Devall's Angel (8 page)

“Not Blackthorn!”

“Who else? He showed up, larger than life and even more devilish than usual. And Lady Chartley had the nerve to allow him inside. I was never so shocked in my life!” She furiously fluttered her fan. “But he is wrong if he thinks he can worm his way back into my good graces. I refused to speak in the past out of consideration for the families, but the truth must out. Blackthorn murdered Cloverdale.”

Angela grimaced. Another body in the man’s wake. And not one that could be passed off as fate or the suicide of a weakling. Surely this would banish that odd glow she experienced whenever he caught her eye.

“Murdered?” demanded Mrs. Bassington, another inveterate gossip, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping.

“He might consider it an affair of honor, but I cannot.” Lady Debenham pulled herself straighter. “There were no seconds. No doctor. No witnesses. And Cloverdale was execrable with both sword and pistol. It was naught but cold-blooded murder, but without witnesses, none can lay charges.”

“Without witnesses, how do you know what happened?” asked Lady Forley, surprising both Angela and Lady Debenham.

“What else could it be?” the gossip demanded. “Cloverdale told Lord Kingsley that he was meeting Blackthorn in the morning. Kingsley assumed it was to receive the crim-con settlement. Not until the body turned up did he deduce that the meeting had been a duel. But even that is not the sum of Blackthorn’s crimes. Lord Coldstream’s death must have occurred in the same way. The two had been at odds the day before. I tell you, Blackthorn is devoid of all honor.”

“What is she going on about now?” murmured Sylvia, appearing at Angela’s side. She had accompanied them to Almack’s so Hart could keep a weary Cassie at home.

“Lady Debenham thinks Blackthorn killed both Cloverdale and Coldstream,” she whispered.

“I remember the talk about Coldstream,” said Sylvia. “He died while I was in town shopping with Cassie. He and Blackthorn had had an altercation at one of the clubs – Boodle’s, I think – the night before, though it was never clear what caused it. One rumor claimed they argued over a girl; another swore it grew out of a card game. But they supposedly patched up the quarrel without a challenge.”

“How do you know?” She moved closer to Sylvia so they wouldn’t be heard. All ears were tuned to Lady Debenham’s increasingly strident denunciations. “That is hardly drawing room talk.”

“I overheard Hart and Cassie discussing it. He shares everything with her. But there was no hint of murder. I wonder if it’s true.”

Angela bit her tongue until Sylvia’s next partner whisked her away. Why did she have such a strong urge to defend Blackthorn? It made no sense. In fact, nothing made sense. She was losing her mind.

She caught Lady Jersey’s frown from across the room and smiled, forcing her face into a vapid mask to smooth her brow.

Just that morning she had seen Blackthorn on New Bond Street when she emerged from the linen draper’s shop. He had blessed her with another of his disapproving glowers, and had even gone so far as to mouth greetings. She could still feel his eyes boring through her…

Warmth suffused her body as his image obliterated the ballroom, returning her to Bond Street. Sunlight glinted off his curly-brimmed beaver. Menace rolled from him in palpable waves. It was the closest she had been to him since that day in Hatchard’s, yet despite his antagonism, she still felt no threat.

The incongruity made her question her sanity even as a coach rolled past, blocking her view. Why did so notorious a scoundrel not intimidate her? Curiosity was an inadequate answer, though he had piqued hers since that day on Piccadilly. His silence over her misdeeds proved that he was less black than society claimed, yet his stalking supported even the worst tales. Was he playing some game with her?

Even as she grappled with his inconsistencies, their gazes locked, and she shivered.

He was a mass of seething emotion. Fury and disapproval were obvious. But his eyes contained so much more – warmth, irritation, pain, intelligence, wariness, arrogance…

An overwhelming urge to stroke that harsh face and smooth the furrowed brow graphically revealed her real enemy.

Herself.

No wonder she didn’t fear him! Her own urges were far more dangerous. Blackthorn might be an enticing enigma, but she could not afford to explore his character. Satisfying her curiosity would destroy her. If rescuing Jimmy could make her a social pariah, what would compassion for the Black Marquess do? Someone would surely lock her in Bedlam – probably her mother.

