When Angels Fall

by Meagan Mckinney

  “Lissa, is Mr. Jones really as handsome as you said he was at the Mercantile?”

  “More so! He was quite dashing tonight! He was surely the most handsome man at the soirée!”

  “No,” Evvie refuted, “he couldn’t have been. Not while Ivan was there.”

  A small furrow appeared on Lissa’s brow. “But, Evvie, you forget, Ivan’s face has been . . . marred.”

  “And that notorious scar seems only to have made him more handsome. After you left, Lissa, Adele couldn’t stop talking about his dark, dangerous looks. I suppose in some ways I’m lucky God has taken my sight. Oh, Lissa, can he truly be so terrifying?”

  In the background, as if demanding an answer to the question, the kettle began its shrill whistle and Lissa rose to attend it. With her thoughts very far away and not on the task at hand, she reached for the kettle stand, forgetting the need for a pad. The hot swing scorched her palm. She clutched her wrist and moaned in pain.

  “What is it?” Evvie asked, coming up to her.

  “I’ve burned myself,” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears for the second time that night.

  “Oh, dear. I’ll get some butter from the pantry.” Evvie disappeared and Lissa stared at her red palm. With vivid clarity, she remembered how she had tried to touch Ivan’s cheek in the billiard room.

  Now she felt as if she had.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Their money was running out. It was a fact that Lissa could no longer deny. She sat at her beeswaxed dressing table and counted the coins they had left. Already they had used Aunt Sophie’s last bequest. Now they were dipping into their savings, which over the years they had scraped together in order to move from Nodding Knoll.

  Lissa always kept this money tucked in a violet-scented sachet. They dreamed of moving to some little town, in the Cotswolds perhaps, or renting a flat in London. They wanted to go anywhere that the Alcester scandal couldn’t follow.

  Now their dreams were dwindling as fast as their funds. Lissa quietly took another pound note from the sachet. It was unusual for her to long for her parents, especially since that was to long for something she never quite knew. But now, with her near-empty sachet before her, she wished they were still alive. She wished they were around if only to let her lean on them, to hold her up.

  She released a heavy sigh and shook her head. Wishing for her parents wasn’t the solution. As spoiled and self-indulgent as they had been, they probably wouldn’t be any help. On the contrary, she’d have two more persons relying on her to carry them through this difficult time. That would be unbearable.

  Disheartened, she put the sachet beneath her mattress. She was simply going to have to make Wilmott marry her, and soon. Her wistful dreams of falling in love and having a family would have to be pushed aside. As if reliving a bad dream, her thoughts drifted back to the night at the castle. Again she pictured Ivan Tramore’s hard visage shadowed in the dim light of the billiard room and the scorn in his eyes as he took her in his arms. No, there could be no more wistful dreams for her. Even now the shadow of debtor’s prison skulked in the foreground. According to her calculations, the Alcesters had about another month of fighting off poverty. After that, poverty would win.

  “Lissa, come and see!” She heard George’s voice calling from the outside. Strolling to her bedroom window, she looked out and saw him standing in the yard below with, of all things, Ivan’s two mastiffs. She looked around anxiously for their master, but she didn’t see Ivan anywhere. Shaking her head, she ran down the stairs.

  “George Alexander Alcester! What are you doing with those two beasts! And on a Sunday too!” she exclaimed as she threw open the front door.

  “Lissa, don’t be mad. Ivan lets me take them if I promise to return the pups to the castle by evening.” George patted one dog’s head and looked to her for approval. He found none.

  “Why do you call him Ivan? You should be addressing him as Lord Powerscourt,” she said fretfully.

  “He told me to call him that. That’s his name. That’s what he said,” George answered.

  “Dear Lord,” she whispered.

  He gave her a strange look. He appeared as if he wanted to ask her a question but wasn’t sure if he should. He seemed to grapple with something before finally deciding to speak. “Lissa,” he began, “Ivan—er—Lord Powerscourt says he used to work for us.”

