by Cara Elliott
“Bloody hell,” whispered Gryff.
“I’m sorry,” said his friend softly. “But you did ask, and I feel an obligation to tell you all the facts, no matter how unwelcome.” He paused. “You do realize that this colors your query about Brighton. If Lady Brentford is Linden, that also means…” He let his voice trail off.
“That means she is working with the baronet on selling art forgeries,” Gryff finished for him.
“So it would seem.”
Despite the dappling of light that softened the leafy shadows, Gryff felt chilled to the bone. Hugging his arms to his bare chest he turned to stare at the garden wall. The ivy-covered stones no longer seemed to wave a friendly invitation. They now appeared an ominous barrier, a false front.
“Damnation,” he muttered. “Why—why would she do such a thing when her talents allow her to earn an honest living? I’m paying a very generous sum for her paintings.”
“Money has a powerful attraction,” said Cameron. “Some people simply can’t get enough of it.”
“But Lady Brentford seems the very opposite of a greedy, grasping criminal.”
His friend waited until the last little echo of the protest died away before asking, “How well do you really know her?”
“Apparently not well at all,” replied Gryff tightly. His chest felt as if an iron band was squeezing into muscle and sinew, slowly forcing the air from his lungs.
Cameron clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry.”
Gryff forced himself to inhale, once, then twice. “So am I.” He was a worldly Hellhound, a jaded rogue who had seen every shade of good and bad. It was ridiculous to feel disappointed or disillusioned.
“I doubt that you want to ride back to London barefoot.” His friend’s voice somehow penetrated the harsh humming in his ears. “Shall I fetch the rest of your clothing?”
Boots—his boots were still lying in the grass, along with his coat and the other testaments to his folly. “No.” He chafed at his arms, only to find them as cold and unfeeling as marble. “Thank you but I’m not quite that much of a coward.”
“I’ll wait for you here.”
Gryff walked across the path, ignoring the painful press of gravel against the soles of his feet. Pain is good, he told himself. It provided a welcome physical distraction from his mental turmoil. He pushed the gate open and drew it shut behind him.
“Bad news?” Eliza stood still as a statue by the edge of the grass. She was fully dressed, her hair hastily caught up in a simple twist at the nape of her neck. Loose tendrils danced in the breeze, finespun threads of gold lacing the dark greens of the background foliage as she held out his carefully smoothed garments. Her face was very pale and concern clouded her eyes.
A consummate actress as well as artist, he thought rather bitterly. He felt conflicted. Confused. Betrayed. Though that was perhaps a bit unfair. She had no idea he was the author of the essays, so deliberate deception was not a sin he could lay at her feet.
Lifting his gaze from the ground, he replied with a curt, “Yes.”
“I—I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He restrained the urge to laugh. “No. Nothing.” Reaching for his shirt, he quickly pulled it on and shoved the tails into his breeches. “I’m afraid that circumstances demand I return to Town without delay.” A fleck of paint spotted the back of his hand, prompting him to add grimly, “Enjoy your painting. Judging from the example I have on my person, you have been much too modest about your talents.”
A shadow of alarm seemed to ripple in her eyes as Eliza wordlessly handed him his coat.
Avoiding her gaze, Gryff stuffed his cravat into his pocket and pulled on his boots. Uncertainty gripped his throat. A part of him wanted to confront her, to demand an explanation. He had never been one to turn tail and run in the face of a challenge, but what was there to say?
Are you a crafty criminal on top of being a liar, Lady Brentford? In truth, he would rather not hear the answer from her lips.
“Godspeed, Lord Haddan,” she said softly. “I hope that whatever the trouble, it resolves itself quickly.”
Unable to loosen his tongue, he simply nodded and turned away.
Eliza winced as the gate fell shut. Faint though it was, the clink had an ominous finality to it. Or was it merely her imagination that Lord Haddan’s eyes had turned colder, harder, during the short meeting with his friend?
“But why?” she whispered. Why would he have such a sudden change of heart?
