Devall's Angel (11 page)

“That was not well done,” she hissed, the moment her mother turned toward Sylvia. If Lady Forley joined this dispute, the brangle would become very public.

Shock filled his eyes. It was the first time in days that she had initiated a discussion with him. He looked as though one of the decorations had spoken.

“The pup is unworthy of you.”

“He is perfectly harmless, but that is not the point. It is not your place to approve my dance card. Nor is it your place to choose my friends. This hovering makes fools of us both. You should be attending others. I don’t want to see you again before your next set.”

His face twisted in fury, but he bowed stiffly and left.

“Whatever sent Atwater off in such a huff?” demanded Lady Forley.

“He has been frightfully rude to several of my partners, Mother. Such behavior is unacceptable.”

“How dare you criticize the man you will marry?”

“This is neither the time nor the place to discuss the future, but I must remind you that I have made no such decision. Nor am I likely to. Enough.”

She smiled at Garwood as he approached for the next set.

“What was that all about?” he asked when they took their places for a quadrille.

“Nothing. Mother was just being her usual overbearing self. She will never understand me, for our interests are as chalk and cheese.”

He nodded. “Parents so often try to relive their own lives through their children. My father was the same, but I never could share his love of the sporting life.”

“We have a neighbor like that. He lives for the hunt, neglecting all else, including his family.”

“Forget your mother,” he urged as the music began. “She will not control your life much longer.”

She smiled. If the warmth in his eyes was any indication, he would make his offer any day now. Thank God! Her mother’s pressure had become nearly unbearable. Philip. She tried his name in her mind. Would she grow to love him? She would certainly try.

He brushed against her as they moved into the next pattern, squeezing her hand in reassurance.

* * * *

Devall sat in an isolated corner of White’s reading room, his face ostensibly buried in a newspaper. Few men approached him, but clubs were more tolerant than drawing rooms. None had seriously considered terminating his membership. The room was sparsely populated now that Brummell’s set had deserted the bow window in favor of the card room, where they were looking to break a run of bad luck.

The door opened in a swirl of raindrops, the night having turned blustery and wet. The new arrival removed a sodden cloak and handed it to a footman, revealing a braid-encrusted red uniform jacket on a tall, lanky frame.

An unaccustomed smile creased Devall’s face. “Jack!” he called. “When did you get back?”

Major John Caldwell grinned as he limped across the room. “This is the last place I expected to find you, Devall.” He pulled a chair closer and sank gratefully into its depths. “In fact, I was planning to run down to Wyndhaven next week.”

“What happened to your leg?” A footman delivered a second glass and poured wine for the major.

“Sword cut to the thigh. It festered so Hooky sent me home for a spell, but it should heal without a problem.”

“You just arrived then?”

“Yesterday. What in the name of all that’s wonderful are you doing in London? And looking as devilish as ever,” he added, taking in the stark black clothes and a countenance only marginally lightened by his own unexpected appearance. “Did you finally decide to redeem your reputation?”

“No. It serves its purpose. But this is hardly the place for private discussion.” The words halted further inquiry even though the room was practically empty. “How goes the Peninsula Campaign?”

“I think the tide has turned at last. Napoleon cannot possibly recover after that disastrous retreat from Moscow.”

Devall’s glass paused midway to his lips. “Did he really lose half a million men, or has the number been exaggerated?” Speculation had been rampant for months, ever since the remnants of the
Grande Armée
had stumbled back across the Niemen, but estimates of the French losses varied widely.

“More. He started with six hundred thousand. The Tsar’s troops captured a few thousand – a very few. Only eighteen thousand survived the retreat, and many of them were in pitiful shape.”

They settled down for a long discussion of the war.

“So we are finally winning?” Devall asked at last.

“One cannot be overconfident, and many call me an incurable optimist, but I believe it will be over within the year.”

A new gust of wind blew into the room as the porter hurried to assist another arrival.

Atwater.

Devall’s good cheer vanished. Refilling his glass, he motioned Jack to stay put and casually sauntered toward the porter’s desk as Atwater headed for the gaming room.

