False Angel

by Edith Layton

  Annabelle paused at the foot of the long circular stair, and looked about herself quickly, her body still, her head lifted to catch any sound, even her nostrils quivering, as though she were some secret creature creeping through a dangerous night rather than a slip of a girl on a sundrenched spring morning. Or so a passing footman thought, even though he realized it was a ridiculous fancy after she spied him and gave him a shy smile before she slipped soundlessly away and down the long hall.

  No, Annabelle thought as she came to the door of the drawing room, those two females didn’t dismay her at all. Neither did the viscountess, who could be relied upon not to bother about anything that did not come to bother her tea parties or her naps. But her host, the viscount, troubled her very much. In him, Annabelle recognized a worthy foe, if he should care to be her foe.

  She could not attract him, she knew this intuitively, but neither could she appeal to his chivalry as she had done with the marquess, for he knew his daughter too well to believe her. To this date, he had not bothered with her any more than she had with him. But now that Leonora obviously had reconciled her differences with him, things might change. So although Annabelle earnestly thought that matters had already gone too far and it was far too late for anyone to alter the course of her fate, it never hurt to take extra care. There would be marriage swiftly on the heels of an offer, and there would be nothing to impede that offer. She would see to that.

  She could count very well, and the chimes of the mantel clock in her room had told her that the marquess was expected quite soon. She’d sent a message in reply to his note, and had cautioned the footman to be very clear: she would be pleased to see him at once, just as he’d requested; she expected him at eleven; she would await him in the library. That was a good time. The viscountess would still be abed, and Lady Benjamin never visited before noon. And best of all, Annabelle thought with pleasure, Leonora and her father would be in the drawing room at that exact same time, safely away from the hall and the library. For she’d sent a message asking them to be there.

  Now she stepped into the drawing room and looked about with satisfaction. As she expected, they hadn’t arrived as yet. It wasn’t quite time. Still, if they’d been early, it would have been no great problem. She’d simply have been vague, asked them to pray wait a moment until she’d gotten something from her room, and then they would have sat and chatted until enough time had passed for her to reenter with her new fiancé to make the announcement of her forthcoming marriage.

  She gazed about the room. It was a cool and elegant chamber, done in tones of blue and sea green and gold. They would be quite comfortable there, she thought on a hastily suppressed titter, as they waited for her. There was a bit of paper propped up on the green malachite mantelpiece. She went in quickly to examine it, but her name wasn’t upon it, so she, lightly, blithely, sweetly smiling, stepped away so that she might be on time to greet the marquess in the library.

  As she closed the door softly behind her, she wondered what they thought she had called them to say. That she was leaving? That she regretted any inconvenience she had caused and thanked them for their hospitality? Well, she thought generously, she would say that too, then, and more. After she and Severne gave them the happy news.

  Annabelle opened the door to the library moments before the huge hall clock was due to strike the hour. She had a moment of unease, as she always did when she entered that vast room, and in those fleeting seconds she wished that her arrangements had been reversed. The sun did not dominate here, sheer curtains filtered it to a constant, glowing, golden light But it seemed, as it always did to Annabelle, a dim, daunting chamber. She would have been more comfortable in the drawing room, and doubtless, the viscount and Leonora would have been better occupied in this great, book-lined, confusing room. But then, she remembered, it was a place Severne would be at ease in as well, and that, after all, was of prime importance.

  She came into the room, scarcely noting the familiar long polished table, the floor-to-ceiling walls of books, the rows of bookcases to the right, and the two side bow window recesses, with their pairs of high-backed chairs that faced the windows. She thought of sitting in one of those tall chairs, with Severne invited to take an adjacent one. But then, that was never an intimate setting, the streets could be seen from one, the garden from the other. Too diverting. No, far better if she leaned back against the long table—yes, just so, so that the sunlight was behind her hair, encrusting her with a gilded outline so that she looked fragile and vulnerable posed against the heavy oak table with its background of dark leather tomes.

  She heard a sound, like that of a throat being cleared, and her heart raced, for it was, she realized with joyful excitement, a very thrilling moment. But it was her nerves playing up or the sound of the butler approaching, for it was another second that seemed an hour before the tap came upon the door. And then she whispered “Come in,” as though in a dream where you cannot raise your voice, before she took hold of herself and invited in her future by saying, clearly, “Enter!”

  He appeared in the doorway even as the clock was striking eleven, just as a gentleman ought, just as she’d known he would. She said nothing further as the butler backed away, but only leaned back against the table, enjoying each second of the unfolding drama. He wore a dark blue jacket and a richer blue vest, and tight cream-colored inexpressibles with high shining hessians. His dark face was serious, and his voice and hand were cool as he greeted her and took her hand in his.

  “I’m so glad that you could see me this morning, Belle,” he said at once. “I had far more to tell you than I could ever have put in a note, and I thought it could not wait much longer.”

  Better and better, she thought, but only lowered her eyes and said at once, “Yes, I have wanted to see you, too.” Then, “Oh Joscelin!” she cried, breaking from her immobility and drawing nearer to him. “You can have no idea of how difficult it’s been for me this past week that you’ve been gone. If my life was unhappy before ... I know I should not say it,” she blurted, turning her face from his astonished regard, “but I do not know how much more of this I can be expected to endure. It was difficult when my cousin believed you to have an interest in me, but in a way it’s become even worse now that she thinks you no longer care about my welfare.

