Indiscreet

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Their need for each other had become less than discreet.

Benedict Wincross appears in Camilla Ferrand’s life as quickly as the gunfire pursuing him. Though his name belies the fact, he is obviously no gentleman. But Camilla realizes Benedict may be just what she needs: a temporary fiancé to satisfy her family’s worries.

And Benedict needs something in return: an entrée into Chevington Park, Camilla’s estate, to conduct an undercover investigation into corruption—without Camilla’s knowledge. Each was drawing the other into a dangerous deceit—for even if they survived the danger of Benedict’s mission, how would they undo the love between them?

Praise for the novels of

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author

“Camp’s newest Matchmaker novel features her usual vivid characterization, touches of subtle humor and plenty of misunderstandings, guilt and passion. You won’t want to miss this poignant and charming tale.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Courtship Dance

“Delightful…Camp is firmly at home here, enlivening the romantic quest between her engaging lovers with a set of believable and colorful secondaries.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Wedding Challenge

“A beautifully crafted, poignant love story.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Wedding Challenge

“Lively and energetic secondaries round out the formidable leads…assuring readers a surprise ending well worth waiting for.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Bridal Quest

“A clever mystery adds intrigue to this lively and gently humorous tale, which simmers with well-handled sexual tension.”

—Library Journal on A Dangerous Man

“The talented Camp has deftly mixed romance and intrigue to create another highly enjoyable Regency romance.”

—Booklist on An Independent Woman

“A smart, fun-filled romp.”

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

Indiscreet

Candace Camp

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

1812

SHE WAS LOST.

Camilla had suspected it for some time, and now, as she pushed aside the curtain and peered out into the night, she was sure. Her post chaise was enshrouded by fog. She might as well have been sitting inside a cloud. She had no idea where they were. The carriage could be sitting ten yards from her grandfather’s house—or on the edge of a cliff.

“Wot should I do, miss?” the coachman called down from atop the conveyance.

“Just sit here for a moment.” It would be foolhardy to press on through this pea soup of a fog. There was no telling where they would wind up. “Let me think.”

With a sigh, she let the curtain fall and leaned back against the cushioned seat. This was all her fault, she knew. If only she hadn’t been so sunk in her thoughts, so immersed in her problems, she might have noticed the fog creeping in or seen that the hired coachman, unfamiliar with the local terrain, had taken a wrong turn. Indeed, she should have stopped in the village and hired a local postboy to show the driver the way. Instead, she had been cudgeling her brain for a way to get herself out of her predicament, so intent on the trap she had sprung on herself with her lie—why had Grandpapa told Aunt Beryl?—that she had not paid any attention to the coach’s progress. Well, now she would have to pay for that inattention.

Camilla opened the door of the chaise and leaned out. She could not even see the heads of the lead horses clearly. She looked down at the road. She could see that—clearly enough to realize that it was little more than a track through the heath, certainly not the road leading to Chevington Park. God knew where the London-bred driver had taken them.

Wrapping her cloak around her and tying it at the neck, she jumped lightly down to the ground. The driver swiveled around and looked down at her. “But, miss—wot are you doing?” He moved as though he were about to climb down. “I ain’t even put the steps down.”

Camilla waved him back. “That’s all right. No need to bother. I’m already down, you see. I am going to take a look around.”

The coachman looked worried. “Now, don’t go wanderin’ off, miss. You can’t see your hand in front of your face in this weather.” Bitterly he added, “Heathen place, Dorset.”

Camilla smiled to herself, but refrained from asking him whether London did not have fog, too. Instead, she inquired, “Have you a lantern? That would be of use.”

“Yes, miss.” He leaned over, handing down the lantern to her, still looking doubtful. Obviously, in his experience, young ladies of Quality did not go tramping about in the fog, lantern or no lantern.

Camilla ignored him and went to the horses’ heads, holding up the lantern to cast more light about her. The light did little to penetrate the fog, but it did illuminate the ground beneath her feet, enabling her to see the narrow cart track. The lead horse on the right rolled his eyes apprehensively at her approach, but she spoke in soothing tones to him and stroked his neck, and he quickly quieted down.

She turned back to the coachman. “The thing to do, I think, is for me to walk beside the horses and guide them,” she told him. “That way we can be sure of not going off the road or tumbling into a hole. I can see the ground in front of me quite well for several feet.”

The driver looked as horrified as if she had suggested stripping off her clothes and running screaming through the night. “Miss! ’Ere, you can’t do that.”

“Why not? It is the sensible thing to do.”

“It wouldn’t be proper. I’ll guide ’em.” He started to lay his reins aside, but Camilla’s voice stopped him.

