by Cara Elliott
“But of course, my dear,” said Hermione, her guileless face wreathing in concern. “The city can be a little overwhelming.”
“Yes, I shall be happy to return to the quiet of the country.” Though with both Cameron and Lord Dudley to plague her thoughts, it was doubtful that she would find any peace of mind among the familiar surroundings of home.
Chapter Seven
Cameron lit a cheroot, using the flare of sparks to cover his quick survey of the hazed gaming room. He had deliberately chosen to arrive late, allowing no time for a private meeting with his friends before their plan was put into action. They had covered all the details during the short walk to Gryff’s printer. Connor knew exactly what was expected of him.
And Cameron had every confidence that the Wolfhound would not fail.
Intuition, cold logic, nerves of steel—Connor had an uncanny ability to win at cards. He claimed it had nothing to do with Lady Luck, but rather with studying his opponents and understanding their weaknesses.
Drawing in a lungful of the sweat-damp, brandy-scented smoke, Cameron listened to the soft slap of pasteboard on the felted card tables, the sharp rattle of dice against scarred wood. He had no illusions that he would be spared scrutiny by Connor’s steel-gray eyes. As for Gryff, he would likely be even more dogged in his determination to dig up the truth.
Damnation. Until now, he had managed to keep his past well buried. But now that his friends had a clue to go on, they would sniff and claw until the truth came to light.
A tap touched his shoulder, interrupting his mordant thought. “Well, well.” The low voice was edged with amusement. “I see your friend the Prodigal Wolf has returned for an evening.”
Cameron looked around and nodded a curt greeting. The Honorable Caine Oswald was one of the few people whose cynicism matched his own.
“Come to devour the Town lambs, no doubt.” Oswald cocked a brow. “Are you going to join the play at his table?”
Cameron shook his head. “Tonight I think I shall be content just to watch.”
“A wise move.” Oswald was a shrewd gamester himself. “Something about the Wolf’s look tonight tells me his teeth are sharpened for the kill.”
Straightening from his slouch, he gave a casual shrug. “Perhaps he’s hungry to show all the new puppies here that old dogs can still be dangerous.”
“Indeed.” Oswald eyed him for a moment longer before turning to light a cheroot from one of the flickering candle sconces. “Rumor has it that the Hellhounds have become quite domesticated.”
Cameron let out a soft laugh. “Don’t believe everything that you hear.”
“Oh, I’m far too skeptical for that. Else I might be quaking in my boots to be standing next you, Daggett.” A flare of orange sparked in the shadows as Oswald inhaled a mouthful of pungent tobacco. “By the by, did you hear that the Duchess of Merton’s gold snuff box was stolen from her country estate, along with a pair of diamond earrings?”
“You don’t say?” Cameron signaled to one of the passing barmaids for a glass of brandy. “It’s appalling how careless ladies can be with their baubles these days.”
“Yes, isn’t it? But then, the duchess is known for being a stickler for security, so no doubt she felt herself well guarded by the double locks and footmen that make Merton Manor a veritable fortress.” A pale puff of smoke ghosted up toward the rafters. “Word is, the thief managed to scale one of the side towers and make his way across a razor-thin ledge and a series of steeply pitched slates to gain access to her private suite.”
“As I said, don’t believe everything you hear,” murmured Cameron. “I’ve seen the manor. One would have to be rather mad to attempt such a stunt.”
“Or rather daring.” Oswald flicked a bit of ash from his cheroot. “The play at the Wolfhound’s table looks to be turning interesting. Care to join me in taking a closer look?”
“Perhaps later.”
“Suit yourself.” The curl of a smile reveal a glimmer of teeth. “I sniff blood, and like any predator, I can’t resist the scent.”
As Oswald snaked through the tables, Cameron retreated deeper into the shadows to watch and wait. The evening appeared to be going exactly as planned.
“The same cannot be said for the rest of my life,” muttered Cameron. “A voice, a mere whisper of breath and I’m stripped bare of all my richly threaded cynicism.” A pinch of self-loathing pulled at his mouth. “I’m like that pathetic Emperor in the old parable, parading through the streets in imaginary finery, when in truth I’m naked as a new-born babe.”
