Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  “Bah!” snorted Winnie with another hand toss. “Old Lady Trent has said she’d rather roast on a rusty spit in hell than acknowledge your—”

  “She lies!” hissed Evangeline. “Oh, she disowned my father quickly enough when he followed his heart. And she did not hesitate to make certain that my grandfather took no interest in any of his grandchildren. But mark my very words, Winnie, she will take a remarkable interest when Grandpapa is dead. She will rip that child from the heart of this family and thrust him into a nest of vipers if I let her.”

  Winnie nodded weakly. “Oh, Evie, I fear you may be right.”

  “Depend upon it,” replied Evangeline grimly. “And when she makes the first move, we return to the Continent at once.”

  Winnie looked vaguely hopeful. “Yes, but a … an alliance with a gentleman like Elliot Roberts could go a long way toward frightening off Lady Trent, nefarious old bag of bones that she is. Peter, as Michael’s trustee, is naught but half English, and foreign-born at that. However, an English husband would be something altogether—”

  Evangeline forestalled Winnie with an upraised hand. “Yes, any honorable man would wish to be helpful under such dire circumstances, but let me remind you of the power and influence wielded by Lady Trent and the Stone family. Yes, Mr. Roberts looks to be a gentleman and is no doubt reasonably well set up. But she! She is a peer, a staunch Tory. Rich and ruthless beyond measure.”

  “Well,yes … that’s all too true, but—”

  Evangeline exhaled sharply. “Winnie, a commoner like Mr. Roberts has no more influence than Peter. Moreover, Mr. Roberts would have no notion how to manage such a witch. And from the looks of him,” she added dryly, “he isn’t much given to martyrdom.”

  Winnie took her customary seat opposite Evangeline, her brow furrowed in thought. “Yes,” she mused, pensively staring at her tiny feet. “And unfortunately, he’s Scottish. Did you notice his voice?”

  “Scottish?” Evangeline’s voice was sharp. To her Flemish ear, all the King’s English sounded very much alike.

  Winnie nodded slowly and lifted her gaze from the floor. “Yes, I think so. No—I’m sure of it, Evie. A touch of an accent remains … ’tis very slight, when he makes a joke or such. I may have spent half my life in Flanders, but I’m an old Newcastle girl, and I know a burr when I hear one.”

  “Yes, the name probably is Scottish,” considered Evangeline, fixing her stare on the cold hearth, “which only reaffirms how very little we know of him, Winnie. And we can ask nothing of Peter until he returns from Italy.”

  “La, dear, you are too cautious! Must your life be an endless path of seriousness and suspicion?”

  “Yes, to be sure,” responded Evangeline, returning her gaze to Winnie. “A great many people depend upon me. Seriousness and suspicion have thus far stood me in good stead.”

  Restlessly, Winnie sprang up from her chair and began to drift through the library once more. “Oh, Evie! I would not encourage you to be imprudent! I simply wish for you what I had with my darling Hans. Indeed, it is my fondest dream! I want you to have the happiness one finds only with one’s soul mate, and I cannot help but wonder if Mr. Roberts is not the one for you.”

  “Why?” asked Evangeline softly, genuinely mystified.

  “Why?” Winnie whirled again, now nervously twining a linen handkerchief back and forth through her fingers. “I do not know!” she responded plaintively. “I just see it, that’s all. There is something in the way he looks at you, the way he seems to belong here. And the children! They were taken with him at once. Elliot’s face has this compelling expression—somewhat baffled and charmed and happy all at once.”

  “Ah, Elliot is it now?” Evangeline’s tone was arch. “Winnie, indeed! You are foolishly romantic. I think Peter looks to me to guard your virtue!”

  Crossing her arms stubbornly, Winnie turned to gaze out the window once more. “And I agree with Augustus, much as the admission pains me, that you haven’t a romantic bone in your body!”

  So chastised, Evangeline rose and crossed the room to join her friend before the window. Apologetically, she snaked one arm around her companion’s waist. “I daresay, Winnie, that you may be right, and I take no pleasure in it. I shall try very hard to change. But you must admit, there is something mysterious about Mr. Roberts.” Slowly, she leaned forward and pulled back the drapery to peer intently into the sunlight, as if the truth might be hidden within Chatham’s front gardens. “Something is missing; some bit of information is wanting.”

