Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (8 page)

Elliot tried to smile innocently and lightly touched her hand where it lay upon the sofa. “Miss Stone, you are doing naught but echoing my words. You must smack me! Scold me! Tell me that I am not fit to kiss the hem of your skirt. For I am not, you know,” he added in a low voice.

Evangeline watched her handsome guest’s gray eyes soften, and suddenly she found herself laughing, quite against her will. Elliot Roberts was trouble indeed, she realized yet again, for she could no more resist his charming entreaties than his subtle overtures. “Good Lord, Mr. Roberts! That’s quite enough! All is forgiven.”

“Thank God!” he whispered melodramatically, falling back against the sofa. “I thought to be forever in your bad graces.”

Deliberately, Evangeline broke away from his hypnotic gaze and forced herself to stare into the depths of her book. “With such skillful groveling as all that, Mr. Roberts, I shouldn’t expect that you remain in the bad graces of any woman for very long.”

“Miss Stone!” he whispered softly. “I must warn you that you are now perilously close to flirting with
me!
It’s not at all the thing, either, since I’m a client.”

Evangeline squared her shoulders and tried to look stern. “Mr. Roberts, I have taken you in, had you brushed, bathed, and fed—”

“—like a stray dog, I know,” interrupted Elliot, hanging his head mournfully.

“And you’ve paid me not a penny so far, so I fail to see—”

“Come, Miss Stone.” Elliot sighed and extended his hand. “You are right on every villainous count. Ere someone suggests I sleep with Fritz, please take me off to your Tower. It is where I belong, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” she muttered, laying aside her book. Then, resolutely, she lifted her gaze to catch his once more. “Though I almost fear being alone with you, Mr. Roberts. You have altogether too much charm,” she added grimly.

Her guest seemed taken aback by her forthright confession, his teasing expression immediately gentling to one of grave concern. “I am exceedingly sorry, Miss Stone. I give you my word as a gentleman that in the future you shall have no cause to feel even a moment’s discomfort in my company.” So saying, he rose smoothly to his feet and offered her his arm.

With a sigh of resignation and an irrational sense of disappointment, Evangeline rose, then politely escorted her guest back up the main staircase, down the second floor, and around the twisting tower stairs to his third-floor bedchamber. Elliot promptly made a very proper thank you, then bid her a pleasant good night.

It was precisely half past midnight when the ancient butler, MacLeod, swung open the heavy door at Strath House, the century-old Richmond residence of the marquises of Rannoch. The knocking had been loud, intense, and unremitting. Fully expecting, therefore, to see his exhausted master standing on the threshold, MacLeod was taken aback to find instead Major Matthew Winthrop and his cohort, Aidan Grant, Viscount Linden, weaving unsteadily and begging admittance.

“Evening, MacLeod,” called Linden jovially, holding his gold-knobbed walking stick aloft in his fist. “We come bearing news of a most ursh—urk—no,
urgent
nashure. For his lordship!”

“Gossip!” echoed Winthrop with another drunken wobble. “For Rannoch!”

MacLeod peered through his silver spectacles and down his hooked nose at the two strikingly dressed and cheerfully drunken gentlemen who stood staggering upon the broad marble steps of Strath House.

“Verra sorry, my lord and Major Winthrop,” replied MacLeod civilly. “Lord Rannoch is oot and hasna returned.” The butler watched as the two men glanced at each other with what was obviously crushing disappointment.

Other than the aura of privilege and the odor of alcohol, both of which copiously emanated from them, the two men were a contrast in every possible way. Winthrop was raven-haired, broad-shouldered, and attired in a dark, conservative coat of a military cut, while Linden, tall, blond, and angelically handsome, was every inch the immoderate town dandy. How the irrepressible pair had come to be the partners in debauchery of Elliot Armstrong was no secret to the elderly butler.

It was astonishing when one now considered it, but in his youth Lord Rannoch had been worse than unsophisticated. He had been recklessly naïve. By the close of his first year in town, Rannoch’s reputation lay in ruins. The young lord then set about worsening matters by steeping himself in that most volatile of concoctions: alcohol, mixed with heated despair, topped by a froth of high-stakes gaming.

