October Revenge

by Farmer, Merry

  As if she needed further proof, a sound of movement came from the second room of the large suite. Angelica jumped at the sound, freezing where she was, but when there was no other sound, she crept carefully toward the doorway separating the suite’s two rooms.

  The second room was a bedroom whose furnishings appeared even older than those in what she assumed was Mark’s room. The bureau, bed, and wardrobe in the room that stretched out before her appeared positively medieval in their splendor. The curtains were closed in that room, but there was more than enough light from the studio for Angelica to see Mark asleep on the bed. He lay on his side atop the covers, his legs outstretched and his arms tucked against his chest. His face was pale though relaxed in sleep, though he hadn’t shaved, and his hair was a mess. He wore the same clothes he’d worn the day before on their walk, but his hands were stained with traces of paint.

  The sight caused Angelica’s heart to melt uncomfortably in her chest. She moved carefully into the room. Styx napped on the bed’s other pillow. He opened one eye and lifted his head a bit at the sight of Angelica, but he must not have seen her as a threat. He closed his eye and returned to his nap. At least until Angelica sat on the edge of the bed near Mark’s legs. He didn’t much care for that and switched from napping to dashing off the bed and out of the room with the sort of speed only a cat could manage.

  Whether it was Styx’s departure or Angelica sitting on the bed, Mark woke up with a start. Angelica held her breath, forcing herself to appear calm so as not to alarm him. Her plan only half worked. Mark sucked in a breath at the sight of her, flipped to his back, and scrambled away from her, sitting up. But after his first burst of surprise, he let out a breath, his shoulders and head sagging.

  “Don’t mind me,” Angelica said. “I was just thinking of taking a nap myself.” Part of her wanted to add, “Since you apparently don’t have the slightest interest in entertaining your guests,” but she opted to avoid showing any displeasure in him. More flies were caught with honey than vinegar, after all.

  Mark mumbled something tired and incoherent that resolved into, “I’m sorry.”

  “You look as though you needed the rest,” she said, still without judgement.

  Mark rubbed a hand over his face, saying nothing. He stared at her, wariness and shame clouding his expression, as though he’d been awakened too quickly to hide his emotions. She could see him struggling to know what to make of the situation, struggling to maintain his dignity and poise. She chose to ignore her glimpse into his vulnerability.

  “I didn’t know you were a painter,” she said as though they were seated in the drawing room sipping tea.

  He blinked, shifting to sit straighter, although it was awkward with his legs stretched out across the bed. He still wore his shoes as well. For a moment, he looked as though he might deny having painted the contents of the other room, but one glimpse at his hands and he must have known there was no point in denying it.

  “I learned when I was a boy,” he said, his voice thick with sleep. He cleared his throat and went on a little more distinctly. “Father had a tutor brought in when he saw I had talent and a—” He paused to swallow, appeared to be debating something internally, seemed to settle the debate, then went on with, “And a love for painting as well.”

  “You’re very good,” Angelica said. She meant it too. “I see you have experimented with different styles?”

  “Yes,” he answered, eyeing her as though he wasn’t sure if she was making fun of him. Which told her that more people had made fun of him for painting than not.

  “Which style do you prefer?” she asked on.

  He frowned and studied her as though scrambling to figure out what she meant, but finally answered, “I gravitate toward more realistic styles. I admire the more abstract styles, but detail draws me.”

  “Have you painted anything other than that woman?” Angelica’s pulse sped as she asked her question.

  Mark didn’t answer. The veiled look she had come to know from him returned. She couldn’t help but be disappointed.

  He scooted to the side of the bed, swinging his legs around and standing. Angelica stood with him.

  “Who is she?” she asked.

  The color left Mark’s face, and for a moment Angelica thought he might be sick. She wasn’t surprised at all when he walked away from her, around the bed to the washstand, and splashed water on his face instead of answering. Which told her the woman was someone significant. Perhaps a former lover? She didn’t have enough of a resemblance to be a relative, so she dismissed the fleeting idea that she was his mother. Sense told her she’d be a fool to ask Mark any more questions at present, though. Perhaps once they were married he would open up.

