Wicked Angel (25 page)

Alex carefully folded the note, trying desperately to ignore the feeling of immense relief, the sense that he had been released from custody. He would not allow himself to think of anything but reform, of what he would say to the Lords. He pivoted on his heel and strode from the salon, in search of Lord Whitcomb.

He would be in London by late afternoon.

Alex could not believe what he was doing. Sitting in a phaeton at Russell Square, an armful of gardenias in his lap, he could not believe he was actually
calling
on her. Good God, he could not even remember the last time he had called on a woman. But he really had no choice—after two increasingly restless days and nights in London, he had determined that he needed to see her and somehow resolve his internal struggle. Or go mad. Assuming, of course, he was not already
completely
mad.

He had been sitting in front of the town house for at least fifteen minutes. When he had first turned onto the square, he had seen the Bavarian coming out of the house with a crate of what looked to be tomatoes perched on his shoulder. Alex despised the handsome giant for being in London, for following her every move. For carrying the bloody crate of tomatoes.

An elderly couple passed and peered curiously at him. With a sigh, he forced himself to climb out of the phaeton. Gathering the gardenias, he walked to the front door and knocked. A slight man opened almost immediately and eyed him with great suspicion. "Good day, sir. Might I inquire if Countess Bergen is in?"

"Card," the man stated.

Alex dutifully fished a card from his coat pocket and placed it on the tray the old man thrust at him. The butler glanced at the card, then startled Alex by shutting the door in his face. He shifted uneasily onto one leg, feeling perfectly ridiculous waiting on a stoop like an eager young dandy. Fortunately, the white-haired man soon opened the door again. "Parlor," he said, and with his head, motioned in the general direction. Alex nodded his thanks and stepped inside. Remarkably, he managed to contain his great surprise as he took in the unusual decor. The only outward deference he gave it was to peer closely at a full suit of armor as he walked to the door the butler had indicated.

He stepped across the parlor threshold and glanced about. Much to his disappointment, Paul Hill was sitting alone in the room. "You must be Mr. Hill. I am Alex Christian, the Duke of Sutherland."

"I know who you are," Hill said, and slowly pushed himself from his seat, straightening to attain his full height of about six feet, and limped around to the front of the desk.

Alex self-consciously shifted the gardenia bush he carried. "Might I find Countess Bergen in?" he inquired, chafing at the need to inquire at all.

"No. She has gone out with Lord Westfall," Hill said icily, and folded his arms across his chest, more for balance, it seemed, than affectation.

Annoyed to learn she was in David's company again, Alex sighed. "I see."

"Do you?"

The bitter tone of his voice surprised Alex. "I beg your pardon?"

"My sister is not a sophisticated socialite. She is a simple young woman, and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you pursue her."

That was what Alex would call getting to the point. The damned gardenia bush was really beginning to irritate him, and he impatiently shifted it to his other arm. "Excuse me, Mr. Hill," he answered coolly, "but I am not
pursuing
your sister. I am paying a social call."

"I will not stand idly by while you toy with her!" Hill announced, his young chest swelling. "There is no earthly reason you should call on her—she is beneath you in social standing, and as you are to be married to Lady Marlaine, I can only conclude you are trifling with her!"

Astonished by the accusation, and moreover, the kernel of truth in it, Alex's eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Mr. Hill, I will forgive your unwarranted attack on my character this one occasion. If you think my acquaintance with Countess Bergen requires some social stamp of approval, you are mistaken," he huffed, and angrily swallowed past the swell of hypocrisy that surged to his throat. "Perhaps I should call at a more convenient time." Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the parlor, the damned gardenias still in his arms.

He walked swiftly past the butler busily oiling the hinges of the armor, and suddenly paused. Jerking around, Alex thrust the bush at the diminutive man. He took it without so much as a blink and promptly placed it between the feet of the armor. With an impatient roll of his eyes, Alex marched to his carriage and vaulted onto the seat. He urged the roan to a fast trot, uncertain of where he was going. He caught a

bitter laugh in his throat—lately, it seemed, he was uncertain about every goddam thing under the sun.

