The Fox And The Angel

by Danelle Harmon

  “Marry me, Angela,” he said softly.

  “I can’t,” she said, her body tingling with awareness, with awakening. She licked her lips. “I . . . hardly know you.”

  “We have a lifetime to get to know each other.”

  She stood there stunned out of her momentary stupor, a thousand feelings reeling through her heart. Fear of the unknown. Excitement that he found her desirable. Worry that he was transferring his love for the lady in the painting to her, the lady in the flesh.

  She could not marry a man who did not see her for herself, but as another.

  Such a marriage would be a lie and she knew it, her soul knew it, and in that moment, the dove that had been her suddenly buoyant heart, fell sadly back to earth like the fat snowflakes drifting down out of the heavens outside.

  Falling.

  And melting into a lost little nothing.

  “You are very kind, Sir Roger, to make such a generous offer,” she said, wishing with all her heart that she dared to accept his proposal. “But I cannot marry you. You would forever see me as your Margaret, and not as myself.”

  He looked stricken. “Lady Twyford, I can assure you that I see you very plainly as yourself.”

  “But she would forever be between us. You would always see her when you look at me. You have been in love with her for a long time. You only just met me, and you have had years to imagine her as perfection, to imagine her as anything you want her to be. I am not perfection, and never will be. I am not Margaret Seaford, and never will be. No, Sir Roger. Tomorrow afternoon, I think, I will leave for home, and we will both go on with our lives.”

  “Our lonely, empty lives. Is that what you want?”

  “It is better that way.”

  “But —”

  “Please, Sir Roger. Don’t make this difficult for either of us.”

  The familiar look of pain had come back over his face, and she saw his expression go shuttered and bleak once more. He reached out and took her hand, and the strength of it over her own, the contact of his skin against theirs, even through her glove, was enough to make her heart beat a little faster.

  Marry him, her heart whispered.

  That would be folly, replied her head. You are Margaret Seaford to him. Nothing and nobody more.

  She opened her heart to speak, but the moment was past.

  “As you wish, madam,” he said formally, and offering his elbow, escorted her back into the house.

  * * *

  “Damnation,” said Lucien, watching as his best friend walked stiffly across the snowy, darkened lawn below, his arm and elbow held out from his body, Angela lightly holding it and putting as much distance between herself and the barrister as she could. “I had hoped for more from them.”

  Eva was suddenly beside him, little Augustus balanced on her hip. She too looked down, noting the stiffness of the couple below. “That isn’t good.”

  “She’s perfect for him. He’s already in love with her. He went flying out of here like the house was on fire so she wouldn’t go get that horse all by herself.”

  “And he’s perfect for her. Wealthy, eligible, the second son of a fine family. Did you see the way she was looking at him when they got back here this afternoon?”

  Beside her, Lucien was rubbing his jaw.

  “You have to do something, my dear duke.”

  “I can’t force what isn’t there.”

  “It is there. They just don’t see it.”

  “An attraction based on her resemblance to a woman long-dead is not enough to fuel this.”

  “And yet, you were counting on that very reaction when you invited the both of them here.”

  “I was.”

  They went silent, both thinking.

  “Besides,” she added. “It’s not like there’s a painting of a long-dead ancestor of him.”

  “And your point, my dear?”

  “Did you see the way she reacts to him, Lucien? She follows him with her eyes. She allowed him to go with her to retrieve that horse. She is happier around him, almost bubbly.”

  “Well, something happened in that coach, then, to arrest the progress of their affection for each other.”

  “She will be leaving soon. All opportunity will be lost. We have to do something, quickly.”

  Downstairs, a door opened and shut and moments later, there were voices outside the library. The duke remained standing at the window, looking out over the downs — a habit he often adopted when deep in thought.

  “Lucien?”

  “Give me a little time, my dear. I will think of something to . . . move this little affection, along.”

