Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (3 page)

“A waltz! I want a waltz!” insisted a youthful male voice, and the laughter burst forth again. “Who shall be my partner?” The females merely tittered.

“Fritz!” cried a laughing girl. “What’s become of Fritz? Surely he will give you a dance!”

At last, Elliot managed to stammer, “My good woman, who—whose house is this?”

The plump housekeeper paused, his sundry items of dripping apparel in hand, and blinked at him oddly for a long moment. “Hmm . . . why,it queers me to guess, sir!”

“You—you do not know, either?” Elliot was feeling seriously confused. But in an exceedingly warm and pleasant way.

The housekeeper pursed her lips as if in deep thought. “Well, I should venture to say that, technically speaking, ’tis prob’ly Mr. Michael’s house.”

“Mr. Michaels?”

The housekeeper shot him a sideways glance laced with amiable warning. “Aye, but it’s Miss Stone who be in charge here, and no mistake! Now, let’s get you out o’ those wet boots and into the studio before she has a fit. You know what artists are like! Though, in truth, Miss Stone’s really as much an angel as her name implies.”

“Stone?” asked Elliot, a quizzical smile beginning to tug at his lips. The name certainly did not sound celestial.

The housekeeper’s brow furrowed. “Oh, no! No, indeed! Evangeline! But, no . . . you probably came looking for someone else entirely, did ye not?” Her eyes narrowed shrewdly even as she beamed at him.

Elliot nodded, trying to hide his disappointment at being found out. “Yes, I did. I was wondering when you might realize it.”

The housekeeper nodded sagely. “Aye, happens here often enough. Like as not, you expected to find some stuffy gentleman named Edmund or Edgar van Artevalde, did ye not? Well, you’re in for a pleasant surprise, indeed.”

Elliot was on the verge of admitting that he’d had nothing but a series of pleasant surprises these last two minutes and that he hadn’t a clue as to who Mr. van Artevalde might be, but the housekeeper was motioning impatiently for his boots again. “Er—no, ma’am,” Elliot averred. “I daresay I ought to keep my boots—”

“Well, suit yourself, I always say!” interposed the woman with a shrug. “But you’ll catch your death, mark my word. And we stand on no ceremony here at Chatham Lodge, so you may as well have ’em off.”

Chatham Lodge
. How pretty it sounded, though it meant nothing at all to him. Elliot was struck with the fleeting impression that if he should turn and walk back out the front door into the mist, he might return here tomorrow to find that Chatham Lodge had never existed. It seemed that fanciful to him.

Almost immediately, a wide door in the rear of the hall burst open, and another housemaid darted out. A small black dog shot from between her legs, pink tongue dangling, and headed undoubtedly toward the lively crowd. “Mrs. Penworthy!” called the maid, clearly oblivious to the skittering animal, “Miss Stone says to fetch the London gent straightaways to the studio. She says as how the good light is fair to disappearin’ on account of the rain, and she’s ter’ble anxious to see him.”

Elliot decided that he was as terrible anxious to see the mysterious Miss Stone as she was to see him.

“Oh, oh—yes, indeed,” murmured Mrs. Penworthy, and, with one last resigned glance at Elliot’s boots, she darted down the hall with impressive haste, motioning for Elliot to follow.

Well ,
what the hell!
As the Iron Duke always said, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” Elliot caught up with the bobbing, jingling housekeeper halfway down the hall, passing, as he joined her, a drawing room filled to overflowing with young people. In the center of the laughing crowd, a handsome youth with a fichu tied dramatically about his head seemed to be dancing a boulanger. Aloft, he held his partner—the small black dog. Apparently, the errant Fritz had returned, and with an empty slot on his dance card.

Elliot suppressed a snort of laughter, but just then the housekeeper turned abruptly down a short corridor that shot off to the right and threw open the double doors that lay at the end.

