Devall's Angel (2 page)

“Who would know?” she squeaked as the carriage again crept forward. “Who would know? Did you not see that gentleman leaning against the wall? That was Lord Blackthorn – the Black Marquess. The tale will be on every tongue by dinner, for he despises sentimental gestures and cares nothing for female sensibilities.”

“Nonsense. He doesn’t even know who I am. Why would he bother?”

“Because he is the blackest blackguard ever spawned by the devil.” Fumbling through her reticule, Lady Forley produced a vinaigrette. “After destroying so many others, he would think nothing of pillorying you. He is a heartless libertine who has ruined countless women, a confirmed gamester who has squandered a fortune at cards. But those are the least of his crimes. He publicly jilted his own betrothed, blackening her character so thoroughly that she fled town and hasn’t been seen since. His father died of the shock. Grief drove hers to the bottle. I witnessed the whole thing, for it happened in Lady Jersey’s ballroom scarcely a sennight before they were to wed. He denounced her as a fallen woman, though she was one of the sweetest girls in town that Season. Shocked by his unwarranted tirade, she lashed back, revealing his cruelty and debauchery.”

“You exaggerate,” Angela murmured, trying to soothe her mother’s temper. “No one behaves so recklessly.”

“You are naïve! That man is a demon the likes of which you cannot imagine. We had heard hints of his misdeeds for years, though he had successfully hidden the details. But no more. When Miss Quincy sobbed out the truth, he merely laughed, offering no explanation and no apology.” The vinaigrette waved fretfully. “And he has made no effort to hide his crimes since. Two years later, he eloped with Lady Cloverdale, abandoning her overseas. They say he was as calm on his return as if he had merely misplaced a pocket handkerchief. Lord Cloverdale was heartbroken. But when he realized that she would not – or could not – come home, he had no choice but to bring a divorce suit against her, citing Blackthorn for criminal conversation. It was the most sensational crim-con trial in history, resulting in an enormous penalty. And I have heard other tales too awful to discuss in polite company.”

Angela shook her head, unwilling to believe her mother’s harsh judgment, though she could not deny the Black Marquess’s impact. Recalling his face still robbed her of breath. It was long and thin with dramatic planes and heavy peaked brows above dark eyes.

She shivered.

This was not the first time she had seen him. Just yesterday she had spotted him on Piccadilly, talking to the three ragged soldiers who customarily begged there. Each had clutched a banknote in his hand. At the time she had thought little of it, for many gentlemen tossed alms to London’s ubiquitous beggars. But now that she knew his identity, their murmured exchange took on a terrifying new meaning.

“Tonight,” he’d ordered, staring at one of the soldiers.

The man had nodded briskly. “We’ll be there, guv.”

“Remember to keep my name out of it. You’ll regret it if anyone learns I’m involved.”

“As you wish.”

Angela again shivered. Blackthorn’s voice had held a very real threat. What had he hired those men to do? He had been opening his mouth to say more when his eyes had clashed with hers, then stuck, impaling her. Something akin to fear had flashed in his, but it disappeared before she could fully identify it, replaced by a piercing stare that banished further thought. She had no idea how long he’d kept her pinned, but when he turned to stride away, the soldiers were gone.

And that harsh face wasn’t all that had stuck in her mind. He wasn’t a man one forgot. Tall. Angular. Broad-shouldered. A man whose very appearance announced his disregard for convention. His black hair was long, curling over his ears and covering the nape of his neck. His coat fit loosely across his breadth, and his pantaloons were black instead of the light colors most men favored. Yet the stark appearance suited him – even more so now that she knew his identity.

Another shiver tickled her spine, this one leaving heat in its wake. Appalled that she could feel even a flash of attraction for so depraved a man, she focused all her attention on her mother.

“…which is why he would relish exposing your folly to the world.” Lady Forley was sobbing as she reached the end of her recital. “The blackguard delights in hurting people.”

Angela had missed hearing the full extent of his crimes, but their severity mattered not. No matter how black the marquess’s character was, he posed no real threat. “Who would believe a man of his reputation? Surely he must be ostracized himself, so who could he tell?”

