Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Frederica began to screw up her face for a torrent of tears, but Evangeline quickly shushed her, dropping to her knees to better soothe the child. “Don’t regard it, Frederica. No harm is done. ’Twas a dreadful shade of blue, mixed too dark, and I was going to throw it out.”

  Frederica’s tears forestalled, Evangeline rose from the floor. She still had not noticed Elliot framed in the doorway to the schoolroom. “Nicolette,” she said gently, “put your work away, then take Frederica upstairs to change for dinner. I shall fetch Polly and Tess to clean this spill from the floor.”

  In a trice, the room was empty, and Elliot retreated into the schoolroom to await Evangeline’s return. He had every hope of persuading her to walk in the gardens with him before dinner. Although Evangeline had seemed perfectly at ease with what had transpired between them earlier in the afternoon, Elliot was anxious to reassure himself that this was indeed the case. Would she by now be experiencing guilt and regret? Or had their impulsive kiss merely served to embolden her passion?

  In either case, Elliot was determined to do whatever was necessary to assuage her emotions. Thus far, his carefully considered options ranged from promising faithfully never to touch her again to dragging her into the rhododendron to make love on the spot. Elliot was fast coming to understand that he would do whatever was necessary to remain a part of Evangeline’s life, for as long as possible.

  The heavy clunk of metal on flagstone inside the studio disrupted his thoughts. Strolling back to the open door, Elliot saw Tess, one of the maids, straighten up from a bucket of soapy water. Diligently, she pulled a rag from her apron pocket, leaned across the table, and began to wipe the spilled paint from the surface. Polly, whom Elliot had already noted to be the most quarrelsome of Evie’s servants, came in behind Tess, then dropped to her knees to plunk a scrub brush violently down in the bucket of suds.

  “Bloody black-eyed imp!” she hissed from beneath the table. The scrub brush hit the flagstone with a thwack. “An’ a bleedin’ foreigner, at that! Can’t credit that a good English housemaid ought’er be put to the trouble of cleaning up after—”

  “Hush up, Poll!” interrupted Tess with a harsh whisper. “You’re just arstin’ for trouble, you are! The child don’t mean no harm. Still just a babe, that one.”

  “Oh, aye,” fumed Polly, slopping the brush carelessly back and forth across the floor, “and wot else is she, I should like to know? Naught but some nobleman’s by-blow, that’s what! A war orphan, and a damned Portuguese bastard!”

  Elliot felt a flash of red-hot rage as he stepped into the open doorway. “Polly?” He watched in cold satisfaction as the plump housemaid almost jumped out of her skin.

  Still on her knees beneath the table, Polly flushed three shades of pink, finishing with a shade that was closely akin to a sickly vermilion. “Oh, Mr. Roberts! Beg pardon, sir. I didn’t see you.”

  “Indeed, I hope you did not.” Elliot lifted his thick black brows with a deliberately calculated arrogance. “But pray tell us, Polly, since when have you become an authority on Miss d’Avillez’s parentage?”

  “I—er—I … ” Rising awkwardly from her knees, the maid stammered uncertainly. Tess took the bucket and darted from the room.

  Elliot picked a bit of imaginary lint from his coat sleeve, then flicked his cold gaze up at her. “Polly, you are dismissed.”

  “I’m wot?” The maid’s mouth gaped incredulously.

  “Dismissed.” Elliot’s words were crisp and clear. He jerked his head toward the rear cottages. “Collect your things from the servants’ quarters and be gone by half past the hour.”

  “Or wot would you be doin’ about it, sir?” she challenged, a belligerent gleam in her narrow eyes. The maid set her hands upon her hips and tilted back on one heel.

  “Or I shall make it my life’s ambition to ensure that you never find gainful employment again,” answered Elliot softly.

  The buxom maid stood firm, still sputtering indignantly. “Why, you—! You can’t turn me off without no more’n a by-your-leave! You don’t—you’re naught—you’re just a—”

  “Guest?” Elliot finished sharply, letting his anger burn like a cool blue flame. It was a comfortingly familiar, if not altogether pleasant, sensation.

