Ruthless (14 page)

“Don't,” Elinor muttered, uneasy.

“You're being absurd, Cousin Elinor. She's hardly in any shape to hurt me.” He moved next to the bed. “Is there any way I can assist you, Lady Caroline?”

“Closer,” she said.

He leaned over her, taking one clawlike hand in his, and before Elinor could cry out, her mother managed to pull him off balance, so that he tumbled onto the bed with her, and one of her gnarled hands clawed at the front of his breeches as she began to curse and shout, terrible, filthy words, animal words.

Marcus scrambled to his feet, horrified, and Elinor took his arm, pulling him from the room. “She's not well,” she said helplessly.

He was bleeding—she'd managed to scratch his face, and as Elinor shut the door firmly behind them she could still hear her mother's screams, followed by Nanny's soothing words. She half expected him to brush off her offer of assistance, to storm from the house in disgust, but he simply looked at her with pity.

“You poor girl.”

It was almost enough to make her weep. Almost. She'd shown that weakness only once in her memory, in front of the worst possible person. She wasn't going to succumb to it again.

“We manage,” she said briskly. “The doctor says she hasn't long left, and these bouts of excitation simply mean the end is coming closer. Nanny Maude is wonderful with her, and Lydia and I are fine on our own.”

“And your own father left you nothing? Unconscionable!”

She managed a wry smile. “Indeed, you'd know more about that than I do, sir. I gather the entire estate was entailed and there was nothing set aside for his children.”

Cousin Marcus looked faintly uncomfortable. “In point of fact, I don't believe your sister actually is…”

“My sister was born in wedlock to my mother and father, and by rule of law she's a legitimate offspring,” Elinor said shortly, her temper getting the better of her.

“You know your law well. You're an educated woman. I wonder at that, given your ramshackle upbringing.”

He meant no disrespect, she reminded herself, even as she resisted the temptation to snap back. “I like to read,” she said stiffly.

“And you're an intelligent woman. You cannot believe how admirable that is, in this day and age of silly young misses. I would much prefer the companionship of an older, plainer woman of sense than a pretty, shallow young thing.”

She just barely managed a smile. “Too kind,” she said through her teeth. “I'm afraid Nanny's too busy right now to make us tea.” The screams were muffled but ongoing, and Cousin Marcus had a labored expression.

“This is clearly a difficult time. I'll return when things are more settled…” He was already edging toward the door.

“But you haven't told me of my father's bequest. And your face is bleeding—at least let me see to your wounds before you go out in public,” she protested.

“We can discuss this all at a later date,” he said, dabbing at his face with a lacy handkerchief. “As Mr. Mitchum told you, it's only a token, but I wish to do your father's bidding as best as I can.” He didn't wait for Jacobs to reappear and open the door—he was already halfway out it. “Adieu, dear lady.”

She watched him go. He walked well—he wore boots instead of the elegant shoes that Rohan favored, and if he had the trace of a swagger he was doubtless justified. He was a peer of the realm, a strong, handsome man in the prime of life. He had every reason to strut.

She closed the door behind him. Her mother's screams had finally quieted now that Cousin Marcus had left, and she moved quietly to Caroline's bedroom, opening the door a crack.

Her mother had slipped back into a drugged sleep. “Shouldn't we tie her to the bed again?” she whispered to Nanny Maude.

The old lady had a troubled expression on her face. “No need,” Nanny said. “These fits are followed by bouts of sleep. She won't move or speak for days. Who was that gentleman again?” She changed subjects abruptly.

“I introduced you. He's our cousin, Marcus Harriman.”

“I don't remember any Marcus, and I lived on that estate for the first fifty years of my life.”

“He's distant kin. The closest they could come up with, but I'm sure it's all as it should be.”

Nanny shook her head, still not satisfied. “I didn't think there were any other branches of the family.”

“Well, there's no doubting he's got the Harriman look. And if it wasn't him, the estate would be going to someone else. At least he seems willing to meet with me.”

“Indeed,” Nanny said, not sounding happy. “Next time he comes to visit we'll have Jacobs stay with your mama. I want to ask him a few questions.”

The thought of fierce little Nanny Maude interviewing the new Baron Tolliver was entertaining enough to lift the dark cloud that had settled around her heart. She was contriving as best she could—for now she could try to be patient.

