Shannon Drake - Wicked

“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 Your gown is quite lovely and you wear it well, but I would estimate that it is several years out of date.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.

“Should I discover, Miss Montgomery, that your words are a lie, I do assure you, you have not begun to realize the state to which my bad manners and violence might rise.”

He turned as if the sight of her were so repulsive he couldn’t bear it any longer. He strode to the door and exited. The reverberation created as the door slammed in his wake seemed to shake the entire castle.

Trembling, Camille remained on her feet, staring at the door, long after he had gone.

“You are truly a wretched creature!” she cried then, certain that he was far beyond earshot.

The door opened. She tensed.

It was Mrs. Prior. “You poor dear!” she exclaimed. “He does have such a ferocious temper. I try constantly to make him see it, but…quite honestly, he can be charming and kind.”

“I must see my guardian. And I must take him from this place,” Camille said, fighting for what dignity she might summon. “Away from that monster.”

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Prior said. “Truly, he’s not such a monster. It’s just that…well, it is quite shocking that you work for the museum, dear.”

“It’s an honorable position!” she said.

“Yes. Well…” Mrs. Prior cast her head at an angle, studying Camille. Perhaps she, at least, approved of what she saw. She lowered her voice. “It’s just that your employers—well, the group dealing with your department—were all there when…”

“When what?”

“When his lordship’s parents were murdered,” Mrs. Prior said. “It’s not your fault, dear, but still…. Do come along, then, please. I’ll bring you to your guardian.” She paused, looking back. “Honestly, dear, he may look a bit beastly, and perhaps his behavior thus far has been horrid, but there is that dire fact of those terrible murders having completely changed his life.”

CAMILLE HURRIED ALONG after Evelyn. “Wait, please. I’ve heard the rumors, of course. Everyone in London has heard the rumors. Perhaps if I understood more about what happened, I could even be—”

The word helpful never left her lips because Evelyn, who had been moving rapidly before her, came to a dead stop, throwing open a door. Camille, in her hurry to keep up, nearly plowed into Evelyn’s back. Then Evelyn spoke as if she hadn’t been listening to a word that Camille had said. “Here, child. Your guardian.”

Thoughts concerning her host and his wretched behavior flew from her mind as she looked into the darkened room and blinked. A fire burned at the hearth, but all was cast into shadow. She felt her heart skip a beat as her eyes at last fell upon the figure on the bed. Still. Dead still.

“Oh, dear God!” she exhaled, trembling, her knees going wobbly.

Evelyn spun around, catching her by the arms, offering support before she buckled completely.