Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  Devilfoard motioned to a footman to fill his plate and teacup. He leaned down to place a kiss upon Henrietta’s upturned cheek. To Angel, he whispered, “Your father is by far the superior Lovelace brother.” He caught the back of Angel’s hand to kiss her knuckles.

  Angel slid her eyes to where her father spoke to Lady Gunnimore. “I sometimes forget the resolve with which my father faces the world.”

  Devilfoard chuckled. “I imagine so, Miss Lovelace. Your father’s renowned purpose so matches your own, it must be difficult to recognize whose is whose.”

  As the duke moved away, Lord Remmington bowed to her. “Miss Lovelace, may I escort you upon your return to Devil’s Keep from church this morning?” There was no kindness in the earl’s tone. Neither did his expression display anything beyond blandness.

  Amazingly, Angel’s voice did not crack when she spoke. “I would look upon it as an honor, my lord.”

  “I will be waiting outside the church under the large oak.”

  * * *

  Lord Remmington watched her with hooded eyes, and Angel knew real regret as she approached where he stood stiff and aristocratic. She dipped a curtsey. “My lord.” She cringed internally as a muscle along his jaw line jumped under his taut control.

  “Let us walk, Miss Lovelace.”

  The earl placed her hand upon his sleeve and set their steps in motion. They walked in silence for several minutes, tarrying long enough for the Devilfoard house party to precede them.

  The fact Lord Remmington ignored the propriety of a bow of greeting spoke of the gentleman’s ire, but, unfortunately, for his lordship, Angel’s hours of worry over Lord Malvern’s fate and the reaction of those who learned of her impropriety had worn her patience thin.

  “If I am to be chastised, your lordship, I would prefer to have it done quickly. As I have yet to know my bed, I would welcome the opportunity to retire for a few hours of restorative sleep.”

  “None of us claimed rest, Miss Lovelace,” he said bitterly.

  “Yet, I am the only one who stands accused of something not of my making.”

  The earl’s lips thinned. “Then you mean to offer me no excuses?”

  Angel pulled up in frustration. “Excuses?” Her voice rose. “You require excuses, my lord. I suppose you believe you hold a right to excuses. Funny how men always believe they are the ones wounded.” She threw her hands up in annoyance. “Very well, my lord.” She blew out a huff of resignation. “My excuse is I am a hoydenish American, who possesses no morals. Men are welcome to call upon me at all hours of the night. I am a woman of loose values. Is that what you wish to hear, Lord Remmington?”

  He caught her arm when Angel turned to leave. “I want the bloody truth!” he growled.

  “Then you should speak to Lord Malvern.”

  His eyes flashed with icy fire. “I have heard the marquess’s version of the events. Now I wish to know yours.”

  Angel stared at the point where his fingers had left red marks upon her arm. “What you want, my lord, and what you receive are not the same.” Her anger barely under control, she hissed, “When my father asked of your concern in this matter, I worried of losing your regard, but, evidently, I never held it in the first place. If I had, you would possess no doubts of my actions. Now please remove your hand from my arm.”

  Instead of releasing her, Lord Remmington gave her a good shake. “Do you expect me to offer for a woman who spends her intimate moments with the Marquess of Malvern? Although it is not in fashion, I wish my countess to desire my touch.”

  Angel did not know why the idea of an apology rubbed her raw. Both last evening and again this morning, she had settled her mind to speak honestly to Lord Remmington of her feelings for Lord Malvern and permit the coins to land where they may, but when it came to uttering her regrets, she had none. More importantly, she did not wish to align herself with a man who thought poorly of her. She pried the first of his fingers from her arm. “If this is an example of your touch, my lord, I cannot say desire is the correct word to describe my feelings. My father never raised his hand to me, and you are a fool if you think I would accept a husband who would do so.”

