They’d questioned everyone they could find from the gaming hell, staff as well as patrons, but the place had been crowded, and a quiet man in a black cloak hardly garnered extra attention.
Cam gripped the back of his skull. Why would someone take the life of a good man like George Fraser? Cam had liked—no, loved—Fraser. He was loyal to the bone, strong, with a ready smile and a joke when he felt the men needed it. They’d never stop feeling his loss. He’d leave a hole in the Knights that would never be filled.
Someone knocked on his door. “Come in.”
The door opened, revealing Stirling, who came in as if each of his feet weighed a hundred stone.
“Checking on you,” Stirling said.
“I’m fine,” Cam said. “But how’s Mackenzie?”
“Not well.”
“Aye.” Last Cam saw Mackenzie, he’d been starting to write a letter to Fraser’s family, a task that none of them would consider easy.
“He’ll be all right,” Stirling said. “Lady Grace is with him.”
Lady Grace was Mackenzie’s wife. She and the major’s wife, Lady Claire, were sisters, and the two of them had been doing their best to help the men with their grief since they’d returned from Rohan’s house earlier this evening. Of course, both of them had been fond of Fraser, so they struggled with their own grief as well.
“He’s lucky to have her,” Cam said.
“Aye, that’s true.” Stirling lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. “But you dinna look so well yourself. And you haven’t any Grace for comfort.”
The image of Esme pushed itself into his mind, and he tried to thrust it aside.
“Aye, well”—he shrugged—“neither do you.”
“True enough,” Stirling agreed.
Cam sighed. “I need to find who did this.”
Stirling nodded.
“I feel like it’s my fault.”
“Nay. It wasna your fault. You were with Pinfield.”
“Aye, but I had Fraser’s pistol.” Cam swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. If he hadn’t insisted upon taking Fraser’s pocket pistol, would he have been able to protect himself? Would he be alive tonight, teasing Cam about his lack of fashion sense?
“You couldn’t’ve known there’d be murderers lying in wait for him.” Stirling rose stiffly. When he turned back to Cam, his eyes were narrow and dark. “There’s too much evil in this world, McLeod. Too much death.”
“Aye,” Cam agreed. Stirling didn’t take evil and death well. To this day, nearly a year after he and the other Knights had left the army, he suffered from horrible visions and nightmares. Since Waterloo, Stirling had been fragile, and the rest of the Knights knew it. There was something volatile in him close to the surface, which if ignited would certainly explode. None of them wanted that to happen.
“We’re going to find whoever did this,” Stirling said.
“How?” Cam asked, sitting up. “The damn trail is already cold.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Stirling said. “We have to. Otherwise, none of us will be able to live with ourselves.”
Cam was still for a minute, then he nodded, remembering Anna. He hadn’t been able to move on, to live again, until he’d taken care of the men who’d hurt her. It would be the same with Fraser.
Anna! Oh, damnation.
He raked a hand through his hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Bloody hell. I was supposed to go to my sister’s house tonight. I’m late.” He glanced at the clock over the mantel and winced. “By over an hour.”
“Will you still go?”
“Aye.” He wouldn’t miss his weekly dinner with his sister, even though the food would surely be cold by now, and she’d probably given up on him. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t bother. But this was Anna.
Anna lived in Holborn, in a house of her own that Cam had purchased for her seven years ago. After the falling out with their father, he’d suggested she return to Scotland, but she’d been younger than Cam had been when she’d last seen her homeland, and she said she’d feel more comfortable, less conspicuous, in London.
It was luck that the house assigned to the Highland Knights was only a ten-minute ride from her house. Cam exited into the mews, went to the stable, and quickly saddled his horse. The traffic wasn’t too bad this time of night, and he kept glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. He wasn’t keen on leading murderers to his sister’s home.
For good measure, he made a few extraneous turns before arriving at his sister’s and securing his horse.
“Cam!” Anna said, opening the door to greet him. “I was worried.”
“Aye, well, it wasna a good day.”
She tsked, a sound that reminded him of his mother, who’d died when he was fourteen years old. She’d loved them with all her heart. And Cam couldn’t help but think that if she had lived, Anna could have somehow avoided the terrible things that had happened to her.
“Come. Martha kept dinner warm for you.”
That brought a smile to his face. Anna had known he’d come, despite his tardiness.
“Thanks,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I’m famished.” It was true, he realized. He hadn’t eaten a thing today.
Anna led him into the dining room, where her servant, Martha, greeted him, then laid a veal pie on the table. He sat and dug into the savory dish. Anna sat across the table from him. When Martha left, he raised a brow at his sister. “You’re not eating?”
“I already ate. You’re quite late, you ken.”
“Aye. Sorry.”
“You’re forgiven.” She smiled at him, but as always, it was a sad smile. Full of all the suffering she’d been through. He’d do anything to see a return of the bright, happy smiles she’d given him when she was a girl.
Those smiles had disappeared when their older brother, Alastair, who’d been born with a weak heart, had died. Alastair had been the heir to the Earl of Sutton, and their father had never let him forget it. From the moment their brother could walk and talk, the earl had put endless strain on him, punishing him brutally whenever his actions fell short, which, according to their father, was constantly. Finally, when Alastair was twenty-four years old, his heart couldn’t take any more. He’d fallen asleep at his desk one afternoon and never awakened.
