Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (11 page)

Suddenly, the atmosphere inside the repulsive tavern seemed thick, stale, and dirty. Anxiety began to claw at his gut, and Elliot was seized with an almost overwhelming need to draw the sharp, pure air of Essex down into his lungs. He burst forth from the stooped, narrow doorway and into the packed dirt yard, jerking his head toward the stables and muttering a blunt command to the dim-witted ostler who had taken his horse.

As he waited for his mount by the roadway, the feeling of anxiety churned, shifted, and became dread and then something worse: a gnawing sense of loss and fear. Of what? He was impatient to escape this wretched place, yet he had no wish to return to London. Nor, in fact, to his life. He was the all-powerful, much-reviled marquis of Rannoch, and he suddenly found himself liking that fact no better than did anyone else. Nonetheless, that was precisely who he was, and the reality of it would never change. The stench of this wayside clung to him like the knowledge of what he had become: jaded, sated, base, and bored.

Tell me, Muse, of the man of many tricks
.

—H
OMER

I
t was perfectly obvious that the much put-upon MacLeod had been compelled to suppress a gasp of horror when his travel-worn master returned to Strath that evening and announced his shocking intention of taking an early supper in the schoolroom with his daughter. Without comment, however, the butler dutifully conveyed his lord’s command belowstairs, thereby pitching Henri and his kitchen staff into a fit of French anarchy. But since Miss Zoë was known to be the particular favorite of the hard-nosed MacLeod, in very short order a trio of footmen arrived at the schoolroom door, bearing great silver trays laden with cold ham and warm beef, along with all the wines, vegetables, and breads that would normally have been laid out in the great dining room. More importantly, they brought along Zoë’s favorite, a raspberry tart, to finish.

By the time the schoolroom clock struck eight, however, the covers had long since been removed, and Elliot found himself rather awkwardly wiping a smear of raspberry filling from Zoë’s chin. With a sticky napkin still clutched in his hand, Elliot leaned back into his chair, stretched his feet toward the cold hearth, and studied his daughter assiduously. She was a part of him, this lovely little thing. In Zoë, he could see his own mother’s dark, curling hair, framing his late father’s solemn, steady expression. Her sharp little chin probably came from Aunt Agnes, but the strong, stubborn jaw . . . well, that was undeniably his very own, and only God could guess at its origin.

Yes, she was indeed his child, and he cherished her, yet she had scarcely uttered above a dozen words during dinner. And was there any wonder? Zoë doubtless thought her papa had gone perfectly mad, for Elliot rarely saw the inside of the schoolroom, usually dined alone, and never, ever wiped his daughter’s face. Sitting there amidst the books and globes and tiny chairs, Elliot felt—and probably looked—just about as awkward as a tricked-out cyprian at an Almack’s assembly. Perhaps, he wryly considered, he really had gone mad. It was not the first time such a thought had crossed his mind. Resolutely, he shoved it away. He was determined to do a better job of this thing, this parenting, or nurturing, or whatever one called it.

Deliberately, he forced a smile. “Zoë, why do you not fetch that book you like so much? Let’s have a look at it together.” Zoë gave him a rather blank stare, and in desperation Elliot began to dig around in his memory. “The picture book, sweet? I believe it had to do with, er, animals in the zoo or some such thing?”

Zoë blinked, her brown eyes luminous in the lamp-light. “I am too old now, Papa, for picture books.”

Good Lord
. . . how stupid he was! Of course, a girl who read as well as Zoë would have long ago lost interest in her picture books. Elliot shot her a shamefaced grin and was pleased when she gradually returned it. “Then fetch a book you do like, sweet. And tell your foolish, forgetful papa what it is about.”

Dutifully, Zoë slid from her chair and padded across the carpet to rummage through a stack of small, well-worn books. She returned to her father’s chair, clutching one in her plump, girlish fingers. “It is about a yellow kitten,” she softly explained, extending it toward him. “He has adventures, but some of the words are too hard.”

Elliot smiled again, and it felt less forced this time. Perhaps this would indeed become easier with practice. Gently, he reached out to tuck a stray piece of hair ribbon back from Zoë’s heart-shaped face, then tweaked Aunt Agnes’s chin for good measure. “Then Papa will read it to you, sweetie, and we will work on the hard words together. Would you like that?”

Wordlessly, Zoë nodded, her solemn eyes widening with what looked like anticipation. Gently, Elliot leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. Silence hung in the air for a long moment. “Well,” said Elliot briskly. “How shall we go about this, Zoë?”

