The Poor Relation

by Bennett, Margaret

“Me neither, but we’ve got to give Pearson a chance to swap those diplomatic papers tonight. We’ve no choice but to play it out. There’ll be plenty of questions coming from the Marquis and Lord Howard once those two notice the Frenchman’s not at the ball. They may decide to bring in the agent on murder charges, which would tip off Pearson that we’re on to him. Once he gets wind of this, that cur will be nervous as a fox with a pack of hounds on its tail.”

  “Might be best if you was to act like Pearson’s got the plague, Gov. It won’t do having him quiz you. Not that you’d tip your hand, but he’s just likely to sniff a red herring and turn tail and run, bloody coward that he is.”

  The forest sounds were suddenly drowned out as the orchestra struck up their instruments with the chords of the opening dance. Camden glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the Court. A soft yellow glow came from the great house, where every candle, lantern and wick were lit, permeating the dark edges of the woods.

  “I’d better get back. If I’m in their sights, maybe they won’t raise an alarm over Guyot missing,” Camden said. Then before parting to stroll nonchalantly out from under the cover of the trees, he added, “Keep a close eye on the cabin, Raikes. Our man’s bound to show eventually.”

  ~~~~~

  Three enormous lead crystal chandeliers hung from the cavernous ballroom ceiling. Their hundreds of tapers reflected off a sea of jewels worn by the elegantly dressed men and women and again in the eight enormous guilt-framed mirrors affixed to the gold damask walls. The dance floor was crowded with couples, though a goodly number of on-lookers lined the walls. By London standards it would hardly constitute a crush, but for a backwater affair during the height of the Season, the Marchioness of Clairmont had assembled quite an impressive gathering of the haunt ton.

  A Scottish reel was in full swing by the time Camden entered the ballroom. He figured it would be easy enough to lose himself among the guests mulling about for a few hours. Standing behind several gentlemen, he unobtrusively flexed his left shoulder to ease some of the pain. By contrast, when he contemplated his other problems, the soreness in his arm seemed trivial.

  He’d seriously blundered antagonizing Judith, making her a liability he could ill afford. She should have seen it coming as he’d not slept with her in weeks. Still, it would have better served his purpose to wait until after tonight to break off the affair. He knew a spurned woman was as dangerous as a wounded animal in the wild and could only hope she’d not seek her revenge by giving the game away to Pearson.

  To further complicate matters, Guyot’s disappearance might make the dandy suspicious of a plot. There was also the possibility that Clairmont or Lord Howard would call in Captain Hawker’s troops, should either learn of the Frenchman’s murder. Looking around the glittering ballroom, he figured his best chance was to stay clear of the entire bunch for a few hours. Yet, it was imperative that he be visible to some degree in order to waylay any suspicion.

  What he needed, he decided, was an ally.

  *** Chapter 17 ***

  Chloe was sitting with a distinguished gray-haired colonel, dressed in his red regimental uniform that had long since seen better days. The elderly soldier had impulsively asked her to dance a gavotte, then regretfully was forced to confess his spindly limbs were not strong enough to support such exertion. In lieu of dancing, he proposed to procure each of them a glass of punch, and they could retire to a quiet corner and talk.

  The old gentleman had supplied most of the discussion, trumpeting a cleaned up version of his soldiering exploits in Africa. With half an ear, Chloe listened to his self-flattering tales with her eyes trained on the dancers. By chance, she spotted Camden standing on the sidelines where, except for his height, he was almost hidden by two other gentlemen. Despite the talk she’d had with herself earlier, her heart lurched and her pulse raced as she watched him. His dark eyes were scrutinizing the crowd, and upon espying her, he moved out from behind the human wall and started around the room until he stood looming over her.

  “Dance with me,” he commanded, reaching his hand out to her. His eyes still had a pinched look about them, and under the bronzed skin tone, his coloring appeared ashen.

  Since the gavotte was ending, she graciously thanked her elderly partner for an enjoyable interlude and gave her hand to Camden. They walked along the edge of the dance floor until he suddenly stopped. She waited patiently by him as his eyes took in the assembled company. A waltz was struck up by the band of musicians occupying a small gallery overlooking one end of the room, and he led her out onto the floor.

