When Angels Fall

by Meagan Mckinney

  WHEN ANGELS FALL.Copyright © 1990 by Ruth Goodman. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

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  ISBN 0-7595-8306-4

  A mass market edition of this book was published in 1990 by Dell.

  First eBook edition: August 2001

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  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  PART FOUR

  “I’D LIKE A WALTZ, LISSA,” IVAN SAID WITH A WICKED SMILE.

  “It’ll be a cold day in—” Before she could even finish her oath, he had taken her by the waist and in moments they were dancing among his guests.

  “You are an arrogant, self-serving, licentious, dissolute . . . rakehell!” she whispered furiously.

  “Try bastard, sweet. That word always works well.”

  “Only because you work so hard at being one,” she hissed.

  “Believe me, it takes no effort at all.” His hand tightened at her waist possessively and he swept her toward the balcony. When she tried to pull away he caught her. “Don’t fight me any more,” he whispered.

  She shook her head. “Ivan, we’ll destroy each other.”

  “So let’s destroy each other,” he answered huskily before claiming her mouth in a soul-searching kiss.

  “McKinney’s third novel is her best yet.

  Her exuberant sense of wit and style make

  WHEN ANGELS FALL the perfect Valentine.”

  —The Times-Picayune

  A Selection of the Doubleday Book Club

  Also by Meagan McKinney

  MY WICKED ENCHANTRESS

  Romance Writers of America Golden Medallion Finalist

  NO CHOICE BUT SURRENDER

  Winner of the 1987Romantic Times award for Best Historical Romance by a New Writer

  To Vivian Vincenta Koebel

  and Anita DiBernardo Kirk,

  those dear ladies who look out for my father.

  Thank you!

  During the Regency period, Parliament standardized titles of the peerage, thus changing the title of marquis to marquess. Those families, however, who had possessed the title of marquis for centuries still retained personal use of that title, and do so to this day, such as the Marquis of Queensbury and the Marquis of Winchester.

  PROLOGUE

  OCTOBER 1855

  Revenge is a dish best served cold. . .

  The gentleman’s house on Piccadilly was elegant, expensive, and aristocratic. But far from awestruck, Holland Jones merely stood before the baroque wrought-iron gates of No. 181, shaking his head.

  It was the perfect dwelling for the eleventh Marquis of Powerscourt. The Sir John Soane red brick Georgian had become renowned for its gatherings of wits and beauties, poets and antiquarians. For three years the marquis had lived there, had thrived there, so it would seem. And for three years the marquis had been happy—that is, Holland thought, if happiness could ever be described as passing over the implacable features of Ivan Comeragh Tramore, the eleventh marquis.

  Through the bars, Holland took one last look at the house. His position as Powerscourt estate manager had been his birthright, but Holland still found himself dreading any kind of meeting with his relatively new yet already notorious master. The marquis was always civil with those in his employ, but Holland, for his own personal comfort, preferred to avoid the icy pauses and black, brooding stares that the marquis was known for. Holland particularly wanted to avoid them this day because for the first time since he’d been with the new marquis, he had bad news. Resigned to his duties, however, Holland Jones had no other choice but to enter No. 181 and inform the marquis of the current situation of his estates.

  The marquis was expecting him. As the majordomo held the door for him, Holland heard bells ringing belowstairs—for brandy, no doubt. Looking up, he saw an abovestairs maid lighting the gasoliers for the evening.

  “I suppose he’s in the library?” Holland faced the majordomo and wearily rubbed his eyes beneath his spectacles.

  “Hrrrrumph . . . Ah, yessir,” the majordomo answered, clearing his throat and lifting his chin in one practiced motion.

  “Then don’t bother to show me the way, my good man.” Holland looked toward the mahogany library door. “I shall face the beast alone,” he added under his breath as he stepped across the black marble floor. Pausing, he ran a finger along his starched collar, shrugged his shoulders, and entered the marquis’s bastion.

  The light and the bustle in the hall had no impact on the library whatsoever. Rows upon rows of leatherbound tomes covered the entire four walls, including the back of the door through which Holland had entered. Heavy red velvet draperies were closed against the drafts from the windows. The only light came from a small, lusty fire in the hearth. The flames lit up the huge gold tassels on the pelmets and, also, the unsmiling face of the marquis.

  Unwittingly, Holland was once more struck by the incongruity of the marquis to his surroundings. Ivan Tramore was the sort of man one would have expected to find jousting at a medieval tourney, not sitting in a room full of books. He was better suited to armor, and German armor at that, Holland thought unkindly, recalling the particularly evil-looking armor he had once seen at the Queen’s Exhibit. Yes, black steel would have befitted Ivan Tramore far better than the dark trousers and civilized silk paisley waistcoat he was wearing. Holland knew he himself was more suited to a gentleman’s lifestyle than the grand marquis. This thought brought him little comfort, however.

  “Very good to see you, my lord.” Holland waited for a nod before he went to the club chair next to the marquis’s. At the hearth, two huge brindled mastiffs raised their heads from the carpet to stare at the visitor. Noting their unwelcoming stance, Holland took special care easing himself into the chair.

