When Angels Fall

by Meagan Mckinney

  The surprise on her face must have been obvious, for when she entered the Bishops’ parlor, everyone ceased all conversation. But she couldn’t help looking shocked when a man, the same man whose amusing story appeared to have reduced her normally sober sister into a giggling schoolgirl, rose from the tea table. Lissa knew he was Ivan’s man, Mr. Jones, and she was not sure she liked the situation, never mind the fact that it was obvious Mrs. Bishop had played chaperone in her absence.

  “Oh, Lissa love, you’ve returned. Have some tea with us, will you?” Mrs. Bishop cooed.

  “I really—” She was interrupted by Evvie.

  “Do you see who is here, Lissa?” Evvie smiled in her direction. “It’s Holland . . . I mean . . . Mr. Jones. Do you remember? At the soirée?”

  “Yes, I believe we have met, Mr. Jones.” Lissa nodded. He bowed.

  “You must call me Holland also,” he offered.

  Not knowing what to do, Lissa simply smiled at him.

  “We’ve been having the most lovely time,” Mrs. Bishop interceded. “Holland here has left us in tatters over his stories and I don’t know who has laughed more, Evvie or me!”

  “Oooh, the stories of you at Eton were simply charming! I never knew anyone other than my little brother George who could cause so much mischief!” Evvie stifled a giggle in her delicate white-gloved hand.

  “How nice,” Lissa murmured helplessly. It was a delight to see her sister so carefree, yet was this another one of Ivan’s manipulations? Had he sent his man down here to . . . ?

  She abruptly stopped her train of thought. No! Ivan wouldn’t go so far as to hurt Evvie—not directly, at least. And as she watched Mr. Jones steal a glance at her sister, she knew even Ivan Tramore couldn’t command his man to look at Evvie in such a way. Holland Jones appeared as if he were worshipping a goddess, and Evvie played the part beautifully with her pink cheeks and sable hair. Her blue eyes shone like an angel’s, and though she could not see her male companion, her eyes were filled with as much awe as his.

  “Have you finished your errands, Lissa love?” Mrs. Bishop stood and bounced to retrieve the cookie tray. “I suppose you couldn’t stay for a cup of tea?”

  “Errands!” Evvie stood as if she’d just been struck by a lightning bolt. Obviously she had just recalled where her sister had been. “Good heavens! We must leave! Oh, Lissa, I am so sorry,!”

  “We needn’t leave, Evvie,” Lissa said.

  “But we must! Here I’ve been sitting having tea while you’ve been out running those—those—errands!” She nervously gathered up her purse and shawl. Standing contritely, she waited for her sister’s arm.

  “I suppose we have lingered after all,” Holland stated reluctantly.

  “Perhaps we should get home for George . . .” Lissa looked at Holland. He had such a nice smile and was handsome and gentle, full of dignity and fine breeding. She would have to tell Evvie about him when they were alone.

  Mrs. Bishop led Evvie out to the store while Holland held the curtain for Lissa. When her sister was a few steps ahead of her, Holland touched Lissa’s arm.

  “Yes, Mr. Jones?”

  He looked thoughtful. “I should like to pay my respects to your sister, Miss Alcester. Would tomorrow afternoon be too forward of me?”

  Lissa looked up at him. Her face was flushed with hope because at least one Alcester girl was to be blessed with a decent prospect. Perhaps their future wasn’t so bleak after all. She gave him a brilliant smile. “Mr. Jones, you are welcome to call at Violet Croft anytime. Anytime.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  For the next few days Holland almost became a fixture at tea. Both girls quickly came to like having a man at Violet Croft. Evvie adored it for all the obvious reasons, and Lissa soon looked forward to it because the visits truly made her sister sparkle, and besides Holland Jones was rare indeed; he was a gentleman through and through.

  But while prospects for the Alcesters’ future were improving, the present was not. Every day the store of coins beneath Lissa’s mattress dwindled further and she began to wonder how they would continue to put up a front of nonchalance in front of Holland. It wouldn’t do to have Evvie’s suitor see them so piteously without funds, for perhaps that would scare him off. And yet he would certainly see them in dire straits if Lissa didn’t do something soon about their financial situation.

