Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (42 page)

Elliot stood just an arm’s length away, looking down at her with an expression of barely leashed rage. Thinking perhaps that she had somehow overstepped her new role, Evangeline held his daughter out to him uncertainly. “Zoë’s been stung,” she managed to stutter. “A—a bee. In the shrubbery.”

“Aye, I heard,” he responded, his face relaxing slightly. Effortlessly, he pulled the child into his arms, smoothing back the wayward curls from her face with his big hand. “I’ll take her to Mrs. Woody. Freddie can come with me,” he added, nodding at the worried girl beside Evangeline.

“Is something amiss, Elliot?” Evangeline asked.

He nodded brusquely, the dark look returning. He flicked an anxious glance at the children. “I cannot speak plainly, Evangeline, but there is a Mr. Jones to see you in the library. My man of affairs, Gerald Wilson, is there and will stay with you. Please just answer Mr. Jones’s questions,however . . . offensive they may be.”

“He wishes to see me?” she repeated, feeling quite confused.

“Yes,” he answered hollowly, then held her eyes firmly for a moment. “Evie—I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Evangeline stared after him in bewilderment, but Elliot and Frederica were already trailing up the path toward the kitchens.

Inside the library, the silence was thick with dread. Gerald Wilson turned anxiously from his position by the window and stared at Albert Jones. The Bow Street runner had snapped rather respectfully to his feet when, not five minutes earlier, the marquis of Rannoch had angrily pounded his fist upon the desk and then stalked out of the room. Now, Jones still stood stiffly beside his chair.

Wilson crossed the distance between them and looked pointedly at the man. “Mr. Jones,” he said, trying with little success to mimic the haughty glare his employer so often used to such an intimidating effect, “I am reminded of something we discussed once or twice before. It concerns the missing bracelet. Have you made the inquiries we spoke of?”

The runner looked up from the toes of his boots, his eyes focusing suddenly on Wilson. “Indeed,” he answered with measured reluctance. “Based on the information you relayed to me, I revisited Miss Fontaine’s mother in Wrotham Ford. Mrs. Tanner was adamant. She insisted that his lordship left the note—which she described as ‘threatening’—and nothing more.”

Wilson snorted derisively. “And do you believe that?”

Jones shrugged equivocally. “I recognize Mrs. Tanner and her ilk for what they are, Mr. Wilson. And I am not fool enough to believe that if she pinched a ruby bracelet, she’ll be wracked with sudden guilt.”

Wilson’s cynical rejoinder was cut off when MacLeod pushed open the library door to admit the new marchioness. Briefly, Wilson let his gaze catch hers. Lady Rannoch always moved with an efficient, fluid elegance, giving one the distinct impression that she was both capable and confident. Today, however, she gave the further impression of being very, very annoyed.

Wilson chuckled softly to himself. Rannoch and, at present, Mr. Jones had their hands full—that was Wilson’s bet. Ten days earlier, the marquis had turned the entire household upside down when he had arrived with a new bride, four children, and a tutor in tow. It was, on the whole, the most shocking spectacle Wilson had ever witnessed, and there had been some exceedingly shocking spectacles at Strath over the years. The servants’ chatter had been unremitting ever since the three carriages had been unloaded at the doorstep.

If gossip had the right of it, Rannoch’s bride was something of an enigma. No schoolroom miss was she; the beautiful lady with the subtly foreign accent was obviously a few years beyond the customary age for marriage. Furthermore, Wilson had it on good authority that she was a famous artist—E. van Artevalde—of all things imaginable! At last he had an explanation for his lordship’s newfound preoccupation with the Flemish masters, for in the past, Rannoch had been more disposed toward the blacker arts than the higher arts.

Yet Strath House had been recently adorned with three of van Artevalde’s finest works, and though they had come dear indeed, Rannoch hadn’t so much as twitched upon being presented with the staggering bills. And even stranger, perhaps, than his lordship’s new wife was her brother. The sweet-tempered lad was reportedly the heir to Lord Trent, that hapless cuckold who had managed to lodge a ball of lead in the master’s hindquarters, a regrettable misadventure which inevitably bode ill for the staff whenever the weather turned damp.

