Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Despite her confusion, Evangeline did not miss the ominous tone of his words. “Who cares for her?” she managed to ask.

  “I take care of her. To the best of my ability,” he answered crisply. “Which is to say, I pay for nursemaids and music teachers and governesses, but even I am not stupid enough to think that it is the same. Not the same as … as what Frederica has, for example.”

  “No, perhaps not. Certainly not. But it is far better than most—”

  “Better than most men treat their bastards?” Elliot bit out sarcastically, shaking his head. “I do not know, Evie. I just do not know. God knows I have tried to do the right thing by her, but in the end it seems like so very little.”

  “What, precisely, do you mean?”

  Elliot released Evangeline’s hand, rose from his chair, and began pacing across the room. “The child hardly knows me. Certainly, I am a little late in trying to know her. She is, I think, a little frightened of me. And I am scared of her, too.”

  “Scared?”

  “Aye, Evie. Scared is the right word. I was never a child. I did not have a childhood. I had responsibilities. Duties. Expectations.” Suddenly, he whirled to face her. “You can have no idea what that is like.”

  Evangeline reached up to him and held out her hands to take his. Slowly, he walked toward her and slipped his hands into hers. “But I do, Elliot,” she answered softly. “I do have some idea. Not the same way, perhaps, but I understand what you mean.”

  “Tell me,” he said simply, coming back down onto the chair across from hers, still holding both Evangeline’s hands in his.

  “When my mother died, I was but seventeen, and already I had helped to raise my brothers and my sisters.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “Yes, we were once a much larger family. It was cholera, you see. There was so much illness and disease on the Continent during the war. Mama was weak from her confinement with Michael, and she fell ill first. Then Amelia; she was fourteen. Harold … he was ten.”

  “I’m sorry, Evie. I did not know.”

  “But the worst thing, Elliot, the worst thing of all was what it did to my father. For nearly a year, he scarcely left his bedchamber. He ceased to sleep. He ceased to paint. I became frantic. I did not know what to do. Michael was just a baby. Finally, I decided that we should come home. To England. Although it was not a home to me, I thought perhaps—”

  “That it would feel like home to your father?”

  “Yes, but there were problems here, too, so it was no small risk. Nonetheless, I decided that we would remove to Chatham Lodge and isolate ourselves from the memories of our happier times in Flanders. We avoided Papa’s family altogether. It was not difficult—his stepmother made it plain that my mother’s death changed nothing—and we tried to be a family, just the four of us.”

  “You tried to keep the family together, Evie,” Elliot added softly. “And you have done an admirable job.”

  “I have no need of your sympathy, Elliot. I just want you to see that I know what it is like to have your childhood limited by responsibility and expectation. But more importantly, I want you to consider how critical it is that children have security and love. Nicolette and I were fortunate to have that much. Perhaps you did not, but it is nonetheless within your power to give to your daughter.”

  Elliot nodded. “As you have done for your family.”

  “Yes. And as I shall continue to do, especially for Michael.”

  “You worry constantly about Michael, Evie. Do not deny it, for I know that you do. Why?”

  Evangeline felt emotionally drained, and she had no wish to explain her fears about Michael’s future. Instead, she deliberately changed the subject. “Why, Elliot, did you choose this time to tell me about your daughter?”

  “Because,” he said softly, tearing his gaze from hers and staring out the window into the distance, “I wanted you to know. It is time, well past time, in fact, that I began to explain myself to you.” She noticed the suddenly rigid line of his jaw as he held some inscrutable emotion at bay.

  “Oh?” Evangeline did not know how to respond. What did he mean?

  Elliot continued to speak. “Zoë is in need of a new governess, and interviews have been scheduled for the day after tomorrow. That is why I must leave so soon, Evangeline. It is time I began attending to such matters personally rather than simply deferring the job to someone else.” Suddenly, Elliot exhaled slowly. As if a dreaded task were over, his face broke into that brilliant, heart-stopping smile which never ceased to take Evangeline’s breath away.

  “You are entirely correct,” she managed to reply. “I thank you, Elliot, for explaining. Come, now, let’s go down to the dining room before one of the children discovers me in your bedchamber.” She forced a cheerful expression and dragged him up from his chair.