  He turned then and went back to gazing out the window, a slim, elegant, thoughtful figure. But before he turned, his duchess saw his smile and above it, the cunning sparkle that was back in his eye.

  She had to trust him.

  * * *

  Outside, the snow whispered down, dark and mysterious and beautiful. Inside the great and ancient Blackheath Castle, home to the dukes of Blackheath for centuries, a waning fire still crackled in the hearth of the library, deserted now except for one quiet figure sitting in a chair drawn close to the fire.

  A baby was in his arms; a baby whose birth they had celebrated as a miracle following the terrible injury that had deemed Eva — according to the charlatans who called themselves physicians — unable to ever bear children. Little Augustus, the future heir of Blackheath, a child strong in both mind, body and spirit, slept innocently in his powerful father’s arms, the light from the dying fire flickering over his skin, casting shadows against his cheeks and finding just the tiniest red glints in his dark hair.

  Tomorrow Angela would head home, the painting wrapped safely in cloths and about to be lost from Blackheath forever. In his heart of hearts, Lucien knew the portrait should never leave the castle, that Lady Margaret Seaford was meant to be here just as certainly as Angela Seaford Holmes was meant to be with Sir Roger Foxcote, Esquire.

  Once the painting was gone, so too would Angela be — and all chances to get his distant cousin together with his best friend in the world.

  There had to be a way to ensure that Margaret Seaford, dead these two hundred years, could still work her magic.

  She had bewitched Fox a long time ago.

  Surely, she could play matchmaker just as surely as Lucien could. . . .

  Chapter 8

  The snow was still sifting down out of the sky the following morning as Angela came down to a light breakfast of tea and toast spread with thick, chunky marmalade jam and a slab of gammon.

  A maid had lit a fire in the hearth hours before, and it was blazing and cheerful in the great dining room. On the mantle, fresh green boughs of pine had been laid, tied with red ribbon and lending a festive spirit to the room.

  But Angela did not feel festive.

  It was Christmas, and she felt quite miserable.

  Footsteps echoed behind her, and she turned and saw Sir Roger.

  “Lady Twyford,” he acknowledged, bowing formally.

  “Good morning, Sir Roger.”

  A moment later, he took a seat opposite her. He had already dressed for the day; a dark grey wool frock coat embroidered with red and gold thread, cream colored breeches, and a flawlessly tied cravat. He was wearing his bagwig, and it seemed a crime to cover the beautiful red-gold hair that made him look so much like the wily animal that had given his family its surname. Angela felt sad.

  And desperate.

  “You are leaving today, then,” he said in a rather clipped voice.

  “Yes.” She took a sip of her tea. “And by the looks of it, so are you.”

  “Time for me to get on home.”

  “Yes . . . me too.”

  A footman poured him a cup of tea and he took an extra long time stirring sugar into it, looking down at his spoon making small circles in the hot, steaming brew.

  “I suppose you have given my proposal no further thought,” he said, still not looking up.

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nbsp; “I have given it plenty of thought, but my answer remains the same, Sir Roger. I am sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For not being Margaret Seaford.”

  He laid his spoon down with rather more force than it deserved. “No, you are not Margaret Seaford. I thought we made that quite clear.”

  She looked down, her appetite suddenly gone. “I have told Lucien that the painting will stay here. She should not go home with me, simply because she was an ancestress. She was Lucien’s ancestress, too.”

  “You are leaving her here because you don’t want to take her from me.”

  Angela gave a little shrug, and looking up, met his flat, accusing stare. “Yes. She belongs to you, perhaps, even more than she does to Lucien. In fact, she is back in her rightful place in the ancestral gallery. Which is where she should be.”

  “You speak as though you have already made up your mind.”

  “I have.”

  He looked away, his jaw hard, and Angela went back to her tea, the toast half-eaten on her plate. Her hands trembled, and her heart weighed heavily within her chest. An awkwardness fell between them, and she finally sighed and rose; immediately, so did he, ever the proper gentleman.

