The Many Sins of Lord Cameron (4 page)

His loosened sleeve had slipped, revealing scars along the inside of his forearm. The scars had faded with time, but each was perfectly round, each about three quarters of an inch in diameter. Ainsley recognized the shape of them from an accident that had happened to one of her brothers, but Sinclair had suffered only one burn.

Someone, once upon a time, had amused themselves by touching a lighted cigar end repeatedly to Lord Cameron’s flesh.

The morning was fine enough to put Angelo on Night- Blooming Jasmine and let her gallop in the one field that wasn’t too boggy for the horses. Cameron rode behind them on a retired racer as Angelo let Jasmine run full out.

Cameron felt the power of the horse he rode, the air in his face, the rush of speed—all working to pull him out of his groggy, hungover state. He only ever came alive while astride a horse or watching their grace and strength as they ran. Sometimes when he hit the moment of passion with a woman, he’d feel the same surge of life, but at all other times, Cameron Mackenzie was half dead, walking through life and barely feeling it.

The exception: The two times he’d found Ainsley Douglas in his bedroom. Both times he’d come upon her there, he’d felt that rush and roar of excitement, the exhilaration pouring into his body.

Cameron hadn’t slept after Ainsley had left the night before. He’d tried to soothe his lust and his anger with whiskey and cheroots, but nothing had worked. Now here he was too damn early in the morning, his head pounding, his mouth parched, while he tried to train the most challenging horse of his career.

Night-Blooming Jasmine, a three-year-old with incredible speed, had been nearly ruined by being pushed to win the big races before she was ready. Her owner, a fool of an English viscount called Lord Pierson, had already run through a string of trainers, finding fault with each and transferring Jasmine from one to the next in rapid succession. Pierson openly despised Cameron, because Cameron trained his own horses and sometimes horses for other owners. A gentleman hired others to do menial jobs for him, Pierson told him.

Cameron saw no reason to own horses if he couldn’t be among them. He’d learned at a young age that he had a gift with the beasts. Not only could he bring out the best in each, but the horses followed him about the paddocks like dogs and came eagerly alert whenever he walked into a stable yard.

Jasmine was a dark brown filly with a coffee brown mane and tail, long of leg and sound of heart. She had the spirit and the speed, but Pierson had nearly destroyed her. He’d wanted to run her, as a three-year-old, in the most important flat races of the year: Epsom, Newmarket, Doncaster. Jasmine had fallen at Newmarket, but mercifully unhurt, had finished respectably, which was more to do with her jockey’s skill than her trainer’s care.

At Epsom, under a new trainer and new jockey, she’d flagged in the middle of the pack. Pierson, disgusted, had sacked that trainer and jockey and brought Jasmine to Cameron, saying that Cameron was his last hope. Pierson was damned sorry that his last hope was one of the bloody Scottish Mackenzies, but he had no other choice. Jasmine needed to win the St. Leger at Doncaster, and that was all there was to that.

Cameron would have told Pierson to fornicate himself, but one look at Jasmine’s sleek body and mischievous eye, and Cameron couldn’t turn her away. He knew there was something in the horse that he could bring out. He needed to rescue her from Pierson. So he agreed.

But Cam doubted she’d win Doncaster and told Pierson so, frankly. She was wrung out, tired, annoyed, and needed much care if she’d finish at all. Pierson didn’t like that, but too damn bad.

Jasmine at least ran well today, showing her potential, neck arching proudly when Angelo reached down to pat her. Some of Hart’s guests lined up beyond the field—keeping a safe distance as Cameron had instructed them all week.

Nowhere did he see a lady with a fine head of golden hair craning to watch, as much as Cameron looked for her while pretending to himself that he didn’t. Ainsley Douglas was likely helping Isabella and Beth organize something. Isabella had spent much time this week singing the praises of Mrs. Douglas’s gift for managing things.

Of course she had a gift. Criminals had to be organized, or they’d be caught. The crackling paper in Cameron’s pocket was a reminder of that.

