Devall's Angel (5 page)

“Another reason Blackthorn should avoid town,” said the dowager.

“Perhaps he only wishes to rebuild his fortune,” suggested the second lady, smoothing her gown’s rich purple folds over an ample figure. “After all, he has made no attempt to call on any of us, and his gaming is notorious. He loses more often than not.”

“Can you have forgotten the way he fleeced poor Graceford last year? That fortune should keep even the most disgraceful gamester in funds.”

“Graceford’s luck certainly turned that night,” said a middle-aged matron suggestively. She had not joined the earlier speculation.

“You don’t mean to imply something underhanded, do you?”

“Of course not.” Her tone belied the words. “But Graceford’s winning streak was legendary, as was Blackthorn’s penchant for losing. Strange that both should experience a change of fortune at the same time.”

“Even more reason for him to avoid town. Who would dare play with the man after that?”

“They say Graceford fled to Italy, though how he supports himself I have no idea.”

“Had you not heard?” The dowager sounded triumphant. “He died just after Christmas. His heir refuses to discuss it, but Lady Haliston believes he killed himself in a fit of despondency.”

“Oh my!”

“The poor man!”

“How can Blackthorn live with himself?”

Repairs finished, Angela quickly checked her own hair and slipped from the room, leaving the gossips to their task of dissecting Lord Blackthorn’s character. He had left quite a trail of bodies in his wake – his father, Miss Quincy, Lady Cloverdale, Lord Graceford – at least according to gossip. Apparently her mother had not exaggerated the man’s reputation. Yet Angela’s own impressions had also been correct. In the week since Jimmy’s rescue, no hint of her unconventional behavior had surfaced.

Lady Forley was chatting with a silver-haired gentleman. “This is Lord Styles, Angela.”

They murmured greetings. He was one of the late arrivals who had not passed through the receiving line.

“I have not seen Lord Styles since my own come-out,” Lady Forley continued. “Regrettably, his wife passed away last year, leaving him to bring out his youngest daughter alone. What a cumbersome task you face,” she added, simpering.

Angela cringed.

“I have help.” He shrugged. “My eldest daughter and her husband, Lord Hervey, are chaperoning Grace. I am merely escorting them. And here comes my girl now.”

Lord Atwater approached with a vapid blonde whose curly locks framed a face notable only for China-blue eyes. When an older replica appeared at Lord Styles’s elbow, Angela recognized the young matron from the retiring room. Both proved to be empty-headed and giggly.

But she held her tongue. Protesting their silliness would merely reveal her bluestocking tendencies. Atwater had reserved her next set, so they excused themselves.

* * * *

Angela closed her eyes as the carriage pulled away from Hartleigh House. She was exhausted. Even after a fortnight in town, she had not adjusted to society’s late hours.

“You did very well,” said Lady Forley, for once without complaint.

“It did go well.”

“You must be very careful with Lord Atwater. He will make the perfect husband. The earldom is ancient and includes at least five estates, guaranteeing that his income will continue. Tomorrow will allow you to set his interest.” He had arranged to take her driving the following afternoon.

“It is a little early to assume that he is considering marriage,” she reminded her mother. “After all, the man’s wife is hardly cold. And even if he
is
shopping, there is no reason to believe that he would choose me. He gave equal attention to several other girls, including a well-dowered duke’s daughter. And at least three other gentleman seemed interested in me, including Mr. Garwood, who is also driving me in the park this week.”

“Nonsense. It is up to you to choose which one you want, for your behavior will determine whether each man continues the pursuit or turns his eyes elsewhere. Garwood will never do. He is a younger son with no hope of achieving the title – which is only a barony anyway – and though he owns an estate, he has limited funds. This is the first Season he has spent in town and will undoubtedly be the last, for he will retire to the country as soon as he weds.”

“You are wrong.” Something goaded Angela into defending him. “He spends a portion of every year here and has done so since leaving school five years ago. He maintains rooms at Albany, which requires a considerable income. Why would he change habits now?”

