Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (32 page)

“Indeed?” conceded the dowager with a stiff little tilt of her head. “Nonetheless, it will be of no consequence. He is in trade. Moreover, the matter of his nationality pales in significance to the problem we must discuss today.”

“Ah, yes. The problem. I pray you will explain it to us, ma’am,” suggested Evangeline with exceeding politeness.

“Indeed, Miss Stone. Your grandfather is dead, and, as a family, we must now address the issue of primogeniture. Your uncle”—she wrinkled her nose and stared almost distastefully at the gray-haired man at her elbow—“has no heirs, and it appears highly unlikely that he will get any.”

At this remark, which was made in the coldest of tones, the new Lady Trent dropped her chin and blushed effusively.

The dowager continued. “And since your Uncle Frederick died childless—”

“I beg to correct you, your ladyship,” interposed Evangeline softly. “He left a beautiful child. That same daughter whose upbringing you refused five years ago.”

The countess drew herself up sharply on the sofa. “Very well, Miss Stone. A daughter. A Portuguese bastard at that.” She sniffed disdainfully. “Nonetheless, that is not what I meant, and well you know it. Frederick left no one to inherit. Your father, Maxwell, was the youngest son, therefore your brother, Michael, is now heir presumptive.”

“I understand that,” agreed Evangeline smoothly.

“Indeed? But what you must also understand is that as the heir to the Trent fortune and title, the boy must be brought up to do his family duty. He must be taught his social obligations and our political objectives. Furthermore, he must be properly educated in a fashion befitting the future earl of Trent. And eventually, he must marry in accordance with his station.”

“What, precisely, are you suggesting, my lady?” asked Evangeline evenly.

“With the boy under my tutelage, I daresay society will soon forget that his mother was a foreigner and a commoner. The Trent heir cannot be left running wild in some heathen artist’s colony where he is exposed to—to libertines and Continentals with revolutionary political ideals.” The dowager sneered, letting her eyes drift with slow deliberation across the paintings and easels that lined the walls and littered the workspaces. “And I am sure that you want what is best for your impressionable young brother,” she added caustically.

Evangeline struggled for composure now. It was exactly as she had feared, and in her growing unease Evangeline was only dimly attuned to the rising clamor of shrieking laughter and pounding footfalls which rang across the garden terrace.

“My lady,” she began, forcing her breathing to calm, “I can assure you that under this roof Michael will learn all that is required of a future peer of the realm. And I can further assure you that we harbor no revolutionaries or libertines in our closets, nor does Michael
in any way run wild—”

Unfortunately, the heir presumptive chose that very moment to do precisely that. He burst with a bloodcurdling scream through the open window, a wooden sword in hand. He stabbed madly at the draperies, then spun on his heel to bolt for the narrow staircase leading to the upper gallery. The boy wore Nicolette’s lavender cloak, slung casually across his narrow shoulders, with a tattered wig of long blond ringlets askew atop his head, tilted rakishly forward over one eye. Apparently oblivious to the trio seated stiffly upon the distant sofa, Elliot and Theo bounded in on Michael’s heels, their makeshift swords frantically flailing, their colorful capes flying out behind. In a swirl of lavender, Michael turned to face his pursuers, very nearly losing his mop of yellow curls.

“O God, Don Pedro!” shouted Elliot over his shoulder to Theo as they neatly pinned Michael against the steps with their wooden blades. “Here is a dish that I love not! I cannot endure this harping Lady Beatrice and shall run her through with my—”

His mangled oratory was cut short by an agonizing female scream. The sound tore through the room, reverberating off the vaulted ceiling. In that instant, Evangeline saw the new Lady Trent staggering to her feet. “Good God! Elliot!” She choked, clawing spasmodically at the black collar encircling her throat.

Her husband sprang from the sofa, his face suddenly florid. “Rannoch! You son of a bitch!” he added. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Oh, dear Lord!” prayed his countess, still weaving unsteadily on her feet. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she slid into a dead faint on Evangeline’s rug.

