Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Evangeline suppressed the urge to burst into hysterical laughter. Would it have been any better, she bitterly considered, had her husband’s conquest been a different sort of woman? A full-blown courtesan, for example, with the clothes and hair and attitude to match his generous gift? Would her heart have ached a little less had the woman been another actress or dancer, rather than a naïve servant who had almost certainly been seduced? Who was now, by her own admission, ashamed? And who had been proud enough, or perhaps imprudent enough, to reject a gratuity that would have fed and clothed her unborn child for months to come?

  Beneath a pale moon, all but obscured by fast-moving clouds, the specious gaiety of Vauxhall was hurtling toward its crescendo. The dancers dwindled, even as the raucous laughter ascended to a fevered pitch. Already, some of the Garden’s more circumspect patrons had departed, taking with them a bevy of impressionable daughters and virtuous wives. Only the more carefully chaperoned, or in some cases the most thoroughly hardened, of ladies remained as the orchestra began to wind down in anticipation of the evening’s finale.

  The men, however, were plentiful enough. With the unmistakable signs of both desperation and inebriation etched upon their faces, many still prowled the dimly lit walkways in search of companionship for the evening. Letting his eyes drift across the crowd, Elliot sprawled a little lower in his seat, stifling a yawn as he did so. A trio of boisterous, garishly dressed demireps frolicked past Linden’s box, whispering, elbowing, and cutting hopeful glances in the direction of its occupants.

  Winthrop jerked to his feet, looking like a raven among the peacocks of Vauxhall. “I say, Linden,” mumbled the major, one eye on the women, “this has become rather dull work. Believe I shall leave you to it, since the evening’s near done.”

  Languidly, Lord Linden crossed one elegant knee over the other and lifted his haughty chin. “Lud, Matt! Have you not learned your lesson? Go after either of those three, and I vow you’ll not get a drop of sympathy from me when you find yourself pissing fire.”

  Unexpectedly roused from his ennui, Elliot gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Aye, Winthrop! You’d be screaming bloody murder over the chamber pot in a fortnight, I don’t doubt.”

  Still looking at Winthrop, Linden dropped his voice. “In any event, old boy, it’s your turn to follow Cranham.” He motioned impatiently at the baron seated nearby. “Up, up! The both of you. Go prowl around the South Walk. You’re to lead by twenty paces, Cranham.”

  Major Winthrop stifled a groan, and Linden jerked his head toward the row of elms that edged the Grove. “What? Must I do it myself?”

  “No,” grumbled the major. “I shall go, but I’ll tell you plainly, Aidan, I’m bloody tired of watching Cranham’s back. And I have no notion what we’re to look for.”

  “Then for once we find ourselves in agreement,” snapped Cranham, shoving back his chair. “I, too, grow weary of Linden’s games.”

  Linden let his bored gaze drift over his three companions, then took up his wine glass, swishing the ruby dregs about desultorily. “As I have said time and again, gentlemen, we do not know precisely whom we seek. If we did, we’d hardly have wasted an entire evening hanging about in this very boring, very public place, now would we?”

  “Oh, be damned, Aidan! I said I’d go,” groused Major Winthrop, shrugging into his greatcoat, “but I surely do feel stupid in this coat.” With that remark, he finally ambled off, falling into step behind Cranham.

  Elliot passed the next quarter hour in a sleepy haze as he idly considered how quickly one became accustomed to country hours. Indeed, the mere thought of the country improved his sour mood. God, how he hated town, especially Vauxhall. How thankful he would be when the household could remove to the peace and warmth of Chatham Lodge.

  Fast on the heels of that sentiment, however, came a far more frustrating thought: the image of his warm wife, snug in her bed at Strath. After nearly two weeks of marriage, he was loath to leave her, even briefly. Yet she would never believe that he had had no real desire to visit this loud place filled with drunken dandies and garish whores. Elliot had seen the ugly assumption that had flared in her eyes as he left her.

  Ah, yes. There had been no mistaking that blue-white fire in Evie’s eyes. Inwardly, Elliot grinned. He fully expected to suffer that look often, and perhaps to occasionally deserve it, throughout the coming years. The thought did not overly concern him, for he would be a good husband, even if his bride did not yet believe it.

