Shannon Drake - Wicked

“For the love of God, Camille, the man is a monster. It’s been proven!”

She looked from one man to the other, unable to hide the torment that stormed within her. Yes, one of them was a murderer.

And the other one was her salvation. But which one was which?

“Camille, quickly, carefully…come to me,” said the one.

The man she had known as the beast caught her eyes. “Think carefully, my love. Think of all that you have seen and learned…and felt. Think back, Camille, and ask yourself which man here is the monster.”

Think back? To when? Rumor and lies? Or to the day when she had first come to this forest, first heard the howling and…the sound of his voice.

The day she had met the beast.

“GOOD LORD, what has he done now?” Camille asked with dismay, looking at Ralph, Tristan’s valet, man’s man and—unfortunately, most often—his cohort in crime.

“Nothing!” Ralph said indignantly.

“Nothing? I am left to wonder why you are standing in front of me, breathless, looking as if I’m about to be called to once again come to the aid of my guardian and rescue him from some jail cell, brothel or other place of ill repute!”

She knew that she sounded indignant and angry. Tristan was incapable of staying out of trouble. She also sounded as if she would let him stew in his pot of problems, which she would not. Ralph knew it, and she knew it.

Tristan Montgomery was not much of a respectable figure as far as guardians went, despite the fact that fate had provided him with a certain status, this being a time when a man’s title meant far more than his true situation or character.

But twelve years ago he had rescued her from a workhouse or a worse fate. She shivered, thinking of other penniless orphans who had been left to fend for themselves. Tristan’s means of support had never been what one would call acceptable, but from the day he had first seen her, alone with her mother’s still-warm body, he had given his heart and his means—whatever they might be—to her. And she would never give him less.

However, she had been striving valiantly for several years now to give him more—stability! An honest place in society. A home. A far more decent life….

Luckily, Ralph had met her discreetly at the corner, rather than coming into the British Museum, where his disheveled appearance and anxious whispers might have cost her the job she had at long last acquired. She knew more about ancient Egypt than most of the men who had been on excavations, but even Sir John Matthews had hemmed and hawed about the idea of bringing in a woman. And with Sir Hunter MacDonald in on the decision, it had certainly not been an easy road. Hunter actually liked her very much, but the fact that he admired her might well have worked against her. He thought himself something of a seasoned explorer and adventurer—one who apparently gave no credence to the new breed of women suffragettes and sincerely thought that the fairer breed belonged at home. At least Alex Mittleman, Aubrey Sizemore and even Lord Wimbly seemed to accept her presence without much ado. Thankfully, Lord Wimbly and Sir John mattered the most.

Yet the trials and tribulations of her work could not be of much import at this moment. Tristan was in trouble. But on Monday evening! Just at the start of the workweek.

“I swear, Tristan did nothing.” Ralph flushed. He was a little man, no more than five feet five inches, but he was spry. He could move with the speed of a lynx, and just as supplely and secretively, as well.

Camille was aware that although Tristan might not have done anything, he had certainly been planning something illegal when he arrived in whatever his current—and dire—situation might be.

Camille turned, looking back. The scholarly curators of the museum were now exiting the grand and beautiful building, and might stumble upon her at any second. Suddenly Alex Mittleman, Sir John’s next in command, appeared. If he saw her, he’d want to talk, to escort her to the trains. She had to move, and fast.

She caught Ralph’s elbow, hurrying him down the street. As she did so, the wind expelled a mighty breath, making the nip in the air more like a true bite of ice. Maybe it wasn’t just the wind. Perhaps it was a premonition of fear that snaked so cruelly along her spine.

“Come along, speak to me and speak quickly!” Camille warned. She was already worried, very worried. Tristan was smart, incredibly well-read, with a street education to match that he had procured at the hands of a multitude of tutors when a young man. He had taught her so very much—language, reading, art, history, theater…And also the fact that perception was nine tenths of the law—the social law. If she spoke like an impoverished but genteel lady, and dressed as such, that is what people would believe her to be.

He could be so amazingly perceptive regarding so much around him. And yet, at times, it seemed as if he had no common sense whatsoever!

“Dougray’s is ahead,” Ralph said, referring to a pub.

“You do not need a quota of gin!” Camille remonstrated.

“Aye, but I do!” the little man moaned softly.

She sighed. Dougray’s was known as a working class establishment and was of a better repute than many a place both Ralph and Tristan had frequented. The pub was also not averse to serving women, particularly the growing sisterhood within the clerical office force in the country.

Camille always dressed carefully to maintain her station as assistant to Sir John Matthews, associate curator for the burgeoning department of Egyptian Antiquities. Her skirt was a somber gray with a small bustle, and her blouse, with an attractive, tailored look that primly ringed her neck, was in a similar but lighter color. Her cloak was of good quality and appropriate. Once it had belonged to a lady of class who had presumably let it go to the Salvation Army when she had acquired one of more recent style. Skeins of rich sable-brown hair—which Camille considered to be her one beauty—were dutifully pinned atop her head. She wore no jewelry or ornamentation other than the plain gold band that Tristan had found on her mother’s person, and which she had worn ever since—on a chain when she was a child, and now upon her finger.

She didn’t think they were particularly noticed when they entered the pub.

“We’re hiding?” Ralph whispered.

“Please, let’s just move to the back.”

“If you’re trying to be nondescript, Camie, you should be aware that every fellow in this place has turned to look at you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s your eyes,” he told her.

“They are an ordinary brown,” she said impatiently.

“No, lass, they’re gold, pure gold. And sometimes they have a touch of the old Emerald Isle. Quite remarkable. I’m afraid that men do watch you, the proper ones—and them that aren’t so proper!” he said, looking around with a flash of anger.

“I’m not under attack, Ralph. Please, move!”

She quickly urged Ralph into the smoky rear of the establishment, ordering him a gin and herself a cup of tea. “Now,” she commanded, “talk!”

So he did.

“Tristan loves you dearly, child. You know that,” Ralph began.

“As I love him. And I am hardly a child any longer, thank the good Lord!” Camille retorted. “Now tell me, immediately, what mess I must rescue him from this time!”

Ralph muttered into his glass of gin.

“Ralph!” she remonstrated, showing backbone and temper.

“He’s in the hands of the Earl of Carlyle.”

Camille gasped. Of all the things she might have expected, it was not this. And though she didn’t have the story as yet, already she was dismayed.