  What followed in the next moment felt sweet and true. As if sealing a promise, Elliot pulled her smoothly into his arms, slid his hands to her back, then dropped his head to kiss her. Evangeline did not struggle. As his mouth moved on hers, tender but sure, she felt her desire strengthen, then melt to submerge her in gentle warmth. His was not a kiss of heated passion but an unhurried acknowledgment of pleasure deferred. She sensed it, and answered it, until at last he pulled back.

  Slowly, he leaned away, smiled charmingly, then lowered his brow to rest on hers. “Come along, Evangeline.” He laughed softly. “I should very much enjoy the pleasure of your company at dinner.”

  8

  Latet anguis in herba; there’s a snake hidden

  in the grass.

  —VIRGIL

  T he following morning, Elliot remained stoic throughout his portrait sitting, leaving Evangeline’s nascent emotions in turmoil. Throughout the sitting, the minimal conversation that passed between them was superficial and tinged with that awkwardness that inevitably follows when friends become something more and inherently sense that their bond has been suddenly and irrevocably altered in some significant, unsettling way.

  Neither made any mention of the preceding afternoon, yet Evangeline was acutely aware that the memory of all they had shared loomed large over them both. Elliot seemed alternately distant, then amicable, but invariably introspective, and Evangeline began to wonder if something far more serious than a furtive, impassioned kiss was responsible for his disquiet.

  As was their custom, Evangeline saw him to the door alone in the midafternoon. After a surreptitious glance down the long hall, Elliot bent to brush his lips across her forehead, then jerked open the door and moved with long, quick strides toward his waiting horse. As Evangeline watched him ride away, she realized that his brief parting kiss had been the only real gesture of intimacy between them all day.

  Nonetheless, Elliot’s brief visit to Chatham Lodge had been eventful. They had shared so much, not the least of which had been what many would term an inappropriate degree of physical intimacy. Yet Evangeline could not find it within her heart to regret her response to Elliot’s overtures. In truth, the rush of feminine passion she had experienced in his arms had only served to heighten her determination to have him, if only briefly. Though her life was committed to her work and her family, Evangeline was newly resolved to steal a few moments of happiness for herself. And Elliot, she had come to realize, made her happy.

  Nonetheless, Elliot gave rise to many other unsettling emotions as well, and they troubled Evangeline throughout the afternoon and evening. Upon careful consideration, Evangeline still found his dismissal of her servant disconcerting. In light of Elliot’s explanation about his daughter, however, she was inclined to view his impetuous, almost visceral reaction as understandable. There was no doubt that Elliot had acted to protect Frederica, much as he would have done for his own child. That was oddly reassuring.

  Nevertheless, to dismiss another’s servant required unmitigated gall. Without a doubt, Elliot had a quick temper and a healthy measure of arrogance. Neither, she inwardly considered, was altogether a bad thing. But e
ven more obvious was the fact that he was well accustomed to having his way in most matters. His control of Zoë’s mother was yet another example.

  By bedtime, an uncomfortable and insidious notion had begun to worm its way into Evangeline’s train of thought. Had Elliot assumed that the physical liberties she had granted him gave him license to take similar liberties in the management of her household? And if that was what he believed, to what extent did he presume such rights might extend? His kiss last night had felt so tender; so sweet and full of promise … Good Lord! Did he think perhaps to wed her? It was preposterous, yet when she considered it, Elliot had made several statements that leaned toward that unworkable course of action.

  In three days, Elliot had promised to return. As dusk settled over Essex, and Chatham Lodge began to fall quiet, Evangeline realized that it was time to make clear her intentions to Elliot. Moreover, she must soon gather enough presence of mind to make her proposal—not of marriage but of something far less permanent.

  She went to bed early, her heart filled with joy but her mind filled with doubt.

  In the darkened streets of London’s East End, there were a great many who did not enjoy an untroubled evening in the quietude of their homes. Indeed, more than a few laid claim to no home at all. The day having been uncommonly hot and humid, the night air now lay close and fetid, edging the pervasive mood ever closer toward hostility. In the dirty, narrow streets of Whitechapel, the boisterous crowds of lower-class London poured in from sweat shops and dockyards to mill about the corners and make their way from one pub to the next.

