by Allison Lane
When she returned from the next set, she found Lord Styles alone. Lady Forley had accompanied Grace to the withdrawing room to repair a flounce torn by Mr. Crawford, who was gaining a reputation for clumsiness, having damaged four gowns already this Season. Lady Hervey was across the room, laughing with friends.
“Silly chit to make such a fuss,” grumbled Styles. Grace had been nearly hysterical over the accident, drawing disapproving glances from three of the patronesses.
“She is young yet,” murmured Angela. The following set was a waltz, so she was neatly trapped here until her mother returned. The Countess Lieven had introduced the dance at Almack’s the previous spring, but it was still considered scandalous for young girls. The Season would be considerably older before Angela received permission to try it.
“I don’t know where she comes by these jumped-up ideas.” He seemed determined to air his complaints. “Her sisters found perfectly good husbands at the York races. There was no call to waste good money on London.”
“It is rather expensive.”
“Stupid widgeon. Just because I inherited a title, she thinks to land some rich lord. I must have had rocks in my head to agree. I hate London.”
She could understand that. Ignoring Lady Forley’s dictums for once, she answered truthfully. “Hate is a bit strong, but I, too, prefer the country, as does my brother. Life is too hectic here, too shallow, too phony. Though it can be fun in small doses.”
He seemed surprised, but also gratified. “Not even in small doses. Even York is too hectic for my tastes.”
“You prefer your estate then?”
“Definitely. It offers marvelous hunting. The moors are more real than this stuffy ballroom.”
“How fortunate that you love them,” she said lightly. “Your home is quite isolated, I understand.”
“As is your brother’s.”
“We have a few neighbors, but we are in a pocket of hills separated from most other estates by Romney Marsh, and now by the military canal.”
“Will you pine for it once you leave?”
“Some, but with my brother’s impending marriage, I have no place there any more. Lady Sylvia will assume running the house.”
An odd expression flitted across his face. “That’s what the old harridan meant.”
“What?”
“My housekeeper. With Grace gone, who will run my house? Who will see after my tenants? She’s my youngest.”
Heavens! Was he hinting that she would make an adequate wife? But his next words dispelled that fear.
“I suppose I must look over the widows when I get home. There is one in the village and several in the nearest market town. Someone accustomed to living modestly would be best. I cannot abide waste.”
She was saved from responding by a commotion outside the ballroom.
“No one gets in after eleven,” swore a distant voice, recognizable as the porter’s. “No exceptions.”
A man answered, but his voice was muffled.
“Good God! It’s a bloomin’ footpad!” exclaimed a sprig near the window that overlooked the entrance.
“We’ll be murdered!” gasped a matron.
Half a dozen ladies screamed, prompting several gentlemen to turn censorious quizzing glasses on the lad.
“Nonsense!” declared Captain Harrington from his post at another window. He caught Angela’s gaze with a reassuring wink. “It’s only a jarvey trying to deliver a message.”
This assessment proved accurate, for the porter appeared in the doorway, where he exchanged a few words with Lady Jersey. She then sought out Lady Hanson, who gasped. Only the timely appearance of a vinaigrette prevented a swoon. She left immediately, supported by her teary-eyed daughter.
Within seconds everyone in the ballroom had heard the news. Sir Gerald Hanson had been stricken at his club, collapsing onto the hazard table – dead.
Angela was shocked, though not by the death. Society’s reception of the news appalled her. The orchestra never missed a beat. People parroted brief regrets, then returned to the serious business of revelry, social smiles firmly in place. Not that she grieved for a man she had never met, but many of those in attendance knew the family well. And she did feel sorry for Miss Hanson, who had lost her father, Atwater, and the remainder of her first Season in the space of an evening.
Lady Forley returned as Atwater escorted Angela into a set.
Grace simpered at Mr. Harley, clinging to his arm. “I’m so glad we finished in time. I would hate missing a set with you.”
“Silly chit,” Styles murmured.
