Angel's Devil (3 page)

"And
conversed with a man to whom you had not been introduced. You might have been
ruined:'

Angel rolled
her eyes. "The marquis thought I was right in acting, so there's no harm
done."

Her mother
scoffed. "Oh, yes there is. You've put yourself in debt to a gentleman of
extreme ill repute."

"But who
is he?" Angel entreated. "The Marquis of Abbonley."

Angel blanched.
With that lean build and those fascinating emerald eyes, James Faring had
looked like a hero out of some romantic fable. She'd had no idea who he truly
was. No wonder her parents were so dismayed. "The Devil?" she
whispered.

"Exactly
so," her father answered, frowning. "The Devil himself."

"But he's
. . ." Angel trailed off, realizing that her life had just become a great
deal more complicated. "He's Simon's cousin."

2

T
he
Earl of Niston had told the truth. His coach was considerably more well-sprung
than a damned hired hack. If not for the Graham parents' stiff-backed
disapproval and his still-aching wounds, James decided that he might have
enjoyed his return to London. As it was, though, he was relieved that Brutus
was along to accept a portion of the poorly disguised hostility.

The wisest decision would undoubtedly have been to stay in Dover for
another few days. His welcome in London had never been the most certain of
things, anyway, though in the past he hadn't much cared. But it was time to
reform, to see if he could finally become respectable. He'd been away for over
a year this time, and after what Wellington and Napoleon had put him through,
the
ton's
token demon was ready to settle down.

He glanced
speculatively over at Angel. The simplest and most obvious way to demonstrate
that he- had mended his ways would be to find a wife. And to be perfectly
honest, Angelique Graham seemed more lively, and certainly more interesting,
than the docile and demure female he had envisioned for himself. She was a
beauty, with her copper hair and impossibly long-lashed bright hazel eyes, and
he had been quite unable to resist rushing to her rescue.

The Earl of
Niston cleared his throat. "How'd you come to return to England today?"
he queried.

"Doctor
only let me out of bed a week ago," James returned. He shrugged, the
motion pulling at the tender scar on his left shoulder. "Today was the
first day I thought I could make it."

That seemed to signal Lady Niston to begin what his grandmother had
deemed goose-down prattle, feathery-light and meaningless conversation that
required no response and that seemed to drift out of thought as soon as the
words were spoken. Camellia Graham was an
artiste.
The younger Graham
female twiddled her fingers, gazed out the small window, and looked over at
him several times, obviously as bored as he. Finally, she became engrossed in
stitching some sort of design onto a handkerchief, no small feat in the lurching
coach. The tip of her tongue protruded from one side of her lips in
concentration.

"What are
you making, Lady Angelique?" he ventured when the mother had to pause to
take a breath.

She looked up
at him. "Roses," she answered, leaning forward to show him and giving
him what would have been a superb view of her bosom if he had been feeling so
inclined as to look.

"Very
nice," he muttered, glancing at her mother.

"You
didn't even look," Angelique protested, sitting back again.

"I
did."

"You
didn't." She examined her handiwork again. "They are a bit crooked,
I'm afraid."

"Angelique,"
Lady Graham rebuked.

James stifled a
smile. "They're lovely." The coach rocked through yet another rut,
and he hissed. The dog looked up at him and wagged its tail.

"Do you
wish to stop for a bit?" the countess asked.

He shook his
head tightly, concentrating on taking deep breaths. "I'm fine."

"Don't be
a nodcock," Angel snapped, her voice and expression concerned. "You
look horrid."

"Well,
thank you very much," he retorted. No one had ever dared call him a
nodcock before, and he wasn't certain he liked it.

"Angel!"
her mother admonished again.

"I'm
trying to be nice," she protested.

Thus far her
attempts at propriety hadn't seemed to be going very well. They had something
in common, then. "Be nice to someone else," he suggested tightly.

The earl
cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Abbonley, but I hardly think it's
appropriate for you to speak to my daughter in that manner."

James looked
sideways at him.

"You know," the countess began before he had decided how
diplomatically to word his reply, "that reminds me of a particularly
amusing
on dit
I heard several weeks ago about the Duke of Kent."

"Oh,
really?" James responded, forcing his lips into what he hoped would pass
for a smile.

"Yes. It
seemed he . . . "

James lost
track of what the countess was saying as he glanced over at Angelique. She
crossed her eyes at him, and he coughed to cover his surprised and amused
chuckle.

After another
agonizing two hours of rotted roads and exsiccating conversation, the coach
rolled to a halt in front of Faring House. When James stepped to the ground,
his bad leg, stiff from the long sit, gave way, and he had to hang onto the
door handle to keep from falling. Brutus stood, apparently ready to follow
him, but the girl hauled on the leash and the dog sat again.

"A
pleasure, Lady Angelique," James murmured, looking up at her.
"Perhaps we shall meet again."

She returned
his smile. "I'm certain we shall, my lord."

"Thank
you, Niston, my lady," he nodded.

"Very
good," the earl muttered, and in a moment the coach rumbled out of the
drive. James sighed. With the exception of Miss Graham, and Brutus, that had
been agonizing. Hopefully the remainder of proper London society would be less
trying.

