Ruthless (26 page)

He moved quickly. He had no line of credit or bank in England, necessitating that he take a large amount of cash from his Paris bank. He sent Willis ahead to Calais to hire a boat—he needed one ready to sail at the first tide, and he had his valet pack his plainest clothes. He left the Maison de Giverney less than an hour after Charles had arrived, taking his horse and riding toward the coast hell-for-leather.

He stopped only to change horses, pushing on at a madman's pace. It was sheer luck that he decided that one more change was necessary, and he stopped at a small inn some ten miles from the coast. Sheer luck that when the man accosted him he didn't simply shoot him and move on.

It was the Harrimans' erstwhile coachman, though his name escaped Rohan. It didn't matter—the man knew who he was.

“Begging your pardon, your lordship,” the man said. “Miss Elinor and Miss Lydia—they're back at your house, aren't they? They're safe?”

Rohan looked at him. Jacobs, that was his name. The question was, who did he serve? The Harrimans? Or the new heir? “Why do you ask?” he said in a more civil tone than he usually used with servants. “Weren't you supposed to be in Dorset, seeing to the burial of Lady Caroline and the old nanny?”

“I didn't wait, your lordship. I came back here as soon as I could. There's trouble a-brewing at the old estate. The man who says he's her cousin—no one knows anything about him. He's turned off all the old servants, and when I tried to find out what was going on no one would talk to me. They were all scared, my lord, even with the man hundreds of miles away in France.”

“Indeed,” Rohan said, his face a mask. “And what do you suggest I do about this?”

“Make sure he doesn't come sniffing around my lady again,” the old man said with some dignity. “I don't trust him. There are stories—people have gone missing. I don't want her in any danger. I promised Nanny Maude.”

Rohan looked at him for a long moment. “I'm afraid we've failed,” he said finally, deciding to trust him. “He's already got Miss Harriman.”

“Oh, no, my lord,” Jacobs wailed. “He can't…I…”

“I'm going after her, though I pray it isn't too late. I've got a boat waiting for me in Calais. Am I correct in assuming you wish to accompany me?”

“Yes, m'lord,” he said, nodding vigorously. “I can show you the best way to get to Dunnet. I know places where…”

“Do you have a horse?” Rohan interrupted him.

“Me, sir? No, sir. I've been riding on the stage.”

“Get this man a horse,” he ordered the nearest hostler. “And be quick about it.” He looked at Jacobs. “You can ride, can't you?”

Jacobs drew himself up as tall as his stooped figure
could manage. “I'm a Dorset man, born and bred. Of course I can ride.”

“Then stop talking and get moving,” he snapped, his voice icy.

It took but a moment for a fresh horse to be saddled and brought forward. Long enough for Jacobs to peer into Rohan's face. “Er…your lordship?” he had the temerity to begin. “Are you allowed back in…?”

“I fail to see how that's any of your concern,” he said, mentally cursing the Harrimans and their talkative family. Did he have no privacy left? “Concentrate on Miss Elinor, and I'll worry about myself.”

“Yes, my lord. And Miss Lydia?”

“Happily married,” he said, waiting impatiently as Jacobs scrambled onto the horse.

“To that doctor fellow?” He sounded disapproving.

“To Mr. Reading.”

A broad smile wreathed his face. “That's all right then.”

“That,” said Rohan, “remains to be seen.”

To his amazement Jacobs kept up with him. It was close to midnight by the time they reached Calais, and three hours till the next tide. Rohan paced the deck of his hired yacht, unable to sit still, when he heard a voice from the quay. He strode to the side and looked down into Charles Reading's determined face.

He should have known. He leaned over the side. “You're not going to make me have to kill you?” Rohan called. “I'd really prefer not to.”

Charles stood looking up at him. “I've got orders from my wife. I'm supposed to bring you both back
safely, or it won't be worth coming home at all. At least I can watch your back while you commit suicide.”

Rohan grinned at him, sober, clear-eyed, determined. For the first time he had the sense that this desperate, crazy mission might not fail. “Then welcome aboard, old friend.”

