Wicked Angel (2 page)

"I would like that very much," Lauren agreed.

"We shall miss you," he added irritably.

She peeked around his formidable frame and smiled at the servants. "I will miss everyone, too—even
you
, Count Bergen." With a little laugh and a playful wink for him, she turned and walked to the carriage. "Are you quite ready, Paul?"

Oh yes,
very
ready. He pushed Lauren into the waiting carriage and banged hard on the side before Bergen could speak again. As the carriage lurched forward, Lauren leaned out the little window, waving and calling good-bye, laughing as the servants stumbled over themselves to shout their farewells. The last thing Paul saw as the carriage rattled across the bridge was Bergen glaring after them, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

When at last they had cleared the castle walls, Lauren shut the window and settled onto the cracked leather seat. She smiled brightly. "Oh Paul, I am so
thankful
you have come! I have missed you dreadfully, and you would simply not believe how
erratic
Magnus Bergen has become!"

Oh, he could believe it. Rocking along the almost impassable Bavarian road, Lauren very cheerfully chatted away about the last few months at Bergenschloss, as if she had not been completely mad to sign over every last penny of her inheritance. As if it was perfectly reasonable for Bergen to go from threatening to hang her from the turrets to asking her to act as mistress of that monstrosity he called Bergenschloss.

"Count Bergen," he interjected irritably at some point in her string of chatter, "is an ass. How you manage to attract them all is beyond me."

"Count Bergen is
not
an ass. I think he is just rather lonely up here. He's accustomed to the city, you know. And I do
not
, by the by, attract… well…
asses
," she added disapprovingly. "You know, I think you've grown an inch or two," she said, easily changing the subject.

Paul grinned sheepishly. "One and one quarter," he admitted proudly.

"Surely Mrs. Peterman has had to alter all your shirts to fit your shoulders! You look very well."

He blushed. "Well, I suppose I am a bit thicker than when you last saw me. I've taken to walking every day," he said, and launched into an eager discourse of the last two years, repeating the very things he had told her in his innumerable letters. Relating all that he had been eager to share with his beloved older

sister since the day she had left Rosewood.

They could not reach Rosewood soon enough to suit Lauren. Having traveled for several days in stuffy mail coaches and a rickety old merchant ship, she was anxious to be home, to see the children again.

"You are quite certain the children are all right?" she asked Paul for the second time as the post coach sped along a rutted highway snaking through the English countryside.

"Mrs. Peterman watches over those chicks like a mother hen. She would let nothing happen to them."

"And Ethan? Mrs. Peterman wrote his gout is worse."

"Gout!" Paul snorted disdainfully. "Ethan enjoys complaining, that is all."

Lauren frowned, studying her brother. Although he insisted things were fine, he had said enough for her to know that things were not so fine. He counted each coin in his purse every morning, and she did not have to be told his lack of appetite last evening was due to the lack of coin in his pocket.

She knew perfectly well that she had done the unthinkable when she had defied Ethan and had signed over her inheritance to Magnus. At the time it had seemed the noble thing to do, but she was beginning to think that perhaps her actions had been a bit impetuous. A wave of guilt began to creep through her, and she looked uncertainly at the tips of her worn boots. "I would imagine Ethan is rather angry—"

"What is done is done," Paul said. He paused, sliding a curious gaze to her. "But why did you do it? Give it all to Bergen, that is?"

Why? Because her two-year marriage had been a sham, because the senile old count had never so much as touched her, because her so-called inheritance rightfully belonged to his family. To Magnus, to be precise. "It did not belong to me. Uncle Ethan made a bargain, and I did not fulfill my part."

"Of course you did! You married him, did you not?"

Married him by proxy, yes. But the feeble old count had never understood who she was. "He was quite senile and never so much as touched me. He never really even knew me. My part of the bargain was to provide an heir, but I was never truly his wife. So, I did not fulfill my part."

Paul colored slightly and looked away from her, out the window. "Did Bergen take your things? I saw a woman wearing your gown—"

"Oh, no! That was Helga, the scullery maid, and well, she admired my gown, and as she did not have a proper thing to wear to her brother's wedding, I gave it to her. I really had no need for it." She laughed.

"I am hardly called upon to entertain at Rosewood!"

Paul did not smile. "And the locket?"

