Devall's Angel (12 page)

Men! They could cloak the oddest behavior in honor. More than one tradesman was in dire straits because honor demanded that a gentleman pay gaming debts before bills for goods and services. And settling disputes on a dueling field was barbaric, recalling the
I’m-stronger-so-I’m-right
bullying so prevalent in medieval days.

“Honor is laudable,” she said carefully, “but I will never agree that violence solves anything.”

Blackthorn’s actions with Mickey had made her wonder if his core was less black than rumor suggested. Had she jumped on that idea because she wanted him to be good? It would make her feel less guilty for liking the scoundrel.

She shivered. After such an admission, could she ever trust her judgment again?

But the situation was even worse than that. She had felt an unaccountable link to the marquess since the first time she had met his eyes. Was a misplaced infatuation responsible for her inability to love Philip? Such a disaster could destroy her life.

Garwood put on a determinedly cheerful face. “Enough of unpleasant topics. Did you see the way Miss Sanderson stared at Mr. Crawford last night?”

“Yes. How shameful that her chaperon retired to the card room. What Lady Sanderson was about to leave her daughter in the hands of so avid a whist player I cannot imagine. Of course, I also have trouble believing the girl has developed a
tendre
for such a cawker. They disappeared into the garden for one whole set. Heaven knows what they were doing.”

“I think heaven knows quite well.” He chuckled. “It is the gossips who lust after the details.”

“Or envy them. Their speculation contains more excitement than condemnation.”

He laughed, then abruptly sobered. Glaring at an approaching curricle, he deliberately turned his eyes away and set his horses to a trot. Pain exploded in the other driver’s eyes.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“I cannot abide dishonesty.”

“Nor can I. What has he done? That was Lord Renford, was it not?”

“Yes. He used to be a close friend.” Agony underlay his voice. “I just discovered that he stole some papers from my study.”

Her eyes widened. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“They concerned investments I am considering, including detailed information about some property. Whoever buys it should reap large profits as soon as certain plans become general knowledge. They were on my desk when he called yesterday morning, but gone after I had seen him out. He wasted no time. When my agent offered for the property at noon, it had just sold. I can still make a profit, but not what I’d expected.”

“Is he so desperate?”

“No. He is wealthier than I, which makes his behavior incomprehensible.”

“He did not explain when you asked about it?”

“There was no point in starting an argument. No one else had access to them. I will not countenance deceit among my friends.”

She nodded. “Nor I. Trust is vital to any relationship. As is honesty.”

“I’m glad you understand, for not all ladies are so insightful. Perhaps you have been equally cursed by liars and cheats.”

She silently nodded. A neighbor had been caught working for Napoleon. Another had tried to cut his older brother out of an inheritance. The world unfortunately held too many liars and cheats.

“Renford is not the only gentleman I have been forced to cut,” he said with a sigh. “A schoolmate seduced one of my tenants, then lied about his responsibility for her resulting condition. And one of my cousins fleeced a friend, though he also lied about it. I cannot understand how anyone can deny their own actions. It only makes matters worse.”

“True. Much better to admit a fault and take steps to correct it. Repentance can lead to forgiveness, but obstinacy merely adds new grievances.”

They left the park in companionable silence. His high standards matched her own – honorably moral yet broadminded about her education. Even his willingness to uphold the rights of tenants by condemning a friend boded well. They could forge a good partnership out of a marriage.

Chapter Seven

Devall halted in amazement. Miss Warren was leaning over a ragged soldier on Piccadilly, pushing something into his filthy hand. Every time he thought he understood the chit, she did something to blast the image to pieces. He had considered her sympathetic to helpless orphans, yet Mickey had still been huddled in that derelict shed two days before. So he’d decided she had been playing him for a fool, yet here she was, succoring a beggar.

The man grasped her hand as she turned away, mouthing a seemingly emotional entreaty.

Devall stiffened. Had he been wrong? The fellow was undernourished but able-bodied and might be trying to force his attentions on her. But she smiled and patted the man’s arm before turning to leave.

