Leaving England was not an issue, for as much as she loved Chatham Lodge, she loved Flanders equally well. Chatham had been carefully entailed to Michael, and a generous marriage portion had been set aside for Nicolette, but the house in Ghent was Evangeline’s. It was her home, and despite her family’s constant travels across Europe, her mother had borne five children there. Situated on a picturesque canal, the fine old house had witnessed the births and deaths of her van Artevalde ancestors for three hundred years.
Despite the comfort of a return to her home, however, nothing could ease the loss of the one man she had ever been capable of loving. Evangeline had racked her brain to find a way to have it all. She could send Michael away to friends, then throw herself shamelessly at Elliot, but she knew she could bring herself to do neither of those things. She could beg Elliot to go with her, but that was both improper and foolish. Moreover, she felt far too inexperienced in the ways of men to understand his feelings for her. Elliot had recently suffered a broken engagement and had been deeply scarred by the loss. They had become dear friends, yes. And although he did not love her, Evangeline believed that he desired her. Nevertheless, men frequently desired women, and quite often it meant little more than that. In her situation, she could hardly afford to make assumptions.
Evangeline considered telling him everything, but she feared that result almost as much as she feared her step-grandmother. Elliot, like most men, was stubborn and prideful. If by chance he felt any deep emotion for her, he might think it his duty to intervene in the coming battle with Lady Trent. That simply would not do. He could not win and by his efforts might well cause considerable damage. Her parents had shown her that waging war against Lady Trent was like a protracted game of chess; it could last eons, and one’s survival often depended upon a series of carefully considered strategic moves. Bludgeoning her with a sharp ax, tempting though it might be, was foolhardy. The woman was Medusa personified.
Moreover, her family’s estrangement from her father’s venerable lineage made his children all but social outcasts according to the unyielding strictures of the socially conscious beau monde. That fact alone might well dissuade Elliot from any further relationship with her.
Shockingly, her logic kept returning her to the one remaining alternative, and a sinfully tempting one at that. She could take Elliot as a lover and enjoy him for whatever time was left to them. It would not be difficult; Winnie was a sweetly inept companion, and in truth they had both lived far too long on the Continent to be overly concerned with England’s rigid social mores. Nonetheless, there were risks. The intensity of physical love could be overwhelming. Would it make the leaving harder? Without a doubt. Could it weaken her resolve to protect Michael? Never.
Unfortunately, the risk of pregnancy was a far greater concern. In England, Frederica was a social outcast because of her heritage. In Flanders, it would be marginally easier, particularly within the artistic community. Nonetheless, an illegitimate child was a risk that bore careful consideration. Elliot’s babe in her arms—the thought rocked her to the very core of her soul. Until her father’s death seven years earlier, Evangeline had always dreamed of a husband and a family. Then as now, visitors from the Continent often filled their home, and Evangeline had never lacked for complaisant suitors. Her arms ached to hold her very own child, for as much as she loved Nicolette and Michael, it was not the same. That she might love a man like Elliot Roberts, a gentle but strong man, and be loved by him in return, perhaps even bear his children, had become a fantasy, not an assumption.
Harshly, Evangeline shut away her impetuous dreams. She would not consider such things. Not now. Not when so much was at stake. There would be time enough for pity, and for foolish daydreaming as well, when she was alone in her house in Ghent. Swiftly, she leaned forward and blew out the candle, then made her way back upstairs in the dark. En route to her bedchamber, she passed Michael’s door, paused, and pushed it open.
Her brother lay sprawled atop his sheets, the coverlet and blanket long since shoved onto the floor. His window was open wide, casting a shaft of watery moonlight across the bed. In the weak illumination, Michael’s pale hair gleamed, and even in sleep his expression was sweet and untroubled. Evangeline was ruthlessly determined that it would ever be so.
Life could be cruel, and Evangeline suffered no illusions about her inability to shield Michael from its harsh realities when he became a young man. Nevertheless, the sweet boy who slept so peacefully—the babe she had raised as her very own because she had loved him and had promised to care for him—yes, that child would not be taught to manipulate. He would not be told that he was better than another because of the blood in his veins, and he would not be allowed to learn how to wield power injudiciously. And he would not be torn from his family. Evangeline had given her word, and she would keep it, no matter the cost. Moreover, she loved him, and she would bleed to death from the loss were he to be taken from her now.
