Too Dangerous to Desire (15 page)

The mizzled chill grew sharper with every stride through the unlit alleyways. As did the fetid smells of the stews, an acrid reminder that he and Sophie lived in different worlds. He rubbed at his bristled jaw, all at once feeling weary beyond words.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged it,” quipped Sara as he entered her private office and flung off his oilskin cape. “Ye look like Hell. Have ye been on one of your little adventures?”

“You could call it that,” he grunted, massaging at the crick in his neck. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to help myself to the rest of your Scottish whisky. Put the bottle on Haddan’s bill.”

“It’s in the cabinet. Oh, and before I forget, a package arrived for ye yesterday.” With a flick of her pen, Sara indicated the sideboard by the entrance. “It’s over there.”

The item was wrapped in plain brown paper and bound with a twist of ordinary twine. Hardly the sort of thing that should strike terror in the heart of a hardbitten adventurer. And yet, Cameron felt a frisson of fear as he picked it up and caught sight of the spidery script.

It had been a long time—longer than he could remember—since he had received any communication from
that
person. Along with all the other trappings of his former life, the acquaintance had been left in the dust of the twisting Norfolk roads.

But apparently the past has once again caught up with me. First Sophie, and now…

From across the small office, Sara looked up from a stack of ledgers. Suddenly aware that he had stopped dead in his tracks, Cameron angled his eyes to the looking glass and made an exaggerated adjustment to his sodden shirtpoints before taking a seat by the fire, the whisky forgotten.

The scratch of a pen picked up again as she went back to checking the monthly accounts.

Taking up the fancy silver letter opener—Connor had gifted Sara his Andalusian dagger as well as The Wolf’s Lair—Cameron cut the twine. Several documents spilled out, the sheets of folded paper dominated by a square of thick white parchment sealed with a blood red wafer. He stared at the crest and felt the color drain from his face.

Lucifer be damned.
For an instant he was tempted to consign it—unopened, unread—to the coals of the fire. The blaze would bring some temporary warmth, perhaps. But the truth would only rise again, phoenix-like from the ashes, to hunt him down.

Best to get it over with, he decided.

The wax cracked with an audible snap. His composure proved nearly as brittle—it was only with great effort that he bit back a sound on skimming the first few lines. He hadn’t been sure what to expect. But never in his wildest dreams had he imagined…

“Daggett, are you unwell?” Sara set aside the columns of numbers, a shadow of concern shading her features. “Good God, I haven’t seen ye looking so pale since the night when that hulking, hairy cove from the East India docks barged in here and threatened to cut off your testicles and fry them in olive oil and paprika.”

“Oregano,” said Cameron softly, trying to muster a show of his usual sardonic humor. “It was oregano. De Cecci was from Sicily.” But for once, his rapier wit failed to hold its edge.

She rose and quickly poured a glass of her expensive malt. “Here—drink this. You look dreadful…as if you had seen a ghost.”

Haunting specters, sinister shadows.
He suddenly felt a little ill.

“Daggett?” She touched his shoulder.

By God, if only that were true.

“Ghosts…demons…” He finally looked up. “I take it Gryff has been lending you his collection of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.” His tone had regained a measure of steadiness, but as he reached for the letters his hands betrayed a slight tremor. Tucking them into his coat pocket, he picked up the brandy glass and took a small sip. “Surely you are far too sensible to take those silly, supernatural scenes seriously.”

“Actually, I find them quite entertaining.”

“Just as long as you don’t confuse fact with fiction.”

She raised a brow. “Are ye trying to tell me something?”

“Never mind—it’s not important.” Cameron set aside his drink. “I must be going.”

“But ye just got here!”

“Ah, but you know that I rarely stay in one place for very long,” replied Cameron.

Sara looked loath to let him slip away. She drew in a sharp breath, only to let it out in a sigh. “Be off with ye, then.” A brusque wave shooed him on his way. “But I hope you know you can always confide in me. We have weathered some rough seas together, and without your help in the first few months of trying te run this business on my own, I should never have managed to keep my head above water. I should like to return the favor.”

“I…” Cameron fingered his gold earring, wishing that the tiny serpent might sprout dragon wings and carry him away to the exotic East, far, far from England.

But then again, that would mean abandoning Sophie and her family to Dudley and Morton’s filthy scheme.

