The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
“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.
Ainsley went on. “Would Mrs. Chase have had the chance to hide the rest somewhere in your rooms?”
Phyllida had latched on to Cameron the moment she’d arrived at the house party, and Cameron hadn’t discouraged her. “Aye, she’d have had chance. But not, I’m thinking, the chance to retrieve them.” He’d not invited Phyllida back to his chambers after last night, and she’d understood what his cool indifference meant.
“Excellent. Perhaps I could go in and look for them while you’re training tomorrow? Would you be able to keep the servants away?”
The thought of her bustling around his rooms made him sweat. “Why wait for the morning? If you want to find the letters so much, go on up and have at it.”
Ainsley’s eyes widened. “What, now?”
“Why the hell not? The guests are riveted to Hart’s pyrotechnics, and the house is empty. I’ll show you the most likely places to look.”
Ainsley pursed her lips, the soft pucker making him want to pull her close and finish what he’d started with her in the woods. He’d had to make himself walk away then or risk the count or Isabella or someone turning up looking for her, to find her in a most compromising position. No one at the croquet match seemed to have noticed her gone too long with the notorious Lord Cameron, though, probably thinking that Cameron wouldn’t have anything to do with the nobody friend of his sister-in-law. Few of them noticed Ainsley at all, the blind fools. She kept to the shadows, certainly, but Cameron could see her there in all her blazing glory.