by Allison Lane
“I too never suspected that he was capable of deluding himself,” agreed Atwater, sounding much calmer. “And I was sure his tale was a hum, for he also claims that she is a bluestocking reformer, which I know to be false. I will do what I can to counter the rumors, of course. This is but a tempest in a teapot. If you can bear it for a few days, it will blow over.”
“Thank you, my lord. We are grateful for your support.”
Angela slipped down the hall as he took his leave, so that she was approaching when he opened the door. How ironical that he disbelieved the one true fact in this whole fabrication.
“I will escort you back to the ballroom,” he said, extending his arm.
“I am looking for my mother.”
“She is inside.”
“Thank you.” She dismissed him curtly, not caring what he thought. Even his offer to help her weather the storm was of no consequence.
As soon as he retreated, she shut the door and glared at her mother. “How could you lie to Atwater? I turned down no proposals, as you well know.”
“He needs to understand that Mr. Garwood is spreading lies,” she replied calmly.
“And why would Philip do so, Mother?” The ice in her voice made Lady Forley step back a pace.
“I cannot imagine.”
“I can. He is repeating exactly what you told him, is he not? You knew that I would welcome his suit, so you poisoned his mind against me.” Her voice shook. This betrayal went beyond anything she had ever imagined. Blackthorn’s warning had been prescient. Why hadn’t she taken his fears seriously?
“It had to be done, Angela,” insisted Lady Forley. “You are too young to understand the world. I cannot stand aside and watch you throw yourself away on an ineligible suitor. And he has proven himself ineligible. A gentleman would never wage a spiteful campaign to hurt you just because his own shortcomings were exposed. Despite your fantasies, he would never be able to offer you your rightful place in society.” A self-satisfied smirk twisted her lips.
Angela stared, engulfed in cold fury. Lady Forley was determined to force her daughter into her own mold.
“You lying, manipulative harpy!” The words exploded from her throat. “Never have you understood me. Never have you made the slightest attempt to understand me. Do you think you are God? Why else would you try to bend people to your own will? Well, it won’t work. I would die before patterning myself after you. The shallow stupidity and acid condemnation that masquerade as conversation in this town make me sick. As does the whole giddy pretense of society. I want no part of it. Which is just as well. It is too late for that now. You are well served, are you not? Your scheming lies have made me an outcast. I hope you are satisfied!”
In tears, she fled the room, not waiting for a response. Where could she go? A laughing cluster of young ladies blocked the retiring room. A larger congregation of gentlemen barred both the ballroom and the stairs leading to the street. Neither group had yet noticed her. An anteroom across the hall was empty so she ducked inside, locking the door behind her.
Control, control, she repeated desperately, sinking onto a couch and pressing her palms to her eyes as though she could force the tears back inside. The last thing she needed was to return to the ballroom with red eyes and a blotchy face. There were enough rumors already.
It took only a moment to concede that Lady Forley had driven Garwood away for good. He hated deceit so would continue assaulting her reputation, for he would not readily admit his mistake.
Her head shook. When she had approved his high moral stance, it had not occurred to her to question whether his judgment was sound. He should at least have spoken to her before deciding her guilt. Did his affection count for nothing? He knew she disapproved her mother’s manipulation. He knew she judged people on their own worth, not their social position. He knew everything important about her, yet he had accepted her mother’s statements as gospel.
In that sense, Lady Forley had actually done her a service. As had Atwater. If he had not interfered, she would have been betrothed last night. Would she have discovered Garwood’s intolerance in time to call off the wedding? At best, life would have been uneasy with such a husband. Had the others against whom he held grudges been similarly innocent?
It mattered not. Drawing a shaky breath, she fished an inadequate handkerchief from her reticule and mopped her face.
Her pain was rooted in betrayal and anger. And grief, though she shouldn’t grieve over being spared a marriage that she would not have liked. But now that the initial shock was subsiding, she had to face a very real fear of the future.
Atwater was now her sole suitor, but her feelings about him remained unchanged. So how was she to find a husband? A lifetime spent playing aunt to Sylvia’s children was untenable.
New tears sprang to her eyes, tears her sodden handkerchief could not absorb.
“The stories can hardly be so bad that you must fall apart, Miss Warren,” drawled a deep voice. Blackthorn stood in the shadows of a window alcove.
“What are you doing here?”
“I believe that is my question. I was here first.”
“Forgive me for intruding.” Still sniffing, she pushed the handkerchief back into her reticule and rose. Tears stained both cheeks.
“Devil take it, you can’t leave looking like that.” He pressed his own handkerchief into her hand, then pulled her head against his shoulder when his rough kindness triggered renewed sobbing. “How did this tale arise?” he asked at last. “Having been the target of so many stories, I am curious.”
His detached tone steadied her. “You should be able to guess, for you obviously suspected her. Mother decided to discourage Garwood with a series of lies, all of which she attributed to me. He despises deceit, so retaliated by pillorying me in public.”
“Good God!”
“Precisely.” She exhaled in a long sigh of despair. “But I am not quite falling apart, my lord. I only needed a moment to collect myself before again facing the cuts.” More than a moment, she conceded. Her eyes must be swollen. She had never been able to cry prettily.
