Too Dangerous to Desire (16 page)

“Horrible, indeed.” Griggs coughed. “Especially in light of some unsettling information that has just surfaced.”

A serpentine chill uncoiled in his gut. “What information?”

“We will get to that matter in moment. But first I think it important for us to discuss the subject of your position.”

“Which is a damnably awkward one.”

Griggs acknowledged the sarcasm with a small shrug. “For the moment, yes. But I would like to move quickly to change that.”

“Why the damnable rush?” demanded Cameron. “I—”

“Please hear me out, sir,” interrupted Griggs. “I’ll explain that shortly. However, you need to make some important decisions first and I should like them to come from the heart.”

Biting back an acid retort, he nodded for the solicitor to go on.

“With the marquess—the previous marquess—gone to his Maker, I can be, shall we say, a bit more forceful in establishing your rights,” explained Griggs. “Even without the marriage lines, I can swear that your father made an oath to me of its veracity. It will take some fancy legal arguing and maneuvering. However, I have reason to think we have a good chance of prevailing.”

Cameron responded with a rather churlish reply.

“I cannot claim to have ever understood your actions over the last decade. Nonetheless, I adhered to the bargain we made, both in letter and in spirit.”

Early on in his flight from Wolcott, Cameron had made contact with the solicitor to make sure his mother would not suffer any consequences. Griggs had promised to see that she was cared for, in return for an address where contact could be made.

“For which I am thankful,” he murmured.

“Never once did I let on to your mother that you occasionally kept me informed of your travels,” went on the solicitor.

She understood why I went away
, thought Cameron to himself.
She knew that my youthful anger and pride would have ended up destroying me.
And while he hadn’t written letters, he had sent other tokens that let her know he was alive.

“Furthermore, as you asked, never once did I contact you, save for the direst of emergencies.” The solicitor cleared his throat. “I had thought your mother’s illness qualified as such.”

“I did see her, Griggs,” whispered Cameron. “The night before she died.”

“But—”

“I am very adept at slipping in and out of places unnoticed.”

Their eyes locked. “As the new Marquess of Wolcott, you will likely find such anonymity impossible in the future. People will tend to scrutinize your every move.”

Assuming I agree to step out of the shadows.

“I need you to sign several documents, my lord.” A sheaf of papers slid across the leather blotter. “A mere formality for the moment, sir, but in the event that our suit is accepted, the rules must be followed.”

The looping of the elegant copperplate script looked to his eye like the twist of a hangman’s noose.

James Cameron Fanning Rowland.

The devil-may-care Cameron Daggett was about to meet an untimely end. In his place was an utter stranger, a starchy-sounding aristocrat who bore no resemblance to the rascally rogue who was more at home in a Southwark gin house than a Mayfair drawing room.

“What if I refuse?” Cameron paused, pen in hand. “Why the devil should I give up my freedom for fetters?”

“There are two reasons why you should you return to Wolcott Manor,” said the solicitor. “First and foremost, because I watched you grow up on its lands. You fished its rivers, hunted its hills, rode hell-for-leather over its pastures. I daresay you stole your first kiss somewhere within its woods.”

“It was never my home,” said Cameron.

“You loved it more than your half brother ever did. It
is
your home, and it needs your stewardship.” The soft snap of papers added a wordless rebuke. “Don’t you think it is time to stop running from whatever youthful folly—”

“Damn you, I wasn’t running away from anything, save my half brother’s hateful pride,” snarled Cameron. A thump of his fist punctuated his words. “The day I rode out through the manor’s south gates was the happiest day of my life.”

“Ah. And are you happy now?”

“Exceedingly.”

The solicitor’s silvery brows shot up in skepticism.

Cameron looked away to the mullioned windows. Respectability might mean he could offer Sophie…No, he dare not think about that. “Your second reason had better be more compelling than the first.”

“Oh, it is. After you, the next in succession is your second cousin, Frederick Morton.”

Ah, finally some welcome information
.

