Devall's Angel

DEVALL’S ANGEL

Allison Lane

Chapter One

“How can my own daughter be so foolish?” sobbed Lady Forley as their carriage pulled away from Hartleigh House. “You should have demanded Andrew’s support. He could hardly have ignored both of us. You will never attract a husband without a proper come-out. Skimping on clothes and entertaining only lowers our credit.”

She wrung her hands in exasperation when she received no response. “Why won’t you listen to me? I was a respected London hostess for years before Andrew forced me away from town. How could my own son be so cruel? Or so stupid! If only your father were here!
He
would have sponsored a come-out ball.
He
would have provided a suitable wardrobe.” She dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “And he would have escorted us to Lord Cavendish’s masquerade, too.”

Angela Warren sighed. Already exhausted from last-minute planning for the ball she was to share with Lady Sylvia, Lord Hartleigh’s sister, she was in no mood for another confrontation – not that silence ever stifled her mother. Nor did logic, pleading, or cold, hard facts.

Lady Forley had already spent the afternoon arguing fiercely over every detail, determined to squander a fortune by staging the most lavish come-out London had ever seen. It had taken the combined efforts of Lady Hartleigh, Lady Sylvia, and herself to squelch her – not that any of them had heard the last of it. The woman continued her complaints long after they served any purpose. Lord Cavendish’s masquerade was an example. It was over.

“Attending that ball would indeed have been foolish,” Angela said wearily. “I was not out until the Queen’s drawing room yesterday, and you know that none of Lord Cavendish’s entertainments are suitable for green girls – especially his masquerades.”

“Fustian. Your father always took me.”

“But you were married. I am not. My reputation would never recover.”

“Nonsense! You may brag about your intelligence, but you are remarkably ignorant of London customs. You even admit it, so why do you persist in ignoring my advice? Your father and I never missed a Season.”

“You have forgotten the strictures on innocents.” Angela sighed. If only her mother possessed even the tiniest bit of sense. But Lady Forley was so excited over her return to London after a six-year absence, she often forgot that bringing out a daughter restricted them to marriage mart events. “Think, Mother! Would your parents have allowed you to grace one of his parties before your marriage? Grandmama Hollister was as high in the instep as Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. I doubt she approved that acquaintance even after you were wed. And you have forgotten the patronesses. Had we attended, Lady Sefton would have revoked my voucher so fast your head would spin.”

Lady Forley snorted, but the words obviously struck home. She tugged on her hat to change its angle, twisting to glimpse herself in the coach window. Preening had always been her way of dropping a subject without admitting fault.

“Just look at the muddle you and Andrew have made,” she charged once the hat had been adjusted to her satisfaction. “Cruel fate, to leave me under the thumb of so ungrateful a son. His pinch-penny ways will ruin us. Our consequence is already reduced after skipping five Seasons. How are we to recover if he insists on pretending penury? I will never forgive him for selling Forley House. Upper Brook Street was a perfect location, commanding respect and even envy from our guests. Society’s elite ran tame in my drawing room. And the balls! Such crushes! You can never make a noteworthy come-out from Clifford Street. Who will dare visit us? Half the neighbors are cits; there is barely room for morning callers and none for entertaining. But refusing to sponsor a come-out ball is beyond enough. His miserly ways will condemn you to spinsterhood.”

Their coach rocked to a halt behind a tradesman’s dray that had broken a wheel. Carts and carriages jammed the street, their horses stamping and snorting. Shouts from drivers and pedestrians added to the pandemonium.

Angela sighed at the delay, resigned to hearing another diatribe. The subject of their rented house resounded a dozen times a day – its small rooms, its worn furnishings, its unassuming location in a mixed neighborhood. “We have discussed this too often already, Mother. Andrew
had
to sell the house.”

“Fustian! In a fit of pique, he deliberately cast away our consequence and reduced our credit. Oh, that your father were here! He always insisted we go first class.”

“You wrong him,” she snapped. The woman refused to believe even truths that stared her in the face – which was why Angela was nearly prostrate from nerves after only a fortnight in town.
“You
insisted on first class. It is
you
who have brought us to this pass. Papa was a scholar who preferred to remain in his study, but he denied you nothing, nearly bankrupting the estate. Had he not died, we would have lost everything. Thank God for Andrew’s good sense. Selling a house he could not afford saved us even worse indignities. Without the money it brought, he would have lost every last acre of unentailed land, requiring fifty years instead of five to dig us out of the River Tick.”

“You exaggerate, as usual. And display a vulgarity that belies your breeding. Proper ladies care nothing about money. Making a good impression is far more important. How can you find a husband without holding a fashionable ball? You will never attract a wealthy, titled lord if you hide in the shadows and claim poverty.”

“I cannot imagine that our ball will be unfashionable.” But her protest covered another surge of uncertainty. Oh, God! What if her mother was right? She
had
to marry this Season. Was she really destroying her chances by sharing a ball? Sylvia swore not, but what did a seventeen-year-old know? Yet she had no choice. The Forleys could not afford to host a ball. Surely they were not the only family with a limited budget!

Grasping at her frayed nerves, she forced control over her voice. “Hart and Cassie have enormous credit, so this ball will attract all the best people.” The earl would never approve something that might harm his favorite sister.

“But it isn’t yours!” screamed Lady Forley. “Can’t you understand so simple a truth? I swear all that reading has turned your brain to mush! No one of consequence would
dream
of forgoing her own ball. No one—”

Angela closed her ears. Why did she even try to make her mother see reason? The task was hopeless. Thirty years earlier, Lady Forley had married a fashionable viscount, believing that his charm and elegant wardrobe denoted fabulous wealth. Nothing had changed her convictions, not even the last six years of scrimping to rescue Andrew’s inheritance from debt. Now that the woman had returned to town, she was determined to regain her position as a respected London hostess – in her eyes only the most extravagant entertainment was worthy of respect.

