Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (24 page)

Nicolette generally admired Elliot from afar, seizing every opportunity to tease Evangeline unmercifully. “April and May, April and May,” she had chanted when at last Evangeline had acceded to Winnie’s wishes and called upon the dressmaker for new gowns. Nonetheless, Nicolette, too, unfailingly wore her very best frock to dinner when Elliot was present. Indeed, the man’s presence intensified every pleasure associated with life at Chatham Lodge, which had been an exceedingly fine place before that.

Uneasily, Evangeline shifted positions on the garden bench. There was something nagging at her, however. A troubling sense that all was not quite right with Elliot Roberts. Try as she might, Evangeline could never be more specific, but she felt it. Despite their many shared confidences, something still hung unresolved between them. No, not precisely between them, Evangeline reminded herself. They had made no spoken pledge to each other, nor would they.

Since that magical day by the Lea when Elliot had kissed her in the tangle of hornbeams, he had outwardly shown her no real passion. Though they had shared a kiss in his bedchamber, it had been one of promise but not desire. It was true that he often held her hand on those rare occasions when they were alone and sometimes brushed it gently across his lips. And although Evangeline was inexperienced in the ways of courting, she knew passion with an artist’s heart, and she recognized what she saw when Elliot glanced at her with that subtle, hungry look in his smoke-colored eyes.

Elliot did not speak to her of such things, but Evangeline was convinced of his lust for her. His other emotions, however, were less apparent. As for her own sentiments, Evangeline was uncharacteristically confused. Her feelings for Elliot were an intricate knot, and from it she could unravel only one lucid truth. She felt a pure, heated desire when Elliot touched her. Never one to engage in foolish self-deception, Evangeline admitted that she wanted him, and she believed that he was well aware of that fact. Now she must wait to see what, if anything, Elliot would do about it.

“Miss Stone?” Mrs. Penworthy’s voice abruptly pierced her introspection. “Begging your pardon, miss, but a messenger’s just come with a letter. Bolton left it with today’s post. ’Tis on your desk in the studio.”

Evangeline was instantly alert. “A messenger? From town?”

The cheerful housekeeper bowed slightly, her ponderous key ring jingling as she did so. “Aye, miss, to be sure. And the letter bears Mr. Weyden’s seal.”

Two days after his disquieting visit from Viscount Linden, Elliot sent word around to his well-appointed stable instructing his staff to prepare his curricle and put to his best blacks. It was time, he decided, to travel up to Wrotham-upon-Lea in a better style. Forgoing the services of his tiger, Elliot set out from Richmond early and alone. The unsettling events of the preceding week had left him with much to consider, and careful deliberation was not one of Elliot’s strong suits. Nonetheless, he crossed the Thames into London and headed north, already lost in thought.

Today, Cranham lay near death in his London apartments. Kemble had discovered that, true to Winthrop’s prediction, a raging fever had taken hold of the baron, and he was not expected to last the night. Yet, other than Linden’s pointed barbs, no one had questioned Elliot about the stabbing, nor was anyone likely to do so. Elliot took no comfort in the fact that absent some damning evidence, the authorities would not dare to imply culpability on the part of a nobleman, even a disreputable one. In this case, however, they would not need to trouble themselves. Assumptions alone would do almost as much damage. Assumptions could shatter a man’s dreams, as well as his reputation, provided, of course, the gentleman in question still had one.

Ten years ago, Elliot had persuaded himself that what society believed mattered little. Then, during the agonizing months that had followed his betrothal to Cicely Forsythe, he had proceeded to live his life in a fashion that made his disdain apparent to all. Elliot had simply hardened his heart and stopped caring. There had been no other choice, for the pain and humiliation had very nearly consumed him. He now understood that a nebulous yet damning cloud of evidence was not easily dispelled. Whispered insinuation could not be stopped. Sometimes Elliot wondered if it was not easier to be tried, convicted, and hanged for your alleged crimes, rather than suffer the prolonged agony of being pricked to death by the pointed barbs of innuendo.