  “Oh, bother!” fussed Winnie impatiently. “The only thing that big, strapping man is wanting is a kilt! Just think of what his knees must look like!”

  At this, Evangeline threw back her head and laughed. “Ah, Winnie, you are too awful! He shall return in a week’s time. You must simply ask to see them.”

  “Why do not you ask, Evie?” quipped Winnie with asperity. “After all, darling, you’re the artist.”

  It was a tempting thought, that.

  The Wrotham Arms was little more than a shabby coaching inn that had undoubtedly seen better days, all of them occurring in the preceding century. Even in his weatherworn clothes, a man of Elliot’s intimidating size and imperious demeanor garnered swift attention, yet the increasingly foul mood that had seized him upon leaving Chatham Lodge was barely pacified when a thin, nervous potboy agreed to show him directly to the innkeeper. Following the lad through the squalid taproom as he darted between the rickety tables and worn settles, Elliot made his way to the back of the chamber and down a filthy corridor into a narrow office.

  Seated behind a stout worktable piled high with dishes was a corpulent, garishly dressed woman, marginally occupied with wiping out tankards. Her age was uncertain, but her station clearly was not. “I said innkeeper!” barked Elliot to the skittish servant, then instantly regretted his words when the potboy jerked backward, flinching. In all likelihood, this wasn’t the lad’s fault. “I’m wanting the innkeeper, Mr. Tanner,” he repeated to him, softening his tone.

  “Aye, an’ who might you be?” rasped the woman at the table, spitting violently into a tankard then ramming in a rag with one meaty fist. She jerked her head toward the door, and the round-eyed servant immediately skittered back down the hall.

  “I’m an acquaintance of Mr. Tanner’s daughter,” answered Elliot stiffly, turning his full focus on the tawdry woman. Beneath the tumble of wiry red and gray hair that spilled from a yellowed mobcap, her eyes were like bright jet beads set deep into the folds of a florid face. A thick, beefy nose hung between heavy jowls and over thin lips, set in a visage that could never have been pretty.

  She grinned sarcastically, showing off a set of nearly complete but blackened, stubby teeth. “Which ’un do ye want? But I needn’t ask, do I, sir?” She chuckled to herself. “Not me poor Mary, I’ll wager, for she’d have no use for the likes of a fine gent such as yourself.”

  “Annie Tanner,” interjected Elliot irritably. “I am looking for Annie Tanner.”

  “Aye, above half the gents in Lunnon be acquainted with me Annie,” replied the woman, nodding shrewdly. “And them as ain’t likely will be.” The tankard, now apparently cleaned to her satisfaction, was put down with a hearty thump, and she returned her narrow gaze to Elliot.

  Watching the woman clean the dishes, Elliot paused to thank God he’d avoided putting up for the night in this rat hole. No matter how much physical discomfort his unslaked desire for Evangeline had given him, it was better than a bad case of the bloody flux. “I’m the marquis of Rannoch,” he said coldly. “And I wish to see Mr. Tanner. Now.”

  The woman jerked her thumb back over her shoulder and cackled obnoxiously, her bosom and mobcap shaking in unison. “Do ye, indeed? Well, ’ee be right across the lane there, m’lord. Third grave left o’ the small oak tree.”

  “Dead?”

  “Aye, gone on to ’is eternal reward these three weeks past,” she replied sarcastically.

  “And pray who are you, madam,
if I may ask?”

  “I’m the grievin’ widow, thank ye kindly,” replied the woman, still grinning. “And I’m just settling up matters here.”

  Good Lord. Antoinette’s mother. He might have guessed. “Then where, madam, might I find your daughter?”

  The woman eyed him suspiciously with her sharp black gaze. “Annie? Can’t rightly say as I know.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “Me Mary housekeeps for a fine family in Mayfair—mayhap she’s heard from ’er.”

  Elliot suppressed a rising tide of aggravation and anxiety. God, but he wanted this over and done with. Antoinette’s wardrobe girl had said the actress was returning to Essex. Damn it, she had to be here. Undoubtedly, she was still hiding from him. “Mrs. Tanner, I have business to settle with Annie, and I should like to get on with it.”

