Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (37 page)

Elliot shouted out the address Gus had given him, and the elegant carriage lurched off toward the river to travel into Westminster. Tossing his hat onto the opposite seat, Elliot ran his hand down his face as if wiping away an unpleasant vision. Yesterday had indeed been a nightmare. The sight of Gus’s bloodied shirt had truly sickened him, and the knowledge that, fully sober, he could have seriously injured the boy had left Elliot badly shaken. He had not, however, been sober and consequently had been very nearly bested by a lad almost half his weight and age. Somehow, despite the ribbing he had taken from Hugh and Winthrop, the fight’s outcome seemed meaningless. It was still his heart, not his pride, that ached so unremittingly.

It had not helped matters much that afterward Gus had stood, cool and resolute, in the midst of the musty tavern stables as Elliot had literally begged his forgiveness. Dredging up every ounce of humility he could find, Elliot had tried to explain his honorable intentions and convince Gus of his unlikely tale. Elliot’s utter humiliation had been such that he had sworn his love for Evangeline and pleaded with Gus for his help. Yet in the end, all Gus could do was look at Elliot sympathetically, clamp one filthy arm about his shoulders, and suggest that he call upon Peter Weyden.

Things had not improved on the way home. It was only then that Winthrop had broken the news about Antoinette. Admittedly, the necklace had been an ugly touch. Antoinette had deserved better. Elliot shivered despite the warmth of the day. Try as he might, his former mistress’s visage haunted him, her pale, stark beauty contorted into a horrible death mask. Poor, poor girl. She had been greedy and desperate, yes, but not inherently wicked. Elliot was very much afraid the same could not be said of him.

Through the window, Elliot watched the passing scenery along Haymarket with cold indifference and wondered what his life was coming to. Down Jermyn Street, he could see throngs of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen darting in and out of carriages and shops, busying themselves with their final shopping of the season. Within a matter of weeks, much of polite society would remove to their country estates or head for the midlands in anticipation of hunting season.

Elliot turned from the window to stare blindly into the shadows of his carriage. He did not care about shopping or hunting, and he certainly did not care about the season’s end. His carriage moved on through the swarming streets until at last they reached Peter Weyden’s address. Set on a quiet lane just a few yards south of Great Marlboro, the four-story building was elegant and immaculately kept. A simple brass plaque identified the business.

Weeks ago, much to Elliot’s relief, Gerald Wilson’s investigation of Weyden had indicated that Evangeline’s guardian was an honest man who could be depended upon to see to his ward’s best interests. Elliot could only hope that Weyden would agree that those best interests ought now to be extended to include marriage. It was a long shot at best, but Elliot was a desperate man.

Elliot hurtled impatiently from the carriage without waiting for his footman to put down the steps. He leapt up the six wide stone stairs, and, almost immediately, the door swung inward and a powdered footman bade Elliot enter, graciously took his card, then disappeared up a wide staircase which circled the vaulted central hall. The room was not large, but it was tastefully decorated with landscapes and seascapes which had been strategically placed to draw the eye through the room. For a few moments, Elliot paced anxiously, alternately feigning interest in the paintings and then flicking open his watch, until the footman returned and asked Elliot to follow him upstairs.

Peter Weyden was a dapper gentleman of perhaps sixty years, with a face that was at once purposeful and pleasant. His immaculately cut hair was a brilliant shade of silver, as were his eyes and his spectacles. A coat of rich, russet superfine covered his elegant gray vest, from which a long watch chain looped down and across his ample belly. He looked, on the whole, like a cross between an ancient, sharp-eyed owl and a prosperous Zürich banker and seemed possessed of all the meticulousness and precision the latter might imply.

Four soaring Palladian windows cast a soft light across his imposing office-cum-sitting room, which was expensively furnished yet somehow spartan. At one end sat a broad mahogany desk, devoid of clutter save a stack of tooled-leather ledgers and a modern steel writing pen. As the footman ushered Elliot inside, Weyden rose from his chair in the sitting area opposite the desk and made a polite, precise bow. Seeming completely unfazed by the unexpected appearance of a marquis in his study, he bade Elliot to be seated, then offered a glass of sherry.

