Chapter 2
There were times a man simply couldn’t take any more of the criminal class.
Derrick Cameron stood at the window of a small office overlooking Hyde Park and contemplated the truth of that.
He was an ordinary man with ordinary tastes.
Good food. A good book. Pleasant company.
Of course he wasn’t going to argue if someone offered him tickets to Drury Lane or insisted that he shuffle off to supper in the back of a Rolls, but on the whole he preferred dealing with average blokes who worked for what they got and shunned shady dealings.
He wasn’t at all fond of blighters who took what didn’t belong to them, much less tried to sell it to those who should have known better than to buy valuable items from lads with shifty eyes.
He had spent his share of time trying to understand what motivated those who preferred to steal instead of earn, for no other reason than it helped him decide where they might strike next.
The unfortunate thing was, in his current business the thugs looked far too much like respectable—even very visible—citizens of the Commonwealth.
That left him shaking his head more often than not.
He supposed it was nothing but his own fault.
He had signed on to work for his cousin as part of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd.
, eight years ago, a year after he’d first clapped eyes on Robert Cameron.
There was some history there that he mulled over when he had the leisure to, but thinking about it generally left him shaking his head in disbelief.
Today, he didn’t particularly feel like making himself dizzy, so he left those contemplations for another time.
He’d spent seven years as part of a very exclusive cadre of six who had formed the nucleus of that particular business.
He had always been quite fond of history, but Robert Cameron’s passion for it had inspired him to take that fondness to the level of obsession.
He had never thought antiques would become his life’s work, but they had.
He could identify genuine from fake from ten paces and difficult cases with only a minor examination. His nose twitched when presented with anything pre-Tudor and he could honestly feel his ears begin to perk up when something predated 1400.
Their client list was very exclusive and requiring absolute discretion.
He had hobnobbed with everyone from the filthy rich to the richly titled, including nobility from several countries.
A phone call, a subtle expression of interest, or a discreet note always began the chase and the quarry was always caught and delivered with a minimum of fuss.
There wasn’t a part of it that he didn’t relish, from the research to the schmoozing.
After all, what was there in the world that could possibly be more exciting than finding things that couldn’t be found and buying them from souls who didn’t want to sell them?
Cameron Antiquities’s only condition of sale was that the collectors of said unattainable items be thoroughly vetted as to their plans for their acquisitions.
He could think of only half a dozen men and women who had failed that test. Their fury had been memorable, but in the end quite futile.
Robert Cameron apparently had nerves of steel because in each of those cases, he’d let the rejected applicant breathe out all manner of vile threats without flinching.
Of course, Derrick knew why that was, but that was something else to be thought about later.
Cameron had turned over the business to him the year before. He’d wanted it, of course, badly, for the sheer exhilaration of the chase. What had surprised him, however, was how quickly the role of recoverer of stolen goods had been added to his job description.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been surprised by how much of his time that sort of thing took up.
He turned away from the window before he blinded himself with the afternoon summer sunshine.
This was absolutely the last case of that nature he would take on.
He would solve this bloody problem for the gentleman in question, then turn everything from now on over to Scotland Yard.
He pursed his lips as he walked across the plush carpet of his office, suppressing the urge to curse. Unfortunately, he imagined he wouldn’t be calling in any detective inspectors anytime soon. The adrenaline rush he got from undoing the work of bad guys was simply too strong to walk away from.
He opened his door and looked at the collection of souls in the reception area.
The offices were stunning, of course, because Cameron Antiquities was only part of the Cameron clan’s empire, and he was only a small part of that clan.
It was handy, however, to have his office right next door to his cousin’s.
It made the clients who dared be seen frequenting the place feel pleased to be hobnobbing with Scottish nobility.
Cameron’s personal secretary was holding court behind an intimidating antique desk that sported a phone, a dedicated, hack-proof computer, and pictures of her grandchildren.
Derrick smiled at her, then looked at the men lounging in the chairs there, flipping through supermarket tabloids and looking like trouble.
The worst sort of trouble, Oliver, looked up from reading apparently about the latest royal intrigues.
