“So, Phyllida is blackmailing you,” Cameron said.
Ainsley rapidly went through the conversation in her head, relaxing slightly when she realized that neither she nor Mrs. Chase had ever mentioned the queen by name.
“I’m afraid so.”
Cameron patted McNab’s head when the dog thrust it under Cameron’s hand. “Phyllida can be the devil. Do you want me to shake your letters out of her?”
Ainsley’s eyes widened in alarm. “Please don’t. If you frighten her, she might run to a newspaper as she threatened.”
McNab circled close behind Ainsley, which made her step forward into Cameron’s heat. Cameron didn’t move. McNab sat down against Ainsley, happy they were all together in a small circle of space.
“I can solve your problem,” Cameron said. “You know I’ll give you the thousand for the asking.”
He’d not simply hand you back the letter without exacting a price for it.
“I can raise the money,” Ainsley said. “It will be difficult, but I can do it.”
Across the garden, under the light of the Chinese lanterns, Phyllida stepped next to her husband and tucked her hand under his arm.
“She’s is a hard woman,” Cameron said.
“She’s a bloody thorn in my side.”
Cameron’s chuckle grated like broken gravel. “If you think a thousand guineas will make Phyllida go away, it won’t. She’ll hold something back or find some other way to come at you again. Blackmailers are never satisfied.” His laughter faded into bitterness.
“Aren’t they? How do you know?”
His words were empty, hollow. “When you’re the brother of a duke and your wife died in mysterious circumstances, sharks come out of the woodwork.”
“That’s a mixed metaphor.”
“Bugger metaphors. They’re human sharks and they come out of the shadows when you least expect them.”
“I’m sorry,” Ainsley said.
She sounded sorry. Damn her, why did she have to look at him like that?
Gray eyes shining in the darkness, the frank stare, the lacy shawl sliding from her shoulders as she reached down to pet his dog. Once again, Ainsley was making Cameron’s world come alive, filling it with color instead of the deadly gray of his usual existence.
“All the world speculates on whether I killed my wife,” he said. “Including you.”
The flash of guilt in her eyes told him he was right. But why wouldn’t Ainsley speculate on it? No one knew for certain what had happened in that room, only Cameron. Daniel had been a baby, and except for him, Cameron and Elizabeth had been alone.
Cameron thought of the inquest, everyone watching him as he gave evidence in a dead voice, everyone believing he’d killed Elizabeth. The eyes of the villagers, the journalists, Elizabeth’s family, her lovers, his own father, the jury, the coroner—hard and cold, waiting for him to confess.
Only Hart had believed him, and Hart had perjured himself, telling the coroner that he’d seen Elizabeth drive the knife into her own throat as he’d broken open the door. Cameron had been across the room, holding Daniel, trying to still the lad’s terrified screams. Hart had related the story, using the right mix of Mackenzie charm and horrified sympathy for his brother.
What Hart said had been true, but he hadn’t seen it. Elizabeth had already been dead before Hart made it into the room. Hart had lied to save Cameron, and Cameron would be forever grateful. Hence, Cameron endured Hart’s house parties and entertained Hart’s guests by letting them watch him train his racers.
Ainsley’s fingers landed on his arm, pulling him back from darkness. Her cool voice flowed over him, along with her scent—vanilla and cinnamon, that was Ainsley.
“People do speak of it, I can’t deny that,” she was saying. “But I don’t think it’s true.”
“How the devil can you know?” Cameron heard the growl in his voice but couldn’t stop it.
“I’m good at reading people, is all.”
“That only means you’re too damn trusting.”
“It means it’s my opinion, whether you like it or not. So cease trying to insult me, or bully me, or whatever it is you’re doing.”
She was waking him from his half-numb state again, sharpening the world around him. “But you’re a liar and a thief, Mrs. Douglas,” he said, lightening his tone. “A confidence trickster. How can I take you at your word?”
Her hand remained on his arm, and Cameron liked that she didn’t pull away. “You’ve met me under unfortunate circumstances. I am usually most reliable.”
Cameron wanted to laugh. “You pick locks like a professional thief, search rooms, deal with blackmailers, and then ask me to believe in you.”
Ainsley shot him an exasperated look. “I will remind you that I haven’t seen you in the best of circumstances either, my lord. The last time we spoke, you unbuttoned my frock.”
Yes, he remembered. Each button revealing more of her, the warmth of her skin, the brush of breath on his fingers. Cameron reached for her again, seeking that heat once more.
He touched her collarbone, cold even through the leather of his gloves. “Balls, woman, you’re freezing.”
Cameron slid off his coat and pulled it around her shoulders before she could protest, and then he held the lapels, not wanting to let go. Sweet Mrs. Douglas, looking into his face and saying she believed in him. No one else did. Only because of Hart had the verdict of the inquest been suicide. Cameron exonerated. The case finished.
Officially. Public opinion said otherwise, but only in whispers, because Hart wouldn’t tolerate slander. Women in the demimonde and wives and widows wanting excitement sought Cameron because of the danger he represented, while respectable young ladies were swept out of his way. Cameron didn’t care. He’d never sought to marry again—once was enough of that—but he doubted that anyone would have him even if he asked.
Now Ainsley Douglas looked at him with her clear gray eyes and told him she believed his innocence. No proof needed.
He wanted to taste the mouth that said such things. He wanted to pull her to him, feel her body under his, peel back her clothes and kiss every inch of her. Ainsley wore her hair in a tight coil tonight—he imagined loosening it, letting her hair flow over his body like warm silk.
McNab’s tail lashed Cameron’s legs, and Ainsley laughed and bent to pet the dog’s head. “Lord Cameron, I need to ask you a favor.”
Didn’t she know it was dangerous to ask him for favors? Just because Cameron was innocent of murder didn’t mean he was kind.
“What?”
“I searched Mrs. Chase’s rooms, but I never found the letters. I’ve taken the opportunity to look over the rest of the house as well, but I’ve not been able to find them.”
Cameron imagined Ainsley happily picking her way past the locked doors of every room in Hart’s mansion. Assisting Isabella with the party would have given her an excuse to go almost anywhere in the house. Hart Mackenzie, the most careful and controlling man ever born, was no match for Ainsley and her hairpin.
“Of course you searched,” he said. “Are ye certain you were thorough?”
“I am always very thorough, my lord. But there is one place I haven’t looked.” She touched her tongue to her lower lip, to the tiny bruise Cameron had left there. His mark. He who didn’t always like kissing his women couldn’t stop thinking about kissing Ainsley. “The one place she’d be able to stash the lot,” Ainsley said, “where I’d likely not go, would be your chambers.”
His heart missed a beat. “You did some searching in my chambers too, minx. Angelo told me someone had pawed through the wardrobe.”
“But I wasn’t able to finish.”
No, Cam and Phyllida had come blundering in, Cameron seeking refuge from his ennui in mindless coupling.