“Again you show your ignorance! His title is too lofty to ignore. While it is true that he is unwelcome in drawing rooms, he visits all the clubs, so his words will be repeated everywhere. You have ruined your Season.” She burst into fresh tears, dropping her vinaigrette as both hands covered her eyes. “What could you be thinking? Inviting a street urchin into our coach! He will rob us blind. I know he will.”

Angela retrieved the vinaigrette and sighed. Would this ride never end? She turned back to the window, only to find the Black Marquess’s eyes again clashing with hers, much closer than before. They were mesmerizing – dark, dark gray glittering with silver highlights in the afternoon sunlight. Piercing. Penetrating clear to her soul while revealing none of his own thoughts. Was he plotting a crime or some other nefarious scheme?

Not until the coach moved past, breaking the contact, could she breathe. He was dangerous. Yet she still did not fear exposure. Glancing back, she watched him cross the street and disappear around a corner.

Why did she trust him? Pondering the question carried her all the way to Clifford Street. Her reaction lacked logic and sense, though they were her most consistent virtues.

Or did it?

Her mother dramatized everything, making the woman’s claims suspect. After all, Blackthorn was still received in his clubs. But that was not why she trusted him. Those eyes had promised silence. She didn’t know why, but he would not reveal her actions.

Idiot!

She was not reading his mind. Such a feat was impossible. Flustered by an impression unsupported by any fact, she concentrated on logic. His intentions or lack of them counted for nothing. He could not know her identity, for their coach had no crest – another of Lady Forley’s complaints; Andrew was entitled to one. Thus she was safe. Even if he mentioned the incident, no one could connect it to her. Describing her appearance might make her momentarily uncomfortable, but she was not the only red-haired lady in town.

The carriage rocked to a halt. A footman helped the sobbing Lady Forley down.

Having convinced herself that she remained anonymous, Angela turned to the orphan. “Come with me. We will find food, and then we must talk.”

Warily setting his hand in hers, he allowed her to lead him into the house.

* * * *

Devall Sherbrooke, ninth Marquess of Blackthorn, scowled as the carriage moved past. The chit threatened his peace of mind – which was a ridiculous thought to have on a sunny afternoon. Nothing could disturb him. Certainly not so unconventional a hoyden!

He had seen her twice before, once on Bond Street – the memory momentarily distracted him, for it was the fact that she had not cut him that had drawn his attention to her, which only proved that she did not know his identity – and more recently on Piccadilly, where she had sneaked up on him.

He nodded. That second meeting explained his discomfort. His well-honed sense of danger always protected him when he was conducting business. So why had it failed? More importantly, how much had she heard?

That last concern had focused his eyes on her. She had still not known him. Why else had she held his gaze so long?

He usually had no interest in society misses – scheming opportunists, every one, with more hair than wit. Their only interests were gossip and parties. He’d known many of them in the years before his betrothal, and had approved none of them. Society hadn’t changed since those days.

So why did he have to work so hard to drape the image around this newest arrival? Even yesterday it hadn’t quite fit. That auburn curl escaping her bonnet had hinted at a passionate nature. As did the sparkle in her moss green eyes. Yet he had never expected this!

Good God! She had jumped from a moving carriage into a crowded street. She could easily have broken a leg, been kicked by a horse, or been knocked down by a wagon. And she’d risked a worse danger than injury.

She might have been seen.

He shook his head.

The only explanation was that she’d recognized the boy. The lad was a thief – hardly surprising in London. Perhaps he had accosted her as she exited a shop, stealing her reticule or a package. Most girls kept a footman at hand to prevent such an occurrence, but her behavior today proved that she was inadequately supervised. The lad’s appearance was distinctive enough that his victims would remember him. Yet she had not turned him over to a constable. How naïve!

Was she stupid enough to think she could reform a London thief? She wouldn’t be the first, but turning the boy into a page would be a big mistake. He would rob her blind. He probably lived in a flash house, where continued food and shelter depended on bringing in his daily quota of goods. For his master to move him into Mayfair, he had to be experienced.