"My
God," came a voice from the townhouse doorway, and he looked up to see his
cousin coming toward him at a run. "Jamie!"

"Simon,"
the marquis replied, grinning, and found himself pulled into a careful
embrace. "I won't— break," he growled.

With a chuckle
Simon tightened his grip and thumped him on the back. "You look half
dead," his cousin commented. "By God, I'm pleased to see you."

"Steady,
Simon. I'm not exactly in sterling condition, either."

"Why
didn't you write that you were returning?" his cousin complained, releasing
him. "We were worried about you, you know. Those damn rumors from Belgium,
and the—"

"I did
write. And believe me, I've heard all about the wagering and the pish-posh
about the Devil's due. It's good to see you again." He gripped his
cousin's shoulder.

"Who was
it that brought you back?" Simon asked. "I owe them a debt."

James grinned.
"An angel rescued me and flew me home."

Simon grimaced.
"We'd best get you inside. I believe you're delirious."

The marquis
chuckled. "It was the Earl of Niston and his family."

"Niston?"
Simon started, then gave a grin of his own.

"Oh,
that
Angel. I'm glad you've met her. Isn't she wonderful?"

"Yes, she
is. In fact—" James stopped, frowning and abruptly suspicious.
"You're hardly the type to send innocents in my direction. Why are you
glad I've met her," he queried, "and why is it I have the feeling I'm
missing something here?"

His cousin
looked at him for a moment. "They didn't say anything, did they?" he
sighed. "I'm glad you've met her because, come next April, I'll be married
to her."

James let go of
his cousin's shoulder and straightened, despite the wave of dizziness that ran
through him. "Married?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow and carefully
suppressing his abrupt disappointment. "You?"

"I'm not
the one who's sworn off marriage," Simon pointed out. "That was you.
And we'll discuss it later." His cousin grabbed James as his knees gave
way. "You sapskull," Simon growled, as he motioned the butler to
come out from the doorway. "You must have been rowing with one oar to try
to get back here now. You could have waited a few more weeks, for Lucifer's
sake."

"I've been
away long enough." With that the last of his strength gave out. As he
sagged into Simon's grip, his cousin began yelling for the servants to come
help because the marquis was finally home.

"Just like you to sleep through a family reunion, Jamie." His
eyes snapped open. Elizabeth, the Dowager Viscountess Wansglen, sat by the
bed, a cup of tea in her hand and a book on the table beside her. "Grandmama
,
"
he smiled, delighted, but when he tried to sit up she motioned him back with a
quick wave that nearly sent the tea cascading over the bed sheets.

"Oh,
bother," she muttered, and set the cup down.

"You've
turned me into a bundle of nerves, child."

Grandmama
Elizabeth was the only person who to his knowledge still referred to him as a
child. "That wasn't my intention," he responded.

"Then what
was your intention, coming home without letting anyone know? You might have
written a letter. Instead we get your trunks, your valet, and a note saying,
'I'll be home when I can.' Simon said you were half dead when you arrived. You
know better than to be so foolish."

James grinned.
"Still haven't given up railing at me, have you? And I did write. Blame
the London Mail, not me."

Unexpectedly,
the dowager viscountess leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "I
missed you horribly, Jamie. Simon always listens to me when I scold
him."
 

He laughed.
"When have you ever scolded Simon?"

Elizabeth
Talbott smiled. "You were both wicked boys. Simon grew out of it."

James's smile
faded. It was true he had grown up wild after the death of his mother, just
before his sixth birthday. He had driven governesses to distraction arid to
positions elsewhere on a regular basis, and later only just escaped being sent
down from Cambridge when he and Viscount Luester decided a brawl was the best
way to decide the question of which of them owned a certain lady's heart. The
answer to that question, though, wasn't ultimately decided until a year later
with a duel in a damp, fog-shrouded meadow. A duel that had given him the
nickname of Devil.

He glanced
away. "Simon told me he's engaged."

She nodded.
"Yes, to Angelique Graham. She's a lovely sprite, and Simon's convinced
she's a gift from heaven. Her daft parents, though, want to keep the whole
thing a secret."

"What in
the world for?"

"Oh,
you'll have to ask Simon," she grumbled. "They don't think she's
settled enough for him, or some rot." Her expression changed slightly.
"But then you've met her, haven't you?"

"Yes, I
have." He frowned as she eyed him over the rim of her cup. "What's
that look for?"

"Nothing.”

"Oh,"
he retorted. "I see. I set eyes on Simon's betrothed, and you think I'll
attempt something scandalous."

"No, I
don't. I was just wondering . . . if you'd changed your mind about'
marrying."

"I've been
asking myself the same question, actually," he admitted after a moment.
"It does rather seem to be past time for it."

His grandmother
practically glowed. "Oh, Jamie, that's wonderful. And you said you'd sworn
off the institution. Who is sh—"

"So,"
he interrupted, "as I've been gone for over a year and don't know who's
available, I would appreciate if you'd put together a list of eligible females.
I would prefer someone quiet, with a respectable background. I don't really
care about age, or looks, but I would prefer if she wasn't completely dim and
didn't squint."