Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (35 page)

Suddenly, Evangeline’s thoughts began to fall into place. This visit had little to do with Michael. This was about Elliot. Lady Trent was anxious; that much was becoming clear. Evangeline could sense that barely suppressed rage lurked just below the dowager’s restrained courtesy. Evangeline lifted her chin and forced a look of cool disinterest. “I thank you, my lady, for your concern. You may be sure that my acquaintance with Lord Rannoch will have no effect whatsoever on Michael.”

“I must say, Miss Stone, that I am exceedingly pleased to hear it. His use of your given name two days ago implied an unseemly degree of familiarity.” The dowager sipped delicately at her coffee.

“Have a care, my lady,” cautioned Evangeline gently. “You are welcome under this roof whenever you deign to call upon us; nevertheless, I will brook no slur upon my character—nor upon his lordship’s,” she added as an afterthought.

Lady Trent’s dark, angular brows shot up. “My dear girl, you may be perfectly sure that nothing I may say can cast further aspersions upon Rannoch’s character! Indeed, he quite rejoices in his ill repute.”

Evangeline’s eyes held her step-grandmother’s as she boldly lied. “I have no real knowledge of his lordship’s character, my lady. Be assured, however, that I am not one of his conquests.”

Lady Trent’s face turned pallid as she set down her cup with a clatter, and Evangeline could see that her hands shook as she did so. “If you think to use him against us, Miss Stone, you will quickly discover exactly who is using whom. He will never wed you.”

“Do you fancy not, my lady?” asked Evangeline, feigning naïveté. “After all, he has asked me. More than once, I might add.” As she watched the dowager turn from white to flaming pink, Evangeline assuaged her conscience. He had asked, had he not? Though doubtless he had not meant it, her claim was not a total fabrication.

“Come now, Miss Stone! Surely, you cannot have believed him serious. The man is a debaucher of innocence. What else could he want from you?”

Evangeline deliberately let her brows rise in apparent ignorance. “Why, I cannot think, my lady! I can assure you that his deportment has been all that it should be. Quite gentlemanly, in fact.”

The horror-stricken look on the dowager’s face confirmed Evangeline’s suspicions, and she watched as Lady Trent drew a steadying breath. “Miss Stone, if he has seriously offered for you, there can be only one reason, and you must acknowledge it. Rannoch seeks control of my, er, of my stepson’s heir.”

“I do not recollect, my lady, that he was aware of my full identity when first we met,” Evangeline answered sweetly. Her conscience rankled at the almost certain lie, but it was necessary.

Lady Trent almost snorted her incredulity. “My dear girl, you cannot be witless enough to believe such nonsense as all that! Do you really imagine that despite your withdrawal to this village, naught but twenty-odd miles from town, Rannoch could not have easily discovered your existence? Why, Max Stone’s dismissal from this family was the talk of the
ton
.”

“Indeed, but that was thirty years ago. My father is now remembered only for his work, while his connection to the earldom of Trent has been long forgotten.”

“Hmph,” snorted the dowager dismissively. “I fancy you are not acquainted with Rannoch’s uncle, Sir Hugh Benham. Come, Miss Stone, give the devil his due! Rannoch comes by his lax morals honestly, for that vulgar makebate uncle of his has been hanging about since Jezebel—probably bedded her, too.”

Evangeline hedged. Elliot had said something about an uncle, but she knew nothing of the man. “Indeed? Then he must be an exceedingly entertaining character.”

The dowager sniffed disdainfully. “They are both dissolute rakes, Miss Stone, and are rarely received in polite society.” A malicious look flashed in her eyes. “Surely Mrs. Weyden has warned you about the terrible fate of the young lady Rannoch seduced and abandoned? She died, you know.”

Evangeline swiftly lowered her eyes. She did not want Lady Trent to see the pain that suddenly flared there. The story was, she knew, perfectly true. Lady Bland’s gossipy letters had recounted that old and sordid tale, shortly after Rannoch was shot while exiting Lady Jeanette’s bedchamber. Inwardly, she sighed. How in heaven had she been taken in by such a man? And given her heart to him as well? But she had, and as Lady Trent continued her diatribe against Elliot, Evangeline steeled herself.

