Roses in Moonlight

by Lynn Kurland

  Of course, Derrick knew why that was, but that was something else to be thought about later.

  Cameron had turned over the business to him the year before. He’d wanted it, of course, badly, for the sheer exhilaration of the chase. What had surprised him, however, was how quickly the role of recoverer of stolen goods had been added to his job description.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t been surprised by how much of his time that sort of thing took up. He turned away from the window before he blinded himself with the afternoon summer sunshine. This was absolutely the last case of that nature he would take on. He would solve this bloody problem for the gentleman in question, then turn everything from now on over to Scotland Yard.

  He pursed his lips as he walked across the plush carpet of his office, suppressing the urge to curse. Unfortunately, he imagined he wouldn’t be calling in any detective inspectors anytime soon. The adrenaline rush he got from undoing the work of bad guys was simply too strong to walk away from.

  He opened his door and looked at the collection of souls in the reception area. The offices were stunning, of course, because Cameron Antiquities was only part of the Cameron clan’s empire, and he was only a small part of that clan. It was handy, however, to have his office right next door to his cousin’s. It made the clients who dared be seen frequenting the place feel pleased to be hobnobbing with Scottish nobility.

  Cameron’s personal secretary was holding court behind an intimidating antique desk that sported a phone, a dedicated, hack-proof computer, and pictures of her grandchildren. Derrick smiled at her, then looked at the men lounging in the chairs there, flipping through supermarket tabloids and looking like trouble.

  The worst sort of trouble, Oliver, looked up from reading apparently about the latest royal intrigues.

  “Where’re you off to, boss?”

  Derrick wondered if he would ever become accustomed to that. Though he had indeed wanted it, that business of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd., and he supposed he’d put enough work into it over the past eight years to accept it almost without flinching, being the owner of it still sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.

  Then again, there were no assets in the company to speak of save the power of the Cameron name and the reputation Robert Cameron had built up over the years. Derrick supposed he’d had a hand in that often enough himself not to have it feel like charity.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he said slowly.

  Rufus, their driver extraordinaire, sighed. “I’ll consider going to warm up the getaway car.”

  Derrick smiled briefly, then looked to find his cousin himself, the laird of the clan Cameron, standing at the door to his own office, smirking. Derrick looked at Oliver and Rufus first, because it was simpler.

  “I think I’m off on a little explore,” he admitted, “but I’m not sure I’ll be driving.”

  Rufus went back to his newspaper, relic that he was. Oliver didn’t shift, but he never shifted. He simply watched Derrick with an unblinking stare that had made many a man blurt out his innermost secrets without having to be asked.

  “I have my mobile,” Oliver said.

  “I may be giving you a wee ring on it.”

  Oliver only lifted one eyebrow, then rose gracefully to his feet. “I’ll go recharge the battery then, shall I?”

  “You should.” He turned and looked at his cousin. “Aye, my laird?”

  “Just wondering what you’re about,” Cameron said with a shrug. “Perhaps you’d like to come inside and tell me about it.”

  Derrick nodded, then followed Cameron into his office. He shut the door behind himself, then leaned back against it.

  “Anything in particular you’re curious about?” he asked.

  Cameron only sat down on the edge of his desk and smiled pleasantly. “You don’t work for me any longer, Derrick, as I believe we’ve discussed at length.”

  “Feudal obligation, my laird.”

  “We’re Scots, ye wee fool, not Brits. We call it fealty up north.”

  Derrick would have smiled, but he had little to smile about at the moment. He did nod, though, because he agreed completely. He had certainly spent his share of time south of Hadrian’s Wall, but that was years ago, before he’d found it to be a place he didn’t want to linger. He was more than happy to cling to national pride.

  He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets because that was preferable to wringing them like a fitful alewife.

  “You remember that piece of lace that went missing about the time of the troubles with Nathan Ainsworth?”

  “Vividly.” Cameron studied him for a moment or two in silence. “It was restored to its proper owner, though, if I’m remembering it aright.”

  “Briefly,” Derrick said grimly. “I had a wee ring from Lord Epworth a few days back, asking if I wouldn’t be so good as to track it down for him again.”

  “And of course you said him nay, because you aren’t a private detective and it isn’t your affair to help anyone hold on to their priceless treasures,” Cameron drawled. “Or do I have that wrong?”

  Derrick suppressed the urge to swear. “I said I would think about it.”

  Cameron laughed. “Of course you did, though I imagine the exact words were, Of course, Lord Epworth, I would be happy to retrieve it for you.”

  “You know, there are limits to the deference my fealty demands,” Derrick said darkly.

  “I’m quite sure there are,” Cameron agreed. “Very well, so you’ve turned yourself into a retriever for this poor doddering old Englishman. Why do I have the feeling that isn’t the end of the tale?”

  “Because that isn’t the last thing that’s trotted off into the ether as if it had legs.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “You needn’t look so nonchalant about this all.”

  Cameron shrugged. “You’ll find it all, I imagine. Not my problem if you don’t.”

  “You know, you would be far less annoying if you could stop exuding that aura of wedded bliss.”