Even as he mouthed another comment, a lady pushed past her into the shop, jostling her arm and reminding her that she was visible to the entire world.

Dear Lord! She was staring at him. Again. And again she had no idea how much time had passed. Even worse, she had replied – several times. The last thing she needed was for people to think she was besotted with the man. Caroline Lamb’s obsession with Lord Byron had been the talk of the town for more than a year. Comparisons would ruin her.

Yet it was difficult to wrest her gaze from Blackthorn’s. And she couldn’t resist peeking over her shoulder as she ducked into a shop.

He hadn’t moved an inch. And his eyes still bore into hers.

Shivering, Angela forced her attention back to Almack’s. She must avoid Blackthorn, for she exerted no self-control in his presence. How could she have stared at him like a moonstruck pea-goose?

Garwood arrived to lead her into the next set. “What is that all about?” He nodded toward Lady Debenham.

“More rumors about Lord Blackthorn.” She shrugged.

“Rumors abound in London. Many are exaggerated, though in Blackthorn’s case, even the truth is severe.”

“Meaning that stories about him are not exaggerated, or that they remain grim even when shorn of editing?”

“Definitely grim, though not entirely true. Take that gambling story, for example. He fleeced Graceford, right enough. Last Season, it was. But I saw no evidence of cheating. He is a better player than people suspect, for his mind is quite keen. Graceford, on the other hand, always had a little too much luck, though no one ever caught him at anything underhanded – at least not in this country. He died in a duel with an Italian
conte
who did not consider Graceford’s fuzzed deck amusing. One of my friends recently returned from Naples and recounted the whole story. He witnessed the denouement.”

“Heavens! But why does Blackthorn have a reputation for losing if he is such a good player?”

“I suspect he plays for idle pleasure and cares not whether he wins or loses. But let us forget the man, for despite exaggerations, he remains a blackguard. What he did to his betrothed can never be forgiven, and Lady Cloverdale was worse. There is a new exhibit at the British Institution you would enjoy – a retrospective of Reynolds. Shall we visit it tomorrow?”

“Mother has already accepted Lady Stafford’s invitation to a Venetian breakfast. Perhaps Friday.”

“Thank you. Would your brother and Lady Sylvia care to join us?”

“We can ask.”

The arrangements were quickly made, and she moved off with Sir Alan. They had no opportunity to talk during the country dance, but afterward, when he offered to take her driving, she shook her head.

“I would enjoy it, but you should escort someone eligible to become your lady.” He jerked as if she had slapped him. Damn! Her tact was severely lacking. In an effort to soothe his bruised feelings, she continued. “You are a good friend, and I want you to be happy. But you have often mentioned that you need a wife. Honesty compels me to point out that I will probably grow into a harridan much like my mother. You would be uncomfortable with such a person.”

“Indeed I would,” he said, much struck.

Angela grimaced once he departed. She had not handled that well. Yet what would have been better? Turning down an offer he had not yet made was frowned upon, but if she had waited, it would have been too late for him to look elsewhere this Season. The harridan comment had been an outright lie, but she could scarcely tell him that he was too weak-willed, even though it was the truth. After watching her mother dominate her father, she wished to avoid any chance of doing the same.

Lord Styles was chatting with Lady Forley, promising that the rest of the evening would be annoying. His giggling daughters would make their appearance all too soon.

Lord Styles laughed at one of Lady Forley’s comments, and she thwacked him soundly with her fan. Atwater returned Grace to her father’s side, bestowing a warm smile on Angela before moving off to find his next partner.

“I vow you are the luckiest thing,” said Grace with a sigh, her eyes glued on Atwater’s back. “I wish he would look at me that way. Isn’t he the handsomest man? Golden hair. Blue eyes. And the most sensuous lips.” She giggled.

“I suppose so,” agreed Angela. Grace compared everyone to the heroes in her favorite gothic novels. “But looks are not everything.”

“I know,” said Grace. “Title and wealth count more. But it certainly adds to the package. Do I have any chance with Lord Atwater?” she asked, turning to her sister. “He dances with me every day and always has some compliment for my appearance.”

