Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (19 page)

It had never been his intent to come out into the open with his plan to avenge Cicely’s death. At first, Cranham had tried more subtle tactics. Attempting to enlist the support of Cicely’s uncle had netted absolutely nothing; Howell had repeatedly refused to meet with him. Eventually, however, Cranham had succeeded in cornering the baron at their club, but the man had turned deathly pale and adamantly cut him off, insisting that he feared Rannoch’s wrath.

Repeatedly seducing Rannoch’s whore had been a waste of time; three weeks and six hundred pounds later, Cranham had spent damn near every sou he had and learned nothing that might advance his quest for vengeance. Far more dangerous than she had first appeared, Antoinette Fontaine prattled on about nothing more specific than the sexual positions Rannoch preferred and the enormous size of his cock, two topics that had quickly grown tiresome. However, it was her vile temperament, deranged rambling, and incessant drinking that had truly taken a toll on his nerves.

And then Rannoch had disappeared altogether. Night after night, Cranham had lurked about in the hells and brothels of London awaiting the arrival of his nemesis. Rannoch had not come. Where the son of a bitch had been keeping himself, no one seemed to know or care, for he was not a well-liked man. The marquis had not even bothered to appear with his dissolute cohorts in Brooks’s, where Cranham had been exceedingly fortunate to obtain a membership. Had his late grandfather, the preceding Baron Cranham, not been a member, Godfrey Moore would almost certainly have been refused. Nevertheless, despite the fact that his haughty, blue-blooded grandsire had never so much as acknowledged Cranham’s presence at a soiree, let alone hung his name on the family tree, the exclusive gentlemen’s club had granted him admittance because Cranham had snared the title. Remarkable what a mangowood chest of untaxed Indian opium could do when dropped on the right doorstep.

The crunch of gravel beneath carriage wheels signaled the belated arrival of the attending surgeon. Carstairs had rounded up some hapless sawbones at the last minute, and the man was almost half an hour late. The unexpected delay had very nearly unstrung Cranham, whilst Rannoch and his cronies had merely tossed out a blanket beneath an oak and commenced another leisurely game of whist. That in and of itself was enough to make Cranham want to kill him.

He saw Carstairs nod to Major Winthrop. It was time. Perhaps he could kill him. Hell, he had to kill him. Cranham felt the cold, dead weight of the gun pressed into his hand. Weakly, he curled his fingers about the butt as Wilkins urged him into place. Cranham began to fear the humiliation of casting up his accounts on the field, which only served to heighten his animosity. Despite his indignation, however, he could not seem to choke down his raging panic. It was irrational.

No. It was not.

His heart hammered in his chest as he watched Rannoch stroll almost languidly toward him. They turned, and he felt the soft superfine of Rannoch’s coat brush against his. Christ, the man was tall. Beneath Cranham’s boots, the ground seemed to dip, then tilt backward uncertainly, like the prow of a boat. From the corner of one eye, he saw an arm rise up. He tried to focus ahead, but the horizon blurred before him. When he tried to breathe, he drew in nothing but the scent of Rannoch’s tobacco and cologne; he smelled no fear whatsoever. He heard the order to pace off, and miraculously his feet began to move.

Rannoch was quite possibly the best marksman in all the kingdom, having never lost a duel in his life. Moreover, when pressed, he had reputedly shot one particularly impudent Irishman clean through the heart. Rannoch clearly welcomed the opportunity to shoot
him
through the heart. There was no hope.

There was only one hope.
Do not wait
.

Turn and fire now
.

Yes, now!

With meticulous timing, Cranham spun his heel hard into the turf, coming about just as Rannoch began to turn. Focusing fast on the widening angle of Rannoch’s shoulder, Cranham leveled his pistol and fired without hesitation. The weapon thundered, then bucked hard against his hand, almost shattering the bones of his wrist. Tufts of black superfine tore through the air. He’d hit him! Damn it, he knew he had. Still, Rannoch stood, unmoved.

The enemy faced him solidly now, his pistol held high but falling. Cranham watched in abject horror as Rannoch lowered his weapon with an agonizing indolence until at last it was pointed squarely at his heart. Rannoch’s aim did not waver. Slowly, his mouth curved in a bitter smile. A sheen of early sun reflected dully off the barrel as Cranham watched it drop just a fraction of an inch further. Cranham could almost hear the trigger hit home. The roar of the pistol filled his ears, louder and more abrupt than his own had been.

