Wilson dropped his gaze from the note and stared at his feet, stalling for time, trying to think of something that might mitigate the damage.
“Well?”
“It would appear to be his penmanship, yes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson.” The runner rose from his chair. With a troubled mind, Wilson stood up and followed him through the door.
“Please tell his lordship that I may need to speak wit him personally,” added Jones as they started down the stairs. “And tell him something else, if you would?”
“Certainly,” agreed Wilson, turning to glance at him.
“Tell him that his friend Lord Cranham has made a miraculous recovery. It seems the devil does indeed look after his own.”
They had arrived at the front door, which Wilson held open as the runner took his leave. “Certainly, Mr. Jones,” he replied, now having regained a little of his aplomb. “But if you don’t mind my giving you a word of advice?”
“No, not at all,” answered the runner, looking rather intrigued. “We can always use a little help in Bow Street.”
Wilson forced down his nausea and dredged up what little haughtiness he possessed. “Try barking up Lord Cranham’s tree, sir, and see what comes crawling down. You might be surprised to find that there are others with a motive for murder. He and Miss Fontaine had been keeping company of late, I believe.”
Albert Jones merely nodded, shoved his hat down hard on his head, and stepped out onto the marble steps. He turned back to face Wilson. “I can assure you, sir,” he answered with perfect calm, “that the fact had not been lost on me. Of course, there is a question about the timing, Lord Cranham having been somewhat indisposed. Unfortunately for me, the uncertainty about precisely when the murder occurred makes almost anyone suspect.”
Wilson nodded stiffly. “Thank you, at least, for keeping an open mind.”
“You are quite welcome,” replied the runner. Then he turned and went down the sweeping marble steps at a fast clip.
Elliot prepared for dinner in great haste. He was anxious to speak with Evangeline again, to reassure himself that all was well, though they had parted company less than two hours earlier. The memory of her kiss still burned on his lips. Something, he realized, had to give. Something had to be resolved, or he would soon go mad with fear. Or worry. Or unslaked lust. At this point, Elliot hardly knew which volatile emotion was most apt to drive him over the edge first. But for the moment, simply seeing Evie might suffice, and so he dressed with great care in another simple but serviceable coat and trousers, which Kemble had reluctantly provided, then tied his own cravat in an ordinary style. There was nothing, he later realized, to portend the discomfort his manner of dress would shortly bring.
Dashing down the steps and past the drawing room, he caught sight of Evangeline standing by the pianoforte. She was formally dressed in a stunning new gown of sapphire silk shot with gold, cut fashionably low. It looked as though Winnie Weyden had been conspiring with the dressmaker on Evie’s behalf. Elliot moved toward the wide double doors and was taken aback to see that she was not alone.
“Ah, Mr. Roberts!” she cried out, sounding far more strident than usual. “Do come in. There is someone here I should like you to meet.”
Struggling to remember that only hours earlier she had felt warm and pliant in his arms, Elliot watched in the tense silence as Evangeline moved toward him with constrained, prim motions. He stepped fully into Chatham’s drawing room to take in the elegant, almost foppish gentleman, dressed in Continental fashion, who stood by the cold hearth, one expensively shod foot set high on the brass fender. Elliot knew instinctively that the man was not English. Tall, lithe, and exceedingly handsome, the foreigner put Elliot very much in mind of Linden, though even the dandified viscount had never dressed so well. Uncomfortably aware of his own plain attire, Elliot could not but despise the newcomer on sight.
“Mr. Roberts?” repeated Evangeline smoothly. “Please allow me to introduce Etienne LeNotre, the comte de Chalons, a friend who has just surprised us with a visit. Etienne, this is Mr. Elliot Roberts, the houseguest I mentioned.”
Elliot could not help but notice that he had swiftly become the milksop Mr. Roberts once more, while the visitor was Etienne. The polished nobleman let his foot slip gracefully from the fender and bowed civilly, one elegant blond eyebrow crooked in polite curiosity. Despite de Chalons’s faultless manners, Elliot could sense that the visitor regarded him with veiled suspicion.
“Ah, yes, indeed. From London, I believe?” de Chalons asked in a coolly expectant tone. “You are to be my Evangeline’s latest masterpiece, n’est-ce pas?”