  Typically the marquis dispensed with any greetings and proceeded directly to the business at hand. “You’ve been there, then?”

  “Yes,” Holland answered, a wariness to his eye.

  “And?” The marquis shot him a glance.

  “And . . .” Holland straightened, forcing himself to meet his master’s fury head on. “And as expected the castle is in ruinous condition. Being the Powerscourt estates manager, I heartily advise you against removing yourself there.”

  Holland peered at the marquis through his smudged spectacles. The marquis did look as if he was taking the news rather well. Ivan Tramore was quiet for a long while, and, as Holland had seen him often do while deep in thought, he rubbed his right cheek. Some time in his past he had acquired a neat slash of a scar there, and, watching his hard, aquiline profile, Holland didn’t doubt the rumors of the widows and the debutantes who had thrown themselves at Tramore’s feet, so enamored were they of that particular scar. Such women had probably read too many penny gothics, he surmised, for he didn’t doubt, either, that the marquis’s fierce countenance had sent just as many women scurrying away.

  “How much will it cost, do you think? To put the castle in order.” The marquis’s deep voice startled Holland out of his musings.

  “Too much, my lord. A king’s ransom. As we speak, there are rats gnawing at the tapestries—”

  “Have I that much? Have I a king’s ransom to restore the castle?”

  “My lord, your fortune has at least tripled since you inherited. I think it was your investment in iron that really—”

&nbs
p; “So I have enough,” the marquis stated impatiently.

  “Aye, my lord.” Holland put his spectacles on his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache.

  “Good.” The marquis stood and rested his arm on the mantle after motioning Holland to remain seated. “There’s another matter I want you to take care of for me.”

  “And what is that, my lord?” Holland lifted his head and let his spectacles fall back onto his nose.

  “Miss Alcester. I want her cut off. After next month’s allotment, she is to receive no more money.”

  Holland could barely believe what he was hearing. “But, if I may, my lord, you just sent me to Nodding Knoll to check up on her.”

  “I sent you to check up on Powerscourt.” The marquis’s statement was adamant.

  “Yes, of course, my lord. But Nodding Knoll sits right at the foot of the castle. I assumed you wanted me to make the usual discreet inquiries into Miss Alcester’s welfare—”

  “And in what condition did these inquiries find her?”

  Holland looked at Tramore, but something in the fire had caught the marquis’s interest and his head was turned.

  “Elizabeth Alcester is doing fine. Just fine, from what I could gather from the gossip.” Holland’s blue eyes narrowed. “If I may ask, my lord, why must you cut her off? Though I’ve never formally met the girl, nor her family, I must say it’s been quite noble of you to help her out. Especially since you’ve not seen her in five years—”

  The marquis’s head snapped up. “It’s not your place to speculate upon my relationships.”

  “No, my lord,” Holland placated, “I don’t speculate at all, particularly since I know Miss Alcester was barely a young woman when you last set eyes upon her.”

  “That’s right.”

  The statement was brittle, yet the undertone, for some reason, struck Holland as oddly poignant.

  He began again, this time more slowly. “But if you will pardon me, my lord, I know the Alcesters have a rather disgraceful past; and it’s true that the neighbors gossip about Elizabeth Alcester like little foxes; but, still, for the three years that I’ve been doling out her money, Miss Alcester has spent it only on her family. Why, I’m positive the girl hasn’t bought a new gown in years.”

  “All very well,” the marquis answered succinctly, “but I want you to write her a note and tell her that poor ‘Great-aunt Sophie’ has died in Paris and left all her guineas to the Museum of Practical Geology, or whatever you like. Tell her that after next month, her pension ends.”

  “My lord, I’m sure you have good reasons for cutting off Miss Alcester. But there is her family to consider. Her brother is merely a lad. And have you forgotten that Miss Alcester’s sister is blind?”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything about Elizabeth Victorine Alcester, nor her family. Of that, I can assure you.” The marquis’s dark eyes flashed. When he seemed to have calmed down a bit, he changed the subject. “When will the castle be ready?”

  “There is a lot of work to do on it,” Holland said. “It may take months . . .”

  “In the will, when did the tenth marquis say that I may live at Powerscourt?”

  “Three years after his death, my lord . . . as you well know.” Holland crossed his arms. It was common knowledge that Ivan Tramore was a bastard. And it was common knowledge that for the past twenty-some years of Tramore’s life he had made his way as a stableboy, and at a neighboring estate at that. Tramore had even been denied the dubious honor of being a servant in the shadow of Powerscourt. The previous marquis had treated his only offspring like a beggar to be thrown out of one’s path on market day. But still, in spite of this, Tramore had always cut too terrifying a figure to be pitied.

  Holland still found it disconcerting that Tramore never referred to his father as anything but the tenth marquis. Not even now did he admit to his lineage, three years after he had inherited everything the marquis’s legitimate son could have been due. Possessing wealth and position, Tramore had then lacked only one thing: knowledge. And it was said that the first thing he had done when he had inherited was to read every book in his father’s library. It was as if he wanted to make sure there was nothing the tenth marquis knew that the eleventh marquis did not.

