The Poor Relation (20 page)

Before she could answer, they heard someone running along the terrace.  Camden glanced over his shoulder, and she raised her head f
rom the haven of his chest to see Leslie Pearson hurrying down the stone steps, then straight for the woods.  So intent was he on this destination, he passed right by them, mere yards away, yet was oblivious to their presence.

Acting as though he
’d forgotten her, Camden’s eyes never left Pearson as the man raced through the gardens.  Once the dandy had disappeared among the trees, Camden released her and started after his quarry.  He’d only gone a few steps, however, when he stopped and commanded in a harsh voice, “Go back to the ballroom and stay there.  Should anyone ask, you have not seen me.  And, Chloe.” His tone softened on her name.  “Defy the devil tonight, stay indoors.”  Then he was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the night.

Slowly Chloe retraced her steps
.  Oh, how she hoped this rogue’s attentions toward her were honorable.  Still, fool that she was, Chloe was not blind to his faults, among the worst being a streak of cruelty along with his imperious aloofness.  But he possessed a gentler side too, one which he preferred to hide with his cynical attitude.  What bothered her most, however, was his lack of respect for women, blatantly demonstrated in the way he’d used Mrs. Palmer—and even herself, if she were completely honest—whether for his own gratification or to achieve another purpose.

As much as she cared for him, never would she be able to abide his sneers or angry taunts if they were directed toward her.  Nor could she bear it if he took a mistress like so many men of the
ton
were wont to do. Any one of these things would eventually eat at the very core of her love for him until she was nothing else but a bitter shell of a woman.

But she must recognize Camden for what he was, a womanizer.  And she understood
that his attentions were far from honorable and promised no permanency for any relationship they might share together.  That was, of course, assuming she could discard her self-respect and allow him to bed her outside of marriage.

She inhaled deeply, then resolutely squared her shoulders.  She really had no choice.  Chloe Woodforde would put the Viscount Camden, an inveterate rake, out of her mind if not her heart.

Brushing away an errant tear, she remembered the bloodied glove.  She’d have to make a detour to her room and don another pair before rejoining the merrymakers.

***  Chapter 18  *** 

Camden
entered the dark interior of the woods and soon encountered Raikes, who stepped out from behind a clump of overgrown bushes.

“The cove’s headed straight for the gamekeeper’s hut, Gov,” Raikes said in a low whisper as Camden drew closer.

“He left the ball in quite a hurry,” remarked Camden.  “Any sign of our other friend?”

“Ain’t seen the blackguard’s ugly phiz yet.”

The sinewy man effortlessly matched his steps to Camden’s long strides as the two followed the path to the abandoned cabin.  Coming upon the clearing, they saw the hut’s dirty windows were eerily illuminated from within by the weak glow of a lantern.  Otherwise, there was no sign of activity.  Camden silently indicated to Raikes that they crouch behind some shrubbery and wait. Raikes pulled a gun from his pocket, another from his belt, and handed one to Camden, who readily accepted it since his formal attire hadn’t allowed him to hide a weapon on his person.

A scant quarter of an hour later, they heard someone tramping through the woods.  Shortly thereafter,
a burly sinister shape dressed all in black halted at the edge of a trail and carefully scanned the area before making for the cabin.  No sooner had the grisly interloper opened the rough planked door when, from within, Pearson began shouting.

Camden and Raikes exchanged glances, then crept forward to hear better, but Pearson’s words were indistinguishable.  The next instant, a violent struggle erupted inside the cabin.  Together, Camden and Raikes came out from their hiding places and rushed the door.

Raikes was first to arrive just as all noise ceased.  Without hesitating, the wiry agent planted one booted foot by the latch handle, kicking it in, slamming the door against the interior wall.  With pistols drawn, both men cautiously stepped a few feet in the one room dwelling and were momentarily shocked by the gruesome tableau.

In the middle of the room stood a deathly pale Leslie Pearson.  He was doubled over with both hands clutching his stomach, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood.