  “And,” she went on in a husky, broken whisper, for there really wasn’t all that much time to spare, and elements of speed and surprise might move things along, “I myself have wondered if I had offended or somehow angered you, as well. You were gone a week,” she said, shaking her head, “with never a word, or a message until yesterday.” And since no man likes to be berated, she added, “I understand, of course, you owe me nothing, but it is so good to see you again. Now I know I am not alone.”

  But when she peeked up from under her light lashes, she saw that his face was rigid, and he seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in framing his next words to her. He ought to have clasped her to his breast by now, he ought already to have begun to make some declaration, and she grew a little alarmed. So the face that she turned to him was quite naturally ashen.

  “Belle,” he said, taking her hand, and that eased her mind somewhat, “I did go away for a while, to think. And that time served me, and you too, very well, I believe. Because I came to see some home truths about myself.” He loosed her hand, and instead, placed his hand lightly beside her face and smiled down at her. “Belle,” he said, “you needn’t worry. I won’t let you remain in an unhappy situation. You are far too nice a child.”

  She breathed out a sigh of relief and a smile grew upon her lips that was so genuine and triumphant that only at the last did she remember that she ought to dampen it, and let her lips tremble a bit. But by then, it had frozen in place.

  For he reached into his vest pocket and instead of withdrawing the ring box she expected to see, he drew out an envelope and held it out to her. And then he went on to say, just as tenderly, “I’ve made a provision for you, you need not stay on here i
f you don’t wish. And you needn’t feel uncomfortable about accepting it, for I promise, I have no designs upon you. There are no obligations. Just look, Belle, it’s a bankcheck for a sum that you can invest. And you can live quite nicely on the proceeds for some time.”

  “But I thought,” Annabelle said, too amazed to feel more than the first faint stirrings of rage, “I thought you had a care for me.”

  “Why, so I do child,” he replied, “have I not just shown it?”

  “I thought,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, her own blazing, and her voice rising, for she was quick to recuperate from any shocks, “that you had a different sort of care for me.”

  But then she saw something spark in those dark blue depths that sobered her, and she went on, in a smaller, quavering tone, “You led me on, Joscelin, you did. Money,” she said, brushing away the hand that still proffered the envelope, “is not what I expected from you. Indeed,” she said, trying for the highest stakes, for as any true gambler, she’d accept nothing less, “you insult me and what I thought we had for each other by offering such.”

  “Ah, Belle,” he sighed, playing for time, for he had been afraid that she might think this, but hadn’t really expected her to voice it. Instead, he’d thought any objection she’d make would have to do with her finding some impropriety in taking money from him, and had only prepared arguments to convince her of the rightness of it. But honesty, he told himself, you promised yourself honesty this time, so he then said, as gently as he could,

  “Belle, it’s true that I may have given you some expectations. And I apologize if that’s so. You were not entirely wrong, for I’ll confess there was a time when I didn’t know my own mind. But I do now.” He looked down into her drawn face and continued as sadly as though he were telling her of the death of a loved one, which in a sense, he realized with a certain pang, perhaps he was. “I like you very much, Annabelle. You are wise and your mind is a good, inquiring one, and I have delighted in communing with you. Yet, with all I feel for you, my dear, I do not love you. At least, not as one must love a wife. And you deserve more. I know you will someday find it,” he said quickly, aghast himself at the clichés he found himself taking refuge in uttering. “This check will help you to do so,” he concluded with relief.

  She stood still, her head thrown back so she could meet his eyes, as motionless as an alabaster figurine. Then, as he began to wonder why she did not reply, she spoke. “You do not have to love me,” she said through tightly held lips.

  He gave a small start. The conversation was taking on a nightmarish quality. It was true that he had shown her some attentions. He’d given her a book, seen to it that she was invited to a house party, and often kept her company. But a gentleman could send cartloads of flowers, invite a young lady to a dozen house parties as well as balls and fetes, sit with her through everything from dinner to the Opera, and make no offer without bringing shame upon himself or her. He might arouse expectations, but not disgrace, since society conceded that expectations were not promises.

  He had not, after all, held her in anything but conversation, and had never met with her in secret, or ever intimately embraced her. He’d never even kissed her, as he’d been both embarrassed and oddly repelled at the mere idea of it.

  It was Leonora he had compromised, and he’d already attempted to make proper reparation for it. But he scarcely knew what to say to this poor child, who was trembling with insult. It was true that he once entertained a notion to take her to wife, but only for the briefest time before he recognized the truth behind the impulse. He never guessed she might be enamored of him, and he was not insensitive to such matters. He thought her only eager for the sanctuary he could provide her; she’d never shown a hint of any warmer emotion, and he couldn’t believe it was only shyness which prevented her. There’d never been any of the evidences of love that could usually be detected, indeed, which could not be hidden, in her voice, or expression, or eyes. Even now, he doubted the validity of her emotions, and put it down to her inexperience with men.

