by Liz Carlyle
“Take London by storm?” Frederica echoed dryly. She lay stretched across Zoë’s bed, flipping through a fashion periodical which Winnie had forced upon her. She rose onto her elbows and eyed her friend narrowly. “We’re more apt to set London on its ear, Zoë. The bastard debutantes! I can hear it now.”
Zoë lifted her head from the trunk which she had already begun to pack. “Me, I do not care what they say,” she insisted, her brown eyes glittering. “And gossip is not always a bad thing, Freddie. It will make us all the rage, you’ll see.”
“I was not any sort of rage at all last year,” Freddie retorted, thumbing impatiently through her pages.
Zoë just laughed again and forced a fistful of stockings into one corner of her trunk. “Ah, but this year, your necklines will be lower,” she said. “And this year, you go with me. Before, you were so beautiful and proper. So unattainable. Besides, your parents were quite respectable. A brave officer. A beautiful widow. Such a sad story of true love.” Zoë lifted her chin and batted her eyes dramatically.
“Your point, Zoë?”
“My parents were not respectable.” She giggled. “A wicked French dancer for a mother! A disreputable rake as a father! Society craves even the scent of scandal, and oh, I will seem very, very accessible. And in my company, you will seem so as well. I will make sure of it. We will turn heads, break hearts, and find our true loves!”
In response, Frederica hurled her Ladies’ Quarterly at Zoë’s head. “Hush up, Zoë.”
But the younger girl caught it and began to dance it merrily round the bed. “April and May! April and May!” she sang. “You’ll be wed before All Hallows Day!”
Frederica pressed her hands to her ears, shutting out the sound. She wouldn’t be married in this lifetime, she now realized. Nor would she turn heads or break hearts. And she prayed she did not find her true love, for the pain would be too bittersweet. Tired of Zoë’s song and dance, Frederica sat up and clambered off the bed. But when her feet hit the floor, the room dipped and spun wildly, then something sucked her down into a big, black roar.
Next she knew, Frederica was staring at the ceiling, and Zoë was on her knees beside her. “Freddie!” she cried, pressing a cold hand to Frederica’s forehead. “Oh, my! Are you all right?”
Frederica felt her face bead with perspiration. But the awful roar slowly receded, and she was able to lever herself gingerly onto one elbow. It was then that the nausea gripped her. Eyes flying wide, she clamped one hand to her mouth, and the sensation relented.
Perhaps it was good old feminine instinct. Or maybe just Zoë’s innate French insight. But whatever it was, suddenly, Zoë knew, for a sorrowful suspicion passed over her face. “Oh, Freddie!” she said very softly. “Surely not…?”
Frederica hesitated. “Oh, Zoë, I’m so afraid.”
“Dear God!” whispered Zoë. “Papa will strangle Johnny. And he’ll lock you up for the rest of your life.”
Frederica let her head fall back onto the floor. “Oh, Zoë!” she cried, one hot, stinging tear slipping from her eye. “Don’t tell! Oh, please don’t!”
Zoë blanched and sat weakly back on her heels. “Freddie, oh, my dear, is that wise?”
Frederica shook her head, her hair scrubbing over Zoë’s carpet. It was not the first time such a wave of sickness had hit her, and she, too, knew the signs. “Just a few more days,” she whispered. “Oh, Zoë, I have to be absolutely sure! And then, I will tell Cousin Evie. I swear it.”
“Yes, all right,” Zoë reluctantly agreed. “But you’d best write to Johnny at once.”
“Oh, Zoë,” whispered Frederica sorrowfully. “There is something—someone—I’d better tell you about right now.”
Chapter Five
In which Lady Rannoch concocts a Most devious Plan.
Strath House, the London residence of the Marquis of Rannoch, was not in town at all, but just a merry jaunt away, in the fashionable suburb of Richmond. Rannoch’s life was a perfect example of the old adage “Be careful what you wish for,” because once upon a time, whilst wallowing in the depths of self-made misery, the marquis had wished for a big, happy family to enliven his days, and a very lovely wife to enliven his nights.
