Devall's Angel (26 page)

Paynes handed her the note.

“Is Lady Trotter here?”

“No, my lady.”

“How about Miss Warren?”

“She has not yet returned from her ride.”

Sylvia frowned, heading not to the study but to the room she shared with Angela. The brief outing to Green Park should have concluded. Angela would need to change before Major Caldwell arrived. Had she met friends and lost time talking? But despite her improved image, Angela had few friends in town.

Atwater’s note burned through her glove. If he was launching a new campaign, they needed to know the details immediately. She paced as she wrestled with her conscience. Awaiting Andrew was impossible. That much delay could only play into Atwater’s hands. Barbara would not return until dinner, but she should at least wait for Angela.

Within five minutes, curiosity overcame manners. She broke the seal only to gasp and sink into a chair.

 
Forley
,

Miss Warren has reconsidered her hasty decision and accepted my hand in marriage. Due to the distressing situation in London, we will wed privately and retire immediately to the country.

                                          Atwater

Could it be true? Could Angela really have eloped? She had certainly chosen the ideal time to slip away. Everyone else was occupied. Directing the note to Andrew allowed ample time to make an escape. Under normal circumstances, no one would dare open a letter addressed to another.

But reason quickly returned. Angela had been too enthusiastic about returning to the country to have planned such an escapade. Hart’s groom had accompanied her – not someone Angela would take on an elopement. Nor was she the sort to hide behind secrecy. She hated Atwater. Her intense bitterness could never have been feigned. And girls who eloped usually left their own notes behind – or did nothing. Sylvia had never heard of a case where the groom sent round a note after the fact.

So Atwater must have abducted her. Hands shaking, Sylvia reread the message. Dear Lord! What could she do? He had been very clever about it. No outside markings identified the author. The footman had not indicated any urgency. If she had not noticed his livery, the note would have remained unopened until Andrew returned. Paynes would not have mentioned it.

Poor Angela. She would be ruined if this came out. Either she would spend the rest of her life shackled to a man she despised, or society would shun her for confirming all the rumors. She was hopelessly compromised.

In tears, Sylvia paced the floor, devising and discarding one plan after another. The abduction could not be made public, so she could not summon help. She must act immediately. But she could think of nothing she could do.

Biting her lip, she considered the few men who had been helping them. Ashton was out of town. She did not know the major well, and had no idea where he was staying. He would arrive in an hour – which gave her a back-up plan – but she hated to wait that long. Every minute Angela remained in Atwater’s clutches increased her danger.

Her eyes suddenly lit on a letter atop Angela’s escritoire. It was in a masculine hand, but neither Andrew’s nor Atwater’s. Abandoning all scruples, she unfolded it and gasped. It was from Blackthorn. But her horror at his description of Atwater’s venality died under her growing elation. She had forgotten that he and Angela were friends. If anyone could help, it would be the Black Marquess, a man who never allowed convention to curb his behavior, a man whose antipathy to Atwater was well-known. Jotting a brief summons, she sent their footman running.

Please let him be at home!

* * * *

Devall paced the Forley drawing room as Lady Sylvia explained her fears.

“What?” he demanded when she thrust Atwater’s note into his hand.

“It cannot be true,” she sobbed, her nerves giving way now that she could share the burden. “Angela hates him. She would never consider wedding him.”

“It does not seem like her,” he agreed, thrusting down terror. Was Atwater trying to destroy her? He could not like the way she had recovered from his slander.

“Excuse me, my lady,” said Paynes from the doorway.

“Yes?”

“It’s Frank, my lady. He just returned with a tale you should hear.”

“Send him in,” she ordered.

“Who is Frank?”

“The groom who accompanied Angela on her ride.”

“Dear God!”

Frank’s disheveled condition and the huge bruise on the side of his head warned them that his story would be ugly.

“You accompanied Miss Warren today?” asked Sylvia.

“Yes, milady. We was ridin’ in Green Park, as she likes to do, when an ’orseman pulled up beside me. Fancy cove, but I ’ardly got a look afore ’e off and conked me. When I waked up, both she an’ me ’orse was gone.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t rightly know,” he confessed. “’bout a hour after we left. I ’spect she was ’eadin’ for ’ome.”

