Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Ten years ago, Elliot had persuaded himself that what society believed mattered little. Then, during the agonizing months that had followed his betrothal to Cicely Forsythe, he had proceeded to live his life in a fashion that made his disdain apparent to all. Elliot had simply hardened his heart and stopped caring. There had been no other choice, for the pain and humiliation had very nearly consumed him. He now understood that a nebulous yet damning cloud of evidence was not easily dispelled. Whispered insinuation could not be stopped. Sometimes Elliot wondered if it was not easier to be tried, convicted, and hanged for your alleged crimes, rather than suffer the prolonged agony of being pricked to death by the pointed barbs of innuendo.

  Worse still, Elliot was only now beginning to face the fact that he had sown the seeds of his own discontent along with his wild oats. Perhaps with time, society might have forgotten Cicely, for he understood now what he had been too naïve to see ten years ago: that Cicely had been neither liked nor respected by the ton. In his righteous indignation and youthful anguish, however, Elliot had created something they were not likely to forget: a rake and a reprobate who cheerfully bankrupted his peers, then bedded their wives. A man who whored and drank and gambled his way toward something that might, on a good night, pass for satisfaction if one did not look too closely. By the time his anguish had numbed and his indignation had turned to arrogance, the ton knew him for what he was: a wealthy, well-dressed pariah.

  Now the situation was quite different, and things that had mattered little ten years ago mattered a great deal. What would Evangeline Stone say when he told her the truth? And he would tell her. Soon. Slowly. Thus far, slowly had made for a successful approach. In tolerable increments, he was revealing himself to Evangeline. But how much time did he have until she discovered the whole truth by her own means? Or by accident? It was fortunate indeed that Evangeline was in many ways a foreigner, having minimal interaction with or interest in English society. But Evangeline’s disinterest did not obviate the danger of Winnie Weyden, and Elliot feared that behind her riot of gold-brown ringlets, frivolous laughter, and lush bosom, there lurked a worldly woman with the social contacts to find him out. In fact, it was insanity to think otherwise. It was insanity to hope.

  Insanity? Hope? How had he allowed himself to come to this? Hope was a sentiment for fools and children. His life was what he had made it, and it would never be otherwise. One could not go back in time to recoup an innocence lost, to revive a dream long ago withered.

  Aye, and it didn’t do to go to bed fully sober. For years, shrouded dreams of Cicely had haunted him, haunted him still with an increasing frequency. In them, Elliot would be transported home, to see his enduring vision, her dark silk skirts still sweeping quietly through the stone passageways of Castle Kilkerran, a half dozen laughing children in tow.

  But the old dream had become slightly altered. The smell of freshly cut flowers now blended with the scents of oil and beeswax. Fat black puppies rolled across the ancient carpets. The movement of his beloved had become graceful and smooth; her laughter had become throaty and gentle. The pale Scottish sunlight still spilled through the high stone arches to reflect, not off raven tresses, but against a soft sweep of blond hair. And when his fantasy turned to smile at him through the haze of his slumber, the visage did not turn harrowing. The mocking laughter did not ring out into the blackness of his night. Instead, the clear light held steady, and the face that smiled back at him had become serene, oval, and perfect. Evangeline’s.

  Had it ever been anyone else’s? Truly?

  But it was naught, after all, but a dream. Elliot held the reins loosely in his right hand and scrubbed his other palm down his face as if willing the vision to disappear. He prayed that Evangeline did not discover the truth too soon, not before he could convince her. Convince her of what? And how? God almighty, he had very nearly seduced her by the river at Chatham, and it had taken every tattered scrap of his willpower to maintain a decent distance until his departure. Now he was returning to Evangeline, and in an even less stable state of mind.

  As his justification for leaving during his last visit, Elliot had used the pretext of pressing business, and that had been true enough. In reality, however, his weakening self-control had driven his departure as much as Zoë’s need for a new governess had done. Somewhere in this convoluted mental process, he must have subconsciously convinced himself that he could explain the truth gradually, and Evangeline would then fall into his arms and forgive his deceit. Now, however, his need for her was growing in proportion to his fear, and Elliot felt caught in his own trap.

