“Aye, it is.”
He didn’t miss Ainsley’s flush as she speculated why Cameron might take a mistress to his private study. “Very well, let us search the study.”
The room didn’t connect to his bedroom. Cameron led her down the hall a few steps to the next door, which he unlocked. Normally he didn’t lock his doors when he stayed at Kilmorgan—no need—but with all the comings and goings up here, he’d done it today.
Ainsley took on a look of dismay when she viewed the clutter of the study. This was Cameron’s private room, his retreat from the overstated social life that he sometimes had to lead as Hart’s brother and heir to the title.
Racing newspapers lay everywhere, as did books on all things equine. Cameron had contributed chapters or essays to a few of them, publishers begging for his opinion on the subject.
Cam’s prized paintings hung here as welclass="underline" pictures of the horses he’d grown up with, of his best racers, of the ones he simply loved. Mac had painted most of them, although Degas had done a sketch for him of a horse in motion, all rippling muscles and tossing mane.
Angelo was the only one allowed to touch this room, and the man knew better than to disturb anything. It all got a bit dusty, but the whiskey decanter and the humidor were always replenished, the ashtrays emptied and cleaned, and any stray pieces of clothing, boots, or riding equipment restored to their proper places.
Cameron took a clean glass from the tray holding the whiskey and held it up. “Drink? It will be thirsty work.”
Ainsley eyed the glass in some trepidation. Cameron expected her to remind him that ladies didn’t drink spirits, but she gave him a nod. “Yes, why not? I prefer it with soda. Do you have any?”
Cameron lifted the cut glass stopper from the decanter. “This is Mackenzie single malt. Hart would die of apoplexy if anyone cut it with soda. It’s neat or nothing.”
Ainsley began lifting papers from his desk. “Very well. My brothers taught me to enjoy it with soda, but then we never could afford Mackenzie blend. I can hear Steven’s sighs of envy now.”
By the time Cameron poured the glass and brought it to her, Ainsley had seated herself on the floor, her skirts a swath of satin around her, a stack of papers and handwritten notes next to her. She accepted the whiskey, looking up at him with animated gray eyes.
Cameron clinked his glass against hers. “To a fruitful search.”
She nodded, took a practiced sip, and continued sorting papers into neat stacks.
“Anything?” Cameron asked, leaning over her shoulder. From here he could look straight down the cleavage of her soft breasts, and he didn’t mind that at all.
Ainsley wished to heaven he wouldn’t stand next to her like that. Cameron’s legs were firm and muscular under the socks he’d donned for the walk in the wet garden, the hem of his kilt on her eye level.
She glanced at his feet, large and muscular, pressing out the leather of his finely tailored shoes. Mud from the garden clung to one. Above the shoes were wide ankles behind thick gray wool, his legs those of a giant.
Ainsley couldn’t stop her gaze from rising higher, to the shadow under his plaid kilt, where she glimpsed a brawny knee. He was warm, too, his legs radiating heat to her bare shoulder. She’d been so awfully cold in the garden, and standing against him had taken all the cold away.
She made herself continue sorting the papers. No erotica here, only horses, races and results, histories and bloodlines of stallions, notes on what horses were being bought and sold. She stacked them all into piles, wondering how on earth he found anything.
“Who is Night-Blooming Jasmine?” Ainsley asked. The name came up often.
“Filly I’m training. Horse with damned fine promise.”
Ainsley looked up, unable to miss the glimpse of inner thigh in her view, the line of scar on it in shadow. She forced her gaze up, past the flat front of his kilt, to his shirt and the cravat he was in the act of loosening. His throat came into view, tanned and strong. Ainsley felt a flutter of pleasure. She liked him unbuttoned.
“Is she yours?” Ainsley asked, not missing the pride in his voice.
“Not yet.” Cameron pulled the folds of cravat from his neck and tossed the cloth carelessly to the desk. “Bloody owner won’t sell her to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because he despises Mackenzies. He’s only letting me train her because he’s damned desperate. She’s a fine bit of horseflesh, and she can run, by God, can she run.” His voice warmed, a man talking about his heart’s desire.
“Rather annoying of the man.”
“Bloody stupid of him.” Cameron’s brows drew down as he drank. “I want her, and I’d do right by her, if I can only make Pierson see sense.”
“Goodness, you sound almost like a man proposing marriage.”
Cameron shuddered. “Dear God, never that. I even hate the sound of the word. I suppose landing a horse is similar, but horses aren’t near as much bother as wives.”
The pull of disgust in his voice was true. “I’m certain Isabella would be pleased to hear you say so,” Ainsley said lightly.
“Isabella knows she’s a bother. She delights in it. Just ask Mac.”
Ainsley smiled at his quip, but he hadn’t feigned his opinion of marriage. Ainsley looked away from him and quickly continued through the papers.
She found much evidence that Cameron was a womanizing, erotica-reading, whiskey-drinking, horse-mad gentleman but no letters from the queen. She set aside the last papers, shook out her skirts, and climbed to her feet. Cameron reached to help her, his firm hand under her elbow.
“I’m doubting now that Mrs. Chase hid them here,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll wager they’ve never left her house in Edinburgh, except the one paper she brought to show me. She knew I’d try to ferret them out.”
“Ferret. A good name for you. I thought mouse when I saw you hiding in my window seat, but I can see the resemblance. Your eyes get bright when you’re on the trail of what you want.”
She liked his half smile, the teasing in his eyes. All loathing from his talk of marriage had gone. “How highly flattering you are, my lord. No wonder the ladies like you.”
Cameron pulled out a drawer in the desk she’d already searched. The papers in it had been old, dates on them from fifteen, twenty years ago. Cameron dumped them on the floor—all over the newspapers she’d already straightened—and started prying inside the drawer.
“This one has a false bottom if I remember. Haven’t touched it in a while.”
He tugged fruitlessly at the wood. Ainsley pulled a hairpin from her coiled braid and handed it to him. “Try that.”
“Ah, the tools of your trade.” Cameron took it from her, inserted the end in a slightly gouged corner, and pulled.
The bottom of the drawer came away to reveal a single folded letter, creased from being pressed flat. Ainsley snatched it up and opened it but grunted in disappointment before she read a word. “Wrong handwriting. It’s not hers.”
She handed the paper back to Cameron and turned away.
Ainsley headed for the books on the mantelpiece, but a faint noise behind her made her turn around again. Cameron stood where she’d left him, still as stone, his gaze riveted to the unfolded letter in his hand.
“Lord Cameron?”
He didn’t appear to hear. Cameron stared at the letter, his eyes unmoving, as though he’d taken in what it said and couldn’t quite believe it.
Ainsley went to him. “What is it?”
When she touched his hand, he jerked and looked down at her, his eyes empty.
“It belonged to my wife.”
Oh dear. Ainsley’s own sadness about John Douglas could be triggered whenever she came unexpectedly across something that had belonged to him. Though Cameron had been widowed a long time now, his pain must have been intensified by Lady Elizabeth’s violent death and people’s morbid suspicions about it.