  “Is this your bedroom?” she asked instead.

  “No,” he answered as he rubbed a towel over his face to dry it, then set it aside. “It was my father’s room.”

  Angelica nodded, understanding flooding her. It made sense that he would retreat to the room of the man he’d loved and admired when his emotions overpowered him. The suite was very likely the site of fond memories and a seat of love.

  “You probably think I’m a fool,” he said in a defeated tone as he walked gingerly back to her. “A grown man hiding in his father’s room when he should be entertaining his guest.”

  “Not at all.” Angelica shrugged, although she’d been thinking exactly that. “I arrived unannounced. Why should you interrupt your life to keep me busy?”

  He studied her, continuing to look as though she might explode at any moment. “Isn’t the entire point of your visit to interrupt my life?”

  She couldn’t help but grin. “Touché. Marriage is always an interruption.”

  His wry expression said that the marriage was unlikely to happen, but what he actually said was, “Do you speak French?”

  “Mais oui. J'ai été élevé à la Nouvelle-Orléans, après tout,” she replied.

  Mark nodded as though he understood every word, but didn’t make a further comment. “I’ve been a bad host,” he said, moving toward the doorway to the studio, then turning away and walking aimlessly back into the bedroom, as though he wasn’t quite ready to face his art. “The weather is nice again today.”

  “It is,” Angelica said, hiding her grin. “I went for another vigorous walk this morning and busied myself moving logs off the path in your woods.”

  He pivoted to frown at her in confusion. “I have a gardener who does all that.”

  Angelica shrugged, stepping closer to him. “I prefer to keep my strength up.”

  His brow inched up. “Your strength?”

  “Yes,” she answered, meeting and holding his gaze. “I was once attacked, and I have no intention of ever finding myself in that position again. Strength is the best defense.”

  “I have no intention of attacking you,” he said with an odd level of defensiveness, taking a step back.

  “I didn’t say you would,” she said, perplexed by his reaction.

  He seemed to realize how inappropriately he’d responded, and his shoulders dropped in defeat. “I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I’m still a bit foggy from sleep.”

  Angelica wondered what else he was still foggy from. The rocks in the river, the way he’d greeted her, the obviousness of his tension, like a cat who expected his tormenter to come back at any moment. Mark was in pain.

  As much as Angelica would have loved to figure out a way to wheedle the whole story out of him, a knock at the door startled them both and ended the conversation. A moment later, Mr. Baxter stepped into the room.

  “My lord, your—” Mr. Baxter stopped with a look of alarm at the sight of Angelica. “I’m sorry, my lord. I should have been more explicit that Miss LeClaire was not to disturb you.”

  “It’s all right, Baxter.” In an instant, Mark’s back was straight, his chin was up, and except for his obvious state of dishabille, he was the master of the house once more. “It was about time I was intrud
ed upon.”

  “I’m sorry I snuck around behind your back, Mr. Baxter,” Angelica apologized, moving to stand by Mark’s side, her cheeks going warm.

  Mr. Baxter glanced from Angelica to Mark as though he didn’t know the protocol for the awkward situation.

  “What is it, Baxter?” Mark asked, gently setting the man back on the right path.

  “My lord, your cousin, Lord Helm, and Lady Helm have arrived,” Mr. Baxter said with a bow. “They are waiting in the west parlor.”

  “Thank you, Baxter. Tell them we will be down directly.” Mark nodded.

  Mr. Baxter turned to go, giving Angelica a final, uncertain look.

  “These are your cousins who you wrote to so that they could come stay as chaperones?” Angelica asked once he was gone.

  “Yes.” Mark glanced down at himself and sighed. “I’m in no fit state to receive company.”

  “No, you’re not,” Angelica said with a grin. Though she rather liked the sight of Mark a little undone. It was a sharp contrast to the too-tight way he had conducted himself the day she arrived. She felt as though she’d chipped away at his shell enough to see the squishy creature inside. She wanted to see more.