"Now
that
," she smiled, "was unfortunately but fairly lost in a card game." Her brother remained looking out the window, silent. Too silent. God, what had she done? The moment she had walked into Magnus's study with the paper relinquishing her claim to the Bergen estate and fortune, she could almost hear Ethan's bellows of protest from across the North Sea. Even Magnus had looked at her as if she were insane. Oh,
he
had understood the moment he had arrived from Switzerland what Ethan had done. The whole of Helmut's estate in exchange for an heir—how preposterous! A senile old man well past his eightieth year, the old goat had mindlessly signed an agreement that effectively gave her everything in exchange for nothing. Magnus had despised her because of the sham marriage, and the two of them

existed uncomfortably for many months before Helmut's death.

When Helmut died, Magnus assumed the title and was finally free to say and do what he thought, and he heatedly accused Lauren of being a thief. Rightfully so, to her way of thinking. Ethan had taken horrid advantage of Helmut. She believed that so fiercely that she had made herself ignore Mrs. Peterman's letters, all of which hinted at the deplorable conditions at Rosewood. She
had
to ignore them, because she could not, in good conscience, keep the Bergen inheritance. Magnus, naturally, had been the first to agree with her. All right, he had softened somewhat over the last few weeks, if one could assume a man with a heart of stone could soften, but it had not changed anything.

Until this very moment, and she was mentally kicking herself for having turned over what might have been the only means to provide for Rosewood. "Good God, I am four and twenty," she blurted suddenly as the gravity of what she had done sank in. "
Four and twenty
," she repeated, stabbing the air with her hands for emphasis. "How could I be so impetuous?"

"It is not your fault, love," Paul reassured her.

A surge of admiration washed over Lauren. God, how she loved her brother. To this day, she could not help feeling guilty about Paul's limp. It was the considerable opinion of Rosewood's stalwart housekeeper, Mrs. Peterman, that Lauren could not forgive herself for having emerged unscathed from the accident, for having been all of nine years old and arguing with a five-year-old Paul about who would be allowed to ride on the high seat with the driver, or for Paul's having been thrown clear of the wreckage that damaged his leg and killed their parents. Mrs. Peterman further reckoned that Lauren's guilt was what spurred her to work so hard for Rosewood. Lauren was less romantic about it—she worked hard because she loved her home.

In the first years after her parents' death, the estate had fared well enough, and Ethan had subscribed to the "out-of-sight, out-of-mind" theory of child rearing. Paul had continued his education at the parish school, and she had been placed under the stern tutelage of Ethan's wife, Lady Wilma Hill. Aunt Wilma proved determined to pound as much feminine grace and propriety into her charge as she possibly could.

The old battle-ax had succeeded well enough before her death ten years ago, for all the good it did Lauren at Rosewood. After her aunt's death, she had refused to learn another blasted thing in the art of being a lady, and had thrown herself into the study of useful things, such as farming techniques, quotations and proverbs, and languages.

But the farm had slid farther toward the precipice of poverty over the years. While Ethan spent their dwindling inheritance as his legal status of reluctant guardian entitled him to do, Paul and Lauren had lived practically hand to mouth. What little land they owned that was not eaten up by the parish, was soon overused and unproductive.

It was Mrs. Peterman's idea to accept the first of their boarders ten years ago. His name was Rupert, a fifteen-year-old dullard and an apparent embarrassment to his affluent family. The parish vicar had arranged everything: in exchange for a place to put his son out of sight, Rupert's father provided a stipend that at least enabled them to keep food on the table. It turned out to be such a convenient arrangement, the vicar suggested to Mrs. Peterman that the parish would pay a small stipend to board orphans, and more had come over the years.

Their uncle had been happy to take the paltry stipends that came with the unfortunate children. Lauren had been quite content with the arrangement—until Ethan had convinced the feeble Helmut Bergen to accept an unheard of betrothal agreement, using little more than a small portrait of Lauren. She had balked, but in the end, under unbearable pressure from Ethan, she had done it for Rosewood and the children.

The children! How she longed to see them! There was Lydia, with fiery-red hair and big green eyes, and Horace, constantly dreaming of the day that he could be a
real
pirate. There was Theodore, who loved books as much as Lauren, and little Sally, the blond darling who worshipped Paul. And of course, Leonard, dear Leonard, the brightest and most tragic of them all. Born to a tavern whore, the poor child had been marred at birth with a purple birthmark that covered half his face.