The chirping of the linnets gave no answer.
Trying to shake off a sense of foreboding, she began to gather up her paints and brushes. “It makes no sense,” she mused to herself. One moment they had been sharing intimate laughs. And then the next, he fixed her with a grim, stony-faced stare.
As if I were a criminal.
Eliza sat down rather heavily and drew her knees to her chest. Enjoy your painting, he had said. You have been much too modest about your talents.
Oh no, surely he couldn’t have any idea…
A rustling in the nearby planting drew her out of the unwelcome thoughts. She looked around to see a marmalade tail waving among the pink gerberas. A paw flashed, followed by a hiss and a thump.
“Oh, Elf, what have you got there? A dead vole?” Heaving a sigh, she scooted over to the flower bed. “I’d much rather it be a magic frog. If ever I needed a fairy-tale prince to appear, it is now.”
The cat’s newfound plaything had neither furry claws nor webbed feet. It was a small leatherbound notebook tied shut with a familiar green ribbon.
“Drat it.” It must have fallen from Haddan’s pocket when he had tossed his coat onto the bench. She had seen him scribbling in it often enough to guess that the contents would be sorely missed.
Elf purred loudly, sounding immensely pleased with himself.
“Oh, you naughty, naughty creature. Haddan might think that I did this on purpose, to lure him back here.” A hot flush rose up to ridge her cheekbones. She had, after all, been alone with his coat.
The cat batted at the small emerald bow.
“I ought to box those pointy little ears of yours,” she muttered. “It’s all because of you that push came to shove.”
Elf gave an aggrieved hiss.
“Oh, you’re right,” she admitted. “The fault lies more with me and my own ungovernable urges. I should have been satisfied with life in the shadows. But no, I had to spread my wings and try to fly to the brightest burning orb in the sky.” Eliza held back a sniff. “And we all know what happened to Icarus. When dreams are fashioned of naught but wax and feathers, one should know better than to get too close to the sun.”
Meow.
Eliza felt a little like whimpering, too. Much as she tried to convince herself that the marquess’s abrupt departure was not personal, she couldn’t dispel the memory of his eyes, and the look, however fleeting, that had dulled their lovely color.
Disappointment? Nay, it had been worse than that. Dismay. Disgust.
“I don’t understand,” she said again, stroking a finger over the worn leather cover of the notebook. “But then, what do I really know of men and how their minds work?” Her jaw tightened. “Save that somehow, since the time of Adam and Eve, females are always the ones who must suffer the worst of the serpent’s bite.”
Her hand came to rest on the ribbon, and it seemed to twitch beneath her painted palm. “Hell’s bells, since I already seem to be hurtling down the Path to Perdition at full speed, what’s another little sin to speed me on my way? I may as well have a look inside.” The tiny knot slipped free. “What deep, dark secrets can the Marquess of Haddan have?”
After soothing her conscience with the reminder that he had claimed to be making notes on the landscape, Eliza slowly opened the cover.
A page turned, then another.
“Oh.” A single syllable was all she could manage. Tracing a finger over the penciled script, she wished that she could deny t
he truth. But there it was, writ plainly on the paper.
Haddan was the author of those lyrical essays?
No, it wasn’t a question, it was a cold, hard fact. The only real conundrum was why Haddan would wish to hide his talents from the public. Why choose a pen name?
Why, why, why?
Her mouth crooked. “I, of all people, know there are reasons for keeping secrets. But the marquess need not worry about money. He has control over his destiny while I…”
Elf nudged up to her, rubbing his whiskered face against her hand. “Yes, I know—I should not succumb to self-pity.” She stroked his soft fur, seeking some measure of warmth to take the chill from her bones.
“I wish that Haddan and I might have shared…”
Ah, if wishes were pennies, I’d be rich as Croesus.
“And then I could tell Brighton to go to the Devil.”
Meow.
“Yes, and take Harry along with him.”