  “I’m walking the floor with my son every evening as he howls and Geoff Segrave rings to complain because apparently the walls are too thin for his taste,” Cameron said mildly. “Is that bliss?”

  “I’m sure you’re relishing every moment of each.”

  Cameron hesitated, then smiled. “I can’t argue with that, though I think young Breac gives me more pleasure than he does Geoff.” He looked at Derrick unflinchingly. “I won’t offer aid.”

  “I wouldn’t ask for it.”

  “But you could.”

  “And I won’t repeat what you would tell me, though I’m sure it would involve foul language.”

  Cameron tsk-tsked him. “Refuse to aid you after all these years of faithful service? Never.” He folded his arms over his chest and smiled. “Where are you going to start?”

  Derrick walked across the floor and collapsed happily in one of the guest chairs in front of the desk. “I’ve eliminated the usual suspects, leaned on a couple of others, and come up empty-handed.” He considered, then looked up at his cousin. “What do you think of actors?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  Derrick supposed he deserved that, as well as the smirk that accompanied it, so he refrained from comment. “I have a hunch about something.”

  “And it involves actors?”

  Derrick shrugged. “It might.”

  “Then if you know where to start, why are you here talking to me?”

  “Thought I’d have a bit of train fare from you.”

  “I imagine you didn’t. Are you looking for permission to go make a nuisance of yourself to someone you shouldn’t?”

  Where to begin? He couldn’t believe who he was thinking about investigating. Even voicing the name would leave Cameron looking at him as if he’d lost his wits. He wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t, the idea was so daft.

  That, and it would lead him back to a place—and to individuals—he most certainly didn’t want to encounter again.

  He sighed. “I’m
not sure about anything.”

  “You’re not a very good liar, you know,” Cameron remarked. “I’m surprised James MacLeod hasn’t sharpened up that skill on your little jaunts to wherever it is you go.”

  “And I’m surprised you would want to go anywhere near the topic of where Jamie and I have been going,” Derrick said just as mildly.

  Cameron smiled. “Touché.”

  “Touché, indeed,” Derrick said, pursing his lips. The occasional trips he made with James MacLeod were adventures, to say the least, but nothing he could talk about with anyone but the man standing in front of him. He scowled at his cousin. “It isn’t as if I haven’t given you a full report about every trip, just to satisfy your unwholesome curiosity about times and dangers not your own.”

  Cameron held up his hands in surrender. “I’m far past having the stomach for anything but continuing to woo my stunning wife and corral my rambunctious son. You can jaunt all you like. I’m assuming you haven’t found anything on your journeys that will aid you in your current quest to retrieve missing lace.”

  “Nay, nothing,” Derrick said with a sigh.

  He had to suppress a yawn as well, but in his defense, he was bone weary from trotting back to a fairly respectable reenactment of sixteenth-century Scotland with James MacLeod the previous weekend, just to pop in on one of the man’s ancestors. He wasn’t sure how Jamie managed his boundless amounts of energy and enthusiasm. Just tagging along after the man for any length of time at all was exhausting. Crossing swords with him was terrifying and trying to keep up with his peculiarly accented Gaelic headache-inducing. If he hadn’t spent the past nine years shadowing Robert Cameron, he never would have managed the latter.

  He didn’t particularly care to think about where he’d learned the swordplay—he still had the shadows of bruises and hints of scars to show for that—and there were times he heartily regretted ever having set foot on MacLeod soil and coming face-to-face with the laird of the keep there.

  Then again, it made chasing down thugs seem like a relaxing afternoon spent lounging in front of the telly.

  He looked at Cameron. “I think this could become rather messy.”

  “Could it?”

  “Very bad publicity for someone.”

  “But you don’t intend for that someone to be you.”

  Derrick took a deep breath. “No, I don’t. Wouldn’t want to sully the Cameron name.”

  Cameron only smiled. “Of course not.”

  “My laird might take me out and hack me to bits otherwise.”

  “I’m sure you live in fear.” He rubbed his hands together purposefully. “So, what do you need on this little adventure of yours?”

  Derrick hesitated. He needed backup, true, and the lads that worked for him were at his disposal, equally true, but he didn’t want to leave his cousin without any sort of security. And, after all, Cameron had been the one to gather to himself that collection of lads whose loyalty was unquestionable, who would have done anything for him, who had knelt before him in a particularly medieval way and pledged him a very formal sort of fealty.

  Derrick considered the list. Ewan was their cousin, his and Cameron’s, and could have been mistaken for a lighthearted twit. Derrick knew what he was capable of in a tight spot, though, because he had been the beneficiary of that more than once. Then there was Oliver, whose murky past was an asset rather than a liability, and Rufus, who looked every inch the very skilled rugby player he’d been in a former life, and Peter, who floated through life as if he lived for nothing more than a delicate artist’s life but who was Derrick’s lad of choice in a good brawl.

  “Take Oliver.”

  Derrick looked at Cameron quickly. “But you—”

  “Have a perfectly terrifying security detail,” Cameron said with a shrug, “all of whom have seen battle in one form or another and haven’t a clue as to who I am in truth. Sunny and I are perfectly safe. Besides, the lads have been working for you for almost a year now. How is this different?”