  “I’ll have to introduce you like this anyhow,” he said with a disgusted shake of his head, starting for the door. “Lavinia will forgive me. Armand won’t,” he went on as Angelica followed. “I hope you don’t mind being left with strangers immediately after being introduced as I’ll have to abandon you to clean up right away.”

  Angelica laughed. “I’ve spent my life being abandoned with strangers. I have an uncanny way of making them my friends.”

  He paused once they reached the hall to look at her. Angelica couldn’t be sure, but she thought perhaps Mark liked what he saw.

  Chapter 5

  Mark was convinced that the only way he could have embarrassed himself in front of Angelica more was if he had been sleeping on his father’s bed completely nude. Clothed or not, he felt as though she’d caught him with everything hanging out. She’d seen his studio, seen his work. He’d been able to tell from the look in her eyes that she had noted he hadn’t changed clothes since their walk the morning before. Even if she hadn’t seen it, he certainly smelled as though he hadn’t changed or bathed. And now they were on their way downstairs to meet Lavinia and Armand with him in a state.

  They reached the end of the hall and started down the stairs, side-by-side. Had he gone completely mad? Had he lost the ability to interact socially? Angelica was his guest and he was failing as a host in every way.

  But if he were honest with himself, she was more than a simple guest. She was an invader, come to batter down his walls with her ridiculous proposal of marriage. Only, battering down his walls was exactly what she’d succeeded at doing from the start. Rather than playing the polite host, he should have left her to her own devices while his great-uncle’s will was investigated. He never should have gone on the walk with her the morning before, never should have thrown rocks at the river like a child.

  God, but it had felt good to hurl those rocks. If only they’d all struck Shayles square in the face, like he imagined they had.

  “Lord and Lady Helm are waiting,” Baxter said when they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Mrs. Dees has sent tea up.”

  “Thank you, Baxter,” Mark said as though nothing were remotely out of the ordinary. Pretending everything was as it should be had carried him through twenty-five years of hell, so he saw no reason to stop.

  “Oh, one other thing, my lord.” Baxter stepped over to the cabinet in the foyer, fetching a pile of letters. “The morning post has arrived. Within it, you may find a few items of interest.” He glanced briefly to Angelica as he handed Mark the mail.

  “Thank you, Baxter.” Mark took the letters, rifling quickly through them. There was a thin letter from Lavinia that had failed to reach him before she herself did along with two letters from London—one from Shayles’s solicitor and one from his own. His stomach tightened at the letter from his solicitor, but he forced himself to walk on to the west parlor instead of tearing into it.

  “Mark, how lovely to—good Lord, are you quite well?” Lavinia asked as she rose from one of the sofas in the parlor, a bundled baby in her arms. One look at him and her expression had gone from happy and open to alarmed.

  “Good morning, Cousin Lavinia,” he greeted her with a pull of his lips that passed for a smile, then nodded gravely to Armand. “Helm.”

  “Gatwick.” Armand returned the curt greeting with a clenched jaw, narrowing his eyes as he gave Mark a once-over.

  Mark knew full well what his cousin saw as he studied him, but he ignored the picture he must have painted. He straightened his back and pretended he was dressed in the latest style and smelled like roses.

  “Cousin Lavinia, Helm, I’d like you to meet Miss Angelica LeClaire,” he said, his manner perfect.

  “How do you do?” Angelica curtsied slightly, glancing from Lavinia to Armand and back again.

  “Quite well,” Lavinia answered, her eyes bright as she stepped forward. “We’ve been eager to meet you since the moment we received Mark’s letter.” She glanced to Armand, who looked less than eager. In fact, Armand looked as though the roof might cave in on him at any moment.

  “I have been keen to meet you as well,” Angelica said, the picture of grace and amiability. “Lord Gatwick said he had sent for you to act as chaperones, but he’s said very little else.”

  She sent him a grin that was overly fond for his taste, considering other people were present. Though he wasn’t sure he would have minded if she’d smiled at him like that when the two of them were alone.