“Nonsense! Who would stop the horses, then, if they should take it into their heads to bolt? I assure you, I am not skilled in handling the reins. However, I am quite capable of walking and watching the ground in front of me. Besides, I lived here nearly all my life. It isn’t logical for you to lead the horses.”

“But, miss…it just wouldn’t be prop—”

“Oh, hang propriety. Propriety won’t help us to get out of this mess, now, will it?”

She turned her back on him, ending the conversation, and walked back to the horses’ heads. She slid a hand beneath the strap of one of the horses’ bridles and started forward, holding the lantern aloft with the other hand. The horses plodded along docilely beside her.

The track was a trifle muddy—it had rained earlier in the evening—and Camilla kept to the grass beside the rutted trail to avoid getting her shoes caked with mud. However, the moisture of the bedewed grass soon crept through her shoes. The fog began to lift a little, revealing a patch of gorse or a briar bush here and there, but at the same time, it began to drizzle. Sighing, Camilla pulled up the hood of her cloak to protect her face from the chilly, persistent drops.

The drizzle, she soon noticed, was turning into a definite rain. Her feet slipped on the wet grass, but when she stepped into the track, the slick mud was just as bad. Moreover, the rain was beginning to penetrate her light cloak. She thought of getting her umbrella out of the post chaise, but she could think of no way that she could carry it and the lantern, and still hold the horse’s head. Her only other choice was to wait for the rain to stop, but she did not relish the thought of being stuck out here any longer than she had to be. So she trudged on, grateful that at least the fog was disappearing, reduced to wisps and patches.

Then, off to her right, she saw a movement, and she jumped, startled, letting out a squeak of surprise. She held her lantern higher and peered into the night. It was a man standing beside a small tree, almost hidden by its branches.

“Sir!” she exclaimed, letting go of the horse’s head and starting toward him eagerly. “Sir, can you help me? I fear we are lost, and—”

The man whirled toward her, frowning fiercely, his face pale in the dark. There was a long-barreled pistol in his hand. “Hush!” he hissed. “Do you want to get us all killed?”

At that moment, her lantern exploded in her hand, the explosion accompanied by a loud pop. The horses whinnied and danced nervously. The lantern, torn from her grasp, hit the ground and went out, plunging her into complete darkness. Camilla screamed and turned to run back to the carriage.

But before she could take a step, the man launched himself across the space separating them and rammed into her with all his weight, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Camilla hit the earth hard, the breath knocked from her. The stranger lay sprawled atop her, his weight pressing her into the ground. Camilla struggled to get out from under him, gasping for air.

“Stop squirming, dammit!” he growled, pinning her to the ground. “They’re firing at us. Silly chit, do you want to be killed?”

It was then that she realized what that pop had been and why the lantern had shattered. Someone had shot at her! She realized, too, that she had heard more pops as the man drove her to the ground. Camilla went limp with shock.

There were shouts in the distance, but no more bangs. Nearer to them, the horses, upset by the shots, were whinnying and dancing about, tossing their heads. The coachman, cursing, was struggling to control them.

The stranger lifted his head and looked behind them. Camilla stared up at him. His face was fierce and dark, all sharp angles and jutting cheekbones and black, slanting eyebrows. He looked, she thought, quite dangerous, and instinctively she was certain that it was he the others had been shooting at.

“Bloody hell!” He rasped the words out. “I think they’re coming after us.”

“What?” Her voice rose sharply. “What is going on?”

He shook his head and rose to a crouch. Before she realized what he was going to do, he had grasped her upper arms with hands of steel and jerked her to her feet, rising with her.

“Run!” he ordered, and with the word, he ran to the coach, dragging her along with him.

“Let go of me!” Camilla tried to wrest her arm away from him, but he was too strong.

There were two more gunshots behind them, and Camilla heard something splat into the side of the chaise. Her companion jerked open the door of the coach and tossed her up into it. Camilla screamed again as she hit the floor, and the carriage jerked and took off, the coachman apparently unable to hold the frightened horses any longer.

The stranger was clinging to the door. She thought he meant to crawl inside, too, but then, to her amazement, he grasped something on the roof of the carriage and used the door as a stepping-stone to climb onto the top of it.

“Watch out!” she shouted to the driver, and she heard the coachman’s shout of surprise and the sound of a struggle, then the thud of a body—undoubtedly the poor coachman’s—falling to the seat.

The coach gathered speed quickly, the horses panicked and with the bits between their teeth. The vehicle rocked and bounced along the rough path. Camilla grabbed hold of the seat, afraid that she would go sliding out the open door when the carriage tilted that way.

There were more shots, and she realized that they were hurtling straight toward the men who were firing upon them. She had a glimpse of dark shapes that resolved themselves into men and ponies. Suddenly a large man jumped out of the darkness, grabbing the door and swinging his feet up into the carriage. Camilla shrieked and scrambled away from him. As she did so, her flailing hand landed on her umbrella, lying there on the floor.

