Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Elliot’s confusion was plain, but he tightened his grip on her hand. “I’m so sorry, Evie. I thought—that is to say, I suppose that I had assumed you and your siblings were now alone in the world, save Mr. Weyden?”

  “True enough. As you already know, Papa was estranged from his family. Yet one cannot help but be sad for—for what might have been. For what will never be.” And for what might come to pass, she added silently.

  “Then it was his great loss, Evie,” replied Elliot softly. He rose from his chair, still holding her hand, and pulled her from behind the desk. “Come with me into the gardens? No one will disturb us.”

  Evangeline nodded, then looked up at him in gratitude. Suddenly, Elliot pulled her lightly into his arms and pressed his lips hard against her forehead. Almost immediately, he released her, then, taking her by the hand, urged her toward the studio window and pushed it open. Together they walked out into the quiet of the sun-dappled gardens.

  Arm in arm, they silently strolled past the arbors and shrubbery until at last Elliot urged her down beside him onto a secluded bench. “Come here,” he said, almost roughly, then dragged her back into his arms, burying his face in her hair. “Ah, Evie, I cannot resist. I have missed you. No, far worse! I’ve counted the minutes until I could return. And to see you now, with tears in your eyes, and to be unable to make things right …”

  She said nothing and felt his warm lips brush her temple as she tucked safely into the crook of his arm. He felt so good, solid and comforting. How long had it been, Evangeline wondered, since she had enjoyed such a luxury? Too long, she decided. For far too many years, she had struggled alone, aided only by Winnie and Peter. It was not enough. Elliot, however, with his warm, innate strength, felt like more than enough. That fact should have concerned her, but for the moment she resolved only to savor his closeness.

  “Now that I am here,” he continued, “I cannot bear to see you unhappy.”

  “I am not, precisely, unhappy,” she countered, letting herself relax against him.

  “But you are distraught,” he added gently. Letting his hand slip down her shoulder, Elliot began to rub her upper arm in gentle, soothing motions. “Did you miss your grandfather a great deal?”

  “I—no, I did not,” she heard herself admit. “I did not know him.”

  “And yet you cry for him?” His tone was soft and non-judgmental.

  “Yes,” she answered uncertainly, tilting her chin to look up into the unfathomable depths of his silvery gaze. “But I cannot explain … ”She let her voice trail off uncertainly. “He was weak, I suppose, standing aside whilst my step-grandmother forced his children to choose between duty and dreams.”

  “Like your father and his work?”

  “Yes, and his love for my mother. And other things, too, but oh, Elliot! Please let us talk of something else.”

  Evangeline saw a flash of guilt play across Elliot’s face. “Very well, Evie,” he answered quietly, pulling her closer. “We shall say no more.” Instead, he lifted his hand to cup her jaw and tenderly brush the swell of her lower lip with his thumb. Slowly, he dipped his head to meet her mouth with his.

  It was a sweet gesture of consolation, but the moment Elliot’s breath brushed her cheek, Evangeline’s need flared hot inside her, and she willed the kiss to be something more. She wanted to taste him, to draw comfort from him, to take him inside her again. When he pulled away, his luxuriant lashes feathered darkly against his cheeks, and, with a sound of protest, Evangeline slipped her arm up and around the taut muscles of his shoulder to draw him nearer.

  His eyes flickered open, a flash of quicksilver beneath sensuous, hooded lids, then Elliot answered her by kissing her again, deeply this time, parting her lips expertly, then surging inside in a smooth, intimate act of possession. Evangeline stroked her hand across the breadth of his shoulder, then slid it up to caress the silken hair at the nape of his neck. Sinuously sliding his tongue back and forth against hers, Elliot moaned low into her mouth and let his hand slide from the curve of her jaw, along her arm, and down to cup her breast.

  When her nipple hardened against his urgent touch, Evangeline felt no shame, just perfect, pure desire. She understood that she wanted this man in the most intimate way a woman could want a man, and when he gradually pulled his mouth away again, his palm still resting against her swollen breast, Evangeline wanted to cry out at the loss.

  “Evie,” he rasped, his breath shallow. “Darling, we have to talk.”

