Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  “Merely to avoid Father’s family—”

  “Indeed, and it has worked perfectly! Society scarcely knows of your existence, let alone your association with the earldom of Trent.” She leaned closer toward the painting, a bit of color draining from her face. “My God, Evie … what have you done to his eyes?”

  “And just what is wrong with them?” snapped Evangeline.

  “Well …”Winnie shuddered. “Even Rannoch never looked quite that wicked … and what the devil is he doing with that big sword thing?”

  “It’s called a claymore, Winnie.” Evangeline shot her a dark, narrow look. “And when did you begin to fancy yourself an art critic?”

  “Fine! A claymore, then. Nonetheless, I must tell you, that is the most dreadful painting I’ve ever seen.” Then, with another equivocal shrug, Winnie returned to her original argument. “And anyway, how could Rannoch seek you out? If his plan were so preconceived, how would he find you? Or know that you were lovely? And of age? How would he know about Michael?”

  “What are you implying, Winnie?” Evangeline’s voice was cold. “Rannoch is licentious and treacherous, a coldhearted gamester, a cruelly vindictive man who ruins innocent young girls—and those are among his finer qualities.”

  Her companion paused, then pensively caught her lower lip between her teeth. She began to pace back and forth across the studio, her kid slippers swishing softly over the flagstone. “I just do not know, Evie,” she finally answered. “Do you remember the day Ell—Rannoch came to Chatham?”

  Did she remember? Evangeline put down her knife with a clatter and pressed the palm of her hand into her throbbing forehead. Good God—how could she forget? “Yes, I remember,” she quietly answered. “It was raining.”

  “Well, I remember, too,” replied Winnie with a distant look in her eyes. “There was something so exceedingly odd about it all. He seemed most unsure of himself. Do you recollect how apprehensive he looked when I called him by the wrong name?”

  Evangeline’s brow furrowed. “Yes—I suppose I’d forgotten.”

  Winnie nodded, her eyes narrowing perceptively. “He remarked upon having other business in the area. And then the next day, you said he turned toward Wrotham Ford?”

  Evangeline exhaled irritably. “And your point is …?”

  With a crooked smile, Winnie opened her hands in plaintive exasperation. “Well, there is just something odd about it all, is there not? A man comes to a portrait sitting—five hours late, mind you—in a drenching rain. And then just happens to have business in Wrotham Ford? What sort of business? There’s nothing there.”

  “Indeed,” whispered Evangeline slowly. “And he looked surprised when I mentioned Wrotham-upon-Lea, as if he’d never heard of it. He seemed quite unacquainted with the local villages.”

  “Yes!” replied Winnie, walking quickly toward the easel. “And I must tell you something else. I looked in my peerage this morning. The full name of the marquis of Rannoch is Elliot Robert Armstrong. Is that not odd?”

  “Odd in what way?” asked Evangeline resistantly. She took up her brush and slapped a dollop of gray paint on what had once been a cloudless blue sky.

  “Well, if a man wanted to be taken for someone else, why would he use the better part of his own name?”

  “Because he’s insane,” retorted Evangeline.

  “Moreover, you said he knew nothing of portraits,” persisted Winnie. “Indeed, you said that he did not even know what he wanted! It merely occurs to me that if it was all some sort of ruse, he did a most unsatisfactory job of thinking it through.”

  Evangeline whirled about on her stool to stare pointedly at her companion. “But what else could it be, Winnie? There is no other explanation, particularly in light of—in light of his later behavior.”

  “Toward you?”

  Evangeline felt her face grow warm. “Yes,” she admitted softly.

  “What, precisely, are you confessing here, Evangeline?” Winnie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “No—never mind. I suppose I do not wish to be sure. Perhaps I have no wish to recognize just how badly I have failed in my duties.”

  “As to duty, Winnie, any failure on that score has been entirely mine,” Evangeline replied. She choked back the hot press of tears. “I know my duty, too, yet I foolishly allowed myself to be blinded by things I should never have contemplated.”

  Unexpectedly, Winnie reached down to lay a cool, smooth hand against Evangeline’s cheek. “Is it so hard to imagine, Evie, that the man might have been charmed by you? That his affection might have been genuine? Oh, I know he is wicked, but perhaps he came under false pretenses and found himself falling—”

  “That’s enough romantic drivel, Winnie,” interrupted Evangeline, spinning back to her work. “Whatever he was about, ’tis over and done. And we now have the perfidy of Honoria Stone to deal with.”