  A battle of wills lasted but a few elongated seconds before Lord Remmington released his grasp and pointedly bowed deep. “Pardon me, Miss Lovelace,” he said with a deep sigh. “This is not how I imagined this conversation would go.” A look of self- loathing crossed the earl’s features.

  The wind removed from her sails, Angel studied him. Evidently, her secrets wounded the earl’s pride more than she expected. “Tell me how you wished it,” she said softly.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, which was the rich color of earth. He chuckled in irony. “Certainly not with the marks of my hand upon your arm.” He lightly touched the imprint with his gloved finger. “I cannot blame you for turning from me. I acted cruelly and dishonorably. You hold every right to withdraw. I shan’t ask you to forgive me for I committed an unforgivable act.”

  “I, too, did not act wisely.” Angel caught his hand. “Please understand I never wished to bring you grief. I have come to depend upon your allegiance, and I should not have placed your regard second.” His eyes rose to meet hers. “If you have questions not answered by Lord Malvern or requiring clarification, I shall answer each honestly.”

  The earl shook his head in denial. “Of late, I have acted the fool, but I shan’t claim the role permanently. From the first moments of our acquaintance, I judged you to be not only beautiful, but of exemplary character. My vanity tempted me into listening to the gossips—to judge myself as others might judge me. I do not wish to live my life for the beau monde.”

  He permitted her to keep possession of his hand, so Angel brought his palm to her cheek. Lord Remmington caressed her jaw line before dropping his hand to his side.

  “My relationship with the marquess is complicated,” she offered a bit awkwardly. The earl’s caress had brought comfort. Yet, something was missing—something she prayed would grow between them. “Despite what others may say, I feel a responsibility for the marquess’s current condition. You claim to know me, my lord. If so, then you must realize I could not turn Lord Malvern away. He suffers so deeply without complaint, but you would also be aware I never encouraged the marquess’s nocturnal visits.”

  Lord Remmington smiled disdainfully. “I do know,” he said with remorse, “but I cannot approve. You are too precious to me. I will not stand idly by and permit Malvern’s vulnerability to claim your good name.”

  “You do know, my lord, that men and women rarely agree in such matters,” she said with a bit of amusement and an encouraging smile.

  The earl rolled his eyes heavenward. “Why can I not resist you?”

  Angel wrapped her arm through his and turned their steps toward where Devil’s Keep loomed in the distance. “Because you approve of my sparking personality,” she teased.

  He laughed that soft rolling, masculine laugh of which Angelica was so fond. “Well certainly not your shrewish tongue.”

  “Wait until you see how hard I can kick your shins or stomp upon your toes. As a young girl I mastered those skills quickly when chasing after the young grooms,” she countered with a wide smile.

  “My God!” His lordship jokingly caught at his chest. “I set my designs upon a real termagant!” He cupped the back of her hand with his free one. “I will forego the pleasure of your sharp barbs in the future. For now, permit me to return you to the manor. You require your rest. No more saving the world today. You are to tend to no one’s wishes, but your own.”

  “The idea sounds heavenly.” Angel sighed deeply. “I am feeling quite exhausted.”

  Lord Remmington steadied her steps. “Please know you are what is important.”

  A yawn claimed Angel’s lips. “You should seek your bed also.”

  He chuckled. “We will each claim our peace and begin again this evening. May I call upon you to escort you to supper?”

  “I would like that very
much, my lord.”

  * * *

  The duchess, obviously, protected Angel with her seating arrangement—Lord Remmington on her left and Lord Harrison upon her right. Malvern joined Angel’s father and Lady Gunnimore on the duke’s right. A table full of guests rested between them, but Angelica knew when the marquess’s eyes drifted in her direction. Even so, she kept her gaze on either the earl or Lord Harry. She knew her role in the façade the McLaughlins had created.

  When it came time for the ladies to retire to the music room, the thought of smiling through several debutantes displaying their talents quickly soured Angel’s reserves. She had not recovered from the drama of the previous evening.

