Chapter 8

Eight

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Chesterfield, but are you alright?"

Owen gave himself a bit of a shake, which resulted in air returning to his lungs, and after drawing in a deep breath, he discovered that Camilla was no longer smiling at him, but watching him rather warily.

"I'm quite alright, Miss Pierpont. Why do you ask?" he finally managed to get out of his mouth.

"You were looking somewhat ... odd."

He settled back against the seat. "I suppose that was on account of you smiling at me."

"You found it odd that I would smile at you?"

"Well, after telling you I was offended, sure."

She blew out a breath. "Then I must beg your pardon yet again because I certainly wasn't amused over offending you. I was more along the lines of surprised by how I offended you, as well as taken aback by a realization that struck me from out of the blue."

"A realization?"

"Quite right, and one that has to do with you calling yourself a man."

He frowned. "I didn't realize that was in question."

Her lips immediately curved. "It's not, and I'm making a muddle of this, so before I make everything completely muddled, allow me to simply say this. You called yourself a man, but you're mistaken, because what I've just realized is that you're a gentleman in every sense of the word, and you should refer to yourself as that from this point forward."

"I've never claimed to be a gentleman because I'm lacking some basic gentlemanly manners."

"Just because you might be a little rough around the edges doesn't prevent you from being a gentleman, Mr. Chesterfield. The very idea that you refuse to accept money from a lady speaks volumes about your character, and know that I truly did not mean to offend you. That I apparently did so, whether unintentional or not, demands that I beg your pardon yet again."

Warmth began traveling up his neck to settle on his face, and unable to remember a time when anyone had made him blush, something that didn't seem very gentlemanly at all, Owen ducked his head and took to giving El Cid another scratch. "There's no need to apologize again, Miss Pierpont, although I can't help but wonder now if you actually know any gentlemen who'd take money from you?"

She opened her mouth, but before she could get more than an "Ah" out, Mr. Timken walked through the door of the Pullman car, the butler having made it a habit never to leave Camilla alone in Owen's company for more than ten minutes.

"Were you aware that Bernadette has set herself up with a makeshift business endeavor on this train?" was the first thing to come out of Mr. Timken's mouth as he took a seat, a distinctly disgruntled expression on his face.

"Lottie mentioned something about Bernadette styling a passenger's hair a few hours ago," Camilla returned. "However, I wasn't aware she charged that lady for her services."

"She didn't, but Bernadette apparently did such a good job with the chignon that other passengers began clamoring for her services. Evidently being a woman who can't pass up an opportunity to earn some extra money when it all but lands in her lap, Bernadette started charging fifty cents a style, increasing that amount if a lady wanted something more complicated than a chignon."

"And you're disgruntled because you disapprove of Bernadette's entrepreneurial spirit?" Camilla asked.

"She's being paid a very nice wage to attend to you, not every other lady on this train."

"I don't need any attending to right now," Camilla pointed out.

"It's the principle of the matter," Mr. Timken grumbled. "But enough about Bernadette. She's enough to give me an ulcer." He nodded to Camilla's notepad. "Have you developed a plan for Luella yet?"

"Unfortunately no, because Mr. Chesterfield has been somewhat sketchy with details regarding what Luella can do pertaining to feminine arts. He has, however, told me that his country house has a ballroom, and he believes Luella may know how to waltz. I also think we may have access to a piano, although I'm not sure about that since Luella set a dog to howling when she last used it." She returned her attention to Owen. "Speaking of waltzing, you haven't mentioned if you're capable of competently taking a few turns around a floor."

"And you need to know that because...?"

"Luella will need a partner."

"I thought you'd partner her."

"I'll certainly show her some steps, but if we have access to your piano, I'll be the one playing it. I'll also need to observe her from afar to be able to assess her skills. I'm sure you'll agree that the last thing we want is to arrive at that ball she's determined to attend and have her stumble about on the dance floor."

"I know how to waltz, although I've never been light on my feet, probably because of my size. Luella knows this, and I can guarantee that she'll balk at the idea of practicing with me."

