The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

Chapter 9

“What th’ devil did ye think you were doing?” Cameron shouted at her in the dark of the stable yard.

Angelo, sliding bareback onto another of the horses, rode quietly out in pursuit of Jasmine. Daniel and the dogs followed Angelo on foot, while a stable boy hurriedly saddled a horse for Cameron.

Cameron’s big hands clamped Ainsley’s shoulders, but her annoyance at being manhandled was mitigated by the fact that Cameron had every right to be angry. Jasmine was a racer worth a lot of money and had been entrusted to Cameron’s care. The Scottish wilderness was full of holes to break Jasmine’s legs, icy streams to carry her away, bogs to swallow her.

“Don’t blame Angelo,” Ainsley said quickly. “Or Daniel. I left the door open.”

“Oh, no worries there, lass, I blame all three of ye. Angelo had no business letting you in, and Danny had no business bringing you out here at all.” His anger wiped away any English veneer he might have—he was an enraged Highlander ready to reach for his claymore.

“I believe the horse didn’t spook until a large Scotsman came charging in to see what we were up to.”

Cameron’s eyes flashed. “I never thought you’d be daft enough to crawl around a stall with a half-crazy racehorse!”

“I had to get my ribbon back.”

Cameron let go of her, but his rage didn’t lessen. “Ribbon—what the devil are ye talking about?”

“She was eating my hair ribbon. I didn’t think you wanted her to choke on it.”

He stared at Ainsley’s bare head. “What possessed you t’ give it to her in the first place?”

“I didn’t give it to her. She has a long neck and strong teeth.”

Cameron’s palm pressed where Jasmine had ripped a lock from Ainsley’s hair. His voice softened a notch. “Are you all right, lass?”

“I’m fine. My brother Patrick had a horse who regularly took chunks out of anyone near her. I still have the teeth marks to prove it. If she couldn’t reach your flesh, she’d happily chomp on your hat or coat, skirt or shirt. Jasmine only pulled out my hair ribbon.”

Cameron didn’t appear to be listening. He caressed Ainsley’s hair with a gentle hand. “Jasmine’s gotten away from Angelo before,” he said. “No horse gets away from Angelo. The little sweetheart is giving us a lot of bother.”

“Shouldn’t you be running after her?”

“I wanted to make sure ye were all right, first.”

Ainsley’s heart sped at the gentleness in his voice. “Not to mention shout at me.”

“And shout at you.” His eyes sparkled again. “Do ye always walk into a horse’s stall so fearlessly?”

“Since I was three and liked to stand under their bellies.”

“Good Lord, lass, I pity your parents.”

“Brothers. My parents died when I was very young. My oldest brother was already twenty and looked after the lot of us. Pity poor dear Patrick. I drove him mad. Still do.”

“I don’t doubt.” Cameron’s voice had lost its anger, his hand continuing to caress.

Ainsley wanted to step to him, to absorb more of his heat against the chill wind that cut across the meadow. In her rather lonely existence the last six years, she’d never been so warm as this night.

“You’d better go find your horse,” she said.

“She’s not mine. She’s only borrowed.”

“All the more reason.”

“Angelo’s the best horseman and tracker in the world, and I’m not finished with ye yet.”

Why did the words make her shiver with pleasure? “No?”

The stable boy was approaching, leading the horse he’d saddled. Cameron slid his big hand behind Ainsley’s neck and scooped her up to him for a fiery kiss.

It was a kiss filled with promise, one that told her he hadn’t forgotten what he’d started in his study, nor his intention to finish it.

Cameron released her, turned as the stable lad reached them, and swung up on the horse with easy grace.

Ainsley folded her arms against the sudden cold as Cameron rode off into the night, the stable lad waving him away.

It took the rest of the night to catch the bloody horse. By the time Cameron led Jasmine in, lathered, scratched by bramble—and if he didn’t know better, smug—the sun was up, and his two trainers were already out with horses on lounge lines. Cameron rubbed down Jasmine himself, and Angelo watered her as Cameron quit the stables for the house.