  Amidst all this drunken revelry, no one noticed as Lord Cranham, in a deliberately shabby coat and unfashionably broad-brimmed hat, dropped stealthily from the step of a passing carriage. By the light of a sputtering lamp, which swung just outside a narrow doorway, Cranham melted away from the swelling throngs and into the adjacent wall, pausing just long enough to pull a note from the folds of his coat. Slowly, he flicked it open and reread the roughly scribbled sentences. After hours of study, one word—Rannoch—kept tormenting him, leaping off the page like a red-hot flame, licking at his eyes and singeing his skin.

  But this time, after ten years of waiting, Cranham was very, very close to his means of revenge. He was certain of it now. He could feel the incipient satisfaction thrumming through him. Ruthlessly, he shoved the note back into the pocket, then, without withdrawing his hand, meticulously recounted the coins he had carried with him, letting them slip coldly through his fingers, one by one.

  Reassured that the amount was correct, the baron straightened his coat, stepped back into the passing throng, and strode briskly down the lane toward a crooked street sign marking the right turn into Pig Path Alley. Looking first behind and then before him, Cranham stepped off the marginally cobbled street and onto the packed dirt surface of the darkened alleyway. As he walked, he counted off the doors to his right, doors that served as rear exits for the crumbling shops and pubs that fronted the cobbled lane.

  He soon saw, however, that he need not have counted with any measure of diligence, for the rear exit of his appointed destination, the Sleeping Hound, was clearly marked by empty barrels, splintered crates, and the sour, pervasive stench of human waste. Even the reek of India’s worst slum could not compare to this, Cranham dryly considered, sliding into the shadow of a collapsing stoop and lifting a linen handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. The motion, which briefly obscured his vision, was a dreadful mistake.

  The ice-cold garrote was about his throat before Cranham’s eyes could blink against the pain. As his handkerchief fluttered to the ground to be trampled into the filth of the alley, Cranham’s hands came up to claw impotently at his throat. His attacker held a great advantage, for he was much taller, and far heavier, than Cranham. The struggle went on and on, Cranham’s boots flailing frantically amidst the broken slats and barrels, until at last the clamor in the cobblestoned street beyond roared into silence, and his vision began to narrow, then fail. As the dimness of the alley became the darkness of approaching death, Cranham felt himself being swallowed up by the gloom and stench and utter lack of rationality.

  Suddenly, with the clarity of a lightning strike, he realized one thing with an astonishing certainty. The message in his pocket had been nothing but a lure. Rannoch had set him up, enticed him with the ultimate temptation, trapped him like a rabbit to be throttled, then left to rot in the mire and excrement of an East End alley.

  That grim realization alone was impetus enough to drive Cranham to renew the fight with what little strength he still possessed. Madly, the baron thrashed, and, catching his attacker off guard, he dropped his hands and pitched back an elbow, which miraculously connected solidly beneath an already heaving ribcage. The big man emitted a guttural, choking grunt directly into Cranham’s ear, and the garrote slackened incrementally. Ruthlessly, Cranham rammed his elbow backward, again and again, until finally his attacker faltered ever so slightly.

  In desperation, Cranham flailed backward with one hand, ripping away a handful of expensive brown superfine, and the wire at last fell free, only to be replaced by a muscular arm lashed high about his throat. Yet as Cranham wrestled to pull the arm away, he did not hear the knife slide from its sheath or see its glittering reflection as it sliced upward and into his belly, with a sickening, sucking sound.

  The following morning, the marquis of Rannoch found himself staring across his wide mahogany desk at a dour, pinch-faced woman who sat stiffly in a chair before him. By some miracle, the feeble afternoon sunlight had wedged its way through London’s perpetual haze to seep through the library windows of Strath House and illuminate the woman’s deathly sallow skin, drawn taut over harsh, angular cheekbones. The pale light had no effect, improving or otherwise, on the dull black bombazine that swathed her from tiptoe to pointed chin.