  Mrs. Tanner squinted at Elliot appraisingly, scanning his length with one dark, beady eye. “Aye, a great buck of a man like you, I ’spect you’ve business aplenty for her!” The woman cackled again, then promptly stopped, narrowing her gaze speculatively. “But I’ll be seein’ me Annie soon, no doubt. She’ll turn up ’ere, or I’ll go down to Lunnon once I get this place done for.”

  Elliot swallowed hard, desperate to shove Antoinette and all that she represented into his past where it belonged. Impulsively, he reached a decision and dug deep into his pocket to pull forth the velvet case. He slapped it onto the desk with a harsh clack. “See that she gets this, Mrs. Tanner. And the note that is enclosed.”

  A burning light in Mrs. Tanner’s eyes flared, then just as quickly died again. She shifted her gaze away to pick absently at the worn fabric of her bodice, then sniffed pitifully. “Aye, that’s all very well for me girl, but I’m a poor widow woman. ’Tis a long trip to Lunnon—”

  Elliot tossed a handful of coins onto the tabletop, and they clattered against the plates and tankards. “That should make it worth your while,” he replied in a soft, cold voice as the woman began to rake the money into her apron. “But make no mistake, Mrs. Tanner. Should I have the regrettable misfortune to discover that Annie did not receive that box or my letter, you’d be well advised to dig another hole under the oak tree.” Then Elliot turned hard on his boot heel and strode back down the hall toward the filthy taproom, almost tripping over the nervous potboy who stood hidden deep in the shadows.

  Suddenly, the atmosphere inside the repulsive tavern seemed thick, stale, and dirty. Anxiety began to claw at his gut, and Elliot was seized with an almost overwhelming need to draw the sharp, pure air of Essex down into his lungs. He burst forth from the stooped, narrow doorway and into the packed dirt yard, jerking his head toward the stables and muttering a blunt command to the dim-witted ostler who had taken his horse.

  As he waited for his mount by the roadway, the feeling of anxiety churned, shifted, and became dread and then something worse: a gnawing sense of loss and fear. Of what? He was impatient to escape this wretched place, yet he had no wish to return to London. Nor, in fact, to his life. He was the all-powerful, much-reviled marquis of Rannoch, and he suddenly found himself liking that fact no better than did anyone else. Nonetheless, that was precisely who he was, and the reality of it would never change. The stench of this wayside clung to him like the knowledge of what he had become: jaded, sated, base, and bored.

  4

  Tell me, Muse, of the man of many tricks.

  —HOMER

  I t was perfectly obvious that the much put-upon MacLeod had been compelled to suppress a gasp of horror when his travel-worn master returned to Strath that evening and announced his shocking intention of taking an early supper in the schoolroom with his daughter. Without comment, however, the butler dutifully conveyed his lord’s command belowstairs, thereby pitching Henri and his kitchen staff into a fit of French anarchy. But since Miss Zoë was known to be the particular favorite of the hard-nosed MacLeod, in very short order a trio of footmen arrived at the schoolroom door, bearing great silver trays laden with cold ham and warm beef, along with all the wines, vegetables, and breads that would normally have been laid out in the great dining room. More importantly, they brought along Zoë’s favorite, a raspberry tart, to finish.

  By the time the schoolroom clock struck eight, however, the covers had long since been removed, and Elliot found himself rather awkwardly wiping a smear of raspberry filling from Zoë’s chin. With a sticky napkin still clutched in his hand, Elliot leaned back into his chair, stretched his feet toward the cold hearth, and studied his daughter assiduously. She was a part of him, this lovely little thing. In Zoë, he could see his own mother’s dark, curling hair, framing his late father’s solemn, steady expression. Her sharp little chin probably came from Aunt Agnes, but the strong, stubborn jaw … well, that was undeniably his very own, and only God could guess at its origin.

  Yes, she was indeed his child, and he cherished her, yet she had scarcely uttered above a dozen words during dinner. And was there any wonder? Zoë doubtless thought her papa had gone perfectly mad, for Elliot rarely saw the inside of the schoolroom, usually dined alone, and never, ever wiped his daughter’s face. Sitting there amidst the books and globes and tiny chairs, Elliot felt—and probably looked—just about as awkward as a tricked-out cyprian at an Almack’s assembly. Perhaps, he wryly considered, he really had gone mad. It was not the first time such a thought had crossed his mind. Resolutely, he shoved it away. He was determined to do a better job of this thing, this parenting, or nurturing, or whatever one called it.

