October Revenge
Page 2
He couldn’t take it. With a grunt of disgust at himself, he threw the sketchpad down and buried his face in his hands. His memories grew fierce and hot—the scent of tobacco smoke and mildew, the dark laughter, her screams as she pleaded for mercy. He would never get them out of his head, never be able to escape. Never—
A resonant chime sounded somewhere far away in the house. It was quiet but distinct. He hadn’t heard the sound of the bell at the front door for months, but there it was. It reverberated through the silent house with a strength Mark would never have guessed was possible. He shouldn’t be hearing something so distant, but there it was. It rang a second time, and he sat up. Of all God-forsaken things, someone was at his front door.
Chapter 2
Angelica LeClaire had seen nothing but rain and misery since setting foot on English soil. Her ship had set out from sunny New Orleans weeks before and landed in dreary Portsmouth two days ago. From the moment she’d slipped walking down the gangplank and twisted her ankle to that morning, when she had been forced to argue with the porter at the Petersfield train station to get him to remove her trunk before the train chugged on, to the wildly bumpy ride that took her to the gates of Blackmoor Close, she had encountered frustration and irritation aplenty.
“Grandpa Miles,” she muttered, glancing up to the ceiling of the jolting carriage she rode in, “if you can hear me up there, I’m never going to forgive you for this.”
Her memory conjured up the sound of her adopted grandfather laughing indulgently at her temper, patting her head, and saying, “Yes you will, Angel, yes you will.”
Angelica sighed, crossed her arms tightly to ward off the chill and the damp, and glanced out the window. If it were sunny, she might have been impressed with the rolling landscape of Hampshire. Everything was green with just a few hints of orange, yellow, and red as the seasons changed. The landscape had a picture book feeling, especially the brief glimpse she’d caught far in the distance of the grand house that sat at the center of Blackmoor Close. The house was mostly obscured in the rain, but it stood as a majestic blur against the grey sky. She only hoped that the inhabitant of the house wasn’t as grey and forbidding as the English weather.
“We’re here,” the driver called out, stopping the carriage in what felt like the middle of nowhere.
A burst of fear swirled through Angelica. She scooted closer to the window and pulled the sliding glass down so that she could pop her head out and look around. Her trepidation flashed to confusion. “No, we aren’t,” she called back to the sodden man sitting atop the driver’s seat. All she could see was a tall, stone wall covered in ivy with an even taller, elaborate, wrought-iron gate. A closed wrought-iron gate. “I asked to be taken to the house, not dumped in the lane,” she said.
The carriage lurched as the driver jumped down and opened the door. “This is as far as I can go, miss,” he explained, somewhat sheepishly.
“Is there a problem with the carriage?” Angelica asked.
The driver flushed. “No, miss. There’s a problem with Lord Gatwick.”
Dread pooled in Angelica’s gut. There couldn’t be a problem with Lord Gatwick. She had staked everything, her life and livelihood, on there not being a problem with Lord Gatwick.
“He’s forbidden any man he hasn’t explicitly invited from entering the grounds of Blackmoor Close,” the driver went on.
Angelica frowned, more anxious than ever. “Then why did you bring me all this way if I’m forbidden from entering?”
The driver grinned. “You’re not a man, are you? Lord Gatwick never said anything about women not being allowed to enter.”
Angelica relaxed a fraction and shared the driver’s grin. She rather liked his sense of humor. Humor was exactly what she needed to steady her nerves as she faced the stunning change of life in front of her.
She moved to the door, and the driver offered his hand. “Thank you, sir,” she said as she stepped down and into the rain. She reached back into the conveyance for the umbrella she had handy and opened it to shelter herself from the wet, then held it awkwardly as she fished in the small purse she carried for money to pay the driver. “I hope this will be sufficient,” she said, handing over a few coins. She had yet to master which coin was for which amount or what amount was equivalent to U.S. dollars.
