by Cara Elliott
Sophie could think of yet another explanation, but she didn’t dare say it aloud.
“I had best be going,” murmured Cameron, angling his face away from the candlelight. “Before the last shreds of my self-control turn to unholy fire and brimstone.”
She watched him move to the casement, wanting to weep from how badly she wanted him to stay, despite his wild revelations.
A flitting of shadows. A swirl of chill air.
“But you haven’t seen the last of me. For the moment, our interests are aligned in regard to Dudley and his friend Morton. So you aren’t going to face them alone.”
Chapter Six
A fresh pot of coffee, if you please,” called Cameron to the footman as he strolled into the breakfast room of Gryff’s elegant townhouse the following morning. “And bring a pinchpot of ground cinnamon instead of cream.”
“Make yourself at home,” drawled Gryff, looking up from his shirred eggs and gammon.
“I hope you’re offering some decent food here,” replied Cameron. “I’m famished.” Picking up a plate from the sideboard, he proceeded to lift the covers of the four silver salvers. “Ugh. I expected more creativity from you. I’ll think I’ll put in an order for an omelet à la grecque.”
“You have exceedingly peculiar tastes,” retorted his friend. “No one eats olives in eggs.”
“I do.”
“Then hire your own chef. Mine is French, and very temperamental.” Gryff finished the last bite of his breakfast and pushed his plate aside. “I swear, if you upset him with odd requests and he gives notice, I’ll roast your cods over the kitchen fire.”
Connor chuckled as Gryff, still grumbling, picked up a pencil and began reading the set of page proofs by his elbow. “Stubble your usual sarcasm, Cam. He’s out of sorts this morning. His publisher has moved up the deadline for finishing the final editing of his essays.”
Gryff muttered a few well-chosen epithets about printers under his breath.
“Oh, very well,” said Cameron with a pained sigh. “I’ll settle for toast and a very boring broiled kidney.”
He took a seat at the table and devoured his food in silence. It had been a long and active night. Indeed, he had not yet been to bed. After leaving Sophie’s chamber, he had made several other visits, the last one requiring a dash across a slippery stretch of slate roof tiles. Wincing, he set down his fork and rubbed at his bruised hand.
“Dare I ask what you’ve been up to?” asked Connor, eyeing the scraped knuckles.
“Just doing a little preliminary reconnoitering. I find that it’s always worthwhile to know as much as possible about one’s opponents.” Cameron paused to pour a cup of the freshly delivered steaming coffee and gratefully gulped down several long swallows. “Ahhh, excellent—it’s as black as the Devil’s heart. Whatever else his faults, your chef does know how to roast his beans, Gryff.”
His friend only grunted.
Turning back to Connor, he said, “I’ve learned that Dudley will be at the Lair this evening. He’ll be alone, as his friend Morton is otherwise engaged. I trust that you haven’t changed your mind?”
“On the contrary. I’m looking forward to it.”
“As am I.” He polished off another cup of the rich, aromatic brew and then rose.
“Where are you off to in such a rush?’ asked Connor.
“Never mind.”
“I hope it is to your own quarters to change your clothing.” Paper crackled as Gryff turned to a fresh page. “There’s a rip in the right leg of your trousers, and your boots are covered with green slime.”
Cameron paused in front of the arched window and gave a mock bow. “Don’t worry, come tonight I shall be sporting my usual sartorial splendor.”
Connor squinted into the sunlight. “Speaking of which, is that a new earring?”
“Yes.” He fingered the teardrop pearl. It was an exact replica of Sophie’s heirloom that he had commissioned from an underworld jeweler, who was well skilled at making quick, accurate copies of fancy jewelry. “It has an interesting history to it—and no, don’t ask, for I’m not going to divulge any of its secrets. Suffice it to say that I am counting on it being a good luck charm for this endeavor.”
“Good luck charms?” A glint of steel flashed in Connor’s gray eyes. “I’m the one playing cards, and no matter how good a friend you are, I’ll be damned if I get my ear pierced.”