  And Zoë, too, was very much on his mind. Today, he had uncharacteristically resented leaving her alone. Servants, even good ones, were hardly sufficient comfort. A child needed more. Perhaps fathers did, too. Elliot thought again of Frederica and how similar, in both temperament and circumstance, the two children were. And what was it about Frederica that plagued his subconscious?

  Despite the adversity of the last three days, Elliot had found his thoughts turning repeatedly to Evangeline’s young cousin and, consequently, to the appalling housemaid whom he had felt compelled to discharge. What had Polly said that fateful afternoon? There had been a significant implication in her words, yet in that moment the word bastard had unleashed Elliot’s blistering rage, blinding him to all meaning.

  Mentally weary, Elliot stopped briefly at a wayside tavern for a light repast, washing it down with a tankard of ale so dreadful it must have been made from leftover pickle brine. He quaffed the last of it in spite of its vile taste. He could not find it in his heart to blame the tapster. Neither food nor drink held any special appeal to him of late, and much to Kemble’s disapprobation, Elliot’s trousers were starting to slide off his already narrow hips.

  Upon command, the ostler brought forth the sleek team of blacks, and Elliot took up the ribbons to continue on his way, quickly crossing into Essex. Soon he passed through the Wrotham crossroads, noting that at last the signpost had been repaired and restored to its mound of earth. The sun shone brightly upon the narrow, dry roads, and within the hour, Elliot’s curricle spun merrily through the tiny village of Wrotham-upon-Lea, past the crumbling church, and down the lane toward Chatham Lodge. It felt, Elliot suddenly realized, like coming home.

  Filled with a restless energy, Antoinette Fontaine hopped down from her hired carriage and glanced anxiously back up the length of Meeting House Lane. “Wait at the end of this street,” she abruptly ordered the driver, tossing him a couple of coins. “I’ll be a quarter hour, no more.”

  After carefully tucking the money into a greasy leather waistcoat, the old man gave Antoinette one last leer, nodded, then busied himself by spitting energetically into the narrow, cobbled street. Suppressing her disgust, Antoinette lifted her skirts and resumed her journey on foot, making her way along the rubble-strewn path which cut down to the Thames above Wapping New Stairs. Descending toward the river, Antoinette thanked God it was a Sunday and that very few people were about their business. Only a scattering of dockhands and stevedores stirred, ogling her as she passed.

  Ignoring the occasional vulgar comment, Antoinette steeled her expression and pulled close the drab woolen cloak that thoroughly concealed her jewels and clothing. While she was far from the sort who intimidated easily, not even the most hardened of whores would dare enter the environs below the dockyards at night. Even in the light of a Sunday afternoon, she did not wish to be there. But she feared the consequences of ignoring Rannoch’s summons far more than she feared a Sunday stroll through Wapping.

  Nonetheless, it greatly angered her that Rannoch would expect her to travel alone to such a place. Why there? She had heard the rumors that Rannoch might be courting a bride. It was almost laughable, and yet perhaps the tales were true, and now he merely sought to avoid the embarrassment of meeting his mistress in public. But here, in this godforsaken place? Apparently, the high-handed bastard spared no thought for her safety, while showing every concern for his damnable
privacy.

  But there was nothing else for it. Antoinette was not fool enough to believe she could avoid the marquis indefinitely, not with his vicious nature and his notorious cohorts, chief amongst them that sly, all-seeing valet of his. Nor could she afford to anger Rannoch beyond any hope of reconciliation. Oh, she had a few cards tucked up her sleeve, cards that would make her forever free of Rannoch and his ilk. But the time to play them had not yet arrived.

  Far better to come out of hiding now and attempt some semblance of peace with Rannoch. Far better to do what he asked without argument. Indeed, what choice had she? Somehow, the devil had ferreted her out and demanded that she come there. He would never again be her ally, but under no circumstances did she want him as an enemy.