  Elliot was yanked from his contemplation of his wife’s smoldering eyes by the reappearance of Cranham and Winthrop. He surveyed the baron suspiciously as the pair stepped into the box and took their respective seats. Something about the bizarre situation made Elliot unnaturally edgy. He had all of Linden’s assurances that this effort to lure forth the killer was the right thing to do; nonetheless, his every instinct warred against their actions.

  No one really believed that he and Cranham had reconciled their differences, did they? Elliot knew Cranham for the duplicitous bastard he was. Suddenly, he felt weighted down by hopelessness. Everyone, perhaps even his own wife, thought him an out-and-out cad. Worse, it had become increasingly obvious that many believed him guilty of Antoinette’s murder, and that had dredged up all the old gossip about Cicely. Yet his innocence could no more be proven now than ten years ago. What did Linden hope to achieve? Elliot was no longer sure, and as the dancers whirled their last in the lantern light, he began to feel like a flagging hunter, propelled toward a fence which he knew he should not, could not, jump. This dreadful evening could not possibly end soon enough.

  “Look there,” interrupted Major Winthrop, pointing toward the orchestra which was now dispersing into the crowd. “Is not that—” But his words were split by the sound of the first of the evening’s fireworks. Screaming glitter shot through the night sky, blazing a trail of red and gold, then tumbling inescapably earthward in a shower of multihued sparks.

  Smoothly, Lord Linden rose from his seat. “Let’s call it a night, gentlemen,” drawled the viscount. “It would appear that my hopes were misplaced. One more meander through the Grand Cross, then we will reassemble at the Rotunda, shall we?” The group, Elliot included, grumbled reluctant agreement and set off in a laggardly trail. Cranham preceded them by drifting in aimless patterns through the crowd, just as he had done to no useful effect all evening. No one out of the ordinary had approached them. No one seemed threatening.

  Elliot delayed just long enough to shrug into his greatcoat, then set off after Cranham, Winthrop but a few feet behind. Yet they were exceedingly discreet; only the sharpest of eyes would ever have suspected that they were all watching and following one another. As they pressed their way through the gasping throng, now held transfixed by the shattering bursts of fireworks, Elliot let his eyes drift across the faces of the crowd. Despite Lord Linden’s advice, he could see no one, nothing, that looked odd or out of place.

  From time to time, he returned his gaze to Cranham’s back as they moved down the graveled path that stretched out before them. No one approached the baron; indeed, few gave more than a passing nod in his direction. Soon, Elliot saw Cranham turn to his left and make his way onto the Grand Cross, which ran the back length of the gardens. The trees and shrubbery felt deceptively thicker there, and as the excitement of the Grove faded into the background, so, too, did the lamplight and the crowd.

  In the dimness far behind, Elliot could barely hear the echoing footfalls of Winthrop. Somewhere in the distance, bringing up the rear, would be Linden. They should not have bothered with this last little foray. The crowd, which had shown only mild interest in their little gathering anyway, was now shifting toward the garden exit. Few among the ton or the demimonde knew Cranham by sight; therefore, the stir Linden had hoped to create had undoubtedly come to naught. Suddenly, Cranham moved deeper into the dimness, and Elliot lost him.

  “Damn the man for wearing such dark clothing,” he muttered under his breath, then glanced down at his own
black coat with a touch of chagrin. Kemble had been right; it rendered him almost invisible. Ahead on the path, Elliot thought he saw a flash of white linen as the next burst of explosives let loose in the sky.

  White linen? That implied a man’s chest, not his back, which made no sense. In the dark, the crunching of gravel and the rustling of leaves seemed suddenly louder, and instantly Elliot felt a strong trepidation, an unexpectedly heightened awareness. The flicker of unease that had plagued him all night leapt into full flame when, ahead of him, Elliot heard a cry. Of anger? Or pain? The night sky was filled with another cacophony of light and sound, revealing that the path before him now lay empty. Cranham had vanished from the walkway.

  Simultaneously looking back across his shoulder as he burst into a run, Elliot shouted out a warning to Winthrop, though he saw nothing at all in the gloom behind him. Speeding forward, he had run but twenty yards when the backlash of a flying tree limb caught him full in the face. His right eye welling with tears, Elliot blinked hard against the sting. He darted through the trees on the opposite side of the lane. He struggled to listen, despite another barrage of firecrackers.

