Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (13 page)

“Humph,” grunted Hugh noncommittally. Cocking his head, one sharp gray eye squinting, the baronet scratched his ear. “Long trip, it was?”

“Suffice it to say that I became distracted along the way,” responded Elliot flatly.

Hugh’s face split in a knowing grin. “Aye, you’re my blood and no doubt! Can’t leave town without stumbling over a willing one on your way out.”

“As it happens, she’s not willing. Or perhaps I should say not available,” answered Elliot, staring fixedly at his glass. Indeed, he ruefully considered, Hugh had one thing right. He was his uncle’s blood. Again, one had only to look at the Benham nose, for despite the badly healed break in Elliot’s, the similarity was unmistakable. For once, their similarities saddened him. Was this to be his fate, too? Living alone with chronic gout and all the companionship money could buy? Good Lord, life seemed unexpectedly bleak. “And in the country, this one was,” Elliot murmured despondently, then tossed off the rest of his whisky in one swallow. “In Essex.”

Arching his brows in surprise, Hugh pulled at his drink with a slurp. “A country gel, eh? I do wonder at that! Not your usual style, my boy.”

“I should rather we not discuss it, Hugh,” stated Elliot coolly, returning his emotionless gaze to his uncle. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“As you wish,” agreed Hugh convivially, “for we assuredly have more pressing concerns than choosing your next light skirt.”

The derogatory phrase struck a raw nerve with Elliot, and he suppressed a visceral urge to rise from his seat and throttle his uncle where he sat. Wrestling the foreign emotion under control, Elliot forced a neutral tone. “And those concerns would be—?”

“The new Baron Cranham—very interesting news. Winthrop and Linden dropped by last night. Seems Godfrey Moore is back from that rat hole he scuttled off to—India, was it? Perhaps he thinks you’ve forgotten your threat.”

Elliot put down his glass with a sharp clatter. “Moore has returned? And has managed to snag the title? That I cannot comprehend.”

“No other heirs, Elliot. The title would otherwise have gone into abeyance, no doubt about it.” Hugh leaned forward to shift the weight of his foot, grimacing as he did so. “Moore quietly returned from Baipur weeks ago, claiming his mother’s marriage lines were finally found. And under the circumstances, who would bother to argue? The estate is not a rich one, a small manor house near Nottingham and an income that barely keeps it up. Nonetheless, it was enough to bring him back to London and grant him entrée into a few drawing rooms.”

“Bloody hell,” muttered Elliot almost to himself. “Am I to be eternally tortured by the past? I vow, I am sick to death of it.”

“What a new and touching sentiment, my boy,” replied Hugh dryly, “but there’s no help for it. Moore, Cranham—or whoever—the fellow has returned, and trouble shall follow, mark my very word.”

“Undoubtedly, though I’m not sure what should be done.”

“Kill him,” grumbled Hugh, one brow crooked high. “Kill him now. Save yourself any future inconvenience, and finish what you started ten years ago. It shan’t be too difficult. Trump up some vague excuse, and call him out again, or, better yet, just garrote the bastard in a dark alley.”

Three days ago, Elliot considered, he would have had no compunction whatsoever about killing Baron Cranham, newly invested or no. Swords, pistols, or a good knife fight, it mattered not one whit. He would have had no need of a dark alley, nor would he have troubled himself to trump up a challenge. He had reason enough. Ten years changed nothing. Moreover, this time, he would have made damn sure that no one spirited Cranham onto a Bombay-bound merchantman in the dark of night.

But now? Had Elliot harbored any doubt that his meaningless life was God’s idea of a sarcastic joke, this twist of fate would have confirmed it. Killing Cranham was just a matter of time. It would be unavoidable, and probably necessary. Elliot knew it with a sickening certainty.

May had turned to June when, true to his word, Elliot Roberts returned to Wrotham-upon-Lea. He came late one afternoon, riding the sturdy chestnut and carrying a fat saddlebag, evidencing his intent to stay. Evangeline was reluctant to acknowledge, even to herself, that she had spent the better part of the last three days puttering about in the front gardens, eagerly awaiting his arrival. The children, too, had been enthusiastic, asking for word of Elliot’s return every night at dinner.

