False Angel

by Edith Layton

  For he had called her “Nell.” That surely was what had done it, she thought a few moments later, when she had enough self-awareness to be a little ashamed at how hard she was caterwauling into his lapels. And when she at last accepted his handkerchief and resoundingly blew her nose, and they both laughed at how loudly she did so, as they always used to do, she discovered that she didn’t know quite what to say to him as she left his comforting embrace.

  “What was it?” he asked simply, as she drew away. “It likely took a great deal of pain to bring my daughter back to me, and I think I know what’s causing it, but it occurs to me now that it took something similar to drive you away from me so long ago. Can you tell me what it was then, Nell?” he asked quickly, before either of them had time to put back the barriers they had let down.

  And before she could think to suppress it, as irresistibly as a hiccup or a sneeze, the word that had lingered in the forefront of her brain throughout the last moments popped out of her lips. “Phoebe,” she said, and then “Phoebe,” she said again, as he stared at her in puzzlement, and she thought she sounded rather like a demented cuckoo clock.

  So she said slowly, looking down at his handkerchief twisting in her hands, “It was at Vauxhall Gardens, one night five years ago. You didn’t see me there, Papa, I was with Miss Thicke and some beaux and friends. They didn’t see you either, but I did, with Phoebe. Or so you called her.”

  “Oh,” said the viscount, sitting back on the edge of his desk, lost in thought. “Oh yes. Phoebe. I’d forgotten her. Actually,” he said with a ghost of a laugh, “I forgot her the next day, and I’d not remembered her again until you spoke her name just now. Why didn’t you say something to me?”

  “What could I say?” Leonora asked in a muffled voice.

  “You could have asked for an explanation,” he replied reasonably.

  “So that was it!” Leonora cried, sudden color and animation coming into her face. “Only think, all those years wasted for nothing! For I told Sybil, I did Papa, I told her even then that there was some good reason we were not to know of. Though she denied it, I thought it might be that, I did!” She laughed gaily. “The girl was some agent, or some spy you had to lull, it was something such as that, I swore it...”

  “Nell,” he said on a sigh. “Nell,” he said seriously, taking her hands in his and stopping her happy spate of conjecture. “No. No. You saw what you saw. I could lie, of course. I could tell you a tale, I’m very good at that, you know. But I like you too well for that. Phoebe was only a common tart, just as you imagined. I was unfaithful for the sake of my own needs, and not my country’s.”

  He released her hands, and stood and began to walk about the room, his pacing and not his words showing his agitation. “We have a great joke,” he sighed, “all of us who work at my trade. It has to do with a philandering nobleman, I’ll spare you the details. In any event, the ending line, which occasions much laughter (Torquay tells it very slyly, and very well), has the gentleman, caught in a very damning position, crying out to his outraged wife, ‘All in the line of duty, m’dear, all in the line of duty.’ So I won’t say as much to you, for your sake as well as mine, since neither of us belong in a smutty jest.

  “Your mother and I, and our marriage ...” he began, frowning, before she cut in rapidly and said, “Oh, no, Papa, you don’t owe me an explanation.”

  He stopped and stared at her. “Oh, yes,” he said solemnly, “but I do, Nell. Whatever arrangement your mama and I decided upon is only our own business so long as it does not affect other people. When it does, then it becomes their business as well. Your mama and I are friends, but only that, and have been only that to each other for years.

  “She does not, however, feel the need for any other companionship, nor does she mind that I,” the viscount said very softly, “as I confess, often do, and often have, but I swear, I’ve always attempted to be discreet. It’s ironic, and just as the sermons warn, that the one time I failed, of course, I failed in your eyes. I’m sorrier than you can know for that.”

  “It’s just as Sybil said, then, isn’t it?” Leonora mused aloud after a time. “Marriage in our set is only for the purposes of producing offspring.”

