The Deception (21 page)

He’d won and she knew it. He probably saw it in her face as well. Not Edmund, not her boy, who was becoming more dear to her by the day. She couldn’t bear it.

“Do you understand me?”

Finally, she said so low he had to lean close to hear her, “Yes, I understand.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you can keep in your mind a picture of your father holding little Edmund against his chest, the two of them buried deeply in the same grave.”

Yes, she could see that clearly. She said nothing more, and her expression remained fixed. She felt cold and sick. Edgerton had won.

Eventually—she didn’t know how much time had
passed—she made her way slowly up the cliff path, clutching her father’s letter close. It was over for her, everything was over for her. She was now a traitor to England.

She had betrayed the duke.

There was no going back now.

T
revlin sat back on the cushioned wooden bench in the White Goose Inn, his thirst slaked by a mug of porter. If he had thought it odd that Madame de la Valette wished to travel some five miles from Chesleigh simply to explore the tiny Norman church set atop the chalk cliffs, it wasn’t his place to ask questions. He supposed that the young lady was restless, what with only Lord Edmund and the servants to keep her company at the huge castle, and had thus taken to exploring the countryside. In the past several weeks he had accompanied her to Landsdown, a picturesque village in the rolling hills near Southsea, and to Southampton, to visit an abbey that had survived despite centuries of political and religious upheavals, or so she had told him.

When she first arrived at Chesleigh, he had thought her a lively lady, whose laughter had more than once brought a smile to his lips. But lately, she seemed more withdrawn, even during their jaunts about the countryside. Trevlin crooked his finger at the barmaid, a pretty wench with an impertinent tongue, to bring him another mug. The wink she gave him removed further thoughts of Madame from his mind.

*  *  *

Evangeline’s nose wrinkled at the overpowering smell of fish as she turned off the narrow cobbled road that served as the thoroughfare in the small village of Chitterly onto a winding path that led to its ancient stone church. Although there was no one in sight, she sensed that she was being watched. She heard a sudden rustling of leaves behind her and whirled about. There was no one.

She’d stayed close to Edmund since that night with Edgerton down in the protected cove. Of course, Edmund had tired of that quickly enough. She tried to act naturally around him, to laugh and jest with him, but it was difficult for her. Every shadow she saw, every unexpected noise she heard, could be a threat to him.

She’d begun a journal of everyone she’d met, where they were bound, their descriptions, everything she thought could be helpful. She supposed, deep down, that she wanted so badly for something to happen which would resolve the situation that she wanted to have all the proof she could gather.

When she lay in bed at night, alone, frightened, still she wondered if she shouldn’t write to the duke, beg his help. Then she saw Edmund in her father’s arms, and both of them were pale in death, silent, gone from her. She wondered how long she could go on like this. She even considered sneaking to London and killing John Edgerton herself, but there was Edmund, always her boy, for he was hers now, his laughter, his continuing attempts to chase her down in her highwayman role and shoot her with the gun given to him by an evil man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. Who had Edgerton told to kill Edmund if she betrayed him?

Oh, Edmund. The threat to him defeated her as the
threat to her father hadn’t. He was here, with her, in her care. She was responsible for him, and he was so very vulnerable. He was only five years old.

By the time she reached the top of the rise and the arched oak doors of the church, she was outwardly calm again. She grasped the heavy bronze ring and pushed inward, and the door opened with a loud creak. It was cold and damp inside, for little warmth could penetrate the thick stone walls.

The church was empty. She walked slowly up the narrow aisle, past the bare wooden benches, toward the vestry. She heard a soft scraping sound and froze. “You are the Eagle?”

A slight man, dressed in the coarse woolens of a fisherman, stepped out of the shadows. He was a young man without a sign of a beard on his smooth cheeks.

“Yes,” she said just above a whisper. “Were you following me?”

“Nay, it was my partner. He doesn’t trust women. He would have sliced your lovely throat had you not come alone.”

He was trying to frighten her, but oddly enough, his words didn’t touch her. She’d gone beyond fear for herself. She held out her hand. “Give me your packet now. I have little time to waste with you.”

He frowned at her, for she’d surprised him. Then he slowly drew a dirty envelope from the waistband of his trousers and handed it to her. Evangeline paid him no more attention. She sat down on one of the wooden benches and spread the single sheet of paper on her lap. She raised her eyes. “You’re this man Conan DeWitt?”

