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Spent the rest of the evening wishing she had.
The lanterns flanking the Abercrombie town house shone on the glittering crowds of guests as they disembarked from the steady stream of sedan chairs and carriages. In a London thin of company, Lord and Lady Abercrombie’s party stood out as the place to see and be seen.
Inside, liveried footmen bowed the perfumed, powdered, and diamond-encrusted men and women into the grand hall, while pages in silk knee breeches and stockings dashed through the crush with drinks and trays of savories.
Brodie looked up from between two adoring matrons and their starstruck daughters. Considered too poor to be a prize of the marriage mart, he still generated sighs and heavy fanning as well as the occasional illicit liaison.
Excusing himself, he pushed his way through the crush toward Cam. From the opposite end of the room, his uncle spied him as well. He also made his way over, though his way was eased by his importance while Brodie used simple bulk.
They arrived at the same moment, his uncle sizing him up as if inspecting a steer for slaughter. “Glad to see you understood the wisdom of my request.”
“Let’s not confuse requests and threats, Uncle.”
The words rolled off Uncle Josh’s back as they always did. It was like boxing a shadow. “Mrs. Kennett-Holmes is in the next room.”
Brodie raised a curious brow. “Kennett-Holmes? Isn’t she one of those evangelical do-gooders with a taste for the sermonizing of ‘Holy Hannah’?”
Uncle Josh settled a cool gaze on his fosterling. “She’s an upstanding Christian, yes, Captain MacKay. Some men prefer their women with a few morals.”
Brodie gave a shudder of revulsion. “Sounds dreadful.” But he kept needling, bless him. “Does Mrs. Kennett-Holmes know there’s a rival to Cam’s affections? Can’t see that going over too well.”
“Cam knows his purpose here. And it’s not to be swayed by your dubious influences.”
Brodie hid a smile behind his glass of wine. “Just asking, sir.”
“Well, stop asking. And go about your business. Surely there’s some gullible female waiting to be swayed by your charms into a dalliance. So go find her, and leave us alone.”
Brodie bowed and withdrew, almost colliding with a gentleman as they both sought to navigate the narrow doorway into the next room. A gentleman Cam recognized as the pasty-faced bore from Uncle Josh’s house. But he’d seen him somewhere else as well. Only where?
“I’m leaving you on your own to sweeten the woman up. I’ve got to return to your aunt or she’s liable to think something’s happened to me.”
Cam eyed his uncle coolly. “Worried over your health?”
“Hardly. I was set upon by a footpad last night on the way home from my club. The villain got in a blow before a crowd scared him off. But now she’s got it in her bonnet someone’s out to get me.”
Now that he mentioned it, Cam noted the slight swelling around his uncle’s right eye, masked by copious amounts of powder. A frisson of warning shot through him. But warning of what? Footpads were common, and his uncle’s habit of walking rather than hiring a cab made him an easy target of such an attack. So why did Cam feel as if the first shot in his private war had been fired? “Did you get a look at your attacker?”
“I’d rather have gotten a stab at him. He’d have thought twice before attacking a Sinclair again.” His uncle motioned him forward. “Enough stalling. Mrs. Kennett-Holmes awaits. I’ve told her all about you, and she’s anxious to make your acquaintance.”
Cam would lay odds the man his uncle had described bore little resemblance to the man he was. No woman in her right mind would take him knowing the truth.
He bore the heart of a killer. Ached to win the heart of an Amazon.
Morgan’s wards gave her half a minute’s warning before the attack came. And that was being generous.
One moment she’d been whiling away the too-quiet hours with a year-old racing magazine, counting the monotonous ticks of the mantel clock, and wishing she hadn’t sent Amos and Susan away for the evening. At least they’d have been company.
The next moment, the air shifted. Grew thick as if the oppressive weight of a thunderstorm approached. A tingle rose the hairs on her neck as if lightning danced across her skin. And with the might of a thunderclap, the broached wards imploded followed by the splintering of a smashed door.
To come for her like this took force. And magic. Lots of it.
Doran hadn’t sent someone to fail.
Morgan tore out of the study, skidding to a stop in the foyer just as a pistol blast erupted, the bullet ripping straight across her upper arm, scoring a deep, bloody weal that hurt all the way to her fingers. Biting back a scream, she clutched the wound. Ducked into the study, risking a quick glance to judge her attacker.
He approached from the kitchens, power rippling off him in sour waves. He stank of darkness. And Morkoth magic. And she saw her own death mirrored in his evil gaze.
Tossing aside the gun, he drew a sword. Dipped it in a mockery of a salute just before he charged her position, the slash of his weapon barely hampered by the confines of the narrow corridor.
