The Many Sins Of Lord Cameron (MacKenzies & McBrides #3)(20)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“Give her the letters, or I will make your life hell.”

Phyllida’s eyes flickered, but damned if she didn’t return a stubborn look. “I doubt you could make it any more hell than it already is, my lord Cam. I’m selling Mrs. Douglas the letters because I need the money. As simple as that.”

“For what, your gambling debts? Your husband is rich. Go to him.”

“It has nothing to do with gambling, and it is my own business.”

Damn the woman. “If I give you the money you need, will you cease troubling Mrs. Douglas?”

Phyllida’s worried look dissolved into a smile. “My, my, you are smitten, aren’t you?”

“How much do you want?”

Phyllida wet her lips. “Fifteen hundred wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Fifteen hundred, and you return the letters and let it go.”

Phyllida made a show of considering, but Cameron could see her salivating at the prospect of fifteen hundred guineas in her hands. “Fair enough.”

“Good. Fetch the letters.”

“My dear Cameron, I don’t have them with me. I’m not that foolish. I’ll have to send for them.”

“No money until I see them.”

Phyllida pouted. “Now, that’s not fair.”

“I’m not interested in fair. I’m interested in you leaving Mrs. Douglas the hell alone.”

“Goodness, what do you see in that little termagant? Very well, but have Mrs. Douglas give the money to me.”

“Why?” Cameron narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“Because I don’t trust you. Mrs. Douglas is a paid toady, but at least she’s an honest toady. She will make a fair exchange without doing anything underhanded.”

“You had better not be underhanded,” Cameron said. “If you try anything, I’ll throttle those letters out of you. Understand?”

Phyllida smiled. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Cam. You’re not afraid to be forceful.”

“Just give her the letters,” Cameron growled and walked away from her, not missing her delighted laughter behind him.

The fiddles and drums were loud inside the ballroom. Some English guests grimaced or openly mocked the music, but the Scottish guests had formed circles to dance in Highland delight.

In the center of the ballroom Isabella and Mac led a circle. Although Isabella was English born and bred, she had taken to all things Scottish with a vengeance.

In Mackenzie plaid, her red hair twined with roses, Isabella swayed in the circle. Next to her was Mac, who was a damn good dancer. He led the wide circle in and out, feet moving in quick rhythm, but his eyes were for Isabella.

The look Mac gave Isabella when he looped his arm around her waist to turn her was so damn loving. Mac and Isabella had struggled a long time for their happy ending, and Cameron was glad to see them have it.

Hart didn’t dance, but Hart never did. He liked to put people together and then stand back and watch them, like a general surveying his troops. Hart spied Cameron entering and moved to him, dressed in cool finery and a kilt, Mackenzie malt in his hand.

“Where did you disappear to tonight?” Hart asked.

Cameron shrugged. “Bored.” No reason to mention Ainsley to Hart.

“Isabella is complaining about having to shoulder much of the burden of this thing.” Hart gestured with his whiskey at the crowd. “And when Isabella complains, Mac is the very devil.”

As distracted as he was, Cameron took time to laugh at the exasperation in Hart’s voice. Hart lived to orchestrate things, and Isabella and Beth were happy to help him. But Hart had discovered quickly that his brothers’ wives weren’t docile creatures he could bend to his will. And when Beth and Isabella weren’t happy, Ian and Mac became walls of angry protection.

A quick scan of the room told Cameron that Ian and Beth were missing. “Beth’s not helping tonight?”

“The crowd at the fireworks unnerved Ian. He retired with Beth.”

Cameron met Hart’s golden gaze, which held the same skeptical amusement Cam felt. “Of course he did,” Cam said. “Ian Mackenzie is a bloody genius.”

“I can’t force him to stay downstairs,” Hart said.

No, when Ian wanted to do a thing, neither God nor all his angels could prevent it. Only Beth could, and Beth generally took Ian’s side.

Ainsley and Daniel rushed in, hand in hand, to join the dancing. Ainsley had changed into a gown of subdued Douglas plaid, more black than anything else, and wore a big plaid bow in her hair. Mac opened the circle to welcome them. Mac liked Ainsley, telling Cameron that it was refreshing to talk to a lady who used to rob the school pantry of cake and divide the spoils among her friends.

Daniel threw himself into the dance with enthusiasm if not grace. He dragged Ainsley around the circle until she laughed, and he twirled her hard when the circle broke off into couples. Ainsley’s silvery laughter drifted over the music, her smile lighting the room.

Cameron watched her supple waist bending as she danced, imagined his own arm around it. Cam would turn Ainsley in the dance and keep his arm around her, pulling her up for a slow, burning kiss.

He felt Hart’s eagle gaze on him, and he scowled. “Mind your own damn business.”

Hart took a sip of whiskey. “You might be interested to know that I saw Mrs. Douglas pick open the lock of the Chases’ suite the other night and sashay right in when she thought no one was looking. Chase and I are in agreement about the German question, but I don’t want things discussed too soon, especially not with the queen.”

Hart worried about Germany’s steady advances in industry, viewing them as a potential threat to Britain, while many of his fellow politicians assumed that Germany was their strongest ally. Cameron, his attention buried in racing, paid little attention to those details, but Hart was no fool, and Cam trusted Hart’s instincts.

“It has nothing to do with the German question,” Cameron said.

Hart’s gaze sharpened. “Then you know what she was looking for. Interesting. Enlighten me.”

Cameron looked back at Ainsley—dancing, happy, smiling—and knew in that instant that he would never betray her to Hart. Cam would be as growling and protective of her as Mac and Ian were of Isabella and Beth.

“I can’t tell you,” Cameron said. “But I can assure you it has nothing to do with politics. Just female silliness.”

Hart’s gaze could have cut glass. “Female silliness can hide a wagonload of secrets.”