  That thought brought an uncomfortable warmth with it. He snapped his heart closed, pushed his encroaching emotions aside, and cleared his throat. “If you will excuse me,” he said. “As you can see, I need a bit of work before I am fit for company. I won’t be but a moment.”

  “Of course,” Lavinia said, adjusting her son against her shoulder as she did. “But are you quite certain you’re all right?”

  “I am fine. Thank you for inquiring.” He nodded curtly, then turned to go before Lavinia could ask any more questions.

  What he was doing, in fact, was running away. He knew it, and Lavinia likely knew it as well. Something told him Angelica knew too. Angelica seemed to know much without any way of having obtained the information. Perhaps she was a witch. New Orleans was crawling with witches, or so he’d heard.

  He shook his head to banish those silly thoughts as he reached the stairs and mounted them two at a time. As he did, he looked at the letters in his hand once again. He was willing to bet his life that the letter from Shayles’s solicitor contained yet another refusal to return his painting. That wouldn’t stop Mark from inquiring after it again and again. He would wear Shayles down eventually.

  As soon as he reached his room he strode to his bed—where Styx was napping—tossed the letters down, and started to undress. He couldn’t battle his curiosity for long, though. When he was down to nothing but his drawers, he snatched the letter from his solicitor off the bed and tore into it as Styx got up and walked over, as if he too were interested in the letter.

  The envelope contained two pieces of paper. The first was a letter that read, “My lord, I have examined the documents you forwarded to me intensively and wired inquiries to New Orleans. My inquiries were answered immediately by the offices of Beck and LeRoux. Miss LeClaire’s claims are entirely true. Your great-uncle’s will is as she presented it to you. Unless you marry her, she will be left with nothing. Furthermore, a thorough reading of the will in question has revealed that without a marriage, you are not entitled to inherit the small sum and property your great-uncle has willed to you.”

  “Property?” Mark asked Styx, knitting his brow.

  The letter went on. “I took the liberty of further investigating that section of the will and have discovered that, in fact, your great-uncle purchased a controlling interest in B
lackmoor Close from your grandfather in 1845. It seems this fact was largely forgotten by your father when he willed the estate to you, but I have located the documents of the original transaction, which clearly show the estate belonging to Lord Miles Gatwick.

  “It may be possible to contest the ownership of Blackmoor Close in court, as Lord Miles Gatwick had resided in the United States for the past thirty years. It would be simpler, however, to fulfill the conditions of the will. I have taken the liberty of obtaining a special license on your behalf, if you should choose to wed.”

  Heart thumping in his throat, Mark glanced at the second sheet of paper contained in the letter. It was a special license with his name and Angelica’s already filled in. The sight of it sent a shiver down his back and caused him to sit hard on the bed. More disturbing still, the emotions that ran riot in him weren’t what he expected. Instead of dread and rejection of the idea, his heart sped up and something akin to hope blossomed inside of him.

  But no, that was ridiculous. He thrust the letter and the license aside and stood, marching to his washbasin to wet a sponge and clean up. Styx jumped off the bed and took up a post in the windowsill beside the washstand. Angelica had mentioned nothing about him losing the only home he’d ever known if he failed to marry her. She was playing games with him. It was likely she was waiting to spring the truth on him and to catch him in a snare once he rejected her.

  Although that didn’t seem much like the little he knew of her. She’d announced her intention to marry him as a way to assert her independence, paradoxically, not as blackmail in order to become a countess. Was it possible that she hadn’t read the will past the section that pertained to her? She did say she hadn’t studied that part closely. There had to be a catch, some kind of pill to swallow. Everyone had ulterior motives. Everyone wanted something for themselves, and as history had shown, he was always the loser.

  But as he drew a razor over his face to make himself look respectable again, his mind filled with doubts. Angelica had a strong motivation in coming to Blackmoor Close, but it wasn’t a hidden or sinister one. She’d been upfront with him from the start. She’d already seen him at his worst and she hadn’t run. Although that could merely be proof of her determination to marry him at all costs. Not that he was entirely opposed to the idea. He supposed he would have to wed her to keep his home, but beyond that, he…he liked her.