At precisely two o'clock the next afternoon, Alex arrived at Russell Square on horseback, dismounted without a moment's hesitation, and gave a tuppence to a young lad to stable his horse. He walked purposefully up the narrow little path to the front door and rapped sharply. "Good afternoon," Alex said when the door was pulled open. "Kindly inform Mr. Hill I have come to call on his sister.
Again
."

The strange little butler did not bat an eye, but shut the door in his face as he had done yesterday. Alex leaned casually against the door frame until the door opened a few moments later. "Parlor?" Alex drawled. The butler's stoic expression did not change; he simply nodded and stepped aside. Depositing his hat and gloves on a small table, Alex strode through the foyer, his mind vaguely registering the fact that the armor had changed locations since yesterday.

The parlor was empty, and he noticed for the first time the bizarre mix of furnishings and hunting memorabilia. He was quickly distracted when he heard the clip of a cane on the planked floor of the hallway. "Looking for me?" Hill smirked as he limped through the door. His expression impatient, he moved for an armchair.

"I would prefer your sister, but I have no doubt I will not find her at home," Alex said as Hill lowered himself into the chair.

He eyed Alex's neckcloth and tight-fitting waistcoat. "You are correct," he said.

"Let me guess. Driving with Lord Westfall?"

Smirking, Hill shook his head. "Count Bergen."

Alex glanced impatiently at the plain ceiling. "I could not have imagined anyone would enjoy driving about the park as much as your sister."

"What she enjoys is no concern of yours. My sister does not desire you to call."

"I suppose she told you that?" Alex asked with a sardonic laugh.

"I believe her precise word was '
cabbagehead. '
If I were in your shoes, I should forget this insanity."

"You are not in my shoes, Mr. Hill," Alex said evenly. "And believe me, you would not want to be. As I am, it appears to me the only thing to do is to wait." He sat himself on a red settee.

That caught Hill's attention. "I beg your pardon?" he asked incredulously. "You cannot simply
wait
."

"And exactly who," Alex asked quietly, "will stop me?"

Hill froze, his face turning red. "You offend my uncle's hospitality!"

Alex smiled. "Your uncle is at Wallace House for the day. I should know—my Aunt Paddy complained for a good half hour about that unfortunate turn of events." Hill's face grew even darker. Alex shook his head. "I desire to speak with your sister, sir, and short of having to duel that German for the honor, my only other recourse is to wait here for her return."

"You cannot insinuate yourself into her life when she would not have you there!" Hill insisted.

Oh, but he could. Alex looked at the young man across from him, his uncertainty and discomfort apparent. He was certain Hill had no idea what it was like to have his gut burn with longing, to fight sleep so the dream of a woman's touch would not come to taunt him. "Is it she who does not want me in her life? Or you?" he asked quietly. Hill's eyes widened; Alex took a deep breath. "You are a fine man to protect your sister so ardently; she is quite fortunate."

Hill looked at him warily, unsure how to respond. "It is a responsibility I do not take lightly."

"Of course not. But the fact of the matter is, there are times when a man must weigh his responsibility against circumstances beyond his control."

Hill scowled. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Only that at times, regardless of a man's situation, he encounters someone so extraordinary that he must follow his instinct. I do not trifle with your sister, sir. I
could
not—I respect her far too much. I would not seek to harm her in any way—but her friendship is very important to me. So important, I would defy convention in order to speak with her. I
must
speak with her."

Hill said nothing, clearly confused. Alex smiled thinly. "Might you at least offer a man a drink after such an admission?"

Hill hesitated; slowly, he pushed himself out of the chair and limped to the sideboard. "Port? Or do you prefer whiskey?" he asked stiffly.

"Whiskey."

Hill poured him the drink, then helped himself to a port. He resumed his seat, looking out the window as he sipped. Alex was prepared to wait, to argue, to duel if he must. He could hardly blame Hill for being angry; this was the epitome of gall, he knew, but desperate times called for desperate measures. They sat in silence for what seemed hours, until Hill gulped the last of his port and glanced at him sidelong. "How long do you intend to wait? They could be hours yet."

"As long as is necessary."

With a snort, Hill hoisted himself up again. He went to the sideboard and grabbed the decanter of port and brought it back to his chair. Seating himself, he pulled the stopper from the decanter and tossed it aside. He poured another glass, then set the decanter roughly on a table, causing Dowling's stuffed bear claw to lurch eerily. "Lauren is right, you know. You
are
an arrogant fool. I suppose Lady Marlaine knows of your gentlemanly call?" he asked.

