“Ye ‘ave a good heart, milady.”
“And an increasingly light purse, the way we’re going.” She sighed. “Thanks to the brilliance of that overbearing fool of a magistrate last night. I would have been better off handling the situation myself.”
“He was rather handsome, milady.”
“If one likes birds of the peacock variety.”
“I thought ‘e was rather smart, m’self, the way he calmed everyone down and figured a way out of the situation. Ye could’ve been sitting in the gaol right now.”
Angela reached out and laid a gloved hand on her maid’s arm. “Let us forget last night, Liza. Today is a new day, the snow has stopped, and the world is sparkling and beautiful. Instead, let us think of what lies ahead of us, not behind.”
The two settled back and watched the downs passing outside the windows. But Liza’s words had prickled at Angela’s conscience, and she wished she could take back her waspish words of the previous night. The magistrate—not that she cared what he thought!—probably deemed her a cheapskate. She wasn’t, really. Oh, not at all. She just didn’t like to be dictated to, especially by some fop in a bagwig and a ridiculously fancy waistcoat whose position as local magistrate gave him an authority she suspected he would otherwise have no right to possess.
Margaret, he’d called her.
She pulled her cloak more firmly against herself, shivering in the cold that permeated the coach, her feet warmed by the brick, hot from the coals of the fireplace, the innkeeper’s wife had thoughtfully tucked in a blanket on the floor.
Funny, that.
Margaret.
The same woman whose existence, though long since ended, was the reason she’d made the journey from her late husband’s seat in Surrey all the way up here to Berkshire. She reached into her reticule and pulled out the letter she’d received from her cousin, the sixth Duke of Blackheath:
My dear Angela,
I hope my words find you well, and in good health. During your last visit to Blackheath, you expressed an interest in a certain portrait of our shared ancestress, Margaret Seaford, whose likeness, we both agreed, bears a startling resemblance to your own. With the birth of my own son and heir, I am more cognizant than ever of the meaning and importance of family, and to this end, have come to the conclusion that the portrait rightfully belongs to you. Should your interest in acquiring it remain, Her Grace and I would be most delighted to welcome you to Blackheath for the Christmas season, where we hope you will join us in celebrating the one year anniversary of our son’s birth.
Most affectionately,
— Blackheath
Short and to the point.
Angela carefully folded the letter and tucked it back into her reticule. It, and the offer contained therein, had been an unexpected surprise. What on earth would possess the mighty Duke of Blackheath to part with such an important piece of his family history? His heritage?
Well, it would be interesting to get to know His Grace and his family a little better, and spending it with them was far better than doing so all alone in the bare and cold rooms of the Dower House to which she and Liza had been forced to remove after Twyford had passed to Thomas’s younger brother upon his untimely death two years past.
Money did not last forever.
And now she had a horse to feed and support, thanks to the actions of one Sir Roger Foxcote.
There you go, thinking of that macaroni-magistrate again.
Yes, he was a fop, and could probably afford to be. She’d seen him glance into the looking glass before heading downstairs, known immediately that he was fastidious, mindful of his appearance, and certainly just a little bit vain. But there had been something else about Sir Roger that had gone much deeper than his outward appearance. The hard line of his jaw, the cut of his nose and the plane of his cheeks, the strength of his hand beneath her elbow . . . the breadth of his shoulders beneath that fancy waistcoat, the understated elegance in his actions . . . all bespoke quality, confidence, and a certain masculinity that she found both compelling and yes, if she were honest with herself, attractive.
And yet, she had sensed a deep and abiding sadness about him that was at odds with the joyousness of the Christmas season.
She shrugged off thoughts of the magistrate. Good thing she would never see that insufferable boor again.
She settled back against the squab, listening to the wheels crunch through the thin layer of snow and crusted puddles that pocked the road of white chalk-mud. She hoped the innkeeper was honest, and had indeed put an extra blanket on her new horse. It was cold this morning, and the animal didn’t have much flesh on its bones.
A horse.
She let out a little laugh and shook her head.
No baby Jesus given unto her on this holiest of days, but a thin and abused horse.
Still, it was Christmas, even if her gift had been both unlikely and unwanted, and she would make the best of it. Maybe once she got the animal back on its feet, it would make a fine lady’s mount. And as for this journey . . . she was nearly at the end of it and soon she would be with family, even if the duke was someone she hadn’t seen in three years and certainly didn’t know well.
What an adventure this was already turning out to be.
“Our breath be mistin’ the windows, milady,” said Liza, lifting a gloved hand to wipe away the fog.
But Angela stilled the maid’s hand. “Then let us decorate,” she said and smiling, took off her glove and drew a five-pointed star high on the pane. It wasn’t hanging over Bethlehem, but she decided it was a quite festive all the same. She drew another. And another.
Giggling, Liza reached out and with her own finger, added a crude rendering of an inn.
Angela drew a manger.
Liza added stick figures to represent the Holy Family.
They were just starting on the opposite window when the coach slowed and came to a stop.
“Are we here already?” Liza asked, rubbing at the window so she could see outside.