“You're going to end up on Tower Hill, minus your head,” Charles grumbled as he followed Rohan onto the deck.

“Then you'll have two Harriman women to look out for,” he said lightly.

“Presuming we get there on time and presuming we manage to get back to France without running afoul of the King's men, what do you plan to do with your Miss Harriman?”

Rohan looked out past the harbor, into the dark sea. “Is it your business?” he inquired coolly.

“It is. She's my responsibility now that I've married her sister.”

Rohan gave a hollow laugh. “Oh, my dear Charles, she is not going to want to hear that.”

“It doesn't signify. What do you intend?”

“I suppose I intend to marry the girl,” he said, unable to sound too cheerful about the prospect.

“Why?”

“Holy Christ, Charles, do I have to explain myself to you? Isn't it enough that I'm doing the honorable thing?”

“It is not. If she doesn't want to marry you she doesn't have to.”

Rohan turned to look at him then. “I suggest you don't involve yourself,” he said. “Because she's going to marry me whether she wants to or not. I don't intend to give her a choice.”

“Why?” Charles said again.

Rohan cursed him, snarling. “You know as well as I do, damn you. Like it or not I seem to have grown a heart. I have absolutely no use for the damned thing, but there it sits, demanding Elinor. I can't live without her.”

Charles clapped his hand on his old friend's shoulder. “Welcome to the family, old boy.”

 

There were times when it seemed to Elinor as if she'd been traveling forever. The crossing had been rough, and her cousin had spent the time in his bunk, casting up his accounts, while Elinor stayed on the deck, reveling in the stormy waves. They suited her dark and stormy mood. By the time they reached Dover, Marcus was little better, and he spent the first day of their journey stretched out on the seat of their capacious Berline coach, moaning softly.

Elinor sat primly on the opposite seat, her eyes lowered. She should scarcely feel pleasure in another man's discomfort, but Marcus's sensitive stomach served her well. She wanted no signs of affection, as he'd seemed inspired to attempt before the sea afflicted him. There was something about his diffident kiss that felt dreadfully wrong, indecently so.

She knew why, of course. It was simply because he wasn't Rohan. The thought of lips other than his
touching hers naturally felt wrong. Just one more thing she'd have to grow accustomed to.

They were to be married when they reached the village of Dunnet on the Dorset coast, the site of her father's comfortable country estate. It had been twelve years since she was last there, yet she found she had no sentimental curiosity about returning. The world had gone from blazing color to muted black and white, and she expected it to continue that way until her death. It had been that way before she'd run afoul of the King of Hell, who'd shown her the colors of the universe.

Bastard pig spawn Rohan, she thought, glancing at her cousin as he reclined on the seat opposite her. Cousin Marcus was a well-looking man, to be sure, with taller than average height and a sturdiness that would eventually run to fat. It was a shame she found tall, elegant men with lean, golden bodies more appealing. Marcus was covered with a thick pelt of hair, so much that it peeped beneath his cuffs and tufted above his severe neck cloth, and every time she looked at it she shuddered. She had gotten over her infatuation with Rohan, she would get over that as well.

The best possible cure was a quick wedding and a quick bedding. The sooner she lay beneath him the sooner she would get past her maudlin longings for what had never been real in the first place.

By the time they arrived at the old house she was so weary she felt dazed. Marcus's excitement had grown as they drew nearer, his lingering illness finally vanishing. “Things haven't changed much since
you've been here, Elinor,” he said smoothly. “As I've only just taken possession of the house I haven't had time to put my own stamp on it.” What was clearly an unpleasant thought crossed his face. “And of course you'll want to have some say in things.”

“No,” she said wearily, “I won't. I'm sure you know the place far better than I ever did. And indeed, it's your house, not mine.”

There was a look of deep satisfaction in his dark eyes. “Indeed, it is. But once we're married it will be
our
house.”

He didn't sound as enthusiastic about the idea as she would have thought, but the house and estate were the least of her concerns. In fact, she doubted she'd ever give a fig for it. All she wanted was a bed and for the world to stop moving.

