The jealous footman had probably been caught with his ear to the keyhole, so had spilled the juicy details of this rendezvous to his employer, hoping for that reward she’d tantalized him with. She couldn’t argue with what her husband saw when he thrust the carriage lantern into the shop, however.
“And who are you? And why are you here in my wife’s dressmaking shop, when it’s obvious neither of you came here to sew?” Lord Bentley demanded.
“Wild oats, sir!” the footman piped up. “That’s Rubio Palladino, the famous medium, a man known for sowing wild oats amongst the gentry and—”
“And you,” Rubio cut in, pointing a finger at the cheeky footman, “will be taken to task for eavesdropping and running off at the mouth! You, lad, will soon be looking for employment elsewhere, the spirits tell me!”
Charlie’s eyes widened. He glanced around the dark shop as though expecting those spirits to pounce on him from the shadows, but Rutledge was unimpressed. “And do you know who you’re dealing with, Mr. Palladino? Besides the irate husband of the woman beside you, that is?”
The medium smiled politely and extended his hand. “I’m most honored to see you again, Lord Bentley. I can explain why I’ve been talking with your beloved Camille—”
“I’ve heard and seen enough, Palladino! My membership in the Society for Psychical Research has exposed me to all manner of fraudulence connected to mediums and Spiritualism,” he replied with a sneer, “and your name has come up in our meetings, I assure you! Why are you here? With my wife? Wearing nothing but a wrapper?”
Camille scowled. “I asked him to advise me about—”
“My studio is in this building, my lord, in the adjacent storefront, and I live above it. Next door to your wife’s seamstress, Alice.” Rubio stepped forward, directing his gaze at her husband’s unbecoming sneer as though to cast a spell…or to read Rutledge’s mind. “I lived here when you procured this building for LeChaud Soeurs, and my presence was no cause for alarm then. I should think you’d appreciate my protecting your dear wife from the likes of that untrustworthy footman who accompanied her. The way he talks about you, Lord Bentley, is most unflattering.”
Charlie’s gasp echoed in the high-ceilinged room. “You’ve got no call to insinuate—”
“Oh, enough!” Camille glared at Charlie and then Rubio and her husband. “I’ll obviously make no progress on the gowns I came to work on this evening, so I might as well return home.”
“The most sensible idea I’ve heard,” Rutledge muttered as he took her elbow. “You’ll be riding back with me, as any proper wife would. Good evening, Mr. Palladino. I advise you not to darken my wife’s door again! And you!” he barked at Charlie. “You shall return the brougham to the estate and collect your belongings! I’ll not tolerate such insubordination from an employee who should’ve notified me of my wife’s departure under such questionable circumstances!”
With that, Rutledge steered Camille unceremoniously out the door to the large black carriage parked behind the one she had commandeered. He allowed Manfred Sterne, his valet, to assist her into his carriage, closed its door, and then conferred with his manservant in animated whispers outside.
As she watched their gesticulating, Camille wondered why her husband had felt compelled to have the ferret-faced valet accompany him, rather than her sister—except that Manfred, in most ways, had been Lord Bentley’s closest confidant over the years. Certainly more informed of household matters and Rutledge’s personal preferences than she would ever be…and that was a telling detail about their marriage, wasn’t it? The men’s conversation concluded with knowing looks and laughter, yet another way to make her feel excluded, as though she were a mere ornament in Lord Bentley’s home. Once Manfred had swung up to ride with the driver, her husband landed on the opposite carriage seat with a whumph. The creases between his eyes suggested he was ready to resume their unpleasant discussion.
But Rutledge just looked at her. The brougham’s interior grew dark once they left the streets of London behind, but even when his deep-set eyes no longer caught the shine from the gaslights Camille felt the weight of his gaze. It was awkward, this silence, but she preferred it to the high-handed tone he’d used in the shop. And it was better than defending Rubio all the way home, or hearing her husband’s discourse on fraudulent mediums and the Society for Psychical Research. The way Lord Bentley saw it, anyone displaying unusual sensory perception of any kind was suspect, in this age when spirit sightings and séances were all the rage.
When they arrived at Briarcliffe, Camille prepared to scurry into the house ahead of him, but Rutledge had other ideas. “Because you insist on behaving like a child, I shall have to punish you like one,” he stated as the footman opened the door. His valet stood by, as well, wearing the conspiratorial grin she’d come to despise. “Manfred, call the family and the entire staff together in the music room. Ten minutes.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Camille’s pulse pounded in her ears. As the footman helped her down, she had the distinct impression Manfred had done this sort of thing before.
She yanked her elbow from her husband’s grasp, but he grabbed it again to usher her through the mansion’s double doors. Their footsteps echoed in an uneven rhythm as he marched her through the vestibule. “What the—what do you think you’re doing to me?” she demanded.
“I meant what I said, my dear. Those who disobey must be corrected…used as an example to all, lest anyone doubt my standards of behavior.”
What on earth did he mean by that? Camille thought back to their strained conversation at LeChaud Soeurs…to his insinuations about what she and Rubio Palladino had been doing there in the darkness. But what a silly idea, assuming the medium would take indecent liberties with her!
The lamps glimmered in the music room as servants hurriedly lit them to accommodate her husband’s whim. Soon their shine glowed on the surface of the grand piano and the harp, and reflected in the numerous mirrors, where she could watch the scullery maids and the new cook enter, along with Daisy and Mrs. Douthit, the stable hands, and the groundskeepers. Their expressions remained serious, yet the occasional twitch of a lip…the knowing glint in their eyes…told her they relished what was about to take place in this opulent room. Her husband settled his bulk in a large upholstered chair, leaving her to stand beside him while he still grasped her wrist.
“Remove your shoes.” His low voice carried around the room, silencing the onlookers.
Camille blinked. Something told her not to challenge him as her maid stepped dutifully through the crowd.
“Might I help you off with your pumps, milady?” Mrs. Douthit offered. Her steely gray hair matched her demeanor: efficient to a fault, she rarely expressed her opinions or emotions—which might explain why she’d remained in Lord Bentley’s employ longer than the rest of the staff.
Rutledge waved her away. “My wife will take full responsibility for her actions this evening,” he replied in a pedantic tone. He surveyed the growing audience, his smile widening at the sight of a disheveled Colette and her husband, Heath.
Camille’s cheeks flared. “What’s going on here?” she demanded beneath the buzz of voices. As she stepped out of one shoe and then the other, her toes curled instinctively in the rug, as though testing what grip they might have.
“Hand me one of your slippers, my dear. And then you will lean over