“Talking to yourself?” Gryff joined him in the alcove. “You’re either drunk or delirious.” A deliberate pause. “Or possessed by some other demon, perhaps?”
“Kindly stubble your sarcasm,” he snapped. “I need to pay attention to the cardplay. Springing the trap calls for precise timing.”
“Far be it for me to distract you,” drawled Gryff. “You appear to have enough problems fighting off Cupid and his quiver of arrows.”
“Arse.” Cameron kept his gaze on the Wolfhound’s table. The stakes appeared to be rising, for a crowd was beginning to gather.
Leaving off his needling, Gryff watched in silence for a few moments. “Ready?” he murmured. “It seems that we should be ready to make our move if Connor’s luck holds and he wins this next hand.”
Cameron flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “I’m counting on the Wolf and his wiles, not Lady Luck, whose favors are notoriously fickle.”
“In a foul mood over women, are you?”
From across the room came the sound of a savage oath. Leaning back in his chair, Connor smiled and tugged at his left earlobe.
“Forget about my mood,” said Cameron tersely. “That’s our signal. You first. I’ll follow.”
Gryff circled around the faro tables, moving casually through the masculine fug of sweat, wine and bawdy jokes.
Connor looked up at his approach.
“Come, fold your cards, Wolf. We need to be off,” said Gryff. “Have you forgotten that we have an engagement?”
“I’ll meet up with you later,” replied Connor.
Leaning low, Gryff whispered in his ear.
“Bloody hell and damnation.” Adding a wordless growl, Connor reached and raked his winnings from the center of the table. “Gentlemen, you will have to excuse me.”
“S-so soon?” Keeping to the shadows, Cameron had moved close enough to hear the note of alarm in Dudley’s voice. “Am I not to have a chance to recoup my losses?”
“Not tonight,” answered Connor flatly. He casually sorted through the promissory notes. “And as I am leaving Town on the day after tomorrow, I would ask that the losers kindly redeem their pledges by then. Send the money to Haddan’s townhouse.”
“I—I…” Dudley wet his lips as Connor’s quicksilver eyes narrowed to a steel-edged stare. “I may need a few extra days, Killingworth.”
“Indeed?” The Wolfhound curled a sneer. “Everyone who plays here at the Lair knows I don’t extend credit. If you could not afford the stakes, you had no business sitting down to play at this table.”
Cameron smiled to himself. His skills honed from years of practice, Connor had easily manipulated the man’s pride into joining the game. And now, like a hapless rabbit, Dudley was trapped within the steely jaws of gentlemanly honor. To renege on a bet was to risk being shunned by Society.
The undulating flame of the wall sconce caught the sheen of sweat forming on Dudley’s forehead. Cameron let the fear ooze up a moment longer before stepping out from the gloom.
“Ah, I heard you were in Town, Wolf.” He cocked a sardonic salute to his friend. “I see you still enjoy feasting on lambs?”
Connor stretched a predatory smile. “A diet of goats becomes a trifle bland after a while.”
“And it appears that the Wolf has not lost his craving for loin chops,” sniggered Gryff. “Ha, ha, ha.”
The other men at the table weakly echoed his laugh.
> “Well, I’m glad to see your jaws have not lost their bite.” Cameron plucked at his cuff. “If you recall, you owe me a rather hefty sum for that little bauble you bought for your bride. Seeing as you’ve a tidy sum sitting there, what say that we settle up?”
“As you wish.” Expelling a bored yawn, Connor fingered through the gambling pledges. “Here, this one is for more than the amount.” The scrap of pale paper bearing Dudley’s signature fell to the tabletop with a whispery flutter. “I’m happy to pay extra for having you take over the tedium of dealing with the viscount regarding payment.”
Cameron heaved a pained sigh. “You know that I much prefer ready blunt, but as a favor to a friend, I shall bite the bullet and take paper.”
“I say, Daggett…” Dudley cleared his throat with a cough as Cameron picked up the note and tucked it inside his waistcoat pocket. “I’d be much obliged if you would give me some time to redeem my debt.”
