But Cameron would never, ever lie down with Ainsley in her bed.

Only one incident marred their glittering season in Monte Carlo. Daniel returned to the hotel one afternoon after New Year’s with a black eye and half his face bloodied. Ainsley fussed over him as she patched him up, but Cameron watched with a scowl.

“Did you finish it?” Cameron asked him. “Or are the police going to come to my door and arrest you?”

“I didn’t get into a fight, Dad. A chap had his toughs beat me up.”

Ainsley looked at Daniel in alarm. “Then we are the ones who should go to the police.”

Daniel shrugged. “I’m fine. I got away from them.”

“What chap?” Cameron demanded. “What happened?”

Daniel looked evasive. “You’ll go spare when I tell you. Maybe I shouldn’t with Ainsley here.”

“I’m made of stern stuff, Daniel,” Ainsley said. “I want to know about this chap, and I still think we should have his toughs arrested. What kind of man sets other men to punch up a lad?”

“Count Durand.”

Ainsley had no idea who that was, but Cameron came alert. “Durand is still alive? I thought he’d be dead of the clap by now.”

Daniel snorted, relaxing. “No, he’s here, but he don’t look good. Haggard, I’d say. Maybe he does have the clap.”

“He set his men on you?” Cameron’s words were quiet, but Ainsley sensed the fury in him rising like a geyser.

“I did hit Durand first, I admit. But that’s because he started trying to claim again that he was my pa. I told Durand that it was impossible, because his wick’s been limp for decades. Then he said that if I claimed to be a Mackenzie whelp, it meant I was as mad as my mother, so I laid him out. He screamed, and his toughs pulled me off him, and he told them to give me a good beating. Durand said he’d let them stop if I admitted I was his son, but damned if I would. I got away from them and lit out.”

Ainsley listened in shock, the rag she’d been using to wipe Daniel’s face dripping bloody water to the carpet. “Cameron . . .”

“I’ll deal with Durand. Danny, you stay the hell away from him. No thoughts of vengeance. Understand? I don’t want him to have ten toughs next time.”

Daniel looked annoyed, but he nodded.

“Who is this Count Durand?” Ainsley asked.

Daniel shot a look at his father. “I told you we should have sent her out of the room.”

“If Ainsley chooses to live with us, she deserves to know the worst. Count Durand was my wife’s lover,” Cameron said to Ainsley. “One of her most persistent.”

“Oh.” Cameron’s explanation was all the more heartbreaking for the calmness with which he gave it.

“She was with Durand right before she married Dad,” Daniel said. “She kept going back to him even after she married, and she gave him a lot of Dad’s money. Durand’s one of those old French aristos from an émigré family. Doesn’t have a home, and pretty much lives off his friends and his women. Probably his male lovers too.”

“Daniel,” Cameron said.

“Well, ye wanted her to know. Somehow, the man got it into his head that he sired me.”

From the look in Cameron’s eyes, the uncertainty of that had once haunted him. Daniel, tall and broad-shouldered, his stance a mirror of Cameron’s own, was certainly a Mackenzie, but Cameron must have lived with the agony of not knowing for certain before Daniel’s birth.

That was another reason Cameron hadn’t sent Elizabeth away, Ainsley realized. Cameron needed to find out whether the child Elizabeth carried was indeed his.

“But Count Durand didn’t sire you,” Ainsley said. “That’s obvious.”

“Yes, but he can’t get the idea out of his thick head. Threatens to go to the police about it, or tries to blackmail Dad for keeping me away from him.” Daniel laughed, his bruised eye swelling almost shut. “Durand doesn’t really want a son hanging on him, he just likes to make trouble and get money out of Dad. Durand couldn’t stand the expense of me.”

Cameron made Daniel drop the subject, but he was tight- lipped for the rest of the day.

That night, at the casino, Cameron abruptly abandoned a winning hand of baccarat to stride out of the card room to a slender black-haired man whose satin-lined opera cloak hung in limp folds on his bony frame. Patrons of the casino scurried out of Cameron’s way, opening a path between him and the dark-haired man.

Cameron grabbed the man by the neck and marched him into the rotunda and out the front doors. No one stopped him—the discreet guards and even the butterflies pretended to pay attention to something else.

Cameron pushed Durand down the drive in front of the pseudoclassical building, Ainsley pattering after them in her tight evening frock and high-heeled slippers. Cameron propelled the man along until they reached a place where one of the winding streets dropped to a street below it.

Ainsley followed, heart in her throat. She didn’t blame Cameron for his anger, but who knew what Cameron would do to Durand? Or how many toughs Durand had waiting in the shadows to beat Cameron to a pulp?

She rounded the corner just as Cameron threw Durand into a wall. The man tried to guard himself, but Cameron hoisted Durand up by his cloak.

“You touch my son again,” Cameron said clearly, “and I’ll kill you.”

“Your son?” Durand spoke French to Cameron’s English, but Ainsley understood well enough. “My Elizabeth said you couldn’t make your c**k dance enough to give her a son. She said she’d fooled you well and good with my seed. The boy is mine.”