Devall's Angel (18 page)

* * * *

Angela was still furious when she left for the daily round of morning calls. Blackthorn was stubborn as a mule, but she knew she was right. Somewhere buried under all that stubbornness was a wish to belong, a need to be like other men. She must help him, and not just out of gratitude for her restored reputation. She cared what happened to the very unhappy marquess – deeply. And she suspected that it was a blackness of spirit rather than deeds that made his sobriquet so fitting.

Just how bad were his deeds? He had admitted that most of the stories contained seeds of truth. But she needed to know details before she could decide how to help him.

Their arrival at Mrs. Bassington’s house on Davies Street interrupted these thoughts. The drawing room was decorated in a sparse Greek style with white bas-relief garlands and vignettes against light blue walls. Red and blue upholstery provided the only real color. Several marble busts reminded visitors of the late Mr. Bassington’s obsession with ancient Greece.

“I hear Garwood has turned his eyes to Miss Cunningham,” said Lady Beatrice slyly when Angela appeared in the doorway.

“Really?” twittered the elderly Lady Barton. “Dear Sally Jersey noted only last night how devoted he was to Miss Derrick.”

“Well, I saw for myself the look on his face when he and Lady Barbara returned from the terrace,” declared Mrs. Collinsworth stoutly. “If they had not been kissing, then you can lock me in Bedlam.”

Angela smiled indulgently. She almost felt sorry for Garwood. Her own redemption had tarnished his image, and the town tabbies were joyfully watching his every move.

“Lady Horseley,” announced the butler.

“You won’t believe who I just spoke with,” said her ladyship, sending a look of such triumph at Lady Beatrice that Angela wondered what was coming.

Lady Horseley paused to collect all eyes. “Miss Styles has just accepted Mr. Harley’s offer of marriage. The announcement will appear in tomorrow’s paper with the wedding scheduled in three weeks.” Her glee at stealing a march on Lady Beatrice injected excitement into an event that everyone had expected for some time.

“Hardly earth-shattering news, Emily,” drawled Lady Beatrice. “He’s been hanging on her sleeve for weeks.”

But the buzz of a dozen voices drowned out the comment. This would be the first wedding of the Season and thus was worthy of attention.

* * * *

“You wished to see me, Andrew?” asked Angela from the study doorway. His message had awaited her when she returned from calls.

“Yes. Shut the door.” His light-hearted expression stood in sharp contrast to the tension of the past week.

She settled into a wing chair, noting again how different this room was from the library at Forley Court. Few books filled the small cabinet, and most of those were collections of sermons, their pages still uncut. One could expect no more when renting a house, but she badly missed the Court’s library.

“Lord Atwater called on me this morning,” Andrew began, ignoring her gasp. “He has offered for your hand. I gave him permission to pay his addresses tomorrow morning.”

Not yet!
She wasn’t ready for this. “Why?”

He looked at her oddly. “Do you not wish to accept him? Mother was adamant that you would welcome him, but I will never force you into a distasteful union.”

She felt torn in two. Now that the decision point had arrived, every pressure to wed rose up to flail her. How could she face her lifelong neighbors after failing to snare a husband? Yet how could she tie herself to Atwater? The mental struggle sent tremors clear to her toes.

“I know I must accept someone, and he is the only suitor left, but I cannot like him, Andrew. He is not the paragon that society declares, for I heard him myself cruelly dismiss a servant for a trifle. I don’t know the truth behind the death of his first wife, but I suspect he is capable of brutality. Never have I been comfortable in his presence. Yet how can I go home unwed? I am already nearly on the shelf and will be a confirmed spinster by the time we can afford to revisit London. Besides, it would be unfair to Sylvia were I to remain at home.”

“Angie.” He sighed in frustration. “I had no idea that you were torturing yourself like this. I will never approve giving you to a man you do not love. You would be miserable in such a union, and I would be miserable for you. I know too well what love is like to ever countenance a marriage without it. So you must refuse him.”

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “You sacrificed so much to give me this Season, and now I’ve wasted it.”

“There was no sacrifice, Angie. The estate is back on its feet, and finances are better than you suppose. This Season was as much for my benefit as yours. I had been away from London too long and will bring Sylvia back every two or three years – more often if Hart has his way and embroils me in politics. You are under no obligation to me, nor will it matter if you remain at home for a time after I wed. Sylvia will not mind.”

