Seducing the Rake (Mad, Bad and Dangerous Heroes) (7 page)

When Morland looked up, his eyes were as clear and sharp as the crystal. “There are one or two points I did not mention to the others. You should hear them now. Even if I
can
get the book—and to you I must make it clear that it is very much an
if
—we will have little time to accomplish our mission. The diplomat Amherst has just returned to England, having failed in his attempts to present our position on trade to the emperor. A high official at the palace has indicated that the emperor will look upon us more favorably after presentation of the pillow book, and they have given us three months to restore it to the emperor. But only three months.”

Wellington spun the globe beside the window and studied the vast blue oval marked
China.
“We must try. One way or another, we
will
have open trade with China, and I hope it comes about peaceably.”

His finger rose, sweeping inland to the imperial capital at Peking. “How close are you to tracking the book down? And how will you be able to recognize it when you find it?” Wellington fingered the globe. “I gather His August Celestial Majesty in Peking wouldn’t be pleased if we tried to palm a forgery off on him.”

Morland laughed. “Not likely. I expect he’d execute the poor bastard who brought him less than the real thing.”

Wellington sighed. “Damned complicated. Once in India I watched a rajah order a whole village to—” He seemed about to launch into a tale but caught himself with a sniff. “But that is neither here nor there. I need an answer, Morland. Can you carry it off?”

Morland nodded. “I can. I’m going to have help, you see.”

“Help from whom?” Wellington’s black brow rose. “I can think of only one person who might help you, and that’s James Cameron. He and his daughter are back in London, I’ve heard, but no one’s seen hide nor hair of either of them. Cameron saved my life once in India, did you know?” The duke’s eyes wandered over the globe, crossing the rugged expanse of the Himalayas and sweeping down through the dusty northwest passes to Delhi. “Five
dacoits
fell upon us one night as we slept. It was chaos. Then that great Scot swept out of the forest, dark as a heathen himself, beard and moustache bristling and a scimitar clenched between his teeth. I was more afraid of
him
than any of those damned
dacoits,
I can tell you! After he dispatched the bandits, he sat down and demanded to be given a bottle of our best whiskey. “I don’t mind telling you that I gave it to him—and two more besides—without the slightest protest.”

Morland gave a low chuckle. “As damnable a knave as ever lived. Aye, that’s James Cameron.” His smile faded. “But Chessy—er, Miss Cameron—is
she
in London too?”

“Living near Holborn. Twenty-seven Dorrington Street. Not a good area, I don’t scruple to tell you. I’ve been around to call several times, but Cameron was not at home. His daughter has a damned good head on her shoulders. Quite lovely too.” Wellington frowned at Morland. “Don’t tell me you mean to drag
her
into this.”

“Why not? She can verify the book for us without the slightest difficulty.”

Wellington’s forehead knit. “Not at all the thing, my boy. It’s a
pillow
book, damn it. Nothing for a well-bred gentlewoman to look at. Most likely she’d be driven to a crippling attack of the vapors.”

“Not the Chessy I knew,” Morland said softly. But his eyes darkened with a hint of uncertainty.

Ten years was a very long time, after all.

PART
TWO

West of Morning

27 Dorrington Street

Lord Morland read the number twice, frowning at the unprepossessing row of townhouses with their shabby, untended railings. Not in James Cameron’s usual style, that was for certain. The flamboyant adventurer and antiquarian would more likely have been found in Mayfair or St. James, in a rented house complete with first-class staff.

But
here
? On the edge of Holborn?

Never,
Morland thought as he pushed open a creaky iron gate and climbed the unpolished marble steps.

Not the James Cameron he
used
to know.

But times changed.
He
certainly had. Those idyllic months he’d spent in Macao and the outer islands belonged to another time and another place.

No, to another
man,
Morland thought grimly, brushing a fleck of grime from his immaculate doeskin morning gloves and studying the sheen of his polished Hessian boots.

And Dorrington Street was a universe away from the pristine white sand beaches of the South China Sea.

His face hard, the earl hammered at the knocker. When no answer came he tried again, then retreated down the steps to the street.

Damn, what was Cameron playing at now?

Muttering harshly, Morland strode to the corner and followed a narrow alley to the mews at the back of the house. With every step he grew more irritated, and the catcalls of a passing pair of street urchins did nothing to relieve his ill humor.

When he came to the rear of the townhouse he judged to be number 27, Morland heard the sound of angry voices. Shoving open the unpainted gate, he walked into the yard.

Two beefy workmen were hauling bags of coal out of a low wooden shed, while a thin man in a black coat issued sharp orders.

Another figure emerged from the rear of the townhouse, wielding a broom as if it were a cat-o’-nine-tails. A battered straw hat rode ajar on the girl’s head, while the rest of her body was hidden beneath a baggy, soot-stained gown. Probably Cameron’s scullery maid, Morland thought.

