Sometimes, Rector Miles spoke of the conflict between good and evil as if an angel and a devil stood, one on each shoulder, whispering suggestions. For whatever reason, Camilla had been assigned an entire regiment of devils. And her angel was—at best—defective. Still, it tried its best.
“There will always be people who donate to the church,” Bishop Lassiter was saying. “They’ll do so loudly, to appear virtuous to those around them. Mrs. Martin is no different. Trouble is always possible, but we should handle her as we have all the others.”
It was sobering. Camilla had to find her virtue elsewhere—in overheard conversations, perhaps. Camilla laid the scones in a straight line and made sure the jam and clotted cream had not spilled from their containers.
Trouble was always possible, and here she was, trying to justify her choices once again.
“But,” Rector Miles said, “she’s demanding—”
“Don’t give in.”
That was what Camilla had to remember. Her first impulse was wicked; her second no better. She usually didn’t start questioning if she was on the right path until ten minutes later, when she’d already made a fool of herself. At least now she was questioning what she was doing, even if it took her some time. That was improvement, was it not? She had just met Mr. Hunter. She had no business flirting with him.
One last check of the little cakes, and she nodded.
“We have official policy in place precisely for times such as these,” Bishop Lassiter said. “We cannot disclose the information she requests for reasons of parishioner privacy. It’s that simple.”
Camilla set the tray of sandwiches in front of the men with a flourish.
Bishop Lassiter stared at the silver tray, at the attractive display of sandwiches, then raised his head to contemplate her. He blinked and frowned, as if seeing her for the first time. “Girl. What are you doing here?”
“Me?” Camilla had thought that putting out tea things was self-explanatory. “Sandwiches, Your Grace?”
“She’s just laying out the tea, Lassiter,” Rector Miles said.
The bishop glared at Camilla as if she’d done something terribly wrong. As if he could intuit the legion of demons on her shoulder, urging her on to sin.
Oh look, whispered one of those demons. Here’s a man you have no inclination to flirt with. How bad can you be?
Horrible. She was absolutely horrible. Camilla ducked her head to hide her wicked smile. “My apologies.”
“Camilla,” Rector Miles said, a little harshly. “I think you have enough to do without dawdling over the scones. Get on with you.”
“Yes. Of course.” She curtsied again, then darted away. Stupid devils. She was going to be good, so good.
All she had to do was not flirt for the next few days. How hard could that be?
* * *
The servants’ table at dinner was a crowded affair. It did not bring back Adrian’s happiest memories to be seated at benches belowstairs, the air smelling of onions and yeast, packed thigh-to-thigh with the other servants.
The looks the other servants gave him were all too familiar—uncertain at best, suspicious at worst. The questions were no better—where are you from?
The footman who asked was unwilling to accept Bristol as the answer, even though it was the truth.
The fact that Adrian was, essentially, lying about his family made the endeavor even more fraught. He had never been particularly good at lying. The faster Adrian figured out what Lassiter was about, the sooner he could drop this stupid disguise and get back to his life.
It was, as his uncle had said, something to do with money. He was sure of it now. It was always something to do with money. Money made idiots of men.
The money didn’t make sense in Rector Miles’s household, either, and that always set off little alarms ringing in his head. Two maids, a housekeeper, a cook, two footmen—that was an utterly massive staff for a single widowed rector. Then there was the china upstairs, the sheets—brand new everywhere, turned just once even for the servants, the food—
“My apologies,” the cook was saying, “it’s nothing but potatoes and cheese. We’d no notice of visitors, and this was the best I could manage.”
Who apologized for potatoes and cheese?
“I’ve had far worse,” Adrian said, “at far superior households.” True.
“Well,” muttered one of the rector’s servants, “that’s no surprise, as—”
The woman he’d met earlier—Miss Winters—thumped the man on the arm with a metal spoon. “Don’t be an ass, Salton.”
The cook gave Miss Winters a slightly less casual tap with her spoon. “Don’t use language like that, Camilla. Not around guests. Whatever will the bishop’s men think of us?”
Adrian had made it a point to settle on the bench just opposite the delightful Miss Winters. She was pretty—dark hair that he suspected would fall in waves if she ever let it down from that white cap, and eyes that twinkled even though she was trying to look demure. She even had a little color to her skin, as if she weren’t afraid of sun.
