Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (18 page)

“She gambled, and she died, Rannoch,” hissed Cranham. He was standing on his toes, staring into Elliot’s face now. “She died because you ruined her and turned her away. And sooner or later, so help me God, you will pay for it!”

“Go home, Cranham,” replied Elliot sadly, having lost what little enthusiasm he had had for the argument. “Go home and sober up and get on with your life, as I have had to do. Leave me in peace.” He turned his back on Cranham, crossed back into the card room, and slid into his chair.

“Damn your impudence, Rannoch!” rasped Cranham, following him to his seat. “I shall not be so easily dismissed.”

“Nonetheless, you are,” replied Elliot, absently shuffling the cards. “Dismissed, that is.”

In an apparent rage, Cranham grabbed the cards from his hand and sprayed them across the table. “Go ahead, you hulking Scots bastard! Call me out again—and this time I shall kill you.”

“No,” said Elliot quietly. Methodically, he began to gather up the deck. Major Winthrop and Lord Linden shot discreet, bewildered glances across the table and began to shove the strewn cards toward him. Sir Hugh merely tilted his chair backward on its rear legs to better view the fray.

“Go ahead,” snarled Cranham. “I insist.”

“Upon what?” asked Elliot, suddenly intent upon the cards. “Why should I trouble myself to challenge you when I cannot expect that you will keep your dawn appointments?”

“Go to hell,” hissed Cranham, struggling to peel away his glove, then whipping it in Elliot’s face. “I issue the challenge, Rannoch! My seconds will wait upon you tomorrow.” He spun on one heel and began to walk away, but Elliot rose from the table and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Drop it, Cranham! Perhaps we were both ill used. Most assuredly, I have no lingering urge to fight you.” Elliot bit out the words coldly. “Withdraw your challenge now, and I shall gladly accept.”

“No,” replied Cranham quietly, sounding suddenly sober.

“As you wish.” Elliot nodded brusquely, then unclamped his hand from Cranham’s shoulder. “Send your seconds to Major Winthrop now. ’Tis half past one. As the challenged, I would have this deal done at first light. One shot, with pistols. Have you any objection?”

“None whatsoever,” snapped his adversary.

Evangeline rose from her bed and pulled on her wrapper in the dark. Sleep had been slow to come and, when it had arrived, had lingered but briefly. This time, her restlessness had little to do with Elliot. It was a problem far more dire.

From her bedside table, she grabbed the letter that had arrived by afternoon post and shoved it into her pocket. Slowly, she made her way down the stairs and into the library, pausing to light a candle in the corridor as she went. The hallway lamp reminded her yet again of Elliot’s harsh, handsome face as he bent down to light his cheroot only a few days earlier.

No! It simply would not do. She could not think of him. Not now. Not when Michael’s happiness might well depend upon her. Quietly, she stole into the library and pushed shut the door. Taking her usual chair, she read the note once more, searching for some measure of hope, but the words were as clear by candlelight as they had been by the light of day.

Her grandfather was dying. In Peter Weyden’s absence, her solicitor had written to warn her that Lord Trent’s death was imminent. The doctors had left Cambert Hall some three days past, sending for the bishop himself as they went. It was consumption, and it was believed that this time he would surely die.

Her grandfather had always been a weak man, in every way save the physical. Was he now to fail his grandchildren in this way, too? Wearily, Evangeline sighed and pushed back her long rope of hair. Perhaps she attached far too much emphasis to her grandfather’s passing. In truth, he had been almost powerless for years and therefore as good as dead to his domineering second wife. Why should his actual demise make any difference? But it would. Evangeline knew it. There was such finality to death; one could not help but think of those who had gone before, of what would never be, and of those who remained to constitute the future.

And her fatuous uncle would be the next earl! Certainly, she could not depend upon him for support. Indeed, he would be cajoled and browbeaten into playing the puppet for his stepmother, for without him Lady Trent would be no more than a dowager. Yes, after her husband’s death, her power base would be at risk, and she was astute enough to know it. But good God, Evange line’s uncle was as weak and ineffectual as her grandfather had been. Was the whole lot of Stone men both spineless and complaisant? Evangeline felt a wave of guilt and bit her lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. Her hands shook as she leaned forward to lay the letter on the desk.