He bathed, dressed in fresh clothes, and went to the sunny room in Mac’s wing where a private breakfast was served for the family. It was only eight, but during a house party, Isabella and Beth rose early to coordinate the activities for the day.

These breakfasts involved whatever family members were awake and hungry—brothers, sisters-in-law, Daniel, valets, dogs. When Cameron entered, Isabella and Beth were already chattering about the day’s schedule. Mac sat close to Isabella, reading a paper and stealing his hand to his wife’s whenever he could. Ian ate slowly and steadily, listening to Beth and no one else. Ian’s valet, Curry, ate with gusto, the former pickpocket still reveling in the fact that he now lived the high life. Angelo was absent, the man deciding to remain in the stables with Jasmine, as were Daniel, Hart, and Mac’s pugilist valet, Bellamy.

Curry jumped up to serve Cameron, but Cameron waved the little man back to his chair and helped himself to eggs and sausages, bannocks and coffee. He plunked the plate and cup to his usual place across from Isabella and snatched part of the racing newspaper from Mac.

Without looking at it, he said to Isabella, “Tell me everything you know about Mrs. Douglas.”

Isabella’s brows rose in surprise, then she smiled. “And why are you so interested in Ainsley Douglas?”

“Because she’s busy corrupting my son, my valet, and my horses. I want to know what I am up against.”

Cameron didn’t miss Beth’s sudden smile and Mac’s knowing grin.

“I wondered when you’d confess,” Mac said. “I noticed the way you looked at her when you saw her in Isabella’s front parlor last year.”

“Was she in Isabella’s parlor last year?” Cameron asked.

Cameron knew damn well she had been, though he’d seen her for only a moment. He’d walked into Isabella’s London parlor, bent on helping Isabella and Mac through a crisis, and seen Ainsley there looking sweet as you please. She’d flushed as she’d moved fluidly past him and out the door, skirts pressed to the side as though fearing they’d touch him.

Mac only chuckled. “Cam, old man, you’re going to be snared as thoroughly as the rest of us.”

A pot of honey for the bannocks reposed near Cameron’s plate, and he lifted the dripper, letting the honey trickle back into the bowl. “Talk,” he said to Isabella.

Isabella rested her elbows on the table and planted her chin on her hands. “Let me see, Ainsley’s father was a McBride, her mother the only daughter of Viscount Aberdere. Ainsley’s mother and father both died of typhoid in India when Ainsley and her youngest brother were just babies.”

“She told me that her oldest brother raised her,” Cameron said.

“He did. Patrick McBride was already twenty. He got Ainsley and her three other brothers out of India and all the way back to the family home in Scotland. Patrick married soon after that, and he and his wife, Rona, brought up the others. They sent Ainsley to Miss Pringle’s Select Academy, wanting to make a lady of her. That’s where I met her, and we became fast friends.”

“Partners in crime,” Mac added. “Mrs. Douglas taught my dear wife how to pick locks and climb into and out of windows.”

“Ooh,” Curry said. “Sounds interestin’.”

“I never mastered the art,” Isabella said. “Not like Ainsley. She was our ringleader for midnight feasts and practical jokes. We were quite awful.”

“I can imagine,” Cameron said. “What did she do after she finished at the academy?”

“Ainsley never finished,” Isabella said, sounding surprised he didn’t know. “In the summer before her final year, Patrick and his wife took her on a trip to the Continent. They decided to stay there for a year, in Rome, I think. When I next saw Ainsley, in London, she was already married to John Douglas. Mr. Douglas was a very kind man, but at least thirty years her senior. Ainsley seemed content enough, but I always wondered why she married him. I’ve speculated, but she’s never told me, and I don’t like to pry.”

“Yes, you do,” Beth said. “When you first met me, you made me come home with you the moment I mentioned Ian.”

