Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

"I am sure you would not knowingly cause me harm, and I believe you will always try to honor your word." She gave an exasperated sigh. "But perhaps I'm wrong. A wise woman once told me that being in love reduces one's intelligence by half, and eliminates good judgment altogether." She stopped in sudden consternation, realizing what she had just revealed.

  Robin turned his head swiftly, his blue eyes intense. Catching her horse's bridle, he brought them both to a halt. Then he backed his horse next to hers, so close their legs touched, and bent over for a long, fiercely emotional kiss.

  As she responded, her arms sliding up to circle his neck, she was startled by the depth of feeling her oblique declaration had unleashed. Robin might feel incapable of declaring love himself, but it seemed that her love was not an unwelcome gift.

  As they resumed riding, the tension of the early morning was gone, and they were friends again.

  * * *

  One of the Wheatsheaf's chambermaids had been assigned to help the distinguished lady guest dress. Unfortunately, Desdemona's fresh gown was as dreary as the one she had worn the day before. She really must do something about her wardrobe.

  As the maid fixed her hair, Desdemona thought about the previous evening. After their mutual baring of souls, both she and the marquess had retreated emotionally, and the dinner conversation had been general rather than personal. Yet even though Giles was the sort of rich landowner whom Desdemona had often opposed politically, she had to admit that his mind was both humane and tolerant. Probably more tolerant than her own, if she were going to be absolutely honest.

  She had become wary as bedtime approached, wondering if he would try to persuade her to join him. But he had treated her with unexceptionable propriety. Except for one thorough good-night kiss, the memory of which made her lips curve into a daft, cat-in-the-creampot smile....

  Hastily Desdemona rearranged her expression, gave the maid a half-crown, and went down to the parlor to break her fast. She was prepared for some constraint when she met the marquess again, and was perversely disappointed that he was not down before her.

  With the unspoken hope that he would appear, she ordered enough food for two. The meal arrived shortly before Giles did. He tapped on the open door, then hesitated, his expression uncertain. "May I join you?"

  The fact that he was equally shy dissolved Desdemona's nerves. "Please do," she said cordially. "I can't speak for the deviled kidneys, but the coddled eggs and sausage are excellent."

  He took a chair opposite her. "I've been to the smith. My coach won't be ready before tomorrow at the earliest."

  "No matter." As domestic as a wife, she poured him a cup of tea, adding milk as she had seen him do the night before. "We can go to your brother's estate in my carriage. Afterward, I can either return you to Daventry or take you on to London if you don't feel like waiting for your repairs to be completed."

  "That's very good of you." He served himself eggs and sausage. "I'm in no mood to cool my heels here for another day."

  "Do you think we'll find our fugitives at Ruxton?"

  "I doubt it—I'm beginning to think of them as will-o'-the-wisps, eternally flitting away just out of reach," he said dryly. "Will your niece call on you when she arrives in London?"

  She shrugged. "I hope so, though I wouldn't wager major money on it. Will your brother go to Wolverton House?"

  The marquess shook his head. "The place is closed with only a caretaker at the moment. I'd been thinking of selling it, actually, but I'm reconsidering." He gave her a level look. "Perhaps I'll be spending more time in town in the future."

  Desdemona liked the sound of that. She found herself smiling again. Lord, she was behaving like a schoolgirl suffering her first case of calf love.

  No, that wasn't true. As she looked down and meticulously spread marmalade over her toast, she realized that she had never felt this way before. She had been a shy and bookish girl, slow to develop interest in the opposite sex. In her salad days she had been tormented by unwanted advances, and she had married young and without love. Surely she was permitted a little folly now. Glancing up, she asked, "How will you find Lord Robert?"

  "Money must be high on his list of priorities, so I'll leave word with his bankers," Giles replied. "I'll also let some of Robin's friends know that I'm looking for him."

  The conversation brought Desdemona's fancies to earth. While she had come to trust the marquess, Lord Robert was still a doubtful quantity. If he had harmed Maxima, the repercussions would certainly affect the fragile feelings growing between herself and Giles.