  “Belle,” he said, as he struggled with a sudden, sick sense of shame, for he felt as though he’d enticed a child, “please, understand. I’m in a position to know that love is most important in these matters.”

  “It’s someone else you love then?” she demanded, still frozen in affront, still, he believed, wounded and stiff with rejection. He knew that feeling very well, and so said, as he had not thought he would, “Yes.”

  And then, because he felt it might be less hurtful if she understood it was none of it her fault or brought about by any failing in herself, he said with a shrug,

  “But much good it will do me, for she’ll have none of me, and she may well have the right of it. For we’ve never been able to remain at peace with each other beyond the turning of the tide. So I shall take myself off this summer and repair my estates, and then perhaps when autumn comes, if the world and the little Emperor permit, I’ll travel abroad for a time.

  “I’m a shocking sort of fellow, really. I can’t seem to either stay in, or get into a marriage very successfully. Clearly, wedding cake is not my dish,” he commented wryly. “But come, Belle, accept the check,” he said more seriously, “for whether or not you can believe right now that it’s equally as much proof of my esteem for you as a wedding ring might be, and likely a much better bargain as well, I think when you reflect upon it, you’ll agree that there’s no real reason not to take it.”

  But Annabelle had been standing arrested, thinking furiously, and when he’d done speaking, she opened her eyes very wide indeed, and cried out, as though she’d had some dazzling revelation, “Leonora! It’s been Leonora you’ve wanted all along, hasn’t it?”

  And when he only smiled and shrugged again, since this was not a subject he wished to discuss with her, she accused, “But how could you? After all that I told you about her?”

  “Well, there you are,” he sighed, stepping back a pace, leaving the envelope upon the table and spreading his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Now you see how narrowly you escaped. I’ve come to see that most of the polite world was right in their judgment of me. I must not be a very good fellow. For with all you’ve told me, I cannot dislike her, even though I know I ought. I cannot dismiss her from my thoughts, even though I suppose I’d rather.

  “You tell me she’s cruel,” he said regretfully, “and I excuse it by thinking it only thoughtlessness. You say she berates you constantly, and I absolve it, thinking you are too sensitive. And though you tell me you’re abused, I see the pretty gowns you wear and am only relieved to see no bruises. There’s no help for it, Belle.

  “It’s not just temptation and desire,” he explained, “they’re old companions, and I know their faces very well. No. I am entranced by her entirely. And I think, shall always be. Whatever else I am, unfortunately, I’m not quick to love, nor, believe me, despite my sordid marital history, am I swift to fall out of that love. I’m depressingly constant, whether the object of my affections deserves it or not. So you see, it’s to my worse credit that I still want her, and for the best that she refused me, and far better still that you’ll be free of us both.”

  He gave Annabelle a self-mocking smile and was relieved to see her move at last and smile back at him. She shook her head as though in amused acceptance of an incredible fact. But when she spoke at last, his own smile faded.

  “No,” she said softly, still shaking her head in denial, “no,” she said again, as though to herself, “it won’t do. No. I’m sorry, Joscelin,” she said, gazing up at him steadily, “but it’s far too late. You will marry me, you know. It would have been better had you offered, but it makes no difference, not really.”

  She raised a hand to stop him from speaking, and as he watched, at first in incomprehension and then in appalled disbelief, she, still smiling, put her hand upon the top of her bodice and then, with one quick motion, tore it downward. The sound of the thin material being rent was as a small shriek in the quiet room. She
quickly pulled the pins from her hair and sent the bright ribband tumbling with the shower of her light hair, which she shook around her face. And then, as one pale, pointed little breast rose clear from the ruins of her frock and he saw the thin red marks of her fingernails begin to appear on its milky white surface, she smiled, and said a little breathlessly,

  “You see, Joscelin? Not even a great marquess can win free of this coil. No, the viscount won’t be able to ignore this attack even though I’m only his poor, distant, neglected relative. He’s just across the hall with Leonora, you see. And you just have time enough to think of how you’ll tell them I misunderstood when you became carried away with your lovemaking while making your offer. Or else, you’ll have to make that offer entirely in front of them—oh yes,” she urged him, as she saw his eyes, “attempt to still me, do. That will look even better. No? Then,” she went on in a sort of glad fury, “I shall scream now, I think.”

  The marquess paled as Annabelle, giving him one last bright look, drew in her breath.

  “Oh save your breath, my dear, and our ears, as well,” the viscount said lazily, rising from one of the tall wing chairs in the window niche. “And Leonora, you can take your hands from your ears now, it’s all over.”

  “My poor lady there,” he continued, as he walked to the astonished couple by the long table, “she was in agonies of embarrassment when you walked in and began to speak, Joss. She was all for either announcing our presence or crawling out of the room on all fours, but I silenced her. I simply had to stay to listen. Occupational hazard, I fear,” he mused. “Cover yourself, child,” he said in a kindly aside to a dazed Annabelle as he shook the marquess’s hand. “You’ll take a chill with half your person falling out of your dress.”

  “You were supposed to wait in the drawing room,” Annabelle breathed as she pulled the edges of her gown together. “You said you’d be there. You deceived me,” she wailed.