Baron: The Deception Part 5

"You didn't ring for her this morning. That is why I came myself, to see that you were all right. The poor girl was worried that she'd displeased you."

Evangeline thought of her own dear Margueritte, always humming, always laughing, always chattering even if no one was there, always looking at Evangeline's father with l.u.s.tful eyes. "Dorrie will suit me just fine, Mrs. Raleigh. I promise to let her a.s.sist me this evening."

Evangeline imagined that she was the first nanny to be a.s.signed a maid, but she didn't say anything more. Mrs. Raleigh, doubtless all the staff, believed her position with Edmund to be nothing more than a sham, something to salve her pride since she was indeed a poor relation. Poor or not, she was related to the duke, and thus she would have a maid.

"His grace is already in the breakfast parlor. He always rises early. He has told Ba.s.sick that he won't be leaving for London today." She rubbed her lovely, narrow hands together. "Now we shall have him here for at least another week, so Mr. Ba.s.sick believes, and I've never known him to be wrong before, and that pleases everyone, Madame. All of us thank you for keeping him here."

She was keeping him here? No, surely not. Surely he had other reasons for remaining unless, of course, he wanted to be certain that she wouldn't strangle Lord Edmund in his bed. It would have been easier if he'd simply settled her in and removed himself back to London. But things didn't tend to unfold in a nice orderly manner. Then, suddenly, with no warning she was back in Paris, in that narrow room. And, he was there as well, staring at her closely as he said, "Do you know how to bed a man?"

She stared at him, shriveling on the inside, white as her lace on the outside.

"You are nearly twenty years old, not a young chit with stars in her eyes and the sense of a goat. Have you ever bedded a man?"

She shook her head. She watched, just as a rabbit would watch a snake slithering toward it, as he walked to her, stood there, smiling down at her. Then he reached out his hands and cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Very nice," he said, low. "He will love your b.r.e.a.s.t.s. You, naturally, will do whatever you must to succeed." She jerked away, but he hadn't released her. It hurt and she gasped. "Oh, G.o.d," she said, and stumbled.

Chapter 9.

"What, Madame? Goodness, are you all right?" Mrs. Raleigh grabbed her arm and held her firmly.

Evangeline shook her head, but Houchard was still clear in her mind, d.a.m.n him. He was always there, sometimes so clear she just knew she could reach out and touch him, and he would speak to her, his voice clear and hard in her ear, or he would touch her, stroke her with as much feeling as he would stroke the arm of a chair.

She managed a pathetic smile. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Raleigh. I was just thinking about something else, something that happened to me in France. Forgive my inattention. Who is that gentleman with the huge white wig?" She pointed at a large portrait, its frame heavy with gold, painted early in the last century.

"Oh, that was the Fourth Duke of Portsmouth, Everett Arysdale Chesleigh. I've heard that he was a wild one, that duke. Too handsome, if you ask me, and all the girls swooned around him. At least most of his b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are dead now."

Evangeline wasn't thinking about the fourth Duke of Portsmouth. She was thinking about this one, a man who was too handsome for his own good as well, and for any woman's peace of mind. She'd been very aware of him every moment, not just because she was terrified that she wouldn't succeed in convincing him to allow her to remain, but also because he looked at her the way several other men had looked at her, most notably the Comte de Pouilly. Only with the duke she wasn't at all offended. It made her feel warm in places she'd never before even been aware of. It made her feel slightly off balance, but that was something that during the past week had been her constant companion, so it wasn't all that noteworthy. But the warmth, that was something strange, something she couldn't explain. She just knew she liked it.

She'd played a role with him. She'd parried his questions with her rehea.r.s.ed answers, always wondering what he was thinking, how he was reacting when she said something that was the least bit out of the ordinary.

His moods changed so quickly, from an arrogant hauteur that was such a deep part of him, to the indifferent politeness when he'd withdrawn, deep into his own thoughts. Well, there was nothing for it.

She had to succeed. She had no choice, none at all.