At the age of twenty-two, Cam had come home to bury his brother. He had never returned to his father’s house after that.
“Tell me what happened today,” Anna said quietly. “It was nothing good—I can see it in your eyes.”
Cam shook his head stubbornly. “I dinna wish to talk about it.”
Anna nodded. She knew full well by now that Cam disliked talking of violence and horror with her. That didn’t mean she’d stopped trying to question him about that part of his life. “Aye, well, if today was so awful, tell me about your yesterday, then.”
He remembered the dinner party at the Duke of Trent’s house, and his first smile of the day curled his lips when he thought about Esme, about her flushed cheeks and dark hair and bonny, curvaceous body.
“Ah…” Anna leaned forward. “Something good happened. Tell me about it.”
Cam snorted. “You’re a gossiping harpy.”
She raised a brow. “I don’t have anyone to gossip with but you. Now, tell me.”
He shrugged. “Just a lass I met.”
Her brow notched up higher on her forehead. “Aye? Well, I’m sure you’ve met many lasses. But this is the first one you’ve told me about. What’s her name? Is she English?”
“Aye, she’s English. Her name…” He hesitated. Saying it out loud to Anna felt as good as publicly declaring his interest in the woman.
And, he realized, that was exactly what he wanted to do.
“…is Lady Esme Hawkins. She’s the sister of the Duke of Trent.”
“Och, Cam.”
“What?”
Her smile was playful, but there was worry in her eyes. “I’ve hear
d of the Duke of Trent.”
“Aye, well, everyone has.”
“You like to aim high, don’t you? I’d imagine the Duke of Trent’s sister is about as accessible as the queen.”
He laughed. “She’s a bit more accessible than the queen, I think.”
“Still…”
“I ken. And she’s engaged—” Oh hell. He flinched. Why had he said that?
“She’s engaged!” Anna’s voice was a near shout. “Cam—”
He raised his hand to stop her. “The engagement won’t last. He’s a bore.”
“Don’t be a child,” Anna snapped.
He scowled at her.
“Just because you don’t think a marriage should happen doesn’t mean that it won’t.”
“She doesn’t love him.”
Anna threw her arms up. “How can you possibly know that?”
Cam took a big bite of pie, chewed, swallowed, and downed a deep gulp of wine from the glass Martha had given him. “I just do.”
“How?”
“A man can see these things.”
Her gaze went serious. “What game are you playing, Cam? This sounds like something Da would do, and—”
Cam stiffened. “Da would rip the lass from her loving family and take her how and when he pleased.” That was what he’d done with their mother. He’d manipulated her, seduced her, forced her into a loveless marriage, then proceeded to make her life a living hell. And while he’d slowly killed their mother, he’d taken countless mistresses and treated them no better. “Do you really think I’d do that to a woman, Anna? Any woman?”
He clenched and unclenched his fists. Damn it. Because ultimately Anna was right—what he was doing with Esme did sound like something their father would do.
But he didn’t want to stop. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t intend to cause Esme any harm, truly. He’d try like hell not to. But he wanted her. He wanted her, and he couldn’t let her marry Henry Whitworth. He couldn’t.
That was how this would end, wouldn’t it? He’d hurt her. How could there be any other outcome?
Damn. Damn damn damn. He truly was a bastard.
“Nay, you would never hurt a woman deliberately,” Anna soothed, clearly seeing the emotions that must be twisting his face. “I know that.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “But what are your intentions? What do you intend to gain from this course of action?”
“I want to save her from an unhappy marriage.” He blew out a breath. That was the absolute truth. An intriguing, complicated woman like Esme would wither away shackled to a lifeless lump like Henry Whitworth.
Anna released a frustrated breath.
“Getting that man away from her would be a favor,” he said.
“Why? Is he a bad man?”
Cam snorted. “Bad for Esme, aye.”
She still didn’t seem satisfied. Cam couldn’t think about this anymore. Endlessly comparing himself to his father was going to drive him mad. He needed to stop reminding himself of the McLeod blood running through his veins that had made him into the ass he was. He knew all that already, damn it.
“I think you’d like Esme,” he said, forcibly lightening his voice. “I hope you can meet her someday.”
“I don’t meet dukes’ sisters often,” she said with a smirk.
“You should, though.” As the daughter of an earl, she should be at all of the social events of the Season. But no. She had been disowned by her father and was now shunned by every member of the society who had once venerated her for her position alone.
“Aye, well, I don’t miss that life.”
“Don’t you?”
“Nay,” she said, and he believed her.
“I dinna miss it either. I’m being forced back into it because of bloody Pinfield, and I hate it.” As far as he was concerned, the whole hypocritical lot of them could go to hell. They had all known Anna wasn’t at fault for what had been done to her, yet they now treated her as if she were less than nothing. Even the girls who had proclaimed themselves her lifelong friends had turned their backs on her. He despised them all for what they’d done to his sister.