  It was the absolute last resort to answer Powerscourt’s advertisement, but she rationalized that once Holland asked Evvie to marry him, she would be able to quit her employment. She would work at Powerscourt only long enough to get through Evvie’s betrothal, which she was positive would come eventually. She assured herself that Ivan was the typical master who would have nothing to do with the hiring and overseeing of servants. Once hired, she was sure she could stay clear of him within the labyrinth of servants’ passages she knew to be hidden within the castle walls. Her only comfort was that she would be in the ironic position of having used Ivan as her final means of support. The man who had tried to ruin her would ultimately become the man who saved her.

  However, she was wrong.

  When she arrived at Powerscourt one morning after lying to Evvie about where she was headed, Lissa went directly to the servants’ entrance and asked for the Mrs. Lofts mentioned in the advertisement. When the dourfaced housekeeper arrived at the door, Lissa had the distinct impression that the woman had been expecting her.

  Her suspicion was confirmed when the housekeeper looked her up and down with disdain, then led her to a small, well-appointed withdrawing chamber. Alone, Lissa nervously took off her gloves and bonnet, then had to wait fifteen minutes before she was retrieved and led to the library. There the masculine scent of mahogany and leather made her beware.

  “Ah good, you’ve finally come.”

  She turned her head and met Ivan’s gaze. He sat facing her in the window seat looking absolutely devilish in a waistcoat of wine-colored paisley. Behind him, a halo of morning sunshine poured through the bays of mullioned windows, each pane catching the light at a different angle so that the entire sweep of window sparkled like pavé diamonds.

  “Yes, I have,” she answered coolly. “However, I can see now it was a mistake, so if you will excuse me . . . ?”

  “By all means.” He rose and swept his hand in the direction of the door.

  She looked at him a moment, distrust blazing in her eyes. Then she made to leave.

  “The position pays one hundred pounds per annum.”

  His words stopped her. One hundred pounds! Even a well-paid governess could expect no more than fifty! Her brow furrowed. But she couldn’t let him interfere with her life any longer. He’d already caused her enough grief. She took another determined step to the door.

  “How much have you left, Lissa? I expect no more than a few shillings.”

  “It is enough,” she answered.

  “Yet I say it is not enough or you would not be here.”

  She spun to face him. “How was I to know the master of the house would take such aninterest in hiring servants?”

  “You were bound to come. You’ve not had many alternatives,” he said, his voice softening.

  “Ihad alternatives,” she accused.

  “Hardly,” he stated dryly as if remembering all too clearly Wilmott and Albert. “Now come, be reasonable, my love. You need income and I have a position—”

  “No, thank you, my lord. The Alcesters have better prospects—one of whom is coming to tea this afternoon. So if you’ll excuse me, I must run along.”

  “What perfumed parlor snake is calling now?”

  “No one you need be concerned with.” She was hardly going to mention Holland’s name. Besides, Mr. Jones was courting her sister, but just let Ivan think it was she who had the prospect. She faced him, triumph, for once, shining in her eyes.

  “Lissa, I’m through playing games,” he said quietly.

  “Who invited you to play them in the first place? Not I, I assure you.”

  “Ah,
but it was you, my beautiful little ice princess.” He walked around her, blocking her exit. “And looking at you now would dare any man to try melting you.”

  Feeling trapped with him standing between herself and the door, she moved past him. “I should like to continue this conversation. However, I’m afraid I’m late and I don’t like to keep guests waiting.” She gained a yard or so before he grabbed her arm.

  “Always the frosty little paragon of good breeding, aren’t you? Always looking down that slim nose at those beneath you.” His eyes narrowed.

  “I said excuse me.” She wrenched her arm free. With anger reddening her cheeks, she headed once more for the door.

  “One word of advice, Lissa.” He released a cynical laugh, then bade her halt once more. She looked up at him, furious. “To secure marriage to a ‘moneybags,’ I suggest you not succumb to another man’s lovemaking.”