  “There is no sense in delaying the inevitable,” she said. “I will say goodbye to Lucien and his family, and then I will be off. Best to put as many miles behind me, I think, as I can before night falls . . . heaven knows there’s not much daylight this time of year.”

  He walked with her toward the door, and she could not know the anguish in his heart, could not know that although Sir Roger Foxcote might be one of the cleverest men in England, he was absolutely stymied as to how he could keep her here, at least, long enough to convince her that it wasn’t the damned portrait that interested him, it was the living woman.

  Her.

  But no. The moment was past, footsteps were approaching and Lucien and Eva, their arms linked and their love for each other only making Fox more miserable, were approaching.

  People weren’t supposed to die at Christmas.

  They weren’t supposed to go away and break your heart, either.

  * * *

  Their parting was polite formality, perfectly British, any emotions that either of them felt carefully stuffed beneath the veneer of acquaintanceship, and nothing more.

  Lucien’s coach stood waiting in the drive, a light dusting of snow drifting down to collect atop the wheels, the traces, the box itself, where the driver sat hunched in a thick woolen overcoat with his tricorn pulled down low. A footman stood at the horses’ heads, and another was just straightening up after loading Angela’s luggage and a few large wrapped gifts from the Blackheaths, into the boot.

  One of the horses was pawing in impatience, eager to be off.

  “Thank you so much for your kindness and hospitality, Lucien,” said Angela as her cousin, seemingly oblivious to the cold, escorted her to the coach and there, bowed over her hand before handing her up and into the vehicle. “I hope you take no offense by my decision to leave the portrait with you. She . . . she belongs here, I think.”

  “Ah, well, I suppose you are right,” he said, with an air of casual negligence. “But if ever you change your mind, she is yours to keep.”

  Angela nodded and settled herself into the seat across from Liza. Off beyond Lucien’s shoulder she could see Sir Roger standing on the steps, his hands clasped behind his back. His face was as bleak as the stone that made up the walls of the great castle itself. His eyes were filled with pain.

  She looked away, forcing a smile as she met Lucien’s gaze. “I will not change my mind.”

  “Very well then, my dear.”

  “Thank you for looking after Snowy until I can send for him in the springtime.” She swallowed hard against the emotion that pressed against her eyes, the back of her throat. “I suppose it will be a long time before we see each other again. But when I get on my feet, I hope you know that you and Eva — and little Augustus, of course — are always welcome to come visit.”

  “I will look forward to that.”

  He took her hand, bowed over it, and goodbyes were said. The door shut with sad finality and Angela, despite Liza’s presence, was alone in the coach, alone in the cold, alone, alone, alone.

  Good bye, Sir Roger.

  She felt the prickle of a tear in her eye as the coach began to move; a moment later, its wheels were whispering beneath her, the old copper beeches were passing outside the window, and she was on her way.

  Alone.

  They made good time into Ravenscombe, and it was there that the driver informed her that no, he was not going to bring her to the Speckled Hen inn so that she could catch the stage in the morning, he had orders from His Grace to take her all the way into Newbury so that her accommodations would be more comfortable for as long as possible, and then, on to Surrey. There was no need for a De Montforte relation to be stuck in, or even atop, a crowded stage when the Duke of Blackheath had the means to ensure a safe and comfortable trip.

  The day was grey, the hours passed, and the snow continued to drift down out of heavy, brooding clouds the color of charcoal. Morosely watching the scenery passing outside the window of her cousin’s luxurious coach, Angela was hard-pressed to know when day had ended and night had begun its inevitable march forward. The driver stopped and lit the lanterns of the coach. The hot brick that had been provided back at Blackheath to keep her toes warm had long since cooled, and she shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her.

  Go back, her heart said. Go back, and get to know Sir Roger Foxcote. Give him a chance.

