by Cara Elliott
“Well?” demanded Georgiana. “Is that The Secret?”
“Yes.” With great care, Sophie set it aside on the edge of the desk. “And for the time being, you must not breathe a word to anyone of what we have discovered. It could be a matter of life and death.”
Her sister’s eyes widened.
“I am deadly serious, Georgie, not a word.” She gathered the folders and carried them back to the cabinet. After relocking the door and drawing the draperies back into place, she picked up the tray. “Please take these back to the kitchen.” On impulse, she took the thinnest skewer and slipped it into her apron pocket. “If Pen asks you any questions, tell her that the window latch was jammed, but we managed to fix it.”
“You aren’t going to tell me what The Secret is?”
“For your own safety, I had better not.” Seeing Georgie’s scowl, she quickly added, “It’s not my secret to share. But I promise that you will learn all about it very soon.” She folded the document and tucked it inside her bodice. “Within a week, if all goes well.”
If all goes well. Was it just the tautness of her nerves that made the faint crackle of paper sound like mocking laughter?
Picking up her candle, she took several deep gulps of air before following her sister into the corridor.
Cameron reined to halt on the brow of the hill. Holding his hat firm against the salt-rough gusts, he stared out at the sea. In the fading daylight, the rolling waves were leached of all color, their sullen gray hue accentuated by the dark, brooding clouds hovering on the distant horizon.
Like violent bruises. An apt metaphor, he decided, listening to the dull roar of the surf against the rocky shingle. Death and skullduggery swirled in the currents below. He had no love for his prideful half brother, but no man deserved such a foul fate, sunk along with his family in a watery grave. Whatever Wolcott’s sins, Morton and Dudley were a far worse evil.
“And I shall stop them,” he vowed. “Though the irony of me—a fellow who has lived most of his years on the dark side of life—as a champion of Good versus Evil is rather ironic.”
Shielding his eyes from the sting of the wind, he surveyed the shoreline for a bit longer, and then, as dusk settled over the surroundings, Cameron turned his horse for the trail leading down to the water’s edge.
There had been no signal from Sophie at the stone hut. A relief, he admitted, at least for the moment. He had likely made far better time traveling than she had, and so he would try to check back if circumstances allowed. But if she kept her promise—and Sophie was nothing if not honorable—there should be no pressing need for his assistance.
True, they had much to discuss. Much to resolve. But like the ocean waters, so much between them was still just a muddle of grays. Better to wait until certain things sharpened into black and white.
Though his own thoughts were still so unclear.
What if she says no again?
Cameron felt his insides clench. A fancy title wouldn’t hide his many faults. Not from Sophie, who knew him far too well. Would she trust that his heart—an organ he had claimed was hard as stone—had come back to life? Would she believe that reckless danger no longer held any allure?
“Let me defeat two cunning, murderous criminals first,” he muttered, allowing himself a wry smile. “That may be the easiest of the two challenges.”
Up ahead, just visible through the thinning copse of trees, Cameron spotted the dark outlines of a boathouse silhouetted against the rising night mists. Dismounting, he untied a small sack of tools from behind his saddle and approached the building on foot.
There was no glimmer of light within, and the set of double doors was locked. A quick check showed the dock was deserted, save for a tabby cat that darted off into the reeds. Tied to the brass stanchions was a large, graceful yacht, its rigging thrumming in rhythm with the gentle roll of the incoming tide. Next to it was a smaller racing sloop, a sleek vessel designed for speed and maneuverability.
A pretty picture. Frederick Morton’s seaside retreat was an idyllic spot. But was it hiding some ugly truths?
“Despite my reckless reputation, I’m really quite a cautious fellow,” murmured Cameron as he backtracked to the boathouse and did a slow circuit around the perimeter to ensure that he was alone. Two sheds at the rear of the building sheltered coils of hemp and several rusting anchors, but they, too, were deserted.
Satisfied, he returned to the entrance. The lock was more complicated than expected, but he made quick work of it.