So it was his own fault that beneath the marquis’s vast and paternalistic roof lived not just himself but his precious daughter, Zoë, his beloved wife, Evie, their two young children, and—when he fell out of favor with whatever lady’s sheets he’d been wrinkling—the Marquis’s disreputable uncle, Sir Hugh. And that was just the second floor. Above lived her ladyship’s young brother, now the Earl of Trent, her sister Nicolette, who was at present in Italy, and their paternal cousin, Frederica d’Avillez, an orphan of the Napoleonic wars.
Above lived Lady Rannoch’s friend and former governess, the merry widow Weyden, and sometimes even her handsome, slightly dissolute sons, Augustus and Theodore, who were called, somewhat incorrectly, cousins. This huge house, stuffed with dear relations, near-relations, and no-relations, was presided over by his lordship’s very Scottish butler, MacLeod, whose brows flew haughtily upward at the very mention of the word pension, and whose age no one—not even the marquis—dared to ask.
With a few unfortunate souls, however, the marquis’s bite still rivaled his bark—and then some. And so, on one lovely day in early April, when no cloud marred the sky, Lady Rannoch entered her husband’s private library with every intention of leashing and muzzling him. This was a room she seldom frequented, for, despite her years of happy marriage, it remained every inch a man’s room. Heavy velvet draperies still reeking of cigar smoke hung from the windows, and beneath them sat an eight-foot mahogany sideboard, its gleaming surface laid with crystal decanters filled with every sort of single-malt whisky known to man and its little doors stuffed with chamber pots, playing cards, ivory dice, and the like. The marquis, alas, had never been a saint.
As with the rest of the house, here and there sat priceless objets d’art—Grecian sculptures, Capodimonte porcelains, and vases from a half-dozen Chinese dynasties. Rannoch couldn’t get his faint brogue round most of the words, and so he simply referred to it as gimcrackery, for all of it had been hand-selected by his former valet, a prissy, particular man with the taste of a museum curator, who had thought his master a cultural philistine. Kemble had long since become more of a friend than a servant, but the gimcrackery remained, because Lady Rannoch liked it—and could even pronounce it.
But today, the marchioness saw neither the burgeoning beauty of spring nor the decorating genius of Mr. Kemble. She had come as the harbinger of grim news, and once she’d sucked up her courage, she lobbed it like a hot mortar casing, right into the middle of the room.
Her husband gaped as if she’d just gone stark raving mad.
“Freddie has been what?” Rannoch’s powerful voice rattled the windowpanes. “Good God Almighty, Evie! Swear that my ears deceive me!”
But his wife did not need to repeat herself. The word ruined still hung in the air, like a red flag waving at a volatile bull. “I’m very sorry,” she whispered. “And Frederica is, of course, quite shattered.”
Rannoch’s tread was heavy as he left the desk and strode to the windows. “By God, I blame myself for this,” he said, his fist falling against the window frame. “They should have been made to go with us to Scotland, she and Michael.”
Evie saw his jaw was already twitching. She turned back to the window. “No, it’s my fault,” she answered. “But my brother is an earl now, almost of age. And as for Freddie—” Her voice broke almost wistfully. “Well, she was so eager to see Johnny upon his return. I had not the heart to refuse her.”
Her arm snaked around her husband’s waist, and, on a sob, she buried her face against his cravat. Rannoch patted her shoulders. “Ah, well,” he said, his voice rueful yet gentle. “She saw him right enough, didn’t she? And now there’s the devil to pay.”
“Oh, Elliot,” Evie whispered into the silk of his waistcoat. “You don’t understand.”
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br /> “My love, it will all come aright in the end. Ellows is a bit callow and arrogant, but what young man is not?” Rannoch patted her again. “And he’ll do his duty by Freddie,” he added grimly. “Or I shall know the reason why.”
“Oh, I wish it were that simple.” Her words were a thready whisper. “But it wasn’t Ellows.”
Not Ellows? At last, Rannoch caught the dawning horror in his wife’s voice. His blood chilled, and his heart nearly stopped. Someone—and not the fellow she’d so clearly hoped to wed—had violated his sweet little Freddie? What man would dare? The quiet, elegant girl, who was in many ways his favorite amongst all the children, had been seduced? Or worse?
The first thought left him reeling. The second left him rabid. One hand fisted at his side, and one purpose seized his brain. The name. By God, a traitor had been harbored beneath his roof. And that traitor was going to die.
