by Cara Elliott
The clink of crystal indicated that Morton was refilling his glass.
“Are you familiar with the paintings of Mr. Turner?” continued Cameron, seeing that his nattering was annoying his host. “He’s very good at capturing the sea’s ever-changing moods.”
“I didn’t invite you here to discuss art, Daggett,” snapped Morton. “There is only one piece of paper that I care about and it isn’t splashed with paint.” He took another hurried gulp of his drink. “Seeing as you suggested this meeting, I pray that you have something worthwhile to tell me about it. Be assured that I would not be hosting you here otherwise.”
Flicking a mote of dust from his sleeve, Cameron curled his mouth upward. True, an overnight stay here at Morton’s country residence had been part of his plan—a reckless part, perhaps, he conceded, watching his host stalk to the terrace doors and call an order to one of his servants. As Sophie had suggested, a thorough search of the place would have been easy on his own. In and out, with her father’s incriminating document safely in his pocket.
However, in this case he wished to wield more than stealth as a weapon. In the Peninsular War, he and his fellow Hellhounds had learned from brutal experience that to eliminate the most dangerous enemies, it was best done mano a mano. Hand to hand combat. Oh, I shall not plunge a dagger into their black hearts, but I shall take a very visceral satisfaction in manipulating them into making a fatal mistake. Once he had drawn out all the details of how they had sabotaged Wolcott’s yacht, he would figure out a way to pass the information on to the authorities.
“But of course I have information,” he replied after Morton had returned to the terrace. “There is no profit for me in frittering away time.”
Morton looked somewhat mollified. “Good.”
“But speaking of profit, I must ask for a token of good faith before I subject myself to the dangers of fulfilling your request. Say, a quarter of the money up front. Not that I don’t trust you. But in my world, as opposed to yours where the gentlemanly code of honor rules, we prefer to deal in tangible things rather than abstract promises.”
“Damn you!” sputtered Morton. “You made no mention of needing money up front.”
“I changed my mind.” Cameron held out his empty glass. “By the by, that is excellent brandy.”
Hands shaking with rage, Morton poured him another measure. “Don’t toy with me, Daggett. You don’t know whom you are dealing with.”
Oh, yes. I do. But the same cannot be said for you.
“Tut, tut. Is that a threat?” Cameron asked, keeping his voice soft as silk. “You could, of course, refuse my demands. However that would leave you dependent on your friend Dudley’s prowess. And so far he hasn’t shown himself very adept at finding what you want.”
A sharp exhale. “You miserable cur of a Hellhound.”
“Yes, but I have a keen nose for sniffing out valuables, while Dudley is barking up the wrong tree.”
Turning on his heel, Morton began to pace the perimeter of the terrace.
Cameron coolly sipped his brandy, for the moment content to let the varlet stew in his own juices. Time enough later to bring things to a boil.
“How do you expect me to scrape up funds here in Norfolk?” Morton finally asked. “For that, I shall have to return to London.” The scuff of his boots on the slate tiles grew more agitated. “That will take time, and with every delay, we lose the advantage.” After another few steps he added, “Just before I left Town, I heard rumors that a rival for Wolcott’s title was about to crawl out of the woodwork. I would prefer to crush such a pest before he does any damage.”
Ebb and flow—like the sea, subterfuge had a natural rhythm of push and shove.
“Yes, I can see where that would be to our advantage,” he agreed. “Perhaps we can work out a barter, rather than an exchange of money.”
Morton paused in his pacing. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’ve learned that Dudley possesses a cache of valuable jewels,” replied Cameron. “Which he recently won in a card game.” He let the information sink in for a moment before adding another untruth. “The Wolf’s Lair isn’t his only gambling haunt. Did you not know that he plays for high stakes in Seven Dials, at Satan’s Cauldron?”
Morton’s jaw tightened in reaction to the lie. “He never said anything to me about that.”
“Hardly a surprise,” drawled Cameron. “Like most opportunists, he wishes to share in your largesse, but is unwilling to part with his own ill-gotten gains.”
A muttered oath.