Godfrey Moore, Baron Cranham, sensed the angel of death draw nigh; its cold shadow cast a damp chill over his soul. There was no doubt in his mind. This was the end. With a sickening sense of doom, he hefted one heavily engraved pistol from its velvet swathing, testing its weight in the palm of his hand. Weakly, he passed it to Lord Henry Carstairs, his second, for examination and loading. Across the field, his other second, Edwin Wilkins, stood beside the elegantly dressed Lord Linden, negotiating the distance. Indeed, Cranham had been hard pressed to find seconds for this morning’s duel. Very few men were willing, he had belatedly discovered, to stand on the wrong side of a challenge to Rannoch.
And it was his challenge against Rannoch. In front of him, Major Matthew Winthrop, smiling grimly, let the carved mahogany box thump shut to reveal the ornate Armstrong crest, bringing the horror ever more clear. Cranham’s damnable, inexcusably stupid error merely served to make his present situation even more appalling. What in God’s name had possessed him to get sufficiently inebriated, and sufficiently enraged, to deviate from his well-laid plans?
It had never been his intent to come out into the open with his plan to avenge Cicely’s death. At first, Cranham had tried more subtle tactics. Attempting to enlist the support of Cicely’s uncle had netted absolutely nothing; Howell had repeatedly refused to meet with him. Eventually, however, Cranham had succeeded in cornering the baron at their club, but the man had turned deathly pale and adamantly cut him off, insisting that he feared Rannoch’s wrath.
Repeatedly seducing Rannoch’s whore had been a waste of time; three weeks and six hundred pounds later, Cranham had spent damn near every sou he had and learned nothing that might advance his quest for vengeance. Far more dangerous than she had first appeared, Antoinette Fontaine prattled on about nothing more specific than the sexual positions Rannoch preferred and the enormous size of his cock, two topics that had quickly grown tiresome. However, it was her vile temperament, deranged rambling, and incessant drinking that had truly taken a toll on his nerves.
And then Rannoch had disappeared altogether. Night after night, Cranham had lurked about in the hells and brothels of London awaiting the arrival of his nemesis. Rannoch had not come. Where the son of a bitch had been keeping himself, no one seemed to know or care, for he was not a well-liked man. The marquis had not even bothered to appear with his dissolute cohorts in Brooks’s, where Cranham had been exceedingly fortunate to obtain a membership. Had his late grandfather, the preceding Baron Cranham, not been a member, Godfrey Moore would almost certainly have been refused. Nevertheless, despite the fact that his haughty, blue-blooded grandsire had never so much as acknowledged Cranham’s presence at a soiree, let alone hung his name on the family tree, the exclusive gentlemen’s club had granted him admittance because Cranham had snared the title. Remarkable what a mangowood chest of untaxed Indian opium could do when dropped on the right doorstep.
The crunch of gravel beneath carriage wheels signaled the belated arrival of the attending surgeon. Carstairs had rounded up some hapless sawbones at the la
st minute, and the man was almost half an hour late. The unexpected delay had very nearly unstrung Cranham, whilst Rannoch and his cronies had merely tossed out a blanket beneath an oak and commenced another leisurely game of whist. That in and of itself was enough to make Cranham want to kill him.
He saw Carstairs nod to Major Winthrop. It was time. Perhaps he could kill him. Hell, he had to kill him. Cranham felt the cold, dead weight of the gun pressed into his hand. Weakly, he curled his fingers about the butt as Wilkins urged him into place. Cranham began to fear the humiliation of casting up his accounts on the field, which only served to heighten his animosity. Despite his indignation, however, he could not seem to choke down his raging panic. It was irrational.
No. It was not.
His heart hammered in his chest as he watched Rannoch stroll almost languidly toward him. They turned, and he felt the soft superfine of Rannoch’s coat brush against his. Christ, the man was tall. Beneath Cranham’s boots, the ground seemed to dip, then tilt backward uncertainly, like the prow of a boat. From the corner of one eye, he saw an arm rise up. He tried to focus ahead, but the horizon blurred before him. When he tried to breathe, he drew in nothing but the scent of Rannoch’s tobacco and cologne; he smelled no fear whatsoever. He heard the order to pace off, and miraculously his feet began to move.