“I was just going to ask about the succession.” Curious as to the solicitor’s opinion of Morton, Cameron said, “Perhaps he would make a better marquess. Since leaving the manor, I have acquired expertise in a great many professions—most of which you would not care to know about. Suffice it to say that being a pompous prig of a peer was not among them. I never paid any attention to the nuances of being a marquess. I don’t know a bloody thing about the job.”

“Trust me, sir, whatever your perceived faults, you are by far the lesser of two evils,” replied Griggs. “The consequences of turning the title over to Morton are decidedly grim. He paid me a visit yesterday to submit his family papers and make a formal request that proceedings begin to confirm him as the new marquess. He also informed me that he means to turn half the tenants off their farms and sell the land. Most of the families have been there for generations.”

“But the entail—”

“There is a coda in the original grant that allows for the entail to be broken. All of the previous lords have felt honorbound to abide by the traditions of Wolcott Manor.”

“And my relative was fox enough to discover the loophole?”

“Morton is not a fox,” sniffed Griggs. “He is a weasel. And that is maligning a whole species of vermin.” The solicitor fixed him with an owlish squint. “Bear in mind, the Marquess of Wolcott has the power to affect a great many lives.”

“Are you appealing to my vanity?” asked Cameron.

“No, I am appealing to your conscience.”

“Most of my current acquaintances would assure you I have none.”

“But I know you better than they do.” Griggs merely nudged the documents a touch closer. “I have every confidence you will make the right choice, my lord.”

“Bloody hell, stop addressing me by that pompous title,” he muttered. “I am not yet puffed up with a sense of my own consequence.”

“I am afraid you will have to get used to it.” Was it his imagination, or did Griggs allow a twitch of his lips? “Might I remind you that words do not make the man, sir.”

“Spare me any more platitudes. You and your misguided moralizing have done enough damage for the day.” Drawing a deep breath, Cameron scrawled his signature across the pristine paper. “There, it’s done.” The force of his hand had sent up a spattering of ink. “A blot on the family copybook, as my half brother was so fond of saying.”

Griggs sprinkled a bit of sand on the document.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
It was, after all, a funeral of sorts.

After checking that all was in order, the solicitor looked up. “I think you may surprise a great many people.”

“That is a bloody understatement,” muttered Cameron.

This time, there was no mistaking the smile. But it lingered for only a heartbeat before thinning to a grim line. “And now that you’ve made your decision, let us turn back to the subject of the late marquess’s untimely death.” A tiny pause. “As I mentioned, some unsettling information has just surfaced which may or may not be meaningful. Be that as it may, I cannot let it go unsaid.”

“What information?”

Griggs steepled his fingers. “The rescued crewman swears that your half brother’s yacht was always kept in perfect repair. He is of the opinion that the only way the rudder and planking could come loose was by an act of deliberate sabotage.”

“Wolcott murdered?” mused Cameron.
Yet another treacherous current to navigate.

“A possibility,” said the solicitor. Light winked off his spectacles. “There is no proof, but I thought you ought to know.”

“Indeed.”

“Do be careful, my lord. As I said, Morton is a cunning weasel.”

Cameron rose. “Then it’s a good thing that I’m experienced in dealing with vermin.”

M
iss
Lawrance
?” The scratch of the pen stopped. “This is a surprise—and to be honest, not an overly welcome one.”

“Forgive me, Miss Hawkins,” said Sophie, quietly closing the door to Sara’s private office behind her. “I know I should not be trespassing on your goodwill again, but it’s very urgent that I speak with a…a mutual acquaintance.”

The request elicited a basilisk stare.

“Mr. Daggett,” went on Sophie, refusing to be intimidated. “I’m not here to cause any trouble, truly I’m not. I need to warn him of something.”

“What makes ye think Mr. Daggett might be here?”

Sara was clearly a shrewd woman—no surprise given her line of work—but that she was also fiercely protective of her friends made Sophie like her even more. “Because he mentioned that he considers you a friend,” she replied.

“Did he now?” Sara studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable in the low lamplight. “Well, well, ain’t that interesting. Yer saying that the two of you are acquainted? How?”