“Unlike you titled toffs, I do not have ancient family fortunes or estate assets to fall back on. I must earn my own keep,” he murmured. “However, as I am currently plump in the pocket, I suppose that I can afford to be patient. You will, however, owe me interest on the loan.”
“Of course, of course.” Dudley blotted his brow.
Connor rose and without further word walked off with Gryff. A low murmur went round the table as the other men made ready to resume play. Cameron lingered for a moment before turning and slowly moving off toward the private parlors of the Lair.
“A moment, Daggett.”
As he had hoped, Dudley followed him into the dimly lit corridor.
“I’ve heard that you are a savvy fellow when it comes to business dealings,” went on the viscount. “As well as someone who is not overly fastidious about how those deals get done.” A pause. “If you’ll agree to hold off collecting until I am ready to pay, I promise that I shall make it very worth your while.”
Interesting. The proposal added an unexpected twist to his plans and Cameron considered it carefully before replying. “An intriguing offer. But as you say, I’m careful when it comes to my money.” He dropped his voice a notch. “I happen to know your funds are, shall we say, stretched at the moment—”
“H-how the devil do you know that?” interrupted Dudley.
“Oh, I have my sources. There is very little that goes on within the netherworld of the ton that I don’t hear about.” Cameron toyed with the fob on his watchchain, watching the viscount’s fleshy face pinch with fear. “So, why should I think the situation will improve enough for you to pay me a handsome bonus?”
Dudley gave a furtive look up and down the dark passageway. “I can’t reveal all the details, but I’ve a very good friend who expects to come into a great deal of money shortly. I’ll be receiving a share of it.”
“Why?”
A rumbled laugh. “Never mind. Suffice it to say it will be more than enough to make you happy.”
“How long are we talking about?” asked Cameron.
“I can’t say precisely,” answered Dudley. “But if all goes well, it shouldn’t be more than a month.”
“Very well,” replied Cameron slowly. “I’ll take a gamble and agree to your terms.”
“You won’t regret it.”
Ah, but I can’t say the same for you, Lord Dudley.
Cameron inclined a mock bow. “I daresay I won’t. I’m not in the habit of making deals that don’t yield a worthwhile reward.”
“Georgie, please, it’s late and I’m in no mood for intimate sisterly chats.” Sophie drew the coverlet up over her chin. “Go to bed.”
“I will.” Georgiana plunked herself down on the foot of the mattress and tucked her feet under her skirts. “In a moment.”
She blew out a grumbled sigh. “Be advised that I don’t intend to talk about It.”
“You mean Him,” murmured her sister with a mischievous smile. “I don’t know why not. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to how Cameron came to be one of the infamous Hellhounds?”
“No,” she lied. “And even if I were, there is little point in chewing over the question. Neither of us has a clue as to how he’s spent his life since leaving Terrington.” That was not precisely true, but half-lies were becoming easier to utter. “So any discussion would merely be idle speculation.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
A pillow hit Georgiana in the chest with a feathery thud. Falling back, she dissolved in giggles. “Oh come, admit it! You’re dying to know all the delicious details.”
Sophie watched a finger of moonlight squiggle across the windowglass. It was gone in an instant, a quicksilver flicker drawing back into darkness.
“I mean, how did a penniless, runaway bast—er, boy come to have such powerful friends?” went on Georgiana.
“As I just said, there is really no point in trying to puzzle it out,” she replied.
Ignoring Sophie’s attempt to quash further talk of Cameron, Georgiana gazed up at the ceiling and let out a sigh. “My guess is that Cameron has traveled to the far corners of the globe. You have only to look at his earring to know that he experienced all sorts of exotic adventures.” Another soft exhale. “By the by, do you think I could convince Anthony to get his ear pierced? He would look quite dashing with a gleaming gold hoop.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t wax poetic over the allure of men with earrings,” said Sophie dryly. “He might be more tempted to pierce Cameron’s liver than his own lobe.”
“You think he might feel jealous?” Georgiana considered the idea. “It hadn’t occurred to me. How…intriguing.”
