Devall's Angel (30 page)

“I never would have believed Lord Atwater to be unstable!” protested Aunt Prudence, her father’s sister. “Surely the tale I heard from poor Lady Cunningham cannot have been accurate. He has always been the most thoughtful, caring gentleman in society—” And she recited a litany of praise and support that had Angela clenching both teeth and fists. The pointed interrogation that followed was even worse.

“How could you have allowed Blackthorn near you?” demanded Cousin Peregrine. “The man is a blackguard of the worst sort. Your reputation is bound to suffer.”

So Angela was forced to recite the story again. As she had done with Uncle Bertrand, Cousin Michael, Cousin Patience, Peregrine’s wife Phoebe, and so many more. Oh, to be back in town where society’s sheep docilely followed a single lead, and no one judged anything for himself.

In retrospect, she should have kept to her rooms until everyone had arrived, then called a family meeting to enlighten them all at once. And Andrew was no help. A victim of endless jovial teasing over his rapidly approaching nuptials, and nervously excited on his own account, he had no time to consider the very different attentions his sister was receiving. Having agreed to give her the dower house, he forgot all about her.

But even worse was her restless dissatisfaction. She could not resume the routine she had lived with for so long. Memories beset her, intruding on every activity during the day and disturbing her sleep at night. But they were not the horror and lingering nightmares from her encounter with Atwater. Pushing Devall from her mind was proving to be far more difficult than she had expected.

She had never considered how often he had joined her on her morning rides. Nor had she understood how enjoyable those meetings had been. Their conversations, even their arguments, left her glowing for the rest of the day. Lone rides felt flat. His sympathy and encouragement had kept her from falling apart when all of society condemned her. His timely rescue had saved her from death.

But stimulating discussion and emotional support were not all he had provided, for any close friend could fill that function. It was the man himself that she missed. His physical presence never failed to affect her. Even that first encounter when neither had spoken a word had imprinted strongly on her soul.

Why had she fallen in love with him? Her treacherous mind recalled every word, every touch, every look. That last waltz had been the most exhilarating of her life. His glittering eyes had softened into tenderness as he gazed into her own. His touch had burned through her gown. The swooping whirl of the dance had affected her more than ever before.

Increasingly treacherous memories washed over her – the protective way he had comforted her that awful day in Kensington, stroking her hair, murmuring in her ear – very like Atwater, but with very different results – and gently kissing her to banish her fears. That kiss had been magical, even more so than the lustier one they had shared in Lady Lawton’s garden, filling her with warmth and a desire for more – much more. The need was stronger than anything she had ever imagined. If this was what Andrew had been feeling for the past year, it was no wonder he was so frustrated at the long delay. How could anyone endure unfulfilled desire?

The thought brought a blush to her cheeks, and she immediately thrust it aside.

None of this served any purpose. Devall was a friend. No more. His initial interest had been piqued by her confrontation with the street vendor. He had pursued the acquaintance as part of his campaign against Atwater. Beyond that, they had no future. She must put him behind her and embark on her new life. If he—

She cut her thoughts short, thankfully noting the arrival of yet another relative – Cousin Leonard and his French wife Francine, if her eyes could be trusted. Sighing, she headed for the house and another round of interrogation. Which aspect would they seize on first?

* * * *

Devall twisted a wine glass between his fingers, his eyes focused on the fractured lamplight radiating from its cut planes. Garnet flashes sparkled across the papers on his desk. He tried to concentrate on the ever-changing patterns, but stray voices kept surfacing in his head.

I must make a match this Season … unfair to my brother … can’t waste his sacrifices…

What had Angela’s problems to do with him? She was too good to be saddled with so black a villain. It was true that Jack had succeeded in raising enough doubt about his past that men were actually asking him for the facts. And it was true that for the first time in his life he was willingly supplying those facts. Why?

He snorted. He had seen disapproval in a pair of moss-green eyes, had heard a wistful note in the musical voice that urged him to work within the law to change bad laws. She wanted him to take his rightful place in society. So he was violating his own reserve to do it. Would she think better of him?