"Perhaps we'll need to address that lightness-of-foot issue of yours while we're in the ballroom."

"I don't recall mentioning that I longed to resolve that issue."

"I can spot an unspoken cry for assistance a mile away," she said before she turned to Mr. Timken. "It seems I may need you on this trip for more than assuming the role of my chaperone, especially when you were the best dance instructor I ever had—unofficially, of course."

Mr. Timken settled back against the seat. "And while I would adore stepping into the role of dance instructor, my chaperoning duties must take precedence over everything else."

To Owen's surprise, Camilla rolled her eyes. "Should I assume that ridiculous response is a sign that you're still put out with me?"

"A proper butler never becomes put out with his employer."

Camilla's lips twitched before she turned to Owen. "Contrary to what you must be thinking, Mr. Timken is actually the most proper of butlers. However, because he practically raised me, I tend to share a more familiar relationship with him than most people share with members of their staff, hence the reason he doesn't hesitate to speak his mind with me."

"I was wondering about that," Owen admitted.

"Well, wonder no more, but may I assume your butler doesn't share his opinions with you?"

"I don't employ a butler, but any of the butlers I've encountered over the years when I visit business associates don't seem quite so ... opinionated."

"A direct result of Mr. Timken, as I said, having a very large hand in raising me."

"I would think your parents were responsible for that."

Camilla shook her head. "Parents within the Four Hundred have relatively little to do with their children, Mr. Chesterfield. They hire nannies and governesses to mind their offspring. However, after Mr. Timken caught one of my governesses reading to me in a monotone voice, he took over that job and read to me every night, even changing his voice for every character. He then took it upon himself to teach me things like how to swim or how to sail my toy boat in the small lake at Central Park. He also decided he would be the one to practice my dance steps with me after my dance instructors left for the day because he's more than light on his feet."

"And it gave us uninterrupted time to talk about each other's day," Mr. Timken added, settling a warm smile on Camilla, which she didn't hesitate to return.

Owen moved El Cid, who was currently in the process of trying to sharpen his claws against Owen's leg, to the seat beside him, garnering a disdainful look in the process, before he returned his attention to Camilla, taking a moment to consider everything she hadn't said.

It didn't take a genius to realize that, while she'd grown up in the lap of luxury, her life might have been a lonely one except for the fact that the family butler had stepped in to spend his time with a little girl who most people would have envied, but a little girl who'd obviously relished the attention she'd received, not from her family, but from a member of their staff.

"I've been trying to get Mr. Timken to allow me to call him Uncle Thaddeous, or at least Uncle Timken, for years," Camilla said, pulling Owen from his thoughts. "He, of course, has flatly refused to allow me to address him as anything other than Mr. Timken, but I'll eventually wear him down."

"You won't," Mr. Timken said.

"Of course I will," Camilla replied. "But before you argue with that, allow me to return the conversation to the topic of you assisting with some dance instruction. Will you help me?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"I would think that's obvious."

"Think again."

Mr. Timken shifted on the seat. "Oh very well, since I'm certain you're soon going to turn tenacious about the matter, to put it plainly, I'll agree to assist you if you'll tell me exactly why you made the rash decision to travel to Wheeling."

"I would think that obvious."

"And as you just told me—think again."

Camilla turned to Owen. "If you haven't realized this, there are occasional drawbacks to sharing such a close relationship with a member of your staff."

"Something you and I can agree upon since Mrs. O'Connel, our part-time housekeeper, once boxed my ears when I was ten after learning I'd snuck out of Sunday services to go fishing with my friends." Owen shook his head. "Because she'd known me since birth, she felt it was her place to make sure I never did that again."

Camilla's lips curved. "And did you?"

"Mrs. O'Connel has hands the size of meat cleavers. Of course I didn't."

Mr. Timken cleared his throat. "While learning your housekeeper has meat cleavers for hands is rather unsettling, if we may return to the topic at hand—that being why we're trundling ever closer to Wheeling." He arched a brow Camilla's way, to which she responded by lifting her chin.

