“I always show new guests my pictures—rather a treat for me. And then I could take a photograph of you.”
Definitely odd. “No, thank you, my lord. I will be returning home directly.”
Rowlindson let out a breath. “If you must. My carriage is at your disposal. Shall I fetch it?”
“No, no.” Ainsley fanned herself again. “I’ve made other arrangements. I’ll sit until the servant fetches me.”
Rowlindson watched her for a moment, then, to her vast relief, gave her a nod. “A wise idea. But if you need help, or my carriage to get you home, you must send for me immediately. Promise?”
“Oh, yes, my lord. I will. You are so kind.” For heaven’s sake, go!
“And heed my advice about Lord Cameron. No matter how he might tempt you.”
Rather too late for that. “Yes, indeed. I thank you for your warning.”
Rowlindson’s mouth softened into a smile. “Perhaps you and I can speak on a later occasion. May I send you word, through Mrs. Chase?”
“I’m not sure that would be proper,” Ainsley said, trying to sound prim.
Her worry about propriety seemed to delight him. “I will be most discreet. Good evening, Gisele.”
Rowlindson gave her a final nod, opened the door, and at long last, left her alone.
Ainsley made herself wait an excruciating ten minutes, giving Rowlindson time to get himself back upstairs, before she slipped out of her costume’s clunky shoes and crept out of the room in her stocking feet.
Phyllida was late, as usual. Cameron waited in the shadows, and sure enough, not until half past one did Phyllida casually stroll into the conservatory. She was dressed as her idea of an Egyptian queen: long, straight sheath that showed off every curve of her body, eyes painted black, gold jewelry dripping from her arms, neck, ankles, and ears.
She paused on the walkway, looking around for Ainsley. Cameron stepped from behind the screen of vines. “Phyllida.”
She gasped in a satisfying way, then she flushed. “Devil take it, Cam, what do you want? I told you I’d only make the exchange with Mrs. Douglas.”
Cameron slid the roll of money from his pocket, and Phyllida’s gaze turned sharp with greed.
“Is it fifteen hundred?” she asked. “As promised?”
“As promised. You give me the letters and never bother Ainsley again.”
Her painted eyes went wide with delight. “You call her by her Christian name now, do you? How quickly things progress.”
“Do you have the damned letters or don’t you?”
“This is delicious. Mousy Ainsley Douglas and the decadent Lord Cameron Mackenzie. How the ton will delight.”
Cameron felt rage building inside him. “Say one word about her, and I’ll throttle you.”
“You were always so violent. Did I ever tell you how exciting that was?”
“The letters, Phyllida.”
Phyllida’s gaze flicked beyond Cameron, and her face lit with genuine pleasure, an expression Cameron had never seen on her before.
“There you are, darling. Please, come and protect me from Lord Cameron’s threats. You know what I told you about the Mackenzies.”
Cameron turned to see the last person he expected: a tall, black-haired young man with the dusky skin and dark eyes of a southern Italian. Cameron thought he vaguely recognized him from the stage. Opera, perhaps.
“Apologize to the lady,” the Italian said. His accent was very slight, his English good. “I know she was your lover, but that is finished now.”
“I agree,” Cameron said. “It is finished. Phyllida, who the devil is this?”
“None of your business,” Phyllida said crisply. “He is here to see that I don’t get cheated.” She turned back to the Italian. “Darling, did you bring the letters?”
Cameron closed his fist around the money, not about to let Phyllida take it until she gave over the precious documents. The Italian reached into his pocket and brought out a stack of folded papers.
“Is that all of them?” Cameron eyed them. “Ainsley said there were six.”
“It is all.” The man held them out at arm’s length. “You can trust the signora to deal fairly.”
Fairly? Phyllida? Either the man was a good liar, or Phyllida had well and truly beguiled him.
Cameron reached for the letters. The Italian held them back. “You give her the payment, first.”
Like hell. “Let’s do this at the same time, shall we?”
The man gave a cool nod. He held out the letters again, and Cameron let the wad of money dangle from his fingers. Phyllida snatched the cash, and Cameron took the letters from the Italian man’s grasp.
Phyllida ran her thumb over the corner of the banknotes. “Thank you, Cameron. I hope I never see you again.”
Cameron unfolded the first letter. “Wait,” he said sternly. “Neither of you are leaving until I know that I have them all.”
“I’ve told you . . .”
The Italian held up his hand. “No. Let him look. The treacherous always must believe that others play treachery against them.”
Definitely opera. The man’s speeches came straight from them. Cameron seated himself on a scrolled iron bench and scanned the first page.
“You’re not going to read all of them, are you?” Phyllida said in exasperation.
Cameron didn’t answer. He would damn well read every word of them to make sure he had the letters in their entirety, no pages missing with which Phyllida could blackmail Ainsley later. Cam hadn’t lied to Ainsley when he’d said he had no interest in the letters, but he’d never promised he wouldn’t actually read them. He needed to, for her own good.
They were love letters without doubt. The lady addressed them to “My most beloved Friend,” and then the paper flowed with overblown adjectives and flowery phrases that sang of this friend’s manly physique, his prowess, his stamina.
In spite of this, Cameron could see that the writer had an excellent grasp of vocabulary and poetry, if in an overly sentimental style. The first letter eased from this poesy into a breezy, newsy epistle and then back out again to the flowery phrases. She’d signed it, “Ever your loving, Mrs. Brown.”
Mrs. Brown.
Oh, bloody hell.
Cameron opened the second letter and found it to be much like the first, noting the writer’s references in the middle of the letter to “trying children” and other such domestic issues. But these were the domestic issues of a palace, the trying children princes and princesses of this realm and rulers of others.
He finally understood Ainsley’s secretiveness and furtive concern. The nameless friend she’d been trying so desperately to protect was the Queen of England.
“It’s scandalous, isn’t it?” Phyllida said when he folded the last one. “She ought to be ashamed of herself.”
“Did you make any copies of these?” Cameron asked her. What a weapon Phyllida could have made of them, and yet she’d demanded, in retrospect, so little. Something was off.
“Why should I?” Phyllida shrugged. “I’m not interested in the queen’s rather pathetic fantasies.”
Cameron rose and stuffed the letters into his pocket. “These letters could utterly humiliate the queen, and you’re ransoming them to me for fifteen hundred guineas?”
“Very generous of you too. Enough for a start, I think.”
“A start of what?”
Phyllida laughed, and for the first time since he’d met her, Cameron saw the hardness depart from her. “To leave my husband, of course.” She slid her hand through the crook of the Italian’s arm. “Thank you, Giorgio. Shall we?”
Giorgio. Now Cameron recognized him. He was Giorgio Prario, a tenor who had recently taken London by storm. Isabella had hosted a soiree to help launch his career, one of those little gatherings that Isabella loved and Cameron avoided like the plague.