“Facing them is essential, of course.” He wandered over to examine a vase on the mantel. “If you run now, the stories will take root and grow until you can never return.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Not quite. I care nothing for what society’s denizens think. If anything, my ouster set me free, for I need no longer consider their absurd sensibilities. My friends know the truth, and that is all that matters. You might consider life in that light. There must be something about this situation that you can turn to your advantage. And I will do what I can to counter Garwood’s lies – not that the gossips would believe a word I say, but I still have friends who are received.”
“I knew you were not as black as your reputation suggests. But if you have the power to counter gossip, why have you not used it to help yourself?”
“I like my reputation just the way it is,” he drawled blandly, though a hint of pain crept into his words that made her wonder what he was hiding – and from whom. “It suits me to hold society at bay – and the tales do contain grains of truth.”
Which portions were factual? She couldn’t face the ballroom just yet, instead sinking onto the couch. “So you are not the gamester and rake gossip assumes?”
He shook his head, turning back to face her. “I am no saint, but neither have I ever debauched an innocent or taken advantage of inexperience. Gaming is a way to fill the time on those occasions when I must be in town, but though I lose frequently, I also win and have never continued play beyond what I had allotted for an evening’s entertainment.”
“And what of Lady Atwater?”
“That is one tale that contains no truth whatsoever.”
“I had already deduced that. All else aside, she died more than nine months after her supposed conception. So why does everyone from Atwater to the most exacting dowagers claim she suffered a miscarriage?”
He chuckled, starting a treacherous glow in her stomach. “You must be the only person in London who can count. She was only four months with child when he beat her senseless.” He paced the room. “Poor Lydia. She was one of the few relatives I had who was worth knowing. Frankly, I would not wish my family on my worst enemy.”
He paused a moment, and she had the odd impression that he was trying to control a sudden urge to tears.
“Lydia was lovely in both form and spirit. If I’d had any hint of how things would end, I would have stayed in town the entire Season, or would at least have checked into his background, but her parents had things well in hand, and she was ecstatic over attracting Atwater’s attention. They made a handsome couple – two blue-eyed golden-haired angels capable of lighting any room they entered. Her only problem was shyness. In all her life she had never been able to assert herself with strangers, though once she became acquainted, her natural charm invariably surfaced, so I had not considered it a liability. I loved her dearly, but like the sister I never had. Never would I have harmed her. In fact, I was not even in town when she accepted Atwater’s hand, and I avoided her wedding lest my presence spoil her day. The other guests would have objected.”
“I see.”
“I hope you do, for though I ignore exaggerations, I despise deliberate falsehoods.” He pulled her briskly to her feet, taking a moment to examine her face. “You’ll do. You must return to the ballroom if you’ve any hope of carrying off the evening. Whatever happens, do not let either pain or anger show in your face. Let the world see that your behavior is unexceptionable. In the end, truth will prevail.”
He watched her go, then sought out Jack. This was not a night he could spend on his own campaign, though it would be long before he wangled another invitation from society’s reluctant hostesses. But Angela’s problems were more urgent than forcing retribution on Atwater for Lydia’s death.
Damnation! He should have anticipated this move – an objective analysis would have revealed that Lady Forley was capable of such deceit. She never allowed scruples to interfere with achieving her goals. His failure to prevent this attack made him responsible for repairing the damage. And perhaps he could devise a fitting punishment for Lady Forley.
“I need your help to defeat Garwood’s unwarranted persecution,” he declared when he had run Jack to ground.
“How?”
“Garwood’s tale is false from start to finish.” He sighed. “Lady Forley concocted the lies, though you needn’t delve into her motives. Much as I despise him, the only counter I can devise is to use Atwater’s continued devotion as proof that Miss Warren is innocent. He believes the tale to be false. Remind people of that. The gossips swallowed all his lies about Lydia’s death, proving they still dote on the bastard, so they should follow his lead. Garwood can’t hope to compete with his credit.”
“What is your interest in the girl?” Jack asked.
“I despise slander.” His glare squelched further questions. “Get acquainted with her. She needs friends.”
His stomach turned at where this might lead, but he could think of nothing else. If her protestations were true, she would turn Atwater down. Or try. Did she have the fortitude to withstand pressure from both her mother and her brother, who seemed equally anxious to marry her off? But her future was none of his concern.
He repeated that several times as he made his way to White’s, but deep down he didn’t believe it. His hand shook whenever he recalled cradling her head against his shoulder. That reaction frankly terrified him.
Jack went to work immediately, seeking an introduction to Miss Warren and leading her into the next waltz. He had watched Devall embroil himself in many scandals over the years, but he’d never seen him as grim as he’d appeared tonight. Was it only because this approach risked throwing Miss Warren onto Atwater’s no-so-tender mercies, or did Devall have stronger feelings for her than he was willing to admit?
Miss Warren’s appearance was striking enough. Her blazing auburn hair was arranged in waves, setting off moss green eyes whose slight puffiness hinted at an earlier bout of tears. Devall’s shoulder had been damp, he realized, his spirits plummeting. There was definitely more to this case than altruism, damn Blackthorn all to hell.