Elliot was escorted into a cavernous, whitewashed chamber with a bank of high, vaulted windows that ran along the south end of the room. Above, a narrow gallery ran along the southerly and westerly sides, and below, a huge blank canvas stood propped against the wall, as did several easels and a half dozen partially completed paintings. The ancient stone floor was bare, save for a matching set of opulent Turkish carpets. One was spread beneath the desk, which sat, along with two side chairs, in the northeast corner. Opposite the desk, a long, rough-hewn worktable held pots and jars of assorted shapes. On the farthest wall, a long, well-worn leather sofa and a pair of carved armchairs were grouped into a sitting area upon another carpet. Paintings, both watercolor and oil, in varying sizes and styles, covered almost every expanse of wall. In the few blank spaces that remained, pencil sketches had been neatly tacked into place. The thick, sharp tang of solvent and oil hung heavily in the air.

Near the center of the room stood an easel, and rising from the chair beside it was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Elliot had ever had the pleasure to encounter in all of his thirty-four nefarious years. The mysterious Miss Stone, he presumed. She was a dainty, fine-boned woman in her late twenties, with a sensually full mouth and strong, high cheekbones. Her eyes were china blue and wide-set, her nose a serious straight angle, and her neatly braided hair, the color of rich buttermilk, was twisted into a plain yet elegant arrangement. Attired in a simple dark blue dress, Miss Stone also wore a coarse smock liberally blotted with stains in a rainbow of hues.

She came quickly toward him with a strong, purposeful step that seemed out of character with her size and appearance. “Thank you, Mrs. Penworthy,” she said in a low, rich voice which held a distinctly Continental accent that Elliot could not identify. “You may leave us now.”

Miss Stone closed the short distance between them, her face bright and smiling and one hand extended just a bit too high for a handshake. Suddenly, she was near enough to touch him, and, surprisingly, she did so, reaching higher still to grasp his chin in her hand. Elliot suppressed a sharp gasp as her warm fingers touched his jawbone. Slowly, methodically, she twisted his face this way and that. Her grip was sure, her fingers surprisingly strong.

“Excellent bones,” she murmured, staring up into his face with open admiration. “You are most striking, Mr.—Mr.—” Appearing suddenly embarrassed, she turned to scrabble about in the papers on her desk. “So sorry—I’m sure I must have Peter Weyden’s letter right here. You wanted . . . let me see,you wanted . . .”

Miss Stone continued her frantic search, then finally turned to him in surrender. “I must beg your sincere forgiveness, sir, for I do seem to have misplaced the note. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me your name, and explain to me exactly what you had in mind?”

“My name?”

Miss Stone’s face seemed fixed in anticipation, and Elliot suddenly realized that she really had been expecting someone else altogether. Someone from London. Someone who had not come. There was no magic spell. He did not belong here. And if he told this warm, beautiful woman his name, she might very well recognize it and pitch him right back into the cold, dreary day from which he’d just come. But he had no choice. A black-hearted devil he might be, but Elliot prided himself on being an honest one. With a resigned bow, he reluctantly answered, “I am Elliot Robert—”

Suddenly, a crash of glass echoed down the hall, and the tinkle of the pianoforte came to an abrupt halt. A long, dead silence fell across the gaiety that had previously drifted from the drawing room. “Good Lord,” muttered Miss Stone, one hand fluttering to her temple. “Please excuse me, Mr. Roberts! I collect we’ve just lost another vase. Or a mirror perhaps. I do ask that the boys not cavort or play catch in the long hall, but, well—such temptation! And on such a dreadful rainy day . . .” Miss Stone let her explanation trail away behind her as she headed for the door.

Mr. Roberts?
Mr. Roberts. How simple. A nice enough name, really. And certainly he had not
said
that he was Mr. Roberts. Indeed, that misconception was one that Miss Stone had drawn entirely of her own accord. And he really did want to stay, if only for a few moments. Just a little bit ashamed of what he was considering, Elliot stared down at the toes of his ruined boots. It was then that he realized that his huge foot had come to rest on a folded scrap of paper. Slowly, Elliot bent down to pick it up. It was a tiny note addressed in a stiff, old-fashioned copperplate to
Miss E. Stone
. Obviously, the missive had been hand-delivered, since the note gave no direction.

With another wave of shame, only the second Elliot had felt in about a decade, he flipped open the note to stare at the scrawled signature. The body of the note was written in neither English nor French, the only two languages Elliot had ever troubled himself to learn. Nonetheless, at a quick glance, he made out the signature.
Peter Weyden
. This was Mr. Weyden’s letter. Miss Stone’s footfalls sounded back down the hall, and Elliot spun toward the door, clutching the note behind his back.