Elliot forced a rigid smile and managed to hide his surge of panic at de Chalons’s choice of words. His Evangeline? In a flash, Elliot’s unexpected anxiety escalated from a vague concern that he might be asked to relinquish his seat of honor at dinner to a chilling fear that some more significant position had already been usurped. He realized that the comte was still staring at him expectantly.
“Certainly, we hope that it is so,” Elliot agreed, forcing a low, even tone. “You are a friend of Miss Stone’s family?” The question was somewhat forward, yet Elliot swiftly decided that two could play the role of suspicious protector.
The comte seemed to take no offense. “Mais oui! Of many years.” Suddenly, his gaze slid smoothly toward the door, and what might have been bitterness quickly flared in de Chalons’s vivid blue eyes. “Ah! Here is the merry widow now!” he said evenly, his chiseled features returning to a mirror of impassivity.
Elliot turned to see Mrs. Weyden sailing into the room, attired in her becoming red dress. It was scandalously cut, displaying her voluptuous figure to its best effect. Certainly, it affected the comte, whose face drained of all color. “Winnie, ma jeune femme!” he exclaimed, striding smoothly across the room with outstretched arms.
Mrs. Weyden laughed dryly. “Etienne, mon jeune amour!” she answered, turning her flawless cheek into the Frenchman’s kiss. “But, darling, perhaps we both lie? I am not young, nor should I speak to you of love.”
“Ah, mon coeur!” De Chalons pressed his fingers to his heart melodramatically. “You do wound me to the quick. To be treated thus, when I have come all the way from Soissons just to dine with you.”
“Bah.” Mrs. Weyden laughed, flicking an unexpected glance toward Evangeline, then eyeing the comte appraisingly. “I know what brings you here, Etienne. You have come to see Evangeline.” She fixed her lush lips in a pout. “You would take her away from me, would you not?”
“Mais non, Winnie. I shall take you both!” answered the comte, laughing with a seemingly specious gaiety which Elliot sensed hid a far less pleasant emotion. De Chalons spun a neat quarter turn and gracefully offered his arms to the ladies. “Allons, pretty jewels. I shall take you in to dinner.”
Winnie slipped her arm through de Chalons’s and continued to chatter amiably as they walked. Evangeline, however, smoothly dropped back to join Elliot, seizing his arm with a possessiveness Elliot found suddenly reassuring. He turned slightly to look at her from the corner of his eye, noting that she seemed far paler than she had earlier in the day. He allowed his hungry eyes to sweep from her face down across the deep décolletage of her rich sapphire dress, and the words brittle and cold came swiftly to mind. Almost simultaneously came a somewhat reassuring suspicion that Evangeline was not altogether pleased to see Etienne LeNotre.
Much to Elliot’s relief, his seat of honor was not expropriated. The comte sat to Winnie’s left, his distance from Evie constituting the only bright spot in an otherwise miserable meal. Much of the dinner conversation ensued in French, after Elliot politely agreed that, yes, he did indeed speak the language. That statement, he soon realized, was questionable at best. Everyone else, including Frederica, babbled vivaciously in a rapid stream of cosmopolitan chatter. Many of the words were unfamiliar to him—partly Flemish, he began to suspect. Elliot looked down at his ordinary clothing, listened to the urbane disc
ourse all about him, and realized that he had never felt so out of place in his life. Right between his recently discovered feelings of guilt and shame, Elliot wedged artlessness and stupidity into his emotional repertoire.
The only topic he distinctly understood was Nicolette’s proposal that the family organize a presentation of Much Ado about Nothing, to be performed on the garden terrace within the fortnight. Coquettishly batting her eyes, she solicited Elliot’s participation as Benedick to her Beatrice, then arbitrarily assigned the remaining roles. None too soon, the seemingly interminable meal was over, and the family began to disperse toward the drawing room.
De Chalons declined his hostess’s offer to savor a bottle of port with Gus and Elliot. “Merci, mais non, Evangeline. I have something I must discuss with you, my dear.”
Evangeline stiffened, her gaze flitting somewhat anxiously from Gus to Elliot, then back to the comte. “By all means, Etienne,” she finally agreed. “Shall we go into the drawing room?”