  “Why, you cannot imagine she would dare to return here?” asked Winnie, aghast.

  “Before the week is out,” snapped Evangeline. “Depend upon it.”

  “Hmm … you may be right,”mused Winnie, turning toward the door. “I’d best warn Bolton to keep a sharp eye out.”

  “Bolton?” muttered Evangeline absently. “Yes, pray do so.”

  As Winnie stepped across the threshold, she suddenly whirled about to face Evangeline. “Oh, and Evie?”

  “Yes?” Evangeline’s tone was impatient.

  “About that claymore thing you’ve painted there … isn’t that a Highlander’s weapon?”

  Rather annoyed at her companion’s teasing tone, Evangeline looked up from her work. Winnie went on, her eyes twinkling. “I mean—I do seem to recall that being the case … and the Armstrongs are, after all, more of a Lowlands clan.”

  “Artistic license,” hissed Evangeline, slapping on another blop of gray paint. “Symbolism.”

  “Oh! Symbolism!” Brows arched high, Winnie shot her a knowing grin. “Why, my dear, you quite put me to the blush!” Then, with a speed that belied her mature years, Winnie darted through the door, expertly dodging the paintbrush Evangeline hurled at her head.

  12

  Much drinking, and little thinking.

  —JONATHAN SWIFT

  Two whole days had passed, had Elliot been fully cognizant of time, when Old Scratch rose up from the pits of perdition to whip open his heinous toolbox. In the frightful, suffocating darkness, however, Elliot could discern only one sure thing. The devil’s minions had forcibly wedged his head in a vise and were proceeding to beat him senseless with a sledgehammer. Whilst they were at their handiwork, another determined crew set about hacking out his temples with a brace of rusty wood chisels; and down below, a third malicious little rogue poked holes in his bowels with a hot iron rod.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! The devil’s chosen instrument pounded upon his skull, then relented, but briefly. Bam! Bam! Bam! Each blow to his forehead made his brain rattle like shattering glass, and the ensuing pain made him want to retch. Yet the incessant pounding was nothing when compared to the slicing shaft of light that suddenly caught him full in the face, piercing his eyes like a sharp knife intent on laying open his cranium.

  “Get up, you laggard!” grumbled Sir Hugh, drawing back another heavy velvet bed hanging with a vicious yank. “And roll over, for pity’s sake. You’re so snared up in those damn sheets, ’tis a wonder you’ve not smothered.”

  Bam! Bam! Bam! The infernal pounding jarred his very bed now.

  Elliot forced one eye back open. Just a crack.

  It was too far. He saw Matthew Winthrop standing at the foot of his bed, rapping energetically against the mahogany footboard with one massive fist. He appeared to be upside down, too.

  “Up and at ’em, Sleeping Beauty!” Winthrop howled joyously. “Had to let ourselves in, don’cha know,” he added with mock solemnity, “since you ignored our polite knocking.”

  Like magic, a small silver tray holding a delicate teacup materialized out of the depths of hell and appeared in his unfocus
ed field of view. Elliot was further mystified to see that it, too, was upside down. However, the tea, or whatever it held, did not spill. With a manful grunt, Elliot rolled over.

  Ah. Better. But not much. The bed took a couple of turns about the room, then spun slowly to a stop.

  “What have you there, Kem?” he heard Winthrop ask. “Hair of the dog?”

  “Hardly, Major,” Elliot heard his valet trill. “This is my secret hangover remedy.” The salver, now right-side up, edged measurably closer. “Now, drink it down, my lord. There’s a good fellow.”

  Bravely, Elliot heaved himself up onto one wobbly elbow, lifted the teacup, and swilled courageously. The result was almost instantaneous. Fortunately for all, Kemble was equally swift with the chamber pot.

  “Christ, Kem!” yelped Winthrop, jumping back from the paroxysm of spewing, gagging, and hacking. “Call that a remedy? He looks damn near dead now.”

  “Ugh,” grunted Sir Hugh, peering at the mess from the opposite side of Elliot’s bed. He shook his gray head as if in puzzlement. “Ain’t a chit in England worth this, my boy.” With one smooth yank, he stripped back the covers. “Come on, Kemble. Let us get ’im up and into that wing chair. Ought not be able to fall out of that, I daresay.”

