Indiscreet. Candace Camp
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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
Contents
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.