Cameron’s son, Daniel, rode another racer, a more experienced horse to keep Jasmine paced. Cameron pulled his horse back to watch, noting with a tug of pride, as Daniel cantered side by side with Jasmine and Angelo, that his son had the touch with the horses. Danny would be a damned fine trainer if he chose to take up the sport.

Daniel’s lanky form had not only shot up to reach Cameron’s height over the summer, but his voice had deepened and his shoulders widened. He’d become a man when Cameron wasn’t looking, and Cameron wasn’t certain what to do about it. Daniel was turning out remarkably well, in spite of it all, which Cameron put down to his brothers’ help and his sisters-in-law’s influence.

Angelo and Daniel rode the horses around to where Cameron waited, the Romany Angelo smiling with pleasure. “She’s in fine form this morning,” Angelo said.

“Aye,” Daniel reached over and patted Jasmine’s neck with proprietary pride. “In spite of the trouble she causes us. Wish I could be a jockey and ride her to victory, but I’m already too big.”

“Jockeys have a hell of a life, son,” Cam said. He understood Daniel’s longing, but he wanted his son’s neck in one piece.

“Aye, all those horses and money and women must be a right trial,” Daniel said.

Angelo laughed, and Jasmine stretched her neck to Cameron. Cameron rubbed her nose. “You’re doing fine, lass. You’ve got heart, I know that.”

“She won’t win,” Angelo said. “Doncaster is in three weeks.”

“I know.”

“What about Pierson?”

“I’ll deal with Pierson. You stay away from him.”

Angelo laughed. “No fear there.”

Hart’s guests might be shocked to hear Angelo speaking so familiarly to Cameron, but the two men were more friends than servant and master. Cameron found Angelo refreshingly frank, and Angelo had decided that Cameron had good sense, for an Anglo. Besides, Cameron knew horses, and the two men had become fast friends over that.

Across the field, the guests were moving off, being herded by the redheaded Isabella up to the lawn.

“Now, what are they doing?” Cameron growled.

“Croquet match,” Angelo said. “To the death, I think.”

“Croquet is bloody boring,” Daniel said.

Cameron wasn’t listening. Another woman had come to join Isabella, one in a dull gray frock with hair the color of sunshine.

“Jasmine’s had enough this morning,” Cameron said. “Cool her down and take her in, Angelo.”

Angelo flashed another smile and turned Jasmine away. Daniel followed Angelo without a word. Cameron rode to the edge of the paddock to dismount his own horse, tossed his reins to a groom, and climbed the slope toward the house.

“Get me into this game, Izzy,” Cameron said when he reached Isabella at the edge of Hart’s well-groomed lawn. Pairs of ladies and gentlemen waited beyond, a few gentlemen swinging mallets and rolling shoulders to show off for the ladies.

Isabella turned to Cameron in surprise. “We’re playing croquet.”

“Yes, I know what the devil it is. Give me a damned mallet.”

“But you hate croquet.” Isabella continued to blink green eyes at him.

“I don’t hate it today. I want you to pair me with Mrs. Douglas.”

“Ah.” Isabella’s surprised look turned to one of interest. “Mrs. Douglas, is it?”

They both turned to where Ainsley stood under a tree across the lawn, the Italian count at her side trying to catch her attention. Ainsley’s dress, trimmed with darker gray piping, was long-sleeved and high-collared, buttoned up to her neck. Cameron didn’t like her like that—the effect was one of a brightly plumed bird wrapped in a confining sheet.

“You should have told me beforehand,” Isabella was saying. “I’ve already put her with a partner.”

“So change him.”

“Change him? My dear Cameron, assigning Hart’s guests to partners is an extremely delicate task. The entire game of croquet is a like a balance of European power. If I change one team, I have to change them all. I bless Ainsley for being able to take on the count.”

Mac came up behind Isabella, slid his arm around her waist, and nuzzled her cheek. “Hart and his political games of croquet. I can think of so many better things to do this morning besides whacking a ball around a green.”