“I will look into that, but Lady Stafford was sure he had not been here previously.”

“Perhaps she meant he had not been searching for a wife until this year.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or maybe he has avoided the insipid marriage mart gatherings that Lady Stafford favors.”

Lady Forley bristled. “You should not waste time on him in any case. Albany is less expensive than supporting a town house. An underfinanced husband is a disaster you must avoid. If you marry where there is little money, you will find yourself tucked away in the country and forgotten. Such a fate is worse than death. So concentrate on Atwater. He is wealthy enough to shower you with clothes and jewels, and he will certainly bring you to London to enjoy the society that represents the only reason for living.”

Angela sighed, but refused to argue her mother’s skewed priorities. After an enjoyable evening, the last thing she needed was another lecture. All she wanted to do was sleep. But when had her preferences ever mattered?

The only gentleman she had learned anything about was Garwood, and even their conversation had been superficial. Atwater had uttered
on-dits
and ridiculous flattery, saying nothing of himself. She would not even know that he was in mourning if she hadn’t heard it elsewhere, and her expression of sympathy during their second set had drawn only a cold
thank you
and an immediate change of subject. Sir Alan and Captain Harrington had been pleasant but uninformative. Rathbone was witty and charming, but like Crawford, he was just down from Oxford. So she was in no position to narrow her choices. Yet declaring that aloud would start an argument, despite this being only her first society ball.

“You must be sure to encourage him,” Lady Forley ordered. “Compliment his dress, his manners, his ideas. Show him that he is the most wonderful man in existence. Never contradict him. And above all, do not allow him to suspect that you read all those horrid books. Should he discover your faults, he will flee.”

“Yes, Mother,” she replied automatically, not caring who they discussed.

“Your Season will be a failure unless you find a wealthy, titled husband to care for you in the future.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Ignore anyone below your own rank. Marrying down will destroy you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“What a glorious return to town! Imagine seeing dear Henry again! Lord Styles,” she corrected herself when Angela raised a quizzical brow. “He was one of my most persistent suitors, though ineligible at the time, for he was merely a younger son. His brother died ten years ago, having sired six daughters but no heir. You will like him, I know, for I always found him delightfully entertaining. I expect his daughters will become your closest friends…”

Letting the voice wash over her, Angela stifled another sigh. Lady Forley had never understood her daughter. Angela had barely exchanged two words with Lord Styles, so could hardly judge him, but the daughters were two of the most feather-brained idiots she had ever encountered. Expecting them to become bosom bows was ludicrous. The only less likely event would be falling top over tail in love with the infamous Lord Blackthorn.

She shivered.

Chapter Three

Angela perched nervously on the high seat of Atwater’s phaeton as they swayed around the corner and into Hyde Park. He seemed an adequate whip, but his was the least stable variety of carriage, and it was all she could do to remain calm. At least his dappled grays did not appear to be high-strung.

Unclenching her hands, she forced them to lie quietly in her lap. Unclenching her teeth was more difficult. He had been dumping the butter boat over her head since arriving at Clifford Street. Ignoring his excess did nothing to slow him down. How could he utter such fustian with a straight face? Surely he didn’t expect her to believe it! Praise for attributes she neither possessed nor admired was yet another cross she had to bear.

London was far different from her expectations, demanding contradictory behavior at every turn. Truth was prized, yet gentlemen uttered false flattery that ladies had to accept. Honesty was lauded, yet even men hid educations behind fatuous facades. Women were allowed no independent thought.

She suppressed a sigh, pasting a smile on her face. Society expected her to be untutored, and she had promised to follow convention. Since she was hiding her education, she could hardly complain that Atwater treated her like a widgeon. But if he preferred an empty-headed wife, then he would never do as a husband. So how was she to discover what he truly prized? Even as she groped for words that would begin an honest discussion without branding her as a bluestocking, the opportunity slipped away.

Obviously Atwater did not expect this drive to improve their acquaintance. Once they passed the gates, he all but ignored her. He was immensely popular. Every lady stopped to chat with him, from the venerable Lady Beatrice to newly presented misses. Most flirted shamelessly. But he was not merely a lady’s man. Gentlemen hailed him as well.

