The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

  Cameron’s arms slid around her before she’d gone two steps. No bustle kept him at a distance tonight; his warm kilt pressed her backside through her skirts.

  “You’re always welcome in my home, Ainsley.”

  He’d melt her. She couldn’t meet Phyllida and get the letters if she were a puddle on the floor.

  Cameron pulled back a curl of the wig and kissed her neck. “I have a house in Berkshire where I train the horses in the spring. I want to show it to you.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “Muddy and cold. Flat. Full of sheep.”

  “Gracious, I’ve had enough of sheep tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” Ainsley said. “I’m sure your horses love it.”

  “They do.”

  Cameron continued kissing her skin, seducing her into compliance, the wretch. She turned, her panniers pressing him away. “I’d love to see it.”

  Ainsley had no idea when she’d ever have the chance, but she wanted to learn about every part of Cameron’s life. He spent winters on the Continent, Isabella had told her—Paris, Rome, Monaco—before rejoining his trainers in Berkshire as soon as the coldest part of winter had finished. In Berkshire Cameron spent all his waking hours with his horses, readying them for the start of the flat racing season in Newmarket.

  It sounded fine to Ainsley, a routine of his own making, a life with a purpose. So why, when she looked at him, did she see longing, an emptiness unfulfilled?

  Cameron’s eyes darkened as he cupped her face. “I want you,” he whispered. “Ainsley, damn you, I want you so much.”

  “I want you too, truth to tell.”

  The look in his eyes was one of desperation, and Ainsley hurt with longing. But the little clock on the table was marching on to the appointed hour.

  “There is no time,” she whispered. Would there ever be?

  Cameron sat down on one of the tiny chairs and lifted Ainsley to his lap. The stupid wig got in his way, but he pushed it aside and kissed her.

  She tasted so damned good. She arched up to him willingly, her need as hot as his own. Her bodice was nicely low, allowing Cameron to cup the bosom that overflowed her corset.

  He wanted her unfettered. He wanted to close his mouth over her breast, to taste and suckle her. Cameron had wanted that, he realized, for more than six years, and not only because she’d confounded him that long-ago night. He wanted her, Ainsley, the beautiful, brave woman.

  He’d have this damned costume open before the night was over and finally learn the taste of her. Cameron slid a hand to her hip, finding whatever padding she’d used to plump out the skirt.

  “I want this off.”

  “It will be a great relief to me too,” Ainsley said as she kissed him.

  “It will come off. All of it. I want you bare for me, Ainsley.”

  She gave him a little smile. “And I want to see what you wear under your kilt.” Ainsley wriggled her hips, which stroked his cock.

  “Little devil.”

  “I’m not an innocent debutante. I’ve heard much about Mackenzies and their kilts.”

  “I like you not being an innocent debutante.” He kissed her lips again. “I’m going to thoroughly debauch you.”

  “Oh, heavens.” She smiled and tapped her fist to his chest. “Oh no, you wicked thing, you mustn’t.”

  Cameron nipped her mouth. “Vixen.” A man could fall in love with you.

  That troubling thought was broken by the chime of the little gilt clock next to them. Cameron wanted to throw it across the room.

  Ainsley struggled up, her smile gone. “I have to go.”

  Cameron deserted the chair and pressed her back into it. “You will stay in this room. I’ll make the exchange.”

  Ainsley popped off the chair. “Don’t be daft. It has to be me. Phyllida’s instructions were very clear. ‘Only you, Mrs. Douglas, not Lord Cameron,’ she said.”

  Cameron sat her back down again. “I’ll get those damned letters, every single page of them. You’re right that Phyllida Chase is a viper. She’ll try to cheat you. She doesn’t trust me, but she knows she can’t cheat me.”

  He saw thoughts dancing through her gray eyes, Ainsley calculating the risks. “We should go together,” she said.

  “I’m not letting you out of this room, not at one of Rowlindson’s blasted soirees. He’s a bad man, Ainsley.”

  Ainsley slanted him a smile that made his blood hot. “But that’s what everyone says about you, Lord Cameron.”

  Cameron smiled right back at her. “I am a bad man, very bad, but in a different way. I want to ravish you until we’re both senseless with it, and then I want to do it all over again.”

  She flushed at his candor, but she didn’t flutter and faint. Not Ainsley.

  “I know you’re right about Phyllida, but the letters . . .” She looked unhappy. “You must promise me you won’t look at them but bring them straight back to me.”

  “I have no interest in the letters.” Cameron leaned over her, stroking his gaze to the shadow between her breasts. “Is that where you’re hiding the money?”

  Ainsley reached deep into the corset and dragged out the wad of banknotes. “That’s all of it.”