"I already told you why we're going, because, did I or did I not mention that Lottie broached the matter of Victor Malvado, which left us wondering if perhaps she, not I, was the target of yesterday's abduction?"

"You did mention that," Mr. Timken admitted.

"Well, there you have it," Camilla said. "I thought it best to remove Lottie and myself from New York until the Accounting Firm has time to investigate the matter. And, besides that, Mr. Chesterfield did rescue me, and I might have decided it would be churlish to refuse him his small request."

"There's nothing small about what he's asked you to do, and while those sound like perfectly legitimate reasons for your decision, you should know that Bernadette told me you received a telegram, one you didn't mention a word about to me."

"I really should think about firing that woman because she's a bit loose with information," Camilla grumbled. "However, that telegram was simply from Gideon."

"What did he say?"

"He's returning from England in three weeks."

"Is that all he said?"

"It was a telegram. How much more could he have said?"

Mr. Timken crossed his arms over his chest. "The telegram I received from your father before we left the Hudson said quite a bit—most of it centered around the notion that he wanted you to remain in the house on the Hudson and await his arrival." He sent Camilla a knowing look. "Clearly that's not what you did, and since I'm now a collaborator in your flight from New York, I'm sure I'll soon find my position terminated and my elderly self cast out on the streets."

Camilla smiled. "Perhaps you, quite like Bernadette, have missed your calling on the stage, because that was drama at its finest. But you know Father isn't going to send you packing since he's well aware that I've occasionally disregarded his requests when I feel he's being unreasonable."

"The only time you've ever felt your father was being unreasonable was when you got yourself involved with Lord Shrewsbury."

"I prefer not to speak about that dreadful man."

"I'm sure you don't, but..." Mr. Timken's brow furrowed. "Didn't you just say Gideon's in England?"

"Ah..."

Mr. Timken sat forward. "I think I now understand exactly why we've made a mad dash from New York. Gideon sent you something about that scourge of a man who presents himself to the world as a noble aristocrat, didn't he?"

"Perhaps," Camilla murmured.

It was a one-word response that spoke volumes.

Before Owen could ask who the scourge was, or ask if this scourge was the real reason behind Camilla's decision to travel to Wheeling, the train began to slow and then squealed to a stop.

Ten minutes later, and after he'd gone about the tricky business of getting El Cid into his traveling basket, something the cat clearly didn't like since he'd immediately begun to hiss, Owen told Camilla, who was standing on the train platform, holding fast to Gladys's leash, to wait for him there until he could ascertain that their transportation was ready.

Stepping from the platform, with El Cid now yowling somewhat forlornly from the safe confines of his basket, Owen grinned when he caught sight of Edward Stevens, a manager at Chesterfield Nail Manufacturing, but more importantly, his best friend since primary school.

"I knew you'd be here," Owen said, covering the distance that separated them before shaking Edward's hand.

Edward gave him a clap on the back. "How could I not be here after you sent that telegram asking me to make arrangements for guests of yours?" He leaned closer. "You never have guests, nor have you ever asked me to arrange for security. Care to explain what's going on?"

Owen shifted El Cid's basket to his other hand and tried to ignore that the cat was now yowling in earnest. "I suppose guests isn't the proper way to describe them because they're more along the lines of a solution to Luella's situation, or at least one of them is—Miss Camilla Pierpont. The other people in her party are what one might consider her entourage." He glanced back to the platform, where Camilla was standing beside Mr. Timken. "That's Miss Pierpont over there."

Edward's gaze shifted to the platform, his eyes widening a second later. "That's some solution to Luella's situation, but where did you find her, and exactly how could a lady like that be a solution to Luella's current dilemma?"

"Miss Pierpont enjoys the reputation of being capable of rehabilitating young ladies with unfortunate reputations."

"She's a teacher?"

"Not exactly. She's a member of what the fancy folks in New York City call the Four Hundred, as well as considered one of the most fashionable upper-crust ladies to ever grace the social scene there."

Edward's brows drew together. "And she agreed to travel to Wheeling to help out a girl she's never met before?"