His unexpected concern for her safety made Devall furious. She had occupied his thoughts far too often in recent days.

“Such sympathy!” He fell in beside her. “Do you feel worthier if you toss a penny to a beggar now and then?”

She pulled her pelisse closer and tried to brush past, but he grabbed her arm, forcing her to face him.

“Let go!” she demanded. “Even your reputation does not include assaulting ladies on public streets – or are you embarking on a new vice to keep boredom at bay?”

“What a waspish tongue, but more believable than alms for the poor. Why the pretense? Are you trying to impress me?”

“Conceited, aren’t you,” she observed caustically. “Do you actually believe that you are so important that your very presence can influence everyone’s behavior? Frankly, I didn’t see you. Besides, no one of sense would seek to impress you. What I want is for you to leave before you ruin my reputation.”

“Always so concerned for your reputation.”

“As I must be. Why do you insist on accompanying me when you disapprove of everything I do?”

“Accosting beggars is unsafe for women.”

“Talking to you is even more dangerous.”

“So you really do distribute alms to street beggars?” He carefully kept his voice neutral, not revealing his own very private support for the flotsam of war.

“I wish I could, but I haven’t the means. If you must know, I was attracted to Mr. Jacobs by his uniform, which is identical to that worn by one of our tenants who died last year at Badajoz. I wondered if they had been acquainted and if he could give me an accurate description of Robin’s death, for the letter from his commanding officer was clearly a formula he used for any death in action. A heroic demise fits neither the realities of war nor poor Robin’s character.”

He stared before signaling his groom to help her maid onto the perch. “Get in.”

“Why?”

“So we can finish this discussion away from prying eyes.” She was right. And harming her reputation would add yet another blot to his, making his efforts to gain access to society balls more difficult.

She stared a moment, then shrugged and allowed him to hand her into his curricle.

“So did he know your tenant?” he asked, turning away from Piccadilly.

“Yes.” Her eyes filled with sadness. “It was as I thought. Robin died in great pain from wounds incurred when a riderless horse trampled him as he tended spare mounts behind the lines. His mother must never learn that, of course, but his father will appreciate the truth.”

“So you gave him your tenant’s direction?”

“No, I will tell him myself. I asked him to contact my brother. If Andrew cannot find work for him, I know our neighbor can.”

He remained silent, mulling her words. Was she really this caring, or was this an easy way to thank the man for answering her questions? “Why did you not help Mickey?” he asked.

“I did.”

He stared.

“I told you it would take time to arrange. He was picked up yesterday and should have reached the orphanage by now.”

“What orphanage is that?”

“My friend prefers anonymity.”

He dropped the subject, choosing a roundabout route to Clifford Street. Her direction was one of the bits of information he had collected on Atwater. Should he try again to warn her about Gabriel? Whatever her motives for hanging on the earl’s arm, she did not deserve to be bound to him. No lady did.

“If you are truly a caring person, you should avoid Lord Atwater,” he said at last. “He does not condone charity. Nor does he approve of females showing any sign of independence.”

“Would you be more specific? I must make a match this Season.”

“Is your home so terrible that you need to escape?”

“As usual, you leap to unwarranted conclusions. My brother will marry in a few weeks. My remaining at home would be unfair both to him and to Sylvia, and I can’t waste the sacrifices he made to provide me a Season. By the time he can afford another, I will be too long on the shelf to be marriageable.”

“Such concern. Again she seeks to impress me.”

“Fustian! Your opinion means nothing. In fact, your regard would harm my credibility beyond redemption.”

“You are incapable of wounding me, so don’t try,” he lied. But her taunt hurt. He thrust the pain aside. “Why not admit that you are after Atwater’s title and fortune and be done with it?”

“You wrong me, as usual.”

“How? Girls fawn over the most debased monsters to improve their consequence.”

“So cynical.” She sighed. “You can’t force everyone into the same box. Are you like every other man in London? Even the stupidest people know that there is no label that applies to all. Can you compare Lord Castlereagh, who heads the Foreign Office, with Lord Petersham, who cares for naught but snuff and tea? Why should women be any different? Does Maria Edgeworth indulge in London gossip? Is Jane Austen interested only in finding a titled husband? And there are as many differences within a class as between classes. Why don’t you try to make something of your own life instead of needlessly lashing out at others?”

