Page 29 of Private Arrangements
“Von Schweppenburg!” the countess exclaimed. “There, that's it! Haven't quite lost all my marbles after all.”
“Von Schweppenburg?” He'd accidentally electrocuted himself once during an experiment at the Polytechnique. He felt exactly the same shock in his fingertips now. “You mean Count Georg von Schweppenburg's widow?”
“Dear me, not quite that bad. His daughter. Theodora, that's her name, not Elenora, after all. Poor Alesha is quite smitten.”
Something droned in the back of his head, an incipient alarm that he tried to dismiss. Titles that had their origins during the Holy Roman Empire went on in perpetuity to all male issue. There could very well be another late Count Georg, from a lateral branch of the von Schweppenburg family, who had a marriageable daughter named Theodora.
But what were the chances? No, they were speaking ofhisTheodora here, the one whose happiness he had once hoped to secure. But how? How could she marry two men in one month? The simple answer was that she couldn't. Either the countess was wrong or Theodora herself was wrong. A laughable choice, really. Of course Theodora would know the name of the man she was going to marry. The countess had to be mistaken.
“I met her years ago, when we were in Peters,” he said carefully. “I thought she married some Polish prince.”
The countess snorted. “Now, wouldn't that be interesting, a real live bigamist? Unfortunately, I've no hope for it. According to Alesha, his intended is as pure as the arctic ice field, with a mother who watches her every move. You must be mistaken, my boy.”
The clamor in his head escalated. He poured a goblet full of the digestif and downed it in one long gulp. The cognac at the base of the liqueur burned in his throat, but the sensation barely registered.
“It's only two o'clock in the afternoon. A bit early to be doing your last bout of bachelor drinking, eh?” cackled Aunt Ploni. “Not getting cold feet, are you?”
He wouldn't know if his feet were cold. He couldn't feel any of his limbs. The only thing he felt was confusion and a rising sense of peril, as if the solid ground beneath him had suddenly splintered, cracking dark webs of fissure and fracture as far as he could see.
He rose and bowed to the countess. “Hardly. But I do beg your pardon, noble cousin. There is a small matter that requires my attention. I hope to see you again at dinner.”
Camden couldn't think any better away from the drawing room. He wandered the silent, drafty corridors as bits and pieces of what Aunt Ploni had said streaked about in his head like panicky hens facing a weasel invasion.
He didn't exactly understand why, but he was scared witless. What frightened him most was that he knew, deep in his guts, that Aunt Ploni had not been mistaken.
At a turn in the hallway, near the front of the house, he bumped right into a young footman carrying a tray of letters. “Beg your pardon, milord!” the footman apologized immediately, and got down on all fours to retrieve the scattered missives.
As the footman gathered up the letters, Camden saw two addressed to him. He recognized the handwriting of his friends. The new university term had already started; they must be wondering why he hadn't returned yet. He had not informed his classmates of his upcoming marriage—he and Gigi had decided to throw a surprise reception in Paris, in the spacious apartment her agent had located for them on Montagne Sainte Geneviève in the Quartier Latin, a stone's throw from his classes. A few essential items of furnishing had already been set up at the apartment, where a cook and a maid had also taken up residence in preparation for their arrival.
He held out his hand for the tray. “I'll take them, Elwood.”
Elwood looked baffled. “But, sir, Mr. Beckett said all letters must go to him first, so he could sort them out.”
“Since when?”
“Since right about Christmas last, sir. Mr. Beckett said His Grace didn't like too many letters begging him for charity.”
What?Camden almost said the word aloud. His father had never met a beggar for whom he didn't have a coin to spare. It was his very softheartedness that had in part made them paupers.
An appalling suspicion was beginning to coalesce in Camden's mind. He wanted to bat it away with something heavy and powerful—a club, a mace—to disperse the filaments of deductions and inferences that threatened to choke his perfect contentment. He wanted to forget what he had heard about the majordomo just now, ignore the clamor in his head that had risen to a screaming siren, and pretend that everything was exactly as it should be.
Tomorrow he was getting married. He couldn't wait to sleep with that girl. He couldn't wait to wake up next to her every day, bask in her adoration, and delight in her verve.
“Very well, take these to Beckett,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Camden watched the footman march down the hallway.Let him go. Let him go. Don't ask questions. Don't think. Don't probe.
“Wait,” he commanded.
Elwood turned around obediently. “Yes, sir?”
“Tell Beckett I would like to see him in my apartment in fifteen minutes.”
Chapter Eleven
22 May 1893