“That would be about an hour ago,” guessed Sylvia.

“Did you recognize the gentleman?” asked Devall.

“No, milord. I never saw ’im afore. You’s the only one she ever talked to on ’er rides.”

“Describe him, please.”

“It ’appened fast. An ’at was pulled down over ’is ’air an’ ’e was wearin’ a cloak. But ’e ’ad a look I’ll never ferget. ’Is face was like a child’s, almost purty, but the devil ’isself peeped outta ’is eyes. Mad.”

Sylvia broke into sobs.

Devall felt the cold wash over him.
Mad, mad, mad…
The word echoed in his mind. He had no doubt that it was Atwater. And that explained so much.
Mad … mad … mad…

“Dear God, where can he have taken her?” asked Sylvia. “The poor girl.” Fresh sobs choked her voice.

“Thank you, Frank,” he said gravely, trying to inject some sanity into the room so he could think. “You had best see to that head. I will send word the moment we discover anything.”

Frank’s eyes widened at this courtesy, but he nodded and bowed himself out. The knocker sounded.

“What—” Sylvia’s question died when Devall dashed away.

“Paynes!” he called down the stairs. “Who is at the door?”

“Major Caldwell, my lord.”

“Send him up.”

Jack’s brows nearly reached his hair when he discovered Devall alone with Lady Sylvia. A few crisp words filled him in.

“That bastard!” he exclaimed in shock. “Beg pardon, my lady.”

“Think nothing of it. But what are we to do?”

“Perhaps I know where he took her,” Devall said slowly. At least he hoped so. If he was wrong, Angela might not survive. She wasn’t the sort to tamely submit. “I believe he is the anonymous purchaser of that Kensington cottage that Devereaux unloaded.”

Jack bit off a comment. “It’s worth a try.”

“Send regrets to whatever events you were scheduled to attend this evening,” he ordered Sylvia. “Even if we find her, she will be in no mood to do the pretty in public.”

“Try not to worry,” added Jack as they headed for the door.

Sylvia nodded.

“What are you going to do?” Jack asked as he joined Devall in the hall.

“Check out that cottage. The rest depends on what we find.”

Jack shivered at the grim voice. Devall was out for blood, but this time Jack felt no urge to deflect his hand. He admired Miss Warren. She was one of the few women he had ever considered a friend.

* * * *

Angela slowly regained consciousness, unsure where she was or what had happened. Every inch of her body ached. Sharper pains stabbed her head, her arm, and her side. Moisture trickled down her face. Memory seeped back, sending new fears raging through her breast. What had happened after she hit the wall? Had he finished the job of ravishing her?

She tried to move, but dizziness and nausea forced her to remain still. One eye opened a slit. Blackness. It took a moment to realize that something blocked her view. Slowly sliding her arm up, she pulled the bottom of the curtain aside. She was still lying on the floor where he had thrown her.

Relief surged. He surely would not have ravished her in this position. So her resistance had bought her some time. Carefully she scanned the room. He was gone.

Weakness overwhelmed her, and it was long before she could again move. Silence reigned. Had he left the house?

It took several minutes to pull herself into a sitting position and several more before she could attempt to stand. Every movement brought a surge of nausea. She fought it down as she had earlier fought the terror, refusing to give in, forcing her mind to catalog her injuries instead of dwelling on the swirling sickness. She must be as healthy as possible when he returned.

Nothing seemed to be broken, though the bruises were deep and painful. It was possible that her ribs were cracked, and she doubtless suffered from concussion. The cut on her scalp had finally stopped bleeding, though considerable blood pooled on the floor. Using a bedpost for support, she managed to gain her feet. The dizziness increased, and she gasped for some time.

Her first hope was the window. If she could escape, she could get help at a neighboring house. But one glance dashed that idea. Her effort to stand had dragged the draperies open. New iron bars blocked her exit. He had prepared her prison well. Still grasping the bedpost, she concentrated on the next option.