“It would appear so.” Suddenly excited, Angela waited for the footman to lower the steps and open the door and there, as magnificent as she remembered it when she had last visited it three years before, was Blackheath Castle.
The great home looked beautiful and timeless against the fresh snow. Pennants flew from the great crenellated towers and the moat, which they had just crossed, shone grey and cold under the lowering clouds. Footmen dressed in the duke’s livery came out to take their luggage and there, standing in the wide-open door as she and Liza mounted the steps, was her cousin himself, a beautiful red-haired woman with a squirming babe in her arms beside him.
“Happy Christmas, Angela,” said Lucien, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “I am delighted that you made the trip. Welcome back to Blackheath.” He turned to the gorgeous woman beside him. “Eva, I present to you my cousin, Angela.”
Angela curtseyed to the duchess, and initial greetings were exchanged. Angela, who had pined for children but been denied them with Thomas’s death, felt her heart warm at the dark-haired baby that was struggling in his mother’s arms to get down.
“Come, let us go inside. You must be positively frozen after your long journey, and there’s a nice fire blazing in the Gold drawing room,” Eva said warmly. “I trust your journey was uneventful?”
“Well, it was fine enough until last night.” They entered the foyer, where a footman took her cloak and muff and Liza, supervising her lady’s luggage, followed the housekeeper upstairs. “The storm made the roads bad, and we decided to seek shelter at an inn five miles distant instead of continuing on to Blackheath. One thing led to another, and now I’m afraid I find myself the owner of a horse I don’t need — thanks to the actions of your local magistrate who happened to be staying upstairs.” She told them what had happened. “What an obnoxious fop! Thank heavens I’ll never have to see him again.”
One of Lucien’s dark brows lifted, almost imperceptibly, and a glint came into his eye. �
�Obnoxious fop? Our Sir Roger?”
“You know that strutting peacock?”
The duke’s lips were twitching. “We are . . . acquainted.”
“Well, I count myself fortunate that the acquaintance is all yours, and that I only had to endure his company for a few minutes.”
Lucien exchanged a look with his duchess; why he seemed to find this amusing was anyone’s guess, but anyone who knew him well would have recognized it as impending trouble.
“Don’t,” the duchess said, simply.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t even think what you’re thinking.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“I’m married to you. I know what you’re thinking, and you should stop thinking about it right now because it would never work.”
“What would never work?” Angela ventured, confused.
“Nothing,” Lucien said.
“Nothing,” Eva echoed.
Angela looked from one to the other. There was something unspoken here, an exchange of private amusement between the two that showed itself in the twinkle in the duke’s dark eyes and the feigned exasperation in the duchess’s.
Odd, she thought. Must be some little marital secret they shared between themselves.
They reached a beautiful drawing room where a fire blazed in the hearth and reflected against the gold paper that was hung on the walls; someone had placed fragrant branches of pine tied with generous lengths of red velvet ribbon along the inside of the window embrasures and along the mantle and its scent, along with the view of the snowy downs outside the window, made the room festive and cheerful. A footman brought tea and an assortment of rolls and biscuits, small talk was had, Liza was summoned to retrieve some wrapped packages from her lady’s luggage and Angela, who harbored some small talent as a watercolorist, presented the duke and duchess with gifts: for them, a small painting she had done of De Montforte House in London, and for the young heir, a beautiful sampler she had embroidered of the De Montforte arms and family motto—Valour, Virtue and Victory—both, to exclamations of surprise and delight from His and Her Graces.
Angela, smiling, stretched her feet toward the fire. The warmth was making her drowsy. Unbidden, she found her thoughts drifting back to the Peacock.
Was he safely arrived at his own destination, warming himself beside an equally hot fire?
Was he thinking of her, as she was—foolishly—thinking of him?
And had he found solace for whatever had made him look so sad?
A footman appeared with another pot of hot tea, and Eva poured for all. “I have invited a close friend to dinner this evening,” Lucien was saying as he relaxed in his chair with a second cup. “Normally I host a Christmas ball, but Eva and I decided we’d like a rather quiet, meaningful holiday this year. Something small and intimate; just family, and a friend or two. I hope that will suit you, my dear Angela.”
“It sounds perfect,” she replied, stirring her own tea. “And I would be pleased to meet your friends. I’m only sorry that your brothers and sister aren’t here as well; I had looked forward to seeing them again, especially Nerissa.”
“Ah, well, all enjoying the fruits of happy matrimony, I must say. Perhaps next year we will throw one of our famed Christmas balls, invite them all and half the countryside and make it a lively and memorable event. I hope you will make the trip again, and join us.”
“I would love that,” she said, smiling, her thoughts drifting back to the events of last night, which made her think again of the Magistrate, and the horse he had (pardon the pun, she thought, in amusement) saddled her with. “And in the meantime, I wonder if you could help me arrange the retrieval of this poor old horse I have acquired? I gave the innkeeper some money to ensure it gets extra feed and a blanket, but I’d feel much happier knowing it was here, safe in your care.”
“Of course. I will send someone to attend to that immediately.”