  As his vision began to clear, another pyrotechnic burst lit the sky. The tangle of shrubbery flashed into stark relief. In that split second of light, Elliot saw Cranham. He was locked in combat with a larger man. Above the baron’s head, Elliot caught the fast glint of steel as it bore down toward the smaller man’s shoulder. Then, just as quickly, all was shrouded again. This time, Elliot heard Cranham cry out in pain. A string of curses followed, and then the unmistakable grunt and thud of someone falling. Someone heavier than Cranham, by the sound of it.

  In the dark, the pistols that both he and Major Winthrop concealed inside their coats were of little use. Instinctively, Elliot bolted into the thicket. He hurled himself in the general direction of the large man, who was already staggering to his feet. Ruthlessly, Elliot thudded into the wall of his chest, taking him back down. The attacker exhaled with a sharp wheeze, then began to thrash ineffectually. Too late, Elliot realized that the man had one hand in his coat pocket.

  “Rannoch … pistol!” rasped Cranham weakly from somewhere in the darkness. Elliot felt the sickening chill of a gun pressed to his temple. Quickly, Elliot weighed his options. The assailant felt corpulent, unconditioned. Certainly, he was big, and gasping for breath. And his grip on the gun was tremulous. Smoothly, Elliot wrenched upward on the pistol, simultaneously rolling off into the thick grass. In the dark, the man cursed and came up onto his knees, somehow holding on to his weapon. Another dazzling burst of colored light, and this time Elliot was stunned to see more than just the identity of his assailant. He saw that the pistol was now wavering in Cranham’s direction.

  “Oh, God! Don’t shoot!” the baron begged. He cowered beneath the shrubbery, still clutching his upper arm with the opposite hand. Elliot could hear Winthrop moving rapidly up the path.

  “Put down the gun, my lord,” said Elliot softly. “Winthrop and Linden are behind us.”

  “No!” the attacker hissed. The insanity in his tone chilled the darkness. “You should have stayed out of this, Rannoch. Damn you to hell! I mean only to kill him. But now I must kill you, too!”

  Suddenly, the scuttling clouds slid away from the quarter moon. Elliot saw the gun barrel leveled squarely at Cranham’s face. Just as Major Winthrop burst into the thicket with his pistol at the ready, Elliot dove for the madman’s legs. They went down in a snarl of coats and limbs. The roar of a pistol thundered in Elliot’s ears. Not once but twice. How could that be? Hot, blinding pain cut through his body, and Elliot’s last lucid recollection was of Winthrop, dragging him from beneath the lifeless form of Cicely’s uncle, Lord Howell.

  *

  Despite Elliot’s command that she not wait up, Evangeline found herself rigidly upright in bed, anticipating her husband’s return from his evening’s diversions. Inwardly, she admitted that perhaps command was too strong a word, but Evangeline was disinclined to think well of her husband on this particular night. Ever the optimist, she had tried. Yet every tender sentiment, every measure of love, and every implausible excuse she could fathom for the pregnant servant upon their doorstep had long since paled by the time the clock struck three. Angrily, she tossed aside her book, jabbed a fist into her pillow, then blew out the candle with a determined huff.

  Damn it, she would go to sleep. Moreover, she would resolve that in the future, where her husband slept would be no concern of hers. After all, Evangeline reminded herself, Elliot had remained dutifully by her side for almost a fortnight, far longer than she had expected. A warm bead of moisture trickled down her nose, dribbled sideways across her cheek, and landed on the taut linen pillowcase with a plop! Damn it, she would not cry. But despite all her stubborn vows, the tears rolled, and sleep eluded her. After all, she recalled with a sniff, Elliot had seemed so content. She had clung to that hope.

  And could she have been mistaken about the woman and her bracelet? The questions and doubts began tumbling around in her head again. Evangeline drew a ragged sigh. She well understood that the ladies and gentlemen of the ton, loosely bound by marriages of convenience, usually led separate lives. Had she somehow deluded herself into believing that a marriage to London’s worst blackguard would miraculously be better than the norm? Yes, somehow, she had foolishly managed to do precisely that.

