The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

Phyllida and the shepherdess laughed and flirted with the gentlemen without compunction as they rolled along the country road. Innuendos about staffs and goads were tossed thickly about. One gentleman decided that he was a naughty sheep that needed to be chastised, and he and the other two gentlemen baa-ed the rest of the way to Rowlindson’s mansion. Ainsley was never happier to climb down from a carriage in her life.

When Phyllida descended, Ainsley pulled her aside. “Can we not make the exchange now?” The banknotes were heavy inside Ainsley’s corset, and the sooner she retrieved the letters, the better. Then she could go home, pull off the absurd wig, and turn her mind to other matters, like Lord Cameron’s most wicked offer.

“No, indeed, darling.” Phyllida laughed in real pleasure, more animated than Ainsley had ever seen her. “I’m here to enjoy myself. And you look divine. Come and meet our host.”

Phyllida’s fingers curled into Ainsley’s arm as she marched Ainsley up the long staircase in the open hall. Lord Rowlindson, an Englishman who, according to Isabella, had purchased his estate from an impoverished Highlander and remodeled it, waited at the top. He was tall and dark haired with brown eyes, an ordinary face, and a friendly smile. The guests seemed to like him, and even the shepherdess and her new flock behaved decorously when they greeted him.

“Mrs. Chase, how delightful.” Rowlindson pressed Phyllida’s hand and smiled with genuine warmth. “Thank you for gracing my humble establishment. And for bringing this lovely young lady with you.” He gave Ainsley a wide smile.

“Yes, she and I are great chums,” Phyllida said. “This is Mrs. . . . um . . .”

“Gisele,” Ainsley broke in and held out her hand. “Tonight, I am Gisele.” She tried to make her voice throaty, her accent French, but it came out scratchy and wrong.

“Bienvenue, Gisele.” Rowlindson took her hand, bowed, and pressed a light kiss to the back of it.

“Merci, monsieur.” Ainsley gave him a little curtsey. He was courteous at least, and his smile wasn’t lascivious. Just friendly with a twinkle of amusement.

Rowlindson turned to greet the next set of guests, and Ainsley followed Phyllida into the cathedral-like drawing room, complete with gothic arches and packed with people. Phyllida sashayed in, waving at female friends, cooing at male.

The guests talked in shrill voices, the noise grating on Ainsley’s ears. Perfume and body heat were dense. Phyllida slid through the crowd like an eel through water, leaving Ainsley with her wide panniers straggling behind.

Phyllida had said she wanted to make the exchange in the conservatory. That would be a peaceful room filled with potted plants and places to sit. Cool solitude. There Ainsley could wait quietly, far from innuendo about sheep. Heaven.

Ainsley turned to leave the drawing room, but more guests surged in from the hall, carrying Ainsley with them like the tide. She was buffeted about, and felt more than one hand on her bosom, before she erupted into a relatively empty corner by a window. The window was open, mercifully, and Ainsley dragged in breath after breath of damp but refreshing Scottish air.

Movement in a nearby embrasure caught her eye, and she saw a man and a woman entwined there. The woman’s costume plunged in a V almost to her navel, and the gentleman had his face in her bosom. The lady in turn firmly rubbed the man’s crotch.

Ainsley swung away, only to find the sheik from the carriage on a circular divan around a pillar, a lady on either side of him. The ladies’ hands roved under his bed sheet, and all three were giggling.

Oh, dear.

Ainsley understood now why Beth and Isabella hadn’t mentioned the party. Ainsley had thought them simply too busy with Hart’s do, but in truth, they were too respectable to be added to Lord Rowlindson’s guest list.

Some of the people here had come over from Hart’s house party, but most Ainsley didn’t recognize. Many ladies wore costumes like Phyllida’s: loose, uncorseted, scandalously low cut. Another lady had come in eighteenth- century dress, but her décolletage dove so far downward that the pink brown of her ni**les showed.

Drat Phyllida. It was just like her to decide to make the exchange at an orgiastic gathering. If Ainsley made a fuss, perhaps refusing to pay her or trying to steal the letters, Phyllida could expose Ainsley to all and sundry. What a scandal. Mrs. Douglas, the prim little widow, one of the queen’s favorites, at an orgy.

“Cherie.” A man and a woman stopped in front of Ainsley, both of them looking her up and down. “Perhaps you’d like to walk with us?”

Ainsley’s face flamed. “No. That is, no, thank you. Excuse me.”

She lifted her too-long skirts and scurried past them. The conservatory. Now.

Ainsley wormed her way through the crowd, ignoring the evil looks of those she shoved with her panniers. She finally popped out of the drawing room to the relative calm of the upper hall, and tried to catch her breath as she made for the stairs.

Lord Rowlindson, shaking hands with new arrivals, saw her and sent her a smile. Was the smile now sinister? Ainsley couldn’t decide. Rowlindson still looked like a benevolent host, concerned only that his guests have a good time.

She thought it prudent not to ask Lord Rowlindson for directions to the conservatory, and started on the journey to find it herself. Conservatories, modern additions to older houses, would be on the ground floor, probably at the end of a wing. Ainsley clutched the cool iron balustrade and started pattering down the stairs.

A strong hand jerked her to a halt. She stifled a shriek as she was pulled around and found herself looking into the unmasked, enraged face of Lord Cameron Mackenzie.