“I wasn’t overly pleased about taking a bullet in the leg for you,” retorted Cameron. Rescuing the Wolfhound’s bride from a clever enemy had required both fisticuffs and firearms. “But did you hear me howl?”
Connor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Oh, bloody hell…”
“However,” he added, “your lovely wife might not approve, so I shall count on your skill, rather than luck.”
“If I can’t beat Dudley at cards, I’ll eat your earring—along with a platter of raw eggs and olives,” growled Connor.
“Well, much as I’d like to see you forced to wolf down those items, I hope it won’t come to that.”
“It won’t,” said Gryff. “When has any of us failed to help a fellow Hellhound in need?”
Connor grimaced. “Actually, I can think of one instance…”
“Oh, stop your barking.” Gryff dismissed the remark with a curt wave. “In the end, I more than made up for my carelessness.”
“So you did.”
“I shall leave the two of you to chew on each other,” said Cameron. “But keep your teeth razor sharp for tonight’s play at the Lair.”
He made his way out to the street, but rather than head for his own out-of-the-way neighborhood on the eastern fringe of Mayfair, he continued on foot, crossing the square and turning down Duke Street.
Sleep. He, too, wished to be sharp for the upcoming evening. But before he sought a few hours of sleep, he couldn’t help making one short stop.
“Damnation, how the Hounds would howl with laughter, seeing me act like a lovesick puppy,” Cameron muttered. “God knows, I’ve shown them no mercy when I’ve sensed a soft spot on their hell-toughened hides.”
His steps quickened over the cobbles. He hated feeling vulnerable. It was a damnable flaw, and he had learned long ago that in order to survive, he couldn’t afford any show of weakness.
Sophie is a weakness, whispered the devil in his head.
No, Sophie isn’t a weakness, he thought in silent answer. She is…
A beacon of pure, sweet light in my storm-clouded life.
A self-mocking sneer curled his lips. Satan save me—I’m beginning to sound like a maudlin poet.
Looking up, he saw a passing matron and her daughter hurriedly cross to the other side of the street.
It was no wonder. Given his wrinkled garments and stubbled jaw, he must appear a rather disreputable figure among all finery. A dangerous pirate, stirring up trouble wherever I sail.
Sunk in his brooding, Cameron stopped at the corner of Berkeley Square, uncertain of what to do. Stay or go—he knew which was the choice of a sentimental fool.
However, the decision was made for him.
“Mr. Daggett?”
Damnation. The shopping expedition must have run late.
“How lovely to run into you,” continued Georgiana. “I am meeting Sophie and Aunt Hermione at Gunter’s.” Smiling, she shifted the hatbox in her hands. The maid by her side held several more. “Gorman and I had to wait for the milliner to add the finishing touches to these bonnets. We are leaving for home tomorrow at first light and wished to take them with us.”
“I’m sure they are quite fetching,” he murmured, eyeing the clusters of tiny pink cherries festooning her current headcovering. “Is Anthony fond of fruit?”
Georgiana laughed. “You are horrible—and always have been. I don’t know what Sophie sees in you.”
Neither do I.
“Nonetheless, won’t you join us?” A mischievous twinkle sparked in her hazel eyes. “We are all going to order strawberry ices.�
�
“I’m afraid that my reputation would suffer greatly if I were spotted at a tea shop eating ice cream at this hour of the day.”
“On the contrary, I’m sure it would only add to your air of mystery.” She shoved the box into his arms. “Besides, a gentleman is always supposed to offer assistance to a lady.”
“But we both know that I have no pretensions to honor or chivalry,” he murmured, falling in step beside her as the maid dropped back to follow them.
“I won’t tell anyone,” replied Georgiana.
He slanted a sidelong glance at her. “You know, you have grown from a pesky, playful child into a rather interesting young lady.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I think.”
They crossed through the square’s central garden and approached Gunter’s. The day had turned quite warm, and a crowd was gathering around the shop’s entrance, drawn by the cool promise of its rich treats.
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Georgiana, waving to her sister and aunt. “They have managed to get one of the outdoor tables.”