Mrs. Raleigh's graceful, birdlike movements, her soothing chatter, continued as she led Evangeline down the long, carpeted corridor in the west wing to the wide, curved staircase that rose in ancient dignity to the upper floors. She followed Mrs. Raleigh across the vast Italianate entrance hall, with its ma.s.sive chandelier hanging from a silver chain at least the thickness of her upper arm, past the library and the formal dining room. They entered a small octagonal room that was flooded with the bright morning light from the low, wide windows. There was no heavy furniture, no dark wainscotting, just this light, airy s.p.a.ce, the walls painted a pale yellow. Several of the windows were open, a gentle, warm breeze billowing out the gossamer light draperies.

She stopped in the middle of the room. "How very lovely."

"I thank you. Doubtless my mother would also thank you. She ordered the room done this way some twenty years ago."

Startled, Evangeline looked at the duke, who was seated at one end of the small table, just lowering a newspaper. He wore a buff jacket and light brown knit riding breeches, exquisitely tailored from what she could see of them. His dark hair was tousled, his complexion healthy and tanned. He'd already been outside, probably riding along the cliffs.

He was without a doubt the most exquisite man she'd ever seen in her life. But then again, she hadn't seem all that many gentlemen. Perhaps those in London would put him to shame, although she tended to doubt it.

She realized she was staring at him and quickly looked down at the toes of her slippers.

"Is something wrong, Madame?"

Yes, she wanted to tell him. You're what's wrong. It's painful for me to look at you. I held you in my child's memories. I'd hoped you would look differently now, but you don't. I've lost my mind.

She said coolly, getting a hold on herself, "No, nothing, your grace. Just a moment of visual distress." She thought he laughed. She remembered suddenly how she had envied Marissa all those years ago, lucky Marissa who had secured his hand. But Marissa hadn't been so very lucky. Dead when she was but twenty, in an accident, she'd heard.

She gave him a wicked look, a look that was quite natural for her to give to him, a look that seemed to have been waiting inside her, for him to come so she could give it to him. And she knew he liked that look, all that wickedness that promised everything, yet only promised. She shrugged, seeing no hope for it. He was giving her a bland, very knowing smile, as if he knew what she was thinking. Well, he was right. Why not tell him? Her wicked smile grew sharper when she said, "Actually, I was thinking that you look splendid."

He sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. "A dose of French candor. I thank you for the compliment. If I were a lady, I could preen and demand that you become specific in your compliments, but alas, I'm a gentleman and thus I must take the general compliment and content myself with it. But I do wish I knew what the specifics were in this case." The wicked smile faded. "Have I embarra.s.sed you? Yes, I believe that could be called a discreet flush starting on your neck. Come and sit down. Mrs. Dent has prepared a breakfast that will have us feeling fat as geldings."

She refused to look at him again as she slipped into the chair on his right. She knew he was no doubt quite used to being shamelessly flattered, to being endlessly admired, undoubtedly to being compared to a G.o.d.

No, he wasn't a G.o.d. She remembered Houchard's graphic descriptions of the duke's likes and dislikes, particularly when it came to women, and wanted to sink through the floor.

No, none of that would come to pa.s.s. The duke would never see her as anything more than a fully dressed penniless widow here to take care of his son, if only his son would cooperate and adore her at first sight. He mustn't ever see her as a woman who admired him more than was proper. Ba.s.sick, smiling at her, poured her rich black coffee, then, after nodding to the duke, left the morning room.

She was English, she'd always said about herself. She wished she could smash the French part of her out of existence. The funny thing was that even as a child, she'd never liked the heavy English breakfasts, but she'd been thinking about him, about this d.a.m.nable situation, about what Houchard had told her, and piled her plate high with kidneys, scrambled eggs, kippers, and bacon. Slowly, not wanting to draw attention, she shoved the plate away and reached for a slice of toast. She began spreading it with thick b.u.t.ter. "You didn't sleep well."

Evangeline nearly choked on her mouthful of toast. She forced herself to chew slowly. When she swallowed, she took a sip of coffee, then gave him a cool smile. "You're wrong, your grace. How could one not be perfectly content in such a beautiful room and a comfortable bed?"

