by Cara Elliott
“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.”
“Horrible, indeed.” Griggs coughed. “Especially in light of some unsettling information that has just surfaced.”
A serpentine chill uncoiled in his gut. “What information?”
“We will get to that matter in moment. But first I think it important for us to discuss the subject of your position.”
“Which is a damnably awkward one.”
Griggs acknowledged the sarcasm with a small shrug. “For the moment, yes. But I would like to move quickly to change that.”
“Why the damnable rush?” demanded Cameron. “I—”
“Please hear me out, sir,” interrupted Griggs. “I’ll explain that shortly. However, you need to make some important decisions first and I should like them to come from the heart.”
Biting back an acid retort, he nodded for the solicitor to go on.
“With the marquess—the previous marquess—gone to his Maker, I can be, shall we say, a bit more forceful in establishing your rights,” explained Griggs. “Even without the marriage lines, I can swear that your father made an oath to me of its veracity. It will take some fancy legal arguing and maneuvering. However, I have reason to think we have a good chance of prevailing.”
Cameron responded with a rather churlish reply.
“I cannot claim to have ever understood your actions over the last decade. Nonetheless, I adhered to the bargain we made, both in letter and in spirit.”
Early on in his flight from Wolcott, Cameron had made contact with the solicitor to make sure his mother would not suffer any consequences. Griggs had promised to see that she was cared for, in return for an address where contact could be made.
“For which I am thankful,” he murmured.
“Never once did I let on to your mother that you occasionally kept me informed of your travels,” went on the solicitor.
She understood why I went away, thought Cameron to himself. She knew that my youthful anger and pride would have ended up destroying me. And while he hadn’t written letters, he had sent other tokens that let her know he was alive.
“Furthermore, as you asked, never once did I contact you, save for the direst of emergencies.” The solicitor cleared his throat. “I had thought your mother’s illness qualified as such.”
“I did see her, Griggs,” whispered Cameron. “The night before she died.”
“But—”
“I am very adept at slipping in and out of places unnoticed.”
Their eyes locked. “As the new Marquess of Wolcott, you will likely find such anonymity impossible in the future. People will tend to scrutinize your every move.”
Assuming I agree to step out of the shadows.
“I need you to sign several documents, my lord.” A sheaf of papers slid across the leather blotter. “A mere formality for the moment, sir, but in the event that our suit is accepted, the rules must be followed.”
The looping of the elegant copperplate script looked to his eye like the twist of a hangman’s noose.
James Cameron Fanning Rowland.
The devil-m
ay-care Cameron Daggett was about to meet an untimely end. In his place was an utter stranger, a starchy-sounding aristocrat who bore no resemblance to the rascally rogue who was more at home in a Southwark gin house than a Mayfair drawing room.
“What if I refuse?” Cameron paused, pen in hand. “Why the devil should I give up my freedom for fetters?”
“There are two reasons why you should you return to Wolcott Manor,” said the solicitor. “First and foremost, because I watched you grow up on its lands. You fished its rivers, hunted its hills, rode hell-for-leather over its pastures. I daresay you stole your first kiss somewhere within its woods.”
“It was never my home,” said Cameron.
“You loved it more than your half brother ever did. It is your home, and it needs your stewardship.” The soft snap of papers added a wordless rebuke. “Don’t you think it is time to stop running from whatever youthful folly—”
“Damn you, I wasn’t running away from anything, save my half brother’s hateful pride,” snarled Cameron. A thump of his fist punctuated his words. “The day I rode out through the manor’s south gates was the happiest day of my life.”
“Ah. And are you happy now?”
“Exceedingly.”
The solicitor’s silvery brows shot up in skepticism.
Cameron looked away to the mullioned windows. Respectability might mean he could offer Sophie…No, he dare not think about that. “Your second reason had better be more compelling than the first.”
“Oh, it is. After you, the next in succession is your second cousin, Frederick Morton.”
Ah, finally some welcome information.
“I was just going to ask about the succession.” Curious as to the solicitor’s opinion of Morton, Cameron said, “Perhaps he would make a better marquess. Since leaving the manor, I have acquired expertise in a great many professions—most of which you would not care to know about. Suffice it to say that being a pompous prig of a peer was not among them. I never paid any attention to the nuances of being a marquess. I don’t know a bloody thing about the job.”