Late one night, following a remarkably profitable run at hazard, the inebriated marquis had found himself on the wrong end of a disgruntled competitor’s sword. Unarmed and friendless outside a London stew, Rannoch had been fortunate indeed when both Linden and Winthrop, only marginally more sober, had leapt to his defense. Rannoch’s wounds had healed quickly, his vengeance had been swift, and ever after the effervescent viscount and the dour army officer had been the marquis’s best—indeed, his only—companions.

MacLeod knew that the gentlemen were to be afforded every courtesy. Eyeing them up and down, the butler cleared his throat ceremoniously. “Weel, gentlemen . . . might I suggest that these verra important tidings be best carried tae Sir Hugh? He is in, being laid up with the gout, but no yet abed.”

“Capital idea, MacLeod!” boomed Major Winthrop.

“Indeed!” concurred Linden cheerfully. “To Sir Hugh!” Eagerly, both men charged toward the door at precisely the same moment, resulting in a most maladroit tangle of elbows, legs, and walking sticks. Once MacLeod had restored Winthrop to his feet and disentangled Linden’s cravat from his cane, he bade them both be seated while he informed Sir Hugh of their presence.

“If you want brandy, fetch it yourselves,” grumbled Sir Hugh Benham from his favorite wing chair. The elderly gentleman’s bare, swollen foot was extended before him, propped high upon a stack of feather pillows perched atop a footstool.

“I say, Sir Hugh,” exclaimed Lord Linden, weaving unsteadily as he peered down at the foot. “Nasty mess, that.” Still carrying his elegant walking stick, from which he had illogically refused to be parted, the dandified viscount made as if to poke at the inflamed joint of Sir Hugh’s great toe.

“Touch it and die, you son of a bitch,” growled Sir Hugh irritably.

“I say, Hugh! What’s got your wind up?” asked Winthrop, carrying a fresh drink over to join the pair. Even half sprung, the man still looked every inch a soldier.

“Needs a woman, belike,” explained Linden cheerfully, completely unoffended. He plopped down alongside Winthrop on a leather sofa. “Curse of the Benhams, ain’t it, old boy?” He turned his bleary gaze upon Sir Hugh for confirmation.

“Been trapped up here for three damn days,” grumbled Sir Hugh, twisting irritably in his chair. “Feels more like three bloody months. And Olivia Johnson’s husband just left for Rome, damn it all.”

“Curse of the Benhams,” repeated Lord Linden in his languid drawl. “Oversexed. Rannoch’s got it, too, don’t he, Hugh?”

“Quite right,” interjected his dark-haired companion unexpectedly. “Why we’re here an’ all that.” Major Winthrop struggled to focus his normally piercing gaze upon Sir Hugh.

Lord Linden turned to his friend in bewilderment. “On account of the Benham curse?”

“No, no,” replied Major Winthrop.

“Livie sent you?” asked Hugh suspiciously.

“No, no!” The major shook his head, sloshing brandy across his thigh. “Here about Rannoch! All the old talk. You know—” Winthrop looked at his dandified cohort for assistance, but Sir Hugh interrupted.

“You mean about that shot in his arse?” Sir Hugh’s voice was gruffly impatient. “That trifling spat with Jeanette’s husband?”

Major Winthrop shook his head again. “No, no, not that! The other. Cranham.”

Lord Linden resolutely thumped his stick upon the floor. “Righty-ho,” he agreed, and turned to Sir Hugh. “Cranham. Thought Elliot ought to be prepared. He’s back.”

“What, from the dead?” Sir Hugh stared at Linden incredulously. “Boys, put away your cups! That old goat died eight months past.”

Major Winthrop shook his head. “The
new
Baron Cranham. Walked right into Brooks’s tonight. Back from Baipur a month or more. Bit of a nabob now.”

“All the talk, don’tcha know,” chimed Linden, jerking backward with a little
hic!
One thick lock of his perfectly groomed blond hair tumbled forward to bounce, apparently unnoticed, before his left eye. “Found his mother’s marriage lines—”

“—stuck in her father’s family bible!” chimed Major Winthrop.

“Looks like they’re valid.” Lord Linden nodded.

“Not the bastard we thought he was,” snickered the major. “In one way, at least.”