  Cameron took the notes, warm from her body, lucky things. “I didn’t expect they would get lost down there.” He pressed a brief kiss to her mouth and straightened up. “Stay here. I’ll return with the letters, and we’ll go home in my carriage.”

  Ainsley nodded again. She looked delectable, edible even, in that oversized wig, her gray eyes sultry through the mask. She looked like the best of harlots, half innocent, half seductive, the sort of woman in high demand in upper- class brothels.

  The sort of woman Rowlindson best liked to photograph being pawed over by one or two brutes of males. Ainsley might declare she wasn’t an innocent, but she had no idea about the things Rowlindson and his friends could get up to.

  The beast in Cameron awoke, the violent, dangerous thing Cameron tried with alcohol, women, and horseracing to keep at bay. But tonight the beast found a place to direct its anger, and Cameron smiled. He’d had seen the look in Rowlindson’s eyes when the man had watched Ainsley descend the stairs. Cameron could enjoy himself breaking Rowlindson’s neck, and maybe Phyllida’s. After Cameron retrieved the blasted letters.

  “Wait.” Ainsley bounced out of the chair. She jerked Cameron’s handkerchief from his pocket and started dabbing at his lips. “You have lip color on your face.”

  Cameron gave her a hot smile. “I want to see it all over my body.”

  Ainsley blushed. Beautiful, beautiful Ainsley.

  Cameron kissed her again then took the handkerchief and wiped the rest of the scarlet paint from his mouth as he made himself turn from her and leave the room.

  When the door clicked shut, Ainsley blew out her breath and collapsed back into the fragile chair.

  Any other woman watching a gentleman who interested her going off to meet his former lover might be apprehensive, but Ainsley felt only relief. If anyone could make certain Phyllida handed over the letters, it would be Cameron Mackenzie. He wasn’t a subtle man—he’d get the letters whether Phyllida wanted to give them up or not.

  Ainsley was warm all over, warmer than she’d been in a long while. And excited and worried and just a little bit scared about what she intended to do.

  Even before Cameron had started kissing her in this little room, Ainsley had decided she’d allow herself one night with him before she returned to Balmoral. One glorious night of being Lord Cameron Mackenzie’s lover, and then she’d retreat and become plain Ainsley Douglas again, dutiful sister and reliable confidante of the queen.

  She was older and wiser and far more knowledgeable than when she’d been fresh out of finishing school, she reasoned. She’d go into the liaison, as Phyllida had said she had, with eyes wide open. Ainsley would be cautious but, for one night, she’d be happy in Cameron’s arms, and treasure the romance of it for the rest of
her life.

  First, she had to wait for Cameron to return the with letters. Ainsley sweated as the clock wound to one fifteen—marked with a little chime—then on to one twenty. At one thirty, she gave up and jumped from the chair, but before she could start for the door, it opened to admit Lord Rowlindson.

  He’s a bad man, Ainsley, Cameron had said with quiet certainty. What did it say about a gentleman when someone like Cameron, black sheep of the notorious Mackenzie family, derided him?

  Lord Rowlindson didn’t look very dangerous at the moment. He stood with his hand on the door handle and sent Ainsley a look of concern. “Gisele, is it? Is everything all right?”

  Ainsley plopped down in the chair again, fanning her face with her hand. “The crowd was rather overwhelming. I decided it a good idea to sit quietly.”

  “I thought I saw Lord Cameron leaving this room.”

  “You did.” Ainsley looked him straight in the eye. “He was showing me where I could sit quietly.”

  Lord Rowlindson’s expression turned worried. He came all the way into the room and closed the door.

  “Gisele, I must give you this advice for your own good. Beware of Cameron Mackenzie. He might be charm itself when he needs to be, but he’s not to be trusted. In truth, he’s a hard and ruthless man. He uses his ladies until they are desperate for what he gives them, and then he discards them. I would hate to see that happen to you.”

  A little chill went through her. “I appreciate your concern, my lord. I truly do. But I will be well.” Now, do, please, go away.

  He didn’t. “Forgive my prying. It’s simply that I don’t wish to see someone as young as yourself hurt. Please, stay and enjoy my soiree. Or, if you do not like crowds, we can adjourn to my private study. I have a friend, he’s quite a gentleman, and very discreet, who might join us—or not, as you wish. Do you enjoy photography?”

  What had that to do with anything? “I really don’t know much about it, except to have my portrait done. But that was a long time ago.” After her wedding, in hastily sewn wedding attire, standing next to John Douglas. Ainsley had not worn the wedding finery to the brief ceremony; there hadn’t been time.

  “It’s rather a hobby of mine,” Rowlindson said. “I’d enjoy teaching you about it.”

  Ainsley still wasn’t certain Rowlindson was dangerous, but he was decidedly odd. “Perhaps another time.”

  “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 wou
ldn’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.