She moved back to her seat by the fire and picked up her book. It was a collection of improving sermons by a zealot monk who'd spent time in the Americas, and whose notions concerning bathing, women and religion were extreme and uncompromising. The good brother was a proponent of the theory that women were an unpleasant necessity, and once they'd fulfilled their procreative duties they should be sent to convents to reside with other women and endure a vow of silence.

Rohan had sent it on purpose, just to annoy her, but the written word was scarce enough that she even read this wretched book, alternately cursing its giver.

And she tried not to think about Francis, Viscount Rohan or his Heavenly Host.

I
n the end Lydia didn't buy the tripe, though not because of any lightening of her spirits. For all that she wanted to wallow in unhappiness, tripe was carrying it a bit too far, and Nanny was far from an inspired cook. It would be up to Lydia to prepare it, and she'd never had much of a fondness for offal. She bought fresh farm eggs, leeks and cheese as well as a loaf of the freshest bread. If Nanny Maude couldn't conjure something delicious out of all that then Lydia could.

And would, once she'd gotten over her stupid fit of the sulks. It wasn't as if Etienne would help. After a riveting, arousing, frustrating encounter with the man she was foolish enough to…to be interested in, she had no choice but to follow it up with three hours of listening to Etienne go on and on. He had only two subjects of conversation: his brilliance as he worked through medical cases that he recounted in stomach-turning detail, and the great injustice served him by his cousin.

Fortunately he never needed much more than a word or two to encourage him, and Lydia was able to sit in the park eating cold chicken
à la diable
and pretend she was somewhere, anywhere, else. Until a word caught her ear.

“Jacobite?” she repeated, wrinkling her forehead.

“Ah, I forgot how young you are,” Etienne said fondly. “That was before you were born. The stupid English were arguing over who should be king, and they tried to put the true Catholic ruler on the throne, a Scots prince.”

“I know about Bonnie Prince Charlie, Etienne,” Lydia said with just a trace of asperity. “What has he got to do with my lord Rohan?”

The look that crossed Etienne's handsome face might almost be called a sneer. “He's not a lord according to England. He's a traitor. He and his family fought for the Scottish king, and when the rebellion failed, his father and brother were killed, he was stripped of everything and exiled. If he ever returns to England he'll suffer a traitor's execution on Tower Hill. That's a day I'd be happy to see.”

She couldn't hide her horror. “You want to see Lord Rohan beheaded?”

“You forget, I am a doctor. I see death every day. Seldom is it a death I think just. Rohan escaped to France and claimed the title that should have been mine, and he's gone to the devil ever since.” Etienne sniffed. It was an unfortunate habit of his, and she could imagine it getting worse as he grew older. With her trapped beside him.

“How old was he when this happened? He's not terribly old now, is he?” she said.

“When he was exiled? When he fought in England? Seventeen, I believe.”

“Oh, God,” Lydia said in a hushed voice. Both Nanny Maude and Jacobs had Scots relatives, and they'd been firm Jacobites. Nanny had told her all about the true king, and the hideous massacre that was Culloden, when Butcher Cumberland had slaughtered thousands. That a seventeen boy had endured that bloody conflict and the savage aftermath was both cruel and enlightening. Living through a time like that would change someone forever.

“I almost wish he'd find some reason to try to go back,” he said. “I would make it my business to alert the English authorities, and his execution would clear any last lien on the French title. The woman who married me will be the Comtesse de Giverney. Sooner or later.”

She ignored his meaningful look. “But Lord Rohan has no interest in returning to England, I believe.”

“No,” he said sadly. “We shall just have to wait,
ma chère.
”

We. The idea was demoralizing and inescapable. By the time he returned her home she had a raging headache. Elinor was clearly bursting with news, something about her cousin, but Lydia couldn't listen, and she stumbled into the darkened bedroom and lay down on the soft, comfortable bed that Lord Rohan had given them. There were too many things beating at her head. Etienne's monotonous, self-serving voice.
Charles Reading's haunted eyes. The thought of a lost boy caught in the grisly horror of the rebellion. Mama was talking again, though none of it made any sense, and some of the words made her blush, while others were entirely unknown to her, and she thanked God for that. She pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the sounds and tried to sleep.