Evangeline, accompanied by the dog, was cutting fresh flowers when at last he did arrive. Impulsively, she wished that she had dressed in something a little finer or arranged her hair a bit more elegantly, but it was too late. Despite her doubts, Elliot had returned, and with him came her unsettled emotions. That now familiar, still disturbing warmth began to curl deep inside her stomach as she watched him drop the reins of his chestnut and stride across the drive with his easy masculine grace. In the sunshine, Elliot looked even larger than she remembered. Today he was dressed very simply, a fact that somehow added to his aura of power and strength.

“Miss Stone!” he greeted her warmly, walking toward her with both hands extended, the grim lines of his face suddenly softened by a gentle smile. Upon hearing Elliot’s voice, Fritz bounded from the clump of shrubbery he had been desultorily sniffing and dashed into the drive to trot along at Elliot’s heels, as if herding him toward her. Evangeline lifted up her skirt to step a shortcut over the floral border that edged the circular drive. As she did so, Elliot took her hand in his, lightly curled the other about her waist, and gently assisted her across to the graveled surface. His hands were huge and warm, hard but not rough, and for an unnecessary moment he held her. She sensed it and felt as giddy and foolish as a schoolgirl.

Evangeline could not bring herself to pull away, and then she remembered, with irrational disappointment, his solemn vow not to flirt with her. “Mr. Roberts,” she managed to say breathlessly, “you did return, after all.”

“Indeed, did you think I would not?” With what felt like measured reluctance, Elliot slowly let his arms drop to his sides.

Evangeline looked up at him and smiled, unable to hide her pleasure. “I thought it very likely you mightn’t.”

“Why?” His tone was blunt. “Did you think me so false as that?” He stared at her again with that sudden intensity that made her knees disconcertingly weak.

As if hoping to rid herself of the perplexing sensation, Evangeline brushed at a wisp of hair that had come loose to tease at her forehead. She studied his hard gray eyes, which always seemed to hold a firm resolve. “Indeed, I have no notion why . . .” she explained weakly, letting her words trail away. “Come, let me take you in.”

He offered her his arm, and they trailed back along the drive and up the wide front steps. “Bolton will show you to the Tower Room,” she continued to chatter nervously, “if you found it to your liking when last you were here at Chatham?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Stone. I found everything here at Chatham very much to my liking,” he answered softly as they crossed the threshold into the cool shadows of the hall. “This is a most agreeable place in every respect.”

Evangeline parted her lips uncertainly, not quite sure of his meaning. He was looking at her with a sharp, sidelong gaze. “Thank you, Mr. Roberts. The tower rooms have always been my favorite. So quiet and private, with an exceedingly fine view.”

“Quiet and private, Miss Stone?” One dark, slashing brow tilted up very slightly, then gave way to a puzzled frown. “I wonder, then, that you do not occupy them yourself?”

Evangeline smiled graciously as she reached up to tug the bell pull. “Solitude is a luxury that is rare to me, sir. I must be near the children on the second-floor wing, which is more modern if somewhat less charming.”

“Ah, yes! Your rooms are near the south alcove—by the window seat?” On the rug at Elliot’s feet, Fritz began to roll on his back in a blatant request for a belly scratch, his tiny paws flailing aimlessly in the air. Elliot very graciously bent to oblige him.

“Yes, it is much newer than the tower rooms, which are stacked atop one another,” she explained, watching in fascination as his fingertips stroked the dog’s rough jetblack coat with slow, hypnotic motions. She wondered fleetingly what it would be like to be caressed just so by those long, elegant fingers. His hands were large and beautifully formed, his touch light but sure—

Bolton’s slow, dignified footfalls ended her fanciful daydreams. “Mr. Roberts, is it?” asked the butler with his usual level of polite ambivalence. “Welcome back to Chatham Lodge.”

“Bolton, kindly show Mr. Roberts to—to his usual room.” Evangeline turned to face Elliot again, praying that he did not notice her heightened color. “Dinner will be served at half past six. Since it is now very near four, I shall have Cook send up a light repast, then leave you to your own devices. Please ring for a bath if you wish it, or feel free to join Gus and the boys outside.”

Elliot seemed pleased at the second suggestion. “Where might I find them?”

