Too Dangerous to Desire (20 page)

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.”

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.”

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…

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…