Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (45 page)

“Verra sorry, madam. His lordship is no at home,” the butler answered firmly. “Ye may speak wi’ Mrs. Woody if ye please. Howiver, her bein’ the housekeeper at Strath, she doubtless ha’ no need of anither.”

“I
must
see his lordship,” the young woman insisted, her soft voice growing anxious. “I’ve no want of work, sir. In truth, I’m on my half day, and ’tis a personal errand which brings me.”

Forcing a calmness she did not feel, Evangeline descended the remaining stairs. “Pardon me, MacLeod,” she interrupted, giving the elderly retainer her most brisk smile. “Might I be of some assistance?”

Amazingly, the redhaired woman turned whiter still, yet she managed to execute a graceful curtsey. MacLeod drew himself up to his full height. “I wouldna trouble ye, Lady Rannoch,” he answered with a stiff formality, all but ignoring the young housekeeper in the doorway, but the butler’s fearful suspicions were writ plainly upon his face.

At the mention of her name, Evangeline heard the woman’s soft gasp. She watched the visitor carefully, her growing curiosity exceeded only by her unease. The woman was far from pretty, and past the first blush of youth. But her voice was sweet, and her rather ordinary face was offset by a pair of remarkable eyes. Almost silver-gray in color, they were round, and far too large for her pale face.

“I am Lady Rannoch,” Evangeline said at last, still looking pointedly at the woman. “Is this matter something you would care to discuss with me?”

The visitor bobbed again, her eyes now fixed firmly upon the rug at her feet. “I, ah, beg pardon, m’lady. I should not a’ come here.”

Evangeline’s discomfort grew. Clearly, this woman had not expected to find a wife in residence. She nodded sharply at MacLeod. “I have a few minutes before tea with Sir Hugh, MacLeod. Will you please show—?” She stared at the woman pointedly. “Forgive me, I did not hear your name?”

“Pritchett, my lady,” supplied the woman in a whispery voice. “An’ Mary’s my Christian name.”

“Pritchett?” echoed Evangeline. “Very well. Please show Mary Pritchett into the library, MacLeod.”

With a distinctly disapproving expression, the butler glanced at the visitor and then returned his gaze to Evangeline. Clearly, he did not consider a mere servant fit company under any circumstance. Evangeline, however, was determined to ascertain what manner of errand brought a pregnant flame-haired housekeeper to her husband’s doorstep.

The caller, however, looked no more disposed toward this arrangement than did MacLeod. Bobbing another curtsey, she pulled a small velvet case from the folds of her cloak. “Beg pardon, m’lady. I just wanted to set things aright, but . . . but I should not have come,” she repeated softly, handing the bag to Evangeline. “Just return this to him, please, m’lady, an’ say that I’m ashamed of what happened and that there’ll be no more trouble.”

Then the woman spun hard on the heels of her sturdy shoes and slipped out the door into the brilliant afternoon, leaving Evangeline and MacLeod to stare after her. Knees weak with dread, Evangeline watched as the woman climbed into a waiting hackney coach, which promptly lurched forward with a creak and a rumble.

“I believe,” she finally managed to say, “that I shall take a dish of tea at once, MacLeod.” Without further comment, Evangeline strode into the library, went directly to her husband’s desk, and, with fumbling fingers, tried to open the velvet box. It flew apart in her hands, its contents spilling onto the desktop in a clattering cascade of red-gold fire. Mounted in a heavy, ornate bracelet, a dozen rubies splayed across Elliot’s blotter, winking up at her impudently in a shaft of late-day sun.

“Well!” she remarked softly, collapsing into the desk chair.

There seemed nothing more to say. The cold, sick feeling continued to roil in the pit of her stomach. Evangeline was wise enough to know that she was ignorant of a great many worldly things, but there was no mistaking what had just happened. Nevertheless, this woman had been quite a contradiction to her idea of the sort of woman Elliot might seduce. Indeed, this sweet, doe-eyed innocent was far worse than anything she might have imagined.

Evangeline suppressed the urge to burst into hysterical laughter. Would it have been any better, she bitterly considered, had her husband’s conquest been a different sort of woman? A full-blown courtesan, for example, with the clothes and hair and attitude to match his generous gift? Would her heart have ached a little less had the woman been another actress or dancer, rather than a naïve servant who had almost certainly been seduced? Who was now, by her own admission, ashamed? And who had been proud enough, or perhaps imprudent enough, to reject a gratuity that would have fed and clothed her unborn child for months to come?