De Chalons smiled blandly. “Let us go into the studio, if you please. I feel the need to view your father’s work once again. It has been some time since I have seen it, and to do so would bring me great joy. Afterward, perhaps you would be so gracious as to walk with me in the garden?”
Evangeline nodded. Just then, Tess entered with a heavy salver bearing a bottle of port and three glasses. Gus nodded invitingly toward the tray, and Elliot slid back into his chair as Evangeline and de Chalons departed. “Friend of the family,” repeated Gus sympathetically, as if an explanation to Elliot was obviously in order.
Suddenly, Elliot wondered what the Weydens thought of his growing relationship with Evangeline. Were his proprietary feelings for her so apparent? And did Gus believe the Frenchman to be Elliot’s rival? Slowly, Elliot sipped at his glass. “Do you know de Chalons well?”
Gus shook his head, yet a knowing light flickered in his eyes. “Not well. As it happens, he stayed here awhile during the war, but I was at school during much of that time. Apparently, Peter saw Etienne in Vienna last month and asked him to return to London with him. Perhaps that has something to do with Etienne’s sudden arrival here.”
“Why?” asked Elliot bluntly, raking his eyes over the younger man. He perceived that Gus, who was uncharacteristically restrained tonight, did not fully trust de Chalons. Suddenly, Elliot realized that they were keeping some dark secrets in this house. He could sense it. Tonight, for the first time, he felt like nothing more than a guest at Chatham, and he was shocked at how greatly the realization pained him.
Gus tossed off his port with a flourish and put down the empty glass with a maladroit clatter. “Can’t say, Roberts. Just a suspicion.” He shoved his chair away to rise abruptly from the table. “Whist?”
Elliot shook his head. “No, Weyden, but thank you. I think I shall stroll through the studio if de Chalons has finished, then take myself off to bed.”
“Suit yourself,” agreed Gus, nodding amiably. Tonight, he seemed almost relieved to be rid of Elliot.
The studio was indeed vacant when he strolled into the vast room. The sound of his boot heels echoed hauntingly through the emptiness as he roamed idly over the flagstones. The painting of Leopold still stood turned against the wall, an open crate in the floor beside it. At first light, Peter Weyden’s men were to haul it away to London. Fleetingly, Elliot wondered if Evangeline was agonizing over her decision to part with such an obvious masterpiece. How would she feel when she learned that Elliot had bought it? Or would she ever know? With that bleak thought, Elliot wedged himself into the corner to admire the massive canvas’s stunning beauty, but once positioned, he hardly saw it, quickly losing himself in a maelstrom of worry.
Who was Etienne LeNotre? The reaction of the family members at dinner had been surprisingly mixed. Michael seemed to regard him with the sort of distant enthusiasm one might reserve for a favored but rarely seen uncle. Nicolette and the older boys were almost wary in the comte’s presence. Frederica, however, remembered him not at all, and Evangeline had explained that Frederica had been but a toddler at the time of de Chalons’s last visit. Though Evangeline had not seemed to dislike the comte, she had been decidedly ill at ease throughout the meal. What did that signify? The air inside the studio felt suddenly thick and hot, and, impatiently, Elliot pulled at the throat of his shirt, loosening his cravat.
Suddenly, the scrape of the French windows pulling open from the terrace dragged Elliot forcibly from his disquiet. Given his awkward position behind Evangeline’s massive easel, he saw no tactful means of escape. Elliot could see only one end of the southerly wall, but he knew instinctively that Evangeline had entered the room. Furthermore, the strident sound of de Chalons’s voice soon made it plain that he had returned with her.
They spoke in rapid French, and Elliot understood even less now than he had during dinner. Clearly, the two were arguing, but there was no discernible fear in Evangeline’s responses to de Chalons’s rapid barrage of questions.
Elliot strained both his ears and his vocabulary. Michael’s name was frequently mentioned, but in an unclear context. Given the resonance in the vaulted chamber, it sounded as if Evangeline and the comte were slowly strolling along the south wall. At last, they came into Elliot’s view so that he was able to observe their lips and gestures.
