Too Dangerous to Desire (19 page)

Cameron shook his head. “It’s no hum. I’ve got a number of documents here from my late father’s man of affairs.” He took out a packet from inside his coat and tossed it onto the desk. “He assures me that he has assembled the necessary papers, and even though the actual marriage lines have yet to be found, with his affidavit, he feels that the petition should be confirmed. However, given the circumstances, the process of sorting through the legalities promises to be rather convoluted. To begin with, I haven’t a clue as to where to begin. But more importantly…”

“Yes?” encouraged his friend as the hesitation stretched out for several seconds.

“More importantly, Sophie—that is, Miss Lawrance—is caught in a nasty bit of blackmail, mostly on account of our childhood friendship. I need to deal with that, and adroit as I am with my fingers, I find that I can’t be juggling both balls at the same time.”

“If I were an arse,” said Gryff slowly. “I would make a sarcastic comment about a Hellhound having his own fanged words about love come back to bite him.” With a silent waggle of his fingers, Gryff mimed a snapping dog. “However, much as it amuses me to learn you have a soft spot hidden on your mangy hide, I shall refrain from sinking my teeth into it.”

Cameron accepted the sharp-tongued teasing with good grace. “I suppose that I deserve to have both you and Connor nipping at my flanks. And you may savage me all you want, once Sophie is safe.”

His friend’s grin thinned to a grim line. “What would you like for me to do?”

“Help Griggs shepherd this through whatever process is necessary. I’m hoping you have some influence within the House of Lords. Having my title confirmed as quickly as possible is important. But even more important is that rumors should be circulated through all the gentlemen’s clubs suggesting that long-lost heir to Wolcott’s title has been found and is about to step forward. I want the villains to be nervous when next I meet them—fear often forces a careless mistake.”

“I take it that Dudley is the man threatening your Miss Lawrance?” asked Gryff. “And that’s why you asked Connor to win at cards and give you the vowel.”

Cameron hesitated. In the past, he would have brushed off the question, for no one, not even his closest comrades, was allowed to know his inner thoughts or feelings. But of late, he was coming to realize that trust was not a weakness but a strength.

“Yes,” he answered slowly. “Having in him in my debt allowed me to set a plan in motion. But the main culprit is his crony, Frederick Morton. And it turns out that thwarting him will not only save Sophie but will also allow me to settle an old score. Being recognized as the legitimate marquess is an added assurance that they will not have any power to hurt her and her family. If I am respectable…” Cameron couldn’t quite bring himself to admit the idea that had been lurking in the back of his head.

I must deal with the present before I can think of the future.

Instead, he finished giving a quick explanation of Dudley and Morton’s perfidy. “Don’t press me for any further details right now, for I need to be off to Norfolk tonight.”

Gryff waved him on his way. “Leave the House of Lords to me. I have a few favors to call in among my fellow peers. And as for gossip, you may be sure that it will spread like fire through the clubs.”

“Thank you.” Sophie’s touch must have deftly released all the locking levers of his inner defenses, for it suddenly didn’t feel so bloody hard to express gratitude for his comrade’s show of unflinching friendship.

“Good God, I would think you had brain fever if I didn’t know you were suffering from a different affliction,” quipped Gryff. His amusement, however, was only momentary. “But enough jesting. I take that you are heading off to deal with the culprits alone?”

Cameron nodded. “Morton has a country house on the coast north of Holbeach. I’m meeting with them to plan my own demise. A fact that my cynical sense of humor finds highly amusing.”

His friend didn’t crack a smile. “If these men have killed once, they won’t hesitate to do so again. Are you sure that you wouldn’t like some eyes to watch your back? Connor returned to Town this afternoon. We could rendezvous with you near the coast.”

“What? And pull the two of you away from your books and your goats?” A brusque wave dismissed the suggestion. “I appreciate the offer. However, I work best alone.”

Seeing that Gryff was opening his mouth to argue, Cameron quickly added, “Besides, your lovely bride is still a little ambivalent in her feelings toward me. If I muck up your publishing date, I’ll be
persona non grata
forever.”

The quip brought a grudging grimace to his friend’s face. “I’ll back off then. But only because you seem to have a knack for surviving hellish risks that would make the Devil’s own hair stand on end.”

“Trust me, these two spawns of Satan are going to roast over coals of their own making.”

“Just one last thing, Cam.”