“She must be a trial,” Lady Forley agreed. “Thank heaven Angela is not prone to such starts.”
“She seems calm and sensible.”
“Yes. It is gratifying when I see myself in the girl.”
* * * *
Devall lounged in a doorway across King Street from Almack’s, waiting for society’s elite to emerge. Gabriel must be inside, for he never missed an assembly – or any other activity that might flaunt his exalted position in the ton. What better place to provoke the earl than before the crème de la crème?
Snapping his pocket watch closed, Devall scanned the revelers now streaming from the building. Carriages crowded the street. Ladies and gentlemen crammed the sidewalks.
Devil take it. He had forgotten the confusion that always followed an assembly. How was he to stage an accident in this melee?
But he had no time for planning. Atwater emerged, heading toward a carriage a short distance away.
Devall kept his eyes fixed on the earl’s hat as he hurried to cut him off. And that was a mistake. He was so intent on his target that he slammed into a lady.
“Beg pardon,” he mumbled, absently catching her to prevent a fall.
“Why should I?” she demanded.
Miss Warren! Searing heat burned through his gloves. He dropped his hands, but the crush prevented him from backing away, so she still pressed against his chest. Warmth exploded through his body.
“Are you trying to ruin me?” she hissed, glaring into his face.
“N-never,” he stammered. Her ball gown was stunning – embroidered ivory silk embellished with green ribbons that made her eyes glow. Her hair blazed with vitality, threaded with more ribbon that begged his fingers to follow. He restrained himself – barely. He had already done enough damage for one night.
“Your actions belie your words.” Her voice steadied his swirling thoughts.
“Shh,” he warned, guiltily tearing his eyes away while keeping his face impassive. A quick glance confirmed that his actions so far remained unnoticed. “I had no idea you were here,” he added, keeping his lips immobile. “Forgive me.” He wanted to say more, but danger prickled the back of his neck. Unless he left immediately, her reputation would suffer. Giving her no time to respond, he turned toward Atwater.
The earl was gone.
Cursing himself, he fled. What the devil was wrong with him? He never lost sight of his goals. Yet he had allowed a word and a touch to divert him, and had thus endangered an innocent. Seriously endangered her. He must have stared at her for well over a minute if Atwater had had time to board his carriage and pull away.
Pain knifed his chest. Closing his eyes, he shuddered. Never again. He must ignore Miss Warren from now on. No more stalking. With luck, she would escape censure this time, but he risked her reputation every time he approached her. She did not deserve ruin.
* * * *
Angela watched Blackthorn stride away, oblivious to the people around her. What had just happened? She had accused him of trying to ruin her, but it wasn’t true. He had not even noticed her until he nearly knocked her down.
She frowned. Only after she spoke had he actually looked at her. And then he had recoiled – and immediately taken steps to protect her. So what had been his purpose? His presence outside of Almack’s had to be deliberate.
“I told you that man would ruin you,” hissed Lady Forley, already waving her vinaigrett
e.
Angela had no recollection of entering the coach. Andrew must have maneuvered her inside. Because of Blackthorn? Or had he even noticed? He and Sylvia were already murmuring to each other on the facing seat, oblivious to anything else.
Lady Forley dabbed at her eyes. “How could you allow him to touch you? Atwater may not have seen it, but there is little doubt that he will hear of your disgrace.”
“You are being ridiculous.” Angela faced her mother. “The man saved me from falling – I had slipped,” she added untruthfully. “There was nothing untoward in the incident. The moment I regained my balance, he released me. Would you prefer that I had disgraced myself by sprawling on the street?”
“Fustian!” Her voice was rising. “I am not stupid. Why was he there if not to ruin you? And he has. He actually touched you! And instead of protesting, you spoke to him. Atwater will surely take you in disgust.”
She continued, but Angela was no longer listening. How could she explain her reaction when she didn’t understand it herself? The Black Marquess was an enigma. She could not account for his anger, for she had done nothing to him – well, she had called him some rather unladylike names, but he had already embarked on his campaign by then. What was its purpose? Despite that folderol he had fed her at Hatchard’s, she was incapable of harming him.