  But she could not go back. She had rejected him. Twice. Shot an arrow through his male pride, doubted his affections for her, thrown them back in his face. He, too, was probably somewhere out there in this gathering gloom, traveling in the opposite direction toward his home in Oxfordshire, the miles increasing between them. She hoped that his home was less lonely than the one that awaited her.

  Lights were beginning to twinkle from a distant village, nestled far out in a distant valley.

  Across from her, Liza had fallen asleep. Angela covered her with a blanket, then wrapped a second one around herself.

  It was a while before she heard them and realized what they were.

  Hoofbeats, coming up hard and fast from behind them in the darkness.

  “Halt there! Halt there, I say!”

  Cold fear pressed against Angela’s spine and she suddenly sat up. Highwaymen? Dear God, could this day get any worse? She put a hand up to her neck, already unfastening the gold locket there which was about all she could offer that was of any value.

  “Halt, now!”

  She heard the driver on the box above trying to slow the team. “Whoa, there! Whoa!”

  The coach slowed and came to a stop. Angela waited, her heart beating hard within her chest. Liza raised her head, rubbing her eyes in confusion. Voices were exchanged. She heard laughter. Laughter? And then the door was yanked open and the highwayman that stood there was no highwayman at all, but a tall, handsome man with red-gold stubble on his chin, eyes that flashed impatience and annoyance, and strong hands that yanked that same door shut as he sat down heavily on the seat beside her.

  Liza’s eyes widened.

  And Angela’s heart leaped with excitement.

  With hope.

  “Surely, Sir Roger, you are a skilled enough barrister that you need not resort to robbing people’s coaches in order to support yourself.”

  “There is only one item in this coach that I want.”

  “The painting?”

  “The living one.”

  And with that, he leaned forward, encircled her with an arm and pulled her forcefully toward him and into his embrace. She melted into his kiss, suddenly cold no longer, suddenly alone and sad and miserable no longer, and her own hand came up to explore the shape of his cheek, the hardness of his shoulder beneath his greatcoat as Liza looked on with wide and excited eyes.

  �
�Why did you come after me?” she finally asked, pulling away and trying to catch her breath.

  “Because you took the painting after telling me you would leave it. And then I realized that maybe you took it because your actions spoke louder than your words, that you wanted me to come after you, that maybe I had misread you. Or misheard you.”

  “I didn’t take the painting. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course not! Margaret was in her old place in the ancestral gallery when I departed this morning. I left her with Lucien. I left her so that you could always enjoy her, so why on earth would you say I took her?”

  “You didn’t take her?”

  “I beg your pardon, Sir Roger, but you’re making no sense to me at all.”

  His lips began to twitch, and he let out a little guffaw. Then, the guffaw became laughter, that rich, full, male laughter that buoyed her soul and spirit and made her want to laugh right along with him, and he leaned back against the squab, all anger gone from his eyes.

  “You and I,” he finally said, “have been neatly manipulated.”

  “Sir Roger, I fear the cold has befuddled your brain. You speak in riddles.”

  “It is Lucien’s doing.”

  “What is?”

  “Come with me.” He opened the door, reached back in for her hand, and together, they walked through the thick, partially frozen white chalk mud to the boot. As the driver, still seated above, watched in bemusement and the horses, eager to be off once more, shifted in their harnesses, Sir Roger Foxcote opened the boot and there, for both to see, was evidence of Lucien’s hand in things.

  The painting.

  It was wrapped in blankets and tied up with rope, but its shape was unmistakable.

  Angela’s eyes widened. “What on earth . . . ?”

  “Don’t you see?” Fox shook his head. “I was ready to leave for home. I went into the ancestral gallery to see Margaret one last time. Not because I wanted to see Margaret, but because I wanted to see you. She reminds me of you. But she was not there, and then Lucien was behind me, saying quite matter-of-factly that you had left with the painting and that if I wanted it back, I’d better ride hard and fast to catch up with you. This is all his doing. All of it.”