Devall's Angel

by Allison Lane

  Devall had recognized the expression, of course. It was the twin of the one he had bestowed on Miss Warren – blazing, unadulterated hatred. What was the man’s grudge against Atwater? Obviously, he was no ordinary beggar. Despite a steady stream of new arrivals, he was already limping away.

  Turning on his heel, Blackthorn abruptly abandoned the theater and followed, waiting until they were out of sight to accost the fellow.

  “I’d like an explanation for that confrontation in Drury Lane,” he said quietly.

  The beggar heard the menace in his voice, but ignored it. “’Twas a private affair, sir, of no interest to others.”

  “I doubt it.” He raked the beggar with a comprehensive gaze, taking in every detail, including a growing bruise on his ribs and the blood seeping from a cut Atwater’s signet ring had made on his cheek. “I’ve a bone to pick with the earl and could use more evidence against him.”

  The beggar’s mouth thinned to a grim line, but no words emerged.

  Devall frowned. “Do you think Atwater sent me to harm you?” It was a shot in the dark, so he was surprised when the fellow nodded.

  Well, well! Atwater was even worse than he had thought. “I am Devall Sherbrooke, Marquess of Blackthorn. If you know him at all, my name should convince you that I have a legitimate complaint.”

  Relief filled the beggar’s eyes. “That you do, my lord. That you do.” Relaxing, he nodded toward a nearby tavern. “I’m Ned Parker, and I have a tale you’ll not soon forget…”

  * * * *

  Angela lay awake long into the night. Atwater’s behavior had gone far beyond civility. Why had he assaulted that beggar?

  It was possible that he merely despised deformity. Some people could not tolerate imperfection, as she well knew. A neighbor had been caught in a burning house some years earlier, which left his face badly scarred. Many now shunned him, unable to cope with his appearance.

  But Atwater’s reaction was too violent to explain away in general terms. Other disabled veterans roamed the streets, but he had never heeded them. So this was personal. What had the man done? Or was Atwater himself the transgressor? She shook her head as lurid possibilities filled her brain.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. Nothing could excuse so public an assault. Some character defect lurked beneath Atwater’s smooth exterior – which explained why his touch made her skin crawl. She must have sensed it. Discovering the truth would make it easier to turn Lady Forley’s attention to Garwood.

  But learning the details would be difficult. The gossips apparently knew nothing. The beggar was anonymous. Talking to Atwater was hard under any circumstances, but he would never discuss this.

  She’d already tried, making several attempts at the theater, but he had refused to respond to even innocuous questions. His intransigence had settled her feelings once and for all. He must want only an ornament for a wife. The fact that he had asked her nothing beyond basic questions of parentage and dowry proved it. He had no respect for intelligence, no interest in her thoughts, and no intention of sharing more than a bed with his wife. That wasn’t the life she wanted.

  So how was she to convince her mother to cease encouraging the man? She could hardly turn him away by herself. This evening’s show of temper precluded even a refined version of how she’d handled Sir Alan. At the very least, he would snub her, and his standing in society would prompt others to follow suit.

  She couldn’t afford ostracism. But if she could dampen her mother’s enthusiasm, perhaps she could gradually back off, cutting his dances to one a night and skipping some of the balls he patronized. So she must discover the details. Only something truly reprehensible might sway Lady Forley.

  Mulling the problem made sleep almost impossible. Her mind raced in circles. The more she thought, the more she cursed herself for her inability to take control of her life. Atwater was touchy; Lady Forley was determined; and Angela was caught in the middle.

  By dawn, she was groggy and out of sorts. Leaving Sylvia snuggled warmly in bed, she called for her horse and headed for Hyde Park. It was generally empty at this hour, allowing her the freedom to gallop.

  Removing her hat the moment she was alone, she let the air wash through her hair. Weariness, irritation, and her longing for home flowed away with it. Not until she reined in near the Serpentine did she spot another early riser. The Marquess of Blackthorn sat atop a powerful black stallion, half hidden by a thicket of shrubs.

  “Good morning, Miss Warren,” he said icily. “Did you enjoy the theater last night?”

  She grimaced, slamming the hat back in place. Removing it was yet another aberration that could damage her.

  She had wondered whether her imagination had conjured that black stare on the theater steps, for he had appeared in none of the boxes and had been conspicuously absent when Atwater promenaded her through the corridors during the intervals. All Mayfair had buzzed for days with reports that Blackthorn was stalking Atwater, and his appearance outside Almack’s supported that notion. But the theater was open to anyone, so why had he not followed them inside? One malevolent gaze was hardly worthy of his reputation.

  “Cat got your tongue?” he asked when she ignored him.

  “You are not a man to accept cuts, I see.” She sighed. “The building was opulent, the acting acceptable, the morning sunlight delightful, the ride invigorating. Good day to you, sir.” She turned to leave, only to find him trotting at her side.

  He was a superb rider, sitting his stallion like a centaur. Anyone familiar with horses would recognize the skill that exerted seemingly effortless control over his high-strung beast.

  “Why must you persecute me, Lord Blackthorn?” she demanded. “You know my reputation will be in shreds should anyone see us together. And you swore just two nights ago that you meant me no harm. Did you lie? Or are you using me to punish Lord Atwater?”