He would have sat near her even if he wasn’t searching for information. As it was, she’d proven talkative earlier, and gossip was the best place to start.
“I mean it,” Adrian said, shifting in place. “I’ve visited deans who set a worse table, and who had not so fine a staff. You must all be very proud.”
Gossip was a delicate business, and Adrian didn’t usually indulge. Still, even the most loyal, closed-mouthed servants, the ones who would never speak an ill word, would not hesitate to boast of their employer out of pride. Wouldn’t they?
“It’s because Camilla is half-price,” said a maid across the table from him. “She’s inexpensive because—”
Miss Winters flushed red and jabbed an elbow into the woman’s side. “Kitty!”
“The rector came into a little money some years back,” the cook said. “His aunt or some such? I hadn’t the details, but he’s able to do the household proud, far beyond a rector’s means.”
Maybe the answer was just that prosaic.
Adrian doubted it.
He probed a little deeper. “Certainly there’s no need for apologies as to the fare. Why, the bishop received a telegram just yesterday and rushed here immediately. You must have had no notice to speak of.”
“None,” moaned the woman who had been called Kitty. She was willow-thin and white-capped, and half again as old as Miss Winters. “We had no idea you were coming until everyone arrived just after noon.”
“I wonder what all the commotion could be about,” Adrian said, hoping he sounded idly curious. “What could occasion such a swift arrival?”
“Well, if anyone knows, it’s Camilla,” Kitty said. “She brings the rector his tea because her soul is most in need of his prayers.”
Miss Winters’s eyes narrowed. She bit her lip, looked at Adrian, and blushed. Then she shook her head and applied herself to her potato. “In this instance, I know nothing.”
He was getting quite the idea of Miss Winters. He could just imagine. She was young enough that she should have had a family to pray for her soul, not a rector who employed her at…half-price, had they said? Likely she was an orphan being taught a trade—so they would say—and she was told to be grateful for anything she could get. Her parents had no doubt been in debt or some such and her employment—at half-wages, good lord—had been presented to her as charity, not avarice. Adrian had seen it often enough.
Alas, this was business as usual, not a scandal—and even if it had been a scandal, it was the rector’s, not Lassiter’s. Adrian wasn’t here to convince maids to demand a full salary.
“You may not know, Miss Winters,” he said to her across the table, “but perhaps you would speculate. I imagine you’re good at piecing together a story.”
Their eyes met over the table and Miss Winters flushed again.
Adrian had pegged her about a minute after meeting her. She was young enough to still have drea
ms, and lonely enough that she’d attach them to anyone who was kind to her. A smile, a slight hint of preference, and she’d tell him anything he asked.
Her eyes met his. There was a hopeless glow in them. She licked her lips, as if she had suddenly become aware of her mouth.
Adrian tried not to think of his in return. She seemed susceptible enough to kindness, and he didn’t need complications. He was bad at lying, as it was—if he let himself think too much about how pretty she was, his preference would show. He didn’t need to make her feel uncomfortable.
But Miss Winters, blush and all, just shook her head and looked away, smoothing her skirts. “No,” she said quietly. “I could speculate, but I shouldn’t. I have nothing interesting to add.”
“Good for you,” the cook said. “You don’t want to be Half-Price Camilla forever, do you?”
Her eyes flashed. My God, that appellation. Half-Price Camilla? Adrian knew too well how unkind servants could be. Those who had little always wanted to shout to the rooftops that someone else had less.
He’d been put in his place often enough that he knew what it looked like.
He could track her rebellion by the pink splotches rising on her neck, the thinning of her lips, the way her shoulder blades drew up, tight and full of tension.
He almost thought she would burst with the effort of holding in her response.
But she didn’t. That light in her eyes faltered; she looked down and took another bite.
Ah. Damn. Adrian had met people—men and women—who had had their hopes crushed right out of them. He’d known youths who still had their heads in the clouds.
This was the first time he’d seen someone in the process of getting crushed.
You know, he thought idly, perhaps it would not hurt if I said a word to her… But no. He had so much to do as it was. He needed to be back at Harvil within a week. Sooner would be better.
It rubbed him the wrong way to stay silent, but this entire endeavor rubbed him the wrong way. She couldn’t be his concern. Either she had useful information or she didn’t.