It wasn't much of a relief. In her dream Charles Reading stood there, ready to kiss her, when Etienne ran up and slashed his face with a lance. He fell, and as he lay on the ground his life's blood drained from him, and she found she was looking down at a much younger version of Francis Rohan, without the mockery or the faint sneer. And when she woke up she was crying.

She was being absurd. She dragged herself out of the room, ready to help with dinner, only to find Nanny Maude was just setting it on the table. “There you are, lass,” Nanny said. “We weren't going to wake you—you looked exhausted, poor thing.”

“I'm fine,” she said. Elinor was already seated. “I gather we had a visitor today?”

The four of them sat down at the old table, a terrible breach in protocol that Elinor insisted upon. They were a family, she would say, and she wasn't going to have half her family eat in a kitchen. “Our cousin Tolliver,” she said. “He seems a good man, but Mama was so disturbed by him that she scared him away.”

“Harrumph,” said Nanny.

“Just ignore her,” Elinor said. “Nanny's got a fixation about the man. Swears there are no distant cous
ins and he's some kind of impostor. You have only to take one look at him and know he's no impostor.”

“The Harriman Nose?” Lydia inquired.

“Exactly.”

“Don't listen to me,” Nanny said darkly. “I'm an old woman, what would I know? But you mark my words, there's something wrong with that Master Marcus Harriman.”

“I certainly hope not,” Elinor said in that stiff voice she sometimes used, the one that Lydia hated. “If he won't help us, it leaves us entirely at the mercy of Lord Rohan, and a useless degenerate is unlikely to—”

“I wish you wouldn't insist on vilifying him,” Lydia said, staring down at the cheese-and-leek pie Nanny had made.

They all turned to look at her at once. “My dear,” Elinor said, and Lydia couldn't miss the fear in her voice, the ridiculous fear that had been plaguing her. “He's not at all the right person for you—”

“How many times must I tell you I have no interest in Lord Rohan, and he has none in me? Having spent an entire afternoon with Etienne has made me a great deal more sympathetic with the viscount than I was before.”

“Why?” Elinor said flatly.

“Do you know why he lives in Paris?” Lydia said.

“I really don't care, dearest. I imagine he's here because the world knows that Paris is the center of a society that is, to put it mildly, indulgent. And since Lord Rohan has an interest in indulgences, it only makes sense.”

“He's exiled from England. He can't go back or he'll be executed.”

Elinor raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Whose husband did he murder?”

“No one,” Lydia said.

“He's a terrible man, miss,” Nanny Maude said. “Consorts with devils, he does, and drinks blood, and…”

“He was at
Culloden!
” Lydia blurted out. “He was not even twenty years old, fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie, and he saw his entire family slaughtered. He barely escaped with his life.”

There was a shocked silence. And then Nanny Maude cleared her throat. “I always said there was good in the lad. Indeed, and I tried to tell you so. Handsome, too, and I expect a good woman would put a stop to these parties of his.”

Jacobs said nothing, merely nodding his head approvingly. Finally Elinor spoke, and her voice was raw.

“Does that excuse him for the rest of his life?” she said. “Does that give him the right to destroy other lives?”

“Whose life has he destroyed?” Lydia demanded.

And she could hear her sister's answer as if she spoke it out loud.
Mine,
she cried.
Mine.

 

Lydia's muffled coughing woke her, and for a moment Elinor lay there, not moving. Something was wrong, she felt it in her bones, and she sat up, squinting in the darkness around her. Her eyes burned, her
throat ached, and she heard the ominous crackling sound, far too close. Horror filled her—fire in these rickety old parts of town were disastrous, spreading through streets and alleyways, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop them.

She shook Lydia, scrambling from the bed, her eyes burning. “The house is on fire,” she said. “We have to get out.”

Lydia was already alert, grabbing her robe and pulling it tight around her as Elinor went for the door. Smoke was pouring in under the doorjamb, but the wood itself was still cool, and she yanked it open, only to be momentarily blinded by the wall of smoke that billowed in.

“Nanny!” she screamed, fighting her way through the smoke, stepping out into the hallway just as Jacobs stormed by. He was heading for Lady Caroline's bedroom. She heard the laughter then, her mother's silvery voice chuckling merrily, and the sound raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

Jacobs kicked the door open, and flames poured out of the room. He didn't hesitate, charging into the fire, and a moment later he emerged, a small figure bundled in his arms. He headed for the front door, looking back at them. “Follow me!” he shouted from above the noise of the crackling flames.