“I am grateful, Sara. And I shall endeavor to explain things more fully soon. But for now, I must sink or swim on my own.”

Y
ou…”

Sophie nearly jumped out of her skin.

“…are beginning to worry me,” said Georgiana, carefully closing the study door behind her.

“I—I don’t see why,” she replied, picking up her feather duster and setting back to work on the bookcases by the hearth.

“You are not usually forgetful,” said her sister.

“What have I forgotten?”

“My point exactly. I was hoping to trim my new bonnet with the red ribbon from Mrs. Turner’s shop, remember?”

Sophie bit her lip. “Oh, Georgie, I’m sorry. It slipped my mind.”

“As did a number of other things. Mrs. Hodges asked you pick up some powders at the apothecary, as well as some thread and buttons for Papa’s Sunday coat.”

“Sorry,” she intoned again.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Pen, but I happened to peek in your basket and it was empty,” went on Georgiana. “That was an awfully long walk to come home empty-handed.”

Sophie felt a flush of color stain her cheeks. “My mind was woolgathering.”

“And what,” asked her sister, “was your body doing while your thoughts were off chasing the sheep? Dallying with the wolf?”

Setting down the duster, Sophie slumped into her father’s desk chair and pressed her palms to her brow. “Yes.” Georgiana was too sharp by half to swallow a lie. And she could be trusted to keep a secret. “Cameron was here for a few days, but nobody must know. Lord Wolcott has a terrible grudge against him. If it ever gets out that he is alive and living in London, the authorities will arrest him and see him hung for theft.”

“Is that why he left Norfolk?”

“Yes,” she answered.

Georgiana tapped the tip of her nose.

“Partly yes,” amended Sophie.

“This is all very dark and mysterious, just like
Lady Avery’s Awful Secret.
”

Sophie cringed, wondering whether the book’s Secret was the fact that Lady Avery had surrendered her virtue to a rakish lover in a wild, passionate sexual tryst.

“Knowing the danger, why did Cameron return here?” pressed Georgiana.

The room was suddenly very still, as if all the leatherbound books and dog-eared papers were holding their collective breath. Even the Staffordshire spaniel on the mantel seemed to cock a curious ear.

Still she hesitated, trying to convince herself that ignorance was bliss. However the rebellious voices in her head were quick to counter.

Hypocrite!
Hadn’t she raked Cameron over the coals for just such an insufferable attitude?

Conceding defeat with a slow exhale, Sophie replied, “Because—”

Peltering footsteps in the corridor cut her off. A thump and the door flew open.

“Oh fie, Pen—you are supposed to knock before you burst into a room like a rag-mannered hoyden,” scolded Georgiana. After eyeing Penelope’s disheveled clothing and half-wild braids, she added, “Lud, you look as if you’ve run backwards through a briar patch.”

Chest heaving, her face beet red, Penelope needed several gulps of air before she could reply. “Ivejustrunfromthevillageand—”

“Slow down,” counseled Sophie, feeling a clench of fear seize her chest as she shot up from her chair. “Is it Papa?”

Penelope shook her head. “No, no.” Another wheeze. “It’s Lord Wolcott!”

“What about him,” demanded Georgiana.

“He’s dead!”

Sophie felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “Dead?” she repeated.

“Drowned.” Penelope had now recovered enough to explain more fully. “I met Squire Ashmun on the road and he told me the news. Wolcott’s pleasure yacht sank in a storm. And that’s not all…”

A dramatic pause had Sophie vowing to curtail her youngest sister’s reading of horrid novels.

“The marquess’s wife and son went down with him,” announced Penelope. “The village is all at sixes and sevens—nobody knows for sure who will be the next marquess.”

Her legs went suddenly limp.
Dear God.
Sitting down abruptly, Sophie needed a moment to master her emotions. “How is Squire Ashmun so certain?” she demanded. “The sea is a vast place, and if there were witnesses, surely they would have made an attempt to save the people on board.”

“It appears that there is no doubt,” answered Penelope. “A naval frigate found a lone survivor of the crew clinging to a broken mast shortly after the accident. The crewman said the rudder pins snapped off during a squall, taking with them a large chunk of planking below the waterline. The yacht quickly filled with water and capsized. It sank like a stone within minutes.”

“Dear God.” This time Sophie said it aloud.