  Resolutely she reached for another piece of toast. Let the future take care of itself. Today she would enjoy the hours spent with the most attractive man she had ever known.

  * * *

  The roads were muddy, so they didn't reach Ruxton until almost noon. The gatekeeper was happy to admit the marquess, but when questioned, said that Lord Robert had not visited.

  Unconvinced, they entered and went to the estate office. The steward, Haslip, was frowning over his books when Giles and Desdemona entered. The frown disappeared when he glanced up to see the man who had hired and supervised him for years.

  "Lord Wolverton!" He got quickly to his feet. "This is an unexpected pleasure, my lord. Will you be staying for a time?"

  Giles shook his head. "I only stopped by to see if my brother was here."

  Haslip hesitated. "Perhaps he was, but I'm not sure."

  When Giles raised his brows, Haslip said, "No one saw him, but this morning two horses were missing and this note was in the stable." He handed a piece of paper to the marquess. "I don't know if this is his lordship's handwriting. If it is, well enough, but maybe it was forged by a clever thief. Whoever the fellow was, he took the two best mounts in the stables."

  Giles scanned the note. It said only, "I need the horses," and was signed "Lord Robert Andreville." The writing was his brother's distinctive back-slanting script.

  "That's his hand." Giles passed the note to Desdemona. "So he was here last night. At what time was it noticed that the horses were missing?"

  "About nine o'clock."

  "I'll look in the house and see if he spent the night. If he arrived late, he probably didn't wish to waken anyone," Giles said smoothly. Better not to mention the Sheltered Innocent; where she was concerned, the less said, the better.

  Haslip obviously had questions, such as how his new employer had entered a walled estate, why he had left without notifying anyone of his presence, and why he needed two horses. But the steward said only, "Very good, my lord. I'll fetch the keys."

  After being let into the manor house, Giles dismissed Haslip. Then he and Desdemona spent some time searching the house, finishing in the kitchen.

  "They were here, all right," Desdemona said after prowling through the stillroom, the china closets, and a tin bathing tub with a few drops of water inside. She held a newly washed and polished crystal goblet up to the light. "It appears they dined in some style."

  "Robin has always had style," Giles remarked. "I looked through the linen closet. Judging by the number of sheets that had been used once, then carefully refolded, they slept in separate beds. Perhaps all our worries were for naught."

  "We shall see," Desdemona said tersely. Still, she was willing to accept the possibility that a couple could travel together without the man ravishing the woman. A day earlier she might have disagreed, but association with Giles was teaching her that a mature man did not invariably act like a lust-crazed youth. Perhaps Lord Robert really had offered his escort to Maxima from pure altruism.

  But even if there had been no misconduct, the questions of propriety and reputation remained. "Since they're on horseback, they could be in London tonight."

  "Yes." The marquess gave her an encouraging smile. "In another day or two, this whole imbroglio should be cleared up."

  As she led the way from the house, Desdemona thought wryly that the problem of Maxima might be on the verge of solution, but the problem of the marquess was a goo
d deal more challenging. Still, it was the sort of challenge she could relish.

  Chapter 26

  After a long day in the saddle, London assaulted Maxie's senses so fiercely that it made Boston seem like a market town. Wearily she followed Robin's mount through the dusky streets, her only interest in their destination being when they would arrive.

  It was a rude shock when Robin reined to a halt in front of the grandest mansion in a section of the city full of grand mansions. "We're stopping here?" she asked, dismayed.

  He gave her a reassuring smile as he dismounted. "This is it. The knocker is up, so my friends are in residence."

  "Looking as we do, they won't feed us at the kitchen door, much less allow us into the parlor," she muttered as she swung her tired body from her horse.

  He chuckled. "Don't worry, they've seen me in worse case."

  Her feet planted on the cobblestones, she scrutinized the massive facade, feeling like a mud-stained provincial. Pride came to her aid; she would be damned if she would turn coward now. What did it matter what a parcel of overbred English aristocrats thought of her? If Robin thought it fitting to bring her here, she'd not skulk in like a craven hound.