  She was dismayed at the statement, yet hardly surprised. George wouldn’t remember Ivan, for he’d been less than four years old when the last of the Alcesters left Alcester House. She answered his unspoken question as best she could. “It was a long time ago, love.”

  “When we lived at the big house?”

  “Yes.”

  George thought on this a moment. It appeared as if the thought of his sister having more of a past with Lord Ivan of Powerscourt didn’t rest well with him. He also looked as if he felt he should do something about it. Something to guard his sister. But from what, he couldn’t possibly know.

  He suddenly scowled. In his most manly voice he vowed, “I shall take them back, Lissa. You don’t like the pups, because you don’t like Ivan—er—Lord Powerscourt.”

  She gazed at her baby brother. Tenderness for him almost overwhelmed her. Yet that tenderness was laced with irritation. After all, children had a particularly wicked way of stating the obvious.

  “It’s not that I don’t like Lord Powerscourt, George. I really don’t know him.”Anymore,she added truthfully to herself.

  “I’ll take the pups back,” George stated, giving his sister a look that was much too knowing for his age.

  She watched him turn and begin down the rutted little road that would lead to Powerscourt. The two mastiffs followed him quietly as if also admitting defeat.

  She loathed herself then. She didn’t want to end George’s fun. She and Evvie had promised him a dog for years but had never quite gotten around to getting him one. Still, she knew she couldn’t bear for George or anyone to believe that Ivan Tramore unsettled her, unsettled her enough for her to cast away two of her brother’s playmates—beasts though they were. Suddenly she found herself calling out to him.

  “George, why don’t you bring the dogs to the kitchen. Perhaps we could find a treat for them.” She opened the door further.

  “Truly?” he asked with widening eyes.

  “Of course,” she said with an uneasy smile. She let her brother pass, and then, with a mute sigh of regret, she allowed the dreaded curs to walk through her immaculate parlor.

  The following Wednesday, Powerscourt was again lit for guests. There weren’t many who came this night. Just a couple of fashionable swells from London named Hylton and Treadle, a wealthy bishop who’d crept away undetected from the neighboring parish, and, of course, Wilmott Billingsworth.

  The men played whist in the library. After they cut, the bishop was the first to stand out. Already disgruntled by his luck, he procured a seat near the fireplace and impatiently waited for the first rubber to end.

  After several rubbers, it was clear the betting was getting extravagant. Treadle was beginning to look relieved when it was his turn to stand out; soon Hylton was eager to join him. After another hour or so, even the bishop was looking a bit grim. He, however, played like the consummate gambler. Bishop Wright was sure his luck would turn with the next draw, even when Tramore, looking cool and detached, trumped again.

  “I say, it’s a long ride back to London, and Treadle and I . . . well, it looks to be time to leave.” Hylton coughed and looked back at his young friend who sat near the fireplace.

  “But gentlemen, I can provide you lodgings for the night. There’s no need to return to London. Surely you don’t mean to discontinue play?” Tramore countered.

  “We must get back,” Hylton stated sheepishly. He rose from the table and Treadle joined him.

  “We shall make good those notes, Powerscourt. I shall send a man as soon as it is convenient,” Treadle said, looking unspeakably relieved to be leaving at last.

/>   “Of course, as soon as it is convenient.” Tramore stood and rang for a footman.

  “No need for an escort. We shall notify them in the Hall to get our carriage.” Hylton opened the door for Treadle. They said their farewells, yet once they were gone, their voices carried in the passage.

  “How much did we lose?” Treadle inquired worriedly.

  “Toomuch,” Hylton answered, his voice grim. “I say we take a long sojourn to Paris and hope Powerscourt forgets we were ever here.”

  As the two swells went farther down the passage, laughter broke out in the library.

  Wilmott dabbed his eyes, teary from too much fun. “Good God! I’ve never played with anybody so incurably green! ‘I say we take a long sojourn to Paris’!” he mimicked. Laughter broke out again.

  When the men finally sobered, the bishop looked crestfallen. “But now what are we to do? There goes our fourth, and I was hoping to cut some of my losses before dawn.”