“Seeing as it’s his gaming debt that drew me into this affair, it seems only fair that he pay for the chance to be part of your success.” Cameron moved to the wrought iron table and helped himself to an Indian cheroot from the cedarwood cigar box. Now that he had sown the seed of dissension, perhaps he could reap some useful information. “After all, what’s he really done so far for you?”
“He’s had his uses,” growled Morton, sounding somewhat defensive. Nobody liked to look like a fool. “He found a document that allowed him to blackmail the Lawrance family—”
Cameron interrupted with a rude sound. “And what does he have to show for such efforts. A few puny trinkets?”
“He also found a clever fellow to make a few little modifications to Wolcott’s yacht,” said Morton in a low voice.
“That is, I grant you, a worthwhile contribution.” He blew out a perfect ring of smoke and watched it float upward and slowly dissolve in the breeze. “Still, he ought to be willing to invest more than talk in ensuring your plans come to fruition. Why should you take all the risk?”
His host’s eyes narrowed in thought.
“You know, if I were you, I would make sure I had proof of Dudley’s dealings with the yacht.” Keep talking, keep talking—let your own words coil a hangman’s noose around your neck. “That way, you will always hold the winning hand if he ever seeks to doublecross you.”
“I know the name of his co-conspirator. That should ensure Dudley’s cooperation.”
“Perhaps.” Cameron edged his voice with skepticism. “Let us see if it’s enough to squeeze any gems out of your clutch-fisted friend.”
“Dudley is supposed to arrive here shortly,” muttered Morton.
“You know, sharing the fellow’s name with me might add just enough pressure to make him crack,” he suggested. Given a witness, the authorities would have more than just vague suspicions to go on.
“Yes, I see what you mean.” Morton appeared to be thinking it over.
Cameron maintained a casual silence, puffing on his cheroot as he watched the wheeling of the herring gulls high overhead.
“Yes,” repeated Morton, and added a humorless laugh. “Let us see how he likes being squeezed in a vise of vice, ha, ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” echoed Cameron, his ear cocked for the critical name.
“The fellow is—”
A knock on the glass-paned door caused Morton to stop short. “What is it?” he called, signaling for the servant to join them.
“Forgive me, sir. Lord Dudley has arrived.” The man cleared his throat. “And he is not alone.”
As hour after hour rolled by, Sophie sat hunched in a corner of the coach, drifting in and out of a troubled sleep. For the first few miles, Dudley had tried to cajole information out of her, but she had refused to speak. She had a feeling he might have resorted to physical force if the third passenger hadn’t murmured a halting plea for restraint.
Let him threaten, bluster, or bludgeon—I won’t be intimidated by him any longer, she vowed to herself.
Dudley had finally given up and lapsed into a surly silence, save for an occasional ominous growl and smack of a fist to his palm. His companion had also abandoned his attempt to coax her into conversation, and now lay back against the squabs, snoring softly.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to clear the haze of shock from her brain. I must think clearly—there has to be a way out of this coil…
&nbs
p; But inspiration refused to budge. With the mocking clatter of the wheels echoing in her ears, she lapsed into a fitful doze.
It was Dudley’s curt command that roused her. “Get up. We’re here.”
Her limbs cramped, her head aching, Sophie stumbled as she descended from the coach.
A hand shot out to steady her. “Have a care, Sophie.” As Dudley moved off to confer with his driver, the voice dropped a notch. “Don’t make things difficult for yourself or your family. Give him what he wants and—”
“And what, Neddy?” She fixed her old friend with a piercing stare. “He will send me home with a pat on the head and a bag of sugarplums to share with my sisters?”
Neddy had the grace to flush. “Dudley has promised me that if you cooperate, no one else will be harmed in this. He’s merely helping a friend make sure that what is rightfully his is not stolen from under his nose.”
“Rightfully his?” repeated Sophie, aghast at Neddy’s reasoning. “Forgive me for parsing the details, but it seems to me that Lord Wolcott’s right to the title was never in question.”
At that, Neddy’s look hardened. “Wolcott was an arrogant, nasty son of a sow.”