  “Definitely,” her father said, smiling. “Why only look at Torquay and his duchess. No, Nell. It’s only so for those of us who discover that our unions no longer work, whether they were entered into for political or social reasons, or even in the expectation of love. And then, too, for some of us, once we are wed we discover that our lives may be committed to each other, but that does not mean that we are. But it doesn’t have to be that way, indeed, it oughtn’t to be that way, and need never be that way for you.”

  “Ah well,” Leonora said, with a great deal of false vivacity, “and so it won’t be, for I shall never wed.”

  “I was thinking,” her father went on, unruffled, “rather more along the lines that Joss was no more the sort to be faithless than you are.”

  “I don’t doubt,” Leonora said stiffly, “that Annabelle is very fortunate then.”

  “Ah,” said her father. “He has offered for her?”

  “No,” Leonora answered in an unsteady voice, “but she says he shall, and I believe it.”

  “Then he is a most unlucky gentleman,” the viscount said sadly, “and I’m sorry for him, for I like him very well.”

  “It’s very good of you to say so,” Leonora murmured from beneath the handkerchief which she was now using again for her eyes. “But after all, you are my father. And of course, you’d prefer that he preferred me, if only for my sake.”

  Leonora was so busy with the handkerchief, now attending to her nose by giving it a determined blow as if to dare it to snivel again, that she didn’t see her father smile a brief passing smile, as though he’d just had something important verified. When he spoke again, his face was impassive.

  “Not just that, Nell, but only have a look at this,” he said as he passed the sheaf of papers on his desk to his daughter.

  Leonora frowned in incomprehension when she took the papers, but then she began to read, and then to flip through the pages avidly, and then put them down and stared, wide-eyed and mute, at her father. But, he noted, color had returned to her cheeks, and light to her eyes. Oh yes, he thought on an interior grin, my Nell and no doubt about it.

  But, “Torquay suggested I compile such a report,” was all he said laconically, before he added, “The fellow has the devil’s own nose for wickedness, it never eludes him. I’ll swear he can sniff it out. He claims it’s a case of like calling to like. But, however he does it, I’ll confess with all my experience I never thought to discover half of it.”

  “I can scarcely believe it,” Leonora breathed. “No, I can,” she amended, “for I had some intimation of it recently, when she told me why she wanted him and I learned how she deceived me. That’s why I’ve been so wretched. But I never would have credited ... Papa, this says that she has been cast out of a dozen homes for blackmail, cheating, and unchasteness. We cannot let Joss offer for her,” she said fiercely. “Not simply for my sake, I promise you, but surely he’s suffered enough. You must show him this!” she cried, rising and brandishing the papers.

  But her father’s next calm words made her sit again.

  “Ah, yes,” he said softly. “And do you imagine he will thank me for it if he truly loves her? Would you, if I produced such a dossier about one you loved? Ancient kings killed messengers for delivering bad news, though I doubt Joss would go quite so far. But he wouldn’t love someone for it, and I would like his continued friendship. And so, I think, should you. That is, if you still have it? Do you? I think, daughter,” the viscount said with a knowing look to Leonora, “that we ought to have a discussion. And that,” he suddenly announced in great booming, pear-shaped, and portentous tones, “is why I called you here this afternoon.” And then, they both laughed for a very long time before they began to talk in earnest.

  It was nearly teatime when they were done.
And when Leonora went to the door of the study with the viscount, she knew that she had regained a father. Though this made her very happy, still she couldn’t help but be aware that long years had passed. For good as it was, it was no longer enough for her, not as it had been.

  No matter how pleasant it was to have his friendship and love again, there was no denying that she was grown sufficiently now to realize that she needed a different kind of love and friendship as well, of a sort that he could never give her. And it seemed that all their planning and plotting could bring that love no closer to her. Though he swore that he knew Joss well enough to know that he was made for her, and though she at last admitted she wished it were so, neither of them could think of a way to communicate that salient fact to the marquess.