Heaving an inward sigh, Cameron reluctantly made his way through the swirl of pastel skirts. He had come here intending simply to observe Sophie from afar. But as he well knew, even the best-laid plan could go awry.
“I met an old friend on the way here, and he offered to help me with my boxes,” said Georgiana to her aunt. “Surely you remember Sophie’s friend, Cameron. He’s the one who used to hurl rotten apples at your carriage, trying to knock the coachman’s hat off his head.”
“I no longer employ fruit as a weapon,” he said, bowing over Hermione’s hand.
“Ah. I am relieved to hear you are no longer dangerous, Mr.…”
“Daggett,” supplied Cameron smoothly.
Sophie coughed, and then looked up, her cheeks coloring slightly as she murmured a greeting.
“Please join us, Mr. Daggett,” went on Hermione politely. “Would you care for some ice cream?”
“Thank you, but I just dined.”
“Then you may have a cup of coffee while we eat our confections.” Georgiana smiled sweetly. “I insist.”
“Georgie, you are being impertinent. Mr. Daggett may have other, more pressing engagements,” said Sophie. She still hadn’t met his gaze.
“Do you, Mr. Daggett?”
“I…” Cameron caught sight of two gentlemen rounding the wrought iron fence. Hell and damnation. “As a matter of fact, I must run. I am already late—”
Too late.
“Well, fancy meeting you here, Daggett.” Gryff tipped his hat to the ladies before adding, “I wouldn’t have guessed that you have a secret craving for sweets.”
“Actually, I was just leaving,” answered Cameron gruffly.
Connor’s flash of teeth had a predatory gleam. “Oh, come. We can’t allow you to rush off with introducing us to your charming companions.”
He had no choice but to comply.
Hermione looked a little flustered at being introduced to an earl and a marquess. “W-would you gentlemen care to join us? Or am I transgressing some rule of protocol?”
“Have no fear, Killingworth and I do not stand on ceremony,” said Gryff. “But alas, we have a previous engagement in the neighborhood.”
Cameron had forgotten that Gryff’s publisher was just several streets away. A mental error—I will have to say sharper.
“Perhaps some other time,” went on his friend. “Do you live in London, Mrs. Hillhouse?”
“Yes, milord,” answered Hermione. “But my nieces live in Norfolk.”
“The village of Terrington, near the sea,” volunteered Georgiana. “Sophie and Mr. Daggett were childhood friends.”
Cameron had to quell the urge to pluck the faux cherries from her hat and stuff them down her throat.
“Indeed?” Connor’s smile turned even more wolfish.
Gryff let out an evil chuckle. “I confess, I have often wondered if, like the one of the goddesses in Greek mythology, he simply emerged fully formed from Zeus’s forehead.”
“Or hatched from some devil-cursed dragon egg,” added Connor.
“My goodness, Your Lordships certainly have very vivid imaginations, ha, ha, ha,” said Hermione.
Cameron fixed them with a razored stare. “Yes, don’t they?”
“Ha, ha, ha,” echoed Georgiana. Spotting the package of typeset proofs under Gryff’s arm, she craned her neck for a better look. “You don’t perchance write novels, do you, Lord Haddan?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”
“I adore the ones with clanging chains, gruesome dungeons, and dastardly villains. Though I do find it a little silly that the heroines always keep falling in a dead faint when confronted with danger.” A pause. “My sister is far more intrepid. She never faints in perilous situations.”
“Oh?” Gryff raised a brow.
“Georgie, you are being impertinent again,” said Sophie in a tight whisper.
“I hope that you don’t often find yourself in perilous situations, Miss Lawrance,” said Gryff.
“My sister is the one with the vivid imagination, sir,” answered Sophie. “I lead a very quiet life—”
“Ha! You and Cam were always embroiled in some exciting adventure. Remember the time you had to crawl through a bat-infested cave to rescue him. Both of you smelled like…bats for the next week.”
“Eat your ice cream, Georgie,” snapped Cameron as Connor swallowed a snort of laughter.
“It’s more fun conversing with your friends.”