He drank off half the wine, forcing himself to compare the new patterns with those of five minutes earlier. White dots interspersed with the garnet…

Your kindness … you are not cruel…

Her voice again broke through, dragging his mind back to what he did not want to consider. Had she repeated those words elsewhere? Both of those comments had tumbled from other lips in the past week. Even the tabbies were parroting his kindness and lack of cruelty. Wrongly, of course.

Cruelty had long been part of his life. He had spent twenty years as its victim before deliberately employing it against those who enjoyed it. Neither Cloverdale nor Coldstream had died easily. Could he change? If he encountered another evil man, could he refrain from exacting retribution?

He doubted it. The law was impotent against so many who deserved punishment. He lacked the patience to endure the slow tedium required to effect reform. Sooner or later, something would happen that would demand action, and he would succumb to temptation…

Unless Angela was at his side. Courting renewed ostracism would hurt her. And that was something he could never do.

But there was no chance of her being at his side. Even his rehabilitated reputation was sordid. She deserved more, starting with a husband she loved. He could never qualify. Had anyone ever loved him? His mother had died when he was five. He had seen so little of her, he’d hardly noticed. His father had cared for no one. Penelope cared only for how she could use him. Constance? The same. Even Lydia had seen him as just another cousin. And an ugly one at that.

Resign myself to life as a spinster … practice biting my tongue and being invisible … years before we can return to town…

Damn the insidious memories! Downing the remainder of the wine, he refilled the glass and drained that as well. Why did she believe that she was condemned to live alone? She was beautiful, intelligent, passionate, caring…

Tears sprang to his eyes. His arms ached to hold her again. He could still feel her body trustingly curled in his lap as he carried her home from Kensington. The heat of her lips seared his brain, the memory of the moist softness behind them driving him to distraction. Angela! How could he live without her? But how could he condemn her to the hell he had built for himself?

He spent the remainder of the night emptying glass after glass of wine in a futile attempt to forget.
It is time to rejoin the world … the world … the world…

* * * *

“Lord Blackthorn begs a moment of your time, my lord, though he realizes how busy you are.”

Hart sighed. “Show him into the study, Willowby.”

Why would the Black Marquess turn up here? Though they had met on several occasions, their paths had not crossed in many years, and they had never been more than nodding acquaintances. Sylvia had explained the part he’d played in Angela’s accident, but that would hardly have a bearing on this visit.

Devall followed a stiff butler along a twisting course that presumably led to a study. What was he doing here? And at such a time. Lady Sylvia’s wedding was scheduled for the next morning. Preparations were noticeably frenzied, and the house was crawling with guests. Undoubtedly they were at sixes and sevens with last-minute crises and jangled nerves. His own business could have waited until it was over.

“Sorry to disturb you, Hartleigh,” Devall said in apology when the door closed behind the butler.

“Blackthorn.” Hart offered wine. “What can I do for you?”

“You have the question reversed. I hope that I can do something for you. Lady Sylvia mentioned that you run an orphanage.”

Hart’s eyes darkened, but he contented himself with nodding.

“The information slipped out when she overheard me ask Miss Warren how Mickey was doing. I was curious, though I had respected her refusal to describe the place.”

Hart smiled. “Ah. You must be the one who directed Angie’s attention to the rascal.”

It was Devall’s turn to nod.

“He has completely recovered from his injuries and has decided that civilized living has its merits. He is one of the brightest lads I have ever encountered. His thirst for knowledge is prodigious, and he should make a real success of life.”

“Thank you. He has three friends who will be delighted with the news.”

Hart raised a brow.

“I discovered Mickey while pursuing one of my own interests,” Devall admitted. “He was caring for three ill and starving veterans when he was injured. They have been anxious about him.”

“There appears to be more to you than rumor reports.”