  “It has been three years and then some, hasn’t it?” The marquis’s face tightened with some repressed emotion.

  “Yes, my lord,” Holland answered uneasily.

  “Jones,” Tramore baited, “remind me, will you, why was it stipulated that I wait three years?”

  Holland met the marquis’s level gaze. If Ivan Tramore abused one aspect of his vast power, it was his ability to make people uncomfortable. There were times when Holland swore the man enjoyed that more than he would enjoy a woman. Now was just such a time.

  “I find it hard to believe that such a thing would have slipped your mind, my lord.”

  Tramore remained silent.

  Seeing no way out, Holland began haltingly. “Your fath—excuse me, I mean the tenth marquis, stipulated three years, for he did not want you, I believe the words were, ‘to walk upon his grave until it was sure to be cold.’ ”

  The marquis let out a black laugh. His dark, handsome face lit up with a passion that Holland was sure would never cross his own proper English schoolboy features. And for that, he didn’t know whether to be envious or relieved.

  “I ask you, man, when you were up at Powerscourt, was the grave cold then?” Tramore’s eyes glittered darkly.

  “Yes, my lord. Quite frigid, in fact, considering the weather they’ve been having up north.” Holland rose from his seat, hoping that this unpleasant visit had come to an end.

  “Then I want the work done on Powerscourt right away. I plan to reside there in one month.” The marquis went to the door to hold it open for Holland’s exit.

  “One month! My lord, I cannot be sure it can be done in that amount of time!”

  “The tenth marquis is not getting any warmer in his grave, Jones.”

  Holland prickled. “Yes, my lord.” Tramorewas a bastard, he thought ungraciously as he stepped into the light of the hall. And not about to letanyone forget it.

  “Jones.” The marquis stopped him before the major-domo opened the front doors. “Your family has been estate manager for the Powerscourts for how long?”

  “Six generations, my lord.” For the second time that day Holland wondered if he should have pursued becoming a chemist like his brother.

  “I see. Then you’re the only man qualified to do this for me, Jones. You’ll get the job done and when you do, there’ll be hearty compensation, I promise you.” Suddenly the marquis smiled and shook his hand. “See you at Powerscourt in one month’s time.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Dumbfounded, Holland was ushered out the door. The tides had abruptly turned. Instead of threatening him, the marquis had done something even worse. He had placed his faith in him. Holland knew now he would have to give Powerscourt back its old glory in an absurd four weeks or dishonor himself.

  Wondering how he would ever accomplish the task before him, he picked up his stride and walked grimly down Piccadilly heading for Pall Mall and the Carlton Club.

  As Holland left, he was unaware of the eyes that watched him. In the library, the marquis had shoved aside one panel of velvet to peer through the window. His breath clung to the cold panes until Jones was hardly a shadow beneath the streetlamps. Only then did the marquis let the drapery fall back, closed once more.

  As if agitated, Tramore ran his knuckles over the scar on his cheek. His hand dropped immediately, however, when a soft knock came upon the door.

  “Who is it?” he asked brusquely.

  “Mrs. Myers, my lord.” The frilly-capped head of a plump housekeeper appeared at the door with a tray.

  “Take it all away, Mrs. Myers. He’s gone already and I’ve no need for refreshment.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. You see, the girls were all cleaning the lamps and there was no o
ne to serve. That’s what took the brandy so long. I had to come myself instead of sending the parlormaid.” In contrition, the housekeeper shook her head so hard that if not for the fat ribbons beneath her cherubic chin, her cap would have flown off her head.

  “It’s all right.” As if he were used to her performing contrary to his wishes, the marquis didn’t even look up when she entered the library. She moved past him with a tray of decanters and glasses. Underneath her evening black dress and starched white apron, her horsehair crinoline crackled with every step she took to the hearth. When she reached the pair of club chairs, she set the tray upon a mahogany drum table.

  “There. I’ll be leaving the drink with you nonetheless. Just in case you’d like a spot.” She turned. “Anything else before I go?”

  “Yes.” The marquis slowly met her gaze. “I’d like to dine in my rooms this evening. And I shall be having an evening companion, so I should like service for two.”

  “Very good, sir.” But Mrs. Myers’s expression proclaimed that it was not very good at all.

  “Indigestion?” the marquis inquired.

  The housekeeper’s jaw dropped, then she abruptly remembered herself. “Nothing of the sort, my lord! I shall see to your service immediately!” She headed for the door.

  “You don’t approve, do you?”

  Hearing the unexpected question, Mrs. Myers whisked around to face him.

  “What?”

  “You don’t approve of my . . . lady friends, do you?” The marquis eased his large frame upon a nearby sofa done in the current Gothic taste.

  “It’s certainly not my place to disapprove of anything you do, sir.”

  “But come now, if it were your place, you would not approve, would you?” He crossed his arms over his chest with an air of nonchalance, yet his dark stare pinned the housekeeper to the floor.