  She held the horses while Robin wielded the knocker. The door was quickly opened by a liveried and bewigged footman. The servant made a slow, insulting scan of the visitor, looking as if he had found a barrel of long-dead fish on the steps.

  Before the footman could speak, Robin said imperiously, "Call someone to take our horses." He had made one of his instant transitions, this time into pure aristocratic hauteur.

  The footman sputtered, then subsided under his visitor's disdainful eye. Within another minute, the butler appeared and the footman found himself leading the horses back to the mews.

  In spite of her resolutions, Maxie was hard-pressed not to cringe when she set foot in a marble-floored foyer so vast that a cavalry company could have mustered in it. The vaulted ceiling soared two stories above, statues that must have been stolen from Greek temples stood on pedestals around the edges, and a sweeping double staircase dominated the center of the room.

  She was not familiar with grand houses, but this one might have been a royal palace. Lord, for all she knew, the building was Carlton House with the Prince Regent carousing upstairs.

  Robin, however, was as nonchalant as if he owned the house. He asked the butler, "Is the duchess in?"

  Less easily intimidated than his minion, the servant said loftily, "Her grace is not receiving."

  "That is not what I asked," Robin said with soft, lethal precision. "The duchess will see me. Tell her Lord Robert is here."

  The butler's face showed rapid mental calculations that weighed the visitor's accent and manner against his unsavory appearance. Then he bowed slightly and went off.

  Duchess? Maxie wondered if the august lady would prove to be Robin's grandmother, and he the adored family black sheep or something equally appalling. She had decided early in their acquaintance that Robin was well-bred, but was he really from the highest levels of English society? With a sick feeling in her stomach, she admitted that it was quite possible, even probable.

  Rigid with discomfort, she avoided Robin's eye, pulling in on herself in this strange and possibly hostile territory. Every muscle in her body tense, she prowled about the foyer like a cat investigating a new home. Even her companion's air of command hadn't gotten them invited into a drawing room.

  She had reached the farthest corner of the foyer when she heard the sound of swift footsteps. Turning, she saw a glorious golden creature racing down the sweeping staircase. The woman didn't see Maxie; instead, she hurled herself at her visitor, ignoring his filthy clothing. "Robin, you wretch! Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

  Robin reached out, laughing, to catch her up in his arms. "Show a little care, Maggie! Think of the future Marquess of Wilton, if not of yourself."

  "You're as bad as Rafe," the duchess said fondly. "It could be a girl, you know."

  "Nonsense. You're far too efficient not to provide the requisite heir on your first attempt."

  For a moment the two stayed loosely linked in each other's arms with the casualness of long intimacy. The duchess was almost as tall as Robin, with the same blazing blond looks.

  In her quiet corner, Maxie felt a shock so profound that for a moment her vision darkened. She had thought herself prepared for whatever this house had to offer, but not this. God in heaven, not this! How could he have brought her to his mistress's home? How could he?

  In all the long journey from the north, Robin had never seemed further away. His gilt hair shone in the lamplight, and even in his shabby, travel-worn clothing he was unmistakably an aristocrat. Not since her early childhood, when she had been taunted by white children, had Maxie felt so much a half-breed and an outcast, so irredeemably small, dark, and alien.

  Releasing the duchess, Robin said, "I want you to meet someone very special."

  As he led Maggie across the foyer, Maxie was near paralysis from a volatile blend of fury and social confusion. What did one do in the presence of a duchess? In particular, what did a female dressed as a male do?

  The answer floated up from a grande dame she had known in Boston: a citizen of the American republic bowed to no mortal, only to God, and only then if so inclined. That being so, the mistress of Maxie's lover certainly did not rate a curtsy.

  On the other hand, since Maxie was dressed as a boy, removing her hat was appropriate. She did so, but nothing could be done about her expression, which must have been ferociously hostile.