  As the footpath intersected with Wapping, Antoinette made her decision. Yes, she would keep the peace, but sooner or later, she hoped the self-serving pig would get what was due him. Looking up and down the street that edged the waterside, she lifted her chin to sniff the fetid air, fully alert to any portent of danger. Antoinette Fontaine would be no man’s fool. Carefully, she patted the six-inch blade tucked discreetly into her pocket. Antoinette saw no sign of her former lover, nor had she expected to. Rannoch had always had the disquieting ability to slide through both daylight and dark like a nebulous, malevolent mist.

  Suddenly, Antoinette found herself wondering if the marquis were now regretting his impulsiveness in casting her so quickly aside. Could that be the reason for this veiled summons? Antoinette tossed back her head, resisting the urge to cackle with delight at that hopeful thought, then just as quickly sobered again.

  No, Rannoch did not want her back. She had well and truly burned that bridge. Nor was it Rannoch’s style to summon her there for something so simple and, to Rannoch, so meaningless. The marquis chose women the way most men bought horses. He would simply have set that bloodhound Kemble on her trail, then ordered his man of affairs to pay her an unambiguous visit. Antoinette shivered with sudden unease, then forced her attention back to her path. Beyond, she saw Gun Wharf, and, after striding past, she turned right onto yet another footpath. Carefully, Antoinette picked her way down, skirting broken bottles and filthy rags as she approached the river’s edge.

  The appointed meeting place looked just as the message had described it. Again, she shuddered, staring at the bleak plank walls, now warped and weathered, spotted with black from the incessant damp. Why here? The decrepit shack looked as if it would smell and look even worse from the inside, and Antoinette was hardly the most fastidious of women. Along the water, the wind kicked up, blowing in the odor of mud flats and fish guts. Disturbed by her intrusion, the gulls overhead began to shriek and wheel, their white wings held at stiff, odd angles, like frosted door hinges, until at last she reached the squalid shack.

  Gingerly, Antoinette pulled open the makeshift door and stepped inside, slowly allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It smelled miserable, dark and dank with the stench of things Antoinette preferred not to think about. Repressing the urge to gag, Antoinette spun about and thrust the door back open, just enough to let in a little light and air. She stared across the Thames, watching as a barge passed, riding high in the water, her cargo apparently disgorged somewhere upriver. With a somewhat clairvoyant desperation, Antoinette found herself wishing that she, too, were on the barge, sailing far and forever away from the squalor of London and her life. At that unsettling thought, she drew in a deep, unsteady breath.

  It was to be her last.

  A cold, determined hand whipped around her neck. Powerful fingers seized the heavy strand of rubies, yanking it taut, choking off her breath. Antoinette’s arm dropped. The rickety door clattered shut. Her bloodcurdling scream weakened to a hacking, garbled cough. She swam in darkness. Instinctively, she arched backward. She clawed wildly at her throat, then grappled for her knife. It was useless. With a burst of desperation, Antoinette flailed, then kicked, almost catching her attacker in the groin, only to find that another arm lashed about her waist and jerked her off her feet.

  Snared in her attacker’s ruthless grasp, the necklace bit into her neck, digging into the soft, tender flesh of her throat. Dimly, she heard the silk of her gown rip as she fought to free her arms. It was hopeless. Weakly, she kicked once more, but the black, stinking depths of the river were rising up around her.

  The remaining struggle was brief. Antoinette weighed but eight stone, her assailant significantly more. Yanking the chain tighter still, he strengthened his grip about her frail ribs until she felt two of them crack in rapid succession. The sound was a deep, disembodied sensation, as if her body no longer belonged to her. Soon, there was no pain. Antoinette fell limp and gave herself up to the dark, swirling waters, allowing them to take her deep beneath the surface.

  9

  Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, thou tyrant of the mind!

  —JOHN DRYDEN

  E lliot turned his sleek black geldings deftly into the sweep of the circular drive, arriving at Chatham in time to observe a pleasantly familiar, if somewhat laughable sight just inside the front gardens. Michael and Theo, shovels in hand, stood ankle-deep in a freshly turned flowerbed. Their shoes and stockings had been discarded in a heap, and streaks of mud stained their clothing. On the ground alongside them sat a battered tin pail filled with soft dirt. A plump brown worm was already snaking its escape down one side.