  “Aye,” agreed the maid with a saucy toss of her mobcap. “An’ you got no call wheresoever to go about dismissin’ servants. Not in this house, nor any other, I should think.” With a derisive snort, the insolent maid let her eyes wonder over his simple clothing.

  “Indeed, do you think not?” Elliot reclined casually against the doorframe, crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest, and let his cold gaze rake over her. “Pray watch me while I do so.”

  Polly did watch him. Very carefully. And as she watched, Elliot let his lips thin deliberately into a tight, cruel line. His countenance darkened, from years of practice, into a glower so evil that it had been known to send servants scurrying for cover with regularity.

  Polly was not immune to this effect, and as Elliot began to stir his great height from his position against the doorframe, the plump little maid finally capitulated, darting from the room in a jiggling whirlwind of black and white cotton.

  Elliot listened as the rear door slammed behind her, and as the burning anger eased, he began to wonder what had possessed him. Well, a bit late now. He bounded up the two flights of stairs to the Tower Room to dress hurriedly. Before he joined the family for dinner, he knew he must make some explanation to Evangeline. Far sooner than he had expected, however, a sharp rap rang against his door. His cravat still loose about his neck and his shirt not fully closed, Elliot yanked open the door, expecting to see Gus bringing an acrimonious summons from Evangeline.

  He was very much mistaken. It was his hostess who stood upon his threshold. She drew a deep breath and stepped inside the room without invitation.

  “Mr. Roberts!” she began without preamble, then came to an abrupt halt as she stared fixedly at the open throat of his shirt. Suddenly, her face suffused with color. “Oh, I say—please excuse me.”

  “Oh, come on in,” answered Elliot with a resigned shrug. He quietly pushed shut the door, motioning toward one of two wing chairs beneath the narrow tower window, then pulled his shirtfront together.

  Looking almost grateful, Evangeline crossed the room and sank down into one of them. “Mr. Rob—Elliot, I pray that you will disabuse me of this notion that … ” Evangeline paused, pressing her fingertips hard into her temples as if suffering from a severe headache. She drew a deep breath. “Indeed, I must confess that I cannot quite fathom … ”

  Elliot cleared his throat softly. “Why a guest in your home would be so presumptuous as to dismiss one of your servants?” he completed, folding himself into the other chair.

  “Ah, yes,” she agreed, staring pointedly at him. “That would be it. But surely you did not—that is to say, certainly there must be some misunderstanding?”

  Elliot drew a deep breath and leaned forward in his chair to hold her gaze intently. “None on my part, Evangeline. A measure of high-handed arrogance, perhaps. But no misunderstanding. I very plainly heard your servant insult the parentage of your young cousin.”

  “Parentage?”

  “To be blunt, Polly expressed her extreme resentment at being expected to clean up this afternoon’s paint spill, and very callously referred to Miss d’Avillez as a bastard.”

  “Well, I am sad to say that it is true—”

  “I long ago surmised as much, Evangeline,” he agreed, with more asperity than he had intended. “I’m hardly stupid.”

  “Forgive me,” Evangeline said stiffly. “I did not mean to imply that you were.”

  Elliot felt his rising ire abate. “No, I am sure you did not. I am in the wrong here. I forgot myself; I should have come to you at once. I might have explained the incident and allowed you and Mrs. Penworthy to handle the matter. But I am, I suppose, too much accustomed to, ah, to—”

  “To seizing command in a crisis?
” She shot him a wry grin.

  “I was going to say having my own way, Miss Stone.” Elliot smiled back, chagrined. “You are most kind. My actions are nonetheless inexcusable, yet it pained me so greatly to hear an innocent child spoken of in such vile terms, I could not help but feel that punishment should be swift.”

  “And just?”

  “Indeed, I believe it was just, Miss Stone.”

  Evangeline pursed her lips and rested one slender arm gracefully across the pie-crust table between them. As if in deep thought, she drummed her fingers on the smooth, polished surface. “I am inclined to agree with you,” she said slowly. “In any event, Polly shall be leaving shortly.”