It was four steps to the door. She counted them in her mind over and over before she tried to walk them. One … two … three… Her leg gave way on the fourth, but she avoided collapse by grasping the handle with both hands.

Locked.

As she had feared. Atwater would not have left if she could escape.

Despair threatened to overwhelm her, and she tottered to the chair, sinking into its soft depths.
What did I do to deserve this?
A barred window. A locked door. In her present weakened state, she had no chance of fighting him off a second time.

But she refused to capitulate.
I will not cry… I will not cry…

Taking a deep breath, she rose and set about the task of finding a weapon. Too bad he had removed her reticule. Her penknife was inside.

* * * *

Devall sat in menacing silence all the way to Kensington. They had delayed long enough to collect a closed carriage, hoping that Angela would be able to use it. Neither Jack’s phaeton nor Devall’s stallion could have returned her to Clifford Street unnoticed. The coach was one Devall often used in London, sporting no crest or other identifying mark that might advertise his presence.

No plans formed as his grays sped through the streets. Nor did he respond to any of Jack’s comments. His mind was trapped in a new hell, one he had never expected but that had closed about him the moment Lady Sylvia had explained her summons. He still could not believe it, though all his senses screamed the truth. How could he have been so incredibly stupid?

He was in love with Angela Warren.

It was so unexpected that he could hardly breathe. He had banished all tender feelings as part of his adjustment to ostracism. Marriage was out of the question. His reputation loomed between him and the world. Having just restored Angela’s, he could do nothing to tarnish it – which meant avoiding her completely. Even if he corrected every rumor and every exaggeration, he would never be socially acceptable. The hard, cold facts condemned him on their own. He
had
jilted Penelope. He
was
responsible for two deaths, neither of which had occurred in battle or on a field of honor.

He brutally thrust emotion aside. His immediate concern was to rescue her. And this time he would not allow Atwater to escape. Abduction with violence put the man beyond all civilized responses. Even madness could not protect him from a well-deserved end.

His blood ran cold at the thought of what Angela might already have suffered. Jerking his mind from Smith’s description of Lydia’s condition after that last beating, he tried to devise a plan of attack.

What if she was not being held in Kensington? His watcher had reported little activity at the house. It was certainly not being used as a love nest – yet. And the man had promised to send immediate word if Atwater brought a female there. He shuddered. Had Lady Sylvia’s summons arrived first?
Please, please, please…

He clung to hope, for it meant that he might be in time, and firmly suppressed all fear that she was being held elsewhere.

“We can’t just ram the door in,” said Jack as they turned the final corner. “This neighborhood is not that decadent.” Most of the cottages belonged to merchants. Only a few were used for immoral activities.

“I have no idea what servants might be present,” Devall admitted, thankfully setting his fears aside. “If Atwater is near the door, he would never open it to me. Suppose we start by having you knock as though paying a routine call.”

“Good. If that does not work, we had best go around to the back before forcing an entry. It is less conspicuous.”

They pulled up before the cottage. Devall slipped into the yard, concealing himself behind a rose bush to one side of the entrance.

But the precautions proved unnecessary. Jack quietly turned the handle, pushed the door open, and walked inside. Devall followed swiftly on his heels, his stare locking onto the reticule carelessly tossed onto a table. It was the one Angela carried when she rode in the park.

Jack stopped in the drawing room doorway, his rigid back announcing better than words that disaster awaited.

Thrusting his friend aside, Devall halted in turn.

Atwater lay curled on the floor, wearing only a shirt, boots, and partially fastened breeches. A crumpled, blood-stained coat was near the fireplace. Arms, covered with blood and bruises, wrapped around his shoulders as he rocked back and forth.

“My angel,” he crooned softly. “My gift from the gods. Mine. All mine. For always.”

Furious, Devall jerked the earl to his feet and slammed him against the wall. “Where is she?” he demanded.

More blood decorated Atwater’s shirt. Jagged scratches furrowed his face and chest, intersecting two deep cuts. But no fear appeared in those blue eyes. Not even anger. “My own true love, my angel,” he intoned.

The calm response froze Devall’s hand in mid-swing. Cold seeped into his soul.