Elliot declined the drink. “Mr. Weyden,” he began, folding himself into one of his host’s small chairs, “since we have not the pleasure of an introduction, I am certain that you wonder what brings me here today.”

From across his sparkling spectacles, Peter Weyden peered sharply at him. “On the contrary, Lord Rannoch. I strongly suspect that I know the reason for your call, having received by yesterday’s post a rambling, penitent
mea culpa
from my sister-in-law, whom I daresay fears the worst.” Weyden spoke in precise but heavily accented English and finished with a stiff, caustic smile. It was his only outward sign of emotion.

Elliot felt his brows rise involuntarily, then fought back the innate arrogance. Such an emotion had no place here. He was fully at fault and owed this man an apology. “It would seem, then,” he commented softly, “that Mrs. Weyden has kindly saved me the humiliation of relaying the unfortunate details of my, ah, relationship with your ward.”

Weyden simply shrugged and rose from his chair to take up a decanter of sherry. Elliot shook his head, and Weyden poured himself a glass. Drink in hand, the portly man strolled to one of the deep windows and stared out into the haze of what was still an unusually bright London day. When he spoke, his tone held a distinct edge of finality, and Elliot felt as though he were being effectively dismissed by a weary schoolmaster.

“Thank you for being honorable enough to come here today, my lord, but I think we need prolong neither your discomfort nor this visit.” Weyden turned from the window to face him. “If indeed there has been, shall we say, an inappropriate degree of familiarity between the two of you, then I am well aware that many of your rank would not have troubled themselves to call upon me under such circumstances. Regrettably, Evangeline bears much of the burden, and very little of the benefit, of a daughter born into a noble family.”

Uncomfortable with the calm resolve in Weyden’s voice, Elliot rose and joined him at the window. “What is it, precisely, that you are saying, Weyden? Does this have anything to do with Etienne LeNotre?”

Weyden smiled wryly. “No, no, my lord. I merely suggested that Etienne shelter Michael and Evangeline in Soissons until Winnie could charter a schooner to transport their belongings to Ghent. Though he was astute enough to have some suspicion of your . . . interest in Evangeline, he hardly shares it. Indeed, he has trouble enough without the complications of an
affaire
. As do you, my lord, if the talk about town is to be believed.”

The rumors about Antoinette’s death had spread quickly, Elliot realized, choosing to ignore the subtle reminder. “Yet you must be aware that I have compromised your ward. Rather badly, I am afraid. Certainly, her grandmother must think so, and since Miss Stone is a lady of quality, I feel compelled to do the proper thing. However, she is inexperienced and does not fully comprehend the implications of what—what has occurred.”

The elderly man turned to face him squarely. “On the contrary, my lord. It is you who do not understand.” Weyden’s words held no hint of anger. “We are not of this culture. We do not live and die by your English rules of conduct.”

“Then you countenance her behavior?”

Weyden shook his head emphatically. “By no means, my lord. Nor do I condone yours. I shall, of course, speak sharply to Evangeline. However, she is not foolish by nature, and I am no longer her guardian. She is of age.”

“I have asked her to marry me.” Elliot could hear the hollow sadness in his own voice and was surprised to feel a hot, stinging pressure well up behind his eyes.

Weyden nodded once, then looked abruptly away to stare into the liquid he now swirled absently in his glass. “So Winnie has explained. And Evangeline has refused you. That was, perhaps, unwise.” He glanced up appraisingly at Elliot. “Or perhaps not.”

Elliot felt his anger flare. This situation was preposterous; these people were mad. In fact, Weyden should be demanding either a wedding or satisfaction, yet the man’s voice was all but devoid of emotion. “Perhaps you do not understand, Mr. Weyden. I have ruined her.”