“Elliot ought to kill him this time,” added the dapper viscount with a cheerful certainty.

Sir Hugh looked at the men in mute amazement, his eyes traveling back and forth between them. Then, abruptly, Sir Hugh snatched a small brass bell from his side table, and a footman immediately oozed from the shadows. “Fetch me a damn drink!” the elderly baronet barked.

Doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair
.

—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

G
ood night
had suddenly become little more than a trite expression to Evangeline, as she tossed miserably in her second-floor bedchamber. She thumped her pillow unmercifully, until finally, with a sharp exhalation, she felt compelled to pitch it onto the floor. Surely it must be nearly four o’clock by now, since eons had passed since the hall clock had struck three. It was him, drat it all. The sculpture. The man. Elliot Roberts. What unholy urge had possessed Peter to send such a man to torment her nights?

But indeed, despite the man’s stunning appearance, Peter had probably never given Elliot Roberts a thought. Because Peter, along with everyone else who knew her, thought Evangeline wholly impervious to male charm. And regrettably, she was . . . or had been.Precisely why this was so, she could not say, but despite the aching emptiness that had begun to gnaw at her these last few years, Evangeline had never met one man who could turn her head with anything other than mild artistic interest.

Perhaps that was why her portraits brought her so little satisfaction and she felt compelled to turn to epic—and often imaginary—heroes to bring her canvas fully to life. But despite his elegant manners and physical beauty, she must remember that Elliot Roberts was just a man, not a hero. There was nothing obvious in his demeanor that should have given Peter a moment’s concern. And Peter, with his odd, meticulous ways, would never have referred a client who was disreputable in any way, for despite his constant travels, Peter was an attentive trustee and a devoted friend. Nonetheless, there was something not quite right about this man he had sent to see her; an enigma, an ephemeral feeling . . . but she would come to understand it eventually. Perhaps tomorrow, when the painting began, matters would come clear. Perhaps in the light of day, she would get a grip on those turbulent sensations his presence aroused and his touch inflamed. Perhaps, she wryly considered, she should avoid touching him altogether.

But she was obsessed by far more than good looks and a gentle touch. In every respect, she was altogether too charmed by Elliot Roberts, who, with his low, silky voice, had a way of saying “May I pass the parsnips?” and making it sound like a far more intriguing offer. Admittedly, he had disconcerted her with his rather blatant flirtation, yet now that the curling, insidious warmth had left her stomach and the jelly in her knees had solidified, Evangeline had to ask herself what harm there was in flirting. It was hardly the first time a man had flirted with her, though few had done so with such practiced skill, and none to such a disquieting effect.

Indeed, had she not known perfectly well what he was about last night in the hall? Yet she had remained, to stare into his hypnotic gray eyes and to allow herself to be pulled far closer than was wise. To his credit, Mr. Roberts had not pressed his attentions upon her. Rather, he had ultimately apologized. And very prettily, too. It had been rather a disappointment, that apology. Despite her initial panic and subsequent urge to cry, Evangeline had still harbored a foolish, secret hope that Mr. Roberts might shoot her that fast, wicked smile, then resume his flirtation in the corridor outside his bedchamber.

Angrily, Evangeline let her head drop back with a harsh thump against the headboard. The timing of such discomfiting emotions could not possibly have been worse, and her shame could not have been greater. Lord, how she wanted him. An Englishman! And another woman’s fiancé, no less. Why could not things have worked out differently? Had she not been courted by a half dozen perfectly agreeable suitors while Papa was still alive? Among them had been a Bavarian nobleman, a Russian painter, and even one young Italian banker. Friends of Papa’s, associates of Uncle Peter, none of them English. And all of them, if words could be believed, utterly devoted to her. More importantly, while Papa lived, Michael had been safe.But now,well . . .

Bloody hell!
Such thoughts were madness. Evangeline gave the coverlet a sharp yank. She needed to keep at an emotional distance from Elliot Roberts. Whether or not she wanted, for once in her life, to exchange flirtatious comments was beside the point. He was betrothed. And she was busy. Exceedingly busy. Her life was filled with duty and responsibility. Indeed, she had no business flirting with anyone when eleven-year-old Michael had a veritable ax hanging over his head. Exasperated, Evangeline tossed off the bedcovers, bathed her face in cold water, then dressed quickly. Yes, she could work by lamplight until the sun was up. After all, she had yet to prepare the freshly stretched canvas for her morning’s work. That would take some time.

