CHAPTER THREE

      CAMILLE HURRIED ALONG after Evelyn. “Wait, please. I’ve heard the rumors, of course. Everyone in London has heard the rumors. Perhaps if I understood more about what happened, I could even be—”

      The word helpful never left her lips because Evelyn, who had been moving rapidly before her, came to a dead stop, throwing open a door. Camille, in her hurry to keep up, nearly plowed into Evelyn’s back. Then Evelyn spoke as if she hadn’t been listening to a word that Camille had said. “Here, child. Your guardian.”

      Thoughts concerning her host and his wretched behavior flew from her mind as she looked into the darkened room and blinked. A fire burned at the hearth, but all was cast into shadow. She felt her heart skip a beat as her eyes at last fell upon the figure on the bed. Still. Dead still.

      “Oh, dear God!” she exhaled, trembling, her knees going wobbly.

      Evelyn spun around, catching her by the arms, offering support before she buckled completely.

      “No, no, dear! He was so restless that we gave him laudanum. He isn’t at all dead. Well, I guess you can’t actually be partially dead…Here I am, making no sense. He’s all right. He probably won’t be coherent, not that I seem to be doing much of a job in that direction.” Evelyn, who had appeared such a composed woman, apparently did have a sense of sympathy, and was therefore flustered by Camille’s heartfelt and terrified show of emotion. “Dear girl!” Evelyn continued. “Run on over, give him a hug. He may wake enough to recognize you.”

      Not dead, not dead, not dead! That was all that registered in Camille’s mind. Then Evelyn’s words sank in and she found the strength to tear across the room to the bed. Once there, she saw that there was color in Tristan’s face and that he was breathing deeply.

      In fact, as she hovered just above him, afraid for a moment to touch, he let out the most winded snort she had heard in the whole of her life. Flushing, she turned back to the door where Evelyn Prior remained.

      “See, he is quite alive,” Evelyn assured her softy again.

      Camille nodded, then looked down at her guardian. He was dressed in a handsome linen nightgown—something he had never possessed in all his life, she was certain. He’d been cared for and well tended, that was obvious. The monster of Carlyle wanted his prisoners to be in decent shape when he saw them prosecuted, so it appeared.

      She fell to her knees by Tristan’s side, clutching his shoulders in a gentle hug, laying her head against his chest. “Tristan!” she whispered softly, tears springing to her eyes. Whatever sins he had committed in his life, he had surely redeemed himself when he had saved her, when he had given up his goods—ill-gotten and by other means—to feed a number of the street urchins they had known in their days together. But why now, when she had come to a point in her life where she could take care of them…?

      “You sorry son of a sailor!” she muttered, lifting her head, angrily wiping tears from her cheeks. “Tristan, what on earth were you doing?” she whispered fervently.

      He inhaled on another snort, blinked and met her eyes. Tenderness came to his, the gentleness that really was the crux of the man. “Camille, moppet! Camille….” He frowned, as if aware that she shouldn’t be there. But the effort was too much. He blinked again, but his eyes closed, and she heard only the depth of his breathing once again.

      “You see?” Evelyn called from the doorway. “The man has been quite decently tended. Now, come along, dear. I’ll show you where you may sleep tonight.”

      She rose, kissed Tristan on the forehead, adjusted his covers and then turned to follow Evelyn. The woman led her out, closed the door firmly but silently and started down the hall again at a brisk speed.

      “Mrs. Prior,” Camille began, racing after her, “I can see that no harm has been done to my guardian, but, as you can understand, I’m anxious to get him home.”

      “I’m sorry, dear, but I do believe that Brian intends to prosecute.”

      “Brian?” she murmured, puzzled.

      “The Earl of Carlyle,” Mrs. Prior said patiently.

      “Oh, but he can’t! He mustn’t!”

      “Perhaps you’ll be able to talk him out of it in the morning. Oh, dear! If only you hadn’t worked for the museum!”

      “To the very best of my knowledge, Mrs. Prior, many people have fallen prey to Egyptian asps. It is a danger of the desert region.”

      Mrs. Prior stared at her in a way that made her feel severely uncomfortable, as if she had, until that point, been deemed an intelligent young woman.

      “This is your door, Miss Montgomery. The castle is large and winding, started with the Norman Conquest and built on ever since, not always with the best architectural eye! I suggest you refrain from roaming in the night. There is a quite modern bath connected to this guest room, I do say with some pride. Night clothing and toiletries have been left at your disposal. In the morning, dear, this situation will be solved, one way or the other.”

      “Yes…thank you. But wait! Perhaps, if I understood more—”

      “The earl is awaiting me, Miss Montgomery. Sleep well.”

      “Oh! But Ralph, our valet—”

      “Has been seen to!” Mrs. Prior called back over her shoulder. She disappeared around a corner.

      Somewhat aggravated by her dismissal, Camille stepped into the hallway, debating the course of simply running after the woman and demanding more answers.

      But just as easily as Evelyn Prior had disappeared, the hound from hell reappeared. It sat in the hallway and stared at her. She had never known before that dogs could actually sneer and dare someone, but that was exactly what this hound was doing.

      She pointed at the animal. “You, sir, will get yours one day!” she vowed.

      The dog growled.

      Camille stepped quickly into the room she had been assigned and closed the door. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes