Free The Deception by Catherine Coulter Page B

wondering what was happening. They’d thrown her in one coach, her father in another. At dawn they’d arrived in Paris. And they’d shoved her into that narrow room that held Houchard.
    So quickly, her life had changed so very quickly, and irrevocably. No, no, she was being foolish. She was in England, in her bedchamber at Chesleigh. No men were waiting outside her door to drag her anywhere. She quickly pinched her cheeks to bring color to her face. She patted the severe chignon at the nape of her neck and called out in beautiful, clear French,
“Entrez!”
    She heard someone mutter something, then shouted out, this time in English, “Enter!”
    The muttering continued. Frowning, Evangeline opened the bedchamber door.
    An old woman shuffled into the room, small feet peeping beneath a beautifully woven dark blue gown, fitted at her meager waist in the style of the last century. Her face was the texture of fine parchment paper, her back hunched forward with age. Her sparse white hair was pulled into a skinny bun, revealing patches of pink scalp. She didn’t come higher than Evangeline’s chin. She looked ready to fall over at any moment; indeed the look of fragility was frightening until she raised her eyes to Evangeline’s face. She had beautiful eyes, bright with awareness and intelligence, as blue as a summer sky, a young girl’s eyes.
    Was she a mad great aunt the duke kept hidden away in the attic? She had a hand ready just in case the old lady decided to crumble where she was standing. She said, “My name is Evangeline. Who are you?”
    The old lady didn’t say anything for the longest time, just stared up at Evangeline, her head tilted to the left, like an inquisitive sparrow.
    “May I do something for you, ma’am? If you’re lost, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I only arrived at Chesleigh yesterday afternoon.”
    “Och, I know where I am, and I know who ye be, my little lass. Ye be her dead grace’s cousin, all grown up now.” She had the softest voice, lilting in a faint Scottish accent. It was like singing.
    “I’m not such a little lass,” Evangeline said, smiling. “My father calls me his grand big girl, and so I am. Would you like to sit down, ma’am? I could ring for tea if you would like some.”
    “Oh, no, I don’t drink that vile brew. Nay, I only drink the distilled ochre bark from the pine nut tree.Aye, ye’re a grand big girl all right, a perfect height ye are. Now, ye think I’m going to croak it here, right on this carpet, don’t ye, lass?”
    “I sincerely hope that you won’t. Please, sit down. Tell me who you are and what I may do for you.”
    “I’m Mrs. Needle.” She stopped cold, expecting, naturally, that Evangeline knew exactly who she was.
    “Hello, Mrs. Needle. I’m very glad to meet you.” What was she to do?
    “Ye’re not as pretty as she was—her dead grace—but ye’ve more character than that sly little peahen, who hadn’t hardly enough character to fill a thimble, and ye’ve got the heat in yer eyes. Smart eyes ye’ve got, not a little lassie’s eyes, not her dead grace’s eyes. She had tempest eyes, all quivery with temper when she was thwarted. Jest a young little thing she was: spoiled, petulant, and demanding one minute, the little charmer the next, aye, a winsome child, fooled my boy but good, but that didn’t last long. A pity she tried to cheat my boy, thwarted him she did, all because she was terrified she’d die birthing another babe. Then she died anyway.
    “Aye, and jest look at that chin of yers, all strong and no nonsense, that chin. Ye’ll give as good as ye get. What do ye think of that, my little lassie?”
    Evangeline said after all that, without hesitation, “What do you mean, I’ve got heat in my eyes?”
    The old lady laughed, a dry, choking laugh that made Evangeline think her fine old bones would crumble with the strength of it. “Och, little lassie, ye won’t know until ye have his hands on ye. Once that happens,