  After stopping to exchange pleasantries, Elliot was immediately and enthusiastically assailed by alternating pleas to drive his “bang-up” curricle, supervise an afternoon fishing expedition, and then escort them to a clandestine prize fight in Tottenham on Saturday. Elliot’s good humor now fully restored, he agreed to consider the first request, consented readily to the second, and refused the third out of hand. Then, waving goodbye, he snapped the horses forward.

  Evangeline’s lugubrious, stoop-shouldered butler greeted Elliot at the portals of Chatham Lodge and informed him, in his perpetually gloomy voice, that the young mistress was sequestered in the studio. After exchanging mindless remarks about the weather and depositing his bag at Bolton’s feet, Elliot convinced the old retainer that he need not bestir himself for a formal announcement, then he eagerly made his way toward the studio. Unaccountably happy to be back at Chatham, Elliot strode quickly down the long hall in hope of surprising Evangeline with his early arrival. It was he, however, who was to be surprised.

  Evangeline unthinkingly ignored the soft knock at her door. Only when the creaking protests of an ancient hinge betrayed her visitor did she lift her chin to see Elliot standing in the doorway. For a moment, his presence did not fully register, and she must have stared dumbly at him.

  “Evangeline?” His inquiry was solicitous and soft. “I apologize for interrupting. I knocked … but perhaps you did not hear?”

  With the back of her hand, Evangeline discreetly wiped away the traces of her tears and refolded Peter Weyden’s short missive. “No, indeed, Elliot. You are not interrupting. Do come in. How pleasant that you are early. I was just—just—”

  “—reading some bad news, I should say,” he finished softly, quickly closing the short distance between them. He stood looking down at her with frank concern. “At least, the look of your eyes would indicate as much.”

  Evangeline inhaled deeply, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the ragged hitch in her breath. “No, not the best of news, I suppose. But I am well. Or soon shall be, in any event.” She forced a more cheerful expression and rose to her feet. “Have you just arrived? I own, I’m exceedingly glad to see you.”

  “You have not the look of a happy woman, Evie.” Elliot smiled warily, shifting his feet somewhat anxiously. “And yes, I have just arrived. Moreover, I have been entreated to tell you that Michael and Theo propose that we all make an afternoon of fishing. They are poking about for worms in your newly turned flowerbed even now.”

  “By all means, Elliot,” she agreed, hiding her disappointment. “You must join them.”

  “We both k
now that I came to see you, Evie,” he responded quietly. “Will you not come, too? It might be just the thing.” He extended his large, well-manicured hand across the desk in invitation.

  Evangeline tried to smile up at him. “I thank you, Elliot, but I cannot. I have something I must do, and I fancy that I would not make for the best of company just now.”

  With a silent nod, Elliot turned and slipped from the room. Reluctantly, Evangeline turned her attentions back to Peter’s letter, trying to suppress the unexpected surge of isolation left behind in Elliot’s wake.

  She was skimming the letter for a third time when Elliot returned. Lifting her eyes to his, she watched him stride across the room to take, without invitation, the seat across from her desk. As usual, he looked exceedingly large and elegantly masculine as he leaned forward in the delicately carved chair. Elliot propped his elbows up on the edge of her desk and touched his fingertips together, one by one, with purposeful deliberation. Then he touched his lips tentatively to the steeple of his index fingers and stared intently into her eyes.

  “I have sent the others on with Gus,” he said softly. “Now, what is it, Evangeline? What pains you so greatly that you refuse to speak of it—even to me?”

  Evangeline pulled open the top drawer of her desk and dropped Peter’s missive summarily inside. “It is nothing,” she replied. Then, as she placed one hand on the desktop as if to rise, Elliot reached swiftly out to cover it with his own.

  “Evie.” His voice held a gentle caution. “You’ll not put me off. It is time we were honest with each other.”

  Suddenly, Evangeline wanted to confide in him. Moreover, she wanted to take comfort from him. The shadowy presence of her father’s family had turned to a darkly ominous cloud, and in the face of it Evangeline desired nothing more than to be pulled into Elliot’s arms and comforted. In compromise, she gave in to only half her desires. “It is my grandfather,” she answered softly. “He is dead. Last night.”