The burly giant whirled about to face them, his filthy rumpled coat and breeches splattered with Pearson’s blood.  The lethal blade he bandied in one beefy hand was also bloodied.  Through glazed red-rimmed eyes, he stared at Camden and Raikes with undisguised hatred.  Behind him in a darkened corner, propped up in a sitting position with his legs sprawled out in front of him, was Guyot’s body, his head resting on his blood soaked cravat with sightless eyes staring down, his mouth agape.

When Pearson saw the Viscount, he managed a couple of shaky steps toward a crude planked table, pushed under a window.  On top sat the lantern that provided the only light in the room. 
Next to lantern rested a leather pouch stuffed with official documents and maps and a fat wad of currency tied with a blue ribbon.  Camden recognized the stack of bills as the one Judith Palmer had been issued to buy the stolen jewels.  Before Pearson could reach the bank notes, moaning, he collapsed to his knees, lowering his head down onto the floor.

Training his eyes on the French agent, Camden tensed, poised to jump the ugly bruiser.  Together with Raikes, they formed an impregnable wall blocking the only means of escape.

The dim lighting cast craggy shadows on the assassin’s countenance, making him appear diabolical with his small eyes squinting to mere slits.  First staring at Camden, then Raikes, he made his decision and went for the smaller man.  No doubt he recalled having rumbled with the modishly dressed Camden already on two different occasions and knew he was no easy target to mow down.

But the limber Raikes was prepared for the assault and deftly ducked the brute’s bludgeoning arm that held the bloody blade, knocking it aside with the nozzle of his gun.  For one of his bulk, the French agent was quick to recover, bringing his beefy appendage back around in a wide arc for another swipe at the Englishman.  This time he was stopped dead by Ra
ikes’s barker, fired point blank at the Frenchman’s black heart, instantly felling him.

Disregarding the dead man, Camden stepped over the
body and knelt down on one knee in front of Leslie Pearson and gently eased him over on his side.  One look at the dandy’s white face and glazed eyes confirmed what Camden already knew. Time was short.

Behind Camden, making sure his man was finished, Raikes used his foot to turn the huge body over
and, looking down on the French agent, shook his head.  “This one’s another goner, Gov.”

Camden paid him little heed.  Instead, he wanted answers before the dandy died.  “Why, Pearson?”

“Debts.” It came out almost a cough.

“And Guyot?  What was he?”

“French agent . . . wanted bigger cut.  Maurice killed him.”  Pearson’s voice was low, gravelly, as a trickle of blood oozed from a corner of his slack mouth.

“Who kille
d our courier?” asked Camden, and when Pearson didn’t respond, he demanded more urgently, “Who?”

“Scum
. . . Maurice,” were Leslie Pearson’s final words, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Camden closed the dandy’s eyelids and stood to survey the macabre scene, three bloodied bodies sprawled about the hut’s rough planked floor.

“Least ways, there ain’t no worrying about them telling any secrets,” was Raikes’s pity observation as he, too, looked from one body to the next.

Loud shouts
were heard coming from outside at the front of the cabin.  Moments later, a soldier dressed in the blue jacket and gray trousers of the Royal Horse Guards appeared in the doorway, his rifle aimed first at Raikes, then Camden before he slowly lowered it as he took in the interior of the hut.  Over his shoulder, Camden could see a small army of men milling about in the front of the cabin as torches were being lit.  An officer shoved the stunned soldier aside and stepped into the small room.

“Ah, Captain Hawker, I presume,” Camden called out as a wave of weariness suddenly hit him.  He was once again conscious of his throbbing shoulder and accepted the large muslin handkerchief Raikes offered him, tu
cking it inside his jacket, covering his wound.

“Aye,” began Raikes, by way of making introductions, “and this here, Captain, is the Viscount Camden.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but what in hell’s name happened here?” Captain Hawker asked as he observed the three bloody bodies.

