by Allison Lane
“What orphanage is that?”
“My friend prefers anonymity.”
He dropped the subject, choosing a roundabout route to Clifford Street. Her direction was one of the bits of information he had collected on Atwater. Should he try again to warn her about Gabriel? Whatever her motives for hanging on the earl’s arm, she did not deserve to be bound to him. No lady did.
“If you are truly a caring person, you should avoid Lord Atwater,” he said at last. “He does not condone charity. Nor does he approve of females showing any sign of independence.”
“Would you be more specific? I must make a match this Season.”
“Is your home so terrible that you need to escape?”
“As usual, you leap to unwarranted conclusions. My brother will marry in a few weeks. My remaining at home would be unfair both to him and to Sylvia, and I can’t waste the sacrifices he made to provide me a Season. By the time he can afford another, I will be too long on the shelf to be marriageable.”
“Such concern. Again she seeks to impress me.”
“Fustian! Your opinion means nothing. In fact, your regard would harm my credibility beyond redemption.”
“You are incapable of wounding me, so don’t try,” he lied. But her taunt hurt. He thrust the pain aside. “Why not admit that you are after Atwater’s title and fortune and be done with it?”
“You wrong me, as usual.”
“How? Girls fawn over the most debased monsters to improve their consequence.”
“So cynical.” She sighed. “You can’t force everyone into the same box. Are you like every other man in London? Even the stupidest people know that there is no label that applies to all. Can you compare Lord Castlereagh, who heads the Foreign Office, with Lord Petersham, who cares for naught but snuff and tea? Why should women be any different? Does Maria Edgeworth indulge in London gossip? Is Jane Austen interested only in finding a titled husband? And there are as many differences within a class as between classes. Why don’t you try to make something of your own life instead of needlessly lashing out at others?”
“I already knew you were a bluestocking,” he reminded her.
“Yet another fact that can ruin me,” she admitted. “I might as well resign myself to life as a spinster.”
“You should know by now that I have no desire to harm you. I am not as black as my reputation claims.”
“Then why am I in this curricle?” she demanded. “One whisper and I am doomed.”
“You will notice that we are not traveling fashionable streets,” he pointed out. “I do wish to protect your honor. But I had to warn you about Atwater.”
“Why do you hate him?”
He stared her down. Only after one more attempt to draw Atwater into a duel would he make the truth public. This time he would confront him before the matrons responsible for his matchless credit. But not in the chaos outside a ball. “I have my reasons, which I would prefer to keep private. But he is not what he seems, Miss Warren. His heart is blacker than my reputation. At least look beneath his surface.”
“I wish you would explain. He has always made me nervous, but I don’t know why. Distancing myself from him is proving to be impossible without facts. Even people I don’t know try to push us together.”
“Perhaps you are smarter than I thought. Just stay away from him. You will regret it if you don’t. And that is not a threat,” he added, drawing up before her house.
Her fingers burned through his glove as he handed her down, startling them both. But he ignored the heat.
His face twisted into an even blacker scowl than usual as he drove home. His motives had not been as straightforward as he had claimed. Turning her against Atwater would crack the man’s armor. Atwater had been hovering so closely that no one was willing to offer odds against a marriage. The betting books held wagers only on the date the announcement would appear. Maneuvering Miss Warren into repudiating the man would cause a sensation, infuriating Atwater – which should make it easier to goad him into a challenge – and raising questions about his character among society’s gossips, thus eroding his consequence.
So his warning had been selfish and deliberate. But he had not expected her reaction. It wasn’t the first time she’d thrown his thoughts into turmoil, of course. Every time they met, she confounded his perceptions. And not always benignly.
Her claim that people were forcing her into Atwater’s orbit had pierced one of his more vital ramparts. Memories were oozing to the surface that he had no desire to confront. She wasn’t the only girl who had little say in her destiny.