Worse still, Elliot was only now beginning to face the fact that he had sown the seeds of his own discontent along with his wild oats. Perhaps with time, society might have forgotten Cicely, for he understood now what he had been too naïve to see ten years ago: that Cicely had been neither liked nor respected by the
ton
. In his righteous indignation and youthful anguish, however, Elliot had created something they were not likely to forget: a rake and a reprobate who cheerfully bankrupted his peers, then bedded their wives. A man who whored and drank and gambled his way toward something that might, on a good night, pass for satisfaction if one did not look too closely. By the time his anguish had numbed and his indignation had turned to arrogance, the
ton
knew him for what he was: a wealthy, well-dressed pariah.

Now the situation was quite different, and things that had mattered little ten years ago mattered a great deal. What would Evangeline Stone say when he told her the truth? And he would tell her. Soon. Slowly. Thus far, slowly had made for a successful approach. In tolerable increments, he was revealing himself to Evangeline. But how much time did he have until she discovered the whole truth by her own means? Or by accident? It was fortunate indeed that Evangeline was in many ways a foreigner, having minimal interaction with or interest in English society. But Evangeline’s disinterest did not obviate the danger of Winnie Weyden, and Elliot feared that behind her riot of gold-brown ringlets, frivolous laughter, and lush bosom, there lurked a worldly woman with the social contacts to find him out. In fact, it was insanity to think otherwise. It was insanity to hope.

Insanity? Hope?
How had he allowed himself to come to this? Hope was a sentiment for fools and children. His life was what he had made it, and it would never be otherwise. One could not go back in time to recoup an innocence lost, to revive a dream long ago withered.

Aye, and it didn’t do to go to bed fully sober. For years, shrouded dreams of Cicely had haunted him, haunted him still with an increasing frequency. In them, Elliot would be transported home, to see his enduring vision, her dark silk skirts still sweeping quietly through the stone passageways of Castle Kilkerran, a half dozen laughing children in tow.

But the old dream had become slightly altered. The smell of freshly cut flowers now blended with the scents of oil and beeswax. Fat black puppies rolled across the ancient carpets. The movement of his beloved had become graceful and smooth; her laughter had become throaty and gentle. The pale Scottish sunlight still spilled through the high stone arches to reflect, not off raven tresses, but against a soft sweep of blond hair. And when his fantasy turned to smile at him through the haze of his slumber, the visage did not turn harrowing. The mocking laughter did not ring out into the blackness of his night. Instead, the clear light held steady, and the face that smiled back at him had become serene, oval, and perfect. Evangeline’s.

Had it ever been anyone else’s? Truly?

But it was naught, after all, but a dream. Elliot held the reins loosely in his right hand and scrubbed his other palm down his face as if willing the vision to disappear. He prayed that Evangeline did not discover the truth too soon, not before he could convince her. Convince her of what? And how? God almighty, he had very nearly seduced her by the river at Chatham, and it had taken every tattered scrap of his willpower to maintain a decent distance until his departure. Now he was returning to Evangeline, and in an even less stable state of mind.

As his justification for leaving during his last visit, Elliot had used the pretext of pressing business, and that had been true enough. In reality, however, his weakening self-control had driven his departure as much as Zoë’s need for a new governess had done. Somewhere in this convoluted mental process, he must have subconsciously convinced himself that he could explain the truth gradually, and Evangeline would then fall into his arms and forgive his deceit. Now, however, his need for her was growing in proportion to his fear, and Elliot felt caught in his own trap.

And Zoë, too, was very much on his mind. Today, he had uncharacteristically resented leaving her alone. Servants, even good ones, were hardly sufficient comfort. A child needed more. Perhaps fathers did, too. Elliot thought again of Frederica and how similar, in both temperament and circumstance, the two children were. And what was it about Frederica that plagued his subconscious?

Despite the adversity of the last three days, Elliot had found his thoughts turning repeatedly to Evangeline’s young cousin and, consequently, to the appalling housemaid whom he had felt compelled to discharge. What had Polly said that fateful afternoon? There had been a significant implication in her words, yet in that moment the word
bastard
had unleashed Elliot’s blistering rage, blinding him to all meaning.