No, that was certainly not the case. The younger son, her uncle Frederick, had given his life for his king and country. Nor had her father been a coward. He had been sensitive. Yes, and resolute enough to give up everything to wed the woman he loved. Yet if her father had been the vivacity of their family, her mother had been its strength, and without it they had very nearly collapsed. Maxwell Stone had been a gifted artist who had loved his wife so deeply that he had been unable to recover from her loss. It had not been weakness; it had been uncontrollable grief. Evangeline refused to see it any other way, and she had never begrudged her father the peace death had finally brought him or resented the promise she had given to her mother. By example, Marie van Artevalde had taught Evangeline that it was the woman’s duty to hold the family together no matter the cost.

Evangeline had inherited whatever artistic skill she possessed from both of her brilliant parents, but from her mother she had received her blond elegance and something far more valuable: a healthy dose of rocksolid Flemish pragmatism. She set about using it now. The danger posed by Lady Trent was not imminent. This was England. One could hardly be kidnapped from one’s bed in the dark of night. Evangeline knew that she could stall for time, for weeks, probably months. On the morrow, she would write to her solicitor and instruct him to begin considering the legal arguments that would inevitably be needed. Only after all options were approaching exhaustion would she take Michael back to their homeland, where they would remain, in hiding if necessary, until her step-grandmother joined her husband in the family tomb.

Her mind raced through the plan she had repeated over and over in her head. She and Michael could flee on a moment’s notice. Winnie and the remaining children could follow at their leisure, for no one would bother to hinder them. The wars were over at last, and Evangeline knew a dozen ways to get in and out of France and Flanders. Moreover, her parents had had friends in every province. She spoke six languages fluently, and Michael spoke four. They could easily pass for French, Swiss, or Austrian. Among the throng of Continental émigrés driven into England by Napoleon, she and Peter Weyden could count many friends and business contacts. It would not be difficult to hide and, ultimately, to escape.

It would, however, be painful. Once again, Evangeline knew that she must keep her promise to her mother, but this time it would hurt all the more. This time, she would be leaving her heart behind in England. After judiciously avoiding one potential suitor after another, she had unwittingly succumbed to the charms of Elliot Roberts, a man about whom she knew almost nothing. She had fallen hopelessly in love with him, a fact she admitted only to herself. Despite the short time she had known him, her desire had already become a private hell which melted to a sweet, exquisite torment whenever he was near. Although she was uncertain about Elliot’s feelings for her, to be alone in Europe, never to see him again, would still be pure agony.

Leaving England was not an issue, for as much as she loved Chatham Lodge, she loved Flanders equally well. Chatham had been carefully entailed to Michael, and a generous marriage portion had been set aside for Nicolette, but the house in Ghent was Evangeline’s. It was her home, and despite her family’s constant travels across Europe, her mother had borne five children there. Situated on a picturesque canal, the fine old house had witnessed the births and deaths of her van Artevalde ancestors for three hundred years.

Despite the comfort of a return to her home, however, nothing could ease the loss of the one man she had ever been capable of loving. Evangeline had racked her brain to find a way to have it all. She could send Michael away to friends, then throw herself shamelessly at Elliot, but she knew she could bring herself to do neither of those things. She could beg Elliot to go with her, but that was both improper and foolish. Moreover, she felt far too inexperienced in the ways of men to understand his feelings for her. Elliot had recently suffered a broken engagement and had been deeply scarred by the loss. They had become dear friends, yes. And although he did not love her, Evangeline believed that he desired her. Nevertheless, men frequently desired women, and quite often it meant little more than that. In her situation, she could hardly afford to make assumptions.