“Rannoch has no conscience, Miss Stone,” the dowager continued. “I pray you will be mindful of how he seduced and humiliated your foolish aunt. Indeed, he has been known to bankrupt young gentlemen for sport, only to take their mistresses out of spite.”

“However do you come by such vast and certain knowledge, my lady?” asked Evangeline flatly, staring into her coffee.

“Indeed, he does not trouble himself to hide it, Miss Stone. The man has no honor, and even less shame. He flaunts his bastard daughter—the child of a dancer, no less. ’Tis said that he often drinks all night, then duels without compunction the next morning.”

“Those are old stories, my lady,” answered Evangeline softly. “Perhaps his lordship has resolved to change his ways.”

The dowager snorted her incredulity. “Old stories? Oh, my dear child, you are shockingly green! Why, hardly a fortnight past, he took a wound in the shoulder! Lord Cranham challenged him over a woman.”

The wound across Elliot’s shoulder! Shot over a woman? Evangeline tried to quell her gasp of horror, but it was too late. Her step-grandmother had heard it. “Indeed, you may well be shocked, Miss Stone, but matters are much worse than that for the marquis of Rannoch. Last week, his mistress was found murdered.”

Pain sliced through Evangeline’s heart like a red-hot knife. “
Mis—mistress?
” she stuttered weakly.

“Ah, indeed! A Drury Lane actress. He bought her last year from under Lord Clivington’s nose, then flaunted her all over town. And she was hardly an actress in truth, just a flame-haired tavern wench. But several weeks ago, she was foolish enough to quibble with him in public, and now she has been found dead. Choked to death, if rumors are to be believed, and with the very necklace Rannoch had given her.”

Evangeline had learned long ago that there were two sides to every tale, but the angle from which she viewed Rannoch’s scandals seemed to make little difference. The marquis looked hopelessly wicked from every vantage point. She resolved, however, not to give the dowager the satisfaction of her uncertainty. “I am sorry, madam, but I cannot believe you,” she answered, but the words came out far weaker than she had intended.

“Do you not?” asked Lady Trent with growing self-confidence. “Then you must simply ask him! Knowing Rannoch, he’ll not deny it. Better still, write to your trustee, Mr. Weyden. I can assure you, the talk is all over London.”

“Uncle Peter does not much concern himself with gossip,” answered Evangeline coldly.

“Indeed?” retorted the dowager. “Well, perhaps he will have a little more concern about your legal problems, Miss Stone. I give you fair warning. If I do not soon have the Trent heir living under my roof, where his morals and his upbringing can be properly attended to, then you and Peter Weyden shall have the devil to pay. The law will be on my side, you may be sure. ”

And leaving that dire suggestion hanging heavily in the air, and having done about as much damage as one malicious old crone could be reasonably expected to accomplish in a busy afternoon, the dowager countess pulled taut her gloves, took up her reticule, and bade her step-granddaughter a good day.

Elliot knew that although today’s prize fight was almost certainly illegal, its location would be a poorly kept secret. Tradesmen, laborers, and gentlemen alike would undoubtedly flock to the event, hoping to make an afternoon’s sport of drinking, wagering, and carousing. Under better circumstances, it would have been a pleasant excursion. Today, however, it was not. Nonetheless, Elliot found himself too weak to argue when Hugh gave the traveling orders to his coachman. Instead, he allowed himself to be shoved inside his carriage, where he summarily curled up against the velvet squabs and began to pray for a swift demise.

It was not to be. His only brush with the great hereafter came four miles out of London, when he abruptly and violently parted company with his two cups of coffee. Otherwise, Elliot was compelled to endure, and so he set about ignoring his throbbing head, roiling stomach, and boisterous companions. Hours seemed to have passed when at last the rocking of the carriage ceased, heralding their arrival at the town where the match was set to begin. Though they had arrived well ahead of schedule, traffic choked the roadways. Every mode of transportation, from high-perch phaetons to foundering nags, encircled the field where Pat O’Connell—if one could believe the chanting, jostling crowd—would shortly meet his maker.

