Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Evangeline inadvertently hiccuped with laughter. “Oh-ho! Set her on fire, did he?”

  Trudy rushed into the conversation. “Oh! Not set on fire, my lady!” she interjected. “Fired. His lordship discharged Miss Smith, that’s all.”

  Zoë looked askance at her maid and huddled closer to Evangeline. “Oh, Tru! I know he didn’t really do such a thing,” she peevishly responded, in the small, brittle tone of a child who was badly in want of sleep. Her foot was barely bouncing now as she stretched, then scrubbed a fist over one eye. “But I am glad that she’s gone, just the same.”

  Evangeline watched the girl’s eyes grow heavy. “Don’t worry, Zoë,” she said softly, smoothing down her nightcap with one hand. “You shall like Mr. Stokely. I promise.”

  Zoë barely nodded. Her foot had ceased to move. “Your hair really is the color of our yellow wallpaper,” the child muttered, her head falling somnolently against Evangeline’s shoulder. “And you’re pretty, too, just as Papa said. Am I to call you Mama?”

  “As you wish, Zoë,” whispered Evangeline as the child’s eyes dropped shut. “Sleep on it. You need not decide just now.”

  For a time, Evangeline sat perfectly still, quietly looking down on the child as she drowsed, searching Zoë’s expression for more bits and pieces of Elliot. She found them, too—in the turn of Zoë’s cheek, the tilt of her brow, and the long sooty lashes that fringed the girl’s eyes. Gently, Evangeline crooked one arm around to tuck back a loose curl that tickled at Zoë’s nose.

  “You make a lovely pair, Lady Rannoch,” drawled a soft voice from the shadows of the corridor, and her husband strolled into the room with his deliberate, long-legged gait. “I begin to think that perhaps my daughter needs you almost as much as—” And then, apparently noting Trudy’s presence, he shrugged his broad shoulders, smiled faintly, and let the words slip away.

  Elliot had shed his coat and turned up his shirtsleeves to reveal the hard tendons of his forearms. In one hand, he held a half-filled tumbler, deeply etched with his coat of arms, and in the other, he carried a tattered book of bedtime stories and a rag doll with one eye missing. Evangeline was pleased to see that he looked relaxed, almost happy, in fact.

  For a long moment, Elliot simply stood there, silently watching his wife and his daughter, transfixed by the overwhelming sense of comfort the scene evoked. His wife. His child. In his home. Yes, this was what had been missing.

  Such thoughts were silly and sentimental, he knew, yet he did not give a damn. At last, this nerve-wracking day was over. Evangeline was his now, his warmth and serenity, his haven of peace in a cold, mad world. And as for Zoë, even in sleep, she was a bundle of vibrant energy. Together, Elliot found them perfect, flawless in their symmetry, a sonnet made of flesh and blood. For the third time since meeting Evangeline Stone, Elliot found himself fervently wishing that he were an artist, capable of committing such beauty to canvas.

  “She is asleep,” said Evangeline. Trudy stepped closer.

  “So she is,” answered Elliot softly. Quietly, he leaned forward to set down his glass and the toys, then scooped up his daughter with one arm. “I shall tuck her in. Trudy, you should take yourself off to bed as well.”

  Trudy nodded and exited into the corridor. Elliot watched her go, then slowly turned to face Evangeline. “My dear, I shall return in a few minutes.” He looked her up and down. “A few short minutes,” he belatedly clarified, “if you will wait for me.”

  Evangeline struck a haughty pose, folding her hands demurely into her lap. “That would depend, I suppose.”

  “On?” Elliot crooked a dark brow at her.

  She lifted her chin disdainfully. “On whether or not you really said I had hair the color of your wallpaper.”

  Elliot shot her a boyish, sideways grin. “If memory serves, it was very costly wallpaper. Does that in any way mitigate the insult? Or must I grovel?”

  “Grovel, I daresay.”

  Elliot nodded gravely. “Yes, your ladyship.” And then he was gone.

  Left alone, still inwardly laughing, Evangeline began to muse over the man she had just married. Had she really made such a bad bargain? At times like this, when Elliot seemed more like Mr. Roberts than the marquis of Rannoch, it surely seemed she had not. Michael was safe, and, in truth, she was not, at this moment, unhappy. Clearly, there were many aspects of Elliot’s personality she had yet to discover.