Pausing in the doorway, he looked back through the flickering of lamplight and shadows.

“Good luck.” The flame flared for an instant, gilding Gryff’s smile. “And don’t look so damned terrified. We old dogs can learn new tricks—like allowing others into our hearts. Being in love is not such a bad thing.”

Love?

The whisper of the word, soft as his light-footed step, followed him down the corridor.

“Love,” murmured Cameron, taking the darkened treads of the stairs two at a time. Strangely enough, that word was also getting easier and easier to say. And strangely enough, it seemed at long last to silence the hissing and spitting little demons who had inhabited his head for so long.

No jabbing pitchforks, no sulfurous stench, no cynical sneers.

Perhaps Gryff was right. Perhaps it was possible for a Hellhound to acquire a few new moves.

As long as the first one when I confront Morton and Dudley isn’t rolling over and playing dead.

T
he lock gave a rusty groan as the key turned…”

Supper over, their father tucked away for the night, Penelope opened her book and began reading a new chapter aloud from
Lady Avery’s Awful Secret
.

Sophie lingered in the shadows, listening with only half an ear to the gothic tale of subterranean dungeons, nasty secrets, and wicked villains.

A wry grimace pinched at her lips.
At the moment my own life is far more lurid
.

She waited for several more pages and then slipped out of the parlor, anxious to sneak a few moments alone. Cupping her candle flame, she tiptoed down the dark corridor and took sanctuary in her father’s deserted study.

The dust had yet to settle on her spinning thoughts. At least the journey home—including an overnight stay at a respectable inn—had passed without incident and her explanation of the change in plans had been accepted without question by her neighbors.

“They are used to me being honest, sensible Sophie Lawrance,” she muttered to herself. “I suppose that I should be grateful that the Almighty hasn’t tattooed the word ‘LIAR’ in large red letters on my forehead.” A sigh. “There may be no such outward signs that I have changed irreparably. But…”

“Are you talking to yourself?” Georgiana edged into the dimly lit room and looked around. “Or is someone here with you?”

“Just the Devil,” quipped Sophie. “But I was about to ask him to leave.”

“You are in an odd humor.”

Sophie deliberately avoided her sister’s gaze. This was the first moment since her arrival earlier in the day that they had found themselves with the opportunity for a private chat. And she was determined to make it as short as possible.

“Did things not go well in London?” asked Georgiana. “Did you not find Cameron?”

“No, we met, and he’s been apprised of Wolcott’s death. Though I need not have bothered—the dratted man seems to have an unnatural ability to sniff out trouble on his own.”

“Is there a reason you are so dreadfully upset about that?”

I’m not dreadfully upset. I’m dreadfully confused—about so many things.

“Not one that I care to talk about,” answered Sophie, hoping her tart reply would make Georgiana go away.

Her sister, however, refused to take the hint. Settling into the facing armchair, Georgiana tapped her fingertips together. “That has an ominous ring—rather like the latest chapter of
Lady Avery’s Awful Secret
.”

Sophie chuffed a harried laugh. “I’m afraid that truth can sometimes be stranger than your horrid novels.”

“And more Awful?”

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. Squinting into the far shadows, she pretended to be lost in thought. It wasn’t hard—all of a sudden the events of the last few weeks seemed to tumbling and twisting inside her head.

“Sophie?” pressed Georgiana after a stretch of silence. “Sophie?”

Her eyes narrowed and her sister’s voice faded to naught but a faint buzzing.

“Sophie?”

“Good Lord,” intoned Sophie, rising from her chair. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

“
What
?” Looking alarmed, Georgiana grabbed hold of her sleeve. “Sit down. I am going to send for the apothecary.”

“No, no, I’m not ill or demented.” She gestured at opposite corner of the room where a small age-blackened oak cabinet sat beneath the wall shelves, half hidden by the window draperies. “Papa’s heirloom!”

Her sister looked baffled. “The Staffordshire spaniel?”

“No, the cabinet!”

“That musty old thing? Why, it hasn’t been opened in years,” pointed out Georgiana.

“My point precisely!”

“Let me fix you a tisane,” murmured her sister. “Or perhaps a draught for your nerves. I think you are overwrought.”

She shook off the restraining hand. “Georgie, there’s a chance that cabinet holds a vital document. As you pointed out, it hasn’t been opened in years, and this piece of paper was likely misplaced ages ago, and then its existence was forgotten. It will not only help Cameron counter the threat to our family, but also reveal a Very Important Secret that will affect the lives of many in this area.”

