He drained the glass of wine and set it down carefully, resisting the impulse to fling it across the room. Much as he wanted to shatter something, break something, it would simply be more proof of how disordered his mind and his desires had become. Marianne would be in attendance this week, and after the last interruption at his château, he realized it had been quite some time since he’d been able to fully enjoy her. Surely she’d manage to distract him for a few good hours. She was an expert, graceful, practiced, intuitive as to what he did and didn’t like.

So why was he suddenly desiring awkwardness? He should be concentrating on other, more important things. Like who had shot him? Was it his so-dear French heir, the disgruntled Etienne? Or someone else he’d managed to offend during his long, wicked life?

As Etienne had said, one had only to meet him in order to want to kill him, though he did think that was a trifle harsh. There were any number of his acquaintances who would gladly sell their souls for him. Unfortunately he had no belief in the existence of any force willing to buy those souls.

At least there had been no more attempts on his life. Perhaps that had simply been a stray bullet, a random event. And perhaps he’d forget all about Elinor Harriman. Whether he believed in any kind of god, there was always the possibility of miracles.

The new Baron Tolliver was a handsome man. Despite the fact that he had the unmistakable Harriman Nose, it fit far better in a masculine face, Elinor decided. He had bright blue eyes, a full-lipped mouth, a strong body just above-average height and a pleasant smile.

“Miss Harriman,” he’d said, coming up to her and taking her hand. “I’m devastated that I was out of town when you sought to meet with me. Mr. Mitchum should have gotten word to me and I would have returned to Paris immediately.”

His gloved hand was firm and reassuring, and she blinked, momentarily distracted. “There was no need, my lord,” she lied. “I was simply hoping to discuss—”

“Oh, my dear cousin, and I hope I may call you cousin. And please, you must call me Marcus. We are, after all, distantly related.”

Elinor blinked, not expecting such forceful graciousness, and then she pulled herself together. Perhaps because of The Nose, he looked very much like her father, dispelling her distant hope that he might be an interloper. Not that that would have been to her advantage—the estate would presumably have gone on to an even more remote relative, or returned to the Crown.

“Cousin Marcus,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “You’re very gracious. Please sit, sir. May I offer you tea? Perhaps something to eat?”

“You are more than kind,” he said, taking the seat opposite her with a flourish of his elegant coat. “Tea would be delightful. I am so pleased to see you living in such obvious comfort. I confess that when I reached the neighborhood I was sorely distressed that my cousins should have fallen upon such poverty, but I am relieved to see that things are not so dire. Tell me how I may assist you, cousin, and I will endeavor to do so.”

He had a warm, confiding smile, and she told herself to breathe a sigh of relief. “Mr. Mitchum mentioned that there was a small legacy left to me. I’m afraid our current circumstances aren’t as comfortable as they might appear—we are living on the charity of a wealthy benefactor, and that help might disappear. I would prefer not to have to rely on others for our well-being, and I wondered what the nature of the legacy might be.” She chose her words carefully, determined not to sound greedy.

She hadn’t been careful enough. “Wealthy benefactor?” he said, frowning. “And who might that be?”

The King of Hell. The most profligate man in France and probably England as well, the Lord of the Heavenly Host. If she told him the truth, her cousin would walk away in disgust and horror.

“He prefers to remain anonymous,” she said. Astonishing how easy it was to lie when it was necessary. In truth, Viscount Rohan probably did prefer that people didn’t know he was supplying them with both the necessities and the elegancies of life and so far had sought nothing in return. Their knowing would destroy his ruthless, soulless reputation.

“Ah,” said the newly minted baron. “I wish I could thank him myself for his kindness to my kinswomen. And may I ask where the rest of your family is? My lawyers inform me that your mother still lives, though she is quite ill.”

“Not for much longer. She’s not conscious, but extremely agitated, and it might be for the best if you didn’t see her.”

“Nonsense,” he said, having acquired a lordly manner in very little time. “I must pay my respects to the former baroness.” He rose, and Elinor rose as well, inwardly cursing him. She could throw herself in front of him in an effort to stall him, but in the end it would do her no good. So she simply nodded.

“Of course,” she said, resigned. “This way.”

It was scarcely a long walk in their cluttered little house, made worse by the comfortable furniture Lord Rohan had sent them. Her cousin made a muffled groan when he accidentally rammed his hip against the sideboard that held the exquisite glassware that had arrived four days ago. She moved ahead of him and pushed open the door of the sickroom, bracing herself.

They’d taken the restraints off Lady Caroline over a week ago, as her state of malaise seemed to deepen. Nanny Maude would coax a little chicken broth down her throat, and every now and then Caroline opened her eyes. Nanny was perched in the comfortable chair beside the bed, the chair thanks to Lord Rohan, as well as the warm, rich blankets that covered her mother’s frail form.

“Nanny Maude, this is our cousin, the new Lord Tolliver. Cousin Marcus, this is Nanny Maude, who’s been with us all our lives and takes excellent care of us.”

Nanny rose painfully, her dark eyes narrowed as she assessed the newcomer. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she said, managing a sketch of a curtsy. To the casual observer it was all right and proper, but Elinor had the strange sense that something wasn’t right. Nanny was staring at him with an odd expression on her face.

He gave her a polite nod and moved to stand over Lady Caroline. To Elinor’s amazement, her mother opened her eyes, focusing on the man in her room.

“Who are you?” she demanded in a voice that was little more than a croak. They were her first lucid words in more than a week.

“Your late husband’s heir, Lady Caroline,” he said pleasantly. “Marcus Harriman.”

“Marcus, eh?” She struggled to sit up, and Nanny quickly moved to her side, trying to calm her, but the glint of madness was back in her eyes. “Come here. Closer.”

“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.