  Elliot could not hide his mild surprise. “Have you agreed to send her packing, then?”

  Evangeline sighed. “Yes, though I came here immediately thereafter. I do trust your judgment, Elliot. You are an honored guest at Chatham, a situation that I hope shall continue, and I saw no way to rescind your directive without”—she paused as if searching for just the right word—“without weakening your position here.”

  Having fired countless servants, often arbitrarily and occasionally even justifiably, Elliot felt nonetheless warmed by her concern. “I thank you,” he said simply.

  Evangeline slid forward as if to rise from her seat, then suddenly slumped backward. He could see that she was tired, a realization that was followed by a wave of guilt for having burdened her with such a problem.

  When she spoke, it was with a weary resignation. “I have long suspected, Elliot, that Polly was not all that she should be and that she was not always kind to Frederica. Unfortunately, there was nothing specific, just a disquieting impression. And Frederica—well, she is so quiet and so very grateful for every kindness.”

  “Indeed, she is a wonderful child,” agreed Elliot softly.

  “Yes,” replied Evangeline quietly, her gaze far away and unfocused.

  Elliot took a deep breath. “Do you not think, Evie, that given our—our friendship, you should confide in me about a few things? You might begin by telling me a little more about Frederica’s background.”

  Evangeline’s blue eyes sharpened and flicked up at him. A look of regret, or perhaps it was sadness, drifted across her delicate features. “Yes, to be sure,” she answered softly. “It is no particular secret. Frederica is my uncle’s child. He was in the allied forces during the Peninsular Campaign and was stationed at Figueira for a time.”

  Elliot nodded, and Evangeline continued. “It was there that he met Frederica’s mother. She was the widow of an attaché to the Council of Regency, and she was sent to a village near Figueira for her safety. She befriended my uncle, and over time they fell in love.” She looked up at Elliot as if she dared him to dispute the fact, but he remained silent.

  “During the war, they saw each other when possible, but always they corresponded. I have many letters which, along with Frederica, were eventually brought out of Portugal by a family friend, an army captain. His wife followed the drum, and they believed it best that Frederica be brought to us in England.”

  “Your uncle died?”

  “Yes, he was wounded at Busaco and died within two days. Some months following, Frederica was born. He and her mother had meant to marry, but fate decreed otherwise.”

  “What happened to her mother?” asked Elliot quietly.

  “It was a difficult birth, and she was not a young woman. She lingered for several months.”

  “And was there no one else to care for the babe?”

  Evangeline shrugged. “Frederica remained with her maternal cousins until Uncle’s friends were able to leave Portugal. By that time, however, Papa was dead, and no one else was willing to take her. It was left to me, and I thought it best she come to us at Chatham.”

  “A very sad story, but one with a happy ending,” Elliot reassured her. “You shall see to that, I am quite confident.”

  Evangeline smiled weakly. “Thank you for your faith, Elliot. I wish I could fully share it, but life in England is difficult for anyone who is foreign-born, doubly so if one has the great misfortune to be illegitimate.”

  Elliot gave a harsh crack of laugher. “Aye, ’tis trouble enough for a Scot, so I fear you may be entirely right.” He leaned forward in his chair and took her hand in his. Gently, he lifted it to his mouth, barely brushing his lips against her skin. “I thank you, Evangeline, for confiding in me. It seems I find myself required to apologize for my reprehensible conduct today, on not one but two occasions.”

  Evangeline studied Elliot’s face intently, her earlier aggravation long forgotten in the face of his concern for Frederica and his forthright apologies. She did not pull her hand from his. “For the second offense, sir, your apology is accepted. For the first offense, well, I was not particularly offended.”

  “You should have been,” he replied brusquely, staring past her shoulder and out the tower window. “Evie, I must return to London tomorrow.”

  “Must you?” Evangeline could not suppress the disappointment in her voice.

  Elliot laughed softly. “Evangeline, you flatter me. Regrettably, I have pressing business in town.”

  Evangeline looked at Elliot intently, watching as something very like uncertainty clouded his dark gray eyes. “Can—will you return for the weekend?” she asked softly.