Beneath a pale moon, all but obscured by fast-moving clouds, the specious gaiety of Vauxhall was hurtling toward its crescendo. The dancers dwindled, even as the raucous laughter ascended to a fevered pitch. Already, some of the Garden’s more circumspect patrons had departed, taking with them a bevy of impressionable daughters and virtuous wives. Only the more carefully chaperoned, or in some cases the most thoroughly hardened, of ladies remained as the orchestra began to wind down in anticipation of the evening’s finale.

The men, however, were plentiful enough. With the unmistakable signs of both desperation and inebriation etched upon their faces, many still prowled the dimly lit walkways in search of companionship for the evening. Letting his eyes drift across the crowd, Elliot sprawled a little lower in his seat, stifling a yawn as he did so. A trio of boisterous, garishly dressed demireps frolicked past Linden’s box, whispering, elbowing, and cutting hopeful glances in the direction of its occupants.

Winthrop jerked to his feet, looking like a raven among the peacocks of Vauxhall. “I say, Linden,” mumbled the major, one eye on the women, “this has become rather dull work. Believe I shall leave you to it, since the evening’s near done.”

Languidly, Lord Linden crossed one elegant knee over the other and lifted his haughty chin. “Lud, Matt! Have you not learned your lesson? Go after either of those three, and I vow you’ll not get a drop of sympathy from me when you find yourself pissing fire.”

Unexpectedly roused from his ennui, Elliot gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Aye, Winthrop! You’d be screaming bloody murder over the chamber pot in a fortnight, I don’t doubt.”

Still looking at Winthrop, Linden dropped his voice. “In any event, old boy, it’s your turn to follow Cranham.” He motioned impatiently at the baron seated nearby. “Up, up! The both of you. Go prowl around the South Walk. You’re to lead by twenty paces, Cranham.”

Major Winthrop stifled a groan, and Linden jerked his head toward the row of elms that edged the Grove. “What? Must I do it myself?”

“No,” grumbled the major. “I shall go, but I’ll tell you plainly, Aidan, I’m bloody tired of watching Cranham’s back. And I have no notion what we’re to look for.”

“Then for once we find ourselves in agreement,” snapped Cranham, shoving back his chair. “I, too, grow weary of Linden’s games.”

Linden let his bored gaze drift over his three companions, then took up his wine glass, swishing the ruby dregs about desultorily. “As I have said time and again, gentlemen, we do not know precisely whom we seek. If we did, we’d hardly have wasted an entire evening hanging about in this very boring, very public place, now would we?”

“Oh, be damned, Aidan! I said I’d go,” groused Major Winthrop, shrugging into his greatcoat, “but I surely do feel stupid in this coat.” With that remark, he finally ambled off, falling into step behind Cranham.

Elliot passed the next quarter hour in a sleepy haze as he idly considered how quickly one became accustomed to country hours. Indeed, the mere thought of the country improved his sour mood. God, how he hated town, especially Vauxhall. How thankful he would be when the household could remove to the peace and warmth of Chatham Lodge.

Fast on the heels of that sentiment, however, came a far more frustrating thought: the image of his warm wife, snug in her bed at Strath. After nearly two weeks of marriage, he was loath to leave her, even briefly. Yet she would never believe that he had had no real desire to visit this loud place filled with drunken dandies and garish whores. Elliot had seen the ugly assumption that had flared in her eyes as he left her.

Ah, yes. There had been no mistaking that blue-white fire in Evie’s eyes. Inwardly, Elliot grinned. He fully expected to suffer that look often, and perhaps to occasionally deserve it, throughout the coming years. The thought did not overly concern him, for he would be a good husband, even if his bride did not yet believe it.

Elliot was yanked from his contemplation of his wife’s smoldering eyes by the reappearance of Cranham and Winthrop. He surveyed the baron suspiciously as the pair stepped into the box and took their respective seats. Something about the bizarre situation made Elliot unnaturally edgy. He had all of Linden’s assurances that this effort to lure forth the killer was the right thing to do; nonetheless, his every instinct warred against their actions.