The driver glanced at the coins, then handed one back with an embarrassed smile. “Must stay honest,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. “I’ll just bring your trunk down for you.”
Angelica stood to the side as the driver removed her heavy traveling trunk from the back of the carriage. She glanced over her shoulder at the imposing gate and the gravel path that wound away from it, up a slope and through a short stretch of woods. The house wasn’t visible from where she stood. When the driver deposited her trunk at her feet, she turned back to him.
“Best of luck to you, miss,” he said, touching his hat once more.
Angelica blinked. “You aren’t going to carry my trunk for me?”
Once again, the driver looked embarrassed. “Can’t, miss.” He nodded to the gate. “No men allowed, remember?”
She sighed, her shoulders dropping. “I suppose not.” She glanced to her trunk, biting her lip. “I suppose I’ll just have to do it myself.” Like everything else in her life.
Taking in a deep breath to steel herself, Angelica turned toward the gate. While she didn’t operate under the delusion that her life had been a hard one, she hadn’t gotten where she was by resting on the laurels of the things her parents and adopted grandfather had given her. She’d taken her education and used it to manage her adopted grandfather’s properties and investments. A feat that hadn’t been easy for a woman and a quadroon. She’d had to overcome obstacles every step of her way before, and she was determined to rise to the challenge now. She had no choice. It was that or give in to the fear that constantly stalked her, like a wolf in the shadows.
She crossed to the gate, testing to see if it would open, and was surprised when it did. At least it made her next step easier. She pushed the gate open, closed her umbrella, and marched back to her trunk as the rain began to soak her from head to toe. It was an inconvenience, but she needed both hands to carry her trunk. She slid the wet umbrella under the straps that held her trunk closed then grabbed the handle, lifted, and started the long, awkward walk to the house.
Angelica was certain that if anyone was nearby to watch her they would either have been amazed or amused. There she was, dressed in the latest fashion, the flounces on her bustle quickly taking on water to the point where they must have resembled a duck’s backside, walking slowly forward along a gravel path in the rain, a large trunk in her arms. Her body was tilted at an odd angle to give her leverage in carrying the trunk. Most women she knew wouldn’t have been able to lift such a weight, but most women weren’t as fit as Angelica made sure she was. She’d learned a frightening lesson several years ago about the importance of physical strength and athletic prowess and had gone out of her way to cultivate both, as unfeminine as her efforts were. But strength gave her the advantage of not being helpless. She never intended to be helpless again.
Although, she wouldn’t have said no to help as she struggled up the lane to Blackmoor Close’s manor house. She stopped under the trees that obscured the path from the gate to catch her breath, continued on, then paused a second time under a large oak roughly a hundred yards from the grand house’s front entrance. Part of her resented the fact that no servants rushed out to help her. Part of her resented Lord Gatwick himself for not speeding to her aid. Not that she would know what her distant cousin by marriage looked like anyhow.
The closer she came to the house’s front door, the more she worried the entire estate was abandoned. The windows were all dark, half the curtains were drawn, and the only hint of any occupation at all were a few, thin wisps of smoke rising from chimneys near the back of the house. All the same, when she reached the front door and set her trunk down with a thud, she pulled the
cord to ring the doorbell.
The bell echoed inside the house with a resounding sense of doom. Panting, Angelica stood back and planted her hands on her waist. Her body was hot from exertion, but the rain that had soaked her traveling dress was quickly chilling her. She was grateful that it provided concealment for the decidedly unladylike stains she was certain would have stood out under her arms and on her back. She hoped and prayed Lord Gatwick had a roaring fire going in at least one of the rooms in the massive house and that he had a bedroom prepared where she could change and potentially collapse into a nap. She also hoped at least something in her trunk was still dry.
When no one answered the door, she stepped forward to ring the ominous bell again. She was on the verge of despair, convinced no one was home, when at last the door opened, revealing a stocky, middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit. Angelica’s heart sank.
“Yes?” the man answered.