Seeing as Cameron’s fellow Hellhounds now knew about his childhood, she decided that she wasn’t betraying a confidence. “Actually we grew up together. He is helping me with a family problem, and I’ve discovered some new information that may…” Her hesitation was for naught but a heartbeat. “…keep him out of danger.”

“Ha.” Sara let out a dry laugh. “No offense, Miss Lawrance, but it would take an act of the Almighty to perform
that
miracle.”

“Perhaps. But I can at least try.”

“Ye got spirit. And courage, I’ll give ye that.” Sara rose and circled around from her behind her desk. “Mr. Daggett is indeed here, but he’s holed up with some very havey-cavey fellows, and last time I looked, they were deep in conversation. When ye’ve been working at a place like the Lair for as long as I have, ye just know when it’s not a good time te interrupt.”

“May I wait?” asked Sophie.

A frown pinched at Sara’s mouth.

“Please. It’s very important.” She set down her valise, and nudged it out of sight behind the curio cabinet. “Once I go on to my uncle and aunt’s residence, it will be a great deal more difficult to get away.”

“Yer stubborn, ain’t ye?”

“Exceedingly,” murmured Sophie.

That earned a grudging smile. “The trouble is, too many people come in and out of here. And the parlors are all in use. However, there is the small back office at the end of the corridor…” Sara tapped at the tip of her chin. “Put up yer hood—at least ye were smart enough to wear a dark cloak. We’ll have to be quick about it.”

“Thank you. I—”

“Shhhh.” A hiss warned her to silence. Opening the door a crack, Sara peered up and down the corridor before signaling Sophie to follow.

Muted murmurs drifted out from behind the closed doors, the sound swirling with the haze of cigar smoke and the red-gold flicker of the lamp flames. An air of the unknown seemed to hover in the narrow space.
Dark, forbidding
.

Sophie felt her pulse kick up a notch as she plunged deeper into the shifting shadows. The chocolate-colored paneling accentuated the murky shades of midnight. Clinging close to the walls, she hurried to keep pace with Sara’s stealthy steps.

A sudden wink of light up ahead drew a whispered oath.

“Damn.” Sara spun around and grabbed her arm. “This way.” A quick push popped open a door hidden in the carved wood.

Sophie was propelled into the pitch-black space. She heard the latch snick softly into place.

“Have a care,” whispered Sara. “There is a flight of stairs that twists tightly to the right. For God’s sake, try not to take a tumble.”

Up they climbed, skirts brushing against the passageway. At the top, Sara eased open yet another door. “Quickly, quickly!”

This corridor was far more elegant than the one below—Sophie caught a blur of burgundy reds before being shoved inside the room facing the secret stairwell.

“I swear, I am getting too old for intrigue,” muttered Sara, drawing a packet of lucifer matches from a pocket hidden in her sleeve. A flare of phosphorus hissed to life and she lit a branch of candles on the sidetable. “Mr. Daggett owes me a debt of thanks—not that he ever pays his tab.”

Sophie’s gaze widened as her eyes adjusted to the light.

“But he’s a rather engaging rogue, despite his many faults,” added Sara. She turned and on catching sight of Sophie’s face gave a grimace. “Sorry for sticking ye here in a Chamber of Sin, but as we can’t get to the more respectable back office, it’s the only place where ye won’t be seen. I hope ye ain’t shocked out of yer stockings.”

“I’m afraid my sensibilities are not as tender as they ought to be,” answered Sophie. “It’s actually rather…fascinating. I’ve never been in a brothel bedchamber before.”

“Lud, I should hope not,” replied Sara, looking a little harried. “I vow, I shall ring a peal over Mr. Daggett’s head for exposing ye to such wantonness.”

“He’s not to blame. I made the decision to come here on my own.”

“Hmmm.” Sara shot her an appraising glance, then turned and began to fiddle with the ornate door latches. “Everything appears to be in good working order here. I’ve got to return to my patrons. I will send up Mr. Daggett just as soon as I can, but in the meantime, you must promise me to stay in here with the door locked.” Metal clicked against metal as she tested the knobs. “And ye got te stay quiet as a crypt.”