“Mama!” Lydia cried, but then from beyond the flames the voice came again, singing a bawdy sailor's song in a hoarse, scratchy voice.

“He's got Nanny Maude,” she said. “Go with him. I'll see to Mama.”

“No, I won't leave you!” Lydia said, but Elinor simply shoved her toward Jacobs, and he was strong enough to catch her arm and drag her to the door, even as he held Nanny Maude's slight figure. He seemed to be having trouble with the flimsy front door, and a moment later he simply kicked it down, charging out into the cold night air with the two women.

“‘There was a jolly tinker, who lived in Southern France…'” her mother sang, the hoarse sound a shadow of the once-light soprano that had captivated so many men. Ignoring the flames, Elinor pushed into the room. Lady Caroline was curled up on the floor, crooning, as the flames ate through the silk covers of her bed and started up the bedposts.

“Mama!” Elinor cried, trying to move closer. There was a river of flame between them, and if she jumped across there was no guarantee she could get back. Her mother was so slender and frail she could easily pull her to safety, if she could just be persuaded to reach out.

Lady Caroline's glazed eyes focused on Elinor. “Where's my daughter?” she croaked. “Where's my Lydia?”

“She's safe, Mama. You need to come with me, and I'll bring you to her. Just stand up and come to the edge there, and I'll lift you over.”

Lady Caroline's cackle matched the noise of the fire. “You look like him. Like your father. He wants to kill me, and you do too. Get me Lydia. I'm not going anywhere without Lydia.”

The path of flames widened, eating up the flooring between them, and Elinor's panic increased. “You
don't want to hurt Lydia, Mama. If she comes back in this house she could die. Just stand up and walk over here and I'll bring you out safely. Trust me, Mama. I've never done anything but love you.”

“Love?” She laughed heartlessly, and by a cruel twist of fate she was once more lucid. “What do you know of love? No one's ever loved you in this life. No one ever will. I won't go where it's cold. It's warm here, and it's cold outside.”

“Mama!” The smoke was so thick Elinor could barely see her, but her bare feet could feel the flames getting closer, and if she waited much longer she wasn't going to get out of the house alive. She couldn't leave her there, wouldn't…

A strong arm came out of the darkness, snaking around her waist and lifting her up. She shrieked in protest, but the stranger paid no attention, scooping her into strong arms and moving through the burning house. Rafters fell behind them, and she could hear her mother's screams of laughter as they burst through into the cold night air.

She found herself dumped down on the snow with little ceremony, and she tried to run back into the house, but the hands that hauled her away were painful, and she turned in rage, and even the sight of Francis Rohan looking back at her had no effect on her. “I have to save her!” she cried as her mother's screams and laughter echoed into the night.

“She's not worth dying for, child,” he said, his voice cool and practical, and she hated him. “And I'm afraid it's too late.”

He spoke the truth. The burning house collapsed in on itself, and her mother's voice was shut off, gone completely, and she heard Lydia's sobs.

She tore herself away from him, going in search of her sister. Lydia was kneeling in the snow by Nanny Maude, and she'd covered her face, weeping. Elinor knelt beside her, putting her arms around her, holding her tight. There were tears on her own face, she realized with surprise. She'd given up on her mother long ago, and the King of Hell was right, she wasn't worth dying for. Even at the end she'd rejected her, and yet still Elinor wept.

He had moved to stand over them, and she ignored him, hugging her sister more tightly.

Jacobs appeared out of the shadows, white runnels of tears against the soot-dark face. “We need to get Nanny someplace,” he said in a voice choked with pain or the fire. Or both. “She needs a doctor.”

“Put her in my coach,” Rohan said, his orders crisp and clear, and Elinor wanted to pull away from Lydia and scream at him. She had no choice. Lydia's grief was more important than her rage. “We'll have my cousin come to check on her,” Rohan said. He moved away from her, wisely, and raised his voice. “Reading, why don't you see to Miss Lydia. I'm sure she'd appreciate your strong arm. She needs to get out of the snow and into the carriage before she freezes to death.”