The collision almost appeared accidental – two preoccupied men bumping into each other – but the wine that spilled down Atwater’s cravat, waistcoat, and evening jacket was no mistake. Nor was the hatred that blazed from Blackthorn’s eyes.

“You just cannot avoid running people down, can you?” he demanded icily.

Atwater’s face contorted in rage, but he turned without a word to accept the porter’s help.

Devall cursed himself for again forcing a confrontation without the audience necessary to assure success. For some reason, he couldn’t keep his mind on the job this time. First Miss Warren had intruded, and now Jack. Never had he been so careless with a mission.

But never had it mattered so much. Recognizing his emotional involvement gave him pause. He must keep a clear head. Lydia deserved better.

Sighing, he resumed his seat.

“What is your quarrel with Atwater?” asked Jack quietly. “If it is justified, I’ll second you.”

“We will discuss it later.” He returned to their interrupted conversation, but it was long before he could relax and enjoy Jack’s company. No matter how hard he tried, suppressing his fury at Atwater was impossible.

Dawn was approaching when they adjourned to the gaming room.

Atwater had repaired his wardrobe and was now enjoying an evening of piquet. Harley announced that he had lost enough, starting a jovial discussion over who would next partner the earl.

Devall’s hatred again burned white hot. At last he had a perfect opportunity. “I would never be so foolish,” he commented to Jack, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry to the table.

“Is he that good a player?” asked Jack carefully.

Devall suppressed a grimace. Jack might be his closest friend, but until he knew the details, he would steer clear of this feud. So he must go it alone for now. But at least he could bounce barbs from Jack to Atwater.

“He wins uncommonly often,” he replied, his tone implying that it was not due to skill.

Gasps rose from every corner. The sanctity of White’s made the allusion even more serious.

“Are you going to take that?” demanded Shelford, staring at the earl.

“I’d call out anyone who implied such a thing,” slurred Harley, who had imbibed more than was good for him. But his eyes drifted to the pile of vowels in front of the earl.

Atwater’s face remained impassive. Several voices rose in support of his integrity, though the consensus was that such a charge could not go unpunished.

Devall locked gazes with Atwater, the ice passing between them nearly visible. He could feel the earl’s fury – and his rigid control.

Atwater lowered his gaze first. “Shelford, would you care for a game? Ignore his feeble attempt to divert our memories from Graceford’s very odd losses.”

Nice recovery
, Devall had to admit, though disappointment coursed through his breast. Atwater had turned the tables completely. Several gentlemen were already looking at him askance.

“Trying to deflect attention from yourself, Atwater?” demanded a voice from the far corner. “We all know Graceford was caught cheating in Naples. I’d say losing to Blackthorn was no more than he deserved.”

Garwood. Devall identified the speaker even as men perked up on all sides, but this wasn’t the time to consider his unexpected support.

“I say! He’s right!” exclaimed someone.

“We were all nicked by Graceford,” slurred another. “Owe thanks for recognizing a sharp.”

“Maybe his eye is still in,” suggested a third, trailing off into hiccups.

“But Atwater’s luck is no better than mine,” said Shelford quietly.

“Or mine,” agreed another. “Should call out anyone who thinks otherwise.”

Atwater gritted his teeth, indulging in one hate-filled glance at Devall before turning back to Shelford. “Ignore the rogue. He is no gentleman so cannot be treated as one.”

Devall twisted his mouth into a sneer. He’d almost had the bastard. What now? Gabriel apparently planned to ignore the rules of gentlemanly conduct – hardly surprising when set against his other crimes. The hell of it was that he could get away with it. His reputation was so solid that society would forgive him nearly anything.

So he needed a new approach. Somehow, he must weaken the man’s credit. Turning on his heel, he left, Jack at his elbow.

“If you have a legitimate quarrel, why not just challenge him and be done with it?” Jack asked as they hurried through the rain.

“I prefer swords.”

Enlightenment struck. “He is no fencer. I take it first blood won’t end the fight.”

Devall nodded.