Just as his lovely hostess had predicted, Elliot had arisen to find that the torrents of spring rain had finally given way to a brilliant May morning. Muted sunshine now flowed through the high south windows of Chatham’s studio, warming the flagstone floor and heightening the colors of Evie’s masterpieces.

And they really were masterpieces, Elliot realized as he strolled through the room, the heels of his heavy boots echoing forlornly through the empty chamber. He wished that Evangeline would come and fervently hoped she had forgiven his shocking lapse of propriety, for he was resolved that it would not happen again. Much to his disappointment, his hostess had not appeared at breakfast, though he saw evidence that she had already been at work in the studio.

At the north side, he paused. A collection of landscapes was suspended from the wall at its highest level. Beneath them hung a row of portraits, and below that more sat propped against the wall, almost all completed. In comparison, however, even Elliot could see that the artistic style between the portraits and the landscapes differed greatly. Over and over, the landscapes pulled his gaze aloft, as he moved from right to left. Each was unique and exquisite—rolling scenes of pastoral beauty, rushing streams in hues of frothy green, windmills whirling against scuttling clouds, threshers toiling in golden fields, the next more beautiful than its neighbor.

As Elliot reached the northwest corner, however, his eye was distracted by a vast canvas propped upon a sturdy easel and turned back against the wall. Carefully sliding himself into the corner between the wall and the canvas, Elliot stared at the massive oil painting and involuntarily sucked in his breath.

Although Elliot was ready to confess near ignorance on the subject of art, the piece his eyes took in was dramatic beyond anything he’d ever witnessed. Before him, a medieval battle scene unfolded in the background. Crested helmets rose to meet a cloudless sapphire sky as multihued banners snapped in the wind. From the left, mounted knights charged, advancing into the fray through the swirling dust of a plateau battlefield. Hacking forward from the right came obviously enraged hordes of thickset foot soldiers, swinging long, wicked halberds as they marched. Men of arms bearing deadly spears stabbed randomly into the melee.

Elliot could smell the sweat of the charging warhorses as their eyes flashed white with fear, and he could hear the crash of arms and armor as man after man fell to be trampled beneath pounding hooves. It was a scene charged with raw power; a majestic fusion of motion and emotion. Yet even as the background seemed literally to move before the viewer’s eyes, the foreground stood still, frozen in time. A hero in golden armor lay dead, cleft through the heart by a bloody halberd. The knight’s towering crest of peacock feathers was splayed in a contrasting swath of color against his fallen banner. His right arm lay outstretched, a glinting sword still clutched in his hand.

The piece was at once horrific, epic, and frighteningly beautiful.

The rasp of door hinges pulled Elliot from the spell of the painting, and he stuck out his head to see Evangeline entering through the schoolroom door. The stout black dog trotted dutifully behind, his tiny claws clicking rhythmically upon the flagstone.

“Good morning,” called Elliot, stepping carefully from behind the canvas.

Her veiled gaze shifted toward him. Evangeline wore another dark blue dress over a muslin chemisette this morning, and in her hand she clutched a sheaf of papers. “Good morning,” she replied as she strode purposefully through the studio toward her desk.

Elliot felt compelled to explain himself. “Good morning, Miss Stone. I hope you do not object? I saw this, and I wanted to examine it.”

Evangeline put a few loose papers down on the desktop, then turned back to face him. “No, Mr. Roberts,” she answered, looking almost resigned. “I have no objection.”

“Miss Stone, I must confess, I have never seen anything to rival this. It—it is your work, is it not? I mean, I can tell that it is . . . somehow.”

“Yes. It is mine,” she answered, strolling slowly across the room to where he stood. “I do try to keep my commercial portraits separate from my other work, but as you can see, I do both.”

“And under different names?”

“Yes.”

“Because you are a female?” he guessed.

She threw him a quizzical smile. “I think it makes for better business,” she admitted.

“What do you call this piece, Miss Stone?” he asked softly, gesturing toward the huge canvas behind him.