It quickly became apparent that de Chalons was insisting that Evangeline go away with him. Elliot was stunned. Earlier in the evening, he had supposed that Winnie was merely jesting, but now de Chalons seemed quite serious. His entreaties became more vehement as they moved through the room, and Evangeline appeared to grow increasingly distraught with each step. Suddenly, de Chalons stopped and slowed his voice to speak more emphatically. Now Elliot could understand most of what was said.
“Evangeline, my darling,” the comte insisted, “you must come with me to my chateau now. Stay with me in Soissons until the New Year. You must.”
“No, not yet, Etienne.” Evangeline was almost crying now. “Please, not yet.”
“Shush, Evangeline. It is not so bad as all that! I want to keep you under my protection. I promise you will be happy in France.” He pulled her into his arms.
At that gesture, Elliot barely suppressed a vicious urge to go for de Chalons’s throat. How dare that pompous fop barge into Chatham and force his attentions on an innocent young woman? Elliot was already weighing his odds against the Frenchman—he had a good three inches and at least two stone on the man—when it occurred to him that what LeNotre was about did not greatly differ from his own actions toward Evangeline. The shame of it shocked him.
No, it was not the same at all, Elliot argued with himself. This arrogant, polished Frenchman apparently sought a mistress. Elliot wanted a wife.
A wife? The realization sobered him. But it was true, he realized. Somewhere along the way, marriage to Evangeline had become as necessary as it was hopeless. Absent something very drastic, she would never have him. And why should she? Clearly, Evangeline did not lack for wealthy suitors.
She spoke almost inaudibly into the comte’s shirtfront. “I cannot do that to Michael, Etienne. Besides, we are so happy here at Chatham.”
“Evangeline.” He pushed her away from him, then gently shook her by the shoulders. “You might have no better alternative. Who else can you trust in this way?”
“Please, Etienne. You cannot ask that I leave Winnie and the children!”
“Winnie can meet you next year in Ghent,” he persisted softly.
Mutely, Evangeline shook her head. Tears were indeed spilling down her ivory cheeks now, and it required every inch of Elliot’s rather limited self-control to remain hidden. He wanted desperately to leap from behind the canvas and throttle the Gallic bastard until his piercing blue eyes glazed over and rolled heavenward. How had such a man come to have power over Evangeline? He said she might not have an alternative. What a lie! Undoubtedly, there were hundreds of honorably intentioned men who would willingly hurl themselves at her feet, had they any chance o
f winning her affection. How could de Chalons force Evangeline to act against her wishes?
Evangeline’s voice dropped to a whisper. “No, Etienne, I—I cannot go with you. If you care for me, you will not insist. Perhaps when I have no other choice, if it comes to that. Perhaps then I shall be grateful for what you so generously offer me now.” Through her tears, she was smiling sweetly, and Elliot felt himself grow sick with disgust and fear.
Surely, it was not a matter of money? Chatham Lodge was a gracious home, and Evangeline’s extended family lived in apparent comfort, but perhaps all was not as it appeared. Indeed, she had once spoken of their finances in general terms and expressed a vague concern about the preservation of capital, but that was no more than a sensible business practice. Was the estate in debt? Perhaps Chatham was unentailed and had been mortgaged? No, that made no sense.
Suddenly, de Chalons bowed low over Evangeline’s hand and murmured something Elliot could not hear, then took his leave in haste. Her back turned to Elliot, Evangeline remained standing by her desk for a moment, then abruptly fled through the window into the garden.
In the dark recesses of Elliot’s mind, a seed fertilized by fear took root and began to grow. There was at least one obvious solution. Quietly, he made his way out of the cramped corner and followed Evangeline.
10
Pains of love be sweeter far, than all the other
pleasures are.
—JOHN DRYDEN
E arlier in the evening, a warm northeasterly wind had swathed Essex in a blanket of low clouds which now shrouded a thin sliver of moon. The night air was growing heavy with the promise of a coming storm as the surrounding trees shivered in the faint breeze. Straining his eyes in the near darkness, Elliot could barely make out Evangeline as she stood, staring out across the gardens. She leaned almost weakly against the stone barrier that flanked the upper terrace. A low rumble of distant thunder penetrated the stillness, rolling across from East Anglia and echoing ominously through the nearer hills.
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