Frantically scraping the hair off his forehead, he strode into the library and poured an oversized glass of brandy, rapidly draining it and pouring another.
Penelope.
Go away, he ordered, trying to turn his thoughts to Atwater. To Miss Warren. To anything else. But it was hopeless. Pain ripped his chest.
His betrothal to the Honorable Penelope Quincy had been arranged by their respective fathers. Devall had first heard of it by reading the announcement in the morning paper. The shock had died a quick death, of course. A lifetime of lessons had taught him that opposing his father’s wishes led to very unpleasant consequences.
He slammed the door on those memories, for they were even more painful than thinking about Penelope.
Draining the glass, he paced the library. Damn his father to hell! And hers. His life would never be the same. That announcement had established his course, defining an inescapable destiny. Not that he had bowed to orders in the end.
His feet moved faster. Even if he could magically return to that night six years ago knowing what the future held, he would change nothing. The die had been cast. Their fathers’ scheming had left him no choice. Jilting Penelope in a less public arena would not have worked. Wedding her would have been worse. But he had been a social outcast ever since.
Not that he minded – most of the time. He had even turned the situation to his advantage. But occasionally the loneliness overwhelmed him. Like now.
He dropped into a chair, pressing his hands to his eyes. He had once naïvely dreamed of finding a wife who could share his concerns. He had even dreamed of children, though he had never admitted to a soul that he liked the little beasts. Now he avoided even the thought of them. Marriage was forever out of reach, and not just to daughters of the aristocracy. He could condemn no woman to permanent ostracism. Nor could he produce an heir. School was brutal enough without the added stigma his son would carry. And the thought of siring an unmarriageable daughter made him cringe. It was a reality he had accepted long ago, and one that rarely bothered him. The fact that it did today was Miss Warren’s fault.
Why had she reminded him that even casual friendships were impossible? He knew that better than anyone. His very presence could destroy anyone he favored. The pain accompanied him every time he left home, which was why he could relax only at Wyndhaven. He had so few friends, and only Jack willingly approached him in public. The servants who carried out his business were too aware of his title – and too afraid of him, he had to admit – to drop their formality.
Damn her! Angela would make a wonderful friend. He enjoyed debating with her, watching for that exhilarating moment when her face would flush with passion as she countered an argument or delivered a well-deserved set-down. He enjoyed probing a mind that matched his own in so many ways. But beyond that, she treated him like a normal human being – and continued to do so even when he was at his most obnoxious.
Conceited … odious … cynical… He grimaced, admitting that he merited such censure. Conceit was wrong, of course. No one with his history could ever sustain an exalted opinion of himself. But the cynicism was real enough. He knew the hidden face of society too well to believe its facade.
Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair. With him, Angela donned no facade. His accusations had been unfair, for she was not a conscienceless fortune hunter. Labeling her as such had been an excuse to a
void probing her character. Something lurked beneath her surface that he didn’t want to discover.
But he could no longer avoid an investigation. If she was as innocent as he feared, he must help her. She was at the mercy of events – perhaps not as helpless as Penelope had been, or himself. But she was clearly under pressure and being shoved into a union that would destroy her.
So here was yet another reason to garner some invitations. He could hardly lend her an invisible hand if he was barred from society.
Lady Chartley had done as much as she would. Recalling her glee when a particularly stuffy matron abandoned the room in a huff the moment he’d arrived brought a fleeting grin to his lips. But truth quickly stifled any real pleasure. She had opened the door that vital first crack, but that was all he could expect. She wouldn’t risk her own credit by championing his cause.
Perhaps Jack could help.
* * * *
Angela thought long about Blackthorn’s warning. Why hadn’t he just told her the truth? His tone had made Atwater’s crime sound dire – which explained why he was bent on forcing the earl into a duel, not that she condoned violence – yet none of society’s gossips had a clue. Not even Lady Beatrice, who generally knew everything that happened, even in the farthest corners of the country. Lady Debenham had an equally impressive network of correspondents. And both heard everything the servants knew. Could Angela really believe that they had overlooked even an innocuous indiscretion?