“How shall we go about what, Papa?” she echoed sweetly.

Inwardly, Elliot kicked himself. Had he truly never read a book to his daughter? Damn it all, he knew perfectly well he hadn’t. It was not that he had never wished to read to her, yet Elliot could not precisely say why he had not, or explain what it was that held him back from a child he loved so much. His child. She stood before him, so small yet so grave and uncertain. His daughter hardly knew her own father, and it was his fault. He was all that Zoë had left, yet it should have been more than enough.

Indeed, a loving father was far more than many children had, and love her he surely did. None of the boys and girls at Chatham had a father, and yet they flourished, while his daughter floundered. “Come up into my lap, Zoë,” Elliot answered with a sudden certainty. “Come up, and I will hold you, and together we shall see what adventures this yellow kitten of yours has got himself into.”

At last, Zoë smiled. It was a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, but as she lifted her arms to touch her father’s shoulders, it came close. Very close.
Ah
,
yes
, he reassured himself. It was a start. But the start of what? Elliot did not know, but he was working on it.

At half past nine, Gerald Wilson paused on the threshold of the marquis of Rannoch’s library and asked himself what the hell he was doing there. Oh, he knew very well that the marquis had summoned him. And in his usual high-handed manner: an overwrought footman bearing a scribbled note which read “Library now,” with a thick, black
R
boldly slashed across the bottom. It was time, Wilson told himself. Long past time, in fact. He should have begun seeking a new position months ago.

With his impeccable references and experience, Wilson prided himself on being a consummately professional man of affairs. Two years earlier, he had reluctantly accepted employment with Rannoch, for at the time, the exorbitant salary the marquis offered him had made living in hell seem worth the price. Now Wilson harbored grave doubts, and he had learned a hard lesson about why Rannoch paid so well. Worse still, the marquis went through staff like a scythe through wheat, cutting fast and close to the ground. Wilson winced at the analogy. He could almost see the glittering blade slicing toward his kneecaps.

Oh
,
Lord
. That was it, then, wasn’t it? He was going to be fired.

Wilson could fathom no other reason why the marquis would have sent for him at such an unusually late hour. And though he had indulged in many a fantasy about marching into the marquis’s dark library and cavalierly tossing down his resignation, Wilson had never in his wildest imaginings dreamed that Rannoch might turn
him
off without notice. Why, had he not given exemplary service? Had he not tolerated Rannoch’s harsh demands and vile moods with nary a whimper?

Throughout two godforsaken years, he had done the marquis’s dirty work. He had trafficked with free traders who would have cheerfully knifed him over a case of brandy, paid off occasional bribes when needed, and bailed the randy old baronet, Sir Hugh, out of various and sundry foul predicaments. He had routinely collected crushing debts of honor from dozens of near-bankrupt gentlemen, two of whom had blown their brains to kingdom come as soon as the door clicked shut behind him.

Yes, Wilson allowed that in the service of the marquis of Rannoch, he had stared over the precipice and into the blackest pit humanity could offer up. To be sacked after all that he had suffered was too much to be borne, but best to have done with it quickly. With a steely determination, Wilson squared his shoulders, rapped upon the thick oak door, then entered the marquis’s inner sanctum.

“Ah, Wilson!” exclaimed his employer, putting down an unlit cheroot and rising with uncharacteristic politeness from his sprawled position behind the desk. “Thank you for coming so promptly—and so late in the evening.”

Thank you for coming?

The civility of the remark was disconcerting, and Wilson paused uncertainly just inside the cavernous chamber. The marquis was obviously dressed for the privacy of his home, having removed his usual coat and waistcoat. The fine cambric of his shirt looked limp, and Rannoch’s sleeves were rolled partway up his forearms, revealing dark hair sprinkled over taut muscle. A day’s growth of heavy beard shadowed his harsh face. Wilson swallowed hard, for despite his employer’s opulent surroundings, the Scotsman always looked brutal. Absent the civilizing effect of formal clothing, he looked barbaric.

“Well, come in, Wilson! Good God, man, come in and pour yourself a brandy,” offered Rannoch convivially, waving toward a set of crystal decanters. “It is, after all, well past your regular working hours,” he added, strolling from behind the desk to peer through the heavy damask draperies. “Tell me, Wilson, has the fog worsened outside?”