“Who?” he growled. “By God, I’ll have his head!”
But Evie was weeping. A fragment of memory—a vision of Frederica as a little girl—began to torment him.
When he’d first fallen in love with Evie and her family, Frederica had been nothing but coltish legs and big, brown eyes. And amazingly gentle and wise. As the runt of the litter, she’d often been teased, and somehow, he had become her champion. Often, she had returned the favor. Yes, in a way which defied explanation, Freddie had been his friend. A friend he had direly needed. Was it any wonder he’d so quickly developed an abiding tenderness for the child who had known neither mother nor father?
And now, someone—someone who held his own life mighty damned cheap—had dared to touch her. He took his wife by the shoulders. “Evie,” he said, trying to keep his fingers from digging into her flesh. “Who did this?”
Evie bit her lip, and her eyes pooled with fresh tears. “She says it was Bentley Rutledge,” she answered bitterly. “The Honorable Mr. Randolph Bentham Rutledge. So, shall I have the announcements engraved and welcome him to our family?”
“Rutledge!” the marquis roared. “Rutledge? Why, I’d sooner be damned!” Blood was pounding in his head. Driven by it, Rannoch stalked toward the bell pull, very nearly ripping it from the wall. “And I’d sooner welcome him to his own funeral!”
Evie’s voice followed him. “I fear it shan’t be that simple, Elliot,” she said, fingertips pressed to one temple as if her head, too, was pounding.
Rannoch stormed back. “I should like to know who’s to stop me.”
But his wife just shook her head. “Frederica may,” she said softly. “She says that—I mean, I think that—oh, Elliot, it seems almost certain she carries his child.”
A deadly silence held sway for three heartbeats.
“God damn him!” And then came a bloodcurdling roar, echoing off the walls and through the house. As if his hand were not his own, Rannoch’s fingers encircled the throat of an exquisite Chaffer bust—George II, to be precise—and with no effort at all, he hefted it up and hurled it through the window, a good twenty feet into the gardens beyond. Glass shattered and wood splintered. Shards of precious porcelain rained onto the draperies and bounced off the floor. George’s nose, never his best feature, clattered off the windowsill, then tumbled across the parquet floor. Outside, for an instant, even the birds went still.
Evie could only gape at the destruction. And then Rannoch resumed his diatribe. “Damn him!” His fist pounded the sideboard where the bust had sat. “Damn him straight to hell! I’ll gut him like a hare! I’ll slit his throat an inch at a time!” The decanters of whisky were rattling now. “I’ll pike his frigging head over Tower Bridge! I’ll—”
At that instant, the door swung open. MacLeod, the butler, stood impassively on the threshold. “You rang, milord?”
Rannoch whipped around. “I want my horse,” he snarled. “And I want my knife. And I want my whip. And I want them now.”
MacLeod barely lifted his brows. “Aye, milord. Your whip, and not your crop?”
“My whip, damn you.”
Unperturbed, MacLeod bowed and shut the door.
Evie laid one hand on her husband’s arm. His head snapped around, his eyes burning through her. “Elliot,” she whispered. “You cannot do this. We—why, we don’t even know where Rutledge is. And think of Freddie. The gossip. The child.”
The child?
The child. With a hand that shook, he touched his fingers to his forehead. Freddie was going to have a child? Dear God in heaven! He couldn’t absorb it. Rannoch drew in a deep draught of the cold air now washing over his face and willed his mind clear of the fiery haze. Slowly, the roar receded, and the room came back into focus. He realized that a breeze was playing with his wife’s hair, and he looked past her to see that the window was shattered.
He blinked again. “Aye, then,” he said quietly. “He’ll wed her first. Then I’ll kill him.”
Evie drew him forcefully toward a chair near the empty hearth. Stiffly, he sat. “Listen to me, my love,” she gently insisted. “We cannot jump to conclusions. Freddie says—”
“Says what—?”
Evie pursed her lips. “That it was not his fault.”
Rannoch looked at her incredulously. “An innocent girl is raped, and she says it was not his fault?”
Vehemently, Evie shook her head. “What if it wasn’t like that, Elliot?” she asked. “What if she…well, the fact is, Freddie says—”
“What?” he interjected violently. “That she was willing?”