  They agreed to speak of it again, and they didn’t have to make an appointment to do so, for they were friends, and of a mind again. She mightn’t approve of his habit of seeking light females, but she could, at least, at last, understand his need for it, and perhaps even see, as he said, that a divorce would have made a great many people unhappy, whereas his double life only made himself unhappy. As well as herself, of course, she thought, when she had been so very young.

  And as they stood in the doorway, reluctant to go in to tea, since they were not so eager to stretch this newly reforged tie between them, they stopped talking, indeed, Leonora almost stopped breathing. For they saw Annabelle emerging from the library at the exact moment that she spied them. How much of the newly repaired relationship she registered, and how much of it she perceived as a personal threat as she paused and stared at them with her wide light eyes, they could not say. But after a moment, she smiled and said, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary in finding them so much in charity with each other,

  “Good afternoon, my lord, Leonora. Oh cousin, I have been searching everywhere for you. I thought we might read together. But now it is time for tea.”

  Leonora felt a guilty shame, as if the one she had just been speaking of could guess each word that had been said, but her father, a practiced spymaster, only said cheerily, “Why cousin, would you have us trade scones for poems? We are not such demons for self-improvement as you, I fear. What’s that you have there, my dear? A book by Mr. Blake? Ah, that’s a new title to me, Book of Midnights is it? He’s done with Paradise and Jerusalem and taken on the darker angels and the father of lies now, I see.”

  “Yes,” Annabelle replied smugly, taking the book from beneath her arm and leafing through it She looked up at them, and added, with more levity than was usual for her, perhaps because she felt that the viscount appreciated it, or perhaps because she felt challenged by the unified front they presented,

  “And I think you should know that I’ve been trying to get Leonora to read it with me for days now. It’s the only copy, for it’s never been properly published. Joscelin gave it to me, you know. And I’ve just gotten word that he’s coming to see me tomorrow.”

  She waited and watched Leonora’s face grow pale before she said again, “And I so wanted to go over it with my cousin before he came. For it may be that he wants it back now.” But this last was said with a titter, and such a note of patent disbelief that it was almost as if she sang it out.

  “Now, now,” said the viscount in happy, avuncular fashion, though his daughter stood as silent as if she’d been struck in the face rather than merely struck by a horrific thought, “I doubt that’s the case, my dear. But perhaps Leonora will find a space to look at it with you. I shouldn’t mind having a go at it myself, had I only time to do so. Book of Midnights—Brrr, it sounds quite a diabolic book of verse. Are you sure you like it, my dear?”

  “Oh, very much,” Annabelle said sweetly, “but now I shall put it back in my room, for I don’t think it’s quite the thing to bring it in to tea with me.”

  “Oh, no,” the viscount agreed. “Well, we’ll see you in salon as soon as may be then, won’t we?”

  It was not until Annabelle had gone up the stairs that the viscount turned to his daughter. She looked at him in dismay and yet with a certain wild surmise.

  “You’ve read Shakespeare and Blake with her, have you?” He chuckled. “Well, there’s a thing that wasn’t in the report. And there’s one thing we can use. Tomorrow, I think, my dear.”

  “But the book,” Leonora gasped, “the one she’s been waving in my face all week. It was titled Book of Moonlight, I saw it printed plain, Father.”

  “Yes.” He smiled joyously. “But happily, oh luckily, I did not see it so at first. But you’re quite right. For so it was printed, plain as pie. For all those who can read.”

  FIFTEEN

  Spring seemed to have danced off from London to some more northern clime, for this morning the sun was egg-yolk yellow and a hot, breathy breeze stirred thoughts of tropical matters. All along the fashionable avenues coaches were being polished and readied for their owners’ annual treks to country homes, knockers were being removed from the doors of the privileged, farewell notes and future directions were being distributed by harried running footmen, and it was in all as if the monied classes were preparing for some siege, rather than just another English summer.