Evangeline tossed her hand and gave a little laugh. “In the rear gardens, Mr. Roberts, where they are engaged in something vile under the guise of what Theo and Michael call ‘chemical experiments.’ Go at your own risk, for it apparently involves a great deal of noise, smoke, and smell.” With that warning, Evangeline strode back toward the garden, in hope of retrieving both her basket and her composure. Fritz, however, deserted her, springing deftly to his feet and bounding happily after Elliot. Turning to look over one shoulder, only to see them disappear into the depths of the hallway, Evangeline found herself keenly jealous of her own dog.

Elliot followed Bolton up the main staircase and down the corridor to the circular stairs of the ancient tower, the tap-tap of Fritz’s claws echoing cheerfully behind. Elliot found that his step was light, and his mood rose incrementally with every tread of the turret stairs. Inwardly, he breathed a silent sigh of relief, not realizing until this moment that he had been holding his breath in anticipation.

But he need not have worried; it was still there. All was as he had hoped; it was unchanged. The mood. The magic. That mysterious feeling that all was right with the world. Ah, and Evangeline Stone! She was more exquisite than ever. Even as he had rounded Chatham’s drive to see her standing ankle-deep in thick grass and spring flowers, some strange, soothing emotion had enveloped him. He had been almost tangibly encircled by feelings he could only vaguely put a name to.

Unfamiliar words tumbled about in his head and in his heart:
shelter
,
sustenance
,
redemption
. It was irrational, Elliot reminded himself as Bolton threw open the door to his comfortingly familiar bedchamber. But there it was. Evangeline’s presence breathed a sense of utter peace and contentment into this house, filling it just as surely as did the June breeze that billowed in through the soft draperies of his open window.

With her usual intrepidity, Evangeline refereed the chaos that passed for dinner at Chatham Lodge. As the courses were served, then just as quickly consumed, the cheerful clamor rose and fell accordingly. Throughout the meal, Evangeline played Solomon, disposing of quarrels between children and remanding inappropriate topics for later discussion. Aside from the constant activity, however, she silently studied her guest.

What manner of man was Elliot Roberts? A handsome one, though not in the way of most Englishmen, which was to say blond, languid, and elegantly dressed. Elliot was dark, athletic, and simply attired. Moreover, if Winnie was correct, he was not English at all. That, perhaps, in some way accounted for his rugged good looks. Indeed, it had become obvious that Elliot was far too handsome for her peace of mind.

He was a man of means, but how ample those means might be, Evangeline could not guess, and in truth it mattered little. More importantly, what of his character? Certainly, he seemed often introspective and somewhat obdurate. Yet in the twinkling of an eye, he could become flirtatious, then just as quickly compassionate. His good nature charmed all manner of people. The staff had easily accepted him, and her extended family had eagerly embraced him. Even the little
spitske
, a dog that rarely tolerated strangers, had taken to Elliot.

How all this had happened in so short a time was beyond her. Nevertheless, as she cast a sidelong glance at the dark man seated on her right, it surely seemed as if he belonged at Chatham Lodge. Even more disconcerting, everyone else seemed to agree. Elliot flirted lightly with Winnie, caroused good-naturedly with the boys, and listened attentively to Nicolette’s girlish inanities. For little Frederica, however, Elliot seemed to reserve a special fondness. He made an obvious effort to include her in every conversation and watched her carefully from the corner of one attentive eye.

Elliot had fallen into Chatham’s routine as if he participated in lectures and debates over dinner every day of his life, engaging in vigorous argument and fork pointing with the best of them. He laughed frequently and heartily, yet Evangeline was struck with the perplexing impression that Elliot was not a man to whom laughter came easily. A pervasive sadness, a sort of withdrawal, seemed often to cloud his eyes and harden the features of his harsh, aristocratic face.

Nonetheless, tonight he seemed very much at ease, though she tried not to stare at him. Given the incessant smoke and laughter that had emanated from the gardens earlier in the afternoon, and the bandaged finger Elliot now cheerfully sported, he must have demonstrated quite an enthusiasm for his afternoon chemical experiments with the boys. And only moments ago, after politely securing Winnie’s permission, Elliot had promised to teach Theo the rudiments of hazard, then dutifully rummaged through his coat pocket to produce the requisite dice.