She picked it up and swung it hard at the man, cracking him on the shins. He let out a howl, and she gave him a hard poke in the stomach with the tip of the umbrella. He let out another cry of pain, and his fingers slipped on the door. He fell backward out of the carriage.

Camilla sat down on the seat, grasping the strap on the wall for purchase. With the other hand, she held her umbrella at the ready, keeping a sharp lookout for any other intruders. They tore along at a reckless speed, the door of the carriage swinging back and forth, the carriage jouncing wildly over the rutted track. Camilla was certain that they were going to overturn at any moment. It was raining in earnest now, too, and rain was slanting in through the open door.

She realized after a while that they were slowing down to a more sedate pace, and after a moment, she slid across the seat and grabbed the door as it swung back toward the carriage and pulled it firmly shut. She looked with distaste at the puddle of water that had formed on the floor, but there was little she could do about that. She could, however, remove her soaked mantle, the back of which, she discovered, was thoroughly smeared with mud from when the stranger had thrown her to the ground.

The stranger. Her eyes narrowed as her thoughts turned toward that man. Who was he, and what had he been up to out here in the wilds of the Dorset coast? He was up to no good, she was sure. Those men had been shooting at him, and, now that she thought about it, it was obvious that he had been hiding behind that tree—no doubt lying in wait for someone. It was no wonder he had looked at her with such fury when she called to him; she had broadcast his presence to the other men, giving them a chance to protect themselves. She wondered if he was a highwayman, or merely some ruffian looking to attack one of his enemies.

Of course, she mused, given where they were, it just might have something to do with “the gentlemen”—the name, uttered only in lowered voices, given to the men engaged in the age-old occupation of smuggling. Everyone knew about it, and, if truth be known, many an upstanding local citizen, even among the magistrates and judges, was known to turn a blind eye to the illegal trade. Indeed, many of them had a regular delivery of French brandy waiting on their back doorsteps in the early-morning light after a moonless night. There were those who, hating the duty laws, considered “the gentlemen” within their rights in evading the laws. The people of the outlying coastal areas were often known to resent the intrusion of the central government in what they considered their business. In the previous century, the smugglers had been so strong that there were even pitched battles between the Hawkridge gang and the soldiers. Though those lawless times had passed, the business of smuggling went on, especially now, with coveted French goods cut off from England by the war.

Camilla thought back to the man, remembering his face as he had loomed above her in the dark—the fierce upward slash of cheekbones and the hard mouth, the dark eyes beneath peaked black eyebrows, the dark, rough clothes. Yes, she decided, he had definitely looked as if he might be a smuggler, at odds with his fellows, or a highwayman looking to rob a traveler, or simply a ruffian seeking revenge upon someone. Whatever he was, she was certain that she was not in a safe position. She had seen him where he had not wanted to be seen, and she had been the unwitting cause of the other men shooting at him and chasing him. He had been furious with her earlier, and she had little doubt that he still was. This rough ride in the post chaise might be nothing compared to what happened when the vehicle stopped.

Which it was doing right now. Camilla could feel the chaise slowing down. In a moment, she knew, it would rock to a halt, and then he would jump down and come back here and open the door. He would pull her out and— Well, she was not sure what he would do, but she had no trouble imagining him doing anything from hitting her to strangling her, including the despoiling that old women always warned of in lowered voices to girls who were rash enough to go out unaccompanied.

Camilla took a firm grip on her umbrella. It had served well enough as a weapon before. Perhaps if she took him by surprise, she might disable him enough to get away.

As the carriage rolled to a halt, she crouched down beside the door and waited, the blood pounding in her ears, every nerve stretched, listening for his approach. She heard the thud as he jumped down, and the crunch of his boots upon pebbles as he strode to the door. The latch turned and the door swung outward. “Are you—”

Camilla erupted from her crouched position with a shriek, launching herself out of the chaise. She swung her umbrella with all her might at the man’s face, and the handle cracked satisfyingly against his cheek. The umbrella broke in two, and the man staggered back with a roared oath, his hand going to his cheek.

Camilla hit the ground running, screaming with all her might. She knew that they were probably too far away for anyone to hear her, but she had to try, just as she had to run. She lifted her skirts and flew across the ground, heading down the muddy road in front of the carriage. She didn’t even notice the rain falling on her, or the mud that pulled at her shoes.

He was after her in an instant. She could hear him behind her, but even though she ran so fast she thought her heart would burst, he caught up with her. His hand wrapped around one of her arms like an iron band and pulled her to a stop.