“The marquess and his family were belowdecks. What with the chaos of crashing rigging and sweeping seas, there was no chance for them to escape from the cabin.”

“Even if they did manage to break free of the hatches, the North Sea waters are too cold for anyone to survive for more than a short while,” said Georgiana quietly.

“The frigate searched, but found nothing, save for a few more bits of the yacht’s wreckage,” added Penelope.

Dead—the marquess was dead.
A wave of dizziness washed over her.

“Sophie? Sophie?” said Georgiana. “Are you all right? You look pale as ashes.”

Quelling the swirl of nausea, Sophie nodded. “Yes. I’m just a little shocked, that’s all. This is all…so sudden.” Her stomach gave another lurch. Good God, there was no denying the momentous implications for Cameron, but at the moment, trying to sort them all out was a little overwhelming.

“Lord Wolcott won’t be sorely missed,” murmured Penelope. “He wasn’t a very nice man.”

Georgiana frowned. “Hush, Pen.”

“Well, it’s true.”

Intent on getting her own churning emotions under control, Sophie said nothing.

“True or not, one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” replied Georgiana. “As penance, go finish your chores.”

Penelope made a face, but seemed to decide that argument was futile. “You
could
say thank you for rushing helter-pelter to give you the news,” she grumbled. “Next time I have a momentous announcement, I’ll tell it to the chickens first.”

Georgiana waited until the door slammed shut before heaving a sigh. “Pen is right. Few people will mourn Wolcott’s passing. He was an arrogant, clutchfisted master of the manor. Let us hope the new marquess will treat his tenants better.”

“Yes,” said Sophie faintly. “Let us hope.”

Her sister reacted with a quizzical frown. “You sound, well, strange.”

I feel strange.
Her mind was still a little numb from shock. Hard as it was to imagine, the possibility might exist…

“I would think that if anything, you would feel some relief at the news.” Georgiana lowered her voice to a whisper. “With the marquess’s demise, Cameron will be out of danger.”

Danger.

“Oh, Lord, Georgie, it’s imperative that I get word of this to Cam right away.”

“Do you have a way of sending him a letter?”

A reasonable question, but Sophie wasn’t feeling reasonable. “Yes, but the message can’t be conveyed by ink and paper.” She needed to touch him, to feel his blood thrumming beneath his skin.

“Sophie, won’t you please explain to me what’s going on?” said her sister.

“I was about to, before Pen burst in with the news. Or at least, as much I can at the moment about why Cameron is here in Terrington.” Some secrets were not hers to reveal.

Georgiana leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the desk.

“He came back to see if he could learn more about a possible connection between Wolcott and…two other men. One that could result in a great evil being done.”

“And did he succeed?” asked Georgiana.

“Yes and no,” answered Sophie. “Yes, there is a connection. But he needed to return to London to follow up on the clue. That’s why I need to inform him of Wolcott’s death without delay.”

“You mean to say, he might be in danger.”

Thinking of Dudley and Morton, Sophie gave a wordless nod.

“Am I correct in assuming that this danger you speak of has something to do with you and whatever Awful Secret you are hiding from me?”

Her lips twitched up in an involuntary smile. “I’m afraid so.” She held up a hand to forestall further questions. “Georgie, I can’t explain more than that, save to say, someone is threatening to ruin Papa’s reputation—and with it, all of us. Cameron is trying to help me keep that from happening.”

Georgiana paled, understanding the implications, but did not flinch.

Thank God for her sister’s quick wits and stalwart courage.

“What can I do to help?” asked Georgiana stoutly.

“I’ve a plan,” responded Sophie quickly. “I need to get to London without stirring any gossip.” Reputations could be ruined in Terrington as well as Town. “It’s against the rules for me to travel by coach on my own. However, if we say that I was meeting Aunt Hermione’s carriage in Walton, then that will raise no eyebrows. And from there I can catch the express mail coach without anyone being the wiser. Plus my absence won’t be questioned.”

Before Georgiana could open her mouth, she went on, “However, I need you to stay here and look after Pen and Papa.”
If a novelist is allowed to embellish the dangers, why can’t I?
She dropped her voice a notch. “I don’t expect trouble, but if it strikes, someone must be here to defend them.”

Georgiana swallowed her protest. “You can count on me.” Her eyes narrowed in thought, only to fly open an instant later. “I could send for Anthony. He would happily lop off a few limbs if need be.”