  Releasing her hand, he put his arm around her waist and drew her close. When his other hand reached out to clasp hers, she barely caught his grimace of pain yet, under careful examination of his face, saw only the indifferent mask he habitually wore. He was a master at hiding his feelings.

  Acknowledging this, she became angry with herself for wordlessly complying with his highhanded order to dance. He was simply toying with her. She was simply another female conquest to him, but to her, the mere touch of his hand was enough to turn her limbs to jelly. So thinking, her eyes gravitated to their locked hands, and she had to stifle a cry. Bright red blood smeared her white glove.

  Desperately she tried catching his eyes, but they were riveted on the ballroom door.

  She had to grab his attention, so she said, “My lord, I do not care to dance.” But his gaze remained glued to the doorway.

  “I do, madam,” he replied tightly.

  “Oliver,” she said in a soft pleading voice and was rewarded with his midnight blue eyes focusing at last on her own. Deliberately cutting her eyes to their clasped hands, she said, “Guide us over to the side door.”

  His eyes followed hers to their bloody palms, then returned to hers. But only for a moment, for once again his attention was drawn to the entrance way where a very agitated Leslie Pearson stood with his eyes darting wildly about the room. He was shortly joined by the Marquis and Lord Howard, and the three together began a search of the ballroom.

  As Camden adroitly whirled Chloe around several couples and slipped behind other dancers, they were no longer in the line of vision of the three gentlemen. But now, besides the disturbing fact that his wound had reopened, Chloe knew something was drastically wrong.

  “No one would think anything was amiss if a notorious rake were to keep a rendezvous with a lady in the garden,” she hinted. She gave him a shy smile before her expression turned to one of concern. “Please, my lord, your wound needs tending. And for whatever reason you deem it necessary to escape those gentlemen, you can trust me to not give you away.”

  “I know.” His dark blue eyes were hard, calculating.

  “Then let me help. I know you are involved in some conspiracy. Please, for your own sake?”

  He shook his head, whether in disbelief or denial she could not tell. Then he gave low laugh without humor and tightened his hold on her. She should have objected such scandalous behavior but kept silent. She marveled at the intimacy in the feel of his hard muscles stretched against the length of her own body. Deftly, he waltzed them around the other circling couples over to the side of the room. There, a set of doors opened onto the stone terrace that ran along the back of the house.

  With his arm linked through hers, he walked her over to the stone steps that led down to the garden. The gravel paths were softly lit by lanterns hanging high in the trees and placed at intervals along the tall yews. Taking her down a path that led away from the house, Camden’s pace never slowed until they reached the darker recesses of the garden.

  Coming upon a stone bench half hidden by a cluster of rhododendrons, he let her go and sat down heavily on the cold slab. Withdrawing a white linen square from his pocket, he wadded it up and stuffed it inside the left shoulder of his jacket, then wearily closed his eyes. Chloe gingerly perched herself on the edge of the bench, feeling useless for not knowing what to do.

  Laying one hand on his arm, she half whispered, “Please, I want to h
elp you.”

  He shook his head, and when she would have removed her hand, he covered it with his own, giving her a comforting squeeze. After a few minutes, he seemed to have collected himself and opened his eyes, curiously observing her before sitting up straighter.

  “I do believe you have nerves of steel, Chloe. You reacted well in there when any other woman would have screamed.” He laughed humorlessly. “Some would have fallen in a dead faint at the sight of blood smeared all over one of their evening gloves.”

  “I very well might have done one of those things if I had been unaware of your injury.”

  He was about to answer when noises coming from the house alerted them to people milling about the gardens. They both watched as the Marquis and Lord Howard came down the terrace steps, searching the area, methodically advancing in their directions. Chloe wasn’t sure but suspected they sought Camden.

  “Kiss me, Chloe,” he suddenly demanded. He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet as he stood. With his back turned to the house, he used his body to shield her from the prying eyes of the two gentlemen.