Rannoch was quite possibly the best marksman in all the kingdom, having never lost a duel in his life. Moreover, when pressed, he had reputedly shot one particularly impudent Irishman clean through the heart. Rannoch clearly welcomed the opportunity to shoot him through the heart. There was no hope.
There was only one hope. Do not wait.
Turn and fire now.
Yes, now!
With meticulous timing, Cranham spun his heel hard into the turf, coming about just as Rannoch began to turn. Focusing fast on the widening angle of Rannoch’s shoulder, Cranham leveled his pistol and fired without hesitation. The weapon thundered, then bucked hard against his hand, almost shattering the bones of his wrist. Tufts of black superfine tore through the air. He’d hit him! Damn it, he knew he had. Still, Rannoch stood, unmoved.
The enemy faced him solidly now, his pistol held high but falling. Cranham watched in abject horror as Rannoch lowered his weapon with an agonizing indolence until at last it was pointed squarely at his heart. Rannoch’s aim did not waver. Slowly, his mouth curved in a bitter smile. A sheen of early sun reflected dully off the barrel as Cranham watched it drop just a fraction of an inch further. Cranham could almost hear the trigger hit home. The roar of the pistol filled his ears, louder and more abrupt than his own had been.
“Oh, God!” Cranham heard himself scream. He collapsed to the ground in a writhing heap as Wilkins and the surgeon rushed to his side. “I’m hit! I’m hit!”
Edwin Wilkins dropped to the grass beside him, scowling. Savagely, he jerked Cranham’s wounded leg straight out before him. “Shut up, Cranham, you idiot! What possessed you to do such a dishonorable thing? By rights, he could have killed you!” Lord Henry Carstairs bent low to pull off his boot.
Cranham looked at Wilkins in amazement. “He was going to kill me, you imbecile! He damn near shot my ballocks off!” Wilkins merely deepened his scowl, stood up, and walked away. The surgeon had already pulled forth a pair of surgical scissors and was deftly slicing away the fabric of Cranham’s trousers. A long, nasty scratch was oozing blood high on his inner thigh.
“Do you see?” whimpered Cranham, repeatedly jabbing his finger at the wound. “That bastard meant to geld me!” The surgeon brought forth a bit of flannel and liberally saturated it with the odiferous contents of a brown bottle.
Lord Henry, bending low on one knee, spoke softly into Cranham’s ear. “Do shut up, old boy. If Rannoch had meant to kill you, you most assuredly would be dead by now. If he’d meant to unman you, I’d be raking your testicles out of the grass.”
Wordlessly, the surgeon pressed the moistened cloth to the wound, and Cranham came off the ground with a piercing howl of agony. “What—is—it—you’re—trying—to—say?” he asked between clenched teeth.
“Count your blessings,” murmured the young lord, looking back over his shoulder at Rannoch. The marquis stood under the oak, legs spread wide, casually wiping his gun. Someone, Major Winthrop perhaps, had knotted a now bloodstained handkerchief about Rannoch’s tattered coat sleeve, but otherwise he seemed wholly unaware of his wound.
Lord Henry shook his head in obvious amazement and returned his attention to the man sprawled beside him. “That was naught but a warning shot across your bow, Cranham, pardon the lamentable analogy. Indeed, one cannot help but wonder what accounts for such unexpected benevolence from Rannoch.”
Suddenly, Major Winthrop squatted on the grass beside Cranham. His dark coat and broad shoulders seemed to obliterate every ray of morning sun. “Send your surgeon’s bill to me, Cranham,” he instructed in his grim, commanding voice, “and I shall see it paid on Rannoch’s behalf. His lordship is leaving immediately on an extended trip to the country.”