Anna’s mouth turned down in an expression of distaste. “How is dear Pinny?”
“Annoying as hell.”
“Does he ever mention Da?”
“Nay. Not once.” Last Cam and Anna knew, their father and Lord Pinfield had been close friends. Now, Cam had no idea. “He’s never acknowledged my identity either. He treats all of us Knights like lowly servants.” He didn’t care about Pinfield ignoring the fact that Cam was his father’s heir, but it chafed him that the man disrespected the Knights.
“Does he know who you are?”
Cam snorted. “Oh, aye, he does. He’s idiotic but he’s not an idiot.”
“He’s terrible. I always despised him.”
Cam raised his brows. That was a strong statement, coming from his sister. “Why?”
She shrugged and looked away. “When I was a lass, he used to pinch my bottom whenever I walked by.”
“Jesus!” Cam nearly shouted. What the hell? “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She sighed. “You were gone, Cam, those times he was at the house. You were off at school.”
“Alastair, then. Why didn’t you tell him?”
“He was ill. I couldn’t put even more strain on him.”
Cam bowed his head, looking at his half-eaten pie. His brother’s untimely death. Fraser’s untimely death. He closed his eyes. It was so unfair that so many of the best people were taken long before the worst. “You’re right. I’m sorry I wasna there for you.”
“You were there for me when I needed it most, brother,” Anna said seriously. “And that’s all that matters.”
Their conversation shifted to lighter topics, but Cam was only half present. His mind was jumbled with thoughts of Fraser and of Esme…and that damn notebook of hers. And his conversation with Anna about Esme was gnawing at his insides with the sharp teeth of a rodent.
He was destined to hurt Esme. The thought of seeing pain in those bonny amber-flecked brown eyes lashed at his gut. God, he didn’t want to hurt her.
He should just stay away.
Chapter 10
Cam stayed away, and he did a good job of it, too.
For about four hours.
He paced his room, thrusting his hand impatiently through his hair, unable to sleep. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was after one o’clock in the morning.
He knew it was a bad idea. He knew it was folly. But before he could stop himself, he’d pulled his boots on and was trudging through the streets of London.
St. James wasn’t far, and before long, he’d reached the curving drive of the Duke of Trent’s house.
The front door was bolted shut, but the back door lock was simple to pick, and in a few moments, he found himself in the dim larder. He walked carefully, listening for any sound, but all was quiet. He slowly went through the kitchen and into the corridor beyond, which was so dark he had to feel his way along the wall. He passed several doors before finally finding the entry hall and the stairs leading up from it. He mounted them, his hand gliding along the curved, polished rail.
At the top, Cam turned to the right. Four closed doors greeted him along the side of the house that bordered Green Park. Esme’s bedchamber would be the one at the far end, the last door.
He crept down the corridor, careful not to make any noise that would awaken the other members of the household. He stopped at Esme’s door, turned the handle, and pushed it open before stepping quietly into her room. The moon was just rising and glowing through the sheer curtain on the window. From the doorway, Cam could see the spill of dark hair across the pillow where she slept.
Esme was in a deep sleep and unmoving on her bed. Cam stood still for a long moment, watching her. Moonlight splashed over her cheek, making her skin look soft and inviting.
Jesus. What was he doing here? He shouldn’t wake her. He’d just wanted to see her. He
drank in the sweet smoothness of her complexion, which made his lips tingle with the urge to kiss her; the thick waves of her hair that he wanted so badly to push his fingers into; the curves of her body beneath the bedcover that he longed to feel pressed against his skin.
But there was more. The notebook. It was here somewhere. He’d find it and discover the secrets it contained. Then his curiosity would be satisfied and he could go home and get some much-needed sleep. He had Pinfield duty tomorrow.
He stepped into the room and closed the door gently behind him. The room was carpeted, luckily for him, and it muffled the sounds of his boot heels as he walked across it toward the bed.
She lay on her side with her mass of dark hair fanned out behind her. Her lashes were dark arches against her cheeks, and her lush lips were slightly parted, showing a glimpse of white teeth.
She breathed in deep and let out a soft sigh.
He wanted to hold her. But then what? How would he explain his presence? He wasn’t in the habit of giving people explanations for his actions. But if she woke, that was exactly what he’d be doing—explaining himself and why he was here.
And why was he here?
Because his friend was dead. Because there was too much evil in this world, and right now only Esme could remind him that good still existed. Because he wanted to touch her and hold her and soak up all the healing sweetness that emanated from her like a soft glow of light.
He’d sound like a damn idiot if he told her all that.
He watched Esme for a long moment, then turned and scanned the room. There was a fireplace with two chairs arranged near it. A basket lay beside one of the chairs—probably for her embroidery or sewing, or whatever fashionable activity dukes’ daughters engaged in when they were sitting by fires.
Two windows graced the far wall. Between them sat a desk covered in a chaos of writing implements, stationery, and books. Cam’s lips spread into a grin as he approached the desk. This was one area that was pure Esme—not tidied and arranged and dusted by maids, but controlled entirely by her. Esme wasn’t neat as a pin—she was actually rather untidy. He liked that immensely.
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