"I suspect that anyone wouldn't sleep particularly well in a new place. Did you hear strange noises? The castle rattles and moans. When there's a storm off the Channel, you sometimes think you'll be buried beneath a pile of stone. You'll become used to it." "Yes, I can see that would be possible. You're right, for a moment there I'd forgotten the moans and the chains rattling."

He didn't smile, merely toyed with his fork. "Do you always come awake ready to fence with words?" "No, not usually. Very well, if you're going to pry. I didn't sleep well because I was scared you'd find fault with me today and boot me out. I don't want to starve in a ditch, your grace."

"Oh, I haven't changed my mind. Stop your worrying, if that is indeed the truth you're telling me." "I had an early morning visit from Mrs. Needle." He speared up a piece of thin-sliced ham, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. "Mrs. Needle came to see you? How very odd. She scarcely ever leaves the North Tower anymore. What did she want?"

"Simply to meet me, Marissa's cousin. She said some strange things, but she was kind to me." "She's a witch."

"That's what Mrs. Raleigh told me, but not a bad witch. She heals people."

"She tries. She quacked my tiger, Juniper, last evening. I haven't heard otherwise, so I will a.s.sume he's still breathing and twitching. You've only eaten a slice of toast. Mrs. Dent will be upset if she doesn't have you waddling by spring. Come, try the kidneys, they're quite delicious."

She looked at the kidneys on her plate and actually shuddered.

"You're tall, Madame, and at the moment far too thin, except for your-" He was looking at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, fully and completely at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. At least he hadn't said it aloud. That showed some restraint. He was outrageous, but of course she knew that already.

Very well, she thought, wondering just how far he would go. She said, "Except for what, your grace?"

"I was watching you spread b.u.t.ter on your toast. I couldn't help but notice your fingers, Madame. They're stubby. I'm sorry to have to be so frank about this, but you did ask. Yes, you're cursed with stubby fingers. Could it be your French blood that's done you in?"

She wanted very badly to jump out of her chair, grab it up, and throw it at him. "Stubby fingers? Why, that's ridiculous. You know very well that you were looking at my-no, I won't say that. It wouldn't be proper. It would probably make you laugh and make me want to sink behind the wainscotting except there isn't any wainscotting in here, so I must remain seated here, with you looking at me and laughing your head off."

He didn't laugh, but she knew he wanted to. She looked down at her long white fingers. "That was really well done, but naturally you know it. Now, do you think that Mrs. Needle could provide me with a potion to elongate these poor short fingers of mine?"

"I will look at them more closely and tell you. It isn't too grave a physical flaw. I'm a tolerant man. All know that and appreciate it. You do as well, now." She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Do you enjoy crossing verbal swords, Madame?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "As do you. You were probably born telling jests and poking fun. You're quite good at it. In another year or so, though, I will be better than you, and then we shall see who just sits there, staring at his toes, without a thing to say."

"All that? Ah, I must remember to call you Evangeline. It's just that Madame sounds so very dignified, like an abbess, even." "I've never been all that religious." He gave a start, stared at her, then laughed. "I suggest you look up abbess in the dictionary. There's a remarkably large one in my library." Then he frowned. "Perhaps that particular meaning isn't there. It's rather a specialized meaning, one that isn't exactly suited for innocent young minds like yours. Forget it. Now, I will endeavor to call you Evangeline. Were you ever called something shorter?"

"My mother called me Eve."

"Interesting. I cannot help but think about the biblical Eve. Look what she did to poor Adam. She even got him evicted from Paradise because of her wicked ways, which probably began with a wicked smile. As I recall, she never wore a st.i.tch of clothing, even after the eviction. She loved the way he looked at her, loved to watch his eyes cross, which I don't doubt they did." "I know nothing about that. That is, I know, but your mind is wandering into paths that should be completely untrodden."

He gave her a grin. "I've never found a path I didn't want to tread." He paused, then said in a philosophical voice, "I've often wondered where paradise is located. I can't believe it was anywhere close to the English coast. Surely there would be no moans or rattling old castle walls in paradise, no storms to chill the naked flesh, just warmth and beauty. No, that's ridiculous. Of course there would be moans. I wonder what your poor husband would say about your lack of knowledge about paradise."