“Ruined her for what, Lord Rannoch? Becoming a simpering, virginal wife for some pompous Englishman?” Weyden’s keen, piercing eyes held a hint of humor. “A worthy enough goal, perhaps, for those who have none better. Nonetheless, Evangeline is an artist in the true Flemish tradition, with potential unlike anything I have seen in my lifetime. Furthermore, she is devoted to her family. I cannot believe that one indiscretion precludes her success in anything that greatly matters.”

Weyden’s unaffected words and casual dismissal of his relationship with Evangeline cut Elliot to the quick. Weyden obviously had no qualms about lumping him into the category of things that did not greatly matter. This time, his ire sprang to the surface. “Damn it, man! Do you not see? She has chosen to live in England, where she is a lady, granddaughter of a peer, sister to a future earl. Such a birth carries a heavy obligation.”

Weyden quirked one thick gray eyebrow and stared at Elliot over the rim of his glass. “Evangeline may remove to the Continent at any time, should she find the strictures of English life not to her liking, my lord. Moreover, an heir presumptive is not the same as an heir apparent, is it? The new earl of Trent has a wife who is still, as I understand you are aware, of childbearing age. Perhaps there may yet be a son born to her?”

“Not without a miracle,” muttered Elliot, crossing his arms over his chest.

To his surprise, Peter Weyden threw his head back and laughed richly. “Indeed, my lord. That may well be what it will take. Speaking with perfect frankness, if neither you nor any of the other libidinous gentlemen among the
ton
has accommodated her ladyship, I hold out small hope of success.”

Elliot could not suppress a scowl at the mention of Jeanette Stone. “There is something else you should consider, Mr. Weyden. I can protect more than Evangeline’s reputation. I can protect Michael from the machinations of his father’s family. They would not dare cross me. For any reason. And indeed, Evangeline may already carry my child. I own, I had not thought of it until now, but it is something that must doubtless weigh heavily in your decision.”

Peter Weyden’s thick gray brows went up at that. “My decision? Indeed, Lord Rannoch, what is it that you would have me do? Did you harbor some belief that I would—or even could—force Evie into a marriage?” An almost sympathetic smile played at one corner of Weyden’s mouth. “I cannot, you know,” he added softly.

After a long moment of silence, Elliot nodded stiffly, realizing that the meeting was at an end. “Then I thank you for your time, Mr. Weyden, and shall waste your day no further. I shall see myself out.” He strode toward the door through which he had come, but as he laid his hand upon the ornate brass doorknob, Weyden spoke again.

“Lord Rannoch?”

Elliot turned on his heel to face him. “Yes, sir?”

“Do you love Evangeline?”

After the briefest of hesitations, Elliot nodded and cast his pride to the wind. “Yes, Mr. Weyden, I do. Very deeply.”

“Then perhaps you might try to win her heart? Perhaps you will succeed where others have failed. If you can, I shall gladly give you my blessing.”

“I thank you, Mr. Weyden.” Elliot felt his face grow hot. “But I fear that my ill-considered deception has forestalled any possibility of success with that method.”

“A pity,” murmured Peter Weyden, downing the remainder of his sherry. He paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should go up to Wrotham-upon-Lea to confer with my brother’s widow. Though Winnie appears quite henwitted, in reality she is far from it. Yes, and I shall speak to Evangeline. I will strongly recommend that she reconsider your offer. That is all, my lord, that I can promise.”

Elliot nodded in gratitude and pulled open the door.“Mr. Weyden?” he asked, turning back once more.

“Yes?”

“I want you to know that I asked Evangeline to marry me before we—I—compromised her,” said Elliot humbly. “I will admit to you, sir, that I was stunned to hear myself ask, but I, er, well, damn it, I meant it. I still mean it.”

Blasphemous fables, and dangerous deceits

—
PRAYER BOOK

L
ord Cranham waited for his jaunty new curricle to roll to a halt before the narrow town house in Maverton Square. As his tiger leapt down to take the heads of his well-matched bays, Cranham stared obliquely at the door that had slammed so firmly in his face—and on his life—ten long years ago. Indeed, he had no real reason to be lieve that it would open for him today, but the presumptuous Lord Linden was insistent that they carry out this charade. Nervously, Cranham’s stomach roiled with nausea, as it had done since the scheme’s inception.