  Though he held her tight, she could tell his mind was far from the task since his kisses lacked the ardor he’d displayed on previous occasions. But this did not deter him from using the opportunity to take liberties with his good hand. And while her own mental involvement was hardly any better than his, irrationally, she was disappointed.

  Lord Howard was the first to spot them. He called out to Camden, who released Chloe and turned toward the advancing gentlemen. He pushed her gently behind his large frame, concealing her, but kept his hand firmly gripping her upper arm.

  “Ah, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I find I’m unable to spare a moment just now,” he greeted them sarcastically.

  Chloe could see the two noblemen staring intently at her and made a move to drop farther back in the shadows. Camden, however, held her fast. She could only hope it was dark enough that neither one could identify her.

  Adding to her mortification, Camden said with a meaningful leer, “I’ve some unfinished business to tend to, you understand.”

  “A word is all we desire, Camden,” was Clairmont’s imperious retort. “And as soon as possible.”

  “Then permit me but a few more minutes to properly escort the lady inside?” Camden was attempting to delay the interview, and Chloe wondered if he was trying to protect her or himself. Oddly enough, it didn’t matter which, for she was willing to do whatever necessary to help him, her belief in him was that strong.

  Reluctantly, the two noblemen acquiesced with Lord Howard admonishing Camden to make haste, stressing that it was imperative they have speech with him. Throughout the encounter, Camden’s stance had been rigid, but once the two men had turned their backs, he relaxed, then spun around and pulled Chloe to him once more. Without further ado, he proceeded to kiss her senseless, instantly healing her wounded sensibilities.

  Under the circumstances, her common sense demanded she hold all emotion in check. But try as she might, within the space of a few moments her own passions became unleashed with his ardency. She reveled in the feel of his hands, hungrily caressing her back while crushing her to the hard length of his body. When he finally released her, she was a little breathless as well as embarrassed by her own fervor, yet continued to cling to him. He must have sensed her unease, for he kept her in the circle of his arms, his head lightly resting atop hers.

  He broke the silence only after his own breathing had returned to a more normal rate. “Chloe, my sweet, you and I must talk. Unfortunately, tonight is not the time, for I need to leave now.”

  Before she could answer, they heard someone running along the terrace. Camden glanced over his shoulder, and she raised her head from the haven of his chest to see Leslie Pearson hurrying down the stone steps, then straight for the woods. So intent was he on this destination, he passed right by them, mere yards away, yet was oblivious to their presence.

  Acting as though he’d forgotten her, Camden’s eyes never left Pearson as the man raced through the gardens. Once the dandy had disappeared among the trees, Camden released her and started after his quarry. He’d only gone a few steps, however, when he stopped and commanded in a harsh voice, “Go back to the ballroom and stay there. Should anyone ask, you have not seen me. And, Chloe.” His tone softened on her name. “Defy the devil tonight, stay indoors.” Then he was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the night.

  Slowly Chloe retraced her steps. Oh, how she hoped this rogue’s attentions toward her were honorable. Still, fool that she was, Chloe was not blind to his faults, among the worst being a streak of cruelty along with his imperious aloofness. But he possessed a gentler side too, one which he preferred to hide with his cynical attitude. What bothered her most, however, was his lack of respect for women, blatantly demonstrated in the way he’d used Mrs. Palmer—and even herself, if she were completely honest—whether for his own gratification or to achieve another purpose.

  As much as she cared for him, never would she be able to abide his sneers or angry taunts if they were directed toward her. Nor could she bear it if he took a mistress like so many men of the ton were wont to do. Any one of these things would eventually eat at the very core of her love for him until she was nothing else but a bitter shell of a woman.

  But she must recognize Camden for what he was, a womanizer. And she understood that his attentions were far from honorable and promised no permanency for any relationship they might share together. That was, of course, assuming she could discard her self-respect and allow him to bed her outside of marriage.

  She inhaled deeply, then resolutely squared her shoulders. She really had no choice. Chloe Woodforde would put the Viscount Camden, an inveterate rake, out of her mind if not her heart.