Alex frowned at him over the rim of his glass. "Rest assured that my betrothal does not preclude an honest friendship among the fairer sex."

"Do not patronize me, Sutherland. I am not stupid."

The lad had backbone; he would give him that. "No, I would never say you were stupid." Alex came to his feet and went to the sideboard. "Far from it." Following his reluctant host's lead, he picked up the container of whiskey and returned to the settee with it. "Your forays into Southwark alone have proven as much. It is a very clever man who wins so consistently."

The glass of port stilled halfway to Hill's mouth. "How would you know of that?"

"Word travels, my friend," Alex grinned. "I understand your winnings are not insignificant—the German must require a sizable dowry."

Hill eyed his port. "It is no doubt inconceivable to you that Bergen does not require a dowry. Imagine, a marriage without the requisite business exchange. My winnings are for Rosewood. Ah, but that's a subject you know nothing about, as it is not something which would amuse you," he said arrogantly.

"On the contrary, I am quite familiar with Rosewood," Alex admitted. Hill's head shot up, his eyes narrowed with unspoken accusation. Chuckling, Alex lifted a hand in supplication. "Do not assume the worst. I stumbled across it when my horse drew lame one day. Quite by accident, I assure you."

Clearly stunned, Hill's blue eyes widened as they searched Alex's face. "
That
was you? Mr. Christian?"

"Of course it was me! Surely you knew that?" Alex laughed.

"
Christian
. Bloody hell, I should have known!" he groaned, closing his eyes.

"I do not suppose that endears me to you?" Alex asked with an irreverent chuckle.

Hill shot him a disapproving frown. "Does it make you any less a duke? Does it change your imminent marriage? Does it improve my sister's situation in any way?"

Hell, there was no good response to that, Alex thought, and wisely chose not to answer. He tossed back his whiskey and poured another. Just what
did
he intend to do with Lauren when he saw her, other than be near her and breathe her in?

Nor did Paul trust what the duke really wanted, and it unnerved him. Friendship? He had trouble believing that was all. He poured another port, eyeing Sutherland with suspicion. Good God, how had he missed such an obvious connection? Alex Christian, Duke of Sutherland, Mr. Christian. Why had he not put two and two together? Why hadn't Lauren told him? Because, he angrily reminded himself,
she
knew he was Mr. Christian, the country gentleman with whom she had fallen madly in love. And every time the subject of Sutherland had come up, Paul had done his damnedest to warn her of the scoundrel's intent.

Dear Jesus, they had argued bitterly about it at Rosewood last weekend. He had suspected her feelings.

She, of course, had heatedly denied it, but now everything was crystal clear to him. Lauren loved this wretch. This wretch who was capable of changing nations with a simple speech.

There was every indication that Catholic emancipation would pass the Lords, and that was due in no small measure to Sutherland's steady persuasion over the last two days. Paul should know—he had followed every word of the debates. The prospect excited him. If Catholics were given a seat in parliament, other reforms leading toward equal representation could not be far behind. And with fair representation, or rather, a representative protecting the interests of small estates such as Rosewood, there was every possibility the family home could flourish once again. Only yesterday, he had joined in holding the Duke of Sutherland up as the people's hero. The image of that powerful change agent was hard to reconcile with the man sitting in his parlor just now.

"The weather is quite nice for the time of year, wouldn't you agree?" the duke asked idly. Paul thought that a perfectly ridiculous remark from such a visionary, seeing as how it rained four out of every seven days since he had been in London, and said so. Sutherland took exception to Paul's characterization of London being a dark pool of all sorts of deviant behavior, which led to a debate over the merits of London in general. Slugging back drinks with abandon, the two turned the discussion into a heated debate ranging from Parliament to foreign trade, in which Sutherland obviously was heavily invested, to the government and private securities, with which Paul was extremely well acquainted. And then, miraculously, the two men began to agree on the types of reforms that were needed to foster a healthy economy. Paul even went so far—after his fifth glass of port—to commend the duke's most recent speech on that very topic.