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He sighed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Chapter Ten
“Follow my lead,” Mr. Hunter said in the carriage on the way over. “Just go along with what I say, and it will all work out.”
Camilla considered—for a moment—not saying anything. Then she remembered that this was her life, too. She sighed. “Mr. Hunter, you said that when we were going to the inn. You told everyone I was a governess who had become lost, and then everyone discovered it was a lie. I was humiliated.”
Mr. Hunter glanced at his reins. He looked over at her. His nostrils flared. “That was then,” he explained. “This is now. I’ve had more time to think of a story. This one will be better.”
“Oh,” Camilla said, “I suppose…maybe…it will?” She’d tried to keep the doubt out of her voice, but apparently she failed. His nose twitched in annoyance.
“Look here,” he said, “I pretended to be a valet for an entire week and nobody suspected a thing.”
“Didn’t they?”
“Well, not much. I didn’t pretend to be a competent valet. That helped a great deal.”
“Well, in that case.” Camilla gave up. It was his idea to get the annulment, after all. “I’ll leave it to you and your particular brand of incompetence.”
When they arrived a half-hour later, though, she regretted not pushing the matter.
“No.” The elderly woman who swept into the room did not bother to introduce herself, nor to inquire after their purpose. She just stood in the doorway of the parlor, leaning on her cane, glaring at them from underneath a white frilly cap. “Under no circumstances. No. Good-bye.”
It took Camilla a moment to recover from the surprise. She’d thought, after Mrs. Martin’s slightly less elderly servant had shown them into the parlor and allowed them to sit down, that they might perhaps be received. Apparently not.
“Might we not put the question to you before you decide to reject it?” Mr. Hunter asked.
Mrs. Martin—at least, Camilla supposed it was her—rolled her eyes. Her shoulders drew up, shortening what was otherwise a ridiculously long neck.
The pause was of short duration. She tilted her head. “No need. I know what you want—my donation to some charitable cause that will benefit the least fortunate among us, et cetera and so forth. My thank-God-now-deceased husband crassly trumpeted the size of his fortune to all and sundry. You have heard, no doubt, my proclamation of a year past, that my disgrace of a nephew would receive not one penny from my hand, and you have thought that you, too, would try your luck.” She turned back to them. “Go. Shoo. Tell all the gossipmongers. It’s too late; I’ve learned my lesson.”
Camilla blinked. “Oh. But we aren’t here to—”
“I will never give another pound to anyone’s supposed charity project. I tried; it was no good. I plan to spend every last penny on myself in ways that will send me straight to hell, before I kick off this mortal coil. If I have to spend it on pretty young things to keep me company, so be it. Bring on the pretty youths.”
Camilla couldn’t help herself. She almost smiled.
The woman glanced at the two of them—dismissively, at first, and then, as if taken aback, giving them both a longer, more searching gaze. “You’re pretty enough. I don’t know why you’re here.”
Mr. Hunter coughed into his glove. “Mrs. Martin, you’ve utterly mistaken our purpose.” When he spoke, there was yet another difference to his voice—a change in his vowels, an alteration in the rhythm of his speech. Camilla tried not to startle.
“We are not here to ask you for charity or to solicit any other sort of favors. Let me introduce myself. I am acquainted with a wealthy, prominent family from the old Yoruba kingdom.” As he spoke, his eyes slid away from them, finding an unoccupied corner of the room.
Mrs. Martin blinked rapidly. So did Camilla.
“Mrs. Winters here,” he said, gesturing to Camilla, “is a woman of good family who has been advising me on the necessary social etiquette of Britain. I fear that her kind lessons are falling on deaf ears; please do not hold her in low esteem for my failings. I wish you very well, of course, in all your endeavors. Including your spending habits.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Martin tilted her head and looked at him. “You are likely lying, and I’m too old to be taken in. But it is a nice story.” She glanced at Camilla, and her eyes softened. “You’re too pretty to fall into this sort of scheme, dear. You should know—men who lie never change. If you’re looking for work after this man cheats you, too, do consider coming to see me.”
Camilla choked.
“But do go on,” Mrs. Martin said. “It’s a new lie, at least, and at my age, you don’t often see new things.”
Mr. Hunter seemed taken aback, but he continued. “I have been in Britain for the last four months, and I am astonished by the depths of poverty that I have seen in your country. I had thought to make some donation to a cause, to alleviate the situation of your unfortunates. I heard that you had given money to the parish, and thought it sounded like as good a way as any to offer my assistance.”
Mrs. Martin clapped her hands. “Oh, that’s good, that’s good!”
Camilla stared at her. “It…is?”
“I know how this one goes now! You have access to princely funds, but you just need someone to make the donation on your behalf. You’ll give me a bank draft for my troubles or some such. Right?”
“No!” Mr. Hunter shook his head. “No, we were just going to ask you about your experience donating to the charity fund Rector Miles set up in your name.”
Mrs. Martin recoiled as if from a spider. No, Camilla realized, not that. In this scenario, Mrs. Martin likely was the spider; she was just recoiling. Her lips curled in a gesture of extreme distaste.
“Urgh,” she said. “That’s a terrible deception. I don’t see how you make money at all that way.”
“We don’t!” Mr. Hunter threw his hands up in exasperation.
“Well, you are the worst pair of fraudsters ever to grace my doorstep,” Mrs. Martin said. “You need to practice your swindle—this one is dreadful. The absolute worst I’ve ever heard, and I’ve encountered a lot of them. Dear God, I have never heard such a pair of rank amateurs.”
Mr. Hunter sighed. “Of course we sound like incompetent f
raudsters. It is because we are not fraudsters at all.”
“Well, you are not telling the truth.”
“Yes,” Adrian said, “technically, I am—that is, I do know someone who has ties to Yoruba, I suppose, broadly speaking? And also, I do donate money to charity.”
He trailed off as Mrs. Martin shook her head, clucking her tongue. “You really are bad at this. If you have to put the word ‘technically’ in front of ‘the truth,’ you are not telling the truth. I don’t know what you’re after, but you won’t be getting it from me.”
Camilla sighed. Well, she’d left the matter to him. That hadn’t worked. Should she…?
Yes, she decided. It was time to intervene.
“Mrs. Martin,” Camilla said, “you’re right. We haven’t been honest with you.”
“Utterly shocking.” Mrs. Martin shook her head, singularly unshocked.
“Rector Miles found me eighteen months ago,” Camilla said. “I was in another household, and I had developed the unfortunate habit of kissing a footman named James.”
“Kissing.” Mrs. Martin scoffed. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“I, um—”
“Just call it what it is. Fucking. The word is fucking.”
Camilla felt herself turn bright red. She hid her face in her hands.
“I can hear it without combusting,” Mrs. Martin informed her. “I’m old. If my ears were going to fall off, they’d have done so years ago.”
“Rector Miles was worried about…the state of sin I was potentially dealing with.”
“By fu—”
“By kissing,” Camilla said, hurriedly. “Among other things that do not need to be detailed at length at this moment.”
“Have it your way.” Mrs. Martin sighed. “Children these days. So circumspect about everything.”
“Rector Miles offered to take me in. To provide me with spiritual instruction. He kindly offered me half wages for his trouble.”
“Hmm. And did he provide spiritual instruction?”
