by Allison Lane
“You sound as though you have given up.” Jack sounded troubled.
“In part. Even those who might believe me cannot speak out without jeopardizing their own reputations. You’ve no idea how much I admire your courage on that score,” she added. “I have no intention of quitting the fight, but my hope of success is fading fast.”
“Things may yet change,” said Jack. “A friend is interviewing Atwater’s neighbors and should find evidence that society cannot ignore.”
“Thank him,” Angela murmured, knowing he referred to Blackthorn. But she doubted that anything would help. The efforts of the dozen people fighting for her were merely a drop in the bucket of public opinion. A well-worded question might raise doubts about the details of the latest story, but the central lie was too firmly entrenched.
She sought a moment’s reprieve from the cuts and snide remarks three sets later. There was no point visiting the retiring room, for in that isolated place, society’s matrons abandoned all manners and attacked without mercy. Her last appearance had earned her two slaps. So she waited until attention shifted to Lord Heatherton, then slipped into the garden for a breath of fresh air.
The night was warm, filled with the perfume of roses. For the first time in days, she managed to empty her mind as she moved away from the terrace. Peace descended. Music drifted from the ballroom, muted by distance. Wandering among the roses relieved some of her stress. But no matter how restful it was, she knew she must return. She was heading back when a hand suddenly grabbed her arm and spun her around.
“Let go of me,” she demanded coldly, glaring at a paunchy, middle-aged gentleman.
“I need a little kiss,” he slurred, wine strong on his breath. He pulled her closer.
“No!” Shoving against his chest, she twisted her face away. “Leave me alone.”
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “You’ve entertained every other gentleman in town. Why not me?” Steely arms imprisoned her. Kicking him made no difference.
“Help!” she screamed. “Will no one help me?” His wet mouth smothered her cries, his teeth cutting cruelly into her lip. Had she really been reduced to this? Blackness threatened even as she clawed ineffectively at her attacker.
Suddenly she was free, falling helplessly to the ground. The landing knifed pain through one hip, snapping her mind out of its fog. The crack of skin on bone exploded into the night. A flurry of blows ended with a dull thud.
“He won’t bother you again,” murmured Blackthorn, helping her gently to her feet. His breathing was slightly faster than usual, but he was otherwise unscathed.
She pressed her face against his shoulder, fighting back tears. One hand softly stroked her back while he murmured into her ear. His spicy scent offered comfort, recalling that other time he had soothed her pain. Terror drained away.
“Where did you come from?” she asked, pulling away at last.
“I arrived just as you slipped out the door. That was a foolish thing to do.”
“So it would seem, but I could not stand it another minute and needed time to pull myself together. The retiring room is worse than the ballroom, so I came out here to be alone for a moment. I thought no one had seen me.”
“Didn’t you consider that others might have already been outside?”
“My mistake. Thank you for a timely intervention.”
“It was nothing. I wish I could do more, but any direct support would ruin you.”
“Yet another reason you should redeem your reputation.” She hadn’t brought the subject up in days, being too immersed in her own problems.
“And how am I to do that? You’ve seen how difficult it is to debunk even blatant lies. How does one surmount tales that are at least partially true?”
She started to respond, but he placed a finger over her lips.
“No arguing tonight,” he said softly. Waltz music floated from the ballroom. She hadn’t realized that he still supported her until he swung her into a gentle dance in the corner of the garden. Everything was proper, even the distance he maintained between them, but the movement wove a spell that affected her as never before. Her heart pounded in time with the music. Lightheadedness weakened her knees as magic filled the air.
Devall was stunned. He had not intended to waltz with her. He had not even intended to speak with her. His sole reason for slipping in without an invitation was to pass along information that Jack could disseminate to the gossips. Or so he had thought. He was unwilling to admit how often he sought Angela out just to talk. Even in the earliest days when he had followed her about merely to glare at her for being like every other greedy miss, his underlying motive had been to see her – unadmitted at the time.
He rapidly suppressed the image.
They could never be friends. Given his lurid reputation, he had no right to pursue an acquaintance with an innocent lady. And he certainly should not be keeping her here in the dark or leading her into a provocative dance that fed temptation. How long had it been since he had danced with a lady? How long since he had touched even the fingertips of a respectable female?
Without volition, his arms tightened. Stepping further off the path, he caressed her lips with his own. Shock at the contact shot through him – and her. Her mouth opened as she leaned into him, sliding her arms around his neck and pressing against his body.
Sweet. God, she was sweet. Soft; warm; comforting. The kiss deepened, shooting heat and desire along every nerve. Her fingers glided into his hair, sending new shocks tumbling through his mind. Closer. He needed more. He needed…
His desperate hands tried to merge two bodies into one, seeking the intimacy that had eluded him all his life. Had he ever known anyone with whom he could share his thoughts?
He groaned.