“
The Fall of Leopold at Sempach
.”

“A truly remarkable painting,” he murmured.

“It is almost finished,” she answered noncommittally. “Soon it will be taken down to London, and Uncle Peter will put it on the market.”

“Must you sell it?”

“Yes, we need the income,” she admitted crisply. Then, apparently noting the surprised expression on his face, she added, “I prefer to keep our capital in the funds, and the estate income is needed to maintain our tenant farms.”

Elliot nodded, sensing that she did not wish to belabor the subject. “It would appear that you have a remarkable range of style and technique,” he commented, returning his gaze to the landscapes mounted high on the north wall.

“Those are my father’s,” she replied quietly. “They are not for sale.”

Elliot looked at her uncertainly, then nodded. “Somehow, I did not think they had the look of your work, though they are very fine. Your father was exceedingly gifted, was he not?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, but the blue sheen in her eyes had suddenly dulled. “Very gifted.”

“I can see that. His work is exquisite. But this! This is—not exquisite.” Elliot reached out to touch the battle scene lightly. “Indeed, Miss Stone, this work defies my descriptive powers.”

“Thank you—I think,” she responded politely.

In his absorption, Elliot missed the note of uncertainty in her tone. “What is this, exactly? I mean, what is it about?” he asked, his tone reverent. “I feel as if I am there.”

“I visited that battlefield, or what remains, many years ago,” said Evangeline with a shrug. “The painting is a scene from Leopold’s march through Switzerland. It has been depicted on canvas often enough, and I expect this one shan’t be the last.”

“What sort of march?”

“To suppress the forest cantons’ rebellion against growing Habsburg rule. You see here the banner of Lucerne, yes?” Elliot nodded. “And to the far right lies the body of de Winkelried, a knight of the Unterwalden. Do you see here?” She pointed at a tortured figure. “Legend says that he impaled himself onto the Habsburg pikes to open a gap in the enemy wall.”

“Good Lord!” replied Elliot with a shudder. “Who are these mounted knights?”

“Those are the mercenaries of Hawkscastle, the dynasty we now call the Habsburgs. On this battlefield, in the late fourteenth century, the Austrians met the rebel
Schwitz
—the Highlanders, if you will.”

“I’m shamefully ignorant of history, Miss Stone. Was this battle significant?”

“It certainly was to the Austrians.” She chuckled, seeming to warm to the topic, the blue spark returning to her eyes. “It was quite an unexpected defeat for the Habsburgs. The Swiss foresters, though disorganized and fool-hardy, were savage and fearless.”

“This golden knight, then, is Leopold?”

“Yes, but again, the gold armor is no more than a legend.” She turned to him, her face fixed in a calm smile. “I think that is enough medieval history for one morning, Mr. Roberts. Shall we turn our attentions to you?” Lightly, she touched him on the elbow and guided him toward the easel and chairs which were positioned in the center of her studio.

For more than an hour, Elliot silently endured the ceaseless scrutiny of Evangeline Stone’s cool blue gaze. Elliot could see that she’d earlier prepared a large canvas and mounted it on the easel. In her left hand she held a palette, and in the long, slender fingers of her right, the brush. From time to time, Elliot could hear her mutter a low, unladylike oath, and then he would see a flash of her palette knife. It was frustrating. He could not observe her—at least, not to his satisfaction. Nor could he see what she was painting. All he could see was Evangeline’s penetrating eyes. Sharply focused. Brilliant. What would it take, Elliot mused, to make those deep blue eyes glaze over? What would a man have to do to make Evangeline’s lips part invitingly and her heart race? For the right man, very little, he guessed. The thought made his loins tighten, and he suppressed a groan.

Focusing on the long, graceful turn of Evangeline’s neck, Elliot wanted, inexplicably, to press his lips to the warmth of her throat, to touch her ivory skin lightly—yes, just there—with his tongue and feel her pulse throb beneath it. Yes, he wanted to feel the warmth and life that surged within her, for, most assuredly, Evangeline Stone was alive. Despite her outward calm and deliberate reserve, Elliot was convinced the woman sheltered a passionate soul. Moreover, one could not lend life and passion to canvas as powerfully as this woman did without possessing a heart filled near to bursting with it.