  “I’ll never again!” she whispered indignantly. She pulled herself out of his grasp then strode to the door. Suddenly he lunged for her. Terrorized, she ran from the room, his laughter following her all the way down the corridor. She left the castle not even bothering to collect her bonnet and gloves.

  In the days that followed, Lissa surrendered her financial worries for the much more pleasant concern of playing chaperone. Holland had invited her and Evvie to his house for tea on Sunday, and Evvie was in a dither the entire week. When the day arrived, Lissa gladly dressed her sister’s hair and gave her their mother’s most precious earbobs to wear. Even though their financial situation was dire, Lissa hadn’t been able to bring herself to sell them. Now she was glad she hadn’t, for Evvie looked absolutely stunning with the emeralds sparkling through her mahogany curls.

  At the appointed hour, a hired hack appeared at the door and they were taken in style to Holland’s house, which sat on Powerscourt’s grounds at the rear of the castle. As the driver helped them descend from the hack, Lissa had the oddest feeling that they were being watched. But when she looked at the castle, all was quiet. Her imagination led her to believe that perhaps she saw a man’s silhouette through one of the windows, yet she had to tell herself it was nonsense. By now Ivan had to know it was his man Holland she had mentioned that day in his library, and he had to be just as well informed that it was Evvie, not herself, whom he was courting. So why did she still imagine she saw the lonely, dark figure in the window? And why did she suddenly feel this perverse longing to go to him and give him solace?

  Holland met them on the lawn and quite chivalrously ushered them into the house. Once settled in Holland’s parlor sipping a cup of Darjeeling, Lissa found herself wondering where the illustrious Marquis of Powerscourt spent his Sundays. Alone in his library or brooding over the billiards? And what were his thoughts? Was he longing for London? Or was he longing for her? Lissa’s eyes clouded and she became a little more solemn. Evvie had to say her name twice before she even noticed.

  They spent two pleasant hours receiving Holland’s hospitality. When a note arrived informing Holland that he was needed at the castle, both girls were reluctant to say their farewells. Nonetheless, they reascended the hired carriage. With unspeakable relief, Lissa saw Holland slip the driver several coins, then they departed, leaving Holland alone to go to Powerscourt. Lissa was just grateful that she did not have to go with him.

  Heading for Powerscourt, Holland was afforded no such luxury. He was already anxious about the message and knew Tramore had been in a foul mood the past several days. Having the Alcester girls at his house that afternoon had probably worsened Tramore’s mood, and Holland didn’t doubt that the marquis had been watching their every move until they had disappeared inside the bailiff’s house.

  “Yes, my lord. You wished to see me?” Holland bowed stiffly when he was finally in front of the marquis. Recently Tramore had taken to holing up in his billiard room, imbibing too heavily of the spirits.

  “Sit down, old chap! Have a brandy.” Ivan pushed a glass into Holland’s hand. It was appallingly full.

  “Really, my lord, I haven’t the need . . .” Holland’s words died on his lips. Instead of Tramore’s looking like he would throttle him, the marquis looked as if a refusal would wound him to the quick. Holland resigned himself to taking a sip. The liquid slid like silk all the way down. He took another.

  “Sit down, I insist.” Tramore held out a plush leather chair that had mellowed to a perfect amber. Holland sat and the marquis took the chair across from him.

  “Evelyn Grace. That’s a beautiful name, is it not, Jones? So divine, so full of serenity.” Suddenly Ivan looked morose. “So completely without guile.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Damning them, Holland felt his hands shake.

  “Are you going to marry her?”

  The question hung in the air like a net ready to drop on its victim.

  Holland coughed. “I . . . ah . . . well, perhaps in the future, my lord. When the moment is right.” He tensed for the storm.

  “Good. You’ll make Evvie a fine husband.”

  Tramore stood up and patted Holland soundly on the back. The marquis beamed like a proud father, and suddenly Holland felt the need of another sip from his glass. He took a gulp instead. What the hell was going on?