But it was a funny thing, that. For months now, Rannoch had been of a remarkably agreeable disposition. What was it that dry-witted valet kept muttering?
Cherchez la femme?
Indeed! As Lady Rannoch swept across the room toward them, Wilson decided he need look no further for the reason behind his master’s sudden change in temperament. Instead, he seriously considered kissing her ladyship’s skirt hems.

In the past ten days, the household had been tossed into an uproar, with children scurrying everywhere, room arrangements shifted, servants reassigned, scullery maids engaged, and menus altered. Henri, Rannoch’s treasured French chef, quit in a huff after only two days, insisting that he simply could not continue “cooking coddled eggs for a gang of rapscallions,” a description that, in Wilson’s book, was more aptly applied to Rannoch’s old friends than his new family. Kemble seemed constantly on the verge of ungovernable mirth, while Mrs. Woody was exceedingly pleased, telling anyone who would listen that the new marchioness knew “just what was what” about running a proper household.

Wilson’s ruminations about his new mistress ended as her ladyship approached them. With a sharp little cough, Wilson stepped forward and made the introductions, then watched in admiration as Lady Rannoch’s brows shot up one elegant notch.

“I collect that your husband has explained the purpose of my visit, my lady?” Mr. Jones began.

Lady Rannoch’s expression did not alter. “I am afraid that he has not, sir. I was seeing to my stepdaughter’s bee sting when my husband arrived. He took charge of the situation and merely bade me attend you.”

The runner looked a little nonplussed at that, Wilson noted. It was, however, a brief reaction. Politely, the man handed a piece of foolscap to her ladyship. “Then I apologize for the intrusion, Lady Rannoch. Your husband agreed that I might speak with you about these dates.”

She took the paper, her sharp blue eyes flicking down the page. “And so you may, sir. Though I have no notion what they might represent.”

Jones made an odd choking noise in the back of his throat. “I merely wish to confirm that your husband was with—er, in your company at your home in Essex on these dates, my lady.”

“Really?” Her voice was arch. “Why do you not simply ask him?”

Jones dipped his head deferentially. “We did discuss it, my lady. His response was—ah, something to the effect that if I had any further inquiries, I might ask the lady in question,” answered the runner, his lips twitching in obvious bemusement. Wilson coughed again at the man’s diluted version of the marquis’s rather graphic terminology. “I believe his lordship did not take kindly to being questioned,” Jones added.

“No,” murmured Lady Rannoch with a faint smile. “I daresay few would.” She bowed her head and skimmed the dates more slowly. Unexpectedly, she set aside the paper, rose from her seat, and went to the desk to take up a leather notebook, which she flipped open. Then, shutting it with an efficient snap, she returned to her chair. “My calendar indicates that Lord Rannoch was visiting at our family’s estate on each of the dates you have listed, Mr. Jones,” she answered coolly, handing back the paper. “Have you anything further?”

Once again, the runner seemed at a loss for words. Plainly, he had expected Lord Rannoch to tell his wife precisely what to say, and he had expected her to say it unequivocally. Instead, the lady was calmly pulling out notebooks and behaving as though Bow Street had inquired about the date she had last inventoried the third-floor bed linens.

“No, Lady Rannoch,” he responded at last. “I do not. I apologize for the intrusion.”

Her ladyship rose graciously from her chair. “Not at all,” she murmured softly, then lifted her piercing blue eyes to Mr. Jones’s face. “A murder is a serious thing, is it not? And I have little doubt that that is what brings you to Strath.” The runner merely nodded. “We none of us here want an assassin running loose amongst us, Mr. Jones,” she added gently. “Rest assured that Lord Rannoch and I wish you every success in your duty.”

Albert Jones nodded once more, then rose from his chair.

Evangeline watched in silent relief as both Jones and Wilson gathered up their respective files, murmured polite good-byes, and quit the room. As soon as the door was whisked shut behind them, she drew a deep, steadying breath, counted to ten, then bolted for her bedchamber. No one noticed as she slipped inside and collapsed into a chair, fighting to still the trembling of her hands. Though she knew she hid it well, Evangeline felt thoroughly overwhelmed by the sudden changes in her life. It was all too much. A house full of people. Strangers to meet.
His lordship
.
My lady
. The incessant bowing and fawning.

