Wicked. Shannon Drake
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cloth, fine bone china—the main plates covered with silver heating domes—shining silverware and crystal-stemmed glasses. Two chairs awaited.
Mrs. Prior cleared her throat, but Camille was certain that the Earl of Carlyle knew they were there. He simply hadn’t chosen to turn.
“Miss Montgomery, sir,” she said. “I will leave you two.”
Camille was ushered in and the door closed behind her. The master turned at last.
He lifted a hand, indicating the table, then walked forward, pulling back a chair for her to sit. She hesitated.
“Ah. I’m sorry. Is the idea of dining with a scarred man in a mask far too loathsome a concept for you, my dear?”
The words were gently spoken, but they weren’t filled with compassion. They might have been a challenge. Or a test?
“I believe you’ve chosen a rather bizarre mask, sir, but certainly it’s your right. There is little that disturbs my appetite, and nothing of appearance that can disturb me regarding a fellow human being.”
She thought she saw again, below the leather edge of the mask, a faint smile, both mocking and amused.
“How very honorable, Miss Montgomery! Yet is such a credo true in your heart, or simply what I might wish to hear?”
“I believe, sir, that any answer might be as dubious in your mind as the words already spoken. Suffice it to say, I had not realized my own hunger, and I am happy to share a meal while discussing the situation regarding my guardian.”
“Then, my dear…?” He swept his arm toward the chair.
She sat.
He walked around the table, took his own seat and lifted the silver cover from her plate. The aroma, just hinted at in the night air thus far, struck her heavily then, and it was delicious. The plate came with fluffy potatoes, a slice of roast that was mouthwatering and artful little carrots. She hadn’t had a bite since her break at ten that morning, and then she had barely bothered with a muffin and jam.
“Does it meet with your approval, Miss Montgomery? Rather mundane, I’m afraid, but quickly achieved,” he said.
“It seems exceptional, under such very timely circumstances, indeed,” she said politely. She realized that he was waiting for her to begin, so she picked up her fork and knife and delicately chiseled off a piece of meat. It was as delicious as the aroma had promised.
“Excellent,” she assured him.
“I’m so glad you approve,” he murmured.
“As to my guardian,” she began.
“The thief, yes.”
She sighed. “My Lord, Tristan is not a thief. I can’t begin to imagine what brought him into these walls, but there would be no reason for him to steal.”
“Quite well-off, are you, then?” he inquired.
“We are certainly in able circumstances,” she said.
“So he did not come to steal for small profit, but sought instead a certain treasure.”
“Not at all!” she protested, realizing that it had somehow made him angrier and more suspicious when she suggested that they didn’t need money. Small sums, at any rate.
“Lord Stirling,” she said, trying to put forth a demeanor of indignation, irritation and assurance. “You really have no right to suppose that my guardian was here to rob you. He—”
“According to him, he arrived accidentally upon the property. You saw the gate and the wall. It’s rather difficult to pass by accidentally, don’t you agree?”
Despite the mask, he had impeccable manners. The bottom of the visage was cut so that it covered the cheeks and the bridge of the nose, but left the mouth free. She suddenly wondered what his appearance was like beneath the mask, and just how badly he had been facially scarred to wear the leather over his features.
He was casual as he spoke, and she was almost lulled by his tone.
“I haven’t seen Tristan as yet. You haven’t allowed me to do so,” she reminded him. “I have no idea what could have brought him onto the estate. I know only that I must take him home very soon, and that I can swear to you, there would be no reason on earth for him to steal.”
“You are in possession of a great fortune of your own?”
“That would surprise you, sir?”
He set his fork and knife down, eyes assessing her. “Yes. Your gown is quite lovely and you wear it well, but I would estimate that it is several years out of date. You did not arrive in your own conveyance, but in a hansom cab, which, by the way, has been sent on back to London.”
She tensed, ruing the morrow. She would have to get Tristan out of here quickly, else chance losing the job she so dearly needed and desired.
She set her own fork and knife down. “Perhaps I do not possess a huge fortune of my own, sir. Not as you see it. But I am fortunate, very able and far more than capable. I work, sir, and receive payment each week.”
Dark lashes narrowed over his blue eyes. She gasped, realizing that he was imagining a far different employment from that to which she referred.
“How dare you, sir!” she sputtered.
“How dare I what?”
“I do not!”
“You do not what?”
“Do what you’re thinking that I do!”
“Then just what do you do?” he inquired.
“You are no mythical creature, My Lord, just a boor!” she informed him, getting ready to toss her napkin down and rise, Tristan forgotten for a moment in her agitation.
He set a hand upon hers, preventing her from rising. He was close over the table, and she was aware of his tension, a strange, erratic heat, and the power of his hold.
“Miss Montgomery, we are discussing an important issue here, that of whether or not I shall have your guardian arrested. If you find seeking the truth to be offensive, you will simply have to take offense then. I repeat, just what do you do?”
She felt the surge of her own temper, but she was determined to stare him down and not wrench away to free herself, not when such a fight would be futile.
“I work, sir, for the museum, for the department of Egyptian Antiquities!” she hissed.
If she had flatly told him that she was a prostitute, she would not have gotten such a stunned and angry response, she was certain.
“You what?”
The words were a pure roar. Stunned by his reaction, she frowned and repeated herself. “I enunciate quite clearly, I believe. I work for the museum, for the department of Egyptian Antiquities.”
He rose so suddenly that he knocked his chair over backward.
“It is a perfectly legitimate job, and I assure you, I am qualified for my position!” she expounded.
To her absolute amazement, he walked around the table with the same violence with which he had risen.
“My Lord Stirling!” she protested, standing, but his hands were on her shoulders, and he was staring at her with such loathing that she was afraid for her person.
“And you claim you came here for nothing!” he said.
She gasped. “You think that I have come here for anything other than the return of a human being I love? I am dearly sorry, sir, but your noble position in life does not excuse you from this outrageous display of bad manners—and violence!”
His hands dropped from her shoulders and he stepped back. But his eyes remained blue flames of an intensity that pierced her very soul.