“Where’re you off to, boss?”
Derrick wondered if he would ever become accustomed to that.
Though he had indeed wanted it, that business of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd.
, and he supposed he’d put enough work into it over the past eight years to accept it almost without flinching, being the owner of it still sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.
Then again, there were no assets in the company to speak of save the power of the Cameron name and the reputation Robert Cameron had built up over the years. Derrick supposed he’d had a hand in that often enough himself not to have it feel like charity.
“I’m not sure yet,” he said slowly.
Rufus, their driver extraordinaire, sighed. “I’ll consider going to warm up the getaway car.”
Derrick smiled briefly, then looked to find his cousin himself, the laird of the clan Cameron, standing at the door to his own office, smirking. Derrick looked at Oliver and Rufus first, because it was simpler.
“I think I’m off on a little explore,” he admitted, “but I’m not sure I’ll be driving.”
Rufus went back to his newspaper, relic that he was. Oliver didn’t shift, but he never shifted. He simply watched Derrick with an unblinking stare that had made many a man blurt out his innermost secrets without having to be asked.
“I have my mobile,” Oliver said.
“I may be giving you a wee ring on it.”
Oliver only lifted one eyebrow, then rose gracefully to his feet. “I’ll go recharge the battery then, shall I?”
“You should.” He turned and looked at his cousin. “Aye, my laird?”
“Just wondering what you’re about,” Cameron said with a shrug. “Perhaps you’d like to come inside and tell me about it.”
Derrick nodded, then followed Cameron into his office. He shut the door behind himself, then leaned back against it.
“Anything in particular you’re curious about?” he asked.
Cameron only sat down on the edge of his desk and smiled pleasantly. “You don’t work for me any longer, Derrick, as I believe we’ve discussed at length.”
“Feudal obligation, my laird.”
“We’re Scots, ye wee fool, not Brits. We call it fealty up north.”
Derrick would have smiled, but he had little to smile about at the moment.
He did nod, though, because he agreed completely.
He had certainly spent his share of time south of Hadrian’s Wall, but that was years ago, before he’d found it to be a place he didn’t want to linger.
He was more than happy to cling to national pride.
He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets because that was preferable to wringing them like a fitful alewife.
“You remember that piece of lace that went missing about the time of the troubles with Nathan Ainsworth?”
“Vividly.” Cameron studied him for a moment or two in silence. “It was restored to its proper owner, though, if I’m remembering it aright.”
“Briefly,” Derrick said grimly. “I had a wee ring from Lord Epworth a few days back, asking if I wouldn’t be so good as to track it down for him again.”
“And of course you said him nay, because you aren’t a private detective and it isn’t your affair to help anyone hold on to their priceless treasures,” Cameron drawled. “Or do I have that wrong?”
Derrick suppressed the urge to swear. “I said I would think about it.”
Cameron laughed. “Of course you did, though I imagine the exact words were, Of course, Lord Epworth, I would be happy to retrieve it for you.”
“You know, there are limits to the deference my fealty demands,” Derrick said darkly.
“I’m quite sure there are,” Cameron agreed. “Very well, so you’ve turned yourself into a retriever for this poor doddering old Englishman. Why do I have the feeling that isn’t the end of the tale?”
“Because that isn’t the last thing that’s trotted off into the ether as if it had legs.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You needn’t look so nonchalant about this all.”
Cameron shrugged. “You’ll find it all, I imagine. Not my problem if you don’t.”
“You know, you would be far less annoying if you could stop exuding that aura of wedded bliss.”
“I’m walking the floor with my son every evening as he howls and Geoff Segrave rings to complain because apparently the walls are too thin for his taste,” Cameron said mildly. “Is that bliss?”
“I’m sure you’re relishing every moment of each.”
Cameron hesitated, then smiled. “I can’t argue with that, though I think young Breac gives me more pleasure than he does Geoff.” He looked at Derrick unflinchingly. “I won’t offer aid.”
“I wouldn’t ask for it.”
“But you could.”
“And I won’t repeat what you would tell me, though I’m sure it would involve foul language.”