“Now you are sounding even more histrionic than a novel.”

“I know, I know.” Excitement welled up in her chest. “But I swear, it’s true.” If she could find proof that Cameron was the rightful heir to the Wolcott title…

It will, you know, put him far, far above your touch
, whispered a voice in her head.

A pirate could steal an occasional dalliance with a country spinster. But a titled aristocrat? Cameron would of course be expected to marry a lady of his own station. A polished London gem, one of the glittering Diamonds of the First Water, rather than a roughcut chip of granite…

“But the key has long since disappeared,” said Georgiana, her brow furrowing in dismay.

Shaking off her dispiriting thoughts, Sophie flexed her fingers. “Run to the kitchen and find me some poultry skewers.”

“Why?”

She was already at her father’s desk, searching the drawers for a pen knife. “Please, Georgie, just do it.”

A short while later, the implements neatly assembled on a pewter tray, Sophie knelt down on the carpet and pulled the draperies away from the iron-banded wood. She had considered sending Georgiana away but decided against it. Her sister had proved herself to be a stalwart, steady ally, and had earned the right to be trusted. True, there was still a secret that could not be revealed, but only because it was not hers to share.

“Bring the candle a little closer,” she murmured, peering at the lock’s keyhole.

Crouching down, Georgiana shifted the flame.

“Hmmm.” She took a moment to examine the various widths of steel. Deciding on the narrowest, she carefully inserted it into the opening and gave a small jiggle.
Nothing.
Holding it in place, she took a second skewer and slid it in a touch higher.

This time, the jiggling was rewarded with a small
snick
.

Her sister let out a soft whistle. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“From Cam.” Sophie set to work on the second tumbler. “He’s awfully clever with his hands.”

“I’ll bet he is,” murmured Georgiana dryly, a spark of mischief lighting her eyes.

“Shhhh—don’t distract me.” As it was, the thumping of her heart was loud as cannon fire in her ears.

Georgiana leaned in expectantly.

Snick.

“Oh, well done!” exclaimed her sister as Sophie slowly turned the knob and the door sprang open.

Inside were several thick packets of papers, smelling of dust and mold. She carried then to the desk and spread them out on the blotter.

“Do you know what you are looking for?” asked Georgiana.

“Yes.” Blowing a cloud of cobwebs and dead spiders from the first folder, Sophie paged through its contents.
Old sermons, choir schedules, lists of rectory books…

She set it aside and started on the next one. But its contents proved just as mundane.

“Blast.” Sophie felt a stab of disappointment on seeing that the top few documents in the last folder were naught but inventories of church linens.

So much for divine inspiration.

Spirits sinking, she paged quickly through the stack, and was about to toss it aside when her fingers touched on a thicker, smoother piece of paper. Holding her breath, she eased it out and held it up to the light.

“Well?” demanded Georgiana. “Is that
The
Secret?”

“Yes.” With great care, Sophie set it aside on the edge of the desk. “And for the time being, you must not breathe a word to anyone of what we have discovered. It could be a matter of life and death.”

Her sister’s eyes widened.

“I am deadly serious, Georgie, not a word.” She gathered the folders and carried them back to the cabinet. After relocking the door and drawing the draperies back into place, she picked up the tray. “Please take these back to the kitchen.” On impulse, she took the thinnest skewer and slipped it into her apron pocket. “If Pen asks you any questions, tell her that the window latch was jammed, but we managed to fix it.”

“You aren’t going to tell me what The Secret is?”

“For your own safety, I had better not.” Seeing Georgie’s scowl, she quickly added, “It’s not my secret to share. But I promise that you will learn all about it very soon.” She folded the document and tucked it inside her bodice. “Within a week, if all goes well.”

If all goes well.
Was it just the tautness of her nerves that made the faint crackle of paper sound like mocking laughter?

Picking up her candle, she took several deep gulps of air before following her sister into the corridor.

Cameron reined to halt on the brow of the hill. Holding his hat firm against the salt-rough gusts, he stared out at the sea. In the fading daylight, the rolling waves were leached of all color, their sullen gray hue accentuated by the dark, brooding clouds hovering on the distant horizon.

Like violent bruises.
An apt metaphor, he decided, listening to the dull roar of the surf against the rocky shingle. Death and skullduggery swirled in the currents below. He had no love for his prideful half brother, but no man deserved such a foul fate, sunk along with his family in a watery grave. Whatever Wolcott’s sins, Morton and Dudley were a far worse evil.