“That was different, darling,” Isabella said. “That was family.”

Cameron lifted the honey dripper again. The amber folds cascading down made him imagine swirling the honey over Ainsley’s naked body. Slowly, slowly licking it from her skin, savoring each sticky drop.

He looked up to find Ian watching him, no doubt guessing Cameron’s exact thoughts. Ian so rarely looked at anyone straight in the eye that when he did, it could be unnerving.

Cameron put down the dripper. “And since her husband’s death, Mrs. Douglas has worked for the queen?”

“Indeed, she has. Ainsley’s mother and Lady Eleanor Ramsay’s mother were good friends, and the queen adored Ainsley’s mother. So one year when the queen was at Balmoral, Ainsley and Eleanor Ramsay were staying with a mutual friend nearby. The queen visited with them, and when the queen discovered who Ainsley was, there was nothing for it but that Ainsley should come and work for her. The queen finagled Ainsley into her household somehow and made her a lady of the bedchamber.”

Mrs. Yardley had told him much the same thing. “So, she and the queen are chummy.”

“Not really. Ainsley is grateful for the position and the salary, but she finds it trying at times. The queen doesn’t like to let her leave very often. I’m surprised Ainsley was allowed to spend two weeks with me here, but I’m happy for it.”

Isabella picked up her coffee and sipped, clearly finished with her story.

“Is that all?” Cameron asked.

“Isn’t that enough? I’ve chattered on about my friend’s private life long enough, and I told you that much only because Daniel told me he caught you kissing her.”

Mac started laughing, damn him, and Curry was getting an earful to spread below stairs.

“Stop all the confounded smirking,” Cameron growled. “I’m not looking to marry her. She’s disrupting my life.”

Isabella lost her smile. “She’s a dear friend, Cameron. Do not hurt her.”

“I have no intention of hurting her. I want her to cease pulling me into her affairs and to quit meddling in mine.”

“Stop kissing her then.”

Cameron saw by the faces turned toward him that they were going to line up against him. None of them understood the damage a woman like Ainsley could do to his sanity. The thrumming in his body wouldn’t go away when he was around her, and he’d already lost two nights of sleep because of her.

What Cam should do was pack his bags, load up the horses, and retreat to his house in Berkshire where he had his main racing stables. He could join his other trainers and continue with Jasmine in his big, open paddocks.

But Cameron had already promised Hart to stay at Kilmorgan until the races at Doncaster, and he didn’t like to break promises to his brothers. Aside from that, Jasmine was too jittery for a long journey south. If she were Cameron’s horse, he’d back her off to light training, build her up slowly, get to know her, teach her to trust. As it was, he had to work her carefully. A long trip now would ruin her.

No, he had to stay at Kilmorgan and finish this. Once he’d had Ainsley, as he’d vowed to, he could forget her and return to sanity.

Ian slid the pot of honey toward his plate. “We should go back upstairs,” he said to Beth.

“What?” Beth looked up from a list she was writing. “Why?”

Ian rose and pulled back Beth’s chair without answering. Ian had difficulty lying, so when he knew he shouldn’t say what was on his mind, he’d learned to keep his mouth firmly closed.

Beth knew him well, though. Without arguing, she let him take her arm and steer her from the table. Before he walked away, Ian reached back and snatched the honey pot from the table, balancing the pot in his hand as he led Beth from the room.

Two days later Ainsley sat among a sea of costly fabrics at a dressmaker’s in Edinburgh. Rain fell outside, the sort that obscured everything in mist, but inside with Beth and Isabella, all was dry and snug.

Ainsley had telegraphed Phyllida’s new demand to the queen, and while waiting for the reply, she’d restlessly searched the house again, just in case. She’d recruited Daniel to help her look, and Angelo too, although she didn’t tell either exactly what she searched for and why. But both knew the house better than she did, surprisingly well, in fact. The Romany and the youth found hidey holes that she wagered even Hart didn’t know about. But Phyllida hadn’t made use of them, because they found no letters.