How deeply were they involved? Nothing but pain could come of it. If the relationship became public, it would ruin her far more than Garwood’s charges.
Jack grimaced. After brutally jilting his fiancée, Devall had sworn that he would never harm another girl. It wasn’t like him to renege on an oath.
So what was he doing with Miss Warren?
But he pushed the question aside for the moment. He had promised to help. A closer look into her eyes detected a core of steel that would see her through the present crisis.
“You are doing very well,” he commented as he twirled her onto the floor. “It should blow over soon.”
“You believe me innocent?” she exclaimed, and immediately blushed. “Forgive me, sir—”
“Relax. I have it on the best authority that you are honest, and I have agreed to turn what little influence I possess to redeeming your credit.”
New tears glistened in her eyes, but she blinked them away. “Thank you. Would it be too forward to ask who is championing my cause?”
“Blackthorn. He is a good friend, one whose word I trust implicitly,” he added as she raised her brows. Devall must not have mentioned his plans. Typical. The man was the most reticent person he had ever known – especially when it came to anything that showed him to advantage. How much of Devall’s true character did she know? If she cared for him even as a casual acquaintance, she must see well beyond his reputation. In that case, he could not condemn Devall for getting involved. The man had so few friends. But he must face the truth about where even friendship would lead.
Again Jack pushed consideration of Devall’s relationship with Miss Warren into the future, but it could not hurt to reveal some of Devall’s better traits – and it might give her hope for her own situation. Suppressing the shudder that always wracked him at the memory, he smiled. “He rescued me from just this sort of campaign several years ago.”
“Are you going to explain or not?” she asked as his pause stretched. “It can’t be too painful, or you would not have mentioned it. And I admit to curiosity. I’ve not yet managed to reconcile my impressions with his reputation.”
Her eyes promised that his words would go no further if that was his wish. But beyond that, he read her unwilling attraction to Devall. It was worse than he’d feared. Friendship was bad enough. A tendre would destroy them. What was Devall about to encourage the chit, knowing that his reputation could only harm her? Championing victims of injustice was one thing, but she was likely to wind up as his victim. Damn them! Unless…
His breath caught as he twirled her through a complicated turn, automatically sidestepping a couple with shorter legs. Could this at long last be his chance to repay Devall for salvaging his name, his career, and probably his life? It would be tricky, but just maybe…
That question also got shelved for later. This was not the time or the place for deep thinking. The immediate problem was too urgent, and Miss Warren was getting impatient.
“I had won a considerable amount at the tables,” he began, mentioning neither the unsavory hell he had played in nor his four-figure prize. “Unfortunately, one of my opponents was far into his cups and cried cheat. Despite other players’ efforts to deflect the sot by pointing out his condition, he repeated the charge the next morning.”
“Oh, no!”
“Afraid so. By noon it was all over town, and I faced the ruin of my career. That’s when Devall stepped in. I never questioned how” —Devall’s penchant for unconventional behavior made knowledge of his methods deuced uncomfortable— “but two days later, the lad made a public statement conceding that no cheating had occurred and admitting that he had been so terrified of facing his father with his staggering losses that he had succumbed to temptation. H
e’d squandered half a year’s allowance that night, though not all to me.”
“He is a good friend.”
“I would never argue that.” She didn’t seem surprised at the tale. Had Devall mentioned it? Or did she understand his character that well? Later, he reminded himself. Right now they needed to counter Garwood’s lies. “Can either Garwood or your mother be talked into revealing the truth?”
“No. He never admits a fault and she has already compounded the problem by spinning new lies to Atwater.”
He sighed. “We will have to follow Blackthorn’s suggestion, then. Much as he hates the idea, he thinks Atwater’s continued good will must soon defeat the rumors.”
“More likely support them,” she grumbled. “It will confirm the notion that a secret betrothal exists.”
“Shall we put it about that Garwood made that up to explain the failure of his own suit?”
“That is one of the lies Mama told Atwater.”
“Which makes it useful.”
“Dear Lord, I hate this town! Is no one allowed to be honest?”
“A reasonable question,” he agreed, trying to soothe her obvious distress. “Normally I would say yes, but this situation is too complicated.”
* * * *
Angela’s fears grew as the days passed, though Atwater’s allegiance had quickly defeated the rumors, allowing her to maintain her social schedule and again be received in drawing rooms. Sylvia also helped deflect the gossip. Often she accompanied her friend Lady Ashton, leaving Angela and Lady Forley to make their own rounds. By splitting their forces, they could cover more territory, and Lady Ashton was one of the highest sticklers in town.
Garwood’s claims were hastened toward their grave by the discovery of Miss Sommerton in the indecent embrace of Mr. Throckmorton, and were buried entirely the day eighteen-year-old Lawrence Delaney lost control of his team on St. James’s Street, killing Lord Hartford and injuring two others. Angela’s reputation emerged intact. Garwood’s was slightly tarnished. Within a week, a newcomer would not have known anything had happened.
