The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

Ainsley laughed, thinking of her costume at Rowlindson’s party. “In a wig and mask?”

“Nothing so theatrical. Simply leave for a jaunt to the Continent on your own. Ladies do such things nowadays all the time. They take walking tours of far-off countries by themselves and write books about their adventures. You’re not an unmarried miss, but a respectable widow. If you meet Cameron on your travels, what of it?”

Ainsley stared across the table at Eleanor, and Eleanor looked unflappably back at her. “El, you are telling me to run away with a man to become his mistress.”

“I am telling you to be happy. Even if it lasts only a little while. We must snatch what we can when we have the chance. Life is so very lonely when we don’t.”

Ainsley sat back, realizing that Eleanor probably hadn’t been the wisest choice for advice on this matter. Ainsley had hoped for a clear-eyed, uncolored view of the Mackenzie family—and Eleanor had that—but Eleanor still loved them as hard as did Beth or Isabella. Ainsley hadn’t wanted to go Isabella or Beth, because she knew Cameron’s offer would become a family discussion, and Ainsley had not wanted that, and she knew that neither would Cameron.

But Eleanor, she saw, though she’d shown Hart the door, wasn’t exactly an outsider. Eleanor obviously regretted her decision to jilt Hart, though she’d likely had good reason for it. Ten years ago, Hart Mackenzie hadn’t had a pristine reputation. Ainsley had heard from Beth about the house he’d bought for his mistress, a woman called Mrs. Palmer. He’d visited Mrs. Palmer in this house for many years, and the things he’d done there hadn’t been exactly conventional. Not until after his wife and child had died had Hart become much quieter and more discreet. He’d stayed with Mrs. Palmer, though, until that lady’s death.

Eleanor lifted her teacup. “You’re not an ingénue, Ainsley. You know exactly what you are getting yourself into. You know about men and what they want. You know the Mackenzies. You will be walking in with no illusions.”

Ainsley poked at the seedcake on her plate. She loved cake but at the moment had lost her appetite. “Tell me, El. If it were you—if Hart popped in and asked you to go away with him and be his lover—would you do it?”

Eleanor’s eyes flickered. “He never would.”

“But let us enter the realm of make-believe and suppose he did. Would you go with him?”

Eleanor flashed a smile. “Let Hart Mackenzie drape ropes of jewels about my neck and beg to share my bed at night? I would be sorely tempted. But my circumstance is a bit different than yours.”

Ainsley drew an impatient breath. “But in a castle in the air, where all else is unimportant, would you do it?”

Eleanor studied her teacup for a moment, and when she looked up, her eyes were quiet. “Of course I would,” she said. “I would in an instant.”

Eleanor’s train to take her back to Aberdeen pulled into the station not long later, and she and Ainsley left the teashop for the platform.

Eleanor wasn’t certain what Ainsley would do, but she saw in Ainsley a lonely young woman who badly needed a moment of happiness. Whether Ainsley would be brave enough to snatch that moment remained to be seen.

Ainsley pressed the seedcake she’d asked the waitress to wrap for her into Eleanor’s hand and thanked her as they exchanged a kiss good-bye. It was like Ainsley to disguise generosity as gratitude, Eleanor thought. Eleanor wasn’t too proud to accept the cake, though. She’d take it home to Father, and they’d have such a treat.

Ainsley hurried from the station after their good-byes, likely having stolen this time from whatever errands she was supposed to be doing for the queen. Poor Ainsley had less freedom than Eleanor did. Eleanor still managed to maintain a circle of friends—at least, those friends who didn’t give a toss about money. Only the very rich or the very poor could be so cavalier, so Eleanor’s friends came in an odd range.

Eleanor turned from waving Ainsley off to step from platform to train compartment. She slipped, failed to steady herself, and was caught by a large, strong hand.

All the breath went out of her when she looked back and down at the face of Hart Mackenzie.

The golden gaze that studied her had grown, if anything, harder and harsher with experience. Hart’s body was still broad and strong, shoulders stretching his finely tailored greatcoat, under which he wore his Mackenzie plaid kilt. Unshaved whiskers dusted Hart’s jaw, a sign that he’d been working around the clock as usual, but no exhaustion tinged his intense gaze.

Eleanor sensed something new in him, however, a focus that hadn’t existed before. She knew that Hart’s ambition was as honed as ever—she read the newspapers—but the hope and humor that had once lightened his eyes was gone. This was a man who had experienced loss, first of his wife and only child, then of his longtime mistress. He seemed to exist on ambition alone, now.

“I heard about Mrs. Palmer,” Eleanor said softly. “Hart, I am so very sorry.”

His eyes flickered in surprise, and in that moment, Eleanor looked at the true Hart Mackenzie, the man who’d sacrificed so much that his family would not suffer. It had been Hart who’d forced the old duke to make generous trusts for his three younger brothers, so that they could live independently. Their father would have been happy to let Ian, Mac, and Cam starve to keep all the money in the dukedom.

How Hart had persuaded his father to do this, Eleanor never did discover. Eleanor was one of the few who even knew he’d done it. And now Hart, a man with so much power, so much wealth, and so much might, grieved for a simple courtesan.