He felt like a sitting duck. No, it was far worse than that. He felt like bear bait being dragged through the streets and stews of London. The enemy could be anywhere.
Anywhere.
Resolutely, he swallowed down the bile that threatened to choke him and tried to focus on his personal quest. To hell with Linden. Cranham had his own reasons for calling in Maverton Square, and they had nothing to do with his promise of cooperation. And next time, he assured himself, his complicity in Linden’s little intrigue would cost the arrogant viscount far more than the price of a new curricle.

As he turned to instruct his tiger, Cranham’s attention was distracted by Major Winthrop, accompanied by an equally brawny cohort, ambling around the corner just opposite. The two men paused beneath a nearby lamppost, glanced casually up and down the square, then bent their heads in soft conversation. Both wore nondescript greatcoats and broad-brimmed hats pulled low on their foreheads. Nonetheless, Winthrop’s wide shoulders and military posture were unmistakable. Despite Lord Linden’s airy assurances, Cranham thought it rather unlikely that the major would rush to his side, even if the killer set upon him in broad daylight.

As the major leaned casually against the lamppost, the right-hand side of his coat swung partway open, hanging stiff and heavy from the pistol Cranham was certain he carried deep within his pocket. Matt Winthrop was renowned as a crack shot, perhaps even better than Rannoch himself. Well, another man’s marksmanship was of no use to Cranham, for he still believed that Rannoch was his only enemy. Just then, Winthrop lifted his gaze to hold Cranham’s briefly, suspicion and hatred etched indelibly upon his face. Clearly, the major considered his task distasteful.

Cranham shrugged. Let them follow, day and night, as they had done for the last two days. There would be, he felt certain, nothing to interest them, unless they wanted to watch Rannoch slit his throat. Reluctantly, Cranham climbed the four steps to the town house and dropped the knocker. The door was answered immediately by a young, unpowdered footman in ill-fitting livery who nodded solemnly, dropped the baron’s card onto a small salver, then disappeared.

He was back within two minutes. “I regret to inform you, Lord Cranham, that his lordship is indisposed. Lord Howell begs you will accept his apology, but he is quite unable to see you today.”

Cranham snorted incredulously. “Nor any other day, I do not doubt.”

The footman merely stared at him, unblinking.

Cranham whipped around as if to leave, then half turned back again. “Tell your employer,” he muttered, jerking open the door himself, “that I believe his fear of Rannoch has thoroughly unmanned him.” The young servant’s mouth dropped open, but any response he might have made was forestalled as, farther down the hall, a door swung wide.

A tall, horse-faced woman stepped out into the corridor, jerking on riding gloves as she trod resolutely toward them. “Connors!” she called as she walked. “Has my groom come ’round with—”

Her step faltered almost imperceptibly when she noticed Cranham silhouetted just inside her front door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Moore,” she murmured, giving him a stiff nod of acknowledgment. “Ah, but pray forgive me! Lord Cranham now, is it not?” she added sardonically.

Cranham bowed. “A pleasure to see you after so many years, Lady Howell.”

“I had heard,” she replied, her eyes narrowing, “that you had returned to town of late.”

“Yes, my lady. One eventually comes to miss the hustle and bustle of London.”

“Indeed?” Lady Howell answered, her ill-favored features forming a chilled expression. “Then I shan’t keep you from it.”

The dismissal could not have been more obvious. Cranham took up his hat, which the footman had set upon a hall table, then turned again to leave. From behind him, Lady Howell unexpectedly spoke again. “And Lord Cranham?”

“Yes?”

Lady Howell stepped incrementally closer. “If you are wise,” she said quietly, “you will stop trying to speak with my husband. In fact, I strongly suggest you stay away from him altogether, since the past is best forgotten. Do I make myself clear?”