Good God, Rannoch was discussing the weather. And offering him a drink. His employer’s usual conversational vein ran more to an occasional grunt, a half dozen words of command, followed by a curt dismissal. Gratefully, Wilson headed for the brandy, now fully convinced that he was going to need it.

Looking unusually relaxed, the marquis turned from the window and sat back against the corner of his desk, cradling his customary glass of scotch whisky negligently against one big leg. Even perched on the desk, the tall man towered over Wilson. Anxiously, his brain scrabbled for a foothold on the conversation. If Rannoch had intended to dismiss him, he would have had done with it by now. Wilson had witnessed it often enough. Rannoch turned on a man like a cobra struck: fast, blinding, and agonizingly painful.

So the marquis wanted something else—but what? Wilson put down the decanter with a careless chink. This newest task must be something dreadful indeed to warrant such uncharacteristically pleasant behavior from the marquis. Earlier this week, Wilson had been tasked with tracking down, or attempting to track down, Rannoch’s errant mistress. What a hopeless job that had been! Then, immediately thereafter, he had been dispatched to the jeweler’s to purchase an extravagant ruby bracelet to match the necklace Wilson had chosen as her Christmas gift.

The bracelet had been a bad sign. Wilson knew exactly what it meant. Perhaps, he sarcastically considered, he was now to procure a new mistress. There was nothing unusual in that, for it had been Wilson who had secured Miss Fontaine’s services last year. On that memorably unromantic occasion, Rannoch’s orders had been coldly succinct. Discover the name of Lord Clivington’s mistress, make certain she was reasonably attractive, ascertain his financial arrangements, and offer her twice as much.

It had been widely rumored that Clivington had badly cheated Rannoch at hazard the preceding week, but with tactics that had been quick and clever. No gentleman, not even Rannoch, would be so forward as to make an accusation that could not be proven. Therefore, the treacherous marquis of Rannoch, as he so often did, simply exacted his revenge by other means.

In short order, Clivington had been forced into the laughably awkward position of pretending, with no success whatsoever, that he had lost interest in Miss Fontaine. He did not dare call Rannoch out; few of Rannoch’s victims were so foolish. Those who were soon regretted their impetuousness. In fact, given Rannoch’s usual methods of retribution, Clivington had escaped relatively unscathed.

Uneasily, Wilson turned from the side table to face his employer. “Indeed, my lord,” he replied at last. “It is unseasonably foggy tonight.”

Rannoch still looked, relatively speaking, benign. Nevertheless, Wilson feared he was little more than a languid, sated panther that had recently dined on plenty of red meat. “Sit down, Wilson. Sit down,” the marquis suggested, motioning affably toward a chair. “I fancy you look rather pale. Perhaps you’ve been working too hard?” Casually, the marquis retrieved his cigar, lit it from a desk candle, then exhaled a curling cloud of smoke into the dimly lit room.

Wilson sat. “No, my lord. I am quite well, I assure you.”

“Good, good,” replied Rannoch, absently studying the cheroot in his fingers. He paused for a long moment as if searching for something to say. At last he spoke. “Tell me, Wilson, I never think to ask, how does your family go on? You have an elderly mother, I collect?”

Wilson was stunned to know that the marquis was aware he had any family at all, let alone a mother. “Indeed, Lord Rannoch, my mother and family fare quite well.”

“Ah, yes. Good.” The marquis picked up his glass and sipped at his vile scotch whisky pensively.

Wilson took a very healthy swallow of his drink, too. “My lord?”

“Yes, Wilson?” The marquis’s slashing black brows arched inquisitively.

“Was—was there something you wanted?”

Rannoch regarded him from his perch on the desk corner, looking for all the world like a huge black bird of prey which might at any moment unfurl its broad wingspan to swoop down upon an unsuspecting rodent. “Yes!” replied the marquis, startling Wilson. “Do forgive me. I forget that you must be desirous of returning to hearth and home.”

“Yes, well . . .” Wilson let his words trickle weakly away.

“Ah, indeed! Hearth and home,” repeated Rannoch almost pensively, “and on such a dreary evening. I must say, Wilson, having now considered my behavior, I regret having been so thoughtless as to drag you from such a pleasant place so late at night.”

Wilson, rapidly sipping his employer’s very fine French brandy, was on the verge of explaining that given Rannoch’s extraordinarily affable mood, the marquis’s dark library was beginning to seem somewhat more agreeable than Mrs. Wilson’s chilly hearth, but he withheld his sentiment out of an abundance of reserve. “Do not regard it, my lord,” he replied instead.