Once inside, Cameron lit a small shuttered lantern and made a quick survey of the cavernous space with its narrow beam. A large wooden cradle dominated the center of the building, its slanted timbers designed to hold a boat hull hauled in for repairs. Nothing out of the ordinary there, he thought, quickly directing his attention to the work benches aligned along the far wall.
His cat-footed steps across the earthen floor stirred a whisper of wood shavings, mingling the scent of oak with the more pungent smells of pine tar and linseed oil. In the flicker of lanternlight, the array of tools hanging above the counters threw menacing silhouettes on the planked wall—clawed hammers, sharp-faced axes, and razored saws looking as large as dragon’s teeth.
“The Devil’s workshop,” Cameron muttered, beginning a methodical search of the crannies and crevices. The odds were against finding any evidence of Morton’s involvement in Wolcott’s death, but experience had taught him to overlook nothing when seeking to uncover an opponent’s weakness.
However cunning, most people were careless enough to leave some telltale clue lying around that could be used against them.
Slowly, slowly, he made his way down the length of the drawers and cubbyholes.
No luck.
Coming to the end of the benches, Cameron paused and made another angled sweep of the beam. A rack of freshly varnished spars and a pile of weathered sails sat in a narrow alcove. Deciding it was worth a look, he ducked inside the cramped space and quickly searched through the heavy canvas.
Naught but gritty streaks of sea salt.
The smooth lengths of spruce yielded nothing, either.
It was only as he rose from his crouch that the light fell on a crumpled piece of paper lying in the sliver of space beneath the spars. Reaching into the shadows, he fished it out and smoothed out the wrinkles.
“Well, well, well.” There were two pencil sketches—the top one detailed a boat’s rudder and fastenings while the bottom one showed the basic arrangement of bolts holding a lead keel in place.
“Interesting.” Not positive proof for a court of law, perhaps. But a telling bit of evidence. Cameron tucked it in his pocket, now sure in his own mind that his half brother had been murdered.
In the morning he would ride on to the meeting with Morton and Dudley, who had taken a deadly gamble and believed they held a winning hand.
But the final cards had yet to be played.
Breakfast over, Sophie hurriedly gathered her cloak and bonnet, grateful that Georgiana had agreed to distract Penelope with a flurry of morning chores. With all that was on her mind, she was glad to avoid awkward questions on why she was taking a walk so early in the morning.
“I won’t be gone long,” she murmured, ducking into the storage pantry for a last word with her confidant-in-intrigue before leaving.
“You are sure that you don’t want me to accompany you?” asked Georgiana.
“No need. I’m simply leaving a signal for Cam at the old shepherd’s hut.” She had decided to share some of the details of the plan with her sister. It seemed only fair—and in truth, Georgiana had proved herself a stalwart ally.
I shall have to stop thinking of her as a child, thought Sophie. After all, at her age I had already been forced to make momentous life choices…
“Be careful.” Her sister’s sharp caution cut off further musings.
“I walk the hills nearly every day. I know where the crumbling parts of the footpath are.”
Georgiana didn�
�t smile. “I’m serious.”
“Don’t take this skullduggery too much to heart, Georgie,” she murmured. “It’s Cam who is in danger. I can only twiddle my thumbs and pray that he won’t come to any harm.”
“I have a feeling that Cam can take care of himself these days,” replied Georgiana. A smile twitched on her lips. “No need to rescue him from bat-infested caves or foul bogs.”
“Oh, lud, that mud was evil-smelling.” Sophie allowed a fleeting grin at the memory. “You were right—it took a week to wash away the stink.”
“It was more like two.” Crinkling her nose, Georgiana gathered up a handful of dusting cloths and a bottle of lemon oil. “I had better go and put Pen to work.”
Sophie waited a few moments before heading in the opposite direction and letting herself out through the scullery door. Dewdrops glittered in the morning sun, diamond-bright against the green grass. Squinting against the glare, she hurried across the side lawn and made her way out to the lane, wishing that her spirits could soak up a bit of the sparkle.