  She had begun to slip back into that state of contented happiness that she and Elliot had once shared so effortlessly. Somewhere between her wedding vows and that afternoon’s encounter in the corridor, three words had crept insidiously into her heart. I love you. Elliot said it frequently, though she had said it only once. He rasped out the words often in the throes of lovemaking; he whispered them into her hair in the early-morning light when he thought her still asleep. And she had begun to believe it. How could she not? She wanted to so desperately.

  Perhaps Elliot did love her; perhaps this was just the way of men. Her father had not acted thus, but then Evangeline was forced to admit that the love her parents had shared had been rare, the sort of devotion that transcended life and death. She punched the pillow again. It was now rather damp. Oh, she did not know! She felt so naïve, so blindly stupid. Perhaps the redhaired woman meant nothing to Elliot. Perhaps she was just a woman from his past, and the babe was another man’s child. Or perhaps she was just a stranger off the street, someone’s idea of a cruel prank—or worse.

  Nonetheless, the ruby bracelet she had delivered was no prank. Evangeline was reasonably confident that just one of its stones could have put food in the mysterious Mary Pritchett’s cupboard for ages. If Elliot had indeed tried to buy her off with it, why, then, had she not simply sold it? Indeed, was that not the way such things worked? Evangeline wished that Winnie were near so she might ask for advice, then realized with a start that she would be too humiliated to do so. Rolling onto her back to stare up into the darkness, Evangeline struggled to think the best of her husband, and cursed the fates which seemed determined to thwart her. Eventually, she must have dozed into a fitful slumber, because she awakened abruptly as the clock struck four, her belly clenched tight with terror.

  It was not the clock that had awakened her, of that she was unaccountably certain. Her first thought was for the babe she was almost sure she carried, but nothing seemed amiss. As she tossed back the bedcovers and came upright, she realized that she had been awakened by sounds, soft bumps and murmurings that echoed from Elliot’s adjoining bedchamber. And there was more. She heard rushing feet, thumping doors, and the incessant rumble of strange voices. Not Elliot’s. Many voices, all at once. Abruptly, she sprang from the bed and drew on her wrapper. Before she realized what she was about, she had pulled open the door and was walking in.

  Five sets of eyes flicked simultaneously upward from the bed to catch her horrified gaze. Evangeline, however, was quickly drawn to Lord Linden’s stricken expression; it told her more than words ever could. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes darted franti
cally about the room, even as her mind struggled to assimilate what she saw into some sort of logic. Beside the viscount, a short, broad-chested man whom she did not know was bent low across her husband’s comatose body; his fingertips trailed expertly down Elliot’s neck and arms, pausing briefly here and there.

  At the foot of the bed, MacLeod was ripping away what was left of Elliot’s trousers and stockings. Kemble was savagely dragging a table to the bedside. Linden was placing Elliot’s washbasin upon it. To her right, the door hinges groaned as a footman carried in a copper pot filled with steaming water. Already, Elliot’s chest was bare, and Evangeline could not miss the thick crimson compress that Matthew Winthrop held resolutely against Elliot’s thigh. Behind him, someone reached through the crowd to thrust another wad of cotton cloth into Winthrop’s outstretched hand.

  Suddenly, the facts began to swim together in a grim picture. Evangeline thought perhaps that she had screamed, yet no sound came out. Instead, an ominous, hollow voice echoed from deep inside the room, which was now beginning to dim at the edges.

  “If that, gentlemen, is her ladyship,” said the grim, faraway voice, “I suggest someone see her safely abed. She looks perilously close to swooning.”

  From somewhere in the distance came a harsh buzzing sound which swelled into a drone, filling Evangeline’s ears like the rush of gossip sweeping through a crowded ballroom. But the drone became a roar, growing until it filled her head. A hand came up to touch her forehead. Her hand? Cold fingertips found the dampness of her brow, and then, suddenly, Lord Linden was behind her. One strong arm lashed tight about her waist, and Evangeline found herself dragged down onto a nearby sofa. She was dimly aware of the citrus smell of Linden’s soap as his cool hand urged her head forward onto her knees; then, slowly, the roaring darkness subsided.