Miss Stone, looking slightly vexed, appeared on the threshold. “Vase? Or mirror?” he asked, trying to be charming and cordial. It was a bit of a stretch for Elliot, who, generally speaking, bothered to be neither.

“Worse,” muttered Miss Stone, apparently unimpressed with either his charm or his cordiality. “A window.”

Elliot’s discerning eye swept Evangeline Stone’s lithe figure, noting the elegant sway of her hips as she stalked back into the room. “How unpleasant,” he murmured, ruthlessly shoving the note deep into his coat pocket.

Miss Stone merely shrugged and shot him a resigned look. “I shall summon the glazier tomorrow. In the meantime, I have tasked Michael and Theo with sweeping up the glass, since they are the guilty parties.”

“Michael and Theo?”

Miss Stone smiled somewhat wearily. “Yes, my impish younger brother and my—my cousin. Theodore Weyden.”

“Weyden?” Elliot parroted stupidly.

Miss Stone withdrew to take the seat to the right of her easel and motioned him toward a chair opposite. “Yes. But of course! I forget that you are acquainted with Peter Weyden. Theo, you see, is his nephew.”

“And your cousin as well?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Miss Stone’s cool blue eyes flicked up at him as she turned the page in a sketchbook and then replaced it against the easel. “Now, tell me, Mr. Roberts, what do you have in mind?”

Elliot swallowed hard. “I daresay that just . . . just the usual should suffice, I think.”

A faint smile played at Miss Stone’s lips as she fixed her gaze on him. They were very close, not more than six feet apart, and Elliot could see her eyes narrow perceptively. “Just the usual? Nothing exotic? Symbolic? Abstract?”

She was toying with him, and Elliot felt exceedingly stupid. Big and stupid, like the raw-boned Scottish boy he’d been ten years ago. Stiffly, he inclined his head. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I fear I have no notion—”

Miss Stone did laugh then, a rich, musical laugh that made Elliot think, oddly enough, of clean, cool water flowing through green lowland braes. “Very well, Mr. Roberts. I shan’t torture you. After all, your heart is apparently in the right place, since this is to be a gift for your fiancée—?”

“My . . . fiancée?”

Miss Stone frowned. “Indeed, I have that much aright, do I not? I recollect that is what Mr. Weyden said in his letter, that this portrait is a betrothal gift.”

Elliot hedged, artfully avoiding her question. “I would like for you to paint my portrait, Miss Stone, in keeping with your tastes. Certainly, I have no preconceived notion as to how such a thing ought to be done.”

“And as to your fiancée’s preference?”

“I rather doubt, Miss Stone, that any woman’s judgment in such things”—Elliot let his gaze drift over the beautiful works that hung from the walls—“could equal yours.”

His hostess nodded curtly. “Very well,” she murmured. “And Mr. Weyden has informed you of the price of this commission?” Miss Stone, her head tilted to one side, had begun to make light pencil marks upon the sketchpad.

“I—whatever your charge, I am willing to pay it.”

Miss Stone’s brows arched elegantly at that. “Indeed? But you should understand that there are a dozen competent portrait artists conveniently located within two miles of the City of London who will do this work for half of what I shall ask.”

“That doesn’t signify,” Elliot interrupted. “I want you to do it, and besides, I rather enjoyed my ride in the country.”

“How unusual to enjoy riding in a drenching rain,” murmured Evangeline Stone. “I fear you shall be inconvenienced by several such rides before this portrait is completed.”

Elliot paused. He had not considered such a thing. In fact, he hadn’t considered anything at all. And regrettably, he was not the least put off by the thought of spending a great deal of time sequestered with Evangeline Stone in her studio.

Good Lord—what was he doing here?
In the middle of nowhere, pretending to be someone he was not, and watching this breathtaking woman sketch his likeness? It was insane. But Elliot could bring himself neither to explain, to apologize, to leave, nor to do any of the things he ought to have done long since. He felt transfixed by—no, drawn to this place. And to this woman. Abjectly, he raised his eyes to meet her pointed gaze. “I just want you to paint my portrait,” he answered honestly, his voice soft.