Isabella blushed but didn’t push her husband’s hand away as it moved to her abdomen, where their second child had started to grow. “I promised Hart I’d help him,” Isabella said. “He looked so desperate when he asked.”

“He would.” Mac continued to nuzzle. “Where is Hart, anyway?”

“Wooing diplomats with brandy and cigars behind closed doors,” Isabella said.

“Leaving us with the dull work,” Mac rumbled.

Their youngest brother, Ian, was absent as well, but none of them needed to ask why. Cameron had spoken to Ian earlier that morning, but Ian didn’t like crowds, nor did he like games in which he could calculate the winning trajectories in two minutes. He’d be bored and uncomfortable and dart away to be alone, giving Hart’s guests something to talk about.

In the past, Cameron, worrying about Ian, would go make sure that he wasn’t sitting alone in a huddle, or staring for hours at a Ming bowl, or pouring over some endless mathematical exercise. These days, Cameron knew that Ian used the excuse of not liking crowds to spend more time alone with his wife—in bed. Crafty sod.

“If you truly want in the game, Cameron, I’ll have you look after Mrs. Yardley,” Isabella said. “She volunteered to sit out as we have an odd number, but I know she’d love to play.”

Cameron’s gaze strayed to the green where the count had taken Ainsley’s arm to lead her to the first wicket. “Fine,” Cameron said. “Mrs. Yardley it is.”

“Excellent. She’ll be pleased.” Isabella smiled. She held out a mallet to him. “Think of it as a very slow game of polo. Enjoy yourself, Cam.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Cameron took the mallet and marched determinedly to the lawn. Ainsley Douglas, ensconced with her count, never once looked his way.

Chapter 4

Mrs. Yardley, a very plump, gray-haired woman who could barely move her legs to walk, proved to be intelligent and pleasant. Cameron flirted with her mildly as he carried her mallet and folding chair and settled her in at each wicket. She stated that she appreciated Isabella pairing her with the black sheep of the Mackenzie family—a lady of her years and girth had only so much excitement in life.

Cameron leaned on his mallet, trying to stave off his headache as the tedious game commenced tediously. He’d drunk far too much last night, and while he’d felt better riding this morning, his head was still thick with his hangover.

Ainsley, on the other hand, looked fresh and bright, every gleaming hair in place. Cameron had liked her much better mussed. On his bed last night he’d wanted to spread her golden hair in his hands, drag it over her bare breasts, kiss the lips that talked back to him so saucily. He let his senses drift to the scent of her, the feel of her beneath him, the taste of her mouth when he’d pushed the key into it.

“Ah,” Mrs. Yardley said. “I see a spring lassie catching a laddie’s eyes.”

Cameron opened his eyes and frowned as the count tried to guide Ainsley’s hands on her mallet. There was no need for the count to instruct her—Ainsley had already racked up a number of points with her competent strokes.

“It’s autumn,” Cameron said. The trees at the bottom of the park blazed scarlet and gold, mixed with the deeper black green of the pines.

“But a beautiful lady always means spring in the heart.”

“I mean that it’s autumn for me.” Cameron watched Ainsley as she bent to tap her ball with precision. The sight of Ainsley’s hands firmly gripping her mallet made him dizzy.

“Nonsense. You’ve lived only half as long as I have, and it’s a long time through the next half of your life. Such a strange marriage Mrs. Douglas made. John Douglas was in his fifties, she barely eighteen. I imagine it was a family arrangement, but I can’t imagine what sort of arrangement. Douglas never had much money, and he left Ainsley almost destitute, poor thing. I tell you all this for a reason, Lord Cameron.”

Because she’d noted Cameron’s obsessive interest with Ainsley Douglas. Hell, the whole house party would see it if they weren’t busy trying to be noticed themselves.

“She’s young,” Cameron said. “She can remarry.”

