Fallen Angel (12 page)

She began to protest, of course, but he was out the door and away.

“Well, and as if I am not quite able to handle myself in a crowd,” Petronella said huffily, sitting back down in her seat. “More than likely Lord Sherington is only slipping away for an assignation with his mistress.”

“His mistress?” Verity said, hoping her face did not betray her emotions, which were in desperate turmoil.

“Eleanor Lowndes. She has been sitting opposite us all evening. Surely you have noticed her? The fourth box from the left and the next row up? Her red hair is quite unmistakable. She uses a henna rinse, or so I have been told.”

“I am afraid I have not paid much attention to the people in any of the other boxes,” Verity confessed.

“Then what have you been doing all evening, pray?” Petronella asked in astonishment.

A black-haired woman opened the door to the box and peered in.

“Lord Sherington is not here at the moment,” Verity said, and the woman withdrew immediately. Turning back to her sister, Verity explained, “I have been listening to the singing, of course.”

“The singing? Really, you are a hopeless case. Since an evening at the opera is obviously quite wasted on you, we would have done better to have left you at home.” Petronella snapped open her fan and began waving it briskly in front of her face.

“Who is she?” Verity asked faintly.

“I am sure I have never seen her before in my life.”

For a moment Verity was confused. “Oh, I did not mean the woman at the door just now. I meant Miss Lowndes.”

“Mrs., not Miss. She is a widow with a rather dubious reputation. She was a McIntyre from the north of Ireland before she married a rich cit with one foot in the grave. Luckily for her, he did not last two years after the wedding, but unfortunately he was not quite as blind to her indiscretions as she thought he was. He left the bulk of his fortune to his grandnephew, and she got only as much as the law provides for a widow.”

“Does he—that is Lord Sherington—does he intend to marry her?” Verity asked faintly.

“Marry? Honestly, sometimes you ask such stupid questions, you positively amaze me. I am sure Mrs.
Lowndes is convinced he will marry her in the end, but she is deluding herself. As beautiful as she is, you may count on it that when Lord Sherington decides it is time to acquire an heir, he will pick as his wife some pretty little thing fresh out of the schoolroom, not a widow who is already long in the tooth.”

“How old is she, do you suppose?” Verity managed to ask.

“Six-and-twenty is what I have heard,” Petronella answered promptly. “Now look at that woman in the third box over who is wearing all those rubies? Do you see which one I mean? That is Harriet Wilson, the most famous courtesan in London. And that is Lord Bath well kissing her hand. Lady Bathwell must be absolutely livid. Really, he is an old fool to have visited that woman’s box when his wife is also here at the theater with her cicisbeo.”

Verity paid no attention to the people her sister was pointing out. The evening was ruined for her. Not only had she learned that Lord Sherington had a beautiful mistress, but she had also discovered some disquieting facts about herself.

Pictures of Lord Sherington holding another woman in his arms kept appearing in Verity’s mind, no matter how desperately she tried not to think about such things, and the pain cut so deep, she felt as if she could no longer breathe.

Despite her assertions to Lord Sherington that one should never try to change the person one loved, she found herself now quite unable to control her jealousy. If any action on her part, no matter how low or mean, could have removed Mrs. Lowndes permanently from his presence, she would not have hesitated to do it. And even worse, she, who had never before hated another person, was now ready to hate a woman she had never met.

Verity was thoroughly ashamed of herself, but obviously she was beyond redemption, for despite everything, she could not keep from wondering what it would be like to live under Lord Sherington’s protection.

In no mood to associate with his fellow man, Gabriel was standing half hidden behind a pillar when a familiar voice spoke to him.

“Gabriel, my love, however did you come to share your box with a pair of nobodies like Lord and Lady Wasteney? Did they perhaps blackmail you, or have you lost a foolish wager?”

Eleanor Lowndes gave a low, throaty chuckle, but Gabriel was not amused. He had never had much tolerance for people who questioned his decisions, and he found nothing humorous in his mistress’s remarks.

“Good evening, my dear,” he said, barely glancing at her. “I was not aware that you were fond of the opera.”

“You know what it is that I am most fond of,” she said, her voice husky with desire ... or at least with what he was apparently supposed to assume was desire.

Looking at her now, it seemed to him that she was rather garishly dressed, and it was odd how much she reminded him of Lady Wasteney. To be sure, Eleanor was years younger, but already she was beginning to look a trifle overblown, like a rose that was decidedly past its prime.

“Are you still angry with me, my love?” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. She moved closer, pressing herself against him, but he stepped away, finding her heavy scent too cloying.

As if she had not noticed his withdrawal, she laid her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “Perhaps we could meet later this evening, after you have disposed of your guests?”