If only my thoughts weren’t so clouded with misgivings. She couldn’t help wondering whether Cameron would consider his new position in Society a blessing or a curse. As a youth, he had seethed with fire over the injustice to his mother. But now? He had carved out a niche for himself—admittedly one filled with dark shadows and twisting passageways, but nonetheless made by his own hand. His own spirit.
Perhaps I am wrong to be interfering with his destiny. There was, after all, an old adage about letting sleeping dogs lie…
A marquess had responsibilities. How would Cameron feel about that? Throwing them to the wind whenever he wished to embark on a Pirate adventure would affect the vast estate lands and the numerous tenants.
Her steps slowed as Sophie wondered whether she should turn back and think things over. But the hesitation lasted for only a moment before her own sense of right and wrong pushed her forward.
Cameron had lived in the netherworld of lies too long. The truth, however challenging, must come to light.
“It is not my decision to make,” she assured herself. “Cam must come to grips with the future on his own.”
Looking up from rutted lane, Sophie saw that she was already passing by Neddy’s cottage. The sight of the smoke rising from his forge sent another twinge tugging at her conscience. She still felt a little guilty for manipulating his goodwill. The puzzle lock had been put back without him knowing of her ruse. However, the fact that she had deceived a friend brought a faintly sour taste in her mouth. Especially as it seemed that he still harbored a tendre for her, despite her gentle efforts to discourage his attentions over the past few years.
Swallowing hard, she picked up her pace. The footpath leading up to the hills was just around the bend…
The thick hedgerow, heavy with hawthorn and vines of pale pink wild roses, stirred in the breeze, the rustle of leaves releasing a sweet scent into the air. Filling her lungs with the fragrance, Sophie sought to calm her jangled nerves, so it took a moment to realize that the sound of the swaying branches was growing louder, louder.
Roused from her reveries, she saw that a coach was rattling down the lane. Shading her eyes, she watched it approach, trying to make out any distinguishing marks. The dark horses and black woodwork were unfamiliar, as was the driver. Hat drawn low, the collar of his caped driving coat turned up despite the mildness of the day, he sat hunched on his perch, giving no sign of greeting.
Sophie stepped onto the grassy verge, giving the vehicle ample room to pass by.
The horses, however, came to an abrupt halt.
“Are you in need of directions?” she asked. The fellow had likely lost his way and that would account for his surly mood.
A brusque flick of the whip snapped in answer, the leather lash motioning to the side of the coach.
How odd. As well as horribly rude. Repressing a tart reply, Sophie made her way around the snorting, stomping team.
The brass latch jiggled and the door opened a crack.
“Are you in need of directions?” she repeated, peering into the gloom.
The draperies were drawn over the windows, making the coach’s interior dark as Hades. She could just make out a murky silhouette—Hessian boots, caped coat, high-crown hat.
A gentleman. Though one with shoddy manners, reflected Sophie as he edged closer and spoke in a muffled growl through the scarf wrapped around his lower face.
“I’m sorry, sir, you will have to speak up.” Perhaps he was ill with a catarrh in his throat. “If you are looking for the main road to Lynn Regis, you have missed the turn.” It was easy to mistake the fork in the road back by the river. “If you return to the mill—”
A sudden movement in the iron-gray shadows squeezed her words to a strangled gasp. Blinking in disbelief, Sophie found herself staring down the snout of a pistol.
“Get in the carriage, Miss Lawrance.” The words were no longer soft or blurred. “Now.”
“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered.
“Oh, but I think you do.” The scarf slowly unwound, revealing the grim face of Lord Dudley. “You may think yourself very clever, but I saw you with that filthy scoundrel Daggett at The Wolf’s Lair.” He let out a nasty laugh. “For all your prim and proper façade, it seems that you are simply a common slut.”
“But…” With her mind reeling, she could muster no argument.
“Get in,” ordered Dudley. “Or would you rather that I go on and ask your sisters to join me? The older one is a pretty little morsel.”