"She apparently suffers from boredom on a frequent basis."

"Helping Luella will certainly put an end to that, but..." Edward caught Owen's eye. "Dare I hope that Miss Pierpont isn't simply here to help with Luella, but, perhaps, has agreed to take on such a daunting task because the two of you have formed an ... attachment?"

Owen brushed that aside. "Please. A lady like Miss Pierpont would never be content with a man like me. She's practically royalty where she's from, and I'm merely a man who doesn't have a way with the ladies, as was proven recently by the trouble I encountered with Curtistine Longerbeam and Pauline Zavolta, two ladies who haven't been shy about telling everyone what an idiot I am."

"They're only telling everyone that because they were hoping to become Mrs. Owen Chesterfield and you weren't as keen as they were to see that come to fruition."

"I wasn't keen because I had no idea marriage was even on the table with either of them."

"An experience I'm sure won't happen again because it's happened to you twice now."

"I'm thinking it might be for the best if I simply avoid ladies for the foreseeable future," Owen admitted as Gladys suddenly began yipping, drawing his attention. She surged into motion a second later, her long, spindly legs eating up the ground as she headed his way, dragging Camilla behind her.

Owen thrust El Cid's basket into Edward's hand and strode to intercept Gladys, snagging hold of her collar and pulling her to a stop, which earned him an injured look from the poodle and a smile of relief from Camilla.

"I've never seen her move so fast," Camilla said as Edward walked up to join them, setting El Cid's basket down, which Gladys immediately began to nuzzle, causing El Cid to cease with the howling.

"And here I thought Gladys merely tolerated El Cid, but I may have been wrong about that," Camilla said before she turned her attention to Edward, smiled, then arched a brow Owen's way.

He fought a smile of his own. "It's amazing how proficient I'm becoming with deciphering your wiggling brows."

"My brows do not wiggle. They arch."

"It looks like wiggling to me, but since I doubt you want to engage in an argument right now, allow me to present Mr. Edward Stevens." He nodded to Edward, who was watching him with one of his brows quirked, although what that brow business was about was beyond him at the moment. "Edward, this is Miss Camilla Pierpont. Camilla, this is Mr. Edward Stevens, who manages Chesterfield Nails but has been a friend of mine for years."

Edward took hold of Camilla's gloved hand and pressed a kiss on it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Pierpont," Edward began. "Owen tells me you're here to assist Luella."

Camilla inclined her head. "It's delightful to meet you as well, Mr. Stevens, and yes, I am here on Luella's behalf, and hopefully, we'll enjoy some success with..." Her voice trailed off as if she wasn't certain how to phrase what she was hoping to enjoy success with.

"Transforming her from a ragamuffin into a polished, sophisticated young lady?" Edward finished for her.

Camilla arched another brow in Owen's direction. "I know you said your sister didn't embrace a fashionable attitude, but you didn't mention anything about a ragamuffin state, something that's completely different than being unfashionable."

"I would think ragamuffin and unfashionable are two peas in a pod."

"They're not, and given the wariness flickering through your eyes, you know they're not." She tilted her head. "Did you pur posefully withhold the ragamuffin business because you were concerned I wouldn't agree to take your sister in hand?"

Owen rubbed a hand over his chin. "That thought may have crossed my mind, although I figured, after you were actually on the train bound for Wheeling, that you probably wouldn't throw yourself out of the train if I got around to admitting that Luella may have recently begun abandoning expected grooming, er, protocols."

"And yet, even though you thought I wouldn't throw myself off the train, you never said a word about any of this, so explain what grooming practices she may have abandoned."

It really was amazing how downright sparky Camilla's eyes could get.

He refused a wince. "Well, she seems to have an aversion to combs at times, and ... perhaps an aversion to washing her face."

It was not an encouraging sign when an entire storm began brewing in Camilla's blue eyes, eyes he hadn't neglected to notice were rather compelling, but were now no longer sparky but flashing in a manner that suggested that the tempest currently brewing in them was just about to break.