  “She’s really beautiful, isn’t she, Jones?”

  Holland looked at him and thought the marquis seemed particularly tormented today. He asked gently, “Do you mean Evvie . . . or Lissa?”

  “Evelyn,” Tramore answered quickly. Too quickly. Suddenly he chuckled and walked to the table that held all the decanters. He picked one up and walked back to Holland. “Drink up, old man! We’ve never had a snort together, now why is that?”

  Holland watched the marquis refill his glass. Already his head felt light; if he imbibed as the marquis thought he should he would be too drunk to leave for home.

  “Is there something you requested, my lord?” Unable to stop, Holland downed more of the brandy. It was heady and smooth.

  “Not at all!” Ivan placed his hands behind his back and looked upon Holland. “It’s just that you’ve worked so hard. Is there anything wrong with a master repaying those who serve him with a little joviality?”

  Holland felt like saying, Fromyou, my lord, very much so, but he kept silent. Already he was feeling no pain.

  “How do you find your quarters, Jones? Is the bailiff’s house to your liking, or would you like it to be fixed up?”

  “It’s quite—” Holland couldn’t finish for the marquis’s interruption.

  “As my estates man, it wouldn’t look good to have you entertain guests in a shabby environment.”

  “No, my lord—” he tried to say.

  “I’ll give you five hundred pounds. That should do it. Then when the Alcester girls come to tea, you won’t be able to say I don’t provide well for my staff.”

  Already the flush of drink was appearing on Holland’s face. He was definitely having a hard time following the conversation. But damn, Tramore’s brandy was fine! “Five hundred pounds seems a bit steep—”

  “Of course, if you do have all that work done, I should like to look in from time to time.” Tramore calmly looked at his knuckles. “When are they coming back?”

  Holland shook his head. It was definitely hard to follow the marquis. “And who is that, my lord?”

  “The Alcester girls.”

  Holland thought on this a moment. He then answered, “I thought I should have them back again . . . some future Sunday.”

  “I see. Well, I shouldn’t like to look in at an inconvenient time . . .”

  The marquis stared at him for the longest time. Holland didn’t know what to make of it, until suddenly, through his liquor-fogged brain, he realized the marquis was fishing for an invitation. For some reason he wanted to come to tea when the Alcester girls were about. Holland wanted to laugh aloud, but even in his inebriated state he knew better.

  “My lord, if you are thinking of refurbishing the bailiff’s house, perhaps you might be about in a few weeks
and I could repay you by having you to tea.” Holland hid his smile behind his glass.

  “Perhaps.” The marquis once more donned his dispassionate veneer. “When do you have tea on Sundays?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “Four o’clock,” Holland answered, thinking to himself, As if you didn’t know.

  “I see. Billiards?” Tramore walked to the table and picked up a cue.

  Holland rose a bit unsteadily. “Why not?” he answered.

  By evening both men were rip-roaring drunk. Holland found out the marquis played a vicious game of billiards, but he was able to win a game or two anyway. Finally unable to take much more indulgence, he made his excuses and staggered to the door. But before he could go, Tramore reminded him of his invitation.

  “You say tea is at four?”

  Holland couldn’t believe how sober the marquis sounded. “Yes, my lord,” he answered. Looking at Tramore who stood by the carved stone hearth, he noticed the scar glint in the firelight and was tempted to ask him once and for all how he had acquired it. But then, chastened, he remembered a story he’d heard when the marquis had suffered a wrench to his leg and a doctor had had to be summoned. The doctor had treated him, then in parting blithely asked Tramore how he had come to receive such a nasty scar on his face. Tramore nearly bit the doctor’s head off, and Holland paled just imagining the fury that one question had unleashed.

  “Perhaps someday I’ll try to make it.” The marquis leaned over the table and hit one of the white balls.

  “Very good, my lord.” Holland suddenly felt dismissed. He turned and stumbled through the passage to the great Hall, all the while thinking that Ivan Tramore, the eleventh Marquis of Powerscourt, was a very complex man.