“I already knew you were a bluestocking,” he reminded her.

“Yet another fact that can ruin me,” she admitted. “I might as well resign myself to life as a spinster.”

“You should know by now that I have no desire to harm you. I am not as black as my reputation claims.”

“Then why am I in this curricle?” she demanded. “One whisper and I am doomed.”

“You will notice that we are not traveling fashionable streets,” he pointed out. “I do wish to protect your honor. But I had to warn you about Atwater.”

“Why do you hate him?”

He stared her down. Only after one more attempt to draw Atwater into a duel would he make the truth public. This time he would confront him before the matrons responsible for his matchless credit. But not in the chaos outside a ball. “I have my reasons, which I would prefer to keep private. But he is not what he seems, Miss Warren. His heart is blacker than my reputation. At least look beneath his surface.”

“I wish you would explain. He has always made me nervous, but I don’t know why. Distancing myself from him is proving to be impossible without facts. Even people I don’t know try to push us together.”

“Perhaps you are smarter than I thought. Just stay away from him. You will regret it if you don’t. And that is not a threat,” he added, drawing up before her house.

Her fingers burned through his glove as he handed her down, startling them both. But he ignored the heat.

His face twisted into an even blacker scowl than usual as he drove home. His motives had not been as straightforward as he had claimed. Turning her against Atwater would crack the man’s armor. Atwater had been hovering so closely that no one was willing to offer odds against a marriage. The betting books held wagers only on the date the announcement would appear. Maneuvering Miss Warren into repudiating the man would cause a sensation, infuriating Atwater – which should make it easier to goad him into a challenge – and raising questions about his character among society’s gossips, thus eroding his consequence.

So his warning had been selfish and deliberate. But he had not expected her reaction. It wasn’t the first time she’d thrown his thoughts into turmoil, of course. Every time they met, she confounded his perceptions. And not always benignly.

Her claim that people were forcing her into Atwater’s orbit had pierced one of his more vital ramparts. Memories were oozing to the surface that he had no desire to confront. She wasn’t the only girl who had little say in her destiny.

Frantically scraping the hair off his forehead, he strode into the library and poured an oversized glass of brandy, rapidly draining it and pouring another.

Penelope.

Go away
, he ordered, trying to turn his thoughts to Atwater. To Miss Warren. To anything else. But it was hopeless. Pain ripped his chest.

His betrothal to the Honorable Penelope Quincy had been arranged by their respective fathers. Devall had first heard of it by reading the announcement in the morning paper. The shock had died a quick death, of course. A lifetime of lessons had taught him that opposing his father’s wishes led to very unpleasant consequences.

He slammed the door on those memories, for they were even more painful than thinking about Penelope.

Draining the glass, he paced the library. Damn his father to hell! And hers. His life would never be the same. That announcement had established his course, defining an inescapable destiny. Not that he had bowed to orders in the end.

His feet moved faster. Even if he could magically return to that night six years ago knowing what the future held, he would change nothing. The die had been cast. Their fathers’ scheming had left him no choice. Jilting Penelope in a less public arena would not have worked. Wedding her would have been worse. But he had been a social outcast ever since.

Not that he minded – most of the time. He had even turned the situation to his advantage. But occasionally the loneliness overwhelmed him. Like now.

He dropped into a chair, pressing his hands to his eyes. He had once naïvely dreamed of finding a wife who could share his concerns. He had even dreamed of children, though he had never admitted to a soul that he liked the little beasts. Now he avoided even the thought of them. Marriage was forever out of reach, and not just to daughters of the aristocracy. He could condemn no woman to permanent ostracism. Nor could he produce an heir. School was brutal enough without the added stigma his son would carry. And the thought of siring an unmarriageable daughter made him cringe. It was a reality he had accepted long ago, and one that rarely bothered him. The fact that it did today was Miss Warren’s fault.