  “Talk?” Suddenly alert, Evangeline slid upright from her position in his arm and blinked, barely noticing that his hand dropped from her breast to rest lightly at her waist. “About what?” she managed to say. She felt panic begin to ease its cold grip about her heart.

  Elliot pulled his hand from her waist and speared his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I’m not sure,” he muttered vaguely, staring at the ground now. “Things—us—damn it, I just don’t know.”

  Behind them, a honeybee droned industriously, hovering through the humid air from one blossom to the next. The brilliant sun had shifted and now cast a shaft of pure afternoon light across the garden path along the bench. Elliot still stared into it as Evangeline inhaled deeply and repeatedly, drawing in the thick, familiar smell of moist earth and coming rain, until she felt both her panic and her passion subside. Then, slowly, Evangeline pulled away from him, mumbling some vague excuse about being needed inside the house. She walked toward the rear entrance, all the while feeling Elliot’s heated glare upon her, until she pulled open the door and entered the hall.

  It was a difficult job, yet it had to be done. As did most things, therefore, it fell to him, thought MacLeod with a resigned shrug. Such had been his opinion last week, at any rate. Now, however, his hostess poured the tea with an artless grace, dribbling it across the saucer and onto the knee of his breeches. With a patient sigh, the old man tugged a square of linen from his pocket. Fortunately for MacLeod, the tea had long since cooled.

  “Verra gude, Miss Zoë,” the butler encouraged. “Howiver, when ye guest asks tae have more tea, ye should take the cup frae his hand intae your ain. ’Twill work a wee bit better than thrusting the pot o’er the table tae pour at a moving target.”

  From across the table, Zoë giggled and put down the child-sized porcelain pot with an inattentive thump. “Sorry, MacLeod,” she answered, wriggling in the tiny chair he kept on hand for her frequent visits to his sitting room. She beamed sweetly at him from beneath a riot of curls, then sighed. “Do you think my papa will ever let me pour for him?”

  MacLeod nodded solemnly. “Aye, miss. I’m verra sure he’ll do. Ye want only a bit o’ practice.”

  And Rannoch might do just that, the old man decided, taking a delicate sip from a china cup scarcely bigger than the end of his thumb. The butler was secretly pleased that his lordship’s attitude toward Miss Zoë had undergone a remarkable change of late. The child was showing a newfound confidence, and that was a good thing indeed.

  Zoë smiled and leaned forward to lift a plate carefully. “Now I must pass you these tea cakes, MacLeod. But take only one or two,” she instructed. “More than two is considered bad ton!” She giggled again, took three, and passed the plate.

  MacLeod made his best effort at a frown. “Och, now! Guests first, Miss Zoë,” he admonished. He took one cake, then bit into it. “Umm, ’tis a fine, fair cake, ma’am. Ye maun ask your cook tae give me the recipe.”

  “By all means, Mr. MacLeod,” she answered primly, tossing her thick hair back across her shoulder. “It would be an honor.”

  A discreet cough at the door to MacLeod’s sitting room forestalled any response. A powdered footman, looking very ill at ease, held an outstretched salver bearing a calling card. “Beg pardon, sir. There be a caller abovestairs asking for his lordship.”

  MacLeod looked at him sharply. “Didna ye tell him that Lord Rannoch is no at home and is no expected?”

  The footman nodded effusively. “Aye, sir. I did. He want
s to see someone in authority. Someone besides meself, sir, is what he meant—but he did ask particular-like if the marquis had a secretary. I put him in the yellow salon.”

  MacLeod sighed and beckoned the man into the room. The footman’s choice of salons was telling; the yellow room was reserved for visitors who were less than quality but more than servants. He lifted the card from the salver and peered at it, then flicked a glance at Zoë. “Didna he state his business, man?” asked MacLeod, bristling.

  The footman shook his head. “No, sir. But we ’eard some ter’ble rumors belowstairs this morning.” MacLeod looked uneasily down at Zoë’s chestnut curls and saw that the child was humming softly and nibbling on her cake. “Mayhap ’tis about that,” concluded the footman.

  “Perhaps,” agreed MacLeod with a blunt nod, “but idle jabber it is, to be sure. Show young miss back up tae Trudy. And fetch Gerald Wilson at once.”