Her husband. Her poor late, lamented husband. She dropped the toast from her fingers onto the tablecloth. She couldn't think of anything to say.

Bless him, he completely misunderstood. "I'm sorry, Evangeline. I didn't mean to recall memories to wound you."

Her voice was hard as a stone. "I already told you that my husband, Andre, was a great man, a sensitive man. I adored him. I worshiped him. He taught me everything I needed to know about this paradise of yours."

"I don't recall yesterday that he had quite achieved such a pinnacle of perfection. No, I'm sorry. Let's leave dear Andrei to his eternal peace." She was pale. He'd done it again. "Now, Evangeline, if you've eaten enough to fill one leg, I'll take you to meet Edmund. He was hoping our visitor was Phillip Mercerault, a friend of mine who always brings him presents and takes him up with him on his horse, or Rohan Carrington, another longtime friend of mine who has constant winners in the cat races held at the McCulty racetrack near Eastbourne. He tells Edmund endless tales of the cat contestants and the various training methods. Rohan is the owner of the renowned champion Gilly.

"Poor Phillip, he's always wanted a racing kitten to train. Perhaps now that he's married, the Harker brothers-the premier trainers in the area-will deem him worthy to have one. The cat races run from April to October. Have you ever before been to a cat race?"

"No, but I've heard of them. Have you ever had a racing cat?"

He shook his head. "Perhaps someday. Like my friend Phillip, the Harker brothers haven't yet deemed me worthy. I am too flighty, they'd say, and a racing cat must have a firm, steady hand and an owner who is always there for him. Now, let's go see my son."

Chapter 10.

Lord Edmund was having his face and hands washed by a smiling Ellen, who was alternately kissing him and scrubbing him. He hadn't yet reached the age, the duke knew, when he would react with appalled outrage at such blatant displays of affection, particularly from a female.

When Edmund saw his father, he yelled, dashed to him, and as was his habit, leaped upward, to be caught and hugged and tossed into the air, all accompanied with gales of laughter that warmed the duke to his bones.

"Well, my boy, you've nearly got all the egg off your mouth. Good morning, Ellen. Has he eaten all his breakfast?"

"He's done very well, your grace," Ellen said, staying back where she was, as was her wont, and quickly curtsied in his general direction.

"Where's my cousin, Papa? Did she bring me a present? You won't let her pet me, will you?" He broke off as he stretched his head over his father's shoulder. He said in a loud, worried whisper, "Is that the lady who's come to visit me?" The duke said, laughter lurking in his voice, "Does she have hair the color of honey? Brown eyes nearly the color of mud? Is she nearly as tall as I am?"

"Yes, Papa. She's big. I'm not sure about the mud in her eyes, though."

"I wanted to come alone first, to prepare you, but she must have followed me here." The duke held Edmund loosely and turned to face her.

"Evangeline, this is my son, Edmund. Edmund, say h.e.l.lo to your cousin."

Edmund studied her closely. "I don't think your eyes look exactly like mud. Let me down, Papa, so that I may make a proper bow."

The duke's eyebrows shot up even as he lowered his son to the floor. Edmund gave her a grand bow, showing a perfect leg, so his grandmother would say, and said, "Welcome, Cousin Evalin. Ellen said Mrs. Raleigh told her that you're half foreign. From France, she said."

"Yes," she said, "I'm half foreign," and came down on her knees next to him. "Welcome to my home. This is Chesleigh." "I know, and thank you."

"That was creditably done, Edmund. I am pleased." The duke turned to Ellen. "You did well."

Ellen, who could never look at the duke without a flush on her face, said, "Lord Edmund insisted that we practice, your grace. His honor depended upon it, he said."

"And so it does. Edmund, why don't you call your cousin Eve? It's much easier than all the other renditions of her half foreign name. Is that all right with you, Madame?"

"Certainly. I was your mama's first cousin, Edmund. I've always wanted to meet you, her son." Edmund placed his fingertips on her palm. "Do you look much like my mama? I don't remember her very well."