When she had stepped into Strath House, her world had seemingly spun right off its normally sturdy axis. First, she had seen Zoë, who had fallen asleep on her shoulder, immediately captivating Evangeline’s heart. And then there had been her paintings! Three of them, adorning the grandest rooms of Strath, and those rooms were very grand indeed. How and where had he obtained them? And what did it mean?

When she had asked him, he had been vague, almost uncomfortable in answering her. Such purchases might have been a small thing to a man of Elliot’s wealth, little more than a whim, perhaps. But Evangeline did not think so. Indeed, she did not know what to think; she only knew that the fact that he had wanted them tugged at her heart in a way she did not comprehend.

Oh, Elliot! That was the most imposing change of all. The wicked marquis of Rannoch was now her husband. And lest she forget just whom she had married, some contretemps of fate had sent a Bow Street runner to remind her. And amid all these disconcerting changes, Evangeline had discovered that insomnia and inappetence—those faddish plagues of flighty, overbred females everywhere—had become her boon companions.

Two weeks ago, marriage had seemed the only solution. Indeed, it still seemed so. Evangeline drew some small comfort from her inability to think of any better alternative. And to her surprise, she was not, precisely, unhappy. At times, it seemed that Elliot was determined to win her heart again, and she was relieved to realize that her handsome roué of a husband had not yet grown weary of her. But he would. Oh, yes. She very much feared he would. A man like Elliot rarely reformed.

But she loved him. God help her, she did love him still. And in her rare moments of clarity, Evangeline admitted that she had always longed for a husband and children of her own. Inwardly, she gave a bitter laugh. If her recent morning sickness was any indication, she was well on her way to her second objective, close on the heels of the first. Perhaps Elliot had been right all along in saying that an expedient marriage was for the best.

Oh, Elliot
. Evangeline squeezed shut her eyes and let her nails dig into the padded arms of her chair. Lord, how he could make her want him. It was shameful. The man had earned the appellation of
rake
quite honestly. It was, Evangeline sometimes feared, her husband’s only honest accomplishment. Clearly, Mr. Jones suspected as much.

Every night Elliot came to her bed, and every night she welcomed him. Rarely did he leave before dawn. What else was she to do? She could not help but respond to his skilled seduction. Moreover, she had granted him the privilege of her bed when she had stood, visibly trembling, inside the tiny chapel of Wrotham-upon-Lea and whispered her vows. She had taken those vows very seriously, for it was only right, she told herself.

Yes, it was right. But was it wise? To give one’s heart to such a man? For that was most assuredly what she had done. She, an abundantly prudent woman, had fallen hopelessly in love with a handsome, calculating rogue. Yet she could not honestly use the excuse that he had tricked her. She now admitted that she loved this man for himself, a reckless mistake which she knew would inevitably break her heart. Even his wickedness held a strange, spellbinding appeal. One night in Chatham’s library had shown her that much.

When she paused to consider the enormity of what she had done, Evangeline was seized by a choking terror. She had surrendered her heart, her body, indeed her very life, to a man who had many enemies, most of them deserved if rumor had the right of it. Her husband was caught up in a scandalous murder investigation. His mistress had been horribly strangled. In this one thing, however, Evangeline held steadfast. Despite his reputation on the field of honor, Elliot would not kill in cold blood, of this she was inexplicably certain.

He might be wicked and vengeful, but it was not in his nature to be deliberately cruel. Elliot’s propensity for carousing, gambling, and dueling, however, was another thing altogether, and Evangeline was filled with a chilly certainty that he would one morning find himself standing ankle-deep in dew-soaked grass, faced off against another armed and irate husband, but one with far more proficiency than her Uncle Stephen had possessed. It would kill her to lose him. She would kill him if he were unfaithful. Men like Elliot were never faithful. God, what an endless coil!

Indeed, throughout their impassioned lovemaking, Elliot had never once mentioned the word
fidelity,
and had he done so, Evangeline would have choked on a swell of doubt. She reminded herself that only a few short weeks ago, Elliot had dueled with a man named Cranham over a woman and then refused to discuss it with her. Perhaps she should strive to view his obvious disdain of hypocrisy as one of his finer qualities.