Cranham nodded curtly. “Abundantly, madam,” he said stiffly, then turned to walk out the door. He noticed, however, as he trod back down the steps, that the major and his companion were now mounted on a pair of near-spavined hacks at opposite ends of the square. To the untrained eye, they could have been almost anyone, almost anyone save a wealthy gentleman accompanied by a hired thug.

For two days following his impulsive visit to Peter Weyden, Elliot did not stir from home, fervently watching for some word or signal from Chatham. When none was forthcoming, Elliot struggled to rally his spirits by keeping company with his daughter. Zoë, too, was at loose ends, having neither nurse nor governess to occupy her time, and so it seemed oddly logical and unexpectedly comforting to immerse themselves in each other.

Despite the fact that he had shut off his emotions for a very long time, Elliot was not a fool. The shift in his relationship with Zoë was no more than a change within himself, for his daughter was as constant, and yet as ephemeral, as ever. Elliot realized, too, that he should make some decision about her future, yet he could not bring himself to do so. He was waiting, he knew, for Evangeline. Though he had no intention of again abdicating his daughter’s care, Elliot longed for Evangeline’s advice. Making such a monumental decision without her counsel would feel the same, he inwardly acknowledged, as accepting that their families would never become one. It would be like acquiescing to the end of their love affair, admitting that there was no future. This he was not yet prepared to do.

Elliot had been surprised by Matthew Winthrop’s unexpected, and apparently purposeless, call one afternoon. His day, Elliot had politely but assiduously explained, was promised to Zoë. Major Winthrop, amiable as always, seemed content merely to linger. Now, by that odd bit of happenstance, both Elliot and Winthrop found themselves seated before the low table in his library, watching as Zoë deftly balanced both dishes and tea pot in an eager demonstration of her budding social skills. The little girl poured with charming grace, then passed the first serving to their guest. Indeed, Elliot inwardly admitted, it had been quite sporting of Winthrop, who was ordinarily second only to Elliot in debauchery and vice, to join their family interlude.

As Elliot watched Zoë’s eyes brighten with pleasure, the now familiar feeling of shame welled up inside his heart. How pathetically little joy his daughter had seen; how pleased she was by the smallest attention from anyone, and Winthrop seemed well on his way to becoming a particular favorite. However, despite the fact that Elliot now knew he could—and should—do better by the child, inside he could bestir little emotion save despair. Where boundless anger and seething resentment had once burned, nothing now seemed to exist. His soul felt suspended, as if it awaited—awaited what? Some word, some signal from Evangeline? Or did he perhaps hope that Weyden would appear on the steps of Strath House with a resolute parson and his recalcitrant ward in tow?

No, that would not do. As desperately as he needed Evangeline, Elliot was not sure he could bear to wed her under such circumstances. He briefly considered riding to Chatham and flinging himself at Evangeline’s feet, but that would serve no better purpose. She was still angry. For the first time in more than a decade, Elliot felt attuned to the needs and emotions of someone other than himself, and despite their total absence of communication, Elliot felt Evangeline’s anger as if it were a tangible thing. And so he waited and watched his daughter and wished for something better than the emotionally barren existence that had entrapped them both for far too long.

“That was very well done, sweetheart,” Elliot murmured absently as she poured the remaining two cups.

“Do you think so, Papa?” she asked brightly. The heels of her violet slippers dangled and bounced haphazardly before her, and Elliot made a mental note to purchase a small ladies’ chair for the library. Something pretty and delicate, he mused. Something like those carved armchairs in Evie’s studio.

“Oh, exceedingly well, Miss Armstrong,” commented the major, apparently noting that Elliot had not answered his daughter. “Why, I have taken tea with duchesses and such, don’t you know! Never have I seen it poured with such aplomb and dash!”

“Oh!” she squeaked, her cheeks flushing with pink. “Thank you, sir!” Abruptly, she lifted the tray of tiny sandwiches and passed it across the table. “Will you have a nibble, Major Winthrop?”