“And I shall stop them,” he vowed. “Though the irony of me—a fellow who has lived most of his years on the dark side of life—as a champion of Good versus Evil is rather ironic.”

Shielding his eyes from the sting of the wind, he surveyed the shoreline for a bit longer, and then, as dusk settled over the surroundings, Cameron turned his horse for the trail leading down to the water’s edge.

There had been no signal from Sophie at the stone hut. A relief, he admitted, at least for the moment. He had likely made far better time traveling than she had, and so he would try to check back if circumstances allowed. But if she kept her promise—and Sophie was nothing if not honorable—there should be no pressing need for his assistance.

True, they had much to discuss. Much to resolve. But like the ocean waters, so much between them was still just a muddle of grays. Better to wait until certain things sharpened into black and white.

Though his own thoughts were still so unclear.

What if she says no again?

Cameron felt his insides clench. A fancy title wouldn’t hide his many faults. Not from Sophie, who knew him far too well. Would she trust that his heart—an organ he had claimed was hard as stone—had come back to life? Would she believe that reckless danger no longer held any allure?

“Let me defeat two cunning, murderous criminals first,” he muttered, allowing himself a wry smile. “That may be the easiest of the two challenges.”

Up ahead, just visible through the thinning copse of trees, Cameron spotted the dark outlines of a boathouse silhouetted against the rising night mists. Dismounting, he untied a small sack of tools from behind his saddle and approached the building on foot.

There was no glimmer of light within, and the set of double doors was locked. A quick check showed the dock was deserted, save for a tabby cat that darted off into the reeds. Tied to the brass stanchions was a large, graceful yacht, its rigging thrumming in rhythm with the gentle roll of the incoming tide. Next to it was a smaller racing sloop, a sleek vessel designed for speed and maneuverability.

A pretty picture.
Frederick Morton’s seaside retreat was an idyllic spot. But was it hiding some ugly truths?

“Despite my reckless reputation, I’m really quite a cautious fellow,” murmured Cameron as he backtracked to the boathouse and did a slow circuit around the perimeter to ensure that he was alone. Two sheds at the rear of the building sheltered coils of hemp and several rusting anchors, but they, too, were deserted.

Satisfied, he returned to the entrance. The lock was more complicated than expected, but he made quick work of it.

Once inside, Cameron lit a small shuttered lantern and made a quick survey of the cavernous space with its narrow beam. A large wooden cradle dominated the center of the building, its slanted timbers designed to hold a boat hull hauled in for repairs. Nothing out of the ordinary there, he thought, quickly directing his attention to the work benches aligned along the far wall.

His cat-footed steps across the earthen floor stirred a whisper of wood shavings, mingling the scent of oak with the more pungent smells of pine tar and linseed oil. In the flicker of lanternlight, the array of tools hanging above the counters threw menacing silhouettes on the planked wall—clawed hammers, sharp-faced axes, and razored saws looking as large as dragon’s teeth.

“The Devil’s workshop,” Cameron muttered, beginning a methodical search of the crannies and crevices. The odds were against finding any evidence of Morton’s involvement in Wolcott’s death, but experience had taught him to overlook nothing when seeking to uncover an opponent’s weakness.

However cunning, most people were careless enough to leave some telltale clue lying around that could be used against them.

Slowly, slowly, he made his way down the length of the drawers and cubbyholes.

No luck.

Coming to the end of the benches, Cameron paused and made another angled sweep of the beam. A rack of freshly varnished spars and a pile of weathered sails sat in a narrow alcove. Deciding it was worth a look, he ducked inside the cramped space and quickly searched through the heavy canvas.

Naught but gritty streaks of sea salt.

The smooth lengths of spruce yielded nothing, either.

It was only as he rose from his crouch that the light fell on a crumpled piece of paper lying in the sliver of space beneath the spars. Reaching into the shadows, he fished it out and smoothed out the wrinkles.

“Well, well, well.” There were two pencil sketches—the top one detailed a boat’s rudder and fastenings while the bottom one showed the basic arrangement of bolts holding a lead keel in place.

“Interesting.” Not positive proof for a court of law, perhaps. But a telling bit of evidence. Cameron tucked it in his pocket, now sure in his own mind that his half brother had been murdered.