“He only asks you because we are nearby when he claims his two sets with Miss Warren,” said Lady Hervey brutally, for once soberly honest. Her tone implied that the match was a foregone conclusion, making Angela shudder. “Turn your eyes to someone reasonable. Mr. Harley has been attentive the last few days. He may not have a title, but his uncle left him a fortune. And he’s not bad looking. With only a bit more chin, he would be downright handsome.”

“But he is such a sobersides,” protested Grace.

“Not really.” Lady Hervey understood the girl’s penchant for pranksters. “Did you not know that he was responsible for that melee last week when three muddy dogs and a cat were released into Lord Houghington’s hall just as he descended dressed for the opera?”

Grace laughed. “Lord Houghington is so fastidious that a speck of lint will send him home to change.”

“One of the dogs shook himself right in front of his lordship.” Lady Hervey giggled. “I heard his hysterics were a sight to behold.”

Angela hid a grimace.
What a juvenile prank!
And the girls weren’t much better. Lord Houghington might be more fastidious than Brummell, but the dogs had knocked over tables, broken vases, and started a fire that scorched the drawing room carpet. The cat had sprayed the draperies. It would be long before the odor was gone.

When she returned from the next set, she found Lord Styles alone. Lady Forley had accompanied Grace to the withdrawing room to repair a flounce torn by Mr. Crawford, who was gaining a reputation for clumsiness, having damaged four gowns already this Season. Lady Hervey was across the room, laughing with friends.

“Silly chit to make such a fuss,” grumbled Styles. Grace had been nearly hysterical over the accident, drawing disapproving glances from three of the patronesses.

“She is young yet,” murmured Angela. The following set was a waltz, so she was neatly trapped here until her mother returned. The Countess Lieven had introduced the dance at Almack’s the previous spring, but it was still considered scandalous for young girls. The Season would be considerably older before Angela received permission to try it.

“I don’t know where she comes by these jumped-up ideas.” He seemed determined to air his complaints. “Her sisters found perfectly good husbands at the York races. There was no call to waste good money on London.”

“It is rather expensive.”

“Stupid widgeon. Just because I inherited a title, she thinks to land some rich lord. I must have had rocks in my head to agree. I hate London.”

She could understand that. Ignoring Lady Forley’s dictums for once, she answered truthfully. “Hate is a bit strong, but I, too, prefer the country, as does my brother. Life is too hectic here, too shallow, too phony. Though it can be fun in small doses.”

He seemed surprised, but also gratified. “Not even in small doses. Even York is too hectic for my tastes.”

“You prefer your estate then?”

“Definitely. It offers marvelous hunting. The moors are more real than this stuffy ballroom.”

“How fortunate that you love them,” she said lightly. “Your home is quite isolated, I understand.”

“As is your brother’s.”

“We have a few neighbors, but we are in a pocket of hills separated from most other estates by Romney Marsh, and now by the military canal.”

“Will you pine for it once you leave?”

“Some, but with my brother’s impending marriage, I have no place there any more. Lady Sylvia will assume running the house.”

An odd expression flitted across his face. “That’s what the old harridan meant.”

“What?”

“My housekeeper. With Grace gone, who will run my house? Who will see after my tenants? She’s my youngest.”

Heavens! Was he hinting that she would make an adequate wife? But his next words dispelled that fear.

“I suppose I must look over the widows when I get home. There is one in the village and several in the nearest market town. Someone accustomed to living modestly would be best. I cannot abide waste.”

She was saved from responding by a commotion outside the ballroom.

“No one gets in after eleven,” swore a distant voice, recognizable as the porter’s. “No exceptions.”

A man answered, but his voice was muffled.

“Good God! It’s a bloomin’ footpad!” exclaimed a sprig near the window that overlooked the entrance.

“We’ll be murdered!” gasped a matron.

Half a dozen ladies screamed, prompting several gentlemen to turn censorious quizzing glasses on the lad.

“Nonsense!” declared Captain Harrington from his post at another window. He caught Angela’s gaze with a reassuring wink. “It’s only a jarvey trying to deliver a message.”

This assessment proved accurate, for the porter appeared in the doorway, where he exchanged a few words with Lady Jersey. She then sought out Lady Hanson, who gasped. Only the timely appearance of a vinaigrette prevented a swoon. She left immediately, supported by her teary-eyed daughter.