  As for his part, tonight Elliot seemed almost lighthearted. She listened as his heavy tread echoed up the winding staircase, and she wondered, too, just what Elliot had been about to say before seeing Trudy standing beside the sofa. Did Elliot need her? He had repeatedly said as much, so why could she not let herself believe him? Did he love her? Certainly, he was capable of love, far more so than she would ever have thought possible of him. For it was clearly love that shone in his eyes when he looked at his child. And one more thing was equally clear: both Elliot and his daughter were desperately in need of a normal, loving family.

  What a fortuitous coincidence. He had just married one, had he not?

  The next several days, however, left Evangeline with little time to woolgather. Because it had been uncertain how long the family would remain fixed at Strath, Evangeline had ordered that lessons must go forward as usual, which meant blending Elliot’s daughter not only into the family but into the schoolroom as well. A makeshift studio was established for Evangeline’s work and the small schoolroom carefully dusted and stocked. And throughout the rush and routine, Evangeline could not but notice that Zoë watched her almost constantly with a vague, rather wistful expression. Clearly, the child yearned for maternal companionship and family structure.

  Almost as disconcerting, in Evangeline’s opinion, was the child’s woefully neglected education. Her childish bravado notwithstanding, Zoë’s education was hardly what it ought to be. Not only had her instruction been sporadic, but her many governesses had apparently been more concerned with embroidery than geography. After the first day, Evangeline instructed Harlan Stokely to work with Zoë, for the express purpose of evaluating the child’s educational needs.

  Consequently, she and Mr. Stokely now reclined in the afternoon shade of Strath’s expansive rear garden, casually chatting. A brace of liveried footmen lingered dutifully in the background, and all of them watched as the children desultorily whacked a tattered shuttlecock back and forth against the glistening backdrop of the river. Despite the beauty of the scene, the summer heat in and around London had become oppressive.

  It was a sad truth that ennui had pretty promptly set in at Strath. During the first week, there had been high talk of visits to Astley’s to see the trick horses, to Hatchard’s for new books, and to Gunter’s for flavored ices. To his credit, Elliot had indulged the children in their every whim without complaint. Inwardly, Evangeline chuckled at the stir the wicked marquis and his newest entourage were undoubtedly creating among the ton. Nonetheless, even as Elliot persevered in his paternal duty, the attractions of town faded for the children, and the day before, they had begun to mutter discontentedly about a return to the country. Zoë, once reassured that she should accompany them, quickly fell in with the grumbling.

  Evangeline sighed.

  Seated beside her, Mr. Stokely gravely cleared his throat and poked his spectacles back up his perspiring nose. “To return to our discussion, Miss—er, my lady—it is my considered opinion that Miss Armstrong is highly intelligent. Though the child has had little direction, and no classical education to speak of ”—he paused to sniff disdainfully—“she is possessed of a sound logic and an imaginative mind. She will catch up and be a welcome addition to the schoolroom.”

  “Hmm,” mused Evangeline, watching as Theo Weyden struck the shuttlecock a wild blow, sending it flying in the general direction of Mr. Stokely. It fell a few yards short, however, and disappeared into a tangle of flowering shrubbery.

  The younger children leapt into the bushes, vying for possession. Suddenly, a cry of pain rent the sti
fling air. With instincts attuned to any childhood crisis, Evangeline was out of her chair before the screaming stopped. As she reached the rattling greenery and bent low to peer into the branches, Zoë bolted forth, one tiny arm extended, tears streaming down her face. Frederica and Michael followed on her heels.

  “Mama! Mama!” she screeched, launching herself at Evangeline. “It bit me! It bit me!” A wrenching sob tore from her chest and set her lower lip to trembling.

  “A bee!” explained Michael breathlessly, drawing up just as Evangeline folded the crying child into her arms.

  “A bee!” confirmed Frederica, her glossy curls bobbing. “It stung her pointy finger.”

  “See?” wailed Zoë, tugging her hand from the folds of Evangeline’s embrace to produce the wounded digit.

  Her index finger really was swelling prodigiously. Gently, Evangeline grasped the hand, pulling it to her lips “Oh, yes, sweetie, you are hurt,” soothed Evangeline, whirling up and about with the child in her arms. So she was Mama now. It had taken less than a fortnight to win such high praise. Secretly, Evangeline was pleased.