“True. But that does not mean we have the right to murder anyone we find unpleasant.”
“He was a cheat and a liar,” responded her friend. “I worked my fingers to the bone, fitting the manor with expensive, impregnable locks, and do you know what he did?” His voice pinched to a shrill note. “He refused to pay me more than a pittance, saying the merchandise was inferior, no matter that I had all the proper receipts. And it’s not only me who will be better off—a great many people in Terrington will have better lives with a new marquess overseeing the lands.”
One who is a conniving murderer?
Sophie swallowed a sarcastic retort, deciding it would be better to learn all she could about the sordid scheme. “Tell me,” she said softly, “How did you come to be drawn into all this?”
“Dudley and Morton were visiting at the manor while I was working there. They complimented my skills,” he said, “and appreciated my talents—far more so than the high and mighty marquess. They even brought me to London, and arranged for me to install locks on the Duke of Linonia’s townhouse, for which I was paid quite handsomely.”
Sophie heaved a silent sigh, realizing how easy it had been for the two gentlemen of the ton to seduce her old friend. He toiled in anonymity, a plain, ordinary fellow with little in the way of looks, charm, or imagination to distinguish himself.
Why, even I have rejected him.
But her twinge of remorse quickly faded on recalling that six people—the marquess and his family along with three of their crew—were buried in a watery grave because Neddy had let himself be manipulated.
“They even took me to the Café Royal, where I sat with the Quality and drank champagne,” went on Neddy. “And they are paying me handsomely. Enough to take a bride and live very comfortably.”
Equal measures of pity and disgust bubbled up inside her. She had known him all her life, and yet the man before her was a total stranger.
“Sophie…” His voice turned more urgent as the crunch of gravel indicated that Morton was returning. “I can help you, but only if you heed my advice and do as Dudley asks.”
“I can’t,” she whispered, feeling no compunction about lying through her teeth. “Because I don’t have what he wants.”
Neddy had no chance to answer, for Dudley rounded the rear of the coach, pistol still in hand, and took rough hold of her arm. “Come along. Let us see if Morton can loosen your tongue.”
I am at Morton’s country house? A chill spiked through her.
A servant led the way through a gloomy entrance hall dominated by dark wood paneling and gold-framed paintings of hunting scenes. Averting her eyes from the bloodied stag, Sophie sought to control her skittering pulse. If Cameron was here…
Then we are in hot water.
Or perhaps boiling oil, she added with an inward grimace. Thank God she had a few moments of warning to think…to think…
“Move.” Dudley punctuated his growled order by pressing the steel gun barrel against her spine.
Up ahead, at the end of the corridor, she saw a stirring of sunlight through the half-open French doors. The sound of the sea—or was it just the thrumming of her pulse—rose up in a wave to fill her ears, drowning out all but a faint buzz of voices.
Sophie closed her eyes for an instant, willing herself to stay calm.
“What the devil is this?” An unfamiliar voice, most likely that of Morton. “Damnation, explain yourself, Dudley.”
“Actually why don’t we let that guttersnipe Daggett and his slut do the talking.”
Improvise, improvise. It was important to let Cameron know as much as possible about what Dudley knew.
She turned to face Dudley, needing to draw little on acting ability to appear agitated. “I am not, as you put it, his slut. Yes, I was forced to endure his advances at The Wolf’s Lair, but only because he, too, was blackmailing me.”
Darting a daggered look at Cameron, who was puffing nonchalantly on a vile-smelling cheroot, she added. “Men! To the Devil with the lot of you! I’m being bullied and threatened for information that I don’t possess. Nor, for that matter, is there any certainty that it actually exists.”
Neddy was first to speak up. “I believe her!” he said, leaping to her defense. “Sophie is no slut.”
“Shut up,” snapped Dudley. The pistol pointed for a moment at Neddy’s chest before drawing a bead on Cameron. “So, what do you have to say for yourself, Daggett?”
“About what?” drawled Cameron, though his mouth had gone dry as dust on seeing Sophie shoved out onto the terrace.