Sophie climbed into the coach. Her heart was beating so hard that she feared it might crack a rib. “Leave them alone, or…”
“Or what?” he sneered. A rap on the trap signaled the driver to start moving.
“Or you will be sorry.” It was, she admitted, a rather buffle-headed threat, but it helped steady her courage.
“It is you who will be sorry if you don’t start talking—and fast. I don’t know what game you and Daggett are playing,” said Dudley. “But I intend to find out.”
“I’ve nothing new to tell you, sir.” Why not try to bluff him, she decided. There seemed little to lose. “I know what you want, but I haven’t got it. Nor do I have a clue as to where it might be found.”
The pistol was now only inches away from her chest. “Then why were you with Daggett?
“Because he, too, is trying to blackmail me into telling him where the blasted paper is,” she exclaimed, quickly spinning a lie. “He saw me with you on my first visit to the Lair, and forced me to tell him why. He seems to think that if he obtains the paper before you do, he can sell it to Mr. Morton for a handsome sum.”
“You’re lying.” But a flicker of doubt rippled through his shadowed gaze.
She remained steadfastly silent. Don’t flinch, don’t flinch. Thinking of Cameron and how coolly he dealt with adversity gave her added strength.
“If you aren’t in league with him, how do you explain what the two of you were doing upstairs on the pleasure floor of the Lair several nights ago?”
“Quite easily,” answered Sophie with a grim laugh. “Because of you, I have nothing left to pay a blackmailer’s demand—save for my body.”
Dudley frowned, but before he could respond, the coach lurched to a halt.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
“You will see in a moment.”
She heard footsteps outside and the thud of a bag being tossed in the luggage compartment. Then the latch clicked and the door swung open.
A gasp slipped from her lips as a slash of sunlight cut across a familiar face.
“Make yourself comfortable, Miss Lawrance,” said Dudley. “The three of us are going to be taking a little ride.”
Chapter Nineteen
A glass of brandy, Daggett?” Morton held up a crystal decanter. “Or would you prefer a Scottish malt?”
Cameron watched the sunlight flicker through the amber spirits, setting off tiny red-gold sparks.
“Brandy,” he answered, fingering his earring. He had chosen the replica of Sophie’s teardrop pearl as a symbol of poetic justice. What goes around, comes around. “It’s so much more civilized, don’t you think?”
Morton eyed the jade-green length of silk styled in a perfect Waterfall knot at Cameron’s throat and lifted a brow in disdain. “Pray, what do you know of civilized behavior? My sources tell me you don’t move within the circles of Polite Society unless your two titled friends put you on a leash and invite you to pad along at their heels.”
Cameron let out a low laugh. “True. I make no pretensions of being a gentleman. I am who I am.” He paused to accept his drink. “And unlike you, I do not covet another man’s skin enough to kill for it.”
A dark flush mottled Morton’s cheeks. “What are you implying?”
“Moi?” Cameron quaffed a long swallow of the brandy before giving a careless shrug. “Only that I make it my business to keep my ears open to the whispers floating around Town.” He lowered his voice, “And trust me, one hears far more interesting things in the stews than one does in your fancy gentlemen’s clubs. That’s where the real secrets swirl.”
Morton’s gaze betrayed a spasm of alarm.
“Not that I give a rat’s arse for what you have—or haven’t—done. Money is the currency of my morality. We have a deal that promises to pay me handsomely.” He cocked a salute. “So let us toast to our business partnership. I look forward to both of us getting our just rewards.”
“Indeed.” Morton’s mask of arrogance was back. “Let us hope your reputation for being skilled at thievery is not overrated, Daggett. I will be sadly disappointed if you come up empty-handed.”
“As will I.” The reply was deliberately cryptic. Shouldering past his host, Cameron strolled to the terrace railing and perched a hip on the smooth stone. “A lovely view,” he said, gazing out over the sea. Today its waters were a sparkling blue with naught but a few lazy whitecaps dotting its surface. “I find the ocean appealing, too. It’s so unpredictable, which I find interesting.”