But Andrew lacked the means. Lady Jersey’s annual income surpassed the value of Forley Court and all its contents. Others were equally wealthy. Thus Lady Forley had no hope of competing, and her refusal to admit this basic truth placed a huge burden on Angela’s shoulders. Despite inexperience and uncertainty, she not only had to plan her own come-out, but must constantly recheck all arrangements to prevent her mother from making changes behind her back.

As had happened two days ago. What a fiasco! Though Lady Forley had already overspent her clothing allowance, she had ordered four expensive gowns from the very exclusive Madame Florentine. Andrew had had no choice but to confront the modiste, cancel the order, and announce that he would no longer honor his mother’s debts. Such news hurt them all, but Lady Forley refused to accept responsibility for precipitating the crisis.

A cheer announced that the dray no longer blocked the street. Their carriage moved forward. Only another six blocks…

Lady Forley’s litany of complaints shifted to her daughter’s vulgar ideas and unladylike behavior.

Sighing, Angela stared out the window, determined to control her temper. Admittedly, her social training was inadequate. She had never learned to flirt – and didn’t want to – but she could surely find a congenial husband anyway. She wasn’t looking for love. There simply wasn’t time.

She must return to Forley Court in June to prepare for Andrew’s wedding, which added yet another burden to her load. Several burdens, actually. Once Andrew returned from his brief wedding journey, Sylvia would assume control of the household – a position Angela had held for years. Despite their growing friendship, Angela could not stay while another woman stepped into her place – especially a girl fully five years younger than she, who had little experience in household management. Nor could she face living in the dower house with her whining mother. Thus she had to marry, and with the wedding so close, she had only two months in which to arrange it.

“I will choose which entertainments to attend,” Lady Forley was saying. “You have already done too much to lower our consequence. We cannot afford any more mistakes. Balls, routs, picnics, theater parties. Those are acceptable – but only if they are sponsored by reputable hostesses. You must avoid soirees, lectures, and similar gatherings that would label you as a bluestocking. The slightest hint of your faults will destroy your credit. It is bad enough that we must associate with Lady Sylvia.”

Angela grimaced at this old argument. She hated to think that every member of society despised education, but even Sylvia had admitted that the matrons who controlled the marriage mart looked askance at bookishness. Sylvia had the freedom to disclose her interests only because she was already betrothed.

As the carriage rounded a corner, Angela stared through the window, grimacing over the challenge she faced. Hiding her edu—

“Stop!” she suddenly shouted at their driver. Without waiting for a response, she jumped to the pavement. Roberts cursed, jerking the team to a halt and tossing Lady Forley onto the floor.

Angela ignored her mother’s outrage. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, pushing through a crowd to accost a burly man who was shaking a small child.

“Stay out of it, ma’am,” he snarled. “’E’s a thief.”

Murmurs of agreement swept the crowd.

“A thief? What did he steal?” The boy held nothing in his hands, and only a wrinkled, half-rotten apple lay on the ground.

A backhanded slap snapped the boy’s head around and raised a red welt on his left cheek.

“’E stole one of me apples, the snivelin’ brat. A man cain’t make a honest livin’ these days.”

A street vendor. She glared, grabbing his arm as he raised it to strike again. “Honest? For shame! If that apple represents your wares, then you are a knave. And vicious as well. Can’t you see that he’s naught but a baby? How dare you turn the full weight of a grown man on a starving child? Why not direct your anger toward his parents where it might do some good?” She turned to the crowd. “Does anyone know where the boy lives?”

Several onlookers had already stepped back, and some now slithered away, loath to be involved. Shouts and curses rose from drivers furious to find the street blocked by those watching the altercation. A saturnine gentleman leaned against a building, taking in every word.

She ignored them. “Well? Does no one know the child?”

“’E ain’t got no ’ome,” muttered a woman.

“Showed up ’round ’ere ’bout a month back,” mumbled another.

“Is this true?” she asked the boy.

He nodded, his terror sending a dagger deep into her heart.

“’E’s got a ’ome now,” hissed the vendor. “’Tis off to the workhouse for you, me lad.”

“No!” Astonished eyes stared at her. She pulled a coin from her reticule and pushed it into the vendor’s hand. “For the apple and for your trouble.”

“Don’t interfere, ma’am,” he growled. “Go back to yer fancy ’ouse an’ forget it. The boy’s nothin’ but trouble. If ye lets him get away with this, ’e’ll just take encouragement.”

“No, he won’t,” she swore. “He doesn’t belong on the streets. He needs shelter and food. But not the workhouse. I know just the place for him. He will never bother you again.”

Murmurs greeted this pronouncement. Ignoring them, she crouched before the orphan, heedless that her skirts were dragging in filth. “Come with me, child. We will find you something better to eat than that horrid apple.” She gently grasped one arm, glaring at the vendor until he reluctantly released his grip on the other. In a trance, the lad followed her to the carriage and let her help him inside.

“Mercy!” screeched Lady Forley. “What have you done now? Becoming an
on-dit
in fashionable drawing rooms will destroy you. We will be cut. I know we will. And he is undoubtedly crawling with fleas, or worse. Why are you determined to throw away your reputation?”

“Enough! Who would ever know?” A raised hand prohibited a response. “But even if word gets out, it matters not. If society can countenance such treatment for children, then I care not for society.”

Lady Forley gasped for nearly a minute, giving Angela a chance to settle the boy comfortably on a seat.