Wicked. Shannon Drake
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And there is that young man at the museum who has shown such an interest!”
Camille could not help but roll her eyes. He was referring to Sir Hunter MacDonald, a “consultant” to Lord David Wimbly and the titular head of the Antiquities section, due to his experience at Egyptian digs and, no doubt, the vast amounts of money he had contributed to the museum.
Hunter was attractive. He was quite dashing, really. And he’d earned his knighthood in the service, as well. Tall, charming, well-spoken and broad shouldered. Yet, though she did enjoy his company, she was careful. Despite his allure, his continued flattery and attempts at something closer, she never forgot the circumstances of her birth. Many times she had imagined her mother, alone and beautiful, trusting in just such a man, her heart outweighing and denying all logic and reality.
She knew Hunter was interested in her, but there was no future there. No matter what his compliments and kind words, she was certain that she was not the type such a man would bring home to his mama.
In her life, she would accept no less than a real commitment. There could be no such thing as falling head over heels in love, or letting passion rule her mind. And Camille meant to keep her pride, dignity—and position—at all costs. The thought of losing her employment at the museum was one she refused to entertain, and it was why she was determined to be so careful now.
“I want no young man, Ralph, who is not interested in me for myself.”
“That’s well and good, Camille. But we are living in a society that seeks pedigrees and riches.”
She nearly groaned aloud. “A record of arrest and time served, or a guardian with an address such as Newgate, would not give me riches or a pedigree, Ralph.”
“Oh, come. Please, Camille, we intended nothing really evil! Outlaws and highwaymen have become quite famous and revered in legend for stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. We just happen to be the poor.”
“And outlaws and highwaymen have dangled from ropes far too many times!” she reminded him, eyes flashing. “I have been trying, with the patience of a saint, one might say, to explain to you both that stealing is not just considered to be evil, it’s illegal!”
“Ah, Camie girl!” Ralph said miserably. His eyes fell to the table again. “Might I have another gin?”
“Certainly not!” Camille said. “You’ve got to keep your wits about you, and finish this story so that I know what can be done! Where is Tristan now? Has he been taken before a magistrate? What on earth will I ever be able to do? And if Tristan was caught…?”
“He pushed me back behind the trees and allowed himself to be taken,” Ralph said.
“So he has been arrested?” she said.
Ralph shook his head. He bit his lip and told her, “He’s at Carlyle Castle. At least, I think he’s still there. I came as quickly as I could.”
“Oh, dear God! They’ve surely had him taken to some jail by now!” she exclaimed.
To her surprise, he shook his head once again. “No, you see, I heard the beast.”
“Pardon?”
“He was there. The Earl of Carlyle was there, riding this massive, black, very evil-looking steed! Huge, it were! And he was shouting to his men, telling them that the trespasser must be held, and that…”
“And that what?”
“He could never be allowed to say what he had seen.”
She stared at him, confused, the cold that had once trickled at her neck now an icicle driving brutally into her flesh.
“What did you see?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing! Honestly, nothing. But there were men with Carlyle. And they dragged Tristan to the castle with them.”
“How did you know that it was Carlyle—the beast?” she asked.
Ralph shuddered. “The mask!” he said softly.
“He wears a mask?”
“Oh, yes. The man is a monster. Surely, you’ve heard.”
“He is crippled, bent over and wears a mask?”
“No, no, he is huge. Well, very tall in his saddle. And he wears a mask. In leather, I believe, but it has the visage of a beast. Part lion, perhaps. Or wolf. Or dragon. It is horrid, that’s all I can say. His voice is like thunder, deep…as if he is indeed cursed of the devil himself! But it was him. Aye, it was him!”
She stared at Ralph.
Ralph shook his head in misery. “Tristan would strangle me if he knew that he’d sacrificed himself just so that I would worry you, but…he can’t be left there. Even if the police suspect him of being a robber…”
Yes, that would be better. If only Tristan had been hauled back to London to face accusation and trial, she could somehow pay for his legal defense. She could go before the magistrate herself and plead that he was going mad, that age had been stealing his senses. She could have…God knew what she could have done.
But, according to Ralph, Tristan was still at Carlyle Castle, held prisoner by a man with a reputation for merciless brutality. She rose.
“What are you going to do?” Ralph demanded.
“What else?” she demanded with a weary sigh. “I am going to Carlyle Castle.”
Ralph shuddered. “I have done the wrong thing. Tristan would not want you throwing yourself into danger.”
She felt a great pang of sorrow for Ralph, yet, what had he expected?
“I will not be in danger,” she assured him, smiling wearily. “He did teach me something about being a con artist, Ralph. I will go in all innocence and naiveté, and they will return my guardian to me. You’ll see.”
He rose quickly. “You cannot go alone!”
“I don’t intend to,” she assured him dryly. “We must head home first, and I must change. And you, too, must change.”
“Me?”
“Indeed!”
“Change?”
“Perception is everything, Ralph,” she told him sagely. He looked puzzled. “Never mind. Come along. I think we need to hurry.” She froze suddenly, turning back on him. “Ralph, no one knows, right? No one knows that the Earl of Carlyle has Tristan?”
“No one but me. And you now, of course.”
She felt a cold clutch of bony fingers encircling her heart, reaching into her throat. Good God, no matter what kind of a beast he was considered to be, the Earl of Carlyle couldn’t simply…murder a man.
“Ralph, we must move, and quickly!” she said, catching his arm and dragging him along.
“THE GENTLEMAN is resting nicely,” Evelyn Prior said, coming into the den. She fell into one of the huge upholstered wingback chairs that sat before the fire. Beside her, the master of the house had taken a position in the matching chair, brooding as he stared into the flames and scratched the huge head of his Irish wolfhound, Ajax.
Brian Stirling, Earl of Carlyle, looked over at her, brows knitted, deep in thought. After a moment, he said, “How badly is he hurt?”
“Oh, not badly, I dare say. The physician said that he was merely shaken and sore, and he didn’t believe the man had broken any bones, though he did acquire some bruising from climbing the walls, then falling. But I think he’ll be fine in a few days’ time.”
“He will not be crawling about the house in the night?”
Evelyn smiled. “Good heavens, no. Corwin is on guard in the hallway. And as you know, we keep the crypts locked tight. Only you and I have keys to the gates below. Even if