“No, no, it’s best to keep Anthony out of this,” said Sophie. “Cameron is very good with a sword.” She felt her face grow a little warm and quickly added, “And with solving conundrums. We must let him handle it.”

“Very well.” Reluctance resonated in Georgiana’s voice but she didn’t try to argue further for her fiancé’s presence. “Have you money for the trip?”

“Aunt Hermione and Uncle Edward gave me some funds, to be used for an emergency,” said Sophie. “I’ll travel overnight in the mail coach, so I won’t need to spend anything on accommodations. I shall of course stay with them once I reach Town, and they will send me home. So there is little cost—and little risk to my reputation, once we reach Walton.”

“You go pack a valise while I tell Mrs. Hodges that we are walking into town. We had best be gone before Pen returns,” advised her sister. “From there we’ll have Mr. Stellings drive us to Walton and drop you at The Grapes Inn—with me along, it’s all very respectable. Once we’ve left, you can sneak away to The Brass Spyglass, where the mail coach makes its stop.”

“You seem very conversant with intrigue,” observed Sophie.

Georgiana flashed a grin. “Reading is very educational.”

“Thank you for coming.” The elderly solicitor reshuffled the stack of papers, his words barely louder than the whisper of foolscap. “I don’t imagine that you would wish me to offer condolences, so I won’t…Lord Wolcott.”

Cameron’s head jerked up. He fully expected to see his half brother come striding through the double doors, shouting in that imperious baritone, or slapping that infernal silver-tipped walking stick against his polished boot. A figure who saw himself as larger than life, the marquess liked to make his presence felt. Even halfway around the world, there were times Cameron had awoken in a cold sweat with the roar of remembered ire reverberating in his head…

He found himself staring at a silent swath of paneled oak.

That
marquess was dead. Along with his only son.

“You can’t call me that. There’s no proof,” said Cameron tightly. “And if there was, Wolcott would have destroyed it long ago.”

“Your father assured me on his death bed that you were his legitimate son, and as the old marquess was nothing but truthful with me for the forty years I knew him, I believe it,” said the solicitor. “Unfortunately, he shuffled off his mortal coil just as he was starting to tell me about his marriage to your mother. He feared his elder son would not be pleased. And so he had taken precautions.”

“Which did precious little good,” muttered Cameron.

“I don’t disagree. I did what I could to look after you and your mother. I wish I could have done more.”

Cameron was aware of how much Griggs had done for them over the years. The solicitor had forced Wolcott to provide a modest cottage and stipend for them, as well as to publicly acknowledge Cameron and his mother as poor relations—though in private his half brother always referred to them as “the whore” and “the bastard.”

“I am very grateful for your kindness, Griggs,” said Cameron through clenched teeth. “I know that my mother would have been turned away without a penny if you had not threatened my half brother with stirring up a scandal by publicly announcing that you intended to look for records.”

“He knew that it was for the most part an empty threat—even your mother had no idea where the papers might be. But being a high stickler, he didn’t want any hint of impropriety attached to the Wolcott name.” Griggs steepled his bony fingers and bowed his head. “Your half brother was a very hard, stubborn man. Knowing him as I did, I am sure he battled the elements right down to his very last breath.”

Cameron heaved a sigh. Hell hath no fury like agitated Augustus Aiden George Rowland. No doubt the marquess had thundered at the heavens as the pleasure yacht sank beneath the waves. But in the end, neither pride nor privilege nor pedigree had been worth a spit in the eye of the elements. He wondered whether Wolcott had soaked in the irony of it as a watery grave had swallowed him up.

He rather doubted it. Introspection was not a quality much admired by his late half brother.

Shifting in his seat, Cameron pursed his lips. “You are quite sure the marquess’s son was aboard, Griggs?”

“Absolutely sure. I should not have sent off the packet if there had been the slightest doubt,” intoned the solicitor. “A lone crewman was rescued by a passing naval frigate. He confirmed that the boy and his mother went down with the marquess.”

“Bloody hell,” muttered Cameron. It was one thing to want his rightful heritage acknowledged. It was quite another to find himself faced with its unexpected ramifications. “I did not like or respect my half brother, but I never would have wished for him and his family to perish in such a horrible fashion. Drowning is not a pleasant death.”