Gryff moved a touch closer to Sophie’s chair. “Refresh my memory, Miss Lawrance,” he said casually. “Did Mr. Daggett leave Terrington to attend university? Or was it to…” He let his voice trail off.
Cameron cleared his throat, hoping she would pick up on the subtle appeal to keep quiet about his past.
“To see the world?” finished Sophie. “Mr. Daggett has always had an adventurous and independent spirit. Whatever he did, I am sure it was very interesting.”
Oh, well done. Cameron snapped her a mental salute. Sophie was clever, careful, and loyal to a fault in protecting her friends. She could always be counted on in a pinch.
Which was why, come Hell or high water, he was going to rescue her from the sordid cesspool of Dudley and Morton’s plotting.
But first, he needed to extract himself from this uncomfortable meeting without further ado. His friends had already learned far too much.
“Interesting as this conversation is, I must be going. And you—” he took hold of Gryff’s sleeve “—are in danger of being late for your appointment as well. So let us be off.”
Connor, who rarely bothered with such niceties, inclined a gentlemanly bow to the ladies. “It was a pleasure meeting you, ladies. I look forward to seeing you again.”
“Daggett—I thought the name sounded familiar and now I know why.” Hermione sighed as she watched the three men walk away. “Oh, to think I’ve met the Hellhounds, the three most notorious rakes in London.”
“Rakes!” Georgiana’s eyes widened.
Sophie choked on a spoonful of her strawberry ice.
“Oh, good heavens, yes. The newspapers are always full of gossip about those rogues and their scandalous exploits.” Hermione pursed her lips in thought. “Though the stories seem to have quieted down. Perhaps that’s because both the earl and the marquess were recently married.”
“What of Mr. Daggett?” asked Georgiana after a tiny hesitation.
“I don’t recall reading anything about his nuptials. “But then, I don’t pay much attention to Society gossip,” replied Hermione. “Not that there would be much mention of Mr. Daggett’s personal life in the newspaper columns unless he is titled and wealthy.”
“No, he is neither,” said Sophie in a low voice.
“I wonder how he came to be friends with Lord Haddan and Lord Killingworth?” mused her aunt.
So do I.
“I can well imagine that there’s a fascinating story to
it,” said Georgiana.
Sophie set down her spoon. “Your imagination—not to speak of your tongue—is becoming far too exuberant for a well-bred young lady. You must keep your passions in check, Georgie, else they may land you in the suds.”
Her sister scowled but had the good sense not to argue.
Ha—who am I to talk about keeping passion in check? Praying that the telltale flush on her cheeks would not give her away, she dropped her gaze, feeling a little like a hypocrite.
Hermione fished a pair of spectacles out of her reticule and consulted her neatly penciled shopping list. “Oh, dear.” She made a small clucking sound. “We have a few more stops to make than I realized, girls. If you are finished with your treats, we had best be off.”
After the packages had been bundled into the waiting carriage, Sophie fell in step with their maid, happy to let Georgiana and her aunt take the lead and chatter away about the latest styles of shoe buckles.
Talk of fashion quickly faded to a faraway buzz as she contemplated the forbidden topic of rakes and rogues. Gently bred ladies were not supposed to know that such men existed.
Much less find them fascinating.
Sophie slowed her pace, letting the maid forge ahead a step or two. So, Cameron’s claim to being a hardbitten blade of the ton had some truth to it. The thought set her insides to turning a series of odd little flip-flops. Did that mean he kissed other women witless? Did he make their bodies thrum with sinful desires?
You witless widgeon, of course he does, she whispered to herself. The pleasures of London were there for the plucking. And he had made it clear that he had no scruples about grabbing what took his fancy.
“Including me,” she added aloud.
“What was that?” Georgiana turned, her brow angling up in question.
“Er, you aren’t including me in the plans to attend Mrs. Putney’s musicale tonight, are you?”
“I thought you enjoyed her daughter’s singing,” said Hermione.
“I do, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather retire early. It will be a long journey home and I’m feeling a little fatigued.”
Georgiana shot her a fishy stare, one that promised a more thorough interrogation once they were alone.