  Aye, and a hideous protuberance that was, Elliot inwardly acknowledged. Miss Hildegarde Harshbarger’s jutting chin wanted only a wart. That, and a judiciously placed hook in her bladelike nose, would surely be sufficient to send Zoë screaming into MacLeod’s sitting room, where she would inevitably be discovered cowering behind the draperies. Elliot sighed. It was not an altogether unfounded fear; she had behaved just so on more than one occasion.

  Elliot cleared his throat and forced himself to be civil, absently fiddling with the quill on his desk. “Thank you, Miss Harshbarger, for spending this past quarter hour with us today. I believe that I have no further questions.” Turning his attentions to Gerald Wilson, he lifted his one brow in a deliberately calculated gesture. “Have you anything further for this candidate, Mr. Wilson?”

  Seated adjacent to Miss Harshbarger, Wilson twisted uneasily in his chair, then flipped open a thin leather notebook. After consulting his notes, he raised his eyes to the marquis. “We did not, my lord, discuss needlework,” replied Wilson uncertainly, clearly out of his depth. “I daresay that is a skill at which young ladies are expected to excel, is it not?”

  Elliot pressed his lips tightly together in aggravation. Sewing? Bloody hell! Harlan Stokely taught exciting things—Greek classics, Byzantine sculpture, astronomy. Why, there wasn’t a sewing basket to be found in Chatham’s schoolroom! And Zoë was a brilliant child, more than capable of learning both arts and sciences. Was it not far better to give a young lady the advantage of a rounded education, as Evangeline believed? Certainly, Zoë would need every advantage. She might not have, and might not want, a conventional life filled with childbirth and embroidery. It was a novel concept.

  Amazingly, Miss Harshbarger lifted her sharp chin a notch higher. “Indeed,” she answered in her sharp, supercilious voice, her jawbone rigidly locked. “I am an accomplished needlewoman, my lord. And my charge shall be one as well, you may depend upon it.” Her ominous tone made it plain that she would brook little opposition to her training methods.

  “Indeed! Yes! Yes, I am quite sure,” murmured Wilson anxiously. He consulted his notes again. “And dancing, ma’am? Miss Armstrong s
hall soon require simple dancing lessons. Would you be able to begin? Or would you recommend a dancing master?”

  “Dancing?” Miss Harshbarger’s tone was arch. She turned her narrow gaze on Elliot. “Do you really think it wise, my lord, under such unfortunate circumstances?”

  From the corner of one eye, Elliot saw Wilson quite literally flinch. “Precisely what are these unfortunate circumstances to which you refer, ma’am?” Elliot’s tone was deliberately cool and silky.

  Miss Harshbarger drew herself up to an alarming degree of rigidity, folding one gloved hand primly across the other. “Why, the circumstances of her birth, Lord Rannoch. That is to say, such a vigorous physical activity, combined with a probable predisposition toward frivolity, might inflame the humors, and that would undoubtedly lead to—”

  Elliot snapped, literally splintering his quill into two sharp pieces. “Out!” he roared, flying to his feet and tossing the mangled feather into the air. “Out! Out! Remove yourself from my library this instant, madam!”

  An expression of wide-eyed fear chased the haughtiness from the would-be governess’s face, and it was clear that Hildegarde Harshbarger had unexpectedly met her match. Amid a veritable snowstorm of flying feathers, shuffling papers, and swishing bombazine, the woman yanked herself out of the chair and bolted from the room, Wilson on her heels like a pointer flushing quail. Elliot was fairly convinced that he caught a glimpse of Prussian jackboots beneath her flapping skirt hems as she rounded the corner.

  Choking down his rage, Elliot fell back into his chair and slowly gathered his composure. Insufferable bitch! Each potential governess had been worse than the last. Were these the sort of people in whose care he had unwittingly—no, indifferently—left poor Zoë? Well, it damn sure would never happen again. The very thought made him ill.

  In a few moments, he heard the resounding thump of the front door echo through the house. An abject Wilson soon reappeared in the library door. Elliot forced a sardonic smile and waved the man inside. “Have we any more pompous, hatchet-faced old crones waiting, Wilson?”