She sighed. He should have spelled out the details. Vague warnings wouldn’t help her, for Lady Forley would believe nothing without evidence. And that evidence would have to be powerful and irrefutable. The woman considered herself infallible. Having judged Atwater to be perfect, she wouldn’t back down.
So Angela again found herself in an untenable position. Since Lady Forley refused to distance them from Atwater, all Angela could do was act warmer toward Philip and cooler to the earl. Any man with intelligence should get the message. Of course, if Atwater paid attention to her, he would have gotten it already.
On-dits revealed Blackthorn’s grievance the very next day. Lady Beatrice was the first to report the news.
“Lord Atwater is not the sweet innocent he likes to pretend,” she teased her visitors as she poured tea for the latest arrivals.
“What did he do?” asked Lady Marchgate, accepting a lemon biscuit from a circulating footman.
“He killed his first wife.” Everyone in the room gasped. “Not murder, mind you, though it comes close. He struck the girl, triggering the miscarriage that killed her.”
“Really?” asked Lady Debenham, her obvious disbelief goading Lady Beatrice. Their long rivalry was well known.
“Absolutely. And it was not the first time.”
“Poor Lydia,” mourned a dowager. “She was such a sweet girl.”
“But shy,” offered another, her own disbelief evident. “Not the sort to defy a husband. She would have done anything for him. And Atwater is too considerate to raise his hand to anyone.”
“He doted on her,” agreed Lady Marchgate. “Never have I seen so loving a husband. It was almost scandalous the way he wore his heart on his sleeve.”
“So did she,” Lady Debenham reminded them. “The love of the century, as I remarked at the time.”
Lady Beatrice’s face matched her purple gown at this tacit condemnation of her news, and she took careful note of each speaker.
Angela did not participate in the talk, but she had to bite her tongue to stay out of it. For once, she could think of too much to say. Atwater’s courtship of Lydia closely resembled his treatment of her – which she found suffocating. Had Lydia felt the same? Perhaps not, if she had loved him. But whether the tale was true or not, why had it surfaced now?
Instinct blamed Blackthorn, for the charges fit well with his campaign to force a duel on the earl. Yet only yesterday he had refused to describe his quarrel. Was this tale a lie? Philip claimed that Blackthorn wished to keep his real feud private. Would the marquess have changed tactics so quickly? Or was some other man responsible for this rumor, making it unrelated to Blackthorn’s campaign? This last possibility was frightening, for it hinted that Atwater had injured at least two people.
But it didn’t seem possible that he had successfully fooled every member of society, not even if both misdeeds had occurred very recently. She found it hard enough to believe that Blackthorn had a legitimate complaint. Her own discomfort around Atwater notwithstanding, the gossips were simply too knowing.
Events supported the theory that Blackthorn had spread the tale. He somehow wangled an invitation to the Cunningham ball the next night. Lady Forley was not the only guest to gasp in shock. Several people left in righteous indignation. Others canceled plans to join later gatherings so they could witness his confrontation with Atwater.
Rumors of the earl’s brutality had swept Mayfair, though few believed them. Every word was attributed to Blackthorn’s imagination. Most swore that his motives were envy for a man who was everything he was not, and jealousy over Atwater’s standing in society.
True to his name, the Black Marquess was dressed in black relieved only by snowy linen and an enormous ruby nestled in the intricate folds of his cravat, which flashed like the fires of hell in the gleam of a thousand candles. Black hair. Demonic visage. Sneering expression. Never had he looked more satanic. His peaked brows lifted in mocking challenge as his dark eyes raked the room.
What a nightmare! Angela was terrified lest he approach her or indicate that he knew her. Lady Forley squeaked and squawked, using both Atwater and the Styles family as shields, all the while lamenting that Andrew and Sylvia had accompanied Lady Ashton to a musicale that evening. Atwater hovered more determinedly than ever, even glaring as Garwood led her into his two sets. They were the only dances she enjoyed.