  “I admit he is not my favorite person,” he said almost pleasantly. “But that is not my reason for speaking with you. I pursue my quarrels privately.”

  “The last person with whom you had a private quarrel is dead.” She glared at him, shocked at her own temerity.

  “But not by my hand.” He glared back, his expression marred by a wayward lock of hair that curled across his forehead.

  “I know you didn’t kill Graceford – unless you disguised yourself as an Italian conte. I was referring to Lord Cloverdale. Or was Coldstream the latest? I don’t recall the chronology of your misdeeds.”

  “My, what a gossip the lady is.” But his eyes seemed suddenly apprehensive. “Though that is more in keeping with female character than haranguing a street vendor.”

  “Cynical, aren’t you? We’ve held this conversation before. There is no need to repeat it.”

  “Truth is not cynicism. Like all girls, you spend your time fawning over the harridans who have established themselves as arbiters of taste. Woe be unto anyone who dares to think for herself. Have you no better use for your time than making and breaking reputations? Or do you enjoy playing with people’s lives?” Bitterness tinged his voice; and pain. But she ignored them, furious over his unfair portrayal of both herself and society.

  “Beast!”

  “You forget your training, Miss Warren. Run along home before you jeopardize so glorious a future. You can hardly move into society’s inner circles by flouting its rules.”

  “I already tried to leave, but you chose to accompany me,” she snapped. “Your faulty judgment is again trumpeting itself to the world, my lord. You may enjoy sounding like a fool, but I do not. I won’t be treated as a brainless widgeon. Certainly not by so notorious a scoundrel.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did. Condescending toad! Don’t you dare pat me on the head and utter soothing platitudes. And quit judging people you don’t know.”

  “You pass your time prattling in drawing rooms, then claim you are not a gossip? You must think me a fool.”

  “Girls have no control over their schedules,”
she reminded him bitterly. “Not even those of us who are nearly on the shelf. Nor are we allowed to prattle, not that it makes any difference. Society’s denizens are so intimidating that they freeze my tongue with a glance. I’ve not met a soul I could talk to since our arrival.”

  “You aren’t tongue-tied today.”

  “You don’t count,” she retorted tartly, then blushed. “I mean, you are not part of society and can already ruin me. Nothing I say now can make things worse.”

  “Yet most people find me intimidating.” He raked her with his most devilish stare.

  “No.” She frowned. “I would sooner describe you as infuriating, especially the way you consistently jump to false conclusions based on no evidence whatsoever.”

  “What am I supposed to think? If you are not a gossip, how do you know so much about me?”

  “My mother warned me against you, of course. And one can go nowhere without hearing stories about you. Every tabby in town is incensed at your presence. Surely you know enough about society to expect that.”

  “Your mother warned you against me yet allowed you to make a spectacle of yourself over a street urchin? I’m out of short pants, Miss Warren.”

  “You are also the most odious man I ever met!” She reined in her temper, but not before her horse sensed her fury and began to nervously prance. “I gave her no choice, if you must know. Her hysterics lasted all of two days.”

  “My, my! I believe I have hit a nerve.”

  “What you believe is irrelevant.” Turning aside, she cantered away.

  She had gone barely twenty feet before he grabbed her horse’s bridle and halted its progress. Her horse snorted, twisting his head to glare at her as if demanding she make up her mind.

  “Not so fast, Miss Warren.” He released his hold. “First let me explain why I risked both our reputations by approaching you. You are equally quick to judge, by the way. I have no wish to ruin you.”

  “I hadn’t thought so until you started hounding me. Now I don’t know what to think. First you expose me to censure, then you help me sidestep it. What will you do next?”

  He frowned and opened his mouth, but bit back whatever he had started to say. “We will not brangle further this morning. There’s another street urchin you might be interested in – an orphan who has been sharing a shed in Haymarket with three crippled soldiers. None is in very good shape, but Mickey is in urgent need of care. He was injured last week and can no longer look after himself. If you really do know of a good orphanage, he’s yours.”

  “Where is he?” Her anger dissipated, leaving behind only concern.

  He gave her the direction. “Don’t go alone. That neighborhood is no place for a lady.”

  “I will not go at all. My friend will handle everything.” She frowned. “It may take two or three days, though. My friend is out of town. Could you see after Mickey until then?”

  “Too good to take care of him yourself? Or are you afraid Atwater will disapprove your real character?”

  “Of course not! But you do not know my mother. Even living on the streets is preferable to what she would visit on him.”

  He sighed, for he did indeed know her mother. Or had, before he had severed all connection to society. “I suppose I can see that he has enough to eat for a couple of days.”

  “Thank you. And despite what you think, the effort won’t kill you.”

  He watched her ride away. To which question had she objected? Not that it mattered. She could not afford to reveal her heart, for Atwater could still escape her clutches. Cold-blooded wench. Had she fallen in love with the man as well as the fortune? Women had fawned over the earl for years. And Atwater was skilled at feigning adoration. Not that it mattered. After living in near-poverty for so long, she would convince herself that she was in love. So why was he trusting Mickey to her care?