“True, she is young and still quite lovely, but she’s shut away from company much of the time. Her Majesty keeps Mrs. Douglas tucked by her side—she’s become quite the favorite, and Mrs. Douglas needs the money the post with the queen brings. Ainsley’s oldest brother helps her, but he has a family of his own, and Ainsley rather feels the pinch of living in his back spare room. Ainsley’s mother had been one of the queen’s favorites before she lost that pleasure by marrying beneath her. Mr. McBride was
not
who the queen had in mind for poor, dear Jeanette. But all that was forgotten when the queen met Ainsley. She was enchanted with Ainsley and insisted on bringing her into the household. The post was a godsend. Ainsley’s brother is kind, but she was utterly dependent on him. Of course she took it.”

All of which explained Ainsley’s obsessive determination to retrieve the disgraceful letter from the clutches of the evil Lord Cameron before he showed it to anyone. Ainsley couldn’t afford to lose her position with the queen.

“But the poor girl is never seen out and about during the Season,” Mrs. Yardley went on. “Or any other time for that matter. The queen likes to keep her close. By the time Ainsley is allowed a holiday, she’s too exhausted for much of a social life. She stays with her brother during her meager days off—kind people, as I said, but stuffy. Family suppers and reading aloud. Playing the piano if they’re feeling
truly
frivolous. Patrick and his wife are a bit overprotective, have always been, but then Patrick and Rona raised Ainsley and her three other brothers when their parents died. I’m happy that Isabella plucks Ainsley out once in a while, even if only for a week.” Cameron felt Mrs. Yardley’s keen eyes on him. “Are you listening, my lord? I’m not babbling to fill the time, you know.”

Cameron couldn’t look away from Ainsley, her head bent to the count’s as they discussed their next play. “Yes, I’m listening.”

“I wasn’t born old, my lord. I recognize when a man wants a woman. And you’re not a monster, despite the reputation you try to maintain. Ainsley needs a bit of excitement in her life, poor lamb. She was a very lively young woman and then suddenly had to become a drudge.”

She didn’t seem drudging now. Ainsley was laughing, her laughter sparkling across the green. Her smile was all for the count, and something dangerous stirred inside Cameron.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Mrs. Yardley said. “I don’t have much to do these days but observe my fellow men—and women—and I do have great experience in who fits with whom. Why not make a match of it? What on earth else do you intend to do with the rest of your life?”

“Much as I do now, I imagine.” Cameron rubbed his upper lip as Ainsley patted the count’s arm in praise. “Horses take much attention, and the racing calendar fills the year.”

“So I hear. But happiness is a different thing. It’s worth a little effort.”

“I made that effort once.”
Too damn bloody much effort.

“Yes, dear, I knew your wife.”

A glance at Mrs. Yardley told Cameron she’d known some of the truth about Lady Elizabeth. The memory of Elizabeth’s beautiful face, her mad eyes as she came at him, ready to strike, made his body tighten. Old pain, old darkness dimmed the bright morning.

Cameron heard Ainsley’s laughter again, and he opened his eyes, the visions dissolving.

“If you knew my wife, then you’ll understand why I view marriage as a miserable existence,” Cameron said, still watching Ainsley. “I won’t enter it again.”

“It
can
be a miserable existence, I don’t deny that. But with the right person, it can be the best existence in the world. Trust me, I know.”

“It’s our turn,” Cameron said curtly. “Are you up for a go?”

Mrs. Yardley smiled. “I’m rather tired, my lord. You take my turn for me.”

Cameron felt the paper of the stolen letter crackle in his pocket and watched Ainsley smile at the count.

“You’re a wise woman, Mrs. Yardley.” He lowered the mallet he’d rested on his shoulder and approached their waiting ball.

“I know that, dear,” Mrs. Yardley said behind him.

Ainsley knew the precise moment Cameron stepped from the shade to take his shot, while the slow-moving Mrs. Yardley kept her seat. Ainsley had been aware of every movement Cameron made since he’d appeared even though she’d avoided looking directly at him.

She hadn’t missed how Cameron carried Mrs. Yardley’s chair and mallet for her, slowing his long stride for hers as they moved about the pitch. He was being patient, kind even, conversing with the elderly lady, who smiled back at him in appreciation.