Sophie swallowed hard. Her nerves were already on edge, and the metaphor did not exactly inspire confidence. “I do hope that deaths don’t occur with any frequency here at The Wolf’s Lair.”

Sara quirked a wry grin. “Well, ye know, the Frenchies call a female’s climax ‘
la petite morte,
’ so—” She stopped in mid-sentence. “Oops. Sorry, I forgot you are an Innocent.”

Actually, I’m not
, thought Sophie to herself.
Though I haven’t much experience in Sin.

Uncertain of how to reply, she remained silent. But something in her expression must have hinted at the truth, for Sara’s smile gave way to a frown and a searching stare. “Oh, tell me that rascal didn’t…”

Sophie felt her cheeks begin to burn.

“Now I’m not just going to ring a peal over Mr. Daggett’s handsome head—I’m going to whack his skull with a big brass bell,” said Sara darkly. “He’s a bloody good thief, but he knows better than to steal a lady’s virtue.”

Oh, he didn’t steal it.
She looked away.
I handed it to him on a platter.

“Hmmph.” Sara let out a low snort. “Well, we’ll have to sort all that out later. Right now I must be off.”
Click.
“Remember, lock the door, and don’t let anyone in save for me or that Hellhound.”

Click, click, click.
Sophie dutifully twisted the keys, and then turned to survey her surroundings.

Good God, it’s as if I have stepped into an exotic fairy tale.

Stepping to the center of the room, she turned in a slow circle.
Aladdin’s treasure cave.
Exotic, yes.
And erotic.
Large star-shaped lanterns, the polished brass incised with intricate patterns, hung over a huge four-poster bed. A profusion of richly embroidered pillows lay piled against a colorful headboard, the designs depicting…

“Oh.” Sophie blinked and then leaned in for a closer look. “Ummm.” Surely one would have to be an acrobat from Astley’s Circus to bend the human body into
that
position.

Trailing a hand along the plush plum-colored velvet coverlet, she moved to the foot of the bed. Its ornate brasswork was crafted in the shape of two sinuous snakes intertwined in looping curlicues. The metal was smooth and cool to the touch.

“My, it’s awfully warm in here,” she murmured, untying the fastenings of her cloak. The fire in the hearth had burned down to red-orange coals, softly crackling with gold sparks. “Though I suppose it’s quite comfortable if one isn’t wearing any clothing.” She shrugged the felted wool from her shoulders and tossed the garment onto the dressing table.

Circling back to the door, she pressed her ear to the paneling. A loud laugh reverberated through the thick wood, too close for comfort. Sophie retreated back to the bedside, and began to pace up and down the thick Turkey carpet.

Up and back, up and back.
“What the devil is keeping Cameron?” As the minutes stretched on, her stride began to falter. The arduous hours of travel had left her tired, tense…

On impulse, Sophie climbed onto the thick mattress. Spotting a glass container of lucifers on the bedside table, she lit the overhead lanterns and lay back to watch the fanciful winks of light undulate across the ceiling.

Her eyes followed the burnished glow back down to the table where it dipped and danced over the cut-crystal facets of a fancy perfume vial.

Wriggling to the edge of the bed, she picked it up and pulled out the glass stopper.

A cloud of lush scent filled her nostrils.
Slightly sweet. Slightly musky. Slightly naughty.
Inhaling deeply, she held it in her lungs for a long moment, savoring the tickle of spice inside her.

“Well, I can’t claim anymore that nothing adventurous has happened to me lately,” she whispered after letting out a perfumed sigh. “The Sophie of just a few weeks ago would have found that thought frightening, but since then, I…I seem to have become a different person.” She sniffed again. “A more daring person. Like in the past.”

Stirred by the breath of air, the lanterns swayed slightly, dappling her face with tiny swirls of light.

“I’m rather like that lamp in Aladdin’s tale—rubbing my body seems to have released some mysterious force of nature from within.”

A serpentine curl of fragrance rose from the vial.