  “Lady Gunnimore, I have a bit of a headache,” she whispered. “Would you tell Papa and Lord Remmington I mean to retire early?”

  “Certainly, my dear. You do appear quite pale. Shall I go up with you?”

  Angel shook her head. “I do not wish to draw too much attention to my absence. I shall sneak out before the music begins. Forward my regrets to the duchess.”

  Her ladyship squeezed Angel’s hand. “We shall see you in the morning. Rest well, my dear.”

  Angel waited until the ladies gathered about the pianoforte to choose music for the evening’s entertainment before she slipped through a door at the rear of the room to find herself in a cross hallway. It was tempting to identify where the passage led, but her head tapped out a brisk tattoo. Turning to her right, Angel soon found herself in the portrait gallery. Instinctively, she stopped before the one of the duke and duchess with their three children. Devilfoard and his lady’s eyes expressed the fondness they held for each other. Malvern and Lady Stoke appeared to be around age twelve or thirteen, making baby Harry, perched upon the duke’s knee, between two and three, although he appeared more infantile in his facial features. Henrietta stood majestically beside her mother, a wreath of flowers upon the girl’s head, but despite the light lavender dress, the future viscountess appeared a dark and mischievous fairy.

  At length, Angel’s eyes fell upon the marquess. She would have known him anywhere. Onyx eyes and raven hair, just like his father’s, and a too-serious look, mimicking the one upon the duke’s lips.

  “Be yourself, my lord,” she whispered in mild chastisement before continuing toward her quarters. “His lordship wishes to be what he is not,” she observed to the empty passage.

  She hurried on, wishing to be free of everything but her pillow, some chamomile tea, and a poultice of comfrey leaves for her weary head. Opening her door, Angel did not notice the figure lying across the entrance until she stumbled over the form to land face down upon the Persian rug. Stunned, it took her several seconds to struggle to her knees. Her hand ran along the plump figure in the rough cloth. “Beca!” she pleaded.

  She climbed tentatively to her feet, only to discover someone other than the maid occupied the room. A figure dressed all in black stepped from the semi-darkness, as the door closed behind her. A shiver of trepidation ran down her spine as Angel swallowed the gasp demanding its release. Recognizing the dark figure immediately, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  An answer to her question came more quickly than Angel anticipated. A step behind her said her guest did not arrive alone. In the next instant, a damp cloth covered her mouth and nose. She fought, feeling quite foolish for warning Lord Remmington of her ability to kick, for her squirming had no effect upon her abductor. Hard fumes filled her nostrils, and she struggled for her next breath, but her attacker was too strong. A masculine chest blocked her escape, and the blackness rushed in to claim her. The smile of evil upon her abductor’s lips was the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness.

  * * *

  “Where is she?” Lord Remmington hissed.

  Although he knew exactly for whom the earl searched, Hunt asked innocently, “Who?”

  He, too, watched the door for Miss Lovelace’s entrance. Hunt had yet to offer his gratitude to the woman. He judged it best after his father’s explanation to the duchess’s guests not to claim the lady’s attentions. It would appear as if his family had arranged for Angel to offer a deception to protect him. Although Hunt had not asked for her intervention, he was more than grateful, but he felt awkward with his parents’ knowing of the intimacies he had shared with Miss Lovelace. He felt very much like a schoolboy called before the headmaster.

  “You know bloody well who I mean. Did you call on the lady last evening to express your appreciation?” Remmington growled.

  Hunt’s eyebrow rose with irritation. He understood the earl’s objections to his actions, but he was not likely to tolerate Remmington’s insolence. “I promised you, as well as the duke, I would not place Miss Lovelace in another compromising situation.” Hunt glanced to the door again. “Perhaps the lady avoids the sting of questions awaiting her.”

  Remmington’s eyes darkened. “For a man who names such a close acquaintance with a woman, you know nothing of the lady. Miss Lovelace holds more resolve than most men of my acquaintance.”