“Oh, God!” Cranham heard himself scream. He collapsed to the ground in a writhing heap as Wilkins and the surgeon rushed to his side. “I’m hit! I’m hit!”

Edwin Wilkins dropped to the grass beside him, scowling. Savagely, he jerked Cranham’s wounded leg straight out before him. “Shut up, Cranham, you idiot! What possessed you to do such a dishonorable thing? By rights, he could have killed you!” Lord Henry Carstairs bent low to pull off his boot.

Cranham looked at Wilkins in amazement. “He
was
going to kill me, you imbecile! He damn near shot my ballocks off!” Wilkins merely deepened his scowl, stood up, and walked away. The surgeon had already pulled forth a pair of surgical scissors and was deftly slicing away the fabric of Cranham’s trousers. A long, nasty scratch was oozing blood high on his inner thigh.

“Do you see?” whimpered Cranham, repeatedly jabbing his finger at the wound. “That bastard meant to geld me!” The surgeon brought forth a bit of flannel and liberally saturated it with the odiferous contents of a brown bottle.

Lord Henry, bending low on one knee, spoke softly into Cranham’s ear. “Do shut up, old boy. If Rannoch had meant to kill you, you most assuredly would be dead by now. If he’d meant to unman you, I’d be raking your testicles out of the grass.”

Wordlessly, the surgeon pressed the moistened cloth to the wound, and Cranham came off the ground with a piercing howl of agony. “What—is—it—you’re—trying—to—say?” he asked between clenched teeth.

“Count your blessings,” murmured the young lord, looking back over his shoulder at Rannoch. The marquis stood under the oak, legs spread wide, casually wiping his gun. Someone, Major Winthrop perhaps, had knotted a now bloodstained handkerchief about Rannoch’s tattered coat sleeve, but otherwise he seemed wholly unaware of his wound.

Lord Henry shook his head in obvious amazement and returned his attention to the man sprawled beside him. “That was naught but a warning shot across your bow, Cranham, pardon the lamentable analogy. Indeed, one cannot help but wonder what accounts for such unexpected benevolence from Rannoch.”

Suddenly, Major Winthrop squatted on the grass beside Cranham. His dark coat and broad shoulders seemed to obliterate every ray of morning sun. “Send your surgeon’s bill to me, Cranham,” he instructed in his grim, commanding voice, “and I shall see it paid on Rannoch’s behalf. His lordship is leaving immediately on an extended trip to the country.”

The following Wednesday afternoon, Elliot was invited to accompany Mr. Stokely and the younger children on an afternoon walk to the River Lea. Mrs. Weyden had compelled Gus to accompany her to the vicarage for the afternoon, a fate Elliot had very narrowly escaped. And Evangeline, with what Elliot hoped was reluctance, had sequestered herself in the studio to draft a letter to Peter Weyden. The perfect June day was warm, and Elliot, left with time on his hands, was suddenly glad for the invitation.

And so it was, oddly enough, that Elliot soon found himself pleasantly and industriously engaged in the procurement of materiel for the manufacture of daisy chains. Seated cross-legged upon one of two old blankets the group had brought along, Frederica and Michael worked fiendishly, chiding him for his sluggardly pace.

Laughing, Elliot swooped down to place a flower behind Frederica’s ear. It hung rather whimsically, dipping down toward her chin. “Miss d’Avillez,” said Elliot with a formal bow, “you are exceedingly lovely. As a single gentleman, I must beg you to tell me—have you come out?”

Frederica beamed, then giggled. “Oh, no, indeed, sir. We’re none of us out here at Chatham.”

“Are you not?” Elliot pressed his fingertips to his chest in feigned shock.

“No, sir. We’re—” She searched for the word. “We’re
recluses
.”

“That’s right, Mr. Roberts,” chimed Michael. “And Evangeline says that as there are so many of us, we needn’t go out at all unless we want to!”

“I see,” mused Elliot, dropping down to sit alongside Frederica on the blanket. “Is that why your sister never . . . goes out?”

“Oh, but she does,” interjected Nicolette. “Last year, she went to Paris, and the year before that to Ghent. And she often goes down to London to see Uncle Peter.”