  Zoë initiated a long wail of disappointment, then, apparently catching the look on MacLeod’s somber face, ceased abruptly.

  “Hie off wi’ye now,” he said affectionately, standing up and lifting her out of her chair. “ ’Tis wearing late, lass, and time tea was o’er.”

  Gerald Wilson had bolted up the stairs to answer MacLeod’s rather extraordinary command. It was not every day that the second footman came hurrying into the study with a message ordering him to report directly to the butler, but given MacLeod’s standing in the Armstrong household, Wilson proffered no argument.

  “A Bow Street runner?” he echoed, still gasping for breath. “I say, MacLeod! I cannot think that—what I mean to say is—do you think we ought? I mean, what if his lordship doesn’t appreciate our intrusion?”

  MacLeod looked at Rannoch’s man of affairs and pulled a scowling face. “Gude Lord, man. Just take yerself aboon and see what he knows—and tell him naught! ’Tis no aften a runner comes calling, and he’ll no be leaving ’til someone sees tae him, ye may be sure.”

  Wilson slumped in his chair and nodded. Dejectedly, he studied the calling card. What now, he wondered? His duties on behalf of the marquis of Rannoch had seemed far less sordid of late, but a murder! That must be what brought the runners down upon Strath House. Wilson felt his palms begin to sweat. For days, the servants had been whispering about the death of Lord Cranham, but that spurious rascal still clung tenaciously to life. The news of a death, when at last it had come, was instead a shock.

  “And you are sure that Miss Fontaine is dead?” Wilson asked, dropping the card back onto the tray.

  “Aye,” answered the old butler grimly. “Nigh the dockyards the poor lass was. Strangled—’tis what the tweeny heard. Kemble’s off tae see what he may learn, but a runner, och! And here sae quick … ” MacLeod shook his silver head, and the weariness suddenly showed. “I dinna quite know what tae do.”

  “I’ll get rid of him,” answered Wilson abruptly, with a confidence he did not feel.

  He left the butler’s sitting room and moved swiftly back downstairs to the formal rooms of Strath House. He entered the yellow salon to see a fair-haired man standing by the window that overlooked the rear gardens. Mr. Albert Jones, still holding his hat in his hands, turned to face him. Jones was a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a flattened nose—evidence, no doubt, of a hard life. His face, however, was otherwise pleasant, and he looked almost as hesitant as Wilson felt.

  After brief introductions, Wilson invited him to take a seat, explaining that his master was traveling in the country and that the date of his return was unknown. In carefully measured tones, the runner confirmed that he was pursuing routine inquiries regarding the death of Antoinette Fontaine, a well-known actress. Miss Fontaine, or Miss Tanner, as she was legally known, had been found four days earlier in an abandoned shed near the dockyards.

  When the details were complete, Wilson inhaled a long, deep breath and adjusted his pince-nez a little higher on his nose. “Mr. Jones,” he began calmly, “I can assure you, sir, that we were all greatly disturbed by this vicious murder, but I cannot see how I may be of help.”

  The caller cleared his throat. “Mr. Wilson, we know that your employer had a past relationship with Miss Fontaine. Could you tell us if he remained on—er—good terms with her?”

  Wilson looked at him archly. “Yes, so far as I know. I cannot think why he would not have done, but that is a question you must ask of his lordship.”

  A smile played at Mr. Jones’s mouth, but his eyes were impenetrable. “As it happens, that was my intent, but it seems he is often in the country of late.” When Wilson made no reply, he continued in a blunter tone of voice. “Your employer no longer supported Miss Fontaine, I believe?”

  Wilson crooked one brow stiffly. “I could not say, sir.”

  Jones sighed. “I understand. Though I suspect you handle most of his funds and know perfectly well that he had not done so for some time.” Wilson merely looked at him for a long, expectant moment, and Jones was compelled to continue. “Yet Miss Fontaine continued to live affluently. Indeed, her financial circumstances seemed much improved.”

  “I would not know, sir. We are all, however, exceedingly sorry that she is dead.”

  “Yes, indeed. As is her family.”

  “Family?”

  “Yes, her father died in the spring, and the mother just closed their tavern in Essex. There’s a sister in Mayfair, a quiet woman in service as a housekeeper, I collect.”