His wife closed her eyes and spoke very slowly. “Frederica claims that she was as much to blame as Rutledge—more so, in fact. And I cannot but believe her.”
“Well, I bloody well do not!” insisted Rannoch. “And I mean to tear that cad limb from limb. I’ll pound him into pond scum. I’ll poison his wells and burn his village—”
“He lives in Hampstead,” Evie dryly interjected.
“Who gives a shite?” snarled Rannoch. “The place is overrated, anyway. I’ll make him rue the day he set foot in my house and tainted—”
His wife cut him off by pressing a finger firmly to his lips. “Watch your language,” she cautioned. “And, strictly speaking, Chatham is Michael’s house, and Frederica is my cousin.”
“Then you tear that scoundrel limb from limb,” growled Rannoch, a little embarrassed. “And don’t bat those big blue eyes at me and pretend you cannot do it, for I know too well your temper.”
“Oh, I could do it,” Evie readily agreed. “If I thought him guilty.”
“You think she lies? You think the babe is Ellows’s?”
“No.” As if considering her words, Evie slowly shook her head. “No, Freddie has changed since last year,” she answered. “She thinks, I believe, that she did not take during her season. And yes, there may have been some high sticklers. But mostly, everyone was awestruck. Still, behind all that polish there yet hides a child who feels like an orphan. One who is lonely and insecure, but deeply passionate.”
Elliot narrowed his gaze. “What are you trying to say, Evie? It sounds like gammon to me.”
Faintly, she smiled. “Zoë says there was some sort of trouble over Johnny,” she answered. “A rumor that he might wed a cousin. Perhaps it overset Frederica? Made her do something foolish?”
Rannoch laughed harshly. “Oh, let me guess! You think she seduced Rutledge? Is that it?”
Evie shrugged. “I once tried something similar myself,” his wife answered softly. “To quite good effect, I might add.”
Rannoch tried to glower and failed. “I recall it,” he snapped, but there was little bite in his voice now. And then, suddenly weary, he propped his elbows on his knees and let his face fall forward into his hands. Oh, God! Rutledge was worthless, the worst kind of rogue. He should never have been invited into a home where innocent young women lived.
“Gus and Theo shoulder much of the blame, Evie,” he finally said, addressing the carpet. “They knew what Rutledge was, and they didn’t keep an eye on him. And I should have ordered them to
keep their dissolute friends from Chatham. We have lived too lax a lifestyle. We have always let the children run wild. Now we will reap what we’ve sown.”
“Change is not the answer, Elliot.” His wife’s voice was stern. “It is how we have always lived, a choice I made quite willingly. I will not see us shut up in some sort of moral prison made of society’s strictures. You, of all people, should know how wrong that is.”
Just then, MacLeod returned, bearing a long black horsewhip neatly curled on a silver tray. “Your mount awaits, milord.”
Evie placed one hand lightly on her husband’s knee, as if to hold him down. “We are so sorry, MacLeod,” she said gently. “But his lordship will not be leaving just yet.”
From the corner of his eye, Rannoch saw the butler wink at his wife. “Verra gude, milady.”
Suddenly, Rannoch sat straight up. “Fetch Miss d’Avillez down, MacLeod,” he commanded. “Her cousin and I wish to speak with her.”
The door closed without a sound. “Do not be harsh with her,” said his wife, in a tone that brooked no opposition. And in a few short moments, the door softly opened again.
Rannoch jerked to his feet and turned toward the door. Freddie’s eyes were swollen from crying, but she was otherwise composed. She crossed the room, her movements graceful and precise, as always. Her heavy black hair was coiled in a simple arrangement at the nape of her neck. Pale blue silk framed her lovely shoulders and set off her honeyed skin. She was beautiful. Elegant. And a grown woman. Dash it, why was it so hard for him to admit that?
He motioned her to join them in the chairs before the hearth. At once, Evie bent near, to brush the back of her hand across Frederica’s pale cheek. But Rannoch was a brusque and sometimes bad-tempered Scotsman, and he saw no need to pretty up their task with a long preamble or any polite euphemisms.
“Freddie, I’m told you’re breeding,” he began rather bluntly. “And that Rutledge is the sire?”