Angelica swallowed the lump of fear that always came to her throat when she met a man she didn’t know. She tensed, ready to fight him if she had to. “Lord Gatwick?” she asked the man at last, still out of breath from her trip up the lane. “Lord Mark Gatwick?”
The man frowned. “I am Mr. Baxter, the butler.”
“Oh. Of course.” Angelica breathed a sigh of relief. She gave the butler a second look. He was older and had the look of someone who stayed indoors about him. She could best him if she had to. Knowing that, she put on a smile, hoping he hadn’t seen her moment of wariness. “Is Lord Gatwick at home?” she asked.
The butler continued to frown at her. “I doubt it,” he said. His face pinched in thought. “But do come inside while I inquire.” He stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in. “Your name, miss?”
“Angelica LeClaire,” Angelica said, took a deep breath, and lifted her trunk once more. The butler hadn’t seen it from where he stood, and as Angelica carried it over the threshold and into the foyer, his brow lifted in surprise.
“Please wait here, Miss LeClaire,” he said, studying her with a new light of assessment in his eyes.
Angelica set her trunk down on the carpet inside the doorway, not wanting to get water on the polished floorboards. As Mr. Baxter walked sedately toward a massive staircase that stretched up through a vast front hall, she glanced around. Her adopted grandfather had filled her head with stories of his homeland from the time she was a child. He’d had a penchant for architecture and would go on and on about the grandiose manor houses that littered the British countryside. He’d had a particular fondness for Blackmoor Close as he’d been raised there when the house was relatively new. Angelica felt as though she already knew the impressive front hall from his descriptions. Grandpa Miles had drawn his own blueprints of the house’s layout for her as he told his stories. Her heart raced and she longed to run through the halls, looking for the library, the conservatory, and the legendary dining room with its table that could seat fifty guests or more.
Baxter hadn’t made it halfway up the stairs when a man strode out from one of the halls that stretched deeper into the house at the top of the stairs. Angelica’s guard slammed back up and she straightened to hide her burst of fear. The new man was middle-aged as well, but tall and reasonably handsome. Although, the black suit he wore gave his face a pallor that made him seem wan and perhaps a little sickly. His dark brown hair was impeccably neat, and his face was clean-shaven, which caused Angelica to breathe a sigh of relief. At least he didn’t sport one of the ridiculous moustaches that were so fashionable among men at the moment.
She knew even before Mr. Baxter bowed to the man as he started down the stairs that the man was Lord Mark Gatwick, her fiancé. At least, he was her fiancé if he followed her adopted grandfather’s wishes. She studied him warily, racing to assess if he was the kind of man who would be a threat to her.
“My lord,” Mr. Baxter addressed Lord Gatwick as he descended the stairs. “I was on my way to inquire if you are at home.”
Angelica knew enough about British manners to know it was entirely possible for Lord Gatwick to stand right in front of her and still not be at home for the purposes of social calls. Lucky for her, this wasn’t exactly a social call.
Lord Gatwick reached the bottom of the stairs, walking ahead of Mr. Baxter, and studied Angelica with a veiled look. She stared right back at him with far more obvious assessment. Life had taught her that the best way to mask fear was to appear bold. But Lord Gatwick’s eyes held surprise instead of menace, in spite of the complete expressionlessness of his face. “I am at home,” he said, speaking to Mr. Baxter but still looking at Angelica.
“My lord, this is Miss Angelica LeClaire,” Mr. Baxter said, hurrying forward as if determined to complete his job correctly.
“How do you do?” Angelica smiled, extending her hand to Lord Gatwick. Her smile grew when her hand didn’t shake even a little.
“I am well,” Lord Gatwick answered, though Angelica was instantly struck with the feeling that he wasn’t, not at all. He took her hand all the same and executed a perfect bow over it. “And yourself?”
“I am wet, cold, and winded,” she replied, continuing to smile, but taking a protective step back. “But I am also hopeful, expectant, and determined.”
