Wicked Angel (12 page)

So the three of them had trooped off to London after tearful good-byes to Mrs. Peterman and the children, and repeated assurances from Dr. Stephens that he would look after things.

And so here she was, she thought sadly, trying to appear as if the whole sordid event were tolerable.

They rode in silence—with the exception of an occasional grumble from Ethan—to the Russell Square town house he had rented from his old traveling companion, Lord Dowling.

When the hack finally stopped in front of the small house, the front door flung open, and a middle-aged man with a shock of white hair appeared on the front steps as they climbed out of the conveyance. "Lord Hill," he said, as if announcing their arrival to the street.

"Bring round a brandy, man," Ethan groused as he waddled up the steps to the door, and unceremoniously pushed past the butler as Lauren and Paul trailed behind. In a blatant disregard for protocol, the butler looked at Paul, and then Lauren, and shrugging, moved to pass them. He muttered the name of Davis in doing so, and Lauren supposed that he meant to convey his identity.

"I am Paul Hill, and this is my sister, Countess Bergen," Paul responded. At that gentle reminder, Lauren flushed terribly, hoping that the butler—at least she
thought
he was the butler—would not see how that irritated her. Paul knew how angry she was at Ethan for making sure the entire population of

London knew she was a countess. They both knew very well how she felt—it was hardly her title to bear, seeing as how she had been little more than a glorified nursemaid to Helmut. Nonetheless, Ethan had written long letters to his friends bragging about the "the countess." The title, he had boasted to her, would bring him a few pounds more.

The butler shrugged again and disappeared inside. Exchanging dubious looks, Paul and Lauren hesitantly followed.

The interior of the town house was a shock to Lauren's senses. The small entry was papered in red and light blue, and in the corner stood a full suit of armor, taking up so much space that one had to step around it. Walking into the front parlor, Lauren stifled a gasp. Lined with dark paneling, it boasted various armaments of war from every century in every conceivable space. She would have thought it a man's study had it not been for the pianoforte at one end and a scattering of plush, floral print chairs and a couch about the room. Various works of arguable-quality art lined the walls, interspersed occasionally with a delicate china sculpture. It was the oddest mix of styles and furnishings she had ever seen, and she could not help thinking it was all very hideous. And very fitting.

Davis reappeared as she removed her bonnet, carrying a tray with one brandy and a stack of letters. He attempted to hand the letters to Ethan, but he waved them away as he helped himself to the snifter. Davis abruptly thrust the letters at Paul. "Correspondence," he muttered. Paul took the small stack; Davis shuffled across the room and disappeared through the door.

"My God, these are invitations for Countess Bergen," Paul exclaimed.

Lauren jerked around, her eyes landing on the small stack he held in his hand. "Invitations?"

"Marvelous, marvelous!" Ethan gleefully exclaimed, and slurped his brandy. "Read them, go on!"

Paul opened the first one and frowned. "This is from Lady Pontleroy of Mayfair, inviting Countess Bergen and escort to a supper party, Wednesday next. And this one is from Lord and Lady Harris…"

"But… but how do they know me?" Lauren exclaimed.

"Ah, my good friend Dowling has done it! The coot owed me a personal favor, but I did not think he would have sufficient time before he was off to the Americas. Lord and Lady Harris? Now there's a feather in your cap. Aye, appearances are everything to this set! They would much prefer to have a title at their table than their own flesh and blood." He laughed and tossed the rest of the brandy down his throat. "You will do well to remember that, lass"

Lauren hardly knew what to say to that. Ethan was worried about appearances? Good God, so was she.

From all of London's appearances thus far, this was going to be the longest few weeks of her life.

Alex sighed impatiently and glanced at his pocket watch. He had been escorting his great aunt, Lady Paddington, for a turn about the blasted park for a good half hour now, yet she showed no signs of tiring.

Aunt Paddy, as the family affectionately called her, clasped her plump hands tightly in front of her and contentedly surveyed a group of young women strolling together. "Mrs. Clark said that Arthur most decidedly has his eye on the pretty Miss O'Meara, did you know? Unfortunately, she comes from a rather large family," she said with a nod toward the young lady in question.