  The duchess halted, her eyes widening in surprise. They were changeable gray-green, not blue like Robin's.

  "Maggie, this is Miss Maxima Collins. Maxie, the Duchess of Candover." Robin laid a light hand on Maxie's arm. "I am trying to persuade Maxie to marry me."

  The gray-green eyes reflected shock, swiftly followed by brimming amusement. The duchess's features lacked the symmetry of perfect beauty, but her radiant charm was far more potent than mere beauty could ever be. No wonder she haunted Robin's dreams.

  At the sight of the duchess's amusement, Maxie teetered toward explosion. Obviously Maggie thought Robin's declared interest in a grubby undersized tomboy was some kind of joke.

  Maxie's fury was allayed when the duchess said with genuine warmth, "My dear, how marvelous to meet you!" She gave a conspiratorial smile. "I do hope you can bring yourself to accept Robin. He has a number of redeeming qualities, though I expect you want to murder him just now, don't you?"

  The comment was so accurate that Maxie was thrown off balance. "I am considering the best method, as a matter of fact." Though her teeth were gritted, she was determined to match the duchess' aplomb. "Boiling oil seems too quick."

  Maggie chuckled. "I gather he simply brought you here, without a word of explanation?"

  "Exactly so, your grace." Maxie glanced at Robin, who didn't even look ashamed of himself. His hand still rested on her elbow, and she drew comfort from his touch even as she wanted to wring his neck. "Robin made a vague reference to calling on friends, no more."

  "The result of too many years spying, where the less one says, the better." Maggie waved her hand around her. "I was shocked myself when I first saw this mausoleum." She cocked her head to one side consideringly. "You're an American?"

  Clearly she shared Robin's ear for accents, as she had shared so much else with him. The thought did not improve Maxie's temper. "Yes, I am. My father was English, however. A younger son of the sixth Viscount Collingwood." She was immediately ashamed of herself for feeling the need to mention her noble relations, but it was too late to recall the words.

  The other woman's brows drew together thoughtfully. "Collingwood. The seat is in the north, isn't it? Durham?"

  "Yes." That sounded too curt, so Maxie added, "I was visiting with my uncle and his family through the spring."

  Robin gave her a quizzical glance when she mentioned the Collingwood connection, but said only, "Having arrived
in London with pockets to let, we were hoping Candover House might have room for us for a night or two."

  "I'm sure we can find space." The duchess turned to Maxie. "Let me show you your room so you can rest and refresh yourself."

  "If you don't mind, your grace, I'd like to have a word alone with Robin first." Maxie's voice was even, but there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

  "Of course." The duchess waved toward a door. "You can be private in the small salon."

  As Robin followed his companion into the room, he studied her expression uneasily. He had known she would be startled to find herself in Maggie's house, but her barely suppressed rage was far greater than he had expected.

  As soon as he closed the door behind them, Maxie whirled around, every inch of her small body quivering with fury. "How dare you bring me to your mistress's house!"

  "Maggie hasn't been my mistress in some years," he said mildly. "She is still, however, my friend, and she and I have been in the habit of relying on each other. Since you and I needed a place to stay, it seemed natural to come here."

  He crossed the salon to the fireplace and leaned against the marble mantel. "I knew I could trust her and Candover to accept two shabby travelers without questions, outrage, or dangerous gossip. Here you can make the transition back to respectable young lady with no one the wiser."

  Maxie's hands knotted into fists, but she maintained a tenuous control. "You identified yourself to the butler as Lord Robert, and your duchess referred to you the same way. I thought you said it wasn't a real title."

  "You are the one who said it wasn't real. I merely didn't correct your misapprehension," he pointed out. "Apparently your father didn't explain all the odd quirks of the title system. For example, the use of 'Lord' with one's Christian name is the exclusive prerogative of the younger sons of dukes and marquesses, so I am correctly styled Lord Robert Andreville."

  Her wide brown eyes narrowed as she assimilated his statement. She looked more exotic, and more dangerous, than ever. "You said you weren't a nobleman."