LITMIR.BIZ

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to a board like a butterfly in some scientific laboratory, wings outstretched and colours fading into dust. No possible defences. No protection against the disdain he surely must be feeling.

      At least the wig felt like armour and the dark purple bombazine in her gown was sturdy enough to withstand any amount of derision. As she opened the door of the salon they had been directed to, the smile on her face was tight.

      ‘My lord.’ She did not allow Daniel Wylde to take her fingers or to touch her as she inclined her head.

      ‘Miss Cameron.’ There was a slight hesitation in his greeting. ‘I hope your father has had a few comfortable nights and is feeling better after his fall.’

      ‘He is, my lord, thank you, though he is under strict instructions to stay in bed for a few more days yet. Your doctor was most insistent about that. Perhaps I should have informed you,’ she added as an afterthought, suddenly uncertain of the rules around being unchaperoned even in her own house.

      ‘We will not stay long. May I introduce my good friend to you? Lucien Howard, Earl of Ross, this is Miss Amethyst Amelia Cameron, my intended.’

      The man who stood by the mantelpiece watched her carefully. With hair as pale as Daniel Wylde’s was dark, he held the same sort of stillness and menace. She also thought she saw a hitch of puzzlement in his eyes.

      ‘Montcliffe has told me all about you, Miss Cameron.’

      ‘I should not think there would be much to say, my lord.’

      Unexpectedly Lord Ross laughed. ‘Actually, I am more surprised by all he didn’t.’

      Glancing over at Daniel, Amethyst wondered how much honesty he would allow. She decided to test him.

      ‘It is a truism that great wealth holds a loud persuasion. As a good friend of Montcliffe’s you must realise this.’

      The stance of relaxed grace did not change a whit, but Lord Montcliffe had moved closer and Amethyst felt that same sharp jolt of shock with an ache. She did not look her best today, she knew it. The wig itched unremittingly and the red around her eyes from poor sleep did her no favours whatsoever. She had tried to assuage the damage with some powder she had asked her maid to fetch from the pharmacist yesterday, but the application was difficult and she wondered if instead of hiding the problem she had accentuated it. She wished now that she had simply wiped the powder off before entering the room.

      ‘Miss Cameron runs the books for the Cameron timber company, Luce. According to her father she is irreplaceable in her knowledge of the trade.’

      Was the Earl criticising her? His words did not seem slanted with distaste so mayhap this was another example of her not comprehending the ways of the ton. His friend’s face was carefully schooled to show as little emotion as Montcliffe’s did, allowing her no way of understanding the truth.

      ‘I have heard it said that you have a knowledge of horseflesh too, Miss Cameron? Your father’s pair of greys were the talk of the town a few weeks back and, when I went in to look them over, Tattersall mentioned your name on the ownership deeds.’

      ‘Papa and I generally consult on new purchases, my lord. That particular pair was procured on a trip we made to Spain together three years ago.’ She stopped, thinking perhaps she sounded boastful.

      ‘I see. Montcliffe raised horses when we were younger too. Before the war took us into Spain and they were lost to him.’

      ‘You were in the army, as well?’

      ‘It is the curse of an estate of great title, but little in the way to support it, Miss Cameron. ’Twas either that or the church and the stipend in religion is miserable.’

      As he said the words Lucien Howard turned and the light from the window directly behind him fell across a large swathe of scarring at his neck. Averting her eyes, Amethyst hoped he had not seen just where her interest lay, though when she glanced over at Daniel she knew a momentary consternation. The easy-going lord of the realm seemed replaced by another, hard distance coating his every feature, memory overlaid by anger.

      War wounds. She had seen the soldiers from the Peninsular Campaign as they had stumbled up the quayside of all the ports between Falmouth and Dover the previous year in the final days of January. She had been in the south with her father, checking on a new timber delivery, and the filthy, ill and skeletal men had been a shocking sight. Thirty-five thousand men had crossed the Spanish frontier to march against Napoleon and eight thousand had not returned. Lord Montcliffe and his friend Lord Ross had no doubt been amongst those on the crowded transports in the Bay of Biscay storms. She could barely imagine what nightmares such a journey would have brought.

      Daniel was a stranger to her, all the pieces of his past unknown and the sum of his whole unchartered. The cold thought clawed into consciousness but she shook such a musing away, colouring as she realised her guests were looking at her as though expecting an answer to a question.

      ‘I am sorry, I did not hear what you asked.’

      ‘Lucien wished to know if you would allow his younger sister to help you get ready on your wedding day.’

      ‘Oh.’ Amethyst did not quite know how to answer this. She had always been surrounded by men in the business of trading timber and had seldom had the time to foster any relationship with women.

      The Earl of Ross took up the conversation now. ‘Christine lost her betrothed in the march up to La Corunna and she is a little depressed. Helping in the preparation for a wedding might be just the distraction she needs.’

      ‘I should imagine your sister would find me most dull.’

      ‘She loves hairstyles and dresses and decorating homes.’

      Amethyst’s heart sank.

      ‘And she can make an occasion of anything.’

      Hard to make an occasion with the two participants pressed into a union neither wished for. Placing a false smile on her lips, Amethyst nodded.

      ‘Then I would be most thankful for her help.’

      Montcliffe appeared as though he was about to laugh, but the arrival of the maid with an assortment of small cakes and lemonade put paid to that expression. Pouring three generous glasses, she handed one to each of them and invited them to sit down.

      ‘The speciality of the house is this lemon syrup. I hope you will enjoy it.’ The lemonade was cold and sour, exactly the way she and her father liked it, yet both men looked to be struggling with the taste. Even yesterday she might have been mortified to think that the beverage was not quite right, but today for some reason the fact made her smile.

      The control she seldom lost hold of had seemed to slip of late and the small victory was welcomed. She knew, of course, that they would be far more at home with some alcoholic drink, but it was only just midday and the hour seemed too early to be serving something as strong without Papa present.

      When Lord Montcliffe stood she was certain that he would be taking his leave, but he walked across to the window instead to observe a view of the park opposite.

      ‘This house is well situated. Do you take exercise there?’

      ‘Sometimes I do, my lord. More normally though I ride my horse in Hyde Park in the late afternoon.’

      ‘Will you be there tomorrow?’

      He had not turned, but she felt a palpable tension as he waited for her answer.

      ‘I shall. I take a turn or two around Rotten Row most days.’

      ‘Good.’

      At that Lucien Howard also stood and both men gave their leave and were gone within a moment. When the door shut behind them Amethyst remained very still. Had Daniel arranged a meeting between them for tomorrow or not? The two almost-full glasses of lemonade stood on the table and she picked up the one Daniel had used and sipped from it. Ridiculous, she knew, but he made her feel that way: girlish, breathless, terrified.

      Her

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