  She stroked her cheek against Zoë’s hair. “We must have a poultice straightaway. Let’s find Mrs. Woody, hmm?” Evangeline continued to murmur to the distraught child, brushing the hand across her lips again. Her attention fixed on Zoë’s tear-stained cheeks, Evangeline strode up the garden path, never noticing her husband until she had very nearly bumped into his massive frame.

  Elliot stood just an arm’s length away, looking down at her with an expression of barely leashed rage. Thinking perhaps that she had somehow overstepped her new role, Evangeline held his daughter out to him uncertainly. “Zoë’s been stung,” she managed to stutter. “A—a bee. In the shrubbery.”

  “Aye, I heard,” he responded, his face relaxing slightly. Effortlessly, he pulled the child into his arms, smoothing back the wayward curls from her face with his big hand. “I’ll take her to Mrs. Woody. Freddie can come with me,” he added, nodding at the worried girl beside Evangeline.

  “Is something amiss, Elliot?” Evangeline asked.

  He nodded brusquely, the dark look returning. He flicked an anxious glance at the children. “I cannot speak plainly, Evangeline, but there is a Mr. Jones to see you in the library. My man of affairs, Gerald Wilson, is there and will stay with you. Please just answer Mr. Jones’s questions,however … offensive they may be.”

  “He wishes to see me?” she repeated, feeling quite confused.

  “Yes,” he answered hollowly, then held her eyes firmly for a moment. “Evie—I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Evangeline stared after him in bewilderment, but Elliot and Frederica were already trailing up the path toward the kitchens.

  Inside the library, the silence was thick with dread. Gerald Wilson turned anxiously from his position by the window and stared at Albert Jones. The Bow Street runner had snapped rather respectfully to his feet when, not five minutes earlier, the marquis of Rannoch had angrily pounded his fist upon the desk and then stalked out of the room. Now, Jones still stood stiffly beside his chair.

  Wilson crossed the distance between them and looked pointedly at the man. “Mr. Jones,” he said, trying with little success to mimic the haughty glare his employer so often used to such an intimidating effect, “I am reminded of something we discussed once or twice before. It concerns the missing bracelet. Have you made the inquiries we spoke of?”

  The runner looked up from the toes of his boots, his eyes focusing suddenly on Wilson. “Indeed,” he answered with measured reluctance. “Based on the information you relayed to me, I revisited Miss Fontaine’s mother in Wrotham Ford. Mrs. Tanner was adamant. She insisted that his lordship left the note—which she described as ‘threatening’—and nothing more.”

  Wilson snorted derisively. “And do you believe that?”

  Jones shrugged equivocally. “I recognize Mrs. Tanner and her ilk for what they are, Mr. Wilson. And I am not fool enough to believe that if she pinched a ruby bracelet, she’ll be wracked with sudden guilt.”

  Wilson’s cynical rejoinder was cut off when MacLeod pushed open the library door to admit the new marchioness. Briefly, Wilson let his gaze catch hers. Lady Rannoch always moved with an efficient, fluid elegance, giving one the distinct impression that she was both capable and confident. Today, however, she gave the further impression of being very, very annoyed.

  Wilson chuckled softly to himself. Rannoch and, at present, Mr. Jones had their hands full—that was Wilson’s bet. Ten days earlier, the marquis had turned the entire household upside down when he had arrived with a new bride, four children, and a tutor in tow. It was, on the whole, the most shocking spectacle Wilson had ever witnessed, and there had been some exceedingly shocking spectacles at Strath over the years. The servants’ chatter had been unremitting ever since the three carriages had been unloaded at the doorstep.

  If gossip had the right of it, Rannoch’s bride was something of an enigma. No schoolroom miss was she; the beautiful lady with the subtly foreign accent was obviously a few years beyond the customary age for marriage. Furthermore, Wilson had it on good authority that she was a famous artist—E. van Artevalde—of all things imaginable! At last he had an explanation for his lordship’s newfound preoccupation with the Flemish masters, for in the past, Rannoch had been more disposed toward the blacker arts than the higher arts.

  Yet Strath House had been recently adorned with three of van Artevalde’s finest works, and though they had come dear indeed, Rannoch hadn’t so much as twitched upon being presented with the staggering bills. And even stranger, perhaps, than his lordship’s new wife was her brother. The sweet-tempered lad was reportedly the heir to Lord Trent, that hapless cuckold who had managed to lodge a ball of lead in the master’s hindquarters, a regrettable misadventure which inevitably bode ill for the staff whenever the weather turned damp.