  “Is that an invitation?” He tightened his grip on her hand and narrowed his silvery gaze.

  “Elliot, I do not play games. I think you know what it is.”

  “Evangeline,” he interrupted her, “listen to me. I have something important to tell you. Something that I want you to consider whilst we are apart.”

  Evangeline felt suddenly ill. Elliot was going to tell her something that she did not wish to hear, she knew it. She could sense the reluctance in his voice. Was this it, then? Was this to be the secret? The bitterness? The barrier between them which she felt but did not understand? Anxiously, she swallowed. “Of course. I am listening.”

  “I—I must confess that I have not been entirely honest with you about—well, about some things, one thing in particular that is very important to me.” He paused, as if he could not find the words to express all that he wanted to say.

  “I know,” she said softly, and watched as Elliot winced. “I know you have secrets.”

  Taking her hand into his lap, Elliot slowly began to trace the lines in her palm, refusing to meet her eyes. “Someday, Evie, I would like to talk to you about a great many things. Regrettably, I am a slow and stubborn Scot who takes but one fence at a time. Can you understand?”

  Evangeline wanted to understand, but the secrets between them frightened her. “I am trying, Elliot.”

  He nodded. “When we spoke of Frederica, and of the obligation you feel toward her, I was reminded again of your commitment to your family.”

  “Family is everything,” she agreed with a calm she did not feel. Her mind raced frantically. Had he learned about Lady Trent? Or had this something to do with his former fiancée? Did he have some hope of resuming his betrothal? Surely not, not after what they had just done …

  Elliot interrupted her panic with a resigned sigh. “Evie, like most men, I am no saint. I never have been. Most certainly, I have done some things in my life of which I should be ashamed. I cannot claim to be ashamed of all of them, mind you. But I probably should be.”

  Evangeline could not suppress a nervous laugh. “At least, sir, you are honest.”

  “Aye, well, as to that, you’d best reserve comment,” said Elliot dryly. His head was lowered now, and his eyes flicked up at her from beneath heavy lids with sinfully long lashes. “But there is one thing that, well, things being as they are between us—”

  And precisely how are things between us, Elliot? Evangeline wanted to ask. She bit back the words. It was a question to which there could be no good answer. “Yes, go on,” she replied instead.

  “Evie, I have a daughter. Zoë.” Suddenly, words began to tumble from his mouth. “Aye,
her name is Zoë. She is beautiful, bright, and as shy as a mouse. Her only friend is my ancient Scottish butler. She looks pretty in violet, she loves to read, and she adores raspberries and kittens, and—well, dash it, I am ashamed to say that’s essentially all I know of her.” Elliot had resumed his study of Evangeline’s palm and refused to meet her gaze. “But I am learning.”

  Evangeline caught her breath. “Does this have something to do with your broken betrothal?”

  Elliot gave a harsh laugh and pulled himself stiffly upright in his chair. He looked at her very steadily then. “No, Evie. Believe me when I say that I never, ever compromised the woman to whom I was betrothed, and I have no wish to discuss her.”

  “I did not mean to suggest that you compromised anyone!” choked Evangeline. She felt her face suffuse with color.

  Finally, Elliot blinked. “No, you did not, did you? Forgive me, but it is an ever open wound.” He drew a deep breath. “The plain truth is that Zoë’s mother was a dancer, and not a particularly good one. Like many women I have … known, they aspired to be something quite different, really.”

  “A mistress.”

  “Yes.”

  “And was she?” Evangeline forced herself to hold his gaze. “Your mistress?”

  Elliot exhaled. “For a time.”

  “And then came Zoë?”

  “Yes. Eight years ago. I should have been glad, but I was enraged. At first, I did not want a child.” He gave another bitter laugh. “Neither did Zoë’s mother, for that matter.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We came to an amicable settlement, a settlement that enabled—no, make that required—Zoë’s mother to reside abroad. Permanently.”

  Evangeline sucked in her breath harshly. “And so you do not see your daughter?”

  Elliot looked at her sharply, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and firm. “I take what is mine, Evie. Make no mistake about it.”