Through the years, she had come to accept that in her parent's death was a blessing. Had it not been for that horrid spring day, she and Paul never would have known the boarders—they meant the world to her. And she had ruined the one opportunity they had to provide properly for them. What in heaven's name would they do now?

Lauren glanced at Paul, who had traveled thousands of miles to retrieve her, and impulsively grasped his hand. "Oh Paul! I gave it
all
away!"

Paul slipped a brotherly arm around her shoulders. "You did the right thing, love, and we shall persevere," he assured her. "We always have, we always will, and we shall do so without resorting to stealing from an infirm old man. You did the right thing."

Rupert, the first of the Rosewood boarders, was waiting at the post station in Pemberheath, perched in an old wagon pulled by two fat grays that looked as if they had not seen this side of a pasture fence in a decade. Thankfully, Rosewood was only three miles from Pemberheath, and Lauren's anticipation grew greater with each one. But when they turned onto the lane leading to Rosewood, her eagerness turned to shock. The once stately home was in such sad disrepair she hardly recognized it. The great green shutters, so grand in her youth, were faded with age, and One hung crooked from a single hinge. The paned glass windows her mother had been so proud of now boasted several cracks. The front lawn was overgrown with weeds, the fence was crumbling, and a thin, weak tail of smoke rose limply from one of four chimneys. Two kid goats chewed a section of weeds near the corner of the house.

"What
happened?
" she exclaimed with unconcealed mortification.

"We are somewhat short of funds," Paul mumbled wearily.

Short of funds? Judging by the look of the place, they had to be
destitute
. "But… we have
some
income, surely!" she cried.

"It's rather complicated," Paul responded gloomily. "I'll explain later," he muttered as the wagon rolled to a stop on the front drive. Rupert immediately jumped down from his perch, striding away for what he apparently considered the important task of corralling the kid goats.

The front door was suddenly flung open and a lad of almost twelve years scrambled outside shouting,

"She's home! She's home!" A large, purple stain spread from the top of his forehead, across his left eye and cheekbone, and into his hairline. Lauren quickly alighted as the child rushed forward and threw his skinny arms around her legs. "Oh, Leonard! I am so very happy to see you!" She laughed gaily and hugged him tightly.

"Did you sail on a very large boat?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, darling, we sailed on a
very
big boat," she responded, chuckling. "But we saw only one pirate."

"A
pirate!
But how did you
know
he was pirate?" he asked in awe.

Lauren laughed. "Why he wore a tricorn, a patch over one eye, and a sword at his hip, that is how I know!"

"Was he taller than Uncle Ethan?" another boy of around ten shouted from the door, hurrying toward Lauren. She quickly stepped into his path and caught him before he plowed her over. Hugging him tightly to her, she kissed his golden head.

"He was taller than Uncle Ethan and spoke a strange language," she confided, dropping to her knees.

"I
told
you Lydia! I told you there would be pirates!"

"I
know
, Theodore," a girl sniffed indignantly from the door. Lauren smiled and extended a hand toward the pretty twelve-year-old. Lydia started forward and was jostled as little Sally rushed outside, headed straight for Paul. Another boy, seven-year-old Horace, crowded in front of Lydia, his wooden sword stuffed in his belt. The children gathered around her like chicks to feed, and Lauren hugged them each, patiently answering the questions they shouted at her, and laughing gaily as she listened to their news.

"You better have a damn good explanation!" a surly voice boomed from the door. Lauren glanced up and swallowed a squeal of shock. At two o'clock in the afternoon, Uncle Ethan wore a threadbare dressing gown, a snifter of brandy dangling from two fingers at his side. But even more astounding was the fact that Ethan was…
enormous
. Good God, he had gained five stone, maybe six. His face was pallid, his jowls as fleshy as the obstinate old hog that lived on the premises. He had always been a large man, but this—
this
defied large. And for some inexplicable reason, it made her angry. Since Ethan had squandered their inheritance, he had come to live at the estate. Rosewood was destitute, but her uncle, well, he looked
remarkably
well fed. She stood slowly, dropped Theodore's hand, and folded her arms across her middle. "Good day, Uncle."