Phyllida herself refused to speak to Ainsley at all. She’d walk away when she saw Ainsley approach, deliberately surround herself with people, or confine herself to her chamber, claiming a headache.

A rather exasperated reply came from the queen that she could not send Ainsley any more money. Ainsley would simply have to be resourceful, and the queen would reimburse her later.

Blast and botheration. Ainsley didn’t have anywhere near enough to make up the difference, and her brother Patrick would never lend her five hundred guineas without demanding a full explanation of why she needed it. Patrick couldn’t know the truth, and Ainsley didn’t want to lie to him either. Her barrister brother Sinclair would have the same curiosity, Steven could never keep money in his pockets anyway, and Elliot, who had the most resources, was away in India.

The only thing to do was borrow the money from Cameron. He already knew about Phyllida’s demands and had offered the cash. Ainsley could give him her mother’s jewelry as collateral and pay him back once Ainsley received the money from the queen.

This sort of situation was exactly why the queen employed her, Ainsley thought darkly, because Her Majesty knew that Ainsley would finish the job no matter what it took.

Hence, Ainsley hadn’t fussed when Isabella suggested that she, Ainsley, and Beth take an afternoon’s holiday from the house party for shopping in Edinburgh. She could take the opportunity to get her mother’s jewelry valued, so that she could offer Cameron a fair exchange for the loan. Despite what Phyllida claimed Cameron would demand for helping, Ainsley was determined to keep the transaction businesslike. She had to.

Ainsley admitted to a pleasant warmth sitting at Isabella’s dressmaker’s surrounded by costly and beautiful fabrics. Isabella instructed the dressmaker’s assistants to bring out bolt after bolt of moiré, taffeta, fine broadcloth, crushed velvet, and cashmere, and yard upon yard of laces, ribbons, and trims.

Ainsley fingered a china silk so fine it felt like mist in her hand. “This is heavenly. Pity she doesn’t have it in lavender. You could wear this, Beth.” Its dark sapphire tones would exactly match Beth’s eyes.

“Beth?” Isabella repeated. “My dear Ainsley, everything Madame Claire is bringing out is for you. You are going to have an ensemble of dark blue, with this cream stripe for the underskirt, and the china silk for the lining.” Isabella pulled out swaths of blue velvet and laid it over a cream and white striped satin. “With light blue silk for the ruffles and finish.”

Ainsley looked at her in alarm. “Isabella, I can’t. I’m still in mourning. Or half mourning, at least.”

“And it’s high time you left it off. I know the queen swoons when you wear anything lighter than dark gray, but you’ll need smarter frocks for when you visit me in London—for the opera, and balls, and my soirees. I intend to show you off, my dear, and I have excellent taste in clothes.”

“Her ladyship does have an eye,” the dressmaker, Madame Claire, said.

Isabella waved away the compliment. “Living with an artist has taught me things. I will concede mauve or violet for you, Ainsley, but never lavender.” She shuddered and reached for a swath of burgundy moiré. “Trim this with black piping and you’ll have a lovely tea gown. But for your new ball dress, you will have this glorious sky blue. With your eyes and coloring, you can make this fabric sing. What do you think, Beth?”

Beth, who’d grown up poorer than poor and hadn’t had a pretty dress in her life until she’d turned twenty-eight, nodded but with caution. “It is beautiful, Isabella.”

“Then we shall take it. Now, where did the book get to?” Isabella dug around for the fashion book that she’d buried under fabric. “I know I saw some silver tissue, Madame Claire. I want that for Ainsley’s ball dress as well.”

While Isabella and Madame Claire searched for the book and the tissue, Ainsley whispered to Beth, “Does she know that I can’t afford this? One gown, maybe, but certainly not a new ball gown. I bought the gray only last week.”