For a moment, the thought of her brother with a red-hot pitchfork burning his bum brightened her spirits. Just as quickly, the spark fizzled and died, leaving naught but cold ashes.
The sun was sinking, the lengthening shadows cutting like knife blades across the garden. Her sanctuary suddenly felt more like a prison than a refuge, and as she stared at the dark bars, Eliza had to escape.
There was only one place in the world where a smile would make her feel welcome. Wanted.
She stared down at her hands, but the sight of the whimsical painting nearly made her come undone.
Scrubbing her palm on her pantaloons did not erase the stubborn image. Averting her eyes, she tossed the notebook into her paintbox and snapped the lid shut.
If only it were so easy to lock away her own bruised heart.
Crystal clinked against silver. “You look as if you could use a drink,” said Cameron, pouring out two generous measures of spirits and carrying them over to the hearth.
“I don’t want brandy,” muttered Gryff. “I want…”
He paused in mid-sentence, unsure of how to finish his thought. What did he want? An apology? That was rather hypocritical, considering how often he had bent Society’s strictures on right and wrong. Maybe she didn’t see her artistic deception as wrong—if the painting was exquisite, and the buyer took pleasure from it, what did it really matter who had created it?
A sticky philosophical question. However, he was in no mood to ponder abstract questions of morality.
“I want some answers about what Brighton is up to.”
“Knowledge is a dangerous thing,” answered Cameron, lifting the drink to his lips. Glints of fire-sparked gold winked off the faceted glass, a mocking reminder of Lady Brentford’s sun-lit hair. “Are you sure that you haven’t already learned enough?”
A grunt sounded in answer.
“I’m not sure whether to take that as a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’” Cameron took a long sip. “But if I might offer a word of advice, think about why you wish to pursue this, Gryff. Ask yourself what you are looking to gain.” A pause. “Other than trouble.”
“It’s not about me,” he snapped. Or was it? “Not entirely,” he amended. “Yes, call it selfish, but I would like to see the project come to fruition. All questions of morality aside, Lady Brentford is an extraordinary artistic talent, and her illustrations add depth and beauty to my words. There is no doubt in my mind that the whole would be better than the two parts.”
Cameron took another silent sip of his brandy.
“However, I’m talking about more than ink on paper. There is something about this that just…” Gryff placed his palms on the marble mantle and tapped a brusque tattoo. “…feels wrong.”
His friend watched him intently for a long moment. “If you squeeze any harder on that stone, it will crack into a thousand little shards.”
Gryff answered with a low oath.
“She has really gotten under your skin.”
His hackles rose. “Bloody hell, Cam. From the moment I met her, I could sense a wariness in her—call it fear, if you will.”
“A damsel in distress?”
He curled a fist. “I swear, if you laugh at her, I shall knock your teeth into your gullet.”
“Seeing as I value my pearly smile, I’ll not test your prowess.” Cameron then eased the amusement from his tone. “Are you, perchance, in love with her?”
Love. Gryff drew in a deep breath, unsure of how to answer. “I—I’m not sure what to call it. All I know is that she is my friend, and needs my help.”
“If you mean to pursue this, I’ll see what I can find out about Brighton,” replied Cameron. “But unfortunately, it will have to wait for a few days. I have a previous engagement that cannot be put off.”
“Be assured, I’m not afraid of getting my paws dirty,” said Gryff. “You are not the only one who can dig around for information. I have some sources I can turn to.”
“The sort of things you wish to learn will not be common knowledge at any of your clubs.”
“It may come as a surprise to you, Cam, but not all of my time is frittered away in gaming hells or boudoirs. My range of contacts may not be as extensive as yours, but a few of my acquaintances have less than lily-white hands,” replied Gryff.
“I was not questioning your mettle, merely the means for deciding how to use it.”
“I have an idea where to start looking. If that cur Brighton is threatening Lady Brentford, I’ll pull out his claws, one by one.”
“I don’t doubt you would emerge victorious in a dogfight.” Cameron hesitated just a fraction before adding, “Just keep in mind that you may be barking up the wrong tree.”