No one really believed that he and Cranham had reconciled their differences, did they? Elliot knew Cranham for the duplicitous bastard he was. Suddenly, he felt weighted down by hopelessness. Everyone, perhaps even his own wife, thought him an out-and-out cad. Worse, it had become increasingly obvious that many believed him guilty of Antoinette’s murder, and that had dredged up all the old gossip about Cicely. Yet his innocence could no more be proven now than ten years ago. What did Linden hope to achieve? Elliot was no longer sure, and as the dancers whirled their last in the lantern light, he began to feel like a flagging hunter, propelled toward a fence which he knew he should not, could not, jump. This dreadful evening could not possibly end soon enough.

“Look there,” interrupted Major Winthrop, pointing toward the orchestra which was now dispersing into the crowd. “Is not that—” But his words were split by the sound of the first of the evening’s fireworks. Screaming glitter shot through the night sky, blazing a trail of red and gold, then tumbling inescapably earthward in a shower of multihued sparks.

Smoothly, Lord Linden rose from his seat. “Let’s call it a night, gentlemen,” drawled the viscount. “It would appear that my hopes were misplaced. One more meander through the Grand Cross, then we will reassemble at the Rotunda, shall we?” The group, Elliot included, grumbled reluctant agreement and set off in a laggardly trail. Cranham preceded them by drifting in aimless patterns through the crowd, just as he had done to no useful effect all evening. No one out of the ordinary had approached them. No one seemed threatening.

Elliot delayed just long enough to shrug into his greatcoat, then set off after Cranham, Winthrop but a few feet behind. Yet they were exceedingly discreet; only the sharpest of eyes would ever have suspected that they were all watching and following one another. As they pressed their way through the gasping throng, now held transfixed by the shattering bursts of fireworks, Elliot let his eyes drift across the faces of the crowd. Despite Lord Linden’s advice, he could see no one, nothing, that looked odd or out of place.

From time to time, he returned his gaze to Cranham’s back as they moved down the graveled path that stretched out before them. No one approached the baron; indeed, few gave more than a passing nod in his direction. Soon, Elliot saw Cranham turn to his left and make his way onto the Grand Cross, which ran the back length of the gardens. The trees and shrubbery felt deceptively thicker there, and as the excitement of the Grove faded into the background, so, too, did the lamplight and the crowd.

In the dimness far behind, Elliot could barely hear the echoing footfalls of Winthrop. Somewhere in the distance, bringing up the rear, would be Linden. They should not have bothered with this last little foray. The crowd, which had shown only mild interest in their little gathering anyway, was now shifting toward the garden exit. Few among the
ton
or the demimonde knew Cranham by sight; therefore, the stir Linden had hoped to create had undoubtedly come to naught. Suddenly, Cranham moved deeper into the dimness, and Elliot lost him.

“Damn the man for wearing such dark clothing,” he muttered under his breath, then glanced down at his own black coat with a touch of chagrin. Kemble had been right; it rendered him almost invisible. Ahead on the path, Elliot thought he saw a flash of white linen as the next burst of explosives let loose in the sky.

White linen? That implied a man’s chest, not his back, which made no sense. In the dark, the crunching of gravel and the rustling of leaves seemed suddenly louder, and instantly Elliot felt a strong trepidation, an unexpectedly heightened awareness. The flicker of unease that had plagued him all night leapt into full flame when, ahead of him, Elliot heard a cry. Of anger? Or pain? The night sky was filled with another cacophony of light and sound, revealing that the path before him now lay empty. Cranham had vanished from the walkway.

Simultaneously looking back across his shoulder as he burst into a run, Elliot shouted out a warning to Winthrop, though he saw nothing at all in the gloom behind him. Speeding forward, he had run but twenty yards when the backlash of a flying tree limb caught him full in the face. His right eye welling with tears, Elliot blinked hard against the sting. He darted through the trees on the opposite side of the lane. He struggled to listen, despite another barrage of firecrackers.

As his vision began to clear, another pyrotechnic burst lit the sky. The tangle of shrubbery flashed into stark relief. In that split second of light, Elliot saw Cranham. He was locked in combat with a larger man. Above the baron’s head, Elliot caught the fast glint of steel as it bore down toward the smaller man’s shoulder. Then, just as quickly, all was shrouded again. This time, Elliot heard Cranham cry out in pain. A string of curses followed, and then the unmistakable grunt and thud of someone falling. Someone heavier than Cranham, by the sound of it.