Mentally weary, Elliot stopped briefly at a wayside tavern for a light repast, washing it down with a tankard of ale so dreadful it must have been made from leftover pickle brine. He quaffed the last of it in spite of its vile taste. He could not find it in his heart to blame the tapster. Neither food nor drink held any special appeal to him of late, and much to Kemble’s disapprobation, Elliot’s trousers were starting to slide off his already narrow hips.

Upon command, the ostler brought forth the sleek team of blacks, and Elliot took up the ribbons to continue on his way, quickly crossing into Essex. Soon he passed through the Wrotham crossroads, noting that at last the signpost had been repaired and restored to its mound of earth. The sun shone brightly upon the narrow, dry roads, and within the hour, Elliot’s curricle spun merrily through the tiny village of Wrotham-upon-Lea, past the crumbling church, and down the lane toward Chatham Lodge. It felt, Elliot suddenly realized, like coming home.

Filled with a restless energy, Antoinette Fontaine hopped down from her hired carriage and glanced anxiously back up the length of Meeting House Lane. “Wait at the end of this street,” she abruptly ordered the driver, tossing him a couple of coins. “I’ll be a quarter hour, no more.”

After carefully tucking the money into a greasy leather waistcoat, the old man gave Antoinette one last leer, nodded, then busied himself by spitting energetically into the narrow, cobbled street. Suppressing her disgust, Antoinette lifted her skirts and resumed her journey on foot, making her way along the rubble-strewn path which cut down to the Thames above Wapping New Stairs. Descending toward the river, Antoinette thanked God it was a Sunday and that very few people were about their business. Only a scattering of dockhands and stevedores stirred, ogling her as she passed.

Ignoring the occasional vulgar comment, Antoinette steeled her expression and pulled close the drab woolen cloak that thoroughly concealed her jewels and clothing. While she was far from the sort who intimidated easily, not even the most hardened of whores would dare enter the environs below the dockyards at night. Even in the light of a Sunday afternoon, she did not wish to be there. But she feared the consequences of ignoring Rannoch’s summons far more than she feared a Sunday stroll through Wapping.

Nonetheless, it greatly angered her that Rannoch would expect her to travel alone to such a place. Why there? She had heard the rumors that Rannoch might be courting a bride. It was almost laughable, and yet perhaps the tales were true, and now he merely sought to avoid the embarrassment of meeting his mistress in public. But here, in this godforsaken place? Apparently, the high-handed bastard spared no thought for her safety, while showing every concern for his damnable privacy.

But there was nothing else for it. Antoinette was not fool enough to believe she could avoid the marquis indefinitely, not with his vicious nature and his notorious cohorts, chief amongst them that sly, all-seeing valet of his. Nor could she afford to anger Rannoch beyond any hope of reconciliation. Oh, she had a few cards tucked up her sleeve, cards that would make her forever free of Rannoch and his ilk. But the time to play them had not yet arrived.

Far better to come out of hiding now and attempt some semblance of peace with Rannoch. Far better to do what he asked without argument. Indeed, what choice had she? Somehow, the devil had ferreted her out and demanded that she come there. He would never again be her ally, but under no circumstances did she want him as an enemy.

As the footpath intersected with Wapping, Antoinette made her decision. Yes, she would keep the peace, but sooner or later, she hoped the self-serving pig would get what was due him. Looking up and down the street that edged the waterside, she lifted her chin to sniff the fetid air, fully alert to any portent of danger. Antoinette Fontaine would be no man’s fool. Carefully, she patted the six-inch blade tucked discreetly into her pocket. Antoinette saw no sign of her former lover, nor had she expected to. Rannoch had always had the disquieting ability to slide through both daylight and dark like a nebulous, malevolent mist.

Suddenly, Antoinette found herself wondering if the marquis were now regretting his impulsiveness in casting her so quickly aside. Could that be the reason for this veiled summons? Antoinette tossed back her head, resisting the urge to cackle with delight at that hopeful thought, then just as quickly sobered again.