“Oh, yes!” he answered, helping himself as Elliot inwardly thanked the Lord for old friends. For the next quarter hour, the three chatted aimlessly until it was time for Zoë to return to the schoolroom. Trudy departed with her charge just as MacLeod appeared to clear away the sandwich tray.

“My lord?” The elderly butler paused, his burden held aloft to one side, then inclined his head toward Elliot’s rather disordered desk. “Dinna ye open the letter that came by messenger last night?”

Elliot lifted his distant gaze from the tea table and focused on the servant. He could feel Winthrop’s piercing eyes staring at him intently. “Ah—no, MacLeod, I suppose I failed to see it.” Smoothly, he rose and moved toward the desk as the butler departed, pulling shut the door.

Winthrop left his chair and approached the desk, his teacup still in hand. “What is it, old fellow? You seem lost in thought today. Are you worried that Linden’s mad scheme will go awry? He’s very sure he can find the real murderer, you know.”

“I—no, it’s not that,” Elliot answered, flicking his friend a neutral look. “It is just fatigue, I daresay.” Winthrop crooked one brow in silent disbelief but said no more. Willing his hand not to shake, Elliot picked up the envelope that lay in the center of his desk. His heart jumped to his throat when he saw the precisely slanted copperplate. It was Evie’s. He would know her fine, angular penmanship anywhere. Nervously, he tore open the missive, and a single slip of paper floated down to the desktop. Elliot glanced at the letter and its five cutting words:
Stay away from my family
.

Feeling sick, Elliot picked up the slip of paper and stared fixedly at the numbers. Money. Evangeline was returning his money. The price of the portrait he had commissioned but never taken. No word of kindness or regret, nothing but five bitter words and a bank draft. In his aching heart, a banked anger kindled and began to burn. The blatant unfairness of it all cut him to the quick.

“I say, Elliot,” commented Winthrop, abruptly setting down his dish. “Must be rather bad news indeed.”

“In a manner of speaking,” agreed Elliot coldly, tossing the letter down before his friend. “It would appear Miss Stone thinks to renege on our business arrangement, but she’d best think again. A deal with me may be a deal with the devil, but ’tis a deal just the same.”

“Ah, yes! The object of your unrequited affections,” answered the major knowingly. “I must confess, I’ve never seen such a case of the blue-devils. Tell me, old fellow, will the lady not have you?”

“Have me? She’ll not even speak to me.” He focused on the bank draft, feeling the hot, burning pressure behind his eyes again.

“Elliot, I am worried for you. Your luck has been bad of late.” Winthrop’s expression seemed carefully veiled, but his voice was unexpectedly compassionate. “Let me be blunt—have you asked for her hand?”

“Aye,” he answered sadly, unable to meet his old friend’s eyes. “I’ve asked.”

“Then ask again,” insisted the major. “Pack your bags and return to Essex this afternoon. Ah! I have it! My carriage is outside. Come with me now to fetch a special license, if it’s a leg shackle you’re after. Then beg her, kidnap her, do whatever it takes, Elliot, if you want her that badly. If you give up, you will forever regret it.”

*   *   *

During the week that followed Elliot’s unceremonious eviction from Chatham Lodge, Evangeline had hardly slept. The mood of the household seemed uncharacteristically surly, the children discontent. Other than her pathetic obsession with Elliot’s portrait, Evangeline’s work came to a near halt, and food held no temptation. Indeed, the dining room seemed always empty with Elliot’s seat vacant. Her normally steadfast moods now swung wildly, alternating between a fear that she, like her father, would never work again and a raw, unremitting hatred of Elliot Armstrong.

Winnie was of little help, clucking incessantly and giving unwanted words to Evangeline’s traitorous thoughts. Yes, he was handsome. Yes, the children missed him. Yes, she had been quite taken with him.
Yes, yes, and yes, damn it
. And she hated herself for all of it. She was weak, and what was worse, she had surrendered to the weakness of the flesh. Now, her nights were tormented by the memory of Elliot’s body pressed urgently to hers, by the undeniable pleasure they had taken from each other.