Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (27 page)

“Mr. Roberts?” repeated Evangeline smoothly. “Please allow me to introduce Etienne LeNotre, the comte de Chalons, a friend who has just surprised us with a visit. Etienne, this is Mr. Elliot Roberts, the houseguest I mentioned.”

Elliot could not help but notice that he had swiftly become the milksop
Mr. Roberts
once more, while the visitor was
Etienne
. The polished nobleman let his foot slip gracefully from the fender and bowed civilly, one elegant blond eyebrow crooked in polite curiosity. Despite de Chalons’s faultless manners, Elliot could sense that the visitor regarded him with veiled suspicion.

“Ah, yes, indeed. From London, I believe?” de Chalons asked in a coolly expectant tone. “You are to be my Evangeline’s latest masterpiece,
n’est-ce pas?
”

Elliot forced a rigid smile and managed to hide his surge of panic at de Chalons’s choice of words.
His
Evangeline? In a flash, Elliot’s unexpected anxiety escalated from a vague concern that he might be asked to relinquish his seat of honor at dinner to a chilling fear that some more significant position had already been usurped. He realized that the comte was still staring at him expectantly.

“Certainly, we hope that it is so,” Elliot agreed, forcing a low, even tone. “You are a friend of Miss Stone’s family?” The question was somewhat forward, yet Elliot swiftly decided that two could play the role of suspicious protector.

The comte seemed to take no offense. “
Mais oui!
Of many years.” Suddenly, his gaze slid smoothly toward the door, and what might have been bitterness quickly flared in de Chalons’s vivid blue eyes. “Ah! Here is the merry widow now!” he said evenly, his chiseled features returning to a mirror of impassivity.

Elliot turned to see Mrs. Weyden sailing into the room, attired in her becoming red dress. It was scandalously cut, displaying her voluptuous figure to its best effect. Certainly, it affected the comte, whose face drained of all color. “Winnie,
ma jeune femme!
” he exclaimed, striding smoothly across the room with outstretched arms.

Mrs. Weyden laughed dryly. “Etienne,
mon jeune amour!
” she answered, turning her flawless cheek into the Frenchman’s kiss. “But, darling, perhaps we both lie? I am not young, nor should I speak to you of love.”

“Ah,
mon coeur!
” De Chalons pressed his fingers to his heart melodramatically. “You do wound me to the quick. To be treated thus, when I have come all the way from Soissons just to dine with you.”

“Bah.” Mrs. Weyden laughed, flicking an unexpected glance toward Evangeline, then eyeing the comte appraisingly. “I know what brings you here, Etienne. You have come to see Evangeline.” She fixed her lush lips in a pout. “You would take her away from me, would you not?”

“
Mais non,
Winnie. I shall take you both!” answered the comte, laughing with a seemingly specious gaiety which Elliot sensed hid a far less pleasant emotion. De Chalons spun a neat quarter turn and gracefully offered his arms to the ladies. “
Allons,
pretty jewels. I shall take you in to dinner.”

Winnie slipped her arm through de Chalons’s and continued to chatter amiably as they walked. Evangeline, however, smoothly dropped back to join Elliot, seizing his arm with a possessiveness Elliot found suddenly reassuring. He turned slightly to look at her from the corner of his eye, noting that she seemed far paler than she had earlier in the day. He allowed his hungry eyes to sweep from her face down across the deep décolletage of her rich sapphire dress, and the words
brittle
and
cold
came swiftly to mind. Almost simultaneously came a somewhat reassuring suspicion that Evangeline was not altogether pleased to see Etienne LeNotre.

Much to Elliot’s relief, his seat of honor was not expropriated. The comte sat to Winnie’s left, his distance from Evie constituting the only bright spot in an otherwise miserable meal. Much of the dinner conversation ensued in French, after Elliot politely agreed that, yes, he did indeed speak the language. That statement, he soon realized, was questionable at best. Everyone else, including Frederica, babbled vivaciously in a rapid stream of cosmopolitan chatter. Many of the words were unfamiliar to him—partly Flemish, he began to suspect. Elliot looked down at his ordinary clothing, listened to the urbane discourse all about him, and realized that he had never felt so out of place in his life. Right between his recently discovered feelings of
guilt
and
shame,
Elliot wedged
artlessness
and
stupidity
into his emotional repertoire.