“You’ve been seen in it once,” Beth whispered back, her lips twitching. “That’s what Isabella will say.”

“But I can’t pay for all this.” Isabella, the indulged daughter of an earl and now the wife of wealthy Mac Mackenzie, might not understand that most people couldn’t buy a new wardrobe on a whim.

“Darlings, are you being sordid and discussing money?” Isabella sat back down and spread the fashion book across her lap. “This is my gift to you, Ainsley. I’ve been dying to get you out of those dull gowns for ages. Don’t spoil it for me.”

“Isabella, I can’t let you . . .”

“Yes, you can. Now, stop protesting so we can get down to business.” She smoothed out a page. “I like this design—we’ll have the tissue gathered over the underskirt in the front, with a big rosette off center on the hip. Then the blue and silver stripe for the overskirt over the bustle, which will also make up the back of the bodice, with a slice of the blue silk in front.”

Madame Claire and her assistants bustled off to bring more fabrics, while Ainsley undressed for her fitting. Morag, one of Isabella’s maids, followed Ainsley behind a curtain and helped pull off her gray gown. The fabric now seemed drab and dull compared to the brilliant colors on the floor.

“And the electric blue taffeta for a morning dress,” Isabella went on. “That will be splendid.”

Ainsley put her head out between the curtains. “Why so much blue?”

“Because you’re fair-haired, and it looks well on you. Besides, Cameron is particularly fond of blue.”

Ainsley froze, hands clutching the drapes. Behind her Morag made a noise of impatience as she tried to reach buttons. “What has Lord Cameron’s preference for blue to do with me?”

Isabella gave her a pitying look. “Really, Ainsley, do you think anything can go on in the Mackenzie household without Beth or me knowing? Cameron was seen kissing you in the stable yard and in his private study, all dutifully reported to me by Daniel.”

“Your brother-in-law hasn’t spoken to me in two days,” Ainsley said. “He is very angry at me because I almost lost him a horse.”

“He hasn’t spoken to anyone, because he’s been too busy working with said horse,” Isabella returned. “All the more reason we finish you well. He’ll come ’round, and when Cam sees you shining like a butterfly, he won’t be able to resist you.”

“Butterflies don’t shine,” Ainsley said. “And please do not tell me that, when you parade me past Cameron in my brand- new blue clothing, he will fall to his knees and propose.”

Isabella shrugged. “Anything is possible.”

Ainsley jerked the curtain closed. “Isabella, I love you like a sister, but I refuse to continue with this absurd conversation.”

Isabella laughed, but Ainsley thought her optimistic. Cameron had made it very clear that marriage was not a state he’d willingly enter again. Besides, a man like Cameron would not drop to one knee and propose in a conventional way. John Douglas had done that, so sweet of him, because his knees had been quite rheumatic. No, Cameron Mackenzie, on the small chance that he should propose to a woman, would take said lady rowing on a lake, or riding in the hills. He’d swing her down off her horse, cup her face in his hands, and kiss her—a long, thorough, burning kiss—and then he’d say in his gravelly voice, “Marry me, Ainsley.”

Ainsley would have to nod her answer, unable to speak. Then he’d kiss her more deeply while the horses wandered away. They’d consummate the engagement there in the grass—which would be miraculously neither muddy nor boggy.

“If it is so absurd,” Isabella said as Ainsley stepped out from behind the curtains in her combinations, ready to be measured, “why did Cameron follow you to Edinburgh, today?”

Ainsley suddenly found it hard to breathe. “Of course he didn’t. Isabella, don’t invent things.”

“I wouldn’t.” Isabella stood up and held the beautiful blue velvet to Ainsley’s face. “I saw him plain as day, boarding our train and looking furtive as the devil. He certainly didn’t want to be seen. Yes, this blue I think. Madame Claire, where is that silver?”