“Like you, I prefer to keep my interests out of the public eye. But that brings me to the reason for my call. One of my veterans has need of a job. His injuries prevent him from attempting anything strenuous, but he is gentle, loves children, and has a knack for building rapport with even the most withdrawn individuals. Could you use such a man at your orphanage?”

“Probably. What chores can he manage?”

Thus began a discussion that expanded into the broader topic of England’s unfortunates and how to assist them. A rap on the window interrupted them. Hart grinned.

“For shame, Andrew. You are not supposed to be here today. You know it is bad luck to see your bride before the wedding.”

“Why do you think I came around here instead of using the front door?”

“Wouldn’t you be better off resting up for tomorrow’s exertions,” asked Hart with a leer.

“Not you, too! You don’t know what you missed by skipping a big wedding!”

Hart laughed.

“Blackthorn.” Surprise filled Andrew’s voice as he noted Devall’s presence.

“Forley. I must leave,” he added to Hart.

“Not on my account,” protested Andrew. “I will only be a moment.” He stared speculatively before returning his gaze to Hart. “A small problem has arisen that I hope you can help with – at least until I get back. Mrs. Giddings will not be able to chaperon Angela after all. Her nephew suffered a near-fatal accident last week and now views the world in a new light. He is no longer bent on perpetuating his grandfather’s heartless decrees and wishes to welcome his aunt back into the family and provide her a home.”

“Permanently?”

“It looks that way.”

“Not so small a problem,” mused Hart. “Angie can stay here until your return, of course. But what will she do then?”

“I don’t know.” Andrew surreptitiously turned his eyes to Blackthorn, lifting his mouth in a mischievous smile at what he read on the man’s face. “She is adamant about not remaining at the Court, and you can hardly blame her. It must be tough to run the place for years, then watch someone else take over. But she cannot move to the dower house without a chaperon. Where will we find someone else who won’t drive her to distraction with giddy chatter, or condemn her for being a bluestocking?”

Hart stared, surprised at this recital, for it contained nothing he didn’t already know, and Andrew had never been one to waste words. But Forley’s second covert glance at Blackthorn snapped Hart’s social mask back in place. His mind raced.

“I will see if I can discover anyone,” he said. “Surely somewhere in England is a woman capable of being a comfortable companion.”

“Thanks, Hart.”

“Not at all. Now get out of here before you bring the wrath of God down on both our heads. Or the wrath of Cassie, which would be worse.”

Andrew grinned and slipped away.

Blackthorn made final arrangements for his protégé, then stood to leave, again apologizing for disturbing him at such a time.

“Things have been rather hectic,” Hart admitted, still mulling the suspicions Andrew had raised. Blackthorn’s eyes were quite revealing, and it would seem that Andrew both knew and approved. He dropped his own gaze to the letter opener in his hand. “But your visit has reminded me of my negligence. I have not informed Miss Warren of Mickey’s progress. She has been too busy to ask, but I am sure she would be interested. Perhaps you could stop at the Court and ease her mind.”

“That would be agreeable. I had wondered if I should inquire after her recovery while I was in the area.”

“She would appreciate your concern. Her mother’s defection left her with too much to do, and Mrs. Giddings’s departure is sure to make it worse.”

* * * *

Angela had again taken refuge in the folly, hoping to snatch a moment of peace. Fate was not treating her kindly these days. All her plans were falling in ruins. Not that she wasn’t thrilled for Edna, who deserved to take her place in genteel society rather than assuming a role as a paid companion. Edna had kept in touch with friends who would welcome her back. But now Angela faced finding a new companion, and she knew of no other candidates.

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted her melancholy reflections. Glancing over her shoulder, she gasped.

“Whatever are you doing here, Devall?” she exclaimed, unaware of how her eyes had lit at the sight of him.

“I had some business with Lord Hartleigh and took the opportunity to see how you were faring. He mentioned that he had neglected to inform you of Mickey’s progress.”

“How is he?” She already knew the answer, for Cassie had given her a full report.

“Quite well. He’s proving to be a feisty little devil. It sounds as though he will soon be running the place.”