Still, sometimes he didn’t like him much. For a moment, his emotions rose in his throat.
Years ago, his mother had charged him with changing his uncle’s mind. To bringing him around to the cause. He has influence in the Church, she said, and think what it would mean if he used it properly.
Grayson openly scoffed at his uncle’s claims that someday he would acknowledge their branch of the family—Grayson, who had no trust any longer.
Adrian had always wanted to believe that his uncle—the uncle who had been so kind in private—could become the sort of man who would be kind in public, too. I told you so, he could hear Grayson saying, when he returned with this tale.
“I should hope,” his uncle said, “that you would love me as much as I have loved you.”
“I do,” Adrian said, annoyed, “but—”
But he didn’t have a good argument. Not the kind Denmore could listen to, at any rate. His love felt like a chain wrapped round his neck, yanking him in line.
“If you love me,” his uncle wheedled, “do this one thing for me. Not even for me. Do it for yourself. Do this one thing, and I’ll acknowledge you. I promise.”
“That’s—you should…” But Adrian knew there was no use arguing. There had never been any point in arguing.
Don’t tie these things together, Adrian wanted to say. It makes me feel sick.
But feeling sick was an emotion, not an argument. His uncle wouldn’t listen.
Don’t ask this of me. You’ve hurt me enough. Emotion, not argument.
Don’t use me this way. Don’t use me at all. He had no arguments, only emotions.
Adrian knew his uncle. If he said no now, his uncle would take it as proof that he had never wanted acknowledgement, not really. Adrian could remember lying in bed at the age of fifteen and dreaming that his uncle would take Evans aside and just tell him. Don’t treat him like that. He’s my nephew, not my charity case.
It hurt, what his uncle was asking of him. But Adrian had been hurt so little, and others had been hurt so much. If he could make a difference…
He wanted Grayson to know that people could change, that a little trust would not go amiss. Here was his chance to have that.
He would do anything for his brother. Even this.
“If I do this, you must promise not to back away. Not this time.”
“Of course not.” The bishop looked utterly shocked. “I would never. It will be over before you know it, and we’ll greet the world with joy together.”
“Right.” The word tasted sour on Adrian’s tongue, but this was what he’d wanted. Recognition. Grayson. The part that hurt would be over soon enough, and once it was past, Adrian wouldn’t need to think of it again.
“Joy,” he said carefully. “I look forward to that.”
* * *
Adrian had to tell Grayson something, he thought. Something…short.
Eventually he settled on sending him a letter, one with no return address.
I will be a while, he wrote. A week, possibly more. Will return to Harvil after to finish the designs. I’ll explain when it’s all finished.
He did not know how to end his missive; anything he could add sounded foolish.
Don’t tell me so yet, he finally wrote. Not until all is said and done. It will all turn out beautifully, I’m sure.
He wished he felt as sure as he pretended. He provided no return direction. He didn’t want Grayson to know what he was doing, after all.
To Mr. Alabi at Harvil Industries, he sent another letter: Another business matter has arisen. You all have never needed me anyway. We’ll finalize designs when I arrive in two weeks. There won’t be a moment to spare. Thanks for your understanding.
And that was how it started for Adrian, the week before the wedding—with a mistake and a promise.
Chapter Three
For Camilla, it started three days before the wedding—on a Monday, with another mistake.
It was already half-two, and it would have been nice if someone had told the household staff that guests would be arriving that day. Warning given a week ago would have been preferable; even notice provided yesterday would have been acceptable. For God’s sake, a hint this morning at breakfast would have been better than what had actually happened, which was that the carriage pulled up outside just as Camilla was serving pudding at lunch.
Rector Miles had jumped up from the table. “Right!” He’d smiled broadly. “Bishop Lassiter is here now. Is everything in readiness?”
Nothing had been in readiness.
The sheets in the spare room had not been aired; no particular plans had been laid for supper except a course of roast chicken and rolls. The household had erupted into chaos, and Camilla had not had a moment to think in the time that followed.
“Camilla,” Kitty was saying as Camilla dashed up the stairs, staggering under her load of linen. “Camilla, why are the extra servants’ beds not made up yet? I asked you three hours ago.”
Kitty was not the housekeeper. She was just another maid-of-all-work like Camilla. But she had been around longer than Camilla, and so took it upon herself to order Camilla about when she had the chance.
“Because they’re not,” Camilla answered shortly. “But they will be.”
“See that they are. Then come help me polish the silver. It’ll be needed for tonight. Think how it will reflect on us if so much as a single fork has spots.”
“It won’t.”
“Pardon?”
“It won’t.” Camilla popped the door to the male servants’ room open with her hip. “It won’t reflect. If there’s spots? There will be no reflection?”
No response. Thank God Kitty had not heard that dubious attempt at humor.
Camilla shook out a sheet and wrangled it into place with a practiced air. When she’d been young and in an entirely different situation, she’d dreamed of marrying well and running a household far larger than this one. That had obviously not happened, and there was no point looking back to bemoan could-have-beens. But she could put on a square sheet, tight and perfect, in forty seconds flat. It wasn’t much to be proud of, but then, Camilla found her pride where she could. It was nice to be good at something.
She reached for the second sheet.
“Camilla!” Cook’s call drifted up the servants’ stairs. “Camilla, you’re needed now. Someone must bring the tea in for the bishop, and you’re the only one with the manners for it.”
“One minute!” She shook out her sheet.
“No minutes! Now!”
Sheets. Silver. Serving. All of which had to be done now, because the rector hadn’t had the decency to inform his staff of an impending visit.
Camilla slammed the sheets down and growled. “I don’t have time for this shite.”
“Who does?”
It was an amused voice behind her, an unfamiliar voice. A man’s voice—and since this was the male servants’ room, perhaps she should not have been so surprised. Still, she jumped, startled.
The man who stood in the doorway was utterly striking. He was tall and dressed in dark blue with contrasting crisp white linen. He was African—or, no, probably not that, Camilla amended, thinking of his voice.
He’d sounded very British. Just two words, and she could hear a hint of West Country i
n his accent. Those vowels reminded her of the years she’d spent in Bath when she was fifteen. The other girls had laughed at her then, saying Camilla was putting on airs with her language. She had tried to sound like them. When Camilla had been dragged to the other side of the country after that, her new compatriots had laughed at her and told her she sounded like a country bumpkin.
This man just sounded friendly. He was watching her with a smile.