  Wilson could not help but smile. “Nothing like her sister, I daresay?”

  The runner shook his head ruefully. “No, nothing like, I’m afraid.” He reached deep inside his coat pocket and pulled forth a bundle of black velvet. Gently, he laid it across his knee and unrolled the fabric to reveal an ornate gold necklace set with flaming rubies. Wilson felt sick as the runner spoke. “Sir, I must ask, have you seen this before?”

  Wilson swallowed hard again and felt the blood drain from his face. Fleetingly, he considered lying, but this particular bit of jewelry was far too easily identified. And this—well, damn it, this was murder. Not even for Rannoch, as much as he was beginning to like the man, would he lie. He drew a deep breath. “Yes, I believe that belonged to Miss Fontaine.”

  The runner looked at him with polite curiosity. “You knew her well, I take it?”

  Wilson licked his lips uncertainly. “Ah, no. I had not the pleasure.”

  “Yet you recognize her jewelry?”

  Wilson nodded stiffly. “That particular piece was a Christmas gift from his lordship. I, er, picked it up from the jeweler’s myself. Of course, I might be mistaken.”

  “Are you mistaken?” Jones’s voice was crisp.

  “No,” said Wilson weakly. “No, I fancy not.” He paused for a moment, very much aware that the runner’s eyes were watching his every twitch. “As it happens, the necklace was part of a set. There should have been … that is to say, did you find a matching bracelet?”

  “No.” The runner shook his head slowly. “No, there was no bracelet.”

  Wilson looked at him hopefully. “I daresay it was stolen. The thief—the murderer—he must have taken it.”

  “I don’t believe that was the case, Mr. Wilson. Robbery was not a motive. After all, the killer left this necklace behind.”

  Wilson’s hope for an easy answer began to fade, but he grasped at a straw. “Perhaps he—he missed it. Perhaps it was late at night and very dark. He may have been overheard and forced to flee before … ”

  Wilson’s words trailed away as Albert Jones gently shook his head. “No, Mr. Wilson. The killer definitely did not overlook this necklace. Quite to the contrary, he wrapped it very deliberately around her throat, then choked her to death with it.”

  A wave of nausea came out of nowhere, making the room swim unsteadily before Wilson’s eyes. His face was suffused with heat, and the air seemed suddenly close. Strangled. With the very necklace he had bought. And the marquis had given her. It was too horrible. What was worse still, he, Gerald Wilson, had just helped to incrimina
te his employer, the all-powerful and unforgiving Lord Rannoch.

  “I—I am sorry,” he stammered uncertainly, “but you have made an erroneous assumption, Mr. Jones. The marquis of Rannoch would never harm anyone.”

  The runner looked bemused. “I daresay you are leaping to conclusions I have not yet drawn, Mr. Wilson. Nevertheless, your employer’s reputation, I regret to say, does precede him.” Wilson began to protest vehemently, but Jones held up his palm. “Say no more, sir. Bow Street is hardly stupid enough to accuse a peer of murder without ironclad evidence. But his lordship is sometimes known to be, shall we say, vindictive.”

  Wilson shook his head firmly. “No, I could not agree. He isn’t like that. Not now. I cannot say what he may have been like in his youth, but he is a good and generous employer. And fair. Yes, more than fair.” That, Wilson decided, was essentially true. He had been good, generous, and fair. Lately.

  Jones made no response as Wilson wrestled with his conscience. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket again and withdrew a folded card of heavy vellum which had once been sealed with black wax. “Mr. Wilson, do you by chance recognize this paper or this seal?”

  Wilson took the card and examined it. Though the wax had been slit, there was no mistaking the Armstrong crest. He returned it to Jones, noticing as he did so that his hand was shaking. The sick feeling grew stronger. “Yes, that is his lordship’s seal. I cannot be certain of the writing paper.”

  Jones flicked the vellum open with one deft motion of his fingers and held it before Wilson’s eyes. “And would you say, sir, that this is your employer’s handwriting?”

  Wilson scanned the note and swallowed. Rannoch’s bold, heavy-handed scrawl was unique, especially when his lordship was in a temper, as he no doubt had been when he penned the eight little words that now danced before Wilson’s eyes:

  Make no mistake, Antoinette, this is the end.