“Take that, you scoundrel!” The girl’s broom cracked soundly off one of the workmen’s legs. “Thought to trick me, did you?” The fellow’s companion received similar treatment. “Let me see what you think of that, you brute!”

The man in black darted past. With a sharp command, he sent his men staggering toward the street with their bundles.

“You
can’t
do that! We had an agreement! Come back here!”

The tradesman smirked. “Agreement bedamned! Just see if I can’t, wench! And tell that mistress of yers there’ll be no more coal neither,” he bellowed. “Not a single piece until she pays her last reckoning. I got a business ter run, after all!”

Morland stepped forward, resplendent in buff breeches and crimson waistcoat, blocking the path of the two brawny assistants.

The tradesman stiffened.

He tried to shove his way past, only to find his elbow caught in a tight grip. “Ere now! What’s the bleedin’ problem?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Morland asked lazily. His voice was low and soft—but more than one man who’d fought beside him at Badajoz would have known it meant trouble.

“Nothing yer need ter concern yerself with, guv. Now I got ter—”

“I’ll have an answer, man! Where are you taking that coal?”

“Back to the ware’ouse, o’ course. ‘Send around another load,’ she says. ‘I’ll pay you tomorrow,’ she says.” The man’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Well, she don’t, and I hain’t! So no more credit! So let go o’ my bleedin’ sleeve.”

“This
is
number twenty-seven, I take it?”

“Bloody right it is!” the tradesman snapped.

“And your order was placed for a James Cameron?”

“For
Mistress
Cameron, it were,” the man corrected peevishly. He squirmed as Morland’s fingers tightened. “But why would the likes o’ yer lordship be—” Abruptly the tradesman’s eyes narrowed. A look of cunning sharpened his features. “Oww, like
that,
is it?”

“Return the coal.” Morland’s voice was icy. “Send the bill to me. Lord Morland, number twelve, Half Moon Street.”

A gold guinea found its way into the man’s grimy pocket.

Suddenly the tradesman was all bows and good grace as he motioned his men to redeposit their order.

The kitchen maid came charging down the walkway. “Thirty pounds, indeed! For
two
miserable bags of coal? And low-grade coal it was, at that! All shale, if you ask me. Just what sort of a
Sammy-soft
do you take me for?”

The tradesman began to back toward the open gate. “No offense meant, miss. All a mistake, yer understand. Only too glad ter be of assistance. I didn’t understand the nature of things, ye see. With yer mistress and all.”

After a knowing look at the earl, the tradesman herded his men before him and disappeared into the mews, slamming the gate soundly.

“Of all the ill-bred, self-important,
muttonheaded
—” The girl spun about. Her broom fell slowly to her shoulder. “And who in blazes asked
you
to—”

Suddenly she stopped. Her breath caught audibly.

Morland, well used to the effect his chiseled features and startling azure eyes seemed to have on strangers, merely smiled.

And then his smile widened.

Beneath the baggy skirts and bodice he made out the soft curves of a rather nice female shape.

Immediately the day began to brighten.

The ankles were trim enough.

The neck was slender enough.

And the breasts looked sweetly rounded, with definite potential for further exploration…

A muffled sound broke from the object of his scrutiny, and a broom handle prodded his stomach. Before he could react, Morland found himself being shoved through the gate into the mews.

“Now just one moment. I’ve come here to see—”

His words fell on empty air. The gate snapped shut behind him, and the bolt slammed home.

How had the bloody female managed
that
? She hardly seemed big enough to wrestle a dozen roses to the ground, much less match horns with him. Yet here he stood, smack in the middle of the mews, staring down at a closed and bolted gate.

Morland grew angrier by the second. He’d only been trying to
help
, after all. He’d even saved the coal delivery for her mistress.

Who did the little fishwife think she was?

Morland banged loudly on the gate. “I’ve business with the master of the house, wench—James Cameron by name! Tell him that Lord Morland is here to see him, and be quick about it!”

That
would do the job, he thought smugly.

“Go bark up another tree, ye distempered cur! ‘Tis no James Cameron who lives here, so I’ll thank ye to go away an’ leave a decent household to its peace.”

Morland frowned. “Then who—”

“Ha’n’t time for any more o’ yer nonsense. Go on about yer business, I say!”

Morland’s eyes darkened. He stared at the flimsy gate.

Then his boot crashed through the wood just below the latch. The gate exploded open, three planks splintering free of the crossbar.

“How
dare
you! That will cost a fortune to repair! You leave me absolutely no choice but to—”

“I mean to see Mr. Cameron, wench.” His hands circled her wrists, which were surprisingly strong for a woman of her size. “So do you show me in, or do I find my own way?”