"Not really. Your mama was a beautiful lady, like an angel, all soft and white with gold hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. Except for your dark coloring, you have somewhat the look of her." She quickly saw that this did not find favor with Lord Edmund, and added, "But you know, Edmund, I think you will be a great, handsome man like your father. You have his dark hair and a wicked twinkle in your eyes. And a good laugh, Edmund. That's very important, being able to laugh well. Having heard your papa shout out with laughter, I know you'll grow into it very well indeed."

"That's what I want," Edmund said. "Was Mama short? I have no wish to be short when I grow up."

"Yes, but don't forget she was a lady, a fairy princess. Fairy princesses are always small and light and ever so graceful and beautiful. As for you, you're the son of a prince, and they're never small or light. Yes, you'll be just like your papa. You have no reason to worry. Look at your feet, Edmund. You have huge feet. Your body will have to grow just to keep up. And you have long fingers, not the least bit stubby. Ah, yes, I see a giant of a man in the making. You might perhaps even surpa.s.s your papa. He's not all that tall, after all, not all that splendid, not all that impressive, actually."

The duke said to no one in particular, "I always thought that it was dogs who had to grow into their paws."

"That too," Evangeline said, not turning to him.

"I'm a prince, am I?"

"A metaphor, your grace," she said over her shoulder to the duke, "nothing more. Merely an example Edmund could understand."

"I rather liked being a prince among men. I'm really not impressive? Didn't you tell me just an hour ago that I was splendid?" "I don't remember." "I'll really be taller than Papa?" "There is no doubt at all in my mind." Edmund beamed at that. "It's all right that you're here, then, and not Phillip or Rohan. Do you know any stories about Gilly, the racing cat champion?"

"Not as yet, but you can be certain that I will discover stories about Gilly." "Did you perhaps bring me a present?" "What a greedy little beggar you are, Edmund," the duke said. "You will make your cousin think that I deprive you."

"Well, I did bring you a present, Edmund. I hope you will like it." Evangeline withdrew a small wrapped box from the pocket of her gown and held it out.

She'd thought of Edmund. It pleased the duke. He watched his son rip away the paper and push open the lid of the box. Edmund crowed with pleasure as he drew out a carved wooden pistol, so finely constructed with wires and weights that the hammer c.o.c.ked and the trigger could be pulled. However had she afforded it? Had she spent her last groats on a toy for his son? It was an expensive piece.

Edmund couldn't believe his good fortune. He hugged the gun close, then held it away from him, stroking it, admiring it. "Oh, my goodness. Even the barrel is hollow, Papa. Now I can duel, now I can make Ellen take away the green beans." He clasped the pistol in one small hand and aimed it at Ellen. "Don't worry about the green beans yet, Ellen, I'm just practicing. After you don't bring me green beans anymore, will you pretend you're a bandit so I can practice shooting you?"

Ellen drew up very tall and straight. "Certainly, Lord Edmund, I am yours to kill."

Excellent, Evangeline thought, she'd brought out the killing instincts of a little boy.

"Papa, will you teach me how to aim properly?" "Only if you promise not to torment Ellen." "I promise," he said, but he wasn't looking at Ellen. He was staring at Evangeline with naked adoration. "Thank you, Eve. Phillip never gave me a gun. Rohan didn't either. Phillip doesn't like guns."

And Evangeline knew that Houchard had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Like this Phillip friend of the duke's, she would have never given a small child such a gift, but Houchard had said the boy would be mad for it, and so he was.

The three of them, Edmund skipping between Evangeline and his father, waving his wooden gun about, walked downstairs. The duke said, "Should we take your cousin riding with us, Edmund? We can show her perhaps one or two of the paths we take to go to our hiding places. It's a beautiful day. Umberto, our Italian gardener," the duke added to Evangeline, "says that there will be two days of summer weather, so hot that we'll be sweating like stoats."

She just stood there, her mouth open, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I can't. I don't own a riding habit." She looked down at her muslin skirts. "I can't ride in this. I'm sorry." And, he thought, she seemed ready to burst into tears. He said easily, "How I wish that occasionally-just every once in a while-I was presented with a problem to test my mettle. Ah, not this time. Just a small problem that I've already addressed. Perhaps you'll even consider me yet a prince among men. Evangeline, go to your bedchamber. I'll send Mrs. Raleigh to you."