  And why did picturing her on Atwater’s arm curdle his stomach?

  Chapter Six

  Angela smiled at her partner as he escorted her back to her mother. But the smile did not reach her eyes. Atwater lounged at Lady Forley’s side, though his second dance was three sets away. He had hovered more and more in recent days, his lurking presence shouting to the world that he had marked her as his own. And the message was understood. Most of society had already married them. Few gentlemen danced with her, intimidated by Atwater’s cold stares. Only Garwood remained in her court.

  And she blessed him every day. He had hinted that he was ready for marriage. She had made her preference clear by criticizing both her mother’s devotion to society and the woman’s encouragement of Atwater.

  They had enjoyed a pleasant afternoon at the British Institution, admiring Reynolds’s work as well as a second exhibit of current artists. She could relax with him, conversing easily on many topics. And she no longer censored her tongue, allowing him to see her education and her interests. He accepted both, which boded well for the future. Their time together might lack any spark of excitement, but he was comfortable.

  And he was all that kept her going. Between Atwater’s hovering and the insipid silliness of the Styles clan – they were never far away, either – she was not enjoying the Season.

  Atwater’s glare made her partner grimace. He was young and had not yet acquired sufficient town bronze to hide his feelings. Poor lad. He would never dance with her again. It was the fourth sprig in two days that Atwater had scared off. Some girls might enjoy such a public display of infatuation, but not she.

  She had frequently bitten her tongue, loathe to create a scene, but this time she gave full rein to her anger. What right had he to control her life? By whose authority was he changing the rules that all of society followed? No gentleman could dance more than twice with any lady. Her reputation would diminish if she did not dance with others. Sitting out excessive sets would ruin her.

  “That was not well done,” she hissed, the moment her mother turned toward Sylvia. If Lady Forley joined this dispute, the brangle would become very public.

  Shock filled his eyes. It was the first time in days that she had initiated a discussion with him. He looked as though one of the decorations had spoken.

  “The pup is unworthy of you.”

  “He is perfectly harmless, but that is not the point. It is not your place to approve my dance card. Nor is it your place to choose my friends. This hovering makes fools of us both. You should be attending others. I don’t want to see you again before your next set.”

  His face twisted in fury, but he bowed stiffly and left.

  “Whatever sent Atwater off in such a huff?” demanded Lady Forley.

  “He has been frightfully rude to several of my partners, Mother. Such behavior is unacceptable.”

  “How dare you criticize the man you will marry?”

  “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss the future, but I must remind you that I have made no such decision. Nor am I likely to. Enough.”

  She smiled at Garwood as he approached for the next set.

  “What was that all about?” he asked when they took their places for a quadrille.

  “Nothing. Mother was just being her usual overbearing self. She will never understand me, for our interests are as chalk and cheese.”

  He nodded. “Parents so often try to relive their own lives through their children. My father was the same, but I never could share his love of the sporting life.”

  “We have a neighbor like that. He lives for the hunt, neglecting all else, including his family.”

  “Forget your mother,” he urged as the music began. “She will not control your life much longer.”

  She smiled. If the warmth in his eyes was any indication, he would make his offer any day now. Thank God! Her mother’s pressure had become nearly unbearable. Philip. She tried his name in her mind. Would she grow to love him? She would certainly try.

  He brushed against her as they moved into the next pattern, squeezing her hand in reassurance.

  * * * *

  Deva
ll sat in an isolated corner of White’s reading room, his face ostensibly buried in a newspaper. Few men approached him, but clubs were more tolerant than drawing rooms. None had seriously considered terminating his membership. The room was sparsely populated now that Brummell’s set had deserted the bow window in favor of the card room, where they were looking to break a run of bad luck.

  The door opened in a swirl of raindrops, the night having turned blustery and wet. The new arrival removed a sodden cloak and handed it to a footman, revealing a braid-encrusted red uniform jacket on a tall, lanky frame.

  An unaccustomed smile creased Devall’s face. “Jack!” he called. “When did you get back?”

  Major John Caldwell grinned as he limped across the room. “This is the last place I expected to find you, Devall.” He pulled a chair closer and sank gratefully into its depths. “In fact, I was planning to run down to Wyndhaven next week.”

  “What happened to your leg?” A footman delivered a second glass and poured wine for the major.

  “Sword cut to the thigh. It festered so Hooky sent me home for a spell, but it should heal without a problem.”

  “You just arrived then?”

  “Yesterday. What in the name of all that’s wonderful are you doing in London? And looking as devilish as ever,” he added, taking in the stark black clothes and a countenance only marginally lightened by his own unexpected appearance. “Did you finally decide to redeem your reputation?”

  “No. It serves its purpose. But this is hardly the place for private discussion.” The words halted further inquiry even though the room was practically empty. “How goes the Peninsula Campaign?”

  “I think the tide has turned at last. Napoleon cannot possibly recover after that disastrous retreat from Moscow.”

  Devall’s glass paused midway to his lips. “Did he really lose half a million men, or has the number been exaggerated?” Speculation had been rampant for months, ever since the remnants of the Grande Armée had stumbled back across the Niemen, but estimates of the French losses varied widely.