“You are very kind, Lucien, but I need to return to the inn and settle my accounts with the innkeeper, and I’m in no hurry to get back into a cold coach just yet. Tomorrow will suffice.”
“Very well then, my dear. Finish your tea, have a hot bath to warm you up, and then rest in your rooms until this evening.”
She smiled. “That sounds heavenly.”
Rest in her rooms. A hot bath and a quiet evening of good food and family she was looking forward to getting to know better, and a friend of Lucien’s whose company would likely be pleasant and entertaining.
Angela smiled, gazed into the flames, and counted her many blessings.
Fortunately for her, she didn’t know just who that friend actually was.
Chapter 4
That friend arrived several hours after Angela did.
Sir Roger was nursing an aching head; upon returning to his room after settling the differences between the horse owner and Lady Twyford, he had finished off the bottle of sherry along with a sugared mince pie, crawled gingerly between the sheets that would never be clean enough for his tastes, and tried to sleep. But he had not been able to get the baroness out of his mind.
Still couldn’t.
What the devil was wrong with him? Just because she looked like the woman he’d been fascinated with these past many years, didn’t make her Lady Margaret Seaford. Margaret, looking down at him from the painting that hung in Lucien’s hall, was mischievous, beautiful, knowing, and surely kind-hearted. The virago whose path he’d had the misfortune to cross last night was an ungrateful shrew, and he must have drunk more than he thought, to think there was any resemblance between the two of them.
A coincidence. Nothing more.
He was glad he’d be spending a few days with Lucien and Eva. He was in no hurry to go back to his family seat in Oxfordshire, and in no hurry to look at paintings there depicting a very different person.
A person whose loss, three years ago last night, still felt like a punch to the gut, a raw wound that had never quite healed.
So much for Christmas cheer. At least he wouldn’t have to pretend to feel something he didn’t, here in the company of his best friend and his family.
He was a frequent visitor to Blackheath, and a footman greeted him and took his greatcoat and hat as he entered the duke's home. Fox pulled off his bagwig, ruffled a hand through his short-cropped golden-red hair, and adopting a cheerful whistling rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen in an attempt to force himself to feel a bit more festive, if not fool others into thinking he actually felt so, found Lucien in the library, sipping a glass of port.
“Ah, Roger.” The duke stood up and greeted him warmly. “I have been expecting you. Join me for a glass, would you?”
“No, thanks. I imbibed rather too much last night as it is. My head is killing me, and my temper is not much better, I fear.”
“It is Christmas, Roger.”
“Indeed. A day that should be wiped right off the calendar, if I had any say in it.”
Lucien fell silent, his dark eyes full of understanding.
“I’m sorry,” Fox said, taking a seat. It’s a bleak time of the year for me. It always will be.”
“Your pain won’t last forever, my dear Roger. But some things cannot be rushed. Healing is one of them.”
“This season can be, as far as I’m concerned. The sooner it’s over, the better.”
The two fell silent. The fire crackled and popped in the hearth.
“How are the roads?”
“Miserable, last night. This morning, messy and muddy. ‘Tis the season, eh?”
Lucien raised his glass in a negligent toast. “’Tis the season.”
Both men looked into the flames, their thoughts their own. Long moments passed.
“You should probably know that we have a houseguest,” Lucien said, at length. “She will be dining with us tonight, of course.”
“The more the merrier,” Fox heard himself say without interest. He leaned slightly sideways to make room for a footman to set a h
ot cup of coffee before him. After last night’s indulgence, its strong aroma was both welcome and faintly nauseating. Even so, he picked it up, relishing its warmth against his palms. The beverage was good and strong and black, just as he liked it. He took a sip, feeling it scald its way down his throat. That was better. So much better.
Footsteps passed in the hall outside, and feminine voices drifted in through the door. Fox recognized one of them as the duchess’s. The other was familiar but he could not place it, and he frowned, slightly.
“In any case,” Lucien was saying as he got up, went to the library windows and, hands clasped behind his back, looked out over the downs. “I have been thinking about . . . Margaret.”
“Margaret?”
“My ancestress, of course.” He turned and shot Fox a grin from over his shoulder. “The one with whom you’ve been enchanted for more years than I can count.”
“Ah. That Margaret.”
“Yes, that Margaret.” Lucien nodded to the opposite wall. “I have had her moved here. Do you like her new location?”
“I’m sure she was perfectly at home in your ancestral gallery, Lucien.”
“Perhaps, but she will soon, I think, be making an even more significant move. Do forgive me, Roger, but I had her brought in here so that you might say your farewells.”
Fox felt the blood drain from his face. He set his coffee down with a shaky hand. “What?”
“It is for the best, Roger.” Lucien tugged at his chin and studied the painting. “You see, there is a member of my family who has more right to the painting, I think, than I do. I just wanted to . . . well, prepare you for the fact that I have decided to give her away.”
Fox stared at him, his mouth falling open. “G-give her away?”
Lucien looked pained.
“How could you?” Fox asked, feeling as though someone had kicked him in the stomach. “You know how I feel about that painting!”
The Fox And The Angel Page 2