“They are diddling us, Morton,” snarled Dudley. “After you left The Wolf’s Lair, I went upstairs for a tup and who did I happen to spot in one of the rooms?” The pistol cut an obscene little gesture. “This Hellhound and his she-bitch engaged in a bit of slap and tickle. So I can’t help but wonder—what game are they playing?”
Morton’s jaw tightened. “Well, Daggett?”
“Lord Dudley isn’t the only one who likes to peep at private encounters in the Lair,” he replied. “I spied on an earlier encounter between him and Miss Lawrance, and decided there was money to be made from whatever trouble was afoot.” He flicked a bit of ash from the glowing tip of his cheroot. “Alas, Miss Lawrance had nothing of value to trade, save for her rather charming body. And as I am not averse to pleasures of the flesh—especially when they come for free—I took my pound of flesh, so to speak.”
A growl rumbled in Neddy’s throat.
“I must say there is something rather titillating about deflowering an Innocent in a brothel.” Cameron waggled a wolfish grin at Sophie. “And seeing as you appeared to enjoy the experience, perhaps we can do it again—”
Emitting an inarticulate roar, Neddy launched his beefy bulk forward, his huge hands grabbing for Cameron’s throat.
Sidestepping the charge with a deft spin, he smashed his knee into Neddy’s groin. “It seems that you have another admirer, Miss Lawrance,” he remarked as the blacksmith dropped to the slates, his voice now pitched to a whimpering moan. “But apparently he was more of a gentleman than I.”
Morton’s face relaxed slightly. “You are a right bastard, aren’t you, Daggett?”
“A fact that ought to please you,” responded Cameron coolly. He offered a hand to the still-groaning Neddy. “No hard feelings, Wadsworth. Had I known you had a tendre for the gel, I would have tempered my tongue.”
“Bastard,” hissed Neddy through his teeth as he took the proffered help and hauled himself to his feet. Arms locked together, the two of them stood face to face for a long moment.
A tactical mistake, realized Cameron, watching the other man’s eyes narrow to a slitted stare.
“Bastard,” repeated Neddy, recognition dawning on his blunt-cut features. “Why, it’s Cam Fanning—who we all speculat
ed was the old Wolcott’s by-blow.” Letting out a grim laugh, he turned to Morton and Dudley. “His name isn’t Daggett, it’s Fanning. He’s Sophie’s old sweetheart—and the man you are hunting.”
Cameron didn’t wait for the pair’s reaction. Shoving Neddy hard into Dudley, he darted forward and clipped Morton with a solid punch to the jaw.
Seeing the three men down and dazed, he seized Sophie’s hand and hustled her to the terrace railing.
“Hold on tight, Sunbeam,” he murmured, swinging her up into his arms. “Time to fly.”
Chapter Twenty
Sophie clung to Cameron’s shoulders, and for a moment, the solid shape and strength of him melted the ice-cold terror from her bones.
He was alive and well—nothing else mattered, she thought as they hit the ground with a jarring thud.
Rolling to his feet, he grabbed her hand and set off at a dead run.
Safety—safety lay just a few swift, sure strides ahead.
But an instant later, that illusion was shattered by the crack of a pistol shot.
“Cam!” Sophie screamed as he stumbled and nearly lost his footing on the steep path leading down the wooded slope. She ducked, branches whipping against her cheeks, and spotted an ugly gash in his right boot just below the knee, the torn leather stained with crimson.
“Cam!”
“It’s just a scratch, sweeting,” he said through gritted teeth. Keeping hold of her hand, he lurched into the cover of the trees. “This way—if we can make our way over the top of the hill, we can circle back to the stables.”
Briars snagged at her skirts, roots tripped up her heavy walking shoes. Gasping for breath, Sophie tried to shake off his grip. She hadn’t eaten since dawn and with her limbs still badly cramped from the coach ride, she found that her strength was fast ebbing.
“Go!” she pleaded. “Go on without me.”
He answered with an oath.
“Please, Cam. They will kill you if they catch you. But I—I won’t come to any harm.”