  Tramore looked at his nails. “We could always playdummy. ”

  “Dummy whist?” Wilmott interjected. “Why, that’s a brilliant idea. But you’ll have to play with me, Powerscourt. We’ll give James here a run!”

  “Powerscourt shall play with dummy. I’ll not be given a run.” The bishop gave Wilmott a withering look. There would be no praying for Billingsworth’s soul this Sunday.

  “Fine. Cut the cards.” Tramore poured himself another brandy, then handed the cut-crystal decanter around the table. When everyone had refilled his glass, it was time to draw.

  The play went on for another hour. The stakes rose even higher. The bishop began sweating, and he used his coat sleeve to wipe his brow like a common gravedigger. Wilmott grew pale and a vein in his temple began to throb. Tramore remained cool, as always, and this began to unnerve his company further. Yet the game continued. The bishop was sure the next trick would turn their luck, and Wilmott, by pride alone, was forced to see the rubber out. But when he had bet his last hundred pounds, the suspense was almost more than the elderly man could bear. Wilmott almost went into apoplexy while Tramore studied his every hand.

  The last game of the rubber was brutal. Tramore raised the stakes to celestial heights and the bishop matched with every trick. Wilmott looked at his partner as if he were crazed, but the bishop’s eyes had suddenly acquired a gleam, as if a sign had been sent to him from the heavens that he was to go back to St. Albans a far richer man. The circumstance of the game was pulling Wilmott along like a tidal wave, and it was all he could do not to stop the final trick. The bishop watched with anticipation as Tramore played his last card. Already he was rubbing his hands together in glee. Wilmott saw this as a bad sign indeed, and he dreaded the card to be played. Powerscourt looked like a stone statue, his face revealing nothing. As he turned the card exposing its face, Wilmott felt the blood rush from his face.

  “Trump,” Powerscourt stated.

  The bishop’s mouth dropped open. His faith faltered altogether when the devil across from him played the final card. He would never be able to pay Powerscourt. Never.

  “Look here, we’ve got to play another—” The bishop was cut off with a nod from Tramore.

  “You’ll have to speak much louder if he’s to hear you.” Tramore glanced contemptuously at Wilmott. The bishop turned to his partner and shock loosened his jaw once more. Wilmott slumped over the card table.

  “My God,” he exclaimed, “he’s fainted dead away.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tea was ready in the parlor. Having become more desperate with each passing day, Lissa had finally sent a note to Wilmott requesting that he come to Violet Croft for a visit. She could not have been any bolder in trying to wrestle a marriage proposal from the man, but they needed money. George was once more getting into scuffles at school. It was only a matter of time before he would start skipping again.

  Thinking of George now, Lissa waited for the appointed hour with equal dread and desire. Marriage to Wilmott Billingsworth was sure to be filled with untold misery. Still, Wilmott could easily afford to send George to Eton. She knew she could not bear to see her brother with another black eye, nor could she bear to lie again to Evvie about George’s appearance.

  “Come along, Wilmott,” she whispered to herself as she walked to the parlor window. Already anxious for the visit to be over, she nervously tied and retied her cap. A cap was a ridiculously matronly thing to wear and she well knew it. The one she wore had even been discarded by her fashionable mother, and Lissa had been forced to retrieve it from an old trunk in the attic. The ungainly thing had long lappets and hundreds of lilies of the valley embroidered over the back. Yet she thought nothing of donning it for her suitor. She remembered that once Wilmott had said he liked women in caps. He’d also followed that statement with a long diatribe about women who wore caps knowing their place.

  Now, standing before the little parlor mirror, examining her silly reflection, she knew Wilmott would be pleased. She knew her place all right, she thought bitterly, but what Wilmott didn’t know was—her place was at the bank.

  The sound of horse hooves brought her out of her musings. Her eyes turned to her door and she tensed. The knock was a bit timid, and immediately she sensed something was wrong. Wilmott’s knock always boomed.

  Lissa flung open the door and met with the Billingsworth footman named Jim. Jim courteously removed his hat and profusely begged her pardon. He then jammed a note into her hand and was mounted and away before she could even speak.