  Derrick sighed. “I don’t know. It feels dodgier than usual for some reason.”

  “Then take Oliver for security and Ewan for his charm. Or spare yourself the annoyance and leave Ewan in Scotland. Either way, call on the lads as you need to, of course.” He studied Derrick for a moment or two in silence. “What exactly is it that bothers you about this?”

  Derrick dragged his hand through his hair, then looked at his cousin. “Have you ever felt like Fate was breathing down your neck?”

  Cameron looked at him for a moment or two with absolutely no expression on his face, then he laughed. He was still laughing as Derrick cursed him and left his office. He pulled the door shut quietly behind him instead of slamming it because it was his laird inside, after all, and he was nothing if not a deferent vassal. He looked at Oliver, who had apparently found a plug next to a comfortable chair.

  “Let’s go.”

  Oliver unplugged his phone and got smoothly to his feet, his expression utterly impassive. Oliver at his most enthusiastic, as it happened. Derrick said good-byes all around and walked with Oliver from the building. He waited until they were outside before he looked at his partner in anti-crime.

  “We’re going after the lace.”

  “I suspected as much. North?”

  “North.”

  “Taking the Vanquish, are we?”

  “No,” Derrick said, with feeling. “I don’t want some random thug dinging it.”

  “Very well, I’ll meet you at the station, what?”

  “That’d be lovely.”

  “Destination?”

  “Newcastle, but we’d best buy tickets for Edinburgh.”

  “Throw ’em off the scent, eh?”

  Derrick grunted. “Somehow, I doubt anyone’s going to be following us.”

  “Best to be sure.”

  “Care to see to that?”

  Oliver smiled. “I imagine I would.”

  Derrick checked his watch. “It’s three.”

  “Train leaves at five, gets us there by eight, if you like.”

  “You frighten me,” Derrick said honestly. He truly didn’t like to think about the thoughts that ran through Oliver Phillips’s brain. Too terrifying.

  “I like to have all possibilities considered,” Oliver said easily.

  “And you have the train schedules memorized.”

  “I’m not the one with the photographic memory,” Oliver said with a shrug, “but I do the best I can.” He walked off with a “cheers, mate” thrown over his shoulder.

  Derrick only shook his head and went to find a taxi. He might have had a perfect memory, but Oliver, well, he had a nose for things that had saved Derrick more grief than he wanted to think about at present. There was a lad Jamie MacLeod would have appreciated for his particular skills.

  He gave the cabbie his address and sat back to consider his near future. He would pack up a few things he kept at his very small, very discreet flat, then be on his way. There was no need to ring Lord Epworth because as Cameron had already indicated, he had already accepted the charge to find the earl’s little piece of lace. How could he not? The lace was spectacular and the earl was one of those who truly valued his collection of antiques. His grief over its loss had been genuine and almost unassuageable. Derrick had agreed to the rescue whilst His Lordship had still been wringing his hands.

  Half an hour later he was walking into his flat and up the stairs to his spare room. It looked like a prop room in a very busy theater, but that was only part of what hid behind walls and inside trunks. He owned thousands of pounds’ worth of all kinds of technology, though he had to admit his hack-proof phone and small tablet had become his tools of choice lately. And aye, he knew his gear wasn’t hackable because part of the way Peter kept himself busy every day was trying to break through Derrick’s layers of security. The man would have likely been in prison if anyone with any power had known what he could do. Either that, or Her Majesty’s spooks would have gang-pressed him in
to service for the cause. Derrick was simply happy to know Peter was for them and not against.

  He filled a backpack with the usual things he never went without: colored contacts, facial hair, wigs, easily changed clothing that would radically alter his aspect. For the rest, he would rely on skills he had paid dearly for but never used for anything but his business—

  He turned away from that thought before it blossomed into anything that would distract him from what he needed to do. The past was dead and buried and he preferred it that way.

  He was tempted to do a little snooping online before he left for the station but decided against it. There would be time enough to delve more fully into the lives of his suspects whilst he was waiting for them to make a wrong move. It wasn’t his usual modus operandi, to leave things unexamined and uncovered, but, well, Fate was still standing right behind him, blowing her chilly breath down the back of his neck. He shoved his phone in his pocket, his tablet in his pack, then locked up and headed for the station. He would give his suspects a bit of a head start, just to make things more interesting.

  He would have shaken his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He was going to have to figure out something to do with his life at some point besides chase bad guys. Because somehow, with all that chasing and rescuing, he never seemed to manage to rescue a girl. He had teased Cameron about his wedded bliss, but the truth was, he did envy him. Not only did he envy Cameron his happiness, he wanted something very much like it for himself.

  One more job, then on to other things.

  Chapter 3

  Samantha walked to the window of her minuscule garret room, pulled the lace curtain—not handmade, which she had expected—back and looked out over the street that definitely had a medieval sort of feel, which she hadn’t expected. She had been fully prepared to live in a shed if it meant she could put an entire ocean between herself and her former life, but this was definitely a step up. She was going to have to write her brother a very nice thank-you note.