  But it was a funny thing, that. For months now, Rannoch had been of a remarkably agreeable disposition. What was it that dry-witted valet kept muttering? Cherchez la femme? Indeed! As Lady Rannoch swept across the room toward them, Wilson decided he need look no further for the reason behind his master’s sudden change in temperament. Instead, he seriously considered kissing her ladyship’s skirt hems.

  In the past ten days, the household had been tossed into an uproar, with children scurrying everywhere, room arrangements shifted, servants reassigned, scullery maids engaged, and menus altered. Henri, Rannoch’s treasured French chef, quit in a huff after only two days, insisting that he simply could not continue “cooking coddled eggs for a gang of rapscallions,” a description that, in Wilson’s book, was more aptly applied to Rannoch’s old friends than his new family. Kemble seemed constantly on the verge of ungovernable mirth, while Mrs. Woody was exceedingly pleased, telling anyone who would listen that the new marchioness knew “just what was what” about running a proper household.

  Wilson’s ruminations about his new mistress ended as her ladyship approached them. With a sharp little cough, Wilson stepped forward and made the introductions, then watched in admiration as Lady Rannoch’s brows shot up one elegant notch.

  “I collect that your husband has explained the purpose of my visit, my lady?” Mr. Jones began.

  Lady Rannoch’s expression did not alter. “I am afraid that he has not, sir. I was seeing to my stepdaughter’s bee sting when my husband arrived. He took charge of the situation and merely bade me attend you.”

  The runner looked a little nonplussed at that, Wilson noted. It was, however, a brief reaction. Politely, the man handed a piece of foolscap to her ladyship. “Then I apologize for the intrusion, Lady Rannoch. Your husband agreed that I might speak with you about these dates.”

  She took the paper, her sharp blue eyes flicking down the page. “And so you may, sir. Though I have no notion what they might represent.”

  Jones made an odd choking noise in the back of his throat. “I merely wish to confirm that your husband was with—er, in your company at
your home in Essex on these dates, my lady.”

  “Really?” Her voice was arch. “Why do you not simply ask him?”

  Jones dipped his head deferentially. “We did discuss it, my lady. His response was—ah, something to the effect that if I had any further inquiries, I might ask the lady in question,” answered the runner, his lips twitching in obvious bemusement. Wilson coughed again at the man’s diluted version of the marquis’s rather graphic terminology. “I believe his lordship did not take kindly to being questioned,” Jones added.

  “No,” murmured Lady Rannoch with a faint smile. “I daresay few would.” She bowed her head and skimmed the dates more slowly. Unexpectedly, she set aside the paper, rose from her seat, and went to the desk to take up a leather notebook, which she flipped open. Then, shutting it with an efficient snap, she returned to her chair. “My calendar indicates that Lord Rannoch was visiting at our family’s estate on each of the dates you have listed, Mr. Jones,” she answered coolly, handing back the paper. “Have you anything further?”

  Once again, the runner seemed at a loss for words. Plainly, he had expected Lord Rannoch to tell his wife precisely what to say, and he had expected her to say it unequivocally. Instead, the lady was calmly pulling out notebooks and behaving as though Bow Street had inquired about the date she had last inventoried the third-floor bed linens.

  “No, Lady Rannoch,” he responded at last. “I do not. I apologize for the intrusion.”

  Her ladyship rose graciously from her chair. “Not at all,” she murmured softly, then lifted her piercing blue eyes to Mr. Jones’s face. “A murder is a serious thing, is it not? And I have little doubt that that is what brings you to Strath.” The runner merely nodded. “We none of us here want an assassin running loose amongst us, Mr. Jones,” she added gently. “Rest assured that Lord Rannoch and I wish you every success in your duty.”

  Albert Jones nodded once more, then rose from his chair.

  Evangeline watched in silent relief as both Jones and Wilson gathered up their respective files, murmured polite goodbyes, and quit the room. As soon as the door was whisked shut behind them, she drew a deep, steadying breath, counted to ten, then bolted for her bedchamber. No one noticed as she slipped inside and collapsed into a chair, fighting to still the trembling of her hands. Though she knew she hid it well, Evangeline felt thoroughly overwhelmed by the sudden changes in her life. It was all too much. A house full of people. Strangers to meet. His lordship. My lady. The incessant bowing and fawning.