  The fair-haired young woman checked her appearance one last time in the looking glass over her dressing table. She wore a thin white frock with little puffed sleeves that had a tiny print of yellow flowers strewn overall. A yellow sash circled her tiny waist and she wore her fine, long light hair brushed back with a thin yellow ribband to keep it from drifting into her large light blue eyes. She looked very young and innocent. She looked, she thought, precisely as he would want to see her. And as Annabelle had no preference or any strong opinion as to her appearance, how he wished her was the only way she cared to look.

  If he’d shown any sensual interest, she would have worn clinging, silken, shining materials that emphasized her shape and showed up her small sharp breasts. She would have moved more sinuously, and spoken both more boldly and more softly. Even her face would have taken on the foxlike, fervid expression it was capable of. But he had moved away from her when she’d pressed close the first time they’d danced, and no matter how often she’d silently offered more, he’d never sought to hold her so again. It made no matter, since Annabelle Greyling could and would be anything that profited her. So if he wanted a child to take to wife, she would be that child.

  And she was a very pretty child this morning, she decided, and this morning it was most important to be so. This morning he would come, and he would offer for her, and she would blush and breathe “yes” with as much shy happiness as she could put into that one word. That wouldn’t be difficult at all, for then he’d wed her and then she would have money and power and all the things she’d ever wanted. If she wasn’t too sure of what those things were, at least she’d be able to discover them once she had the means.

  If it pleased him to have her remain his pretty little girl, why then she would do so, at least for so long as it pleased her to be, for she wasn’t angry at him, he hadn’t done anything to anger her as yet She wouldn’t like it if he took her to his bed, of course, but she accepted that he probably would do so when they were first married. But she wasn’t a fool and knew that he wouldn’t do that for long. He wasn’t the sort to enjoy such things with a girl who would constantly shudder and cringe and weep as she planned to do. She didn’t want to bear any babies, but didn’t worry about that at all. She knew from experience that if she wrenched away from him often enough at the right moments those first times, it wouldn’t be a problem either.

  No, she decided, the world and her future looked just as pristine and lovely as she did this late spring morning. Yet nothing is ever perfect, she knew that very well. She would have preferred to have gotten her riches without a husband, but that was clearly impossible. Murder, she giggled to herself, had more penalties attached than wedlock did, and anyway, there wasn’t anyone to do away with that would have left her a cent.

  No, marriage was inevitable, althoug
h she would have preferred a different sort of husband. Indeed, she’d expected an entirely different one. Someone old, someone doddering, in fact, would not only have been more suitable, but more manageable. The marquess sometimes made her a little nervous, he was so young and vital and intense.

  Actually, she’d never imagined she’d have a chance at him, and she’d been staggered when she realized she did, but was never slow to seize an opportunity for advancement. She’d have him.

  Because just as she’d told Leonora, there was actually very little he could do once they were wed. She didn’t mind a bit of pain, threats could not move her. When he discovered that, they’d deal very well together. Then too, she remembered, there was the fact that cousin Leonora wanted him so very much. That made it all even better, just as when she’d been a child, a sweet had tasted that much better when another child didn’t have one.

  So she would marry wealthily and well, and he would eventually leave her alone, and the world looked very bright this bright morning. But even as Annabelle whirled away from the looking glass and caught up the volume Severne had given her that she carried with her almost as a talisman, she knew that there were a few things left for her to do in order to preserve that bright vision. Too often things had slipped away from her at the last moment, too often she’d had a taste of victory only to choke on it later. It took a great deal of self-control, but this time she intended to make certain of it before she rejoiced.

  After all, she thought, as her little slippered feet skimmed swiftly and silently down the stairs, although she had tried very hard not to anger Leonora too much, she knew her cousin was very vexed with her. That didn’t disturb her unduly, for it wouldn’t affect Severne, with all the tales she’d told him she doubted he’d believe Leonora now if she said it was a sunny morning. Lady Benjamin was a right bitch, and a shrewd one too, but she’d look it all right if she spoke up against the match, if she spoke one harsh word against poor, unhappy little Annabelle.