  “Nooooo!” Elliot heard himself wail, even as his toes slid off the bed to trail limply through the thick pile of his opulent bedroom carpet. “Out of my house, Hugh, you worthless son of a bitch! You are dismissed, Kem! Get away from me! Bugger you both, damn it!”

  “Ooh!” squealed Kem in mock delight. “What an invitation! And you’re sooo attractive this morning!”

  As Major Winthrop chuckled sympathetically, Elliot found himself summarily dropped into the aforementioned chair. Smoothly, Winthrop shoved a sturdy ottoman beneath his feet.

  Elliot instinctively recoiled. “Don’t bloody touch me, Matt! You ungrateful bastard.”

  “Man can curse like that must be on the way to recovery,” he heard Hugh reverently whisper.

  “Coffee, anyone?” chirped Kemble.

  A quarter hour later, Elliot was fairly well convinced he was going to live, and none too gladdened by the knowledge. Having spent the better part of the previous two days trying to kill himself, he found his failure to do so more than a little discouraging, especially when one considered the consequent agony. Liveried footmen were, however, pouring a bath before his very eyes. Winthrop had managed to force two cups of strong coffee down his gullet, and Kem was laying out his clothes. It was therefore obvious to Elliot that he was expected not only to live but to bathe and to dress as well. He found it a disheartening prospect.

  Behind him, a housemaid was resolutely clearing the remnants of last night’s suicide attempt. The clink and clatter of the bottles as she gathered them up felt like more of Satan’s handiwork to Elliot’s aching head. In short order, however, the maid was done, and Kemble was shooing the servants away from the huge copper tub. Steam now roiled ominously from its surface. Elliot did not even bother to whimper or curse when Kemble and Hugh forcibly divested him of his day-old shirt and drawers, then plopped him into the hot water.

  Matthew Winthrop stood to one side, his hands set stubbornly at his waist, and studied his friend. “I swear, Elliot! Drunk for two days—not your style. What you need, old boy, is a good tumble—and please tell me you’re not still grieving over your actress?”

  Elliot gave a harsh bark of bitter laughter and managed to sluice his face with a handful of scalding water. “Hardly that, Winthrop.”

  The major lifted one brow questioningly and waved eloquently about the disorderly room. “Well, there’s a petticoat involved here—God knows I’ve seen that pathetic expression often enough to know. Though, admittedly, not on you.”

  Elliot merely shook his head and slipped deeper into his bath.

  “Have it your way, Rannoch,” insisted Winthrop with a slow shake of his head. “But I’ll be hanged if you ain’t a man nursing a broken heart. Comes as quite a shock, too, considering that we none of us thought you had one.”

  “Faith, Matt!” muttered Elliot, letting his head go limp against the rim of the copper tub. He squeezed shut his eyes and forced a grim smile. “I have it on the best of authority that I want not only for a heart but for decency, morality, and honesty as well.”

  “Well, I’m damned,” muttered Sir Hugh, amiably tossing off the remainder of his coffee. “Been messing with that country gel up in Essex again, ain’t you, boy?”

  “Ah! Your mystery lover,” said Winthrop softly. “Who is she, Elliot?”

  “Oui, oui!” Kemble sang out cheerfully from the adjoining dressing room. “Cherchez la femme! Naught but trouble! I’ve said it for weeks!”

  Elliot ignored Kem, dunked himself face first into the tub, and came up spewing. The shock of the hot water made his next words bearable. “Trent’s niece,” he managed to rasp through the water streaming down his face. “Can you believe my damnable luck?”

  “Truly, Elliot?” Winthrop’s mouth gaped in shock. “Old Trent had a granddaughter? And you’ve been trifling with her? A well-bred lady, too! Not at all the thing, my old fellow!”

  “Didn’t think there was anyone left in that line,” muttered Sir Hugh, “save that mama’s boy, Stephen.”

  “Oh, yes,” sighed Elliot morosely. “Two granddaughters and a grandson. The heir presumptive, no less. Children of the old lord’s youngest son, Maxwell.”

  “Maxwell?” Winthrop mused. “Hmm … I only remember Frederick. But I recollect he died at Busaco. And a brave fellow he was.”