Cameron was this patient and gentle with his horses, guiding them with care that he rarely used on people, unless they were like Mrs. Yardley. It was a side of himself no one acknowledged, and Ainsley wondered if anyone but she even noticed it.

She saw no sign of that patience, however, when Cameron looked up from his ball at Ainsley. His eyes glinted with determination, like a billiards shark ready to win the pool.

It did not help that Lord Cameron was devastating in his riding clothes: buff breeches smooth over his thighs, boots muddy, casual coat hanging open over a plain shirt. Cameron’s large masculinity rendered the slender Englishmen pale and ineffectual, as though a bear had wandered into a gathering of docile deer. He wielded his mallet with precision, which was why he and Mrs. Yardley had already racked up a number of points, and therefore guineas, because no one who came to visit the Duke of Kilmorgan didn’t gamble outrageously.

Cameron drew back his mallet and struck his ball with force. The ball leapt with a straight trajectory up the little rise and smacked into Ainsley’s with a decided
click
.

Her heart jumped. “Botheration,” she muttered.

Her partner, the rather feeble-brained count, called out, “Excellent roquet, my lord.”

Cameron strode to them, mallet on his shoulder. He said nothing to Ainsley as he placed his large booted foot over his ball, Ainsley’s still touching it, and drew back the mallet. His riding coat stretched across his shoulders as Cameron smacked the ball under his foot, the impact sending Ainsley’s galloping across the green. She watched in dismay as the bright yellow and white striped sphere rolled merrily to the edge of the lawn and plunged into the undergrowth of the woods.

“I believe you’re out of bounds, Mrs. Douglas,” Cameron said.

Ainsley ground her teeth. “I see that, my lord.”

The count said in careful English, “That was perhaps not, as you English say, very sporting.”

“Games are played to win,” Cameron said. “And we’re Scottish.”

The count looked into the undergrowth and then down at his well-polished shoes. “I will fetch the ball for you, signora,” he said without much enthusiasm.

Which would leave Ainsley alone with Cameron. “No, indeed, I’ll find it myself. Won’t be a tick.”

Ainsley turned and ran for the undergrowth before the count could do more than make a token protest. She hadn’t missed the relief on the count’s face that he wouldn’t have to take his pristine suit into the bushes, nor had she missed the slow smile on Cameron’s.

It was cool under the trees, the mud sticky. Ainsley walked about ten yards into the woods before she spied the painted stripe on the ball under the thickest bush. She stuck her mallet into the brush and thrashed around for it.

“Allow me.” Cameron was beside her, no apology, no explanation. His longer arm allowed his mallet to reach under the brush, and in a few seconds, he scraped Ainsley’s ball back to bare mud.

“Thank you.” She started to tap the ball back, not wanting to pick up the mud-caked thing, but Lord Cameron’s body was in her way. A screen of trees blocked them from view of the green, making them effectively alone.

“Why are you all buttoned up like that?” Cameron ran his gaze down the blackberry-shaped buttons of her bodice. A smart frock, Ainsley had thought when Isabella had coerced her into buying it. Gray with darker gray piping along the little peplum jacket and skirt, the chin-hugging collar trimmed with a bit of black lace.

“You were happy to bare all last night,” Cameron said. He let his mallet handle hover an inch from her chest. “Your bodice was down to here.”

Ainsley cleared her throat. “Low neckline for evening, high for morning.” She’d tried to tell Isabella that the ball gown was too revealing, but Isabella had said: “It has to be, darling. I’ll not have my dearest friend look like a frumpy matron.”

“This doesn’t suit you,” Cameron said.

“I can’t help the fashion, Lord Cameron.”

Cameron poked the top button with his gloved finger. “Undo this.”

Ainsley jumped. “What?”

“Unbutton your damned frock.”

She nearly choked. “Why?”

“Because I want you to.” Cameron’s smile spread across his face, slow and sinful, and his voice went low. Dangerous. “Tell me, Mrs. Douglas. How many buttons will you undo for me?”