The only topic he distinctly understood was Nicolette’s proposal that the family organize a presentation of
Much Ado about Nothing,
to be performed on the garden terrace within the fortnight. Coquettishly batting her eyes, she solicited Elliot’s participation as Benedick to her Beatrice, then arbitrarily assigned the remaining roles. None too soon, the seemingly interminable meal was over, and the family began to disperse toward the drawing room.

De Chalons declined his hostess’s offer to savor a bottle of port with Gus and Elliot. “
Merci, mais non,
Evangeline. I have something I must discuss with you, my dear.”

Evangeline stiffened, her gaze flitting somewhat anxiously from Gus to Elliot, then back to the comte. “By all means, Etienne,” she finally agreed. “Shall we go into the drawing room?”

De Chalons smiled blandly. “Let us go into the studio, if you please. I feel the need to view your father’s work once again. It has been some time since I have seen it, and to do so would bring me great joy. Afterward, perhaps you would be so gracious as to walk with me in the garden?”

Evangeline nodded. Just then, Tess entered with a heavy salver bearing a bottle of port and three glasses. Gus nodded invitingly toward the tray, and Elliot slid back into his chair as Evangeline and de Chalons departed. “Friend of the family,” repeated Gus sympathetically, as if an explanation to Elliot was obviously in order.

Suddenly, Elliot wondered what the Weydens thought of his growing relationship with Evangeline. Were his proprietary feelings for her so apparent? And did Gus believe the Frenchman to be Elliot’s rival? Slowly, Elliot sipped at his glass. “Do you know de Chalons well?”

Gus shook his head, yet a knowing light flickered in his eyes. “Not well. As it happens, he stayed here awhile during the war, but I was at school during much of that time. Apparently, Peter saw Etienne in Vienna last month and asked him to return to London with him. Perhaps that has something to do with Etienne’s sudden arrival here.”

“Why?” asked Elliot bluntly, raking his eyes over the younger man. He perceived that Gus, who was uncharacteristically restrained tonight, did not fully trust de Chalons. Suddenly, Elliot realized that they were keeping some dark secrets in this house. He could sense it. Tonight, for the first time, he felt like nothing more than a guest at Chatham, and he was shocked at how greatly the realization pained him.

Gus tossed off his port with a flourish and put down the empty glass with a maladroit clatter. “Can’t say, Roberts. Just a suspicion.” He shoved his chair away to rise abruptly from the table. “Whist?”

Elliot shook his head. “No, Weyden, but thank you. I think I shall stroll through the studio if de Chalons has finished, then take myself off to bed.”

“Suit yourself,” agreed Gus, nodding amiably. Tonight, he seemed almost relieved to be rid of Elliot.

The studio was indeed vacant when he strolled into the vast room. The sound of his boot heels echoed hauntingly through the emptiness as he roamed idly over the flagstones. The painting of Leopold still stood turned against the wall, an open crate in the floor beside it. At first light, Peter Weyden’s men were to haul it away to London. Fleetingly, Elliot wondered if Evangeline was agonizing over her decision to part with such an obvious masterpiece. How would she feel when she learned that Elliot had bought it? Or would she ever know? With that bleak thought, Elliot wedged himself into the corner to admire the massive canvas’s stunning beauty, but once positioned, he hardly saw it, quickly losing himself in a maelstrom of worry.

Who was Etienne LeNotre? The reaction of the family members at dinner had been surprisingly mixed. Michael seemed to regard him with the sort of distant enthusiasm one might reserve for a favored but rarely seen uncle. Nicolette and the older boys were almost wary in the comte’s presence. Frederica, however, remembered him not at all, and Evangeline had explained that Frederica had been but a toddler at the time of de Chalons’s last visit. Though Evangeline had not seemed to dislike the comte, she had been decidedly ill at ease throughout the meal. What did that signify? The air inside the studio felt suddenly thick and hot, and, impatiently, Elliot pulled at the throat of his shirt, loosening his cravat.

