Fallen Angel (10 page)

The evening passed much as Verity had expected it to. The Italian soprano was quite talented, the guest list quite rarified, and Lord Sherington even managed, at an odd moment now and again, to escape from her relatives long enough to bring her a glass of punch or to introduce her to one or another person of note.

But for Verity the best parts of the evening were the beginning and the end, when she was sitting beside Lord Sherington in his carriage. Even though her sister and her niece were occupying the opposite seat, both of them chattering a mile a minute, Verity found quiet pleasure simply in being so close to his lordship.

Without the morning’s drive to look forward to, of course, her mood would have been vastly different, but she could be patient a few more hours. For now it was enough just to be aware of his shoulder almost touching hers, of his knee almost bumping hers
...

All too soon, the carriage turned onto Curzon Street and stopped in front of their residence. In his usual efficient way, Lord Sherington somehow managed to arrange things so that the Wasteneys entered the house first, giving her a few all-too brief moments alone with him on the stoop.

“Thank you so much for a lovely evening,” she said, smiling up at him.

“I am pleased you enjoyed it,” he replied with easy charm.

“I am very grateful that you were so kind to my relatives. It has been such a treat for them.”

To her astonishment, Lord Sherington’s smile vanished, to be replaced by a scowl—which was actually too weak a word to describe the look of rage on his face. Then as if too angry to speak, he turned away without even saying good-bye and left her standing alone on the stoop, unable to think what she had done or said that had offended him.

She wanted to run after his carriage—to catch up with him and demand an explanation for his strange behavior. But before she could take a step, she realized too late what had angered him, and indeed she could not blame him in the slightest. In truth, the fault rested entirely upon her shoulders.

It was her family who had pushed him to this point—her relatives who had fawned on him, clung to his side, assaulted him with their demands. All five of them had, in addition, shamelessly and blatantly used Lord Sherington to advance their own positions in society.

Although it had not been Verity’s idea for them all to tag along, clearly she had not made an adequate effort to prevent them from acting in such a crass manner, quite like the most encroaching mushrooms.

It must have seemed the crowning blow when she had actually thanked Lord Sherington for allowing her relatives to impose upon him to such an unconscionable degree.

Shivering from the cold, she entered the house and reluctantly climbed the stairs to her room. Huddled in her bed that night, she lay awake while the clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes and the hours. She had learned years ago to keep her tears in her heart, but she could not stop her thoughts from going around and around in an endless circle.

If only she could reverse time ... if only she could have a second chance ... if only she had not been so foolish as to lose Lord Sherington’s regard forever
...
if only she had tried harder to prevent her sister from dragging everyone along ... if only
...

Gratitude! After all his noble efforts this evening, all that wretched female felt was gratitude! Miss Jolliffe was supposed to have told him she loved him!

Gabriel paced back and forth in his study, so overwrought he could not sit still even for a minute.

Gratitude, bah! What did she think he was, a philanthropist? There wasn’t an altruistic bone in his body, as anyone in London could have informed her.

Why did she think he had wasted an entire evening being nice to her relatives? Because he enjoyed torturing himself? Because he was a kind person?

Gratitude? If he had the silly girl here now, he would be hard put not to wring her neck.

The devil take her gratitude. He had accomplished nothing by allowing her relatives to hang on his sleeve, so the devil take them also.

Would he come? Verity paced the hallway, stopping every few minutes to check the clock, which seemed to be broken, so slowly did the hands move.

Would he remember that they were to drive out this morning, or was he still angry at her for what she had done? He had every right to break their engagement, and no obligation to send her a note canceling their drive, but she could not keep from hoping.

Please, she prayed, biting her lower lip to keep from crying, let him come. I cannot bear to lose him now. I know I cannot expect to hold his attentions for long, but this is too soon. I love him so much, I shall surely die of a broken heart if he abandons me. Please, let him come—please!

By the time he pulled his phaeton to a stop in front of the Wasteney residence at precisely nine o’clock, Gabriel’s temper had cooled somewhat. He was still angry enough at the failure of his efforts the previous evening, however, that he decided if any of Miss Jolliffe’s family wished to invite themselves along on this morning’s expedition, he would not hesitate to be rude.

Bad manners were not necessary, however, because Miss Jolliffe herself opened the door for him, already cloaked and bonneted and looking quite bright-eyed and well-rested. The remnants of his irritability made him inquire after her relatives.

“Oh, none of them arise before noon,” she replied, following him to the carriage.

“Then why do you get up so early, or have you perhaps been less than honest with me?”

She looked up at him and in the early morning light he could see that her eyes were not actually gray, but gray-green, without the slightest fleck of yellow. “Oh, no, I really do get up at seven every day. Someone must supervise the servants, you see, or they become quite lazy and shiftless.”

“There are times, Miss Jolliffe,” he said, picking her up by the waist and virtually tossing her into his carriage, “when you make me so angry, I am tempted to strike you.”

She did not offer a word in her own defense, which only reminded him of her habit of sitting alone in the
corner
of the drawing room, and that in turn only made him that much angrier. “How can you allow your sister to use you like a drudge? Have you no backbone at all? If you would learn to assert yourself more, your relatives would stop treating you like an unpaid servant.”

It was fortunate that there was little traffic, because he sent his horses along at far too brisk a pace for safety.

“But I quite enjoy supervising the household,” Miss Jolliffe replied, not the least bit put off either by his wrath or by the reckless way the carriage was presently careening through the streets. Either she had no nerves, or she was too stupid to recognize the dangerous situation she found herself in.

“I find it much more interesting than paying social calls and gossiping with visitors,” she said as calmly as if she were serving tea to the vicar’s wife. “I especially like reading books on housewifery and collecting recipes and instructions, although some of the older ones are quite impractical.”