Alex could not, for the life of him, imagine what the size of her family had to do with anything. "Really?"

he remarked with bored indifference. "I rather thought Arthur was interested in Miss Delia Harris."

"Oh! Arthur is uncommonly stubborn! He pays particular attention to a different girl at every event!" she groused. "There is Miss Charlotte Pritchit. Nice girl—it's her
mother
," Paddy whispered, and looped her arm possessively through Alex's. "Good day, Lady Pritchit, Miss Pritchit!" she called cheerfully. Alex slid his gaze to Lady Pritchit, who, in her near gallop to reach them, was dragging her meek daughter behind her.

"Lady Paddington, how do you do?" the mother asked breathlessly, her eyes slanting conspicuously toward Alex. He graciously inclined his head, noting that the plain young woman kept her eyes on her shoes as she curtsied. "And good day to you, your grace. I had not heard you were in town," Lady Pritchit said as she coyly smoothed her elaborate lace collar.

"Really? So
The Times
has not yet posted my every move?" he asked with not a little sarcasm.

Lady Pritchit's lips curled away from her teeth in a laugh that sounded something like a horse. "Indeed, it has not! Will you be in town for the Season, then?" she asked bluntly.

"I have not as yet firmed my plans, Lady Pritchit."

"But surely you will attend the Harris ball? It is to be the event of the Season! My Charlotte was just introduced at court, and is quite looking forward to the affair," she said eagerly, and none too subtly elbowed her daughter in the ribs. Miss Pritchit grimaced slightly, but did not look up.

"His grace has
many
engagements, Lady Pritchit," Paddy answered haughtily before Alex could open his mouth. "I am
quite
sure he has not determined which he will attend as yet!"

Lady Pritchit's lips formed a silent
O
. An awkward moment passed before she realized she had nothing else to say. "Well. Perhaps we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the Harris ball, your grace. Good day, Lady Paddington." She reluctantly curtsied and grabbed her daughter's arm, who had yet to look up from study of the tips of her slippers, and beat a hasty retreat.

Aunt Paddy snorted with disdain at the woman's retreating back. "I cannot believe the cheek of that woman!" she bristled indignantly. "That young girl may have debuted at court, but she has nothing to recommend her. Mrs. Clark believes Lady Pritchit has some distant connections, but none so great that she should set her sights on anything higher than a baron, for heaven's sake!"

Alex nudged his aunt forward before she became apoplectic, and they continued walking, Paddy chattering in a string of inanities that Alex barely heard until she suddenly gasped and pointed to a black landau. "Oh my, it's
her!
"

Alex glanced across the park but noticed nothing other than a woman's foot disappearing inside the carriage. Lord van der Mill, an old coot with more money than he knew what to do with, was escorting her. "Who is 'her'?" he asked with polite insouciance.

"The
countess
, Alex! Ah, such a lovely woman, and so tragic! It must be terribly difficult to be widowed at such a tender age," she sighed sadly.

Alex looked again at the landau as it pulled away from the curb. "Which countess would that be? I do not recall hearing of any death among the peerage."

"Not in
England
. In
Bavaria!
" Paddy exclaimed as if he were dense. "Count Bergdorf, Bergstrom, something like that. Oooo, it's the most romantic story, really. She met the count on the continent, and he

was positively swept away by her charitable disposition and agreeable looks, and mind you,
she
fell quite in love with him—he was terribly dashing, and
very
wealthy, according to Mrs. Clark, who heard it all from Lord Dowling. So strong was their attachment that they married quickly and repaired to his native Bavaria. Ah, but he was tragically taken from her in a fatal hunting accident," Aunt Paddy recounted. As the landau disappeared into the crowded street, she sighed with all the longing of a schoolgirl.

Above her gray head, Alex rolled his eyes and made a mental note to tell Arthur to stop bringing Aunt Paddy those ridiculous novels.

As Lord van der Mill's landau rocked away from Hyde Park toward Russell Square, Lauren sat with her arms folded across her middle, her eyes on her lap. She wore one of her mother's old gowns she had altered to resemble the latest fashions. It was no prize, but it was not so bad as to warrant Lady Pritchit's indelicate comments. She had hoped upon seeing the saber-tongued woman that Lord van der Mill would proceed past. But no, he had stopped to chat. At the end of the conversation, Lady Pritchit had eyed Lauren's gown from the high neckline to the flounced hem, and had remarked, much to her daughter's obvious horror, that Lauren's gown resembled one she had seen at a wake many years ago.