Suddenly, the scrape of the French windows pulling open from the terrace dragged Elliot forcibly from his disquiet. Given his awkward position behind Evangeline’s massive easel, he saw no tactful means of escape. Elliot could see only one end of the southerly wall, but he knew instinctively that Evangeline had entered the room. Furthermore, the strident sound of de Chalons’s voice soon made it plain that he had returned with her.

They spoke in rapid French, and Elliot understood even less now than he had during dinner. Clearly, the two were arguing, but there was no discernible fear in Evangeline’s responses to de Chalons’s rapid barrage of questions.

Elliot strained both his ears and his vocabulary. Michael’s name was frequently mentioned, but in an unclear context. Given the resonance in the vaulted chamber, it sounded as if Evangeline and the comte were slowly strolling along the south wall. At last, they came into Elliot’s view so that he was able to observe their lips and gestures.

It quickly became apparent that de Chalons was insisting that Evangeline go away with him. Elliot was stunned. Earlier in the evening, he had supposed that Winnie was merely jesting, but now de Chalons seemed quite serious. His entreaties became more vehement as they moved through the room, and Evangeline appeared to grow increasingly distraught with each step. Suddenly, de Chalons stopped and slowed his voice to speak more emphatically. Now Elliot could understand most of what was said.

“Evangeline, my darling,” the comte insisted, “you must come with me to my chateau now. Stay with me in Soissons until the New Year. You must.”

“No, not yet, Etienne.” Evangeline was almost crying now. “Please, not yet.”

“Shush, Evangeline. It is not so bad as all that! I want to keep you under my protection. I promise you will be happy in France.” He pulled her into his arms.

At that gesture, Elliot barely suppressed a vicious urge to go for de Chalons’s throat. How dare that pompous fop barge into Chatham and force his attentions on an innocent young woman? Elliot was already weighing his odds against the Frenchman—he had a good three inches and at least two stone on the man—when it occurred to him that what LeNotre was about did not greatly differ from his own actions toward Evangeline. The shame of it shocked him.

No, it was not the same at all, Elliot argued with himself. This arrogant, polished Frenchman apparently sought a mistress. Elliot wanted a wife.

A wife?
The realization sobered him. But it was true, he realized. Somewhere along the way, marriage to Evangeline had become as necessary as it was hopeless. Absent something very drastic, she would never have him. And why should she? Clearly, Evangeline did not lack for wealthy suitors.

She spoke almost inaudibly into the comte’s shirtfront. “I cannot do that to Michael, Etienne. Besides, we are so happy here at Chatham.”

“Evangeline.” He pushed her away from him, then gently shook her by the shoulders. “You might have no better alternative. Who else can you trust in this way?”

“Please, Etienne. You cannot ask that I leave Winnie and the children!”

“Winnie can meet you next year in Ghent,” he persisted softly.

Mutely, Evangeline shook her head. Tears were indeed spilling down her ivory cheeks now, and it required every inch of Elliot’s rather limited self-control to remain hidden. He wanted desperately to leap from behind the canvas and throttle the Gallic bastard until his piercing blue eyes glazed over and rolled heavenward. How had such a man come to have power over Evangeline? He said she might not have an alternative. What a lie! Undoubtedly, there were hundreds of honorably intentioned men who would willingly hurl themselves at her feet, had they any chance of winning her affection. How could de Chalons force Evangeline to act against her wishes?

Evangeline’s voice dropped to a whisper. “No, Etienne, I—I cannot go with you. If you care for me, you will not insist. Perhaps when I have no other choice, if it comes to that. Perhaps then I shall be grateful for what you so generously offer me now.” Through her tears, she was smiling sweetly, and Elliot felt himself grow sick with disgust and fear.

Surely, it was not a matter of money? Chatham Lodge was a gracious home, and Evangeline’s extended family lived in apparent comfort, but perhaps all was not as it appeared. Indeed, she had once spoken of their finances in general terms and expressed a vague concern about the preservation of capital, but that was no more than a sensible business practice. Was the estate in debt? Perhaps Chatham was unentailed and had been mortgaged? No, that made no sense.

Suddenly, de Chalons bowed low over Evangeline’s hand and murmured something Elliot could not hear, then took his leave in haste. Her back turned to Elliot, Evangeline remained standing by her desk for a moment, then abruptly fled through the window into the garden.