  “Have we company?” On cue, Evvie came from the kitchen with a tray full of scones and teacups. As if rehearsed, she had a smile painted on her lips.

  “He’s not coming. That was Wilmott’s footman,” Lissa stated numbly.

  Immediately Evvie’s smile fractured. Relief swept her brow. “Well, then, perhaps he’s taken ill. I hate to be so mercenary, but he might mention you in his will and then you won’t have to—”

  “I don’t think he’s ill. I haven’t heard that the physician has made any visits to the manor.” Lissa looked at the message in her hand. She fumbled with the wax seal.

  “He sent a note?” Evvie asked as she heard the shuffle of paper.

  “Yes.” She read the thin scrawl and blanched. Her lips began to tremble with fury. With blurred vision, she scanned it again.

  My dearest Lissa,

  You must understand that I cannot see you anymore. I had a bad turn of luck at cards the other nightand now am hopelessly indebted to Powerscourt. Ourunion was ill-fated from the start. I shall always remember you fondly,

  Wilmott

  Lissa slowly dropped to the sofa.

  “What is it?” Evvie fretted. “Has he died? Oh, now I feel terrible about what I said about his will.”

  “Don’t worry, sister, old Wilmott is in blistering good health.” Lissa suddenly jumped up. She grabbed her mantlet from the hook near the door.

  “Where are you going?” Evvie exclaimed. “What does the note say?”

  “The note says Wilmott cannot marry me. And do you know why?” she asked angrily as she tied the mantlet’s bow.

  “No, why?” Evvie answered in a timid voice.

  “Because Ivan has told him not to, that’s why!”

  With that she ran out the door toward the castle road.

  The fury in her breast could hardly be contained. It had all been planned. She should have warned Wilmott away from that card game, yet it had sounded so innocent. Ivan had fooled them all.

  And now what was she to do? Her stride grew longer. First she was going to confront Ivan and make him give Wilmott’s money back. Then she would have to start wooing Wilmott all over again, and pray that she didn’t appear to be more trouble than she was worth. George was counting on her, and as much as Evvie complained about Wilmott, she was counting on her too. Perhaps with more money Evvie could be taught Braille. They’d heard that books were being printed in Paris for the blind. Evvie would adore that. She had loved to read.

  Now Ivan was taking a
ll that away. But she wouldn’t let him, she told herself. She practically ran up the castle road and was pounding on the castle door before she knew it.

  “Yes, miss?” A dour housekeeper answered the door. Her widow’s weeds looked as if her husband had died several decades before.

  “I wish to speak with Lord Powerscourt,” she gasped.

  “He’s occupied.”

  She looked at the tight-lipped housekeeper. “Occupied where?” she asked abruptly.

  “That is not my place to say, miss. Now if you will excuse me . . .” The housekeeper began shutting the heavy door. Lissa cried out and tried to stop her, but the door slammed shut.

  She was livid. Impotently she looked around the courtyard to see if she could waylay a footman who might tell her where Lord Ivan was. But the courtyard was empty save a few ravens that were perched on the crenelations way above her head. Her ears suddenly pricked at the sound of laughter, and she followed the sound until she was at the back of the castle. The stables were back there. She thought it a long shot, but perhaps Ivan had gone riding. The stable hands would know where he had gone.

  In the stables, she found a group of men gathered around one stall. They were all dressed the same. All wore boots, breeches, and shirts. Some wore waistcoats, but the well-built stables were quite warm from so many horses so none of them needed coats.

  “I’m looking for Lord Powerscourt—” she began, then stopped in her tracks. One of the men turned around and she was face to face with her enemy. Ivan had obviously just been out riding, for his boots and breeches were mud-spattered. A fine sheen of sweat covered his chest where his shirt was unbuttoned. There was amusement in his eyes, yet wariness as well. He knew she was furious.

  “Well, well, Miss Alcester, how nice to see you.” His voice was deep and smooth.

  Lissa didn’t answer. She merely looked at the stable hands, as if silently asking them to leave. They took her cue, for one by one they disappeared.