Jack’s eyes closed briefly. “Dammit, Devall! Won’t you ever learn? What has he done to draw such ire?”

“Murder.”

* * * *

Hyde Park was sparkling clean as Garwood and Angela joined the crowds for the fashionable hour. Last night’s storm had washed all trace of soot from the trees and shrubs, leaving every leaf sparkling. The sight raised her spirits.

Lady Forley had kept her up half the night, haranguing her for her set-down of Atwater and vowing that she would never approve a betrothal with anyone else. When Angela had reminded her that Andrew was her guardian and thus responsible for approving any suitors, the woman’s fury had erupted into a full-fledged fit. Filial duty required that she accept her mother’s guidance; only a title and fortune would enhance her social position; and on and on and on…

Angela shuddered. She cared nothing for social position, but her mother’s mind was closed. The woman flatly refused to believe that Angela’s interests did not mirror her own. Thus it was vital to bring Garwood up to scratch as soon as possible.

But she had no idea how to go about it. Too much pressure could send him running – as she herself longed to do whenever her mother launched one of her lectures. Eliciting proposals was probably another of those skills most girls had learned along with flirting and making pretty conversation, but she lacked that sort of training.

“I see Lady Stafford has recovered from her brief indisposition,” said Garwood, breaking into her reverie.

“Then it must not have been a chill after all, for she was abed only one day.” Angela returned her gaze to Garwood. “And just as well. She is increasing again.”

“I had not heard.” He sounded aggrieved.

She laughed. “Does a list of those in a delicate condition make the rounds of the clubs? I thought the topic more suitable for drawing rooms. Lady Debenham mentioned it last night, and she usually knows such things.”

“You would be surprised what gets discussed at White’s, to say nothing of wagered upon. But did Lady Debenham actually steal a march on Lady Beatrice?”

“Pigs will fly first. I swear Lady Beatrice has an informant in every house in town. How else can she learn what happens almost before the participants? But what was that about wagers?”

“Gentleman frequently bet on odd things,” he admitted sheepishly. “Which of two water drops will descend a window first; whether the next horse to turn down St. James’s will be brown or black – silly wagers.”

“How did that come to mind in relation to Lady Stafford?”

He grimaced. “I should have kept my mouth shut. There are those who wager on human events – whether a couple with four boys will next produce a girl, or the exact date of a birth.”

“And I suppose they also speculate on how soon after a wedding that birth occurs? Or the nature of the Season’s attachments? Will Lord A succeed in winning Miss B? Or Lord C manage to seduce Lady D? What a despicable practice, reducing people to pawns.” Undoubtedly they were also betting on when she would accept Atwater. It was yet another strike against his suit. She had a perverse desire to confound every betting man in London.

“There are those who will bet on anything, but I am not of their number.”

She relaxed. “I know, and I apologize for my outburst. It just seems so degrading to find ladies’ names being bandied about the clubs.”

“Your outrage does you credit and is one reason I care so deeply for you.” He must have realized how close he had just come to a declaration, for he bit off further comment, determinedly switching to neutral topics.

She sighed but could only follow suit, reverting to park chatter as they greeted friends. It was frustrating. He was so close, but hadn’t yet taken the plunge. And so she faced yet another evening of Atwater’s hovering and Lady Forley’s pressure.

She caught sight of Blackthorn in the distance, locking onto his eyes as usual. She had sent word to Hart about Mickey, but she had no idea when he would collect the boy. Nor could she figure out why Blackthorn had brought Mickey’s plight to her attention. Aiding an orphan hardly fit his reputation, but even discounting that, he surely could have handled the problem by himself. Hart did not run the only orphanage in England. Was he testing her for some reason?

“He tried to force another argument on Atwater at White’s last night,” said Garwood, following her gaze. His voice contained an odd mixture of disgust and approval.

“Does anyone know why?”

He shook his head. “His innuendo was patently false, so he must have been manufacturing a quarrel to cover his real complaint.”

“If he has a legitimate charge, why does he not make it public?”

“Honor does not always allow such exposure.”