The man shook his head. “He’s my partner. He’s the gentleman, not I.”

“Bring him to me. I must see him.” He looked undecided. “Conan told me to meet with you.”

“Nevertheless, he must come in. If he refuses, I cannot do anything further.” Buried in the coded message from Houchard was the description of Conan DeWitt, a man tall and fair, with a mole on his left cheek near his eye.

“Very well,” he said finally, “but there better be good reason.” She shrugged. “I care not what you decide to do.” “I’ll see if he’ll come.”

He slipped out of the church and returned some minutes later accompanied by a tall man dressed in country buckskins, swinging a cane negligently in his right hand.

Conan DeWitt stared down at the girl. She had an uncommonly lovely face, despite its pallor. Jamie had called her a cold bitch, but his voice had held grudging respect. “What is it you want with me, Eagle?”

“Houchard provided your description. I have to be certain that you are the man he speaks of.”

He touched his fingertip to the large mole. “Are you satisfied?”

Evangeline nodded, and quickly wrote her initials on the lower corner of the paper. She handed it to DeWitt. “Have you a packet for me?”

DeWitt handed her a thin envelope. Evangeline stuffed it into her cloak pocket and rose.

“Jamie was right. You are a cold bitch. I told Houchard that women aren’t to be trusted, but he insisted that you were different, that he had such a hold over you that you would never dare to betray us. He believed Edgerton more than me.” He shrugged. “We will see. I’ve always found that women’s consciences
are fragile. I will ask Edgerton what this hold is. He wants you, you know. And he will have you, eventually.”

She found a laugh, one that was filled with all the contempt she felt for that traitorous bastard. “Your opinions are doubtless a result of your character, Mr. DeWitt. I believe our business is concluded. I’m away.”

“Yes, a bitch,” he said quietly, gave her one more long look, a fair brow arched. She quickly gave him John Edgerton’s London address and turned to leave the church, but DeWitt’s voice stopped her. “That man, Trevlin. Be certain that he doesn’t suspect anything. If he does, he’s dead.”

She felt a leap of panic, but didn’t show anything except her impatience with him. “Don’t be a fool. The man suspects nothing. See to your own affairs and leave mine to me.”

Evangeline turned on her heel and walked deliberately away from him, out of the church and into the bright sunlight. He was a handsome man, one who would undoubtedly gain entrance anywhere he wished to go in London. The mole, though, that gave one pause. She had a lot to write in her journal about Conan DeWitt.

The duke of Portsmouth stood at the wide, bowed windows in the drawing room of his town house on York Square, staring at the rivulets of rain that streaked down the glass. He held a letter from Evangeline in his hand, one of her governess’s bloodless progress reports. It was written in the most formal of styles, impersonal, lifeless, and he wished he had her white neck between his hands, damn her. It was the fifth one he’d received from her. She could have been
an utter stranger. Certainly she wasn’t the woman he’d caressed, whose breasts he’d stroked with his hands, whose mouth he’d kissed until he’d believed he’d spill his seed if he didn’t have her.

Now she was a stranger. She’d removed herself as far as she could from him. He was surprised that the pain of her final words to him still lingered, still pulsed deeply in him, making him wonder what had pushed her to say those things to him, what he had done to provoke them. And her insistence on not coming to London. None of it made any more sense to him today than it had the day before when he’d yet again chewed over it endlessly.

“Dearest, you might as well tell me what troubles you.”

He turned at the sound of his mother’s voice, and automatically shook his head. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious. It was distressing, but then again, his mother knew him nearly as well as his father had. He wouldn’t ever cause her distress. Thus he smiled and said, “There isn’t anything, Mother. It’s a dismal day, enough to drag a man’s soul to his feet. Dreary and dismal, nothing more. Don’t fret.”

The dowager duchess of Portsmouth, Marianne Clothilde by name, regarded her beautiful son. Like his father, he protected her, even when it was foolish to try. But she said only, returning his smile, “How goes Edmund?”

“Madame de la Valette reports that he will soon be penning his first novel, he is that precocious. She sends me the opening paragraph to his budding opus.” He handed his mother a single sheet of paper. Edmund’s printing was well executed. There were four sentences. She read aloud: “It was a dark and stormy night.
There wasn’t a moon. There were stars. There is more to come, but patience is required.”