What are you doing? Do you want to ruin her in truth? Even as his loins tightened, threatening to explode, he eased away from her, tasting the blood from her cut lip.
Damn! Shame washed over him. He was little better than her attacker, forcing himself on her when she was in too much shock to think clearly. How could he risk destroying the only good thing in his life? She could hardly have missed his reaction. He had probably confirmed every rumor she had heard about him.
“Forgive me. That was an impertinence you did not need,” he said huskily.
She reached up to stroke his cheek. “There is nothing to forgive.” But confusion filled her face.
“You had better return to the house,” he urged, leading her to a door around the corner, anxious to escape before he kissed her again. “This is the library. Once you are recovered, you can slip down the hall and enter the ballroom as though you had been in the retiring room.”
“Thank you again. For everything.”
Her look sent new heat into his loins, but he ignored it. This was hardly the time to consider the evening’s events.
“You are a true friend,” she added.
“In that case, you may as well call me Devall.”
She raised her brows.
“Appropriate, isn’t it? My father must have been prescient.”
“I doubt it, Devall.” She smiled. “I am Angela.”
“Very appropriate, which society will soon acknowledge. After all, they haven’t ostracized you.”
“No.” Her smile faded into a frown. “I almost wish they had. If I disappeared, the tale would soon die. But they are not ready to drop so delectable a scandal, so they still invite me. My presence assures a squeeze, for everyone gathers round to display disdain. It is this week’s fashion.”
“Dear Lord! I’ve been out of town and had no idea it was that bad. The worst I ever experienced was being a nonentity attached to a title. For years the only invitations I received were from those on society’s fringe who wished to bag a marquess for their guest list, but who would have died of apoplexy had I dared speak to their daughters.”
“Poor Devall. But I will not have to endure this much longer. As soon as they grow bored of being shocked, the furor
will wane. Then I will be dropped as a social liability.”
“Don’t despair, Angela,” he said, placing a gentle kiss on the palm of her hand. “Truth will win in the end.”
He left her in the library and returned to the garden. What the devil had gotten into him? He shuddered at the remembered feel of her in his arms. Never had he known a woman who felt so good – or who inflamed him so easily. She was yet another cross he would have to bear, for he could never pursue her.
Shaking his head, he went in search of Jack.
* * * *
Devall threaded the traffic in Kensington, but his mind was not on his driving. What else might help Angela? It was infuriating the way society refused to even listen to Atwater’s crimes. The man had mesmerized them with his charismatic charm, deafening them to any hint of the truth.
He was headed for the cottage where he housed disabled veterans until they regained their health. Many stayed on until he found them jobs. Some he had established in business; others worked on his estates or in the convalescent hospital he had founded where those with the most crippling injuries lived. A few he staked to a new life in America, though since the stupidity of two governments had resulted in war with the United States, he was restricted to sending them to Canada. He had been seeing off two of his protégés when he’d stumbled across Lydia’s maid. Rescuing her from the brute who was forcing her on board had required the combined efforts of all three of them.
So how could he help Angela? She had been right to accuse him of hiding behind his reputation. It gave him the freedom to pursue activities that society disapproved. But it also prevented him from countering people like Atwater.
He sighed.
He really ought to set the record straight, not that he would ever be fully accepted. But only a little effort should clear the air of the most serious charges. Yet this particular moment was bad. Society would hardly accept two black sheep into the fold at once, and restoring Angela’s good name was more important. He had already demonstrated his ability to live outside accepted circles. She had not.
Atwater’s phaeton was drawn up in front of Devereaux’s love nest. Former love nest. Devereaux had recently sold the cottage, but the name of the buyer had remained secret.
Atwater could not have cared much for Angela if he was already setting up a ladybird. Or did he need someone on whom he could vent his frustrations now that he had no wife? It was an uncomfortable thought, and one that demanded action. Devall would have to delegate someone to keep an eye on the house and report any abuse. It was one more entry to the growing account he must settle with the earl.
If only he had investigated Atwater when the man had first turned his eyes toward Lydia. But he had not. She had been wildly excited about attracting his attention. Her mother approved his title and charm, her father admired his fortune and estates. Assuming all was well, Devall had left town early in her courtship. But a serious investigation would have revealed Atwater’s deficiencies. Lady Trotter wasn’t the only neighbor who knew damaging tales.
Atwater must pay for his cruelty, though Devall no longer knew how. His original plan was fatally flawed. The earl would never challenge him, no matter what the provocation. And while Devall had collected much evidence of abuse, he had nothing that could be taken before the House of Lords. Unfortunately, beating one’s wife was not a crime. Nor was mistreating tenants and servants. Actions that would get the lower classes transported – or even hung – were accepted in the aristocracy. It was an inequity he had long decried.
So he must redress the wrong by himself. But not with violence. Angela would never approve, even against a beast like the earl. Perhaps depriving Atwater of something he prized would be sufficient punishment.
He frowned.