Elliot, however, was too close to meeting his own to expend much worry on Mr. O’Connell. Slowly, he trudged uphill to a nearby tree, slumping against it whilst Winthrop and Hugh pressed forward into the throng of men in hopes of attaining a better vantage point. The sun was warm, so Elliot made himself as comfortable as possible by sitting down, his back reclined against the broad trunk. He tipped his hat forward over his eyes, then settled back to wait out the fight, paying little heed to the hearty revelers. Soon Elliot began to drowse, and he passed the next hour in hazy awareness of the clamor that surrounded him.

The roar of the crowd finally disturbed his slumber, and Elliot came awake to find that the horde of men below were breaking apart into smaller brawls and fights around the periphery of the boxing match. “He’s a cheat!” shouted an angry voice above the rumbling crowd. Already, Elliot could make out a couple of bleeding noses.

“Aye, bloody well right!” cried another voice. “Open ’is hand!”

In the makeshift ring below, Elliot could see that O’Connell had his opponent pinned and was trying to wrest open his clutched fist. “Open ’is hand!” the angry mob shouted, taking up the chant. In the rows of onlookers nearest the ring, shoving and pushing had already broken out. Fists and hats were flying. Still slightly hung over, Elliot stumbled weakly to his feet and was relieved to see his uncle and Matt Winthrop burst from the crowd to clamber up the hill toward him.

“Come on, Elliot,” panted Hugh breathlessly as he waved his hat. “To the Hart and Hare! ’Twill soon get ugly below.”

Winthrop, being younger and fitter than Hugh, easily reached Elliot first and stood looking back down at the crowd, which was now brawling in earnest. “Aye, tempers are hot. I agree with Sir Hugh.”

“Escape it is, then,” agreed Elliot flatly, shoving his hat back into place. The three men strolled back down to the edge of town to find the nearest tavern. All but empty, the Hart and Hare was small, having only a narrow taproom with a kitchen in back and little else to recommend it. It was, however, clean and quiet. Elliot and Hugh took a seat just opposite the door as Winthrop strolled forward to give their request to the huge, broad-shouldered tapster.

Elliot’s head was still pounding, but his stomach was slowly returning to normal. Unfortunately, the bleak reality of his situation was also beginning to return as well. A dark ocean of sadness seemed to tug inexorably at him, and Elliot fought against the undertow. Yet he could not, he knew, remain drunk for the rest of his life. Some other solution was needed. Perhaps he might even think of one, if his damn head ever stopped hurting.

“What happened back there?” he muttered, absently rubbing one temple.

“Looked like Jennings mebbe had a slug of iron in his hand,” replied Hugh as he lifted the glass of ale Major Winthrop had just set down.

Elliot merely stared at his drink and felt what little color he had recovered slowly drain away.

Winthrop tapped one finger against the glass. “Well, Rannoch, you know what they say,” he cautioned. “If the horse throws you . . .”

“Hmph,” replied Elliot noncommittally. His mouth still felt like warm, moldy wool. But maybe Winthrop was right. With measured caution, he hefted the glass, took a sip, and sighed with relief when his stomach did not instantly revolt. “Where are we, anyway?” he asked, wearily scanning the room, which was slowly filling with rambunctious revelers. Strath House, he absently mused, might be cold and lonely, but at least it was quiet.

“Tottenham,” answered Winthrop nonchalantly, just as the bulk of the crowd began to stream into the pub.

In groups of twos and threes, the men made their way between rows of chairs and tables to join their cohorts in a glass of ale. The smell of stale beer began to mingle with body odor and tobacco smoke, and within five minutes it became obvious that tempers still raged. The debate about Jennings recommenced as a low rumble and was soon back in full swing. As the spectators settled throughout the narrow room, voices began to rise sharply. When a particularly tumultuous argument commenced in a rear corner, however, the broad-shouldered tapster stepped unhesitatingly from behind his post with what looked like an ax handle balanced casually in his huge fist. He moved toward the corner with a steady, even stride, whispered a few words, and almost immediately, the aggressors moved their quarrel outside.

Elliot drew a sigh of relief, but he had barely exhaled when the door swung open again to admit a shaft of sunlight. The silhouettes of three newcomers filled the narrow opening. Absorbed in his own misery, Elliot paid the customers no heed, until gradually he became aware of a burning gaze fixed upon him. The outsiders still stood frozen upon the threshold. Elliot flicked a disinterested glance upward.