She began laughing. “It’s wonderful. I believe Madame de la Valette is a genius.”

“She probably told him what to write. It’s nothing at all.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist, Richard. I’ll wager that Edmund’s thoughts are behind it, and Madame simply provided a few suggestions. I must write him this very day and praise him. I will ask for the next part of the story. I will tell him that patience is difficult with such a splendid beginning as this.”

“It is good, is it?” the duke said, his voice gruff and filled with such pride that she wanted to cry.

“Yes, very good, and it’s been just three weeks. It appears that Madame de la Valette is making excellent progress. I miss the boy, you know.” She looked down at what she saw was hunger in her son’s beautiful eyes. Hunger? For his son? Yes, that must be it. But then, why didn’t he simply return to Chesleigh? That or bring Edmund here? She tested the water, saying, “I’ve been thinking, dearest. Edmund is no longer a baby. Soon he will need his father’s guiding hand. Could he not come up to London with Marissa’s cousin? I am curious to meet her as well.”

The duke eyed his mother suspiciously. Her dark eyes, so like his own, were guileless, which made him all the more wary. Like his father, his mother never missed anything. As a boy, he’d always failed whenever he’d tried to lie to either of them. “I think,” he said acidly, “that you have been talking to Bunyon. Damn the fellow for his infernal meddling.”

The dowager duchess merely smiled at her son’s show of temper. Naturally she’d spoken to Bunyon, but oddly enough, he’d said very little, which, she supposed,
she admired. Loyalty was important, after all. But her son had acted differently, more aloof, more thoughtful perhaps since his return from Chesleigh. She’d thought that he was still grieving for his friend Robbie Faraday, but no, she’d decided that wasn’t it. Nor had it anything to do with Sabrina Eversleigh, now Phillip Mercerault’s wife. Ah, but he was touchy. And alone, terribly alone, she thought. She didn’t know what to do, and that depressed her profoundly.

Marianne Clothilde lapsed into silence. Perhaps he wanted a new mistress, she thought, always a realist, something she refused not to be. Her son was every bit as lusty as his father before him—ah, but then his father had found her, Marianne Clothilde, daughter of an impoverished earl, and that had been when all his lust had stayed at home, with her, in their bed or wherever they happened to find themselves. She smiled at that wondrous memory. However, her son was very much his own man, despite the likeness to his father. She’d believed when he’d done as his father had wished and married Marissa that he would settle down, but he hadn’t. He’d never said a single word against his young wife. He’d never said a word against his father-in-law, who was a despicable man. And then Marissa had died.

Marianne Clothilde sighed. She was beginning to wonder if the duke would ever find a woman to suit him, a woman to complete him. What was Marissa’s cousin like?

She said to his back, for he’d turned to look out onto the rainy park opposite the house, “You know that Bunyon never tells me anything. I wish he would because you’re as closed as a clam.”

“Even now you could be lying for him. No,” he continued over his shoulder, “I’ll take the bastard, no,
not that precise word exactly, at least not to my mother. I’ll take Bunyon to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon and cave in his stomach.”

It was then that she realized he’d never answered her question. She smiled at his very stiff back. “You know, dearest, I’m growing bored with inactivity. Perhaps you would consider bringing Madame de la Valette and Edmund to London.” She added, with just a whiff of a whine, “I miss my only, dearest grandson. I would like to see him before I doubtless become very ill and unable to, and then die. Can’t you bring him and Madame de la Valette here? For your only, dear mother?”

The duke turned to face her, and she momentarily forgot her acting at the haggard look in his eyes. He slashed his hand in the air, saying in a harsh voice, “Madame has no desire to come to London. When I informed her that I wished it, she threatened to leave Chesleigh. When I told her she had nowhere else to go, she said it was none of my affair what she did. Then she sent me straight to hell, if I recall correctly.” Marianne Clothilde blinked. She attached herself to what was really important. “You
informed
her, my son? From what Bunyon has told me, she is a pleasant young woman, but also possesses great pride. Also, she is a poor relation, dependent upon you. Perhaps you were too high-handed in your treatment of her.” As his only answer was an uncompromising stare, she continued, “What is her name, dearest? I cannot keep referring to her as Madame de la Valette.”