Blackthorn remained nearby, staring at Atwater, never moving more than twenty feet away, dancing with no one. Most of the guests relaxed when it became apparent that he would not inflict his conversation on them or approach their daughters. And the rumors piqued curiosity. Atwater was under more pressure than any gentleman should have to bear. Most people believed he should strike back. A few even speculated that his refusal to issue a well-deserved challenge indicated guilt over the private feud that had prompted Blackthorn’s campaign. Thus every eye in the room watched them. No one wished to miss the moment if the earl’s composure cracked.
By supper Angela had a raging headache. Rather than endure a meal with Blackthorn’s gaze burning into her back, she excused herself to the retiring room. But even that provided no refuge. Speculation raged nonstop. Though the participants constantly changed, only one topic surfaced this night. Angela was returning to the ballroom in defeat when Blackthorn himself appeared in the hallway.
“You look unwell,” he commented.
“Why should that surprise you? Are you enjoying yourself? You’ve certainly made the rest of us miserable.”
He pulled her into a nearby anteroom and shut the door.
“Pull yourself together, Miss Warren. I have no quarrel with you.”
“No, you don’t. I’m just the innocent bystander who gets hurt by your feud. But what do you care? All’s fair, is that it?” She burst into tears, infuriating herself even more.
“My God!” Pulling her into his arms, he muffled her sobs against his coat. The spicy scent he used permeated the fabric. “I did not intend to hurt you and had no idea I was doing so.”
“Just because Atwater ignores you does not mean he is immune to your hatred. He may make a pretense of serenity, refusing to create a scene in public, but he takes out his frustration on his companions. I already have bruises where his fingers dug into my arm while we were dancing. How long do you expect him to put up with this before he explodes?”
He blanched. “You need not remain in his vicinity.”
“So quick to judge,” she countered wryly. “It is true that he did not officially escort us tonight. But he has chosen
to remain at my mother’s side – with her enthusiastic encouragement. I raked him over the coals for it several days ago. Mother read me lectures, threw hysterics, then encouraged him even more. Your animosity makes her cling even harder. What would you suggest I do to discourage them? Read the riot act? Even that might have no effect. And unlike you, I have a reputation to protect if I ever hope to wed. Such a show of temper would ruin me.”
“I was impertinent. Forgive me?” He handed her a handkerchief.
Shocked that she was still in his arms, she pulled away. It had been amazingly comforting to be held against that hard body. “Very well, but can you please refrain from ruining the remainder of my evening? It’s hard enough to relax given the people Mother keeps around.”
“This is not working as I envisioned anyway.” He restlessly paced the floor. “I will find another way.”
“And who will you hurt this time? Give it up, my lord. Vengeance rarely works. Haven’t your rumors exacted payment enough?”
“I started no rumors.”
“Then who?”
“The truth will out on its own.”
“What is the truth?” She stared at him, willing him to trust her.
He tore his gaze away, shaking his head. “I will leave you to discover that for yourself. No one ever believes anything I say.” Striding from the room, he left the ball without another word. She didn’t know if that flash of fury in his eyes had been for her, for Atwater, or for someone else.
She stayed in the anteroom until all trace of tears had vanished. When Blackthorn was rudely abrupt, she could believe every indictment against him. But usually she liked him – or was that her well-known perversity speaking? Perversity might explain why society’s rogue attracted her while its hero only repelled. Sense certainly had nothing to do with it. Did she actually believe that her judgment surpassed that of every other member of the ton? Yet accepting their view was an admission that she was either stupid or incompetent.
She sighed.
So what was the truth? I started no rumors. While he often refused to answer questions, she had never known him to lie. Nor was lying included in society’s litany of his faults – which raised questions about his parting comment. Her head shook. She would consider that later.
