Page 90 of Yielding to Love

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

Crispin yelped, and Camellia laughed. That same throaty laugh he remembered. It was good to hear.

They were sitting in the conservatory, a well-maintained indoor garden filled with greenery, but at that time, no flowers. No blooms to drown out the light scent of lilacs. Sunlight streamed through the windows. This strange feeling must be contentment. They passed the novel back and forth, taking turns as their voices tired.

“She seems to have modeled Darcy after Jasper,” he mused, after finishing one of the chapters. Seeing her surprise, he laughed and said, “You’ll have to meet him. You’ll see what I mean.”

“I have.”

“You have what?”

“I’ve met the earl. And your comparison seems apt. He came to take Mr. Diakos away to care for your great aunt. I’ll admit I was quite angry. I do think Neville’s final decline began when Mr. Diakos left.”

Their great aunt? She was as robust as a draft horse. Crispin didn’t know whether to appreciate Jasper’s discretion or to be angry he’d lied. And now, he must confess. “He did not fetch Adam for our aunt. He brought him to London to care for me. I didn’t ask it. He took it upon himself.”

“Oh!” Camellia flushed. Then grew pensive. “I suppose I should have put two and two together. Well, then, I can’t be angry with the earl anymore. Of course he came for Mr. Diakos.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” She sighed. “In truth, Neville was dying since Vitoria.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Crispin tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. A question was working its way through his brain. If Jasper hadn’t claimed Adam by saying Crispin needed him, how had Camellia known he’d been ill?

“Camellia, who told you I was sick?” He tried to make the question sound casual, but her eyes widened with alarm, leading him to demand, “Was it Hazard?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Don’t be angry. It shouldn’t matter.”

Of course it mattered. “Who?”

“Your porter. He isn’t working for you anymore. Please don’t make trouble for him.”

“James?” He wouldn’t have thought the man would be loose-lipped. But then… “He was never my servant. He was Hazard’s spy.” He paused, glancing around at the potted bushes as if he expected to see the footman lurking behind them. “When Adam came to London, James went back to Hazard and Alice.” Which explained nothing. “Why, how, did he tell you?”

“I came upon him by accident. At a charity event that Alice attended. He saw me and guilt prompted him to tell me you didn’t read my letter. Please don’t fault him.”

“Lud.” A damning memory returned to him. He ran a hand over his brow. “I told him to burn it, didn’t I?”

“Apparently.”

“What a blackguard I am.”

“You aren’t. James said you were deathly ill and…”

“And?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “Drugged with laudanum.”

All his worst secrets, spilled. He couldn’t sit still, so he got to his feet and began pacing between flowerpots. She was watching him with a curious, concerned expression. “I hate the drug. I hate taking it.” He coughed. Choking on his words. If he owed anyone the truth, it was Camellia, but he would almost rather she believed him to be a blackguard. Now she would know he was weak. “Ever since I was a child, a schoolboy, I’ve been sickly. Scrawny. My parents brought in physician after physician. They never could figure out what was wrong.”

“Sickly? How?”

“Dyspepsia. Poor appetite. Aches in my bones. Flux.” He grimaced. What an inappropriate conversation to have with a lady. “There have always been things I wouldn’t eat, instinctually, from childhood, but even with avoiding things that I knew made me feel awful, my health fluctuated. And from time to time, it got very bad. It gets very bad, and I never know why.” Then he sniffed. “That isn’t true. Sometimes I do know why.”

He tried to distance himself from his narrative, explaining as if he was speaking of someone else. A sorry creature who had come close to dying while studying at Oxford, then decided he should perish on a battlefield so that his death might mean something. He discovered he did better in the army where no one pressed food upon him, or cared what he ate, or even whether he ate. Then he met Adam. And since then, he’d been trying, systematically, to find out what he could eat and what he could not.

What he couldn’t confess was how Adam’s theorizing and battle plan had given him hope. He’d never had control over his own body, but Adam made him believe it might be possible. Except it was so damned hard.

She said, “I would not have guessed that you were ‘sickly’ when we met. Of course, you were particular about food, but you never seemed ill.”