Looking down at her fingers, which were curled like claws around his arm, and also thoroughly irritated by the possessive expression in her eyes when she smiled up at him, Gabriel knew their relationship was over. “The house in Somers Town has another two months left on the lease,” he said coldly. “Feel free to make whatever use of it you wish since I will not be needing it.”

Her mouth gaped open, and for a moment she looked remarkably ugly. But she recovered herself quickly and said, “Surely you do not mean that you—that I—” Her eyes filled with tears, which spilled over and ran down her cheeks, but he made no move to offer her his handkerchief.

“Have I not made myself clear?” he asked. “Our relationship is over—finished—ended. Now do you understand?”

He could almost see the thoughts running through her head as she frantically tried to figure out some way to hang on to him, but something about his expression must have convinced her that she would only be wasting her time.

“You are heartless,” she said, no longer troubling to keep the spite out of her voice. “And you have used me shamelessly.”

He laughed at that. “Need I remind you that you were the one who shamelessly threw yourself at me? I needed only to open my bedroom door to you and you could not wait to rush inside.”

She looked angry enough to claw his eyes out—not that she would have been able to do so if she had tried. “Everyone told me you were ruthless, but I was sure that you could not be as cruel as they made you out to be.”

“Ah, then that is where you made your mistake. You should have listened to what everyone was saying.” He turned to go, but again she caught at his sleeve.

“It is not Lord and Lady Wasteney you are interested in, is it, Gabriel,” she said. “If you are giving me my conge, then you must already have your eye on my replacement. You intend to seduce the younger sister—that Miss Jolliffe, do you not! Such a pathetic little nobody, she will give you no real sport. Why she has no more figure than a boy.” The widow’s eyes narrowed. “Have your tastes become so perverted that you can prefer her to me?”

“My dear, do you have any idea how boring you have become?”

“You may think you can make any woman in London jump to do your bidding, but in this case you will rue the day you treated me so shabbily. I shall have a pleasant chat with Miss Jolliffe, and afterward you will be lucky if she will give you the time of day.”

Gabriel smiled. “I had not realized until this evening how positively vulgar you are, Mrs. Lowndes. In fact, I would say that despite your pretense of being a lady, you have the soul of a tart.”

She stepped back, her cheeks as red as if he had slapped her. “And you may be an earl, but it is clear to me that you are no gentleman.”

“The difference between us is that I do not pretend to be what I am not, which you would do well to keep in mind. A gentleman would never kiss and tell, but I give you fair warning that if you so much as say good afternoon to Miss Jolliffe, or start a single innocuous rumor about her, you will find that all the
gentlemen
in the clubs will hear every detail of your behavior in bed.”

“You—you—”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Lowndes. We shall not, I am sure, have occasion to speak together again.”

Leaving his former mistress looking quite stricken, Gabriel worked his way through the rapidly
thinning
crowd, procured four glasses of champagne, and returned to his box just as the curtain was rising.

Miss Jolliffe thanked him for the beverage in her calm way, and he realized that while she lacked beauty, she did have countenance. In his wildest fantasies he could not imagine her indulging in such a vulgar scene as the one Mrs. Lowndes had just enacted for his benefit.

While her eyes were on the singers, Gabriel studied Miss Jolliffe’s profile and realized that the lines of her forehead, nose, and chin were remarkably good. Moreover, as slender as she was, she was doubtless one of those lucky women who would age well—who would look much the same at fifty-six as she did at twenty-six.

She lacked the beauty of a rose, or even a daisy, but like a good wine, he rather thought she would only improve with age.

As if she could sense his attention, she turned to look at him, and he noticed that her eyes were also remarkably well shaped. They were indeed one of her better features, and he was surprised that he had not noticed before how pretty they were.

7

It did not m
atter that Lord Sherington had left her alone in the box while he went to meet with his mistress, Verity realized. Now that he was sitting beside her again, she admitted to herself that he could have a dozen mistresses and parade around with them in public—and she would willingly bear any disgrace just to be with him.

Leaning over, he murmured in her ear, “Do you wish to drive out again tomorrow morning?”

Too overcome with emotion to speak, she simply nodded her head.

“Nine o’clock?”

Again she nodded, and he turned his attention back to the stage, but she continued to gaze at him. More than likely Petronella was right. When the time came that Lord Sherington decided to provide for the succession, he would undoubtedly want a wife fresh out of the schoolroom, and it was understandable that until then he would prefer to have a racy widow for his mistress.

On the other hand, here and now it was Verity who was sitting by his side, and tomorrow she would be the one driving out with him. It was quite inexplicable, but she was not about to complain.