On the
deceased
.

Lauren smiled absently at Lord van der Mill as he expounded on the reforms the Commons was debating. She was discovering, much to her dismay, that the further she penetrated the
ton
, the more her feminine vanity was making itself known to her. Ethan's promise of a modiste had not materialized, naturally, and she was beginning to feel very conspicuous as she moved among Britain's most finely dressed. Paul tried to help; he had taken to the gaming tables almost the moment they had arrived in London, eager to test the skills he had practiced for years at Rosewood. Although he had been moderately successful, and had managed to pay for a new gown here and there, they were not nearly enough to suit the
ton's
standards. Angered by her vanity, Lauren glanced out the window and frowned.

She had never cared a whit about dresses and frills and hats and gloves before now.

God
, her unprecedented self-consciousness was almost enough to send her to a convent. But Ethan's constant parade of old, blue-veined men was humiliating. She had taken to disappearing when Davis would knock on her door and announce, "Caller!" Her penchant for doing that, however, had been the subject of many heated arguments with Ethan.

She sighed wearily, oblivious to Lord van der Mill's increasingly agitated discourse. The only bright spot so far was Miss Charlotte Pritchit, whom she had met at one of those awful affairs, and the two had become instant friends. Charlotte's singular misfortune was having the world's most disagreeable mother.

If a man so much as looked in Lauren's general direction, Lady Pritchit took it as a personal affront to Charlotte.

Lauren had not understood how deeply the woman disliked her until she heard her remark loudly at a supper party that the senior lords of the
ton
would not appreciate their sons courting
a foreign
woman with unknown connections in Britain. It took Lauren several minutes to realize she was referring to
her
. A few of the women gathered around Lady Pritchit that evening had nodded knowingly, although Lauren was unclear as to why. The men she had met were not heirs to the throne! Lady Pritchit obviously considered Charlotte a strong contender for
any
hand.

When Lauren had received an invitation to Mrs. Clark's home, Lady Pritchit had become, apparently, enraged. It seemed that Mrs. Clark's constant companion, Lady Paddington, was the great aunt of a duke or some such muckety-muck. Charlotte had apologetically informed her that Lady Pritchit was

concerned she might meet this duke first, and therefore lure all the eligible hangers-on to her cause.

Lauren had taken that to mean the old battle-ax had thrown another one of her infamous fits. Lauren had insisted to Charlotte that she was not the least bit interested in some stuffy old duke
or
his friends.

Charlotte believed her, for all the good that did her.

She glanced at Lord van der Mill, who had become quite red in the face. Really, she thought as she observed the least odious of Ethan's suitors, she had met many eligible young men, but none suited her.

They were too finicky, too snobbish, too effeminate, too old, or too young. None of them seemed as strong or as kind or as
masculine
as Mr. Christian. Against her will, she ended up comparing all men to him, then berating herself for making the entire situation so bloody impossible. Impossible because she found herself looking for Mr. Christian in every ballroom and salon—not a suitable match, as she was supposed to do.

Dear Lord, she tried; she really
did
try to look for the admirable qualities in the men she had met. But if she had to be married, she wanted to marry a man as virile as Mr. Christian. And as handsome. And
definitely
someone who would kiss her as he did. A little shiver ran up her spine at the memory and she smiled.

She was still smiling as the landau rolled to a halt in front of the Russell Square town house. Lauren automatically extended her hand to Lord van der Mill. "Thank you, my lord, for a very pleasant afternoon," she said sweetly.

Shaken from his diatribe, Lord van der Mill glanced uneasily out the window. "Well, so we've come to Russell Square, have we?"

"Indeed we have, my lord."

A coachman opened the door at the exact moment van der Mill grasped her hand. "Countess Bergen, if I may. Your uncle has been good enough to allow me to call three times now, and I think it obvious there is a certain, how shall I say, a certain and
mutual
esteem between us. It is as opportune a time as any to come to some understanding, don't you think?"