Evangeline considered telling him everything, but she feared that result almost as much as she feared her step-grandmother. Elliot, like most men, was stubborn and prideful. If by chance he felt any deep emotion for her, he might think it his duty to intervene in the coming battle with Lady Trent. That simply would not do. He could not win and by his efforts might well cause considerable damage. Her parents had shown her that waging war against Lady Trent was like a protracted game of chess; it could last eons, and one’s survival often depended upon a series of carefully considered strategic moves. Bludgeoning her with a sharp ax, tempting though it might be, was foolhardy. The woman was Medusa personified.

Moreover, her family’s estrangement from her father’s venerable lineage made his children all but social outcasts according to the unyielding strictures of the socially conscious
beau monde
. That fact alone might well dissuade Elliot from any further relationship with her.

Shockingly, her logic kept returning her to the one remaining alternative, and a sinfully tempting one at that. She could take Elliot as a lover and enjoy him for whatever time was left to them. It would not be difficult; Winnie was a sweetly inept companion, and in truth they had both lived far too long on the Continent to be overly concerned with England’s rigid social mores. Nonetheless, there were risks. The intensity of physical love could be overwhelming. Would it make the leaving harder? Without a doubt. Could it weaken her resolve to protect Michael? Never.

Unfortunately, the risk of pregnancy was a far greater concern. In England, Frederica was a social outcast because of her heritage. In Flanders, it would be marginally easier, particularly within the artistic community. Nonetheless, an illegitimate child was a risk that bore careful consideration. Elliot’s babe in her arms—the thought rocked her to the very core of her soul. Until her father’s death seven years earlier, Evangeline had always dreamed of a husband and a family. Then as now, visitors from the Continent often filled their home, and Evangeline had never lacked for complaisant suitors. Her arms ached to hold her very own child, for as much as she loved Nicolette and Michael, it was not the same. That she might love a man like Elliot Roberts, a gentle but strong man, and be loved by him in return, perhaps even bear his children, had become a fantasy, not an assumption.

Harshly, Evangeline shut away her impetuous dreams. She would not consider such things. Not now. Not when so much was at stake. There would be time enough for pity, and for foolish daydreaming as well, when she was alone in her house in Ghent. Swiftly, she leaned forward and blew out the candle, then made her way back upstairs in the dark. En route to her bedchamber, she passed Michael’s door, paused, and pushed it open.

Her brother lay sprawled atop his sheets, the coverlet and blanket long since shoved onto the floor. His window was open wide, casting a shaft of watery moonlight across the bed. In the weak illumination, Michael’s pale hair gleamed, and even in sleep his expression was sweet and untroubled. Evangeline was ruthlessly determined that it would ever be so.

Life could be cruel, and Evangeline suffered no illusions about her inability to shield Michael from its harsh realities when he became a young man. Nevertheless, the sweet boy who slept so peacefully—the babe she had raised as her very own because she had loved him and had promised to care for him—yes, that child would not be taught to manipulate. He would not be told that he was better than another because of the blood in his veins, and he would not be allowed to learn how to wield power injudiciously. And he would not be torn from his family. Evangeline had given her word, and she would keep it, no matter the cost. Moreover, she loved him, and she would bleed to death from the loss were he to be taken from her now.

Godfrey Moore, Baron Cranham, sensed the angel of death draw nigh; its cold shadow cast a damp chill over his soul. There was no doubt in his mind. This was the end. With a sickening sense of doom, he hefted one heavily engraved pistol from its velvet swathing, testing its weight in the palm of his hand. Weakly, he passed it to Lord Henry Carstairs, his second, for examination and loading. Across the field, his other second, Edwin Wilkins, stood beside the elegantly dressed Lord Linden, negotiating the distance. Indeed, Cranham had been hard pressed to find seconds for this morning’s duel. Very few men were willing, he had belatedly discovered, to stand on the wrong side of a challenge to Rannoch.

And it was his challenge against Rannoch. In front of him, Major Matthew Winthrop, smiling grimly, let the carved mahogany box thump shut to reveal the ornate Armstrong crest, bringing the horror ever more clear. Cranham’s damnable, inexcusably stupid error merely served to make his present situation even more appalling. What in God’s name had possessed him to get sufficiently inebriated, and sufficiently enraged, to deviate from his well-laid plans?