  Frederick. The name hit Elliot like a brickbat. Frederica. Portugal. Naught but a nobleman’s by-blow. Suddenly, Elliot realized that the trail of truth had been there all along, had he but followed it. How many families named Stone were there amongst England’s gentry, anyway? No more than two dozen, in all probability, yet the thought had never occurred to him to put the pieces together.

  Sir Hugh grunted again and scratched his ear. “Aye, I remember Max Stone—the fellow liked art or some such tomfoolery, I recollect. All the talk thirty years ago. Seems his step-mama scotched his admission to that—what d’ye call it—Royal Academy? Fellow flew up in the boughs, ran off to Italy or some damn place. Thought he died.”

  “He did,” said Elliot dryly. “But in Essex, just a few years ago.”

  Now it was Winthrop’s turn to sigh. “Lud, Elliot, what took hold of your brain? Jeanette’s niece, no less! I must admit, you do amaze me.”

  Sir Hugh slapped his knee cheerfully. “That’s my boy, Elliot. Keep ’em on their toes. Wish I could have seen that old bitch Honoria’s face when she caught up with your ruse.”

  “Indeed, Uncle, I did see it. Moreover, I can assure you it was not a pleasant sight. And there was no ruse.” Elliot sluiced his face brutally with hot water, squinting through the rivulets. “I just didn’t realize who the young lady was.”

  “Good story, my boy!” Sir Hugh thumped his chair arm jovially. “Stick to it.”

  Elliot turned to glare at his uncle. “Listen to me, Hugh! I—did—not—know,” he repeated, coldly enunciating each word.

  “But why did she—?” Winthrop paused when he noted Elliot’s glare.

  Elliot looked away and stared into the depths of his tub. “I do not know. Suffice it to say that I failed to make my identify fully known to her.”

  “Jesus, Rannoch! Surely you did not—you didn’t …” Winthrop’s words ground to a halt, and his mouth fell open.“And then,you didn’t … ?”

  “Oh, hell, yes,” answered Elliot bitterly. “I did. Of course I did. What else would a licentious reprobate like me do, Matt? Of course, I couldn’t stop myself.”

  “Good Lord,” murmured Winthrop solemnly. “What happens now? Or need I ask?”

  “Apparently, nothing happens now,” answered Elliot bitterly. “And I’ll tell you truly, gentlemen, the fool who labeled women the weaker sex never met this one. I’m lucky I survived when she found out who I was.”

&n
bsp; “Found out?” shrieked Hugh, bouncing out of his chair. “My God, she knows who you are?”

  “Indeed,” muttered Elliot. “But don’t trouble yourself, Uncle. She has no interest in furthering her relationship with the marquis of Rannoch. I collect that her family considers me—ah, yes, I have it now—a vile, sniffing hound.”

  “Enough of this matutinal tête-à-tête, gentlemen,” interjected Kemble firmly from across the huge room. “Haul his maimed and jug-bitten buttocks out of there, and I’ll have him shaved, dressed, and ready to go in a trice.”

  “Go?” moaned Elliot, but it was too late. He was being heaved unceremoniously from the tub.

  “Go,” affirmed Winthrop stubbornly. “We’ll not stand aside whilst you drink yourself to death over a woman, Elliot.”

  “Aye,” added Sir Hugh cheerfully. “The betting books at the club are flush with wagers on today’s match between O’Connell and Jennings. A bit of bloodthirsty sport and a spot o’ fresh air—’tis just the thing, m’boy!”

  *

  If Sir Hugh’s disparaging comment had set Honoria Stone’s ears to burning, her upright posture and zealous eyes gave no indication of it, for even as Hugh impugned her character, the “old bitch” herself sat in the middle of Evangeline’s library, her demeanor giving every impression of a self-satisfied, morally superior gentlewoman who was confident of having the whip hand on lesser mortals, her errant granddaughter included.

  The dowager countess carefully smoothed the already neat folds of her black bombazine skirt, then dropped her matching reticule neatly into her lap. “I thank you, Miss Stone, for agreeing to see me today,” she asserted from her chair by the cold hearth. “I am vastly reassured to learn that you feel as I do, which is to say that we both want what is best for Michael.”

  Evangeline eyed her step-grandmother with carefully veiled suspicion. The woman had returned as predicted this morning, without her minions and with a dangerously uncharacteristic deference which was belied by her eyes. Today, the dowager countess was civil, almost cordial, and Evangeline could not but wonder at the price such a performance extracted from the woman.