  Hunt was well aware of the lady’s determination and her zest for life. Those were only two reasons he clung to her so closely. He ignored the feeling of panic he experienced every time he thought of her accepting the earl as her husband. Hunt doubted he could survive without Miss Lovelace in his life, but it appeared an arrangement with the earl was a very strong possibility.

  “Then what do you propose we do?”

  “Speak to the lady’s father,” the earl pronounced.

  It took them several minutes to locate Horace Lovelace and George Connell in the library going over a book of maps.

  “And you say, Angelica did not break her fast?”

  “Your daughter has not made an appearance, Mr. Lovelace.”

  The earl ran his fingers through his hair in distraction. “Miss Lovelace retired early with word of a headache. I found it odd she did not come down this morning. Could your daughter be ill, sir?”

  Lovelace scowled. “It would be unusual for Angelica to know a weakness. In truth, even the headache last evening was a divergence from her character, but I assumed my daughter required more rest after the long night’s vigil. Thank you, your lordship, for bringing your concerns to me. I should call upon her.”

  “Might we go with you?” Remmington pressed. “Lord Malvern and I will wait outside the lady’s quarters while you see to Miss Lovelace’s needs. I would prefer for you to send me away with my foolishness than to have you require my aid in fetching a physician.”

  “As would I,” Hunt added quickly. He had not considered the possibility that Miss Lovelace could be ill. Could someone have poisoned her meal as with Lady Arcane? Surely Angelica was not lying abed in pain or worse. The thought brought a sense of panic to Hunt’s chest.

  Lovelace led the way to his daughter’s quarters. Hunt glanced to where the Sandahls took refuge. He wondered how long it might be before his family rid themselves of the specter cast by the Sandahls.

  “Angelica?” Her father tapped upon the door. “Angelica? Open up, child.” Hunt strained to hear any sound from the other side of the door, but knew disappointment. Her father knocked louder. “Angelica!”

  “Try the latch,” Hunt encouraged.

  Lovelace shook the lock hard, but the mechanism did not give. The door was locked from the inside. “We require a key.”

  Hunt shook off the idea. “It will take too long to find the housekeeper. This way.” He turned to the servants’ door at the end of hall, the one hidden by a heavy drape. Entering the tight quarters, he led the way through the passage to the entrance to Miss Lovelace’s quarters. He could hear Angel’s father and Remmington close behind, but Hunt did not stop until he stood in the middle of her now familiar quarters.

  “Angelica!” he called as he scanned the empty room.

  “Where in the bloody hell is she?” Remmington cursed, as he searched behind the screen.

  “The bed was not used.” />
  Lovelace turned in a circle before opening the doors to the small balcony to look out upon the groomed side lawn and the bushes beneath. Hunt knew the man prayed his daughter had not fallen from the balcony. Lovelace’s expression displayed the same fears Hunt experienced.

  A thud from behind him had Hunt spinning around and Remmington withdrawing his gun. With a nod, the earl gestured to the wardrobe. Hunt swallowed hard before sidestepping to the large piece of furniture.

  “On three,” the earl whispered. Remmington held up one finger. Then two. When the third one rose, Hunt caught the door of the wardrobe and yanked it open.

  The pale countenance of the maid assigned by the duchess to tend Miss Lovelace stared out at them.

  “Beca?” Hunt reached for the woman he only knew my name from Angelica’s description. He untied the rope about the maid’s wrists before loosening the gag from her mouth. “What happened to Miss Lovelace?” he asked as he braced the woman who gingerly stepped from the crumpled gowns trampled beneath her feet.

  “Oh, master,” she wailed as she clung to Hunt’s arm. “It be the Devil’s work, sir.”

  “You are safe now. Know I will see to your wellbeing.”

  When she climbed from the small space that had held her captive, Remmington shoved a chair under the maid so she might sit while Lovelace placed a glass of water in the woman’s hand.