Unfastening the top two buttons of her high-necked dress, Sophie dabbed a generous splash of scent on her throat, and then on her wrists.

As she set the vial down, she noticed two small porcelain pots and a silver looking glass on the far corner of the ebony tabletop. Curious, she peeked under the lids.

Midnight dark kohl and a luscious red lip color.

“Oh, fie—when will I ever have a chance to explore a brothel again?”
A smudge of black, a touch of carmine
. “I look like a bold-as-brass hussy,” Sophie murmured, after regarding her reflection from several different angles. “Perhaps some of that devil-may-care spirit will rub off on me.” She loosened another button. The last item on the table was a decanter filled with a dark amber liquid. In the flickers of hide and seek candlelight, it looked like liquid fire.

Brandy? Or port?
There was only one way to tell.

“I promise you, Daggett, you shall have your money soon—and with a generous bonus if you will agree to be patient,” said Dudley. The rattle of dice and slur of shouts from the gaming tables was muted by the half-drawn drapery that separated the alcove from the main saloon. Still, his voice was hard to hear clearly. “Just for a little while longer.”

“How long?” asked Cameron, deliberately ignoring Morton, who was seated beside the viscount. The man didn’t recognize him, which, given the past, stirred an inward smile.

“A month at most.” Dudley shot a quick look as his friend, who appeared to confirm it with a flick of his lashes.

“Patience is not one of my virtues,” drawled Cameron. “Nor is trust. I’ve made some inquiries about your finances, and the answers aren’t overly encouraging. Why should I think your circumstances will alter?”

Dudley wet his lips. “Because…” Another sidelong look.

“Because,” answered Morton, “I have expectations of a rather substantial change in fortune, and I’m willing to guarantee my friend’s debt.”

“Indeed?” Cameron curled a mocking smile. “I find that a surprise. No title. No lands, no inherited wealth…according to my sources, your expectations are modest at best.”

Anger tightened the muscles of Morton’s jaw, but he managed a low laugh. “Your sources are wrong.” Edging his chair a little closer to the table, he added. “Perhaps they haven’t heard that the Marquess of Wolcott and his son met with an unfortunate boating accident.”

“I’m aware of Wolcott’s demise.” Cameron took a lazy sip of his brandy, savoring the cat-and-mouse game he was playing.
No matter the piles of money being wagered nearby, these stakes are higher by far.
“But I don’t see how that affects you.”

“No?” The single candle flame caught the gleam of Morton’s scimitar smile. “Then perhaps you are not as well informed as you think, Daggett. A closer look at the family bloodlines will show that I may be a mere ‘mister’ at the moment, but with Wolcott’s son dead, I am the next in line.”

Cameron lifted a brow. “On the contrary, I keep
very
well informed. So I’m aware that your claim to the title might not be quite so certain as you say. There are rumors that the recently departed marquess has a younger brother.”

“How the devil do you know that?” gasped Dudley. “I—”

Morton speared him to silence with a scowl. Turning back to Cameron, he answered, “The brat—assuming he ever existed—is a bastard. So it’s hardly a matter of concern.”

“That’s not what I hear.” Time to start luring the two men toward a trap.
And away from Sophie.
“I’ve heard whispers that a document exists that might alter that.”

“Satan’s ballocks!” rasped Dudley. “How…”

“I make it my business to know all the sordid little secrets of the
ton
,” interrupted Cameron. A pause as he watched Morton begin to drum his fingers on the table. “I find it pays to be informed.”

Dudley refilled his glass with brandy and swallowed it in one gulp.

Morton was not so rattled. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I’ve heard you make a living profiting from the weaknesses of others, Daggett.”

A smirking laugh. “That’s rather the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”

Ignoring the barb, Morton regarded him with a flat-eyed gaze. Like a snake watching, waiting for a prey to come within striking distance. “Perhaps. But it occurs to me that by pooling our talents, so to speak, we might both come away with a handsome reward.”

“I’ve already got a pretty penny in my possession.” Cameron held up the promissory note. “Why should I expend any effort on getting what is already mine?”