The following Wednesday afternoon, Elliot was invited to accompany Mr. Stokely and the younger children on an afternoon walk to the River Lea. Mrs. Weyden had compelled Gus to accompany her to the vicarage for the afternoon, a fate Elliot had very narrowly escaped. And Evangeline, with what Elliot hoped was reluctance, had sequestered herself in the studio to draft a letter to Peter Weyden. The perfect June day was warm, and Elliot, left with time on his hands, was suddenly glad for the invitation.
And so it was, oddly enough, that Elliot soon found himself pleasantly and industriously engaged in the procurement of materiel for the manufacture of daisy chains. Seated cross-legged upon one of two old blankets the group had brought along, Frederica and Michael worked fiendishly, chiding him for his sluggardly pace.
Laughing, Elliot swooped down to place a flower behind Frederica’s ear. It hung rather whimsically, dipping down toward her chin. “Miss d’Avillez,” said Elliot with a formal bow, “you are exceedingly lovely. As a single gentleman, I must beg you to tell me—have you come out?”
Frederica beamed, then giggled. “Oh, no, indeed, sir. We’re none of us out here at Chatham.”
“Are you not?” Elliot pressed his fingertips to his chest in feigned shock.
“No, sir. We’re—” She searched for the word. “We’re recluses.”
“That’s right, Mr. Roberts,” chimed Michael. “And Evangeline says that as there are so many of us, we needn’t go out at all unless we want to!”
“I see,” mused Elliot, dropping down to sit alongside Frederica on the blanket. “Is that why your sister never … goes out?”
“Oh, but she does,” interjected Nicolette. “Last year, she went to Paris, and the year before that to Ghent. And she often goes down to London to see Uncle Peter.”
“Uncle Peter?”
“Peter Weyden, Papa’s brother,” explained Theo. “I thought you knew him. He’s ever so nice. Did you not know that he’s Evie’s … Evie’s business partner?”
Nicolette frowned and pitched another daisy into the Lea. “Trustee, silly. Mr. Weyden’s our trustee to keep us safe from trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?” asked Elliot curiously.
“I don’t precisely know.” Nicolette shrugged. “That’s just what Evie said. She said that Father knew he could count on Uncle Peter to look after us while we were here in England.”
“While you are here?” It sounded so temporary. Elliot felt a rush of alarm. Did Evangeline plan someday to leave England? What sort of trouble could require such drastic action? “You’ve been here several years, have you not? Do you not mean to stay?”
Nicolette shot him a veiled look. “Evie says it is advisable to keep one’s options open.”
“Yes,” agreed Frederica. “But we’re to stay here as long as we can and get a proper English education.”
“I’ve a capital idea!” Michael shouted. “If we have to return to Ghent, we shall just take Mr. Stokely with us. You
’d go along, wouldn’t you, Mr. Stokely?”
Harlan Stokely cleared his throat sonorously and pressed his glasses firmly back up on his nose. “Indeed, Michael, I might do. I have always wanted to see the world—”
“Whoa, team! Slow down!” exclaimed Elliot, forcing a smile. “It was not my intent to send all of you packing. And whyever would one go to Ghent, of all places?”
“Evie’s got a house there,” explained Michael with a sly smile. “A big one, so you could come as well, Mr. Roberts.”
Frederica tossed a daisy at her cousin Michael. “But we cannot go there yet, silly, ’cause it’s got tenants.” The flower bounced off his thick blond hair and toppled onto the blanket.
“Tenants?” Elliot felt exceedingly confused.
Frederica shrugged. “You know, like mice or something.”
Michael snorted. “Frederica, you goose! Tenants are leaseholders, like Farmer Moreton. Not rodents, for heaven’s sake!” Michael and Nicolette burst into peals of laughter, toppling backward into the warm meadow grass.
Frederica’s lower lip began to quiver. “I didn’t know! How should I know? I have never been to Ghent—or—or to Paris or to Florence—or to anywhere but Figueira, and I cannot even remember that … ”Her choked voice began to break into a wail as Elliot rose, lifting her up from the blanket in a smooth, fluid motion. Two big tears began to slide from her wide brown eyes.
“There now, Frederica! Come for a walk with me along the riverbank,” said Elliot, widening his eyes at her. “Why, I was in Ghent once, and I saw tenants big enough to chew a man’s arm off !”
Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] Page 16