Not many streets away, Cameron scowled at Lord Pierson, Night-Blooming Jasmine’s owner. Pierson’s elegant drawing room was filled with cigar smoke and Scottish memorabilia. Claymores hung on the walls on top of swaths of plaid, a collection of sporrans lay in a glass-fronted cabinet, and knives Pierson swore had been collected from Culloden field rested inside a glass-topped table.

Pierson was Cameron’s least favorite kind of Englishman—one who pretended to have a passion for all things Scottish but in reality despised the Scottish people. The junk in this room had been sold to him by crafty dealers who capitalized on Pierson’s need to embrace the romance that he thought embodied the Highlands. Pierson always spoke to Cameron with a sneer in his voice, his absolute belief in his superiority obvious.

“I expect you to turn out a winner, not put me off with excuses,” Pierson said. He poured Scots whiskey—from a cheap distillery, not the Mackenzies’—into glasses and handed one to Cameron. “I need her to fetch me top price at auction.”

At auction. Give me strength. “I haven’t had enough time with her,” Cameron said. “She’s too nervous to run well. Leave her with me another year, and she’ll take the four- year-old races by storm. She’ll finish Ascot like a queen.”

“No, damnation, I need her to win at Doncaster so I can sell her when the season ends. I thought you were supposed to be the best trainer in Britain, Mackenzie.”

“And when the best trainer tells ye not to run the horse, ye ought to listen to him.”

Pierson’s lips pinched. “I can always pull her from your stables.”

“Good luck finding another trainer this late. You won’t and you know it.”

Damn the man. If not for Jasmine’s sake, Cameron would walk away from the idiot, have nothing to do with him. But Pierson would ruin Jasmine, and Cameron didn’t have the heart to let him.

Jasmine had been fine after her wild run. Though Angelo had said nothing, Cameron knew the man felt a world of shame for letting Jasmine out like that. The only explanation for Angelo’s lapse was that Ainsley had bewitched him. Why not? She’d bewitched everyone else in the household.

“Let me buy Jasmine from you, as I proposed before,” Cameron said. “I’ll give her whatever you’d fetch at auction for her if she were a winner. She’s a fine bit of horseflesh. Make a nice addition to my stock.”

Pierson looked shocked. “Indeed no. She’s an English mare of purest blood. She doesn’t belong on a Scottish farm.”

“My main training stables are in Berkshire. I could do magnificent things with her there.”

“Then why aren’t you there with her now?” Pierson demanded.

Cameron tilted his whiskey glass. The whiskey was awful, and he’d taken only the smallest of sips. “An obligation to my brother.”

“What about your obligation to me and my horse? She races at Doncaster, or I pull her from you and spread the word of your incompetence. Is that clear? Now, I have other appointments. Good day to you, Mackenzie.”

Cameron resisted punching the man in the mouth, set down his glass, and turned to take his greatcoat from the servant who brought it. If he struck Pierson and relieved his temper, Jasmine would suffer, and Cameron couldn’t let that happen.

The servant—who was English, Cameron noted—led Cameron to the door and opened it for him. Cameron clapped on his hat and stepped out into the rain.

He strode down the street, misty rain obscuring sky, buildings, and people, relieving his anger by walking fast and hard.

Bloody arrogant bastard. In usual circumstances, such a man wouldn’t get under his skin, but Cam liked Jasmine and wanted her. He thought about enticing Pierson into playing cards with him and winning Jasmine, but Pierson wasn’t a gambler. He didn’t even bet on the horses.

Cameron could calm Jasmine down to run her at Doncaster, but not to win. If he pushed her too hard, he risked her health. Jasmine might win but drop dead at the finish line—or, if Pierson had his way, the moment the buyer walked off with her. That was the way Pierson did things.

Damned bloody English Philistine.

Cam’s thoughts cut off abruptly when he saw the woman dressed in gray, with hair the color of sunshine, dart out from a jeweler’s shop. Ainsley slipped a little pouch into her pocket, glanced surreptitiously about, opened her umbrella, and hurried away down the misty street.