Angela soon gave up trying to talk to him, turning her attention to the view. It was her first afternoon visit to Hyde Park. During her early morning rides, the place offered the solitude and spaciousness that eased her longing for home. Now crowds stripped it of familiarity, creating as big a squeeze as last night’s ball.

The fashionable hour was at its peak. Elegant equipage clogged the road, from a tiny vis-à-vis to handsome landaus, from flashy phaetons to dashing curricles. Gentlemen atop showy horses snaked between them. Others paraded on foot.

Park conversation proved to be simple – ritualized greetings followed by repetition of the day’s
on-dits
. But her own contributions were negligible. Carriages stopped on Atwater’s side of the phaeton, and he invariably answered for her, not allowing her to get a word in edgewise.

She soon gave up trying, turning her attention to the horsemen and pedestrians who approached on her side. These included several gentlemen who had danced with her at her ball. Most had adhered to custom by sending round nosegays that morning. Chatting with her in the park was probably another custom. She bit back a sigh at the realization that even here, everyone’s behavior followed a ritual as formal and meaningless as the advance and retreat of a cotillion.

Perhaps her mother was right to criticize her training – though it was the woman’s own fault that she’d never had a governess. Sharing Andrew’s tutors had opened her mind to ideas entertained only by men. When Andrew had left for school at the very advanced age of sixteen, Angela had continued studying on her own, using their father’s library as her teacher. Lady Forley had visited the Court as rarely as possible and had ignored her children even when she was there. But such a background left Angela feeling out of place in the world of the
ton.
No matter how she tried to conform, she was different. Thus her criteria for choosing a husband were also different. She had to dig beneath gentlemen’s facades if she was to find a man she could live with.

Garwood arrived while Atwater was flirting with Lady Jersey. “Lady Seaton seems strained,” he noted after the ritual greeting.

“She has reason to be.”

The lady was laughing with a pair of officers, but the lines around her eyes did not denote gaiety, and she sat her horse like a wooden statue.

Angela’s maid had been bursting with the tale that morning. Lord Seaton was a well-known rake who had carelessly been discovered
en flagrante
by his current inamorata’s husband. A duel was inevitable. Lady Seaton must have heard the news.

Garwood shook his head. “She knew his reputation when she married him, so she can hardly complain.”

“Perhaps she thought to reform him.”

He laughed. “More fool she. He is incorrigible – not that any gentleman is likely to change his habits for a wife. If she wanted fidelity, she should have chosen a husband who believed in it.”

Angela nodded, but made no further comment.

Atwater bade Lady Jersey farewell and glanced coolly at Garwood before moving the phaeton forward. He started to speak, but was interrupted by Lord Styles, followed by the Bradbury sisters, then Lady Delaney and her daughter.

Angela tired of the repetitious conversation long before they completed their circuit of the park. The voices kept changing, but the same words echoed from all sides.

“Lady Chesbrooke and Lady Fullerton had another falling out last night…”

“… and then Delaney upset the table – accidentally, of course – but poor Williamson spilled wine all over his…”

“Shelford is thinking of trying his grays against the London-to-Dover record…”

“If Mr. Conelaugh thinks he can slip into the garden with…”

“Mademoiselle Jeanette is the best modiste you have ever found?”

“I cannot believe Lord Seaton…”

“… Lady Jenkins lost a hundred guineas at loo, of all things…”

The fashionable hour was merely an extension of the drawing room – the same faces, the same gossip. Only the addition of horses and carriages made it different. As Atwater turned toward the gates, Angela exchanged one last nod with another departing lady.

“Devil take it, didn’t your mother teach you anything?” Atwater glared. “That was Lady Shelby.”

“Who is she?”

“A person to be cut.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “Such innocence. You needn’t bother your pretty head over it. But ignore her from now on.” His condescension irritated her, but she could not find the words to express herself. How was she to gain a man’s respect if revealing intelligence would ruin her?