The point rattled Cam. He had always tried to ignore the gadjo half of his nature, lugging it around like some oversized piece of baggage he would have liked to set aside but for which he could never find a convenient place.
"If your point is that I'm damned whatever I do," Cam said tersely, "I'd rather err on the side of being free."
"All men of intelligence must eventually give up their freedom," St. Vincent replied. "The problem with bachelorhood is that it's far too easy, which makes it tedious. The only real challenge left is marriage."
Marriage. Respectability. Cam regarded his companions with a skeptical smile, thinking they resembled a pair of birds trying to convince themselves of how comfortable their cage was. No woman was worth having his wings clipped.
"I'm leaving for London tomorrow," he said. "I'll stay at the club until it reopens. After that I'll be gone for good."
St. Vincent's clever mind circumvented the problem, analyzing it from various angles. "Rohan... you've led a more or less civilized existence for years, and yet suddenly it has become intolerable. Why?"
Cam remained silent. The truth was not something he was readily able to admit to himself, let alone say aloud.
"There has to be some reason you want to leave," St. Vincent persisted.
"Perhaps I'm off the mark," Westcliff said, "but I suspect it may have something to do with Miss Hathaway."
Cam sent him a damning glare.
St. Vincent looked alertly from Cam's stony face to Westcliff's. "You didn't tell me there was a woman."
Cam stood so quickly the chair nearly toppled backward. "She has nothing to do with it."
"Who is she?" St. Vincent always hated being left out of gossip.
"One of Lord Ramsay's sisters," came Westcliff's reply. "They reside at the estate next door."
"Well, well," St. Vincent said. "She must be quite something to provoke such a reaction in you, Rohan. Tell me about her. Is she fair? Dark? Well formed?"
To remain silent, or to deny the attraction, would have been to admit the full extent of his weakness. Cam lowered back into his chair and strove for an offhand tone. "Dark-haired. Pretty. And she has?quirks."
"Quirks." St. Vincent's eyes glinted with enjoyment. "How charming. Go on."
"She's read obscure medieval philosophy. She's afraid of bees. Her foot taps when she's nervous." And other, more personal things he couldn't reveal?like the beautiful paleness of her throat and chest, the weight of her hair in his hands, the way strength and vulnerability were pleated inside her like two pieces of fabric folded together. Not to mention a body that had been designed for mortal sin.
Cam didn't want to think about Amelia. Every time he did, he was swamped with a feeling he'd never known before, something as acute as pain, as pervasive as hunger. The feeling seemed to have no purpose other than to rob him of sleep at night. There wasn't one millimeter of Amelia Hathaway that didn't attract him profoundly, and that was a problem so far outside his experience, he didn't begin to know how to address it.
If only he could take her, ease this endless ache... but having lain with her once, he might want her even more afterward. In mathematics, one could take a finite figure and divide its content infinitely, with the result that even though the content was unchanged, the magnitude of its bounds went on forever. Potential infinity. It was the first time Cam had ever comprehended the concept in the form of a woman. Aware that Westcliff and St. Vincent had exchanged a significant glance, Cam said sourly, "If you're assuming that my plans to leave are nothing more than a reaction to Miss Hathaway... I've been considering this for a long time. I'm not an idiot. Nor am I inexperienced with women."
"To say the least," St. Vincent commented dryly. "But in your pursuit of women—or perhaps I should say their pursuit of you—you seem to have regarded them all as interchangeable. Until now. If you are taken with this Hathaway creature, don't you think it bears investigating?"
"God, no. There's only one thing it could lead to."
"Marriage," the viscount said rather than asked.
"Yes. And that's impossible."
"Why?"
The fact that they were discussing Amelia Hathaway and the subject of marriage was enough to make Cam blanch in discomfort. "I'm not the marrying kind?
St. Vincent snorted. "No man is. Marriage is a female invention."
"—but even if I were so inclined," Cam continued, "I'm a Roma. I wouldn't do that to her."
There was no need to elucidate. Decent gadjis didn't marry Gypsies. His blood was mixed, and even though Amelia herself might harbor no prejudices, the routine discriminations Cam encountered would certainly extend to his wife and children. And if that wasn't bad enough, his own people would be even more disapproving of the match. Gadje Gadjensa, Rom Romensa?Gadje with Gadje, Roma with Roma.