Lady Forley’s diatribe grew more strident once Andrew climbed down to escort Sylvia to the door. But it abruptly ceased when Andrew motioned the footman to bring them inside. The butler led them to the drawing room where Hart paced nervously about, a frown on his face.
“What is wrong?” demanded Sylvia, laying a quivering hand on his arm. “Is it Cassie?”
Angela choked.
“Nothing serious,” said Hart with a nod. “But a month in town has been too much for her. We will leave for the Grange in the morning.”
“Oh, no!” Sylvia blanched.
Angela caught Hart’s glance and understood the question in his eyes. “Sylvia needn’t accompany you, surely. We would be delighted if she could stay with us until your sister arrives. With both Mama and myself in residence, there will be no impropriety in residing with her betrothed.”
He relaxed. “You should discuss this with your mother first, Angie.” But both understood that the offer was what he had hoped for when he invited them in.
“Mother?”
Lady Forley’s mouth had gaped at the suggestion, but the look in Andrew’s eyes stopped her protests. “Of course it is proper,” she agreed.
“Thank you, Lady Forley.”
Sylvia and Andrew were smiling in obvious rapture.
“How is Cassie?” murmured Angela some minutes later, slipping close to Hart when the others converged on Lady Forley for belated thanks.
“Exhausted, but otherwise sound. She has not yet done herself any harm, but I mentioned before that I would eventually have to put my foot down. That time is here.”
“She is fortunate to have someone who cares. I trust Sylvia will join us in the morning.”
He nodded. “I will loan her a carriage and grooms so you will have an easier time getting around. Thank you for taking her in.”
“It is nothing. Andrew will enjoy having her so close. Perhaps this will compensate him for having to wait so long for his nuptials.”
He laughed.
Chapter Five
“Thank you for inviting me to stay with you,” said Sylvia as she and Angela dressed for the theater the following evening. The smallness of the Clifford Street house meant they shared a room. “I was afraid Hart would make me leave town.”
Angela grinned. “We are delighted to have you here, though Andrew is drooling so badly that we may have to lock him in the cellar.”
Sylvia giggled, then sobered. “I hope Cassie is all right. If anything happens to her, I will never forgive myself for dragging her to town.”
“Relax. Hart and I discussed the situation weeks ago. I knew he would eventually take her home. She has not overextended. He merely fears she might.”
“He does take awfully good care of her.” She sighed.
“And Andrew will do the same for you.”
“Will Atwater treat you that well?”
Angela frowned. Too many people assumed that she would accept the earl. “I don’t know if he will have the chance. I cannot feel comfortable with him.”
“I thought it was settled.” Sylvia sounded surprised. “That is the impression your mother gave.”
“Drat the woman!” Dismissing her maid, she collected her reticule and fan. “I will have to speak to her. Again. She is pushing hard for a match, but frankly I prefer Garwood.”
“Well, you must admit that Atwater is gorgeous.”
“He is indeed. Perhaps Mother is right and my sense is wanting. Or maybe my background prevents me from fitting into society.” She shrugged. “For now, I wish to think only of the theater. What are we to see?”
“Hamlet.”
“Not poor Yorick again. I saw that last week.” She hid her grimace as she followed Sylvia downstairs. This Season’s version of Hamlet bore only a passing resemblance to Shakespeare’s original. And since Atwater was escorting them, it promised to be a very long evening.
Andrew was waiting for Sylvia in the hall. Their eyes locked as she descended the stairs, the sparks that sizzled between them nearly igniting the air. Suppressing her envy, Angela passed them and entered the drawing room where Atwater waited.
“You look ravishing, my dear,” he said, his eyes revealing a feral gleam as they caressed her face and figure. She shivered, refusing to respond.
Lady Forley cloaked her silence with a burst of enthusiasm that carried them all the way to the theater.