He was about to explain to her that it mattered not whether she enjoyed being a drudge, because other people would only see that she was being ill-used. If she acted as if she were nothing more than a poor relation, everyone would treat her as such.

But just as he was about to begin his lecture, it occurred to him that her activities were actually an ideal preparation for marriage. After all, did he want a wife who slept until noon and had no idea how to write out a menu or how to instruct the housekeeper? Indeed he did not.

If Miss Jolliffe found enjoyment in managing her sister’s household, he would be a fool to complain, especially since she did not seem to feel any compulsion to bore him with tips on the proper way to dress a roast or the easiest way to remove wine spots from carpets.

His temper considerably cooled, he slowed his horses to a more reasonable pace and drove in silence the rest of the way to the river. Crossing Westminster Bridge, he turned to the right and followed the road that bordered the Thames.

Although Miss Jolliffe did not pester him with questions about why he had chosen such an odd destination—or perhaps because she did not ask—he told her. “I have always had an affinity for the water,” he said. “Doubtless from the thirteen years I spent in the merchant marines.”

For a time he was content to watch the barges moving slowly past, then he felt compelled to explain himself more fully. “I was fortunate, I suppose. Some sailors come to hate the sea, but I came to love its vastness and beauty even while I learned to respect its power. The first thing a sailor learns—or in some cases the last—is that the ocean does not forgive mistakes. Even knowing that, when I arrived at the age of one-and-twenty and came into an inheritance, I used the money to buy the first of my ships.”

Miss Jolliffe made a slight sound, and looking down, he saw pain in her eyes.

“But then—surely you do not mean to say that you were only eight when you went to sea?” she asked with dismay.

“It is not unheard of for midshipmen to be that young,” he said harshly, “and it could have been worse, after all. I could have gone to sea as a common sailor. As it was, I received a good education in mathematics, navigation, accounting, and other such subjects required of ship’s officers. To be sure, I am singularly lacking in Latin and Greek and have only read the classics in translation. But that deficiency has caused me no particular problems, so you may save your pity for someone else.”

“I was not pitying the man you are now,” she said quietly, “but I cannot help but feel compassion for the boy you once were, and likewise for all the other children who are sent to sea at such a tender age. Surely, after what you yourself must have experienced, you do not advocate such practices?”

His mind filled with so many painful memories that it took him a moment before he could answer. “No, I do not allow boys younger than twelve on any of my ships, not even as cabin boys.”

“But I do not understand. If you were heir to an earldom, why on earth did your father put you in the merchant marines instead of the Royal Navy? And why at such a young age? Why were you not sent to Eaton or Harrow and then to Oxford or Cambridge first?”

When he did not immediately reply, she sighed and said, “I am sorry, I did not mean to pry into such personal matters.”

Staring out at the water flowing past, never stopping, eternally changing yet staying forever the same, he began to speak once more, his voice calm and dispassionate, and yet it seemed as if the words were being forced up out of the darkest reaches of his soul.

“My father—or I should say, the man who was married to my mother—did not consider me to be his heir. She played him false, you see, and no one knows who her lover was. I suspect her husband would have been happy if I had not returned from my first voyage—if I had died at sea. He had an older son, so I was totally superfluous. The earl hated me so much, even when my
half-brother
died three years ago of the fever, he did not send for me.

Beside them the river flowed onward, never pausing in its journey toward the sea, and beside him Miss Jolliffe sat silent and still for what seemed to him an eternity.

6

Gabriel expected M
iss Jolliffe to recoil from him in disgust, as any properly brought up young lady might be expected to do upon learning that her escort was in essence a bastard, but instead she linked her arm through his and asked, “Which of the countries that you have traveled to did you like the best?”

“England,” he replied without hesitation.

She tilted her head and smiled up at him, and he felt some of the tension drain out of his body. Reaching the place where the road curved away from the river’s edge, he turned the carriage around, and they started back toward the bridge.

“You say you love the water—do you miss being at sea?” she asked.

“There are times when I do, and I have considered purchasing a yacht for my own enjoyment, but for the most part life on board a warship or merchant ship is too brutal for any person of sense to wish to subject himself to it. But still, I find it soothing to go to the river or to the seashore, and I feel much more at home on the docks than I do in the drawing rooms in London.”

“I have never been on board ship,” she commented, “and doubtless I would find it a very strange and alien place.”

“And now you have made me curious to know where you feel most at home.”

“I used to feel at home when I was in my grandmother’s room in Oakwood Manor, but she has been dead five years now, and everything has changed. It is odd—even though I have lived with my sister for eight years, I cannot say that I truly feel at home in her house.” Gabriel started to reply, but before he could utter a word, her expression changed and she snapped out, “And no more than you do, do I want your pity.” She was glaring up at him with the first sign of temper that he had ever seen her display.

“I do not pity you, Miss Jolliffe. I save my pity for people who are weak. You, however, are quite a strong person, although you do your best to disguise it.”

“Indeed I am not,” she replied tartly. “As you have pointed out to me not an hour ago, I am a spineless creature—a poor relation who delights in being used as a doormat.”

He laughed. “On the contrary, it is your relatives who are weak. Only people who know themselves to be powerless have a need to browbeat someone else.”

“And the person who allows herself to be browbeaten? She is not weak? You will excuse me for contradicting you, Lord Sherington, but your logic is faulty.”

“I do not mind if you contradict me,” he said, “but you will find I am seldom wrong, and certainly not in this case. It is only common sense to realize when one is not in a position to fight back. But it is inner strength that keeps a person from being broken in spirit, and you have that strength, Miss Jolliffe, despite what you may think.”