“Thank you for the warning. But I’m a little like a mastiff—once I have a bone between my teeth, I am loath to let go.”
“Well, try not to choke on it.”
Gryff gave a reluctant laugh. “You can make me eat my words if I end up looking like a gudgeon. But I don’t think I will.”
Cameron regarded him thoughtfully, a well-tended forefinger stroking absently at the dangling earring in his left lobe. This one was a dark Persian turquoise, set in gold. “Don’t try to snout around the flash houses by yourself. You’ll learn nothing without me, and may scare off any potential informers. Wait, and we’ll make a trip together when I return.”
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask where you are going.”
“Never mind,” responded his friend. “Though I do plan to stop for a brief visit to Connor and his new bride.” After a last little swirl of the amber-colored liquid, he set the glass down. “Lady K will no doubt find it vastly amusing that another Hellhound has been tamed by an unexpected female visitor to The Wolf’s Lair.”
“I wouldn’t look quite so smug,” warned Gryff. “The time may come when you meet your match.”
Cameron dismissed the jibe with a sardonic laugh. “I think I can safely say that the odds of that happening are virtually nil.”
“Stranger things have happened.” Like Connor becoming a goat farmer and me writing essays on landscape design.
“Not many,” drawled his friend. “I’d better be off. I need to be at Execution Dock at midnight.”
“Watch your neck,” counseled Gryff. “One of these days…”
“Watch your back,” riposted Cam. “You did promise Connor you would stay out of trouble.”
“The Lair is in capable hands. Assure the Wolfhound that there’s no need to worry about the place. Sara doesn’t need me to offer any guidance. She runs the place even more efficiently than he did.”
“I think I’ll let you pass on that message.” A cocky salute and then Cameron was gone, leaving only a momentary glimmer of blue and gold lingering in the shadows.
“Trouble,” muttered Gryff. “As if I am the only one of this flea-bitten trio to ever get himself into a scrape.”
Chapter Eighteen
A flicker of lamplight shone though the window, its glow a beacon, guiding her to safe harbor in a storm.
Twisting her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Eliza hurried through the garden gate and knocked on the kitchen door. Through the glass panes, she saw Augustina put aside her sewing and rise from the table.
“It’s me, Gussie,” she called softly, and heard the bolt slide back. The sound seemed to release all her pent-up emotions, for at the first crack of light, she practically threw herself into the warm, sweet-scented air.
“Eliza!”
“I’m sorry for showing up at such an ungodly hour. I was planning to wait until tomorrow, b-b-but…” To her dismay, her lips were quivering too badly to go on.
Frail arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close. “My dear, you know that you are welcome here at any hour.”
Eliza sniffled, feeling all of eight years old again. “I—I didn’t know where else to go, and I—I couldn’t bear to be alone. So I saddled Boadicia and rode here to you.”
“I should hope so! Now, sit down and let me fix you some tea and a plate of walnut shortbread,” ordered Augustina in her best don’t-you-dare-disobey voice. “Then you can tell me all about it.”
The familiar clatter helped calm her jangled nerves. Placing her hands face down on the waxed wood, Eliza let the steam and the scent of the cut lilacs in the earthenware jug by the stove envelop her in the sense of snug good cheer that pervaded the little cottage.
She had dreamed of having just such a setting, and now it seemed so impossibly out of reach. Tears welled up again.
“Drink this.” Augustina added a splash from a small silver flask into the cup of tea. “It’s for medicinal emergencies, and this appears to qualify.”
“Arrggh.” Eliza nearly gagged on the potent brew. “What is it?”
“The Scots call it uisge-beatha—or water of life. It helps cure any number of ills.”
“If it doesn’t kill you first.”
“A dollop of honey will soften its punch.” Augustina put a plate heaped with shortbread down beside the teacup. “Once you have fortified yourself with whisky and walnuts, we’ll talk.”
Walnuts. Eliza’s lips began to quiver at the memory of Haddan’s earthy kisses.