  Brushing away an errant tear, she remembered the bloodied glove. She’d have to make a detour to her room and don another pair before rejoining the merrymakers.

  *** Chapter 18 ***

  Camden entered the dark interior of the woods and soon encountered Raikes, who stepped out from behind a clump of overgrown bushes.

  “The cove’s headed straight for the gamekeeper’s hut, Gov,” Raikes said in a low whisper as Camden drew closer.

  “He left the ball in quite a hurry,” remarked Camden. “Any sign of our other friend?”

  “Ain’t seen the blackguard’s ugly phiz yet.”

  The sinewy man effortlessly matched his steps to Camden’s long strides as the two followed the path to the abandoned cabin. Coming upon the clearing, they saw the hut’s dirty windows were eerily illuminated from within by the weak glow of a lantern. Otherwise, there was no sign of activity. Camden silently indicated to Raikes that they crouch behind some shrubbery and wait. Raikes pulled a gun from his pocket, another from his belt, and handed one to Camden, who readily accepted it since his formal attire hadn’t allowed him to hide a weapon on his person.

  A scant quarter of an hour later, they heard someone tramping through the woods. Shortly thereafter, a burly sinister shape dressed all in black halted at the edge of a trail and carefully scanned the area before making for the cabin. No sooner had the grisly interloper opened the rough planked door when, from within, Pearson began shouting.

  Camden and Raikes exchanged glances, then crept forward to hear better, but Pearson’s words were indistinguishable. The next instant, a violent struggle erupted inside the cabin. Together, Camden and Raikes came out from their hiding places and rushed the door.

  Raikes was first to arrive just as all noise ceased. Without hesitating, the wiry agent planted one booted foot by the latch handle, kicking it in, slamming the door against the interior wall. With pistols drawn, both men cautiously stepped a few feet in the one room dwelling and were momentarily shocked by the gruesome tableau.

  In the middle of the room stood a deathly pale Leslie Pearson. He was doubled over with both hands clutching his stomach, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  The burly giant whirle
d about to face them, his filthy rumpled coat and breeches splattered with Pearson’s blood. The lethal blade he bandied in one beefy hand was also bloodied. Through glazed red-rimmed eyes, he stared at Camden and Raikes with undisguised hatred. Behind him in a darkened corner, propped up in a sitting position with his legs sprawled out in front of him, was Guyot’s body, his head resting on his blood soaked cravat with sightless eyes staring down, his mouth agape.

  When Pearson saw the Viscount, he managed a couple of shaky steps toward a crude planked table, pushed under a window. On top sat the lantern that provided the only light in the room. Next to lantern rested a leather pouch stuffed with official documents and maps and a fat wad of currency tied with a blue ribbon. Camden recognized the stack of bills as the one Judith Palmer had been issued to buy the stolen jewels. Before Pearson could reach the bank notes, moaning, he collapsed to his knees, lowering his head down onto the floor.

  Training his eyes on the French agent, Camden tensed, poised to jump the ugly bruiser. Together with Raikes, they formed an impregnable wall blocking the only means of escape.

  The dim lighting cast craggy shadows on the assassin’s countenance, making him appear diabolical with his small eyes squinting to mere slits. First staring at Camden, then Raikes, he made his decision and went for the smaller man. No doubt he recalled having rumbled with the modishly dressed Camden already on two different occasions and knew he was no easy target to mow down.

  But the limber Raikes was prepared for the assault and deftly ducked the brute’s bludgeoning arm that held the bloody blade, knocking it aside with the nozzle of his gun. For one of his bulk, the French agent was quick to recover, bringing his beefy appendage back around in a wide arc for another swipe at the Englishman. This time he was stopped dead by Raikes’s barker, fired point blank at the Frenchman’s black heart, instantly felling him.

  Disregarding the dead man, Camden stepped over the body and knelt down on one knee in front of Leslie Pearson and gently eased him over on his side. One look at the dandy’s white face and glazed eyes confirmed what Camden already knew. Time was short.