Should he warn her?

Devall snorted. Even this unconventional chit would never believe him.

Pain stabbed his chest. It was so unexpected that it took a moment to realize that the admission hurt. Why should he care? Granted, she was different from most people – and not just because she had a soft spot for supposedly helpless orphans – but her opinions meant nothing.

Yet he could not get those differences out of his mind.

Again she had not cut him. Her eyes had bored into his as if she could see into his tortured soul. Yet they had held no censure. She’d recognized him – after yesterday, that was inevitable; someone would have warned her who he was – so why did she not despise him? She was not bad looking, either. A whole tangle of auburn curls had peeped out today, framing her heart-shaped face. A truly unique and delectable maiden.

Damnation!

He strode rapidly around a corner, resisting an urge to look over his shoulder. Were her eyes really boring into his back? Thinking about her was dangerous. Despite her odd behavior, she was obviously a lady, which widened the gulf between them. He had repudiated the hypocrisy of society six years ago, along with its cheerful back-stabbing and double standards. Thus respectable women were off limits. Aside from sex – which he could easily get without attached strings – he had no use for females. Especially for naïve girls like this one. Even if she did indeed prove to be different, he could not pursue her. The slightest attention from him would ruin her.

Again that delectable face distracted his thoughts, diverting his attention from business. She was older than most new arrivals, which only added to her attraction. Her eyes danced with intelligence. What had kept her from town earlier? Had her family suffered a series of deaths? He rarely spent much of the Season in London, but he surely would have noticed her if she had been here before.

Devil take it!

He was doing it again. He had more pressing problems than one intriguing hoyden. Banishing the incident from his mind, he concentrated on business.

Despite his lurid reputation, he took his position as head of the Sherbrooke family seriously. He did not tolerate misbehavior, even from those related only by marriage. Gabriel’s transgression demanded satisfaction, but Devall had no interest in hearing his family’s private affairs bruited about clubs and drawing rooms. Thus he needed another pretext. What insult would provoke Gabriel into issuing a challenge? And how soon could Devall complete this chore? He preferred the peace of Wyndhaven to the noise and filth of London.

Thoughts of his estate raised a lump in his throat that nearly choked him. He had renovated the house and grounds when he’d acceded to the marquessate, erasing everything that reminded him of his childhood. It was now his refuge from the world, his sanctuary, the one place where he could be himself.

The town house never let him relax, he realized, again distracted from business. It still reflected his father. He must do something about that. Family affairs and private interests were bringing him to London with increasing frequency. As long as he was already here, he might as well order its refurbishing. Cost was irrelevant. For all the man’s faults, his father had made wise investments, expanding a comfortable inheritance into a fortune. It was a knack Devall had inherited, increasing his worth three-fold since gaining the title. Not that he cared.

Enough!

How was he to initiate the necessary confrontation? Where? When? His reputation barred him from society gatherings, so he would have to study Gabriel’s habits. Once he knew where to find him, inciting a response should be easy. Gabriel was too accustomed to adoration to tolerate contempt.

* * * *

“Lord Hartleigh,” announced Paynes, stepping aside so the earl could enter the drawing room.

Angela sighed in relief. Andrew was out. Her mother’s complaints had given way to strong hysterics once they’d arrived home. Convincing the woman to rest before an evening excursion to the opera had drained Angela’s last reserves of energy.

The orphan had remained silent, allowing as his name was Jimmy, but refusing to answer further questions. So she had sent for Hartleigh, who owned the estate next to Forley Court.

“Hart.” She smiled as Paynes closed the door. “I was afraid you might have gone out, but Cassie was so tired when we left that I hesitated to disturb her by returning in person.”

“Thank you. What happened?”

She sighed. “I realize I am not supposed to know this, but Cassie once mentioned your orphanage.”

He raised his brows but said nothing.

“I found a child this afternoon. A vendor was beating him for stealing an apple.”

“Poor boy,” he murmured under his breath. “Where is he?”