"What if your heritage made no difference to her?" Westcliff asked quietly.
"That's not the point. It's how others would view her." Seeing that the older man was about to argue, Cam murmured, "Tell me, would either of you wish your daughter to marry a Gypsy?" In the face of their discomforted silence, he smiled without amusement.
After a moment, Westcliff stubbed out his cigar in a deliberate, methodical fashion. "Obviously you've made up your mind. Further debate would be pointless."
St. Vincent followed his lead with a resigned shrug and a facile smile. "I suppose now I'm obliged to wish you happiness in your new life. Although happiness in the absence of indoor plumbing is a debatable concept."
Cam was undeceived by the show of resignation. He had never known Westcliff or St. Vincent to lose an argument easily. Each, in his own way, would hold his ground long after the average man would have collapsed to his knees. Which made Cam fairly certain he hadn't heard the last word from either of them yet.
"I'm leaving at dawn," was all he said.
Nothing could change his mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Beatrix, whose imagination had been captured by the magic lantern, could hardly wait for evening to come so she could view the selection of glass slides again. Many of the images were quite amusing, featuring animals wearing human clothes as they played piano or sat at writing desks or stirred soup in a pot.
Other slides were more sentimental; a train passing through a village square, winter scenes, children at play. There were even a few scenes of exotic animals in the jungle. One of them, a tiger half-hidden in leaves, was particularly striking. Beatrix had experimented with the lantern, moving it closer to the wall then farther away, trying to make the tiger's image as distinct as possible.
Now Beatrix had taken to the idea of writing a story, recruiting Poppy to paint some accompanying slides. It was decided they would put on a show someday, with Beatrix narrating while Poppy operated the magic lantern.
As her younger sisters lounged by the hearth and discussed their ideas, Amelia sat with Win on the settee. She watched Win's slender, graceful hands as she embroidered a delicate floral pattern, the needle flashing as it dove through the cloth.
At the moment, her brother was lolling on the carpet near the girls, slouched and half-drunk, his long legs crossed native-fashion. Once he had been a kind and caring older brother, sympathetically bandaging one of the children's hurt fingers, or helping to look for a lost doll. Now he treated his younger sisters with the polite indifference of a stranger.
Absently Amelia reached up to rub the pinched muscles at the back of her neck. She glanced at Merripen as he sat in the corner of the room, every line of his body lax with the exhaustion of heavy labor. His gaze was distant as if he, too, were consumed with private thoughts. It troubled her to look at him. The rich hue of his skin, the shiny appleseed-darkness of his hair, reminded her too much of Cam Rohan.
She couldn't seem to stop thinking about him this evening, and also Christopher Frost, the images forming ajarring contrast in her mind. Cam offered no commitment, no future, only the pleasures of the moment. He was not a gentleman, but he possessed a ruthless honesty that she appreciated far more than smooth manners.
And then there was fair-haired, civilized, reasonable, handsome Christopher. He had professed a desire to renew their relationship. She had no idea if he was sincere, or how she would respond if it turned out he was. How many women would have been grateful for a second chance with their first love? If she chose to overlook his past mistake and forgive him, encourage him, it might not be too late for the two of them. But she wasn't certain she wanted to resume all those abandoned dreams. And she wondered if it was possible to be happy with a man one loved but didn't trust.
Beatrix pulled a glass slide from the front of the lamp casing, laid it aside carefully, and reached for another. "This one's my favorite? she was saying to Poppy, as she slid the next image in place.
Having lost interest in the succession of pictures on the wall, Amelia did not look up. Her attention remained on Win's embroidering. But Win made an uncharacteristic slip, the needle jabbing into the soft flesh of her forefinger. A scarlet drop of blood welled.
"Oh, Win? Amelia murmured.
Win, however, didn't react to the pinprick. She didn't even seem to have noticed it. Frowning, Amelia glanced at her sister's still face and followed her gaze to the opposite wall.
The image cast by the magic lantern was a winter scene, with a snow-blurred sky and the dark cache of forest beneath. It would have been an unremarkable scene, except for the delicate outline of a woman's face that seemed to emerge from the shadows.
