The Deception (Baron 3)

“I look like you, Mother, so you’re merely showing your own conceit.”

“Oh, not entirely. Your father was also a splendid-looking gentleman.” She knew that her son, just as his father had been before him, was continually plagued by hopeful young ladies, as well as by married ladies, and ladies who were not ladies at all. She wondered if he hadn’t fallen in love because women had so eagerly thrown themselves into his arms and into his bed since he’d reached the age of sixteen. Perhaps even younger, she thought. Her husband had been inordinately proud of his son’s sexual prowess. He’d loved his son more than he loved his wife, she suspected. He would curse his son’s wildness one moment, and preen like the proud papa he was the next. Ah, and then the son had bowed to his father’s wishes, married, presented the world with an heir, lost his wife, and now conducted his life in a more discreet fashion. And he was bitterly unhappy.

She said in the most indifferent voice in her repertoire, “You’ve told me that Evangeline is half English.”

“Yes,” he said, and that was all. He couldn’t begin to imagine what his mother would say if he added that he felt more lust for her than any woman he’d ever met in his life and he also wanted to strangle her, and perhaps hold her tightly against him when they slept together.

“I believe,” Marianne Clothilde said, smoothing down her lovely pale blue muslin skirts, “it’s time for Monsieur Possette to arrive. He arranges my hair most charmingly.” With that, she walked from the drawing room. She paused at the door and said in an airy voice, “Who knows? Perhaps Evangeline will come to London soon. Perhaps I will invite her myself. What do you think of that?”

He looked hunted. What was she to make of that? “Don’t, Mother,” he said. “Don’t.”

In that moment, as he stood alone as the devil staring out into the rain, he saw her arching her back against his arm as he caressed her with his mouth. “Damn you, Evangeline,” he said to no one at all.

He thought of his mistress, Morgana, but oddly, although he missed her cutting wit, her awesome skills, he didn’t want her. He only wanted one woman, curse her.

He felt violent. He thought of Bunyon and rubbed his hands together. This afternoon they’d go to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon. Every punch would make him feel better, despite which one of them was hit.

Chapter 21

Evangeline was surprised to see Mrs. Raleigh very nearly running down the long corridor toward the north wing, her household keys jangling madly at her waist.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Raleigh?” she called out as she closed her bedchamber door behind her. “May I help?”

“Oh, Madame. Good morning.” She stopped and turned to face Evangeline, her face pink from her exertion. “I’ll tell you, Madame, I’m worried about Mrs. Needle. She always eats her porridge in the servants’ hall precisely at seven o’clock in the morning. No one has seen her. It’s after eight. Something’s wrong, I know it. She is so very old, you know. I must go see.”

“I’ll come with you,” Evangeline said, falling into step beside the housekeeper. “She probably lost track of the time while making up some new potion.”

When they reached the turret room, Evangeline rapped on the door and called, “Mrs. Needle, it’s Madame de la Valette and Mrs. Raleigh. Are you all right?”

There was no answer. Evangeline called out again. Still nothing.

“I knew it,” Mrs. Raleigh said, “something is wrong. She’s ill, I know it.”

“Perhaps she’s in the home wood gathering mushrooms,” Evangeline said even as she turned the large brass doorknob. She didn’t believe that, though. She didn’t want to go into the tower room.

The smell of drying roses was strong in the air. “Mrs. Needle?”

Evangeline walked slowly about the room, Mrs. Raleigh close on her heels. She drew in her breath sharply. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Oh, dear.”

Evangeline ran to the other side of the screen, into the small alcove that was Mrs. Needle’s sleeping area. The old woman lay crumpled on her side. Evangeline knew that she was dead even before she knelt down beside her and closed her fingers over her veined wrist. There was no pulse, and her body was stiff. Mrs. Needle had been dead for many hours.

“She was an old woman,” Mrs. Raleigh said. “But still it is distressing. It must have been her heart. I pray it was quick. She never allowed any of us to remain long with her. Oh, goodness, I’m so very sorry that her

time came when she was alone.”

Evangeline sat back on her heels and closed her eyes. Unbidden, the peaceful face of her mother rose in her mind, her pale lips quirked in a smile, her sightless blue eyes staring until the doctor gently lowered her lids. She had felt only shock at first at her mother’s death; the stiff figure that had been her mother had seemed alien to her. Grief had come later. “Yes,” Evangeline said finally, looking up at Mrs. Raleigh. “She was an old woman, a very old woman. Fetch Bassick. He will know what is to be done.” Mrs. Raleigh nodded and hurried from the room, the keys at her waist making light clanging noises as she ran down the stone steps.

Evangeline looked down into Mrs. Needle’s face. All the ancient lines seemed to have been smoothed out. She didn’t look as old in death. She reached down and rested her palm for a brief moment against Mrs. Needle’s cold cheek. The poor old woman. She’d died alone, with no one to share her passing. Her eyes fell to the open neck of Mrs. Needle’s old wool gown, and she saw in the hollow of her wrinkled throat two violet bruises, each the size of a man’s thumb. She sat back on her heels, closing her eyes. Oh no, oh God no. She forced herself to look again, more closely. No, those horrible thumb marks were still there, deep, deadly. Mrs. Needle hadn’t died alone—someone had strangled her.

She covered her face with her hands. It was all her fault. She’d told John Edgerton about Mrs. Needle. She’d probably even mentioned her name, but she didn’t remember if she had or not. She’d told him that the old woman suspected that something wasn’t right with her. She’d mentioned her only because—a sob tore from her throat, and she covered her face in her hands. The truth was that she’d told Edgerton hoping to use the poor old woman to frighten him into calling a halt to his madness. But instead he’d simply removed her, as if she’d been nothing more than a flick of lint from a jacket sleeve. He’d ordered her murder. And she was the one responsible. Mrs. Needle was dead because Evangeline had come to Chesleigh castle. There was no excuse for her, none at all.

Bassick found Evangeline rocking back and forth over Mrs. Needle’s body, her face streaked with tears, her eyes blind, her body bowed with awful pain.

“Madame,” he said quietly, dropping his hand to her shoulder. “You must come away now. I’m sorry her passing has caused you such grief. The shock of finding someone who has died can be very distressing.”

Evangeline looked up at him. “She’s dead, Bassick. Don’t you understand? She’s dead.”

He knelt beside her and carefully pressed the flat of his hand over Mrs. Needle’s heart. “Yes, I understand. Leave now and I will see to things. It was her heart. She was old, very old. It just stopped, yes, doubtless it simply stopped. It was an easy passing, Madame. I have sent for the doctor. He will arrive shortly. Go, Madame.”