The dowager glared at her stepson. “Get her up, Stephen, you dolt!” she snapped, rising smoothly from the center of the sofa and stepping neatly over her daughter-in-law’s body. The elderly woman stared through narrowed eyes at Elliot, whose gaze was firmly fixed on the comatose woman in the floor.

“
Jeanette?
” he croaked, lifting his eyes to survey the crowd one by one. His normally handsome face was swiftly losing all color as his eyes finally settled upon Evangeline. “
Evie?
”

“Ah-ha!” answered the dowager, striding into the center of the melee, her face already swollen with anger. Her long, bony finger pointed unwaveringly at Elliot, but her eyes held Evangeline’s with heated anger. “I see the way of this now, Miss Stone. Did you think to surprise us with a protector? If so, you chose well. Very well indeed, but this battle is not over—not nearly over.”

Winnie now knelt alongside the earl of Trent, anxiously fanning a deathly white Jeanette Stone. Gus, whom Evangeline had not seen enter the room, had joined his mother on the floor. The dowager spun to face them. “Pick her up, Stephen! For God’s sake, stop that infernal fanning. Just put her in my carriage.”

Still on his knees, the earl of Trent faced the dowager, his mouth gaping open. He shut it, then opened it again, but no sound came out.

Gus shot a sidelong glance at his anxious mother. Upon Winnie’s curt nod of approval, Gus smoothly scooped up Jeanette’s limp body and rose from the floor. Her mind very nearly unhinged, Evangeline choked on a hysterical burst of laughter at the sight, for Gus wore a makeshift leather jerkin, paired with puce tights and belted with a length of rope. At his side, another rough-hewn sword dangled loosely, and on his head, he sported a pointy green cap with a feather so enormous that it arced neatly around to tickle the nose of the woman whose head lay limply against his shoulder.

Winnie rose to stand beside her son, looking almost as drawn and pale as Lady Trent. The pervasive feeling of hysteria was growing. The entire scene felt unreal, at once absurdly funny and horribly frightening. Suddenly, Evangeline could not breathe. Reality began to sink in, and something felt horribly wrong. In a split second, her life seemed to have changed, resulting in wild panic edged with an aching sense of loss. It cut Evangeline to the heart. Fighting to subdue a rolling wave of anxiety, Evangeline let her eyes flit across the room, trying to make sense of the appalling farce.

Who was here? Elliot. Jeanette. Uncle Stephen.
Rannoch?

Gus strode across the carpet, Lady Trent’s gray silk skirts draped elegantly across his right arm. Uncle Stephen followed behind with his head held low. Nicolette and Frederica had entered the room at some point and now stood looking anxious and contrite along the bank of French windows. Appearing even more repentant, Michael and Theo hovered in the corner as if awaiting punishment for a crime they did not quite comprehend but felt nonetheless accountable for.

The dowager countess of Trent finished a low, curt exchange with Elliot, whose visage had turned into a dark, threatening glower. The dowager then swept out the studio door followed by Stephen. Gus trailed behind, carrying Lady Trent, who had begun to stir. Her sweep of gray silk was the last thing to vanish out the studio door.

They were gone, Evangeline realized as an expectant hush fell over the studio.

“Well, Evie,” murmured Winnie, breaking the uncertain silence, “look on the bright side. Maybe Jeanette Stone is
enceinte
at last! After all, that was an exceedingly impressive swoon!”

Within five minutes, the studio was desolate and empty, save Evangeline and Elliot, who stood on opposite sides of her imposing desk. Even as the Trent equipage was rolling away down Chatham’s drive, Winnie was shooing the children out of the room and pulling shut the offending French windows as she departed for the gardens, leaving them alone, faced off like enemies.

Inside, the vast chamber was so silent that Elliot imagined he could hear the freshly stretched canvases creaking. The mingled odors of solvent and oil permeated the air, which seemed suddenly thick and still. Outside, the sun was still shining, and it was, Elliot supposed, entirely possible that the fluffy white clouds were still merrily scuttling and the birds were still happily singing. In Elliot’s heart, however, all joy had come to an agonizing halt and now hung suspended, awaiting Evangeline’s next words.

“Who are you?” Her voice was soft, but it nonetheless managed to pierce the silence, as well as Elliot’s soul. Absently shuffling the papers on her desktop, Evangeline did not look at him.