“Uncle Peter?”

“Peter Weyden, Papa’s brother,” explained Theo. “I thought you knew him. He’s ever so nice. Did you not know that he’s Evie’s . . . Evie’s business partner?”

Nicolette frowned and pitched another daisy into the Lea. “Trustee, silly. Mr. Weyden’s our trustee to keep us safe from trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” asked Elliot curiously.

“I don’t precisely know.” Nicolette shrugged. “That’s just what Evie said. She said that Father knew he could count on Uncle Peter to look after us while we were here in England.”

“While you are here?” It sounded so temporary. Elliot felt a rush of alarm. Did Evangeline plan someday to leave England? What sort of trouble could require such drastic action? “You’ve been here several years, have you not? Do you not mean to stay?”

Nicolette shot him a veiled look. “Evie says it is advisable to keep one’s options open.”

“Yes,” agreed Frederica. “But we’re to stay here as long as we can and get a proper English education.”

“I’ve a capital idea!” Michael shouted. “If we have to return to Ghent, we shall just take Mr. Stokely with us. You’d go along, wouldn’t you, Mr. Stokely?”

Harlan Stokely cleared his throat sonorously and pressed his glasses firmly back up on his nose. “Indeed, Michael, I might do. I have always wanted to see the world—”

“Whoa, team! Slow down!” exclaimed Elliot, forcing a smile. “It was not my intent to send all of you packing. And whyever would one go to Ghent, of all places?”

“Evie’s got a house there,” explained Michael with a sly smile. “A big one, so you could come as well, Mr. Roberts.”

Frederica tossed a daisy at her cousin Michael. “But we cannot go there yet, silly, ’cause it’s got tenants.” The flower bounced off his thick blond hair and toppled onto the blanket.

“Tenants?” Elliot felt exceedingly confused.

Frederica shrugged. “You know, like mice or something.”

Michael snorted. “Frederica, you goose! Tenants are leaseholders, like Farmer Moreton. Not rodents, for heaven’s sake!” Michael and Nicolette burst into peals of laughter, toppling backward into the warm meadow grass.

Frederica’s lower lip began to quiver. “I didn’t know! How should
I
know? I have never been to Ghent—or—or to Paris or to Florence—or to anywhere but Figueira, and I cannot even remember that . . . ”Her choked voice began to break into a wail as Elliot rose, lifting her up from the blanket in a smooth, fluid motion. Two big tears began to slide from her wide brown eyes.

“There now, Frederica! Come for a walk with me along the riverbank,” said Elliot, widening his eyes at her. “Why, I was in Ghent once, and I saw tenants big enough to chew a man’s arm off !”

“Did you?” Frederica looked amazed.

“Indeed, I did,” insisted Elliot, speaking deliberately over his shoulder. “Great, fierce, hairy things they were, too. And d’you know what they like to eat best of all?”

Frederica shook her head solemnly. “No, sir,” she whispered in awe.

“Wicked boys and girls who pick on their younger cousins!”

Frederica shrieked with laughter and began to squirm to be set down. “Do they really, Mr. Roberts?”

Elliot lowered her gently to her feet, keeping one eye on Michael. “Aye, they come out at night to roam about in search of bad children to eat for supper! If I were such a one, I should take great care to lock my door tonight!” Elliot lunged at Frederica and pretended to grab at her. Playfully, she squealed and danced away down the river path, Elliot trailing slowly behind.

“Ho! What’s this, Mr. Roberts?” Evangeline’s voice rang out across the meadow. “Did I hear aright? Are some of my charges about to be eaten?”

“Not me!” shrieked Frederica gleefully.

Elliot turned to see Evangeline standing above them on the hillock, her slender frame silhouetted against a brilliant backdrop of cerulean sky and emerald pasture. She held a letter in one hand and wore a simple yellow walking dress which billowed gently in the breeze. Her silky butter-yellow hair spilled from beneath a plain chip bonnet, which she promptly removed. The sight made him wish, yet again, that he could paint.

Instead, he grinned. “Generally speaking, Miss Stone, only the wicked get eaten.”

Evangeline’s eyebrows arched up elegantly. “Indeed, Mr. Roberts?” she calmly replied. “That being the case, there may be a great many of us in need of locking our doors tonight.”