“Stop that caterwauling!” he snarled. “Dammit, woman, what is wrong with you? You’ll bring the whole countryside down upon us.”

Camilla did stop screaming, but only because she was out of breath. She sucked in a lungful of air as she whipped around and struck out at him with her doubled-up fist.

She hit only his chest, and it sent a dart of pain shooting up her arm. He let out a string of curses and grabbed for her wrist, but Camilla twisted and struggled, hitting out and kicking at him.

“Bloody hell, woman, would you stop it? Are you mad?”

They were both thoroughly soaked by the rain now, but neither of them noticed as they grappled in the dark. The man was far larger and taller than Camilla, and the conclusion was never in doubt, but she was fighting for her life, and she struggled wildly, connecting with several kicks and blows as he struggled to subdue her. He managed to wrap one arm around her and pull her off her feet, but Camilla twisted and reached for his face with her nails. He jerked back as her fingers scraped down his cheek, barely missing his eye, and he lost his balance and staggered backward.

They crashed to the ground, but their fall was softened by the mud into which they fell. The man received the brunt of the blow, and he loosened his grasp involuntarily. Camilla seized the opportunity to pull away from him, but before she could crawl to her feet, he had grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop, and she fell face-first into the mud. She came up spluttering and enraged, lashing out at him. He grabbed for her arms, trying to pin them to her sides, but she was slippery with rain and mud, and he could not get a good hold on her. They rolled across the muddy ground, grappling.

Camilla squirmed and twisted, trying to get away, and he tried to wrap his arms around her to pin her arms to her sides. Once, as they struggled, she felt his hand slide across her breast, and she sucked in her breath sharply at the intimate touch. It startled and alarmed her, almost as much for the strange, sudden heat that shot through her body as for the effrontery of the contact.

He, too, seemed surprised at the touch, and he froze for an instant. She seized the opportunity to try to rise, but he grabbed at her arm to stop her, and the sodden material of her dress ripped, leaving the sleeve in his hand. She tore away, and he lunged after her. They went sprawling in the mud again, his weight bearing her down into the soft muck. He grabbed her wrists, hauling them up over her head, and sat up, leaning on her arms to hold her to the ground. His legs clamped tightly around hers, holding her immobile beneath him.

The man gazed down at her, his chest rising and falling in rapid pants. He was soaked and smeared with mud, his rough dark shirt hanging open down the front, where buttons had been torn off in their struggle. His bare skin showed through the gap, sleek and tanned and wet. His hair clung to his head. There was a cut high on his cheekbone where she had hit him with her umbrella, and his eyes glittered fiercely.

Camilla’s throat went dry. The man looked elemental and furious, quite male and quite angry. Camilla was very aware of the suggestive nature of their position, of his weight upon her legs. She was conscious, too, of an odd feeling in the center of her being, a strange mixture of fury and excitement and some other elusive emotion she could not have named. His eyes skimmed down her, taking in the wet bodice that clung to her breasts, and she could feel the response of his body.

“Let go of me!”

“Not until I get some answers!” he growled back. “Who the devil are you, and what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” she gasped, outraged. “I have every right to be driving through here. It is you who are obviously up to no good, skulking about the countryside in the dark, people firing at you. Release me at once, or you’ll be in even more trouble than you already are.”

“You are hardly in a position to be issuing commands,” he reminded her, and a faint smile touched his lips.

His mouth was wide, with a generous lower lip, and he should have had an appealing smile, but his face was set in cold, sardonic lines that ruined any hint of charm. His amusement at her expense infuriated Camilla, and she lunged upward with all her might, trying to throw him off. He was far too heavy and strong for her, of course, and her efforts did little to dislodge him, but the glitter in his eyes turned dangerously brighter, reminding Camilla chillingly of the helplessness and intimacy of her position.

To hide her fear, she curled her lip in contempt. “It is obvious that you are a villain,” she said coldly. “I suggest that you refrain from turning yourself into a felon, as well.”

His eyebrows quirked up in inverted vees, giving his dark visage an even more demonic look. “Well said, madam. But I scarcely need remind you that without witnesses, it is hard to charge a man with a felony.” He paused, letting the threat of his words sink in, then smiled coldly and said, “Besides, I know of no felony that has been committed this night.’tis scarcely a crime to take charge of a carriage in order to save a lady from a gang of men who are attacking her.”

“You know as well as I that those men were not concerned with me,” Camilla shot back. “It was you they were firing at.”

His mouth twisted grimly. “Perhaps, but they would certainly not have been if you had not blundered into the scene, shouting and waving a lantern about.”

“How was I supposed to know that you were engaged in clandestine doings? I was seeking your help—a futile quest, obviously, but I was not as aware of your character then as I am now. I did not know that I was dealing with a thief.”