Queen Victoria opened the keepsake box Ainsley had brought to her and slid the bundle of letters inside it. She locked the box with a little key on a ribbon and tucked the key back into her pocket.
“You have done well, my dear,” the queen said, her quiet smile satisfied.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but shouldn’t you burn them?” The lock on the keepsake box was flimsy, and Phyllida’s toady had found no difficulty stealing the letters from it the first time.
“Nonsense. It scarcely matters now. Mrs. Chase is long gone.”
Yes, but there might be others just as intent on embarrassing you, Ainsley argued silently.
However, the queen was right that Phyllida Chase would no longer be a threat. As soon as Ainsley had alighted from the train that evening, the maid who’d come to fetch her had told Ainsley the delightful rumor that Mrs. Chase had fled to the Continent with a young Italian tenor.
The rumor was confirmed at Balmoral by a colleague of Mr. Chase. Phyllida had written a letter to her husband, baldly stating that she’d left him and outlining why. Mr. Chase was outraged, ready to sue her, and he fully blamed the Duke of Kilmorgan for hosting licentious house parties. Ainsley wondered how Hart Mackenzie had reacted to that.
Victoria went on. “I heard that you returned my five hundred guineas to my secretary.”
“Yes, I was able to retrieve the letters and not spend your money, ma’am.”
“Very clever of you.” The queen patted her cheek. “So frugal, so very Scots. You’ve always been resourceful, my dear, as was your mother, God rest her soul.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
It alarmed Ainsley how easily she slid back into the role of the queen’s trusted servant. Ainsley wore mourning black again, but she couldn’t help but touch the onyx buttons of her bodice and imagine the wicked smile Cam would give her as he asked how many she’d let him undo.
Ainsley thought of the note she’d left him, poor recompense for all his help. But when Ainsley had telegraphed the queen that she’d successfully retrieved the letters, she’d received an almost instant reply that she should return to Balmoral at once.
Cameron had been on a horse in the fields with Angelo and his trainers, and Ainsley knew she wouldn’t have time to wait for him to finish so that she could say good-bye. When the queen said at once, she meant it.
Besides, Cameron might have demanded an answer then and there, and Ainsley’s mind whirled with the question. He wanted her to flee to the Continent with him, as Phyllida had done with her tenor, and Ainsley hadn’t the faintest idea what to tell him.
If she did go with Cameron, how on earth would she explain it to Patrick and Rona? As she’d tried to tell Cameron, she didn’t so much worry about scandal but who she would hurt by it. If I were alone in the world, I’d tell scandal to go hang and do as I pleased.
But Cameron was tempting Ainsley. It wasn’t simply lust for the bedchamber that made her long for him—there was his smile, the warmth in his eyes, the way he worried over Jasmine, the way he’d helped lame Mrs. Yardley so very gently across the croquet green. Ainsley wanted all of Cameron, the whole man.
“I’m thinking of going to Paris, ma’am,” Ainsley said.
The queen blinked. “Next summer, with your family? Of course, you must. Paris is lovely in the summer.”
“No, I mean in a few weeks.”“Nonsense, my dear, you can’t possibly. We have the ghillies ball at the end of the month and so much to do after that, and then Christmas.”
Ainsley bit the inside of her mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
To the queen, nothing was more interesting or important than royal entertainments, and Ainsley knew that Victoria would not want Ainsley to leave her side. Victoria smiled at Ainsley now.
“Play for me, dear,” the queen said. “You soothe me.”
She had her hands around her box, the queen’s plump face serene now that she’s regained the evidence of her secret love. Ainsley hid a sigh, went to the piano, and started to play.
Two days later, Ainsley walked into a long drawing room and found Lord Cameron Mackenzie standing in it, his back to her while he warmed his hands at the fireplace.
Before she could choose between running away and facing him squarely, Cameron turned around. His sharp gaze moved up and down her, and he didn’t disguise the fact that he was angry. Very angry.
“I left you a note,” Ainsley said faintly.
“Damn your note. Shut the door.”
Ainsley walked across the room to him without obeying about the door. “What are you doing here?”
And why did he look so wonderful in his worn riding kilt and muddy boots?
“I came to visit my mistress.”
Ainsley stopped. “Oh.”
“I meant you, Ainsley.”
Ainsley’s breath came pouring back. “I’m not your mistress.”
“My lover, then.” Cameron sat on a sofa without inviting her to sit first, removed a flask from his coat pocket, and took a long sip.
Ainsley seated herself on a nearby chair. “You make us sound like characters in a farce. I’ll wager you didn’t tell her majesty that you were here to visit your mistress.”
Cameron shrugged and took another sip. “She asked for my advice on a horse, and I decided to give it to her in person.”
“Very clever.”
“The queen likes to talk about horses.”
Ainsley nodded. “She does. I told you I’d give you my decision after the St. Leger. I need time to think.”