Drury Lane was ablaze with light, welcoming the line of carriages that inched forward to disgorge their loads of dazzling lords and ladies. Clustered before the entrance were the usual assortment of fruit and flower vendors, link boys, pickpockets, and beggars. Later their ranks would swell with prostitutes.
Angela allowed Atwater to help her from the carriage, though her arm shuddered at his touch – and not from pleasure. What was it about this man that troubled her? He was handsome and attentive, lavishing her with care. She no longer believed that her antipathy arose solely from his effusiveness – or even from Lady Forley’s pressure.
Perhaps avoiding him for a few days would give her a chance to examine her heart – not that she had any hope of doing so. Despite numerous protests, her mother insisted on accepting invitations to any event that Atwater was attending, which often meant skipping activities Angela would have liked, such as musical evenings. Her own playing was average at best, but she enjoyed listening to that of others.
The only alternative was to elicit his cooperation for remaining apart for a few days. She was struggling for the words that could make such a request without insulting him, when his brows snapped into a furious frown.
“Devil take it! How did you get here? Out of the way!” He backhanded a beggar who had stepped forward to block their progress. His other fist slammed into the man’s ribs.
Angela gasped. The man was hardly more than a skeleton. One shirtsleeve hung empty, the tattered remains of an infantry uniform providing little protection against the night chill, battle scars visible through its holes. His left leg was twisted from a badly set break. No sound escaped his lips, even when Atwater’s blow shifted all his weight onto the crooked leg, which collapsed. Pain exploded through his eyes when he slammed into the ground. And hatred.
“Oh, no!” Her involuntary cry attracted Atwater’s attention.
“Save your sympathy,” he ordered, grabbing her arm to drag her into the theater. “He deserves none of it. Army doctors do no favors when they amputate limbs. Better to die quickly of gangrene than slowly of starvation.”
Shock stilled further protest. Shock at his callous words. Shock at his violence. Shock at Blackthorn, who appeared at the top of the steps, the hatred blazing in his eyes ferocious enough to
repel the strongest warrior. In that instant she could believe every black tale of the man. And more. He seemed unbalanced. Had all her impressions been wrong?
Devall watched them go. Nothing was making sense – except Miss Warren, of course. Despite his warnings, she was still playing the part of Atwater’s first wife, still pursuing titled wealth. Her acting was superb. That demure smile as she descended from the carriage was Lydia to a tee. A knife twisted in his heart. Yes, her natural passion for justice still blazed. She had grimaced in pain when the beggar hit the ground, but she had not castigated Atwater for his appalling attack. If her hand had rested on anyone else’s sleeve, she would have created a scene worthy of Siddons in her prime, but her greed ran too strong. He despised her for it and had let her see his contempt. Not that it would sway her from her course. She would continue until she brought Atwater up to scratch, then revert to her normal self.
You’re overreacting, his conscience chided him. No one could have expected that assault. Shock froze her. You saw how he practically dragged her away.
He brutally stifled the voice. Overreaction was alien to his constitution. Every move he had made in the last six years had been carefully planned. Emotion never swayed his judgment. Not even his admiration for Miss Warren would forgive her scheming. Forcing her eyes from his mind, he returned to business.
Atwater was a serious problem. The man refused to act like a gentleman, which was another disgrace that deserved censure. Oh, he could understand why Gabriel was ducking a challenge, but the affair with the beggar made no sense.
Why would a high-ranking lord, renowned for his benevolent charm, assault a lowly beggar with half the ton as witness? And with such violence! Atwater was too beloved for the incident to tarnish his reputation, but displaying his true colors to Miss Warren was odd. Even though she hid her own character behind a mask, any man who was seriously courting her would take pains to present only his best face.
And the beggar’s behavior was little better. Crippled veterans littered London, congregating around public places to beg for pennies. But he had never seen one deliberately block an entrance. Nor had he witnessed one who singled out an individual for contempt. In fact, the man’s eyes had gone beyond contempt.