Elliot carefully considered his answer and realized that he did not have one. Not a good one.

“Who are you?” she repeated weakly, this time lifting her eyes to his. Her expression was flat and emotionless, but her voice was a haunted whisper. “You’re the marquis of Rannoch, are you not? But I should like to hear the admission from your own lips.”

For the first time in his life, Elliot had to stay himself from literally wringing his hands. “Miss Stone—Evie—I can explain . . .”

“Explain?” she asked quizzically. “Explain what? That you lied to me? That you lied to my family? Is this your idea of a joke? Or is it just some mean-spirited betting-book wager?”

Elliot saw the familiar blue fire flash in her eyes, but this time it had nothing to do with passion. “Evie, forgive me. I never said—”

“Why did you come here, Lord Rannoch, and ingratiate yourself into my household?” The calm had splintered now, and her rising tone began to take on a shrill, almost hysterical edge. “Explain that, if you can, though I daresay I have some idea of what revenge you hoped to gain.”

Elliot felt himself begin to tremble weakly. Good God, she thought he had done it maliciously. On purpose. “Evie, darling,” he began to plead, “it was an accident. Please believe me when I say—”

“Believe you? A deceitful blackguard?” She almost screamed the words, and Elliot suddenly realized just how incredible his story would sound. Especially now, following the appearance of Stephen and Jeanette Stone. Indeed, he was forced to admit that the truth would seem laughable. Who would believe that the wicked marquis of Rannoch had sought nothing more than shelter, then friendship, and finally peace, within the walls of a pretty house filled with pleasant people?

How could he explain to Evangeline the emotional hunger—indeed, he could think of no better description for that compelling force—that had driven him to deviously misrepresent his identity and his purpose? He had wanted—no, needed—to tell her. Now, too late, his mind was scrambling for the right words.

This was madness. He had known it all along. And he had known that it would someday end. But never had he dreamed that by the time the farce was over, he would have come to rely upon these people for friendship and comfort. And far more than that, where Evangeline was concerned. Oh, God, much, much more. With a visceral agony, Elliot remembered her soft affirmations of love, passionate words borne on her warm breath and whispered against his ear at the height of her sweet feminine arousal. Yes, mere hours ago.

Damn it, who would have known that he would come to need Evangeline like this? With an aching desperation that cut through him like a knife? That he might need her in a way he had never before needed anyone? Or worse still, that he might actually hurt her? Oh, God! Perhaps he
did
love her. He did not know, and it hardly mattered. Not any longer. These people meant more to him than weak, inadequate words like friendship, comfort, or even love could define. They had come to constitute his reason for living, his very identity, or at least the identity of the person he wanted to be. Elliot Roberts.

Not Elliot Robert Armstrong, the false-hearted marquis of Rannoch, who scarcely gave a damn for anyone or anything. And in that moment, given the choice, Elliot realized that he would have traded his name, his power, his estates, and indeed his very last sou, if only he could have become Elliot Roberts and severed himself from the marquis of Rannoch forever. But he did not have that choice. Fate and his own perfidy had destined that he would forever live on the edge of emptiness, forever be an outsider who merely looked in upon something that was pure and beautiful.

Evangeline was still staring at him as if he were the very embodiment of evil. “Good God, Elliot,” she whispered hoarsely, “you were my aunt’s lover! What’s worse, everyone knows it.”

“That was another mistake,” Elliot bit out. “I have made a great many, and if you will just give me a—”

“I shall give you nothing, sir! And you have made your last mistake here.” The words were uttered with a chilling confidence. Evangeline was beautiful in her fury. And frightening, too. In truth, she was beginning to look quite dangerous. Stepping away from the chair, she began to circle slowly from behind her desk.

Not only were her eyes flaming, but her hands had begun to tremble with barely suppressed rage. Suddenly, Elliot had a horrific vision of her artist’s temperament unleashed in the worst sort of way. Angry women disconcerted him. No, that was not entirely true. In the past, angry women had
inconvenienced
him. And the marquis of Rannoch quickly rid himself of all inconveniences.