“Much as I’d like to take credit for putting a period to at least one of these damnable souls,” said Camden, making a sweep of the room with his good arm, “I’m afraid the honor must go to my good friend.”  With a wry smile, he turned to his comrade.  “Fill him in, Raikes.”  Then slowly, he slid down upon a battered three-legged chair, propped against one wall, and leaned his head back to listen to his fellow conspirator’s account of Pearson’s perfidy to avoid debtor’s prison with blood money, earned by selling out his own countrymen.

While Raikes explained Guyot’s roll as a greedy middleman, intent on increasing his own booty, and the burly French agent’s malevolent pursuit to get the contents of the diplomatic pouch, Camden closed his eyes to blot out the ugly scene.  Behind his weary eyelids floated a pair of large, trusting hazel eyes, staring back at him.  He could still taste the sweet softness of her lips, feel her response, her arms around him, the warmth of her slender body pressed against his.  It seemed like eons ago that he’d made love to Chloe in the garden. 

He smiled to himself
.  He knew he’d seen the last of his days as an intelligence agent for the Crown.

Unfinished business demanded he travel to London and file an accounting with his supervisors at Whitehall and possibly even make a report to the Prince Regent.  That
might mean a trip to Brighton where Prinny had transferred a simple farmhouse into the Pavilion, an opulent summer residence.  Once this assignment was concluded, he intended to ignore his reawakened conscience one last time.

There was no doubt she deserved much better than the likes of him.  But by all that was holy, he loved Chloe Woodforde with every fiber in his body and vowed he’d have her as his wife.  He wanted to give her the real home she never had, to see her smile every day, to fulfill her every dream.  He would take her to Hampshire where his princip
al estate was, Camdenbury. If need be, he was willing to put up with that eccentric old baroness if it meant Chloe’s happiness.  Never before had he possessed this burning need for a woman and could not envision a life without her. 

And if in making her his very own he was indulging in his own heart’s desire, then so be it.

***  Chapter 1
9 ***

Since most of the guests danced well into the early hours of the morning, it was
not unexpected that the majority of the revelers slept until noon the next day.  But with her emotions in utter turmoil, Chloe had slumbered fretfully and so rose early.  She had not witnessed the Viscount’s return, although she knew when it occurred.  A military officer arrived sometime after midnight to deliver an urgent message, and together the Marquis and Lord Howard hastily departed the ballroom.

Since she was bound by her word to say nothing, Chloe was left with only hope and a fervent prayer that Camden ha
d sustained no further injury.  An hour later, as she and Sir Morley were preparing to ascend the stairs with the tipsy baroness between them, Lady Howard inexplicably begged Chloe for a moment of her time and led her aside.

“No need to say a thing to anyone else, my dear,” Lady Howard began.  “But I did think you might like to know that Camden is closeted with my husband and the Marquis in Clairmont’s study along with
several soldiers, all discussing some important development.  However, I take it that whatever their business, all went well tonight.” 

She st
udied Chloe’s face for a moment.  “Did you know Lord Howard was a rake before we met?” Lady Howard said, giving Chloe a warm smile.  “I can tell you first hand, my dear Miss Woodforde, that a reformed rake makes an excellent husband.”  She patted Chloe’s hand.  “Now, my dear, go to bed, and sleep well.  My guess is this whole ugly affair is over and now they are tying up loose ends.” 

Chloe thanked her and said good night.  She felt relieved to know that Camden had come to no further harm, though she was puzzled by Lady Howard’s remark about rakes making good husbands.
  She rejoined Sir Morley with her aunt at the bottom of the staircase, and together they guided the baroness up to her bedchamber. She helped Hannah put Lady Sophia to bed and headed for her room.

But though she was bone weary, Chloe could not sleep.  Lady Howard had been reassuring about Camden’s safety, yet Chloe was still concerned for him, and her mind continually r
eplayed the scene in the garden.  Surely he cared for her?  Why else would he have left her with such fateful words, declaring they had to talk?  Then there was Lady Howard’s enigmatic remark about rakes.