Excerpt of Wicked by Shannon Drake

"GOOD LORD, what has he done now?" Camille asked with
dismay, looking at Ralph, Tristan's valet, man's man and —
unfortunately, most often — his cohort in crime.

"Nothing!" Ralph said indignantly.

"Nothing? I am left to wonder why you are standing in
front of me, breathless, looking as if I'm about to be
called to once again come to the aid of my guardian and
rescue him from some jail cell, brothel or other place of
ill repute!"

She knew that she sounded indignant and angry. Tristan was
incapable of staying out of trouble. She also sounded as
if she would let him stew in his pot of problems, which
she would not. Ralph knew it, and she knew it.

Tristan Montgomery was not much of a respectable figure as
far as guardians went, despite the fact that fate had
provided him with a certain status, this being a time when
a man's title meant far more than his true situation or
character.

But twelve years ago he had rescued her from a work-house
or a worse fate. She shivered, thinking of other penniless
orphans who had been left to fend for themselves.
Tristan's means of support had never been what one would
call acceptable, but from the day he had first seen her,
alone with her mother's still-warm body, he had given his
heart and his means — whatever they might be — to her. And
she would never give him less.

However, she had been striving valiantly for several years
now to give him more — stability! An honest place in
society. A home. A far more decent life….

Luckily, Ralph had met her discreetly at the corner,
rather than coming into the British Museum, where his
disheveled appearance and anxious whispers might have cost
her the job she had at long last acquired. She knew more
about ancient Egypt than most of the men who had been on
excavations, but even Sir John Matthews had hemmed and
hawed about the idea of bringing in a woman. And with Sir
Hunter MacDonald in on the decision, it had certainly not
been an easy road. Hunter actually liked her very much,
but the fact that he admired her might well have worked
against her. He thought himself something of a seasoned
explorer and adventurer — one who apparently gave no
credence to the new breed of women suffragettes and
sincerely thought that the fairer breed belonged at home.
At least Alex Mittleman, Aubrey Sizemore and even Lord
Wimbly seemed to accept her presence without much ado.
Thankfully, Lord Wimbly and Sir John mattered the most.

Yet the trials and tribulations of her work could not be
of much import at this moment. Tristan was in trouble. But
on Monday evening! Just at the start of the workweek.

"I swear, Tristan did nothing." Ralph flushed. He was a
little man, no more than five feet five inches, but he was
spry. He could move with the speed of a lynx, and just as
supplely and secretively, as well.

Camille was aware that although Tristan might not have
done anything, he had certainly been planning something
illegal when he arrived in whatever his current — and
dire — situation might be.

Camille turned, looking back. The scholarly curators of
the museum were now exiting the grand and beautiful
building, and might stumble upon her at any second.
Suddenly Alex Mittleman, Sir John's next in command,
appeared. If he saw her, he'd want to talk, to escort her
to the trains. She had to move, and fast.

She caught Ralph's elbow, hurrying him down the street. As
she did so, the wind expelled a mighty breath, making the
nip in the air more like a true bite of ice. Maybe it
wasn't just the wind. Perhaps it was a premonition of fear
that snaked so cruelly along her spine.

"Come along, speak to me and speak quickly!" Camille
warned. She was already worried, very worried. Tristan was
smart, incredibly well-read, with a street education to
match that he had procured at the hands of a multitude of
tutors when a young man. He had taught her so very much —
language, reading, art, history, theater… And also the
fact that perception was nine tenths of the law — the
social law. If she spoke like an impoverished but genteel
lady, and dressed as such, that is what people would
believe her to be.

He could be so amazingly perceptive regarding so much
around him. And yet, at times, it seemed as if he had no
common sense whatsoever!

"Dougray's is ahead," Ralph said, referring to a pub.

"You do not need a quota of gin!" Camille remonstrated.

"Aye, but I do!" the little man moaned softly.

She sighed. Dougray's was known as a working class
establishment and was of a better repute than many a place
both Ralph and Tristan had frequented. The pub was also
not averse to serving women, particularly the growing
sisterhood within the clerical office force in the country.

Camille always dressed carefully to maintain her station
as assistant to Sir John Matthews, associate curator for
the burgeoning department of Egyptian Antiquities. Her
skirt was a somber gray with a small bustle, and her
blouse, with an attractive, tailored look that primly
ringed her neck, was in a similar but lighter color. Her
cloak was of good quality and appropriate. Once it had
belonged to a lady of class who had presumably let it go
to the Salvation Army when she had acquired one of more
recent style. Skeins of rich sable-brown hair — which
Camille considered to be her one beauty — were dutifully
pinned atop her head. She wore no jewelry or ornamentation
other than the plain gold band that Tristan had found on
her mother's person, and which she had worn ever since —
on a chain when she was a child, and now upon her finger.

She didn't think they were particularly noticed when they
entered the pub.

"We're hiding?" Ralph whispered.

"Please, let's just move to the back."

"If you're trying to be nondescript, Camie, you should be
aware that every fellow in this place has turned to look
at you."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's your eyes," he told her.

"They are an ordinary brown," she said impatiently.

"No, lass, they're gold, pure gold. And sometimes they
have a touch of the old Emerald Isle. Quite remarkable.
I'm afraid that men do watch you, the proper ones — and
them that aren't so proper!" he said, looking around with
a flash of anger.

"I'm not under attack, Ralph. Please, move!"

She quickly urged Ralph into the smoky rear of the
establishment, ordering him a gin and herself a cup of tea.

"Now," she commanded, "talk!"

So he did.

"Tristan loves you dearly, child. You know that," Ralph
began.

"As I love him. And I am hardly a child any longer, thank
the good Lord!" Camille retorted. "Now tell me,
immediately, what mess I must rescue him from this time!"

Ralph muttered into his glass of gin.

"Ralph!" she remonstrated, showing backbone and temper.

"He's in the hands of the Earl of Carlyle."