A familiar face.
As Amelia stared, transfixed, the spectral features seemed to gain dimension and substance until it seemed almost as if she could reach out and shape her fingers against the waxing contours.
"Laura," she heard Win breathe.
It was the girl Leo had loved. The face was unmistakable. Amelia's first coherent thought was that Beatrix and Poppy must be playing some horrid joke. But as she looked at the pair on the floor, chatting together innocently, she perceived at once that they didn't even see the dead girl's image. Nor did Merripen, who was watching Win with a questioning frown.
By the time Amelia's gaze shot once more to the projection, the face had disappeared.
Beatrix pulled the slide from the magic lantern. She fell back with a little cry as Leo charged toward her and made a grab for the slide.
"Give it to me," Leo said, more an animal growl than a human voice. His face was blanched and contorted, his body knotted with panic. He hunched over the little piece of painted glass and stared through it as if it were a tiny window into hell. Fumbling with the magic lantern, Leo nearly overset it as he tried to jam the slide back in.
"Don't, you'll break it!" Beatrix cried in bewilderment. "Leo, what are you doing?"
"Leo," Amelia managed to say, "you'll cause a fire. Careful."
"What is it?" Poppy demanded, looking bewildered. "What's happening?"
The glass fell into place, and the winter scene flickered on the wall once more.
Snow, sky, forest.
Nothing else.
"Come back," Leo muttered feverishly, rattling the lantern. "Come back. Come back."
"You're frightening me, Leo," Beatrix accused, hopping up and speeding to Amelia. "What's the matter with him?"
"Leo's foxed, that's all." Amelia said distractedly. "You know how he is when he's had too much to drink."
"He's never been like this before."
"It's time for bed," Win remarked. Worry seeped through her voice like a watermark on fine paper. "Let's go upstairs, Beatrix?Poppy? She glanced at Merripen, who stood at once.
"But Leo's going to break my lantern," Beatrix exclaimed. "Leo, do stop, you're bending the sides!"
Since their brother was apparently beyond hearing or comprehension, Win and Merripen efficiently whisked the younger girls from the room. A questioning murmur from Merripen, and Win replied softly that she would explain in a moment.
When everyone had gone and the sounds of voices had faded from the hallway, Amelia spoke carefully.
"I saw her, too, Leo. So did Win."
Her brother didn't look at her, but his hands stilled on the lantern. After a moment he removed the slide and put it back in again. His hands were shaking. The sight of such raw misery was difficult to bear. Amelia stood and approached him. "Leo, please talk to me. Please?
"Leave me alone." He half shielded his face from her regard, palm turned outward.
"Someone has to stay with you." The room was getting colder. A tremor began at the top of Amelia's spine and worked downward.
"I'm fine." A few stunted breaths. With a titanic effort Leo lowered his hand and stared at her with strange light eyes. "I'm fine, Amelia. I just need ... I want... a little time alone."
"But I want to talk about what we saw right in front of us."
"It was nothing." He was sounding calmer by the second. "It was an illusion."
"It was Laura's face. You and Win and I all saw it!"
"We all saw the same shadow." The barest hint of wry amusement edged his lips. "Come, sis, you're too rational to believe in ghosts."
"Yes, but? She was reassured by the familiar mockery in his tone. And yet she didn't like the way he kept one hand on the lamp.
"Go on," he urged gently. "As you said, it's late. You need to rest. I'll be all right."
Amelia hesitated, her arms chilled and stinging beneath the sleeves of her gown. "If you really want?
"Yes. Go on."
She did, reluctantly. A draft from somewhere seemed to rush past her as she left the room. She hadn't intended to close the door fully, but it snapped shut like the jaws of a hungry animal.
It was difficult to make herself walk away. She wanted to protect her brother from something. She just didn't know what it was. After reaching her room, Amelia changed into her favorite nightgown. The white flannel was thick and shrunken from many washings, the high collar and long sleeves textured with white-work embroidery that Win had done. The chill she had taken downstairs was slow to fade, even after she had crawled beneath the bedclothes and curled tightly into a ball. She should have thought to light a fire at the hearth. She should do it now, to make the room warmer, but the idea of climbing out of bed was not appealing in the least.