Lord Gatwick’s brow knit in confusion. “I trust you will explain,” he said, lifting the end of his sentence as though it were a question.
“I would be happy to,” she answered, using the politeness of their interaction as a shield against the monumental gamble her adopted grandfather had pushed her into—a gamble she refused to lose. “But perhaps I could explain in front of a fire?”
“Yes, of course.” Lord Gatwick shook himself as though he’d forgotten his manners. He paused in thought, then said, “I believe there is a fire in the study.” Again, his statement had the intonation of a question, and he glanced to Mr. Baxter.
“There is, my lord,” Mr. Baxter said with a nod. “And I will have hot tea brought up for Miss LeClaire.”
“Very good,” Lord Gatwick said, then gestured for Angelica to follow him. “The study is this way.”
“In the north wing,” Angelica said. “Past the smoking room and the small library.”
Lord Gatwick nearly missed a step. He studied Angelica with surprise that he was less and less able to hide as they walked on. Good. He would be less of a threat if she kept him on his toes. “Have you been to Blackmoor Close before?” he asked, a deep sort of suspicion in his voice.
“No, my lord,” she said. “But my adopted grandfather, Lord Miles Ellingham, was raised here. He used to spend hours telling me about the house when I was a girl.”
Lord Gatwick’s brow flew up. “Uncle Miles? He is my grandfather’s brother.”
They reached the study, and Lord Gatwick escorted her to the cheery blaze in its large fireplace.
“I’m sorry to say that Grandpa Miles was your grandfather’s brother,” Angelica sighed. “He passed away in June.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Lord Gatwick said in a troubled voice, clasping his hands behind his back. “I was fond of Uncle Miles.”
“And he was fond of you,” Angelica said. She swallowed, anxiety bubbling up inside her as she approached the point of her journey. “So much so that he left you a wife in his will.”
Lord Gatwick blinked, then shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”
Angelica blew out a breath and squared her shoulders. “Grandpa Miles and I were quite close, you see. From the time he married my mother when I was just ten. I suppose I should have called him Papa all those years, but he was so much older than me, and he had white hair. He insisted that he not replace my own father, who died when I was eight. Father was an important man in New Orleans. He was the son of a slave but he became a prominent banker after the war.”
She paused, shaking her head to clear the extraneous details that muddled the story she needed to tell. Lord Gatwick watched her, intensely interested in what she had to say, by all appearances, so she went on.
“Indeed?” Lord Gatwick blinked in disbelief.
“Yes.” Angelica’s jaw and heart hardened. “You see, Grandpa Miles left me nothing. After nurturing me and educating me. After loving me like I was his own. After employing me in a position of respect and responsibility in a way that women are rarely granted. He left me nothing at all.”
She exhaled, her anger melting into melancholy.
“That’s not precisely true. He left me a generous allowance and a share in his businesses,” she went on.
“That is hardly nothing,” Lord Gatwick said.
Angelica met his eyes defensively. “If I marry you.”
Lord Gatwick’s eyes widened. A moment later, his expression went completely blank. So blank that it sent a chill down Angelica’s spine. It was as if he’d taken his soul and tucked it away in a drawer somewhere, leaving only a shell of a man staring back at her. The worst of it was, he’d done it so quickly and with so much skill that she was left with the impression he was used to folding in on himself.
“That is why I’m here,” she went on, careful to keep her posture upright and her tone firm. Guarded though he may have been, if he thought even for a moment that he could hurt her, he had another think coming. “I have no intention of being cast out. I have no intention of falling into the life I’m sure awaits me back in New Orleans. Great strides have been made since the war, but without Grandpa Miles’s protection, the best I can hope for is a job in service or teaching. My skin isn’t light enough for me to pass in New Orleans, and fair or not, that limits what I can do. In England, however, people may not question what they aren’t used to seeing. Particularly if the title Lady Gatwick is attached to the way I look. In short, my lord, I refuse to settle for less than I know I am capable of.”