“Did you enjoy the opera last night?” Lord Sherington asked.

They were again heading down Pall Mall in the direction of the Thames, Verity realized, and she was so filled with joy, she wanted to throw her arms around Lord Sherington and give him a tremendous hug. Instead she contented herself with tucking her arm through his.

“I enjoyed the music very much,” she said calmly.

“But?” he asked.

“But?”

“There was a hesitation in your voice, as if not everything was to
y
our liking.”

“You will think me foolish, but I dislike being stared at. I would have preferred to listen to the music without all the other people. Would it not be wonderful if one could enjoy such things in the privacy of one’s home?” He did not laugh at her silly fantasy, for which she was grateful, and when they again crossed Westminster Bridge and turned along the drive that bordered the river, she felt secure enough to question him about his years at sea.

T
he life he described to her was appalling, and she was amazed he had lived to tell about it, and so she told him.

“The first thing I learned at sea, even before I learned what a mizzenmast was, was that the strong survive and the weak do not. The second captain I sailed under taught me a lesson about power that I have never forgotten. He made me the man that I am today, and if I could be granted one wish, it would be to meet him again.”

“He must have been a most admirable man to have won the respect of a child.”

Lord Sherington turned to look down at her, and his eyes were colder than the wind that was whipping the water of the river into whitecaps.

“You misunderstand,” he said in an emotionless voice. “When I say I would like to meet him again, it is only because I would like to pay him back for the torment I suffered at his hands. He was a bully of the worst sort, and I was the person on the ship least able to protect myself. The other officers were too afraid of him to lift a finger to help me. I still bear marks upon my back from the floggings he gave me, and he killed two sailors while I was on his ship.”

Warmly wrapped though she was in the fur-lined cloak he had given her, Verity still shivered. Lord Sherington sounded so bleak she knew he must be reliving those days, and she regretted having called back those memories—not that she was reluctant to hear about them, but she could not bear to see him suffer again remembering them.

Gazing into the distance, he said, “Before the ship even rounded Cape Horn, I made a vow to myself that I would do whatever I had to do to survive. I was ten at the time, but I knew that someday I would have even more power than the captain had. It took me years to achieve my goal, of course, and I received inestimable help when I reached my twenty-first birthday. As I mentioned before, a distant relative left me a modest fortune, which gave me a financial base to build upon.”

He turned to look at her again, and she was relieved to see that his eyes had lost some of their coldness. “Money is the source of great power, Miss Jolliffe, and you would do well to remember that. With money you can buy other people, body and soul. Since my twenty-first birthday I have never again allowed myself to be at the mercy of another human being.”

He paused, as if waiting for her to contradict him, then went on, his voice still harsh. “Well before that time I learned that knowledge is almost as powerful as money. Books are more potent weapons than swords, Miss Jolliffe, but if you know other people’s secrets, or even just their weaknesses, you will be able to control them.

“There are some who believe power lies in physical prowess, but it is vastly overrated, because muscles and a strong back can always be hired. Even the most decrepit old man, if he has sufficient money and knowledge of how to use it properly, can be equal to the strongest bruiser or the most accomplished swordsman.”

Gabriel did not stop to question why it was so important to explain to Miss Jolliffe about power; he only knew it was vital for her to understand.

“You have to develop a forceful personality also—a strong will that can bend other people to your purpose. If you lack the determination to use the power you have acquired, other people will take advantage of you. If you hear people say that I am ruthless, then you should believe them, for only by being ruthless have I survived this long.”

Looking into her eyes, he could see quite clearly that she lacked the capacity to wield power effectively, but he also realized it did not matter. He was strong enough to take care of her, to protect her from the sharks who fed upon the smaller fishes. Anyone who dared to hurt her would learn what true suffering was.

“And what about love?” she asked, her gray-green eyes turned trustingly up to meet his. “Is not love a powerful force?”

Gabriel found himself totally unable to answer. What could he tell her? If he told her the truth, that love only makes you weak—that if you love another person, you give that person power over you—then he would be defeating his own purpose, which was to make her fall in love with him.

But on the other hand, he found himself strangely reluctant to utter the usual fatuous drivel—to tell her what he knew to be an outright lie, namely that love is wonderful and all powerful.

“I cannot tell you about love,” he said finally. “Although many women have professed to love me, I have never encountered true love before I met you. The love you bear for your family is unique.”

Given such a golden opportunity, she should have told him she loved him also, but she did not. Instead she said, “It is quite possible that some of the women you have known actually did love you.”

Angry that she had not declared her love, he said, “It was lust they felt, no matter how they tried to disguise it with pretty phrases. I understand that even if you do not, Miss Jolliffe.”