“Georgie,” she said, summoning her Don’t-Get-Any-Impetuous-Ideas voice.
Her sister waved off the warning. “I was just teasing. As if I would do anything to upset Anthony.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said tonight,” quipped Sophie. She plumped her remaining pillow. “Now if you don’t mind…”
“Getting back to Cameron’s story,” continued her sister. “After returning from his mysterious travels, he somehow encountered Lord Haddan and Lord Killingworth and forged a strong friendship. Aunt Hermione says the gossip columns referred to them as ‘close comrades,’ but unfortunately, she doesn’t remember any of the details.”
Thank God, thought Sophie. Georgiana’s imagination was heated enough without any more fuel to feed the fire.
“Ah, well.” A shrug, and then a smile as her sister went on, “Oh, I know—perhaps it will turn out that he’s secretly been made a prince in India and is fabulously wealthy. He’ll ride into Terrington on a white tiger and carry you to a castle made of rubies and emeralds.”
Sophie surrendered a gurgled laugh.
“Or would you prefer a white elephant?”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Georgie, but you are trying to fabricate an enchanted fairytale out of very ordinary cloth. Neither Cameron nor I are fanciful storybook heroes. We are flesh-and-blood people who must do our best to navigate the ups and down of everyday life.”
The teasing light in her sister’s eye softened to a more serious hue. “You deserve a happily ever after.”
Clearing her throat, Sophie took a moment to compose her emotions. “I am so glad that you have found your perfect Prince, my dear. But just because I don’t have white tigers or white knights in my life doesn’t mean that I won’t be happy. I have you and Pen.”
“I wish—”
“If wishes were pennies, we would all be rich as Croesus.” She made a face. “Now go to bed, Georgie. And in the morning, please forget about fairytales. On the journey home, let us spin plans for your real-life wedding. There are flowers to choose, patterns to peruse, guest lists to draw up, and a myriad of other details to decide.”
Smothering a yawn, Georgiana slid down from her perch. “I suppose you are right.”
“Of course I’m right. Age and wisdom go hand in hand.”
“Good night,” said her sister as she turned for the door. Under her bre
ath she added, “But if you think that I shall forget about fairytales, you are sadly mistaken. It’s not necessary to use ink and paper to write a happy ending. If one is creative, why, anything can happen.”
Chapter Eight
A gusty breeze, sharp with the salt-edged chill of the nearby sea, tugged at the collar of Cameron’s riding coat, stirring a prickling of unease. Reining his horse to a halt, he slanted a long look around the small clearing and then slowly dismounted.
The long grass swooshed against his boots as he approached the small stone hut. Was its whisper a warning that walking back into the past was a grave mistake?
“A grave mistake,” he said aloud, the sudden sound startling a grouse from the tangled gorse.
Wings whirred—fly, fly away!
“Coward,” he muttered. “I’m naught but a callow, craven coward if I can’t confront my youthful demons and kick them to Hades.”
The cackle of a crow was not the most reassuring of answers.
Stepping over a patch of thorns, Cameron grasped the rusty latch and gave it a shove. Hinges groaning, the weathered door swung open.
Dust motes danced in the hazy light. Poking his head inside, he saw that the lone window still had most of its panes intact, though the cracks in the glass threw strange, shifting patterns on the far wall. The air was heavy with neglect—and old memories. A remote gamekeeper’s shelter, the place had already been abandoned for years when he had stumbled upon it as a boy. It had become his refuge, his sanctuary when he needed to escape and think.
But clearly, I made a hash of thinking back then, he thought wryly, looking around at the earthen floor, and the few sticks of furniture. He drew a finger through the layers of sooty specks covering the small table. I may be older, but God only knows if I’ve become any wiser.
He stood very still, soaking in the silence for a moment longer, before turning abruptly and hurrying back out into the sunlight.
Dark and light—a fitting metaphor for his own conflicted existence.
After stabling his horse in the outer shed, Cameron carried his supplies into the hut and set to making the place habitable. He didn’t intend to be staying for long, but given the unexpected twists that his life had taken lately, it was best to be prepared.