What did Atwater love? There was his reputation, of course. The man had always been the darling of the ton, for his angelic features and natural charm had the gossips eating out of his hand. There was also his wealth. And his looks.
Debunking the charges against Angela would badly damage his reputation, but that was not enough. The looks could only be destroyed in a fight, but Devall had just forsworn violence. That left money. But how?
He mulled the question until he reached the house, then pushed it aside. He had found the perfect situation for Ned Parker, a place where his missing arm and weak hip would not hinder him.
* * * *
Angela’s morning ride was the only time of day she could truly relax. Even at home, tension mounted. Everyone was so determinedly optimistic that she wanted to scream. But for this half hour, she was free to be herself.
Devall joined her two days after rescuing her in the garden. That kiss had kept her awake ever since, but she was determined to forget it. The man was an admitted rogue. So though she would never complain of something she had enjoyed, the kiss meant nothing to him beyond a moment’s pleasure. Yet she blushed as he greeted her. And she was very surprised to see him. Sylvia was riding with her.
“You seem to be holding up well,” he said once the introductions were complete.
“I must be a better actress than I thought.” She sighed. “I expected to fall apart by now, but we will be gone in another two weeks. I suppose I can survive that long.”
“Running away?”
“Never. Sylvia and Andrew will wed a fortnight later. I must be there to make the final arrangements and welcome the guests. We’ve already remained in town longer than we initially planned.”
“So we have only two weeks to expose Atwater.” He frowned.
“I doubt it can be done. My only hope is to plant enough seeds of doubt that people will eventually realize the truth. Then I can someday return to town.”
“You are resigned to becoming a social outcast, Miss Warren?” His voice was cold, his address formal in deference to Sylvia’s presence, though the girl had dropped back to ride with the groom. “It has its advantages.”
“For you, perhaps,” she snapped, her spirits revived by his change of tone. Sparring with him was always exhilarating. “A man can use a wretched reputation as an excuse to flout convention. A lady can never do so. Without respectability, I am treated like a courtesan, as you well know. Reputation is a lady’s only protection. We have not the physical strength to ward off assaults. We have not the financial security to live on our own. Perhaps if I commanded the wealth of Lady Hester Stanhope, I could attract enough respect to overcome my perceived foibles, though even she chose to leave the country rather than endure society’s censure. If only I could follow her example. There must be some place in the world where people would accept me for myself.”
“You cannot believe that I flout convention.”
“You claim to be conventional?” She stared, shocked. “You elope with another man’s wife and abandon her overseas. You fleece a man of his fortune without regret.”
“You, of all people, should know that rumor often lies.”
“So why not tell me the truth? I’ve asked for it often enough. You know I prefer to judge facts.”
“And you know that I prefer to live in the shadows.” But he lowered his voice, moving his horse nearer hers. “I did not elope with Constance, though I did escort her out of the country.” Glancing back at Sylvia, he inched even closer. “We are of an age and grew up on neighboring estates. I remember her from childhood escapades as a vivacious hoyden who was invariably kind. She treated everyone from marquess’s heir to tenant’s son exactly alike. Not that she had much choice, for there were few children our age in the area. Anyone who shunned the lower classes had no playmates.”
She nodded. Her own childhood had been similar.
“Once I left for school, I saw less of her. She staged her come-out shortly after I started at Oxford, married Cloverdale two months later, and settled on his estate. The affair held no interest for a student.” He shrugged. “I had not seen her in several years when she sent an urgent message begging me to meet her in Green Park. I was appalled at her appearance.”
His face twisted at the memory, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She had been badly beaten. Both eyes were swollen nearly shut, her nose was broken, and bruises covered her arms.”
“Dear Lord!” The choking exclamation came from Sylvia. Even his softest voice carried on the quiet morning air.
“My feelings exactly,” he agreed, abandoning secrecy by resuming his normal tone. “She didn’t need to explain that the beating was far from her first. Older, fading bruises were still visible. She begged my help, claiming that she had been under assault for seven years, starting immediately after her marriage. But the attacks were growing harsher. After several miscarriages, Cloverdale believed that she would never produce an heir. Fearing for her life, she wished to leave him.”
“Could no one stop him?”
He shook his head. “A wife is chattel under English law, subject to whatever treatment her husband metes out. It is one of the inequities that must change, but for now there is no legal redress against men like him.”
Sylvia paled at his words.
“Forgive my plain speaking, Lady Sylvia,” he begged. “And do not fear for your own future. Lord Forley is nothing like the brute we are discussing.”
“I know.”
Angela nodded. “What did you do?”
“A distant branch of her family lives in Ireland. I escorted her there, and they agreed to take her in. She had no intention of remarrying – and who can blame her – so the fact that she was legally bound bothered none of them. All she wanted was to build a new life where she could be safe. She changed her name and now lives in a remote cottage. I wrote to her after the divorce to let her know she was free in case she ever changes her mind.”