They arrived at dusk, and as liveried footmen helped her down she glanced up at the old house, waiting for some sense of relief, of familiarity, to lighten her bleak spirits. There was none. She looked around her, hoping to see some of the old servants including Nanny Maude's much younger sister, Betty, among the staff that was lined up to greet them. There was no sign of her, or any of the servants she had once remembered with fondness. Everyone was a stranger, including the man she'd traveled with, and a faint shiver crossed her spine.

A moment later she was swept inside with a great fuss, taken upstairs to her mother's old rooms, and she knew a moment's distaste. Like the rest of the house, those rooms had been redecorated, presumably for her
short-lived stepmother, who clearly had appalling taste. Everything was new and faintly gaudy, and she wondered that her father had married such a tasteless woman. The one thing that could be said for Lady Caroline—her judgment in such matters had been exquisite.

Elinor looked about her, at the rich velvet hangings that were just the wrong color, and there should have been no memories attached. Indeed, brooding over her childhood would give her welcome respite from the current subject of her dark and longing thoughts. The maid who came to wait on her was young and nervous, and once Elinor had washed some of the travel dust from her, she rejected the notion of napping. She'd been trapped in that coach for too long. She needed to stretch her legs, to walk around the grounds and see if those too had changed as dramatically.

Here at least she found familiar ground. She walked past the winter-dead orchards, the spring gardens that were beginning to show just the barest tip of buds reaching through the ground. She remembered playing with Lydia in better times, well out of sight or attention of their parents, and she knew a sudden fierce longing for her sister, so powerful she wanted to weep. She should be happy—her sister was by now safely Madame De Giverney, she thought as her mood began to quickly deteriorate. She'd married that pompous, self-satisfied idiot and it was Elinor's fault; all this was her fault, and she'd ruined her sister's life as badly as she had her own.

She fought back the tears. Tears were a waste of
time, and in no short order she'd be a married woman as well, mistress of the household she thought she'd left behind forever. She had pined for England, secretly, for the house and grounds, for the life that was gone forever. It now seemed as hollow as her dreams.

She let herself back into the house by a side door she'd used when she was younger. Neither the new nor the old Baron Tolliver lived with the formality evinced by the Viscount Rohan. There were no footmen stationed at each door, ready to assist. In fact, the house seemed oddly understaffed, she thought as she wandered through the shadowy, deserted hallway.

Marcus was standing in the hall, looking impatient. “I wondered where you disappeared to, my dear,” he said smoothly. “I was worried about you. You've seemed a bit disconsolate lately.”

“Really?” she said, surprised. She'd been putting a great deal of energy into being amiable and even-tempered. Perhaps her fiancé was more sensitive than she gave him credit for. “All the travel has been wearying.”

“Of course,” he said swiftly. “And my trials aren't over yet. I wanted to tell you that I've been called to London for the rest of the week. Some business to do with the estate. I hope you don't mind, dear Elinor. I should be back on Monday, and the arrangements are set for our marriage to take place that very day.”

She summoned an agreeable smile. “That sounds lovely.” Why in God's name had she ever agreed to this mad proposal? She'd been so desperate to
leave France she would have jumped into the channel and swum.

He leaned over and kissed her hand with a wet, smacking sound, and it took all her determination not to pull back. “I'll miss you, my dear,” he said, looking down at her. “It won't be long now.”

“I'll miss you too, Marcus,” she replied. Holding her breath until she was finally alone.

She'd thought the house would feel more familiar with Marcus elsewhere, but it didn't. Some rooms were still the same—whoever had done the massive redecorating had been uninterested in the kitchens and stables. But no matter how she looked, she could find no one who had been there in her father's time, and she eventually stopped asking.

Indeed, there was little that interested her. Not food, since the new cook seemed to favor heavy sauces swimming in fat. Normally she would have found something to read even in her father's narrow library, but the written word couldn't hold her attention. In fact, she wanted to do nothing but doze by the fire. Her dreams were bizarre and colorful, but most of the time Rohan didn't appear in them, and when he did he was suitably contrite. When she awoke, her face was still wet with tears, but she couldn't blame herself. She would have thought the more time passed, the less she felt like crying, but for some reason she'd become a total watering pot.