  Deliberately, he forced a smile. “Zoë, why do you not fetch that book you like so much? Let’s have a look at it together.” Zoë gave him a rather blank stare, and in desperation Elliot began to dig around in his memory. “The picture book, sweet? I believe it had to do with, er, animals in the zoo or some such thing?”

  Zoë blinked, her brown eyes luminous in the lamplight. “I am too old now, Papa, for picture books.”

  Good Lord … how stupid he was! Of course, a girl who read as well as Zoë would have long ago lost interest in her picture books. Elliot shot her a shamefaced grin and was pleased when she gradually returned it. “Then fetch a book you do like, sweet. And tell your foolish, forgetful papa what it is about.”

  Dutifully, Zoë slid from her chair and padded across the carpet to rummage through a stack of small, well-worn books. She returned to her father’s chair, clutching one in her plump, girlish fingers. “It is about a yellow kitten,” she softly explained, extending it toward him. “He has adventures, but some of the words are too hard.”

  Elliot smiled again, and it felt less forced this time. Perhaps this would indeed become easier with practice. Gently, he reached out to tuck a stray piece of hair ribbon back from Zoë’s heart-shaped face, then tweaked Aunt Agnes’s chin for good measure. “Then Papa will read it to you, sweetie, and we will work on the hard words together. Would you like that?”

  Wordlessly, Zoë nodded, her solemn eyes widening with what looked like anticipation. Gently, Elliot leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. Silence hung in the air for a long moment. “Well,” said Elliot briskly. “How shall we go about this, Zoë?”

  “How shall we go about what, Papa?” she echoed sweetly.

  Inwardly, Elliot kicked himself. Had he truly never read a book to his daughter? Damn it all, he knew perfectly well he hadn’t. It was not that he had never wished to read to her, yet Elliot could not precisely say why he had not, or explain what it was that held him back from a child he loved so much. His child. She stood before him, so small yet so grave and uncertain. His daughter hardly knew her own father, and it was his fault. He was all that Zoë had left, yet it should have been more than enough.

  Indeed, a loving father was far more than many children had, and love her he surely did. None of the boys and girls at Chatham had a father, and yet they flourished, while his daughter floundered. “Come up into my lap, Zoë,” Elliot answered with a sudden certainty. “Come up, and I will hold you, and together we shall see what adventures this yellow kitten of yours ha
s got himself into.”

  At last, Zoë smiled. It was a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, but as she lifted her arms to touch her father’s shoulders, it came close. Very close. Ah, yes, he reassured himself. It was a start. But the start of what? Elliot did not know, but he was working on it.

  At half past nine, Gerald Wilson paused on the threshold of the marquis of Rannoch’s library and asked himself what the hell he was doing there. Oh, he knew very well that the marquis had summoned him. And in his usual high-handed manner: an overwrought footman bearing a scribbled note which read “Library now,” with a thick, black R boldly slashed across the bottom. It was time, Wilson told himself. Long past time, in fact. He should have begun seeking a new position months ago.

  With his impeccable references and experience, Wilson prided himself on being a consummately professional man of affairs. Two years earlier, he had reluctantly accepted employment with Rannoch, for at the time, the exorbitant salary the marquis offered him had made living in hell seem worth the price. Now Wilson harbored grave doubts, and he had learned a hard lesson about why Rannoch paid so well. Worse still, the marquis went through staff like a scythe through wheat, cutting fast and close to the ground. Wilson winced at the analogy. He could almost see the glittering blade slicing toward his kneecaps.

  Oh, Lord. That was it, then, wasn’t it? He was going to be fired.

  Wilson could fathom no other reason why the marquis would have sent for him at such an unusually late hour. And though he had indulged in many a fantasy about marching into the marquis’s dark library and cavalierly tossing down his resignation, Wilson had never in his wildest imaginings dreamed that Rannoch might turn him off without notice. Why, had he not given exemplary service? Had he not tolerated Rannoch’s harsh demands and vile moods with nary a whimper?