“She cannot help but mind. I am five years her senior and have been running the Court since Father died. She will feel an interloper if I remain.”

“Fustian! You and Sylvia are both intelligent, rational people who know right from wrong. Your place at the Court is not the issue. Choose the course that is right for you. And quit listening to Mother. I just realized that not once have you accompanied Sylvia and me to events Mother finds boring. She must have brow-beat you into denying your interests. Have you done anything but gossip, sip tea, and dance since we came to town?”

“Not much.”

He frowned. “I’d best talk to her.”

“Not today,” she begged, rising to leave. “I cannot listen to another of her tirades right now. If she learns that I am determined to turn Atwater down, she will throw hysterics. It will be bad enough afterward, but at least she must then accept my decision. In the meantime, I believe a headache will keep me home this evening. I cannot abide another ball with the pair of them hovering over me.”

“Why is she pushing so hard?” he asked as she reached the door.

She shrugged. “You know her views. Social position, title, and wealth are all that matter.” Lady Forley accepted society’s opinion on every subject. But society was only as correct as the fashionables who were leading it, and they were not infallible. She should have realized that earlier. It would have led to fewer mistakes.

“I wish I had paid more attention to your come-out.” He sighed.

“Forget it, Andrew. Sylvia is more important to your future than I am. And I’m old enough to look after my own interests.”

If only she had found the backbone to be herself. She might still have failed, but at least the failure would have been based on honesty, she admitted as she headed for her room. For a supposedly intelligent woman, she had been remarkably stupid to believe her mother’s claims without checking them. If she had asserted herself more forcefully, she would not now be facing the distasteful task of turning down a gentleman of questionable temper.

Two hours later she was engrossed in a novel – and more relaxed than she had been since arriving in town – when a footman delivered a thick letter. She didn’t recognize the dramatic hand, but the signature was Blackthorn’s.

 Dear Miss Warren,

Forgive me for angering you this morning. I have little experience with well-bred ladies.

In contemplating your situation, I realize that I owe you the full truth of my quarrel with Atwater. At one time you planned to turn him down, but I am informed that he has now formally offered for you. You will undoubtedly be under pressure to accept and should not face so important a decision without having all the facts.

As you know, his first wife was my cousin. In the beginning, she loved him and sought to please him. From all reports, I believe that he loved her as well. But there is that in his make-up that cannot tolerate opposition to his will. If his orders are not instantly obeyed, he resorts to violence.

She sighed at this confirmation of her suspicions. Poor Lady Atwater. What had she suffered? Between suffocating possessiveness and violence, her life must have been miserable.

My evidence derives from three sources – Lydia’s maid, whom Atwater tried to force into involuntary emigration to Canada shortly after Lydia’s death; the footman you heard him turn off during his rout, who also served at his estate; and Ned Parker, the son of one of his tenants. He is the soldier who accosted you at the theater that night.

At first, Atwater merely fell into a rage when he was displeased. Lydia never knew what would anger him. That uncertainty made her avoid his company and cringe when in his presence, but that too made him angry. Soon the tirades escalated into slapping, the slapping to hitting, until that last day when he beat, kicked, and slashed her. Her maid described her injuries, and frankly they made me sick.

The final argument arose because Lydia wanted to visit her family. Her pregnancy had been difficult from the beginning, and his growing violence terrified her. She hoped that the safety of her father’s home and the care of her old nurse would protect the child from harm. Her maid encouraged her, finally convincing her to leave without his permission. Poor Smith now believes herself guilty of Lydia’s death, but she is not at fault. Once Lydia placed herself in Atwater’s power, no one could have saved her.

Ned Parker witnessed Atwater’s last beating. He had just arrived home from the Peninsula to discover that Atwater had debauched and beaten his youngest sister. He was heading for the house to confront him when the earl caught up with Lydia near the estate gates. Appalled at his savagery, Ned attacked Atwater, turning the earl’s wrath on himself. Atwater smashed his leg, beat him insensible, then dumped the body along a little-used lane where exposure to the winter elements was certain to kill him. But a shepherd found him and nursed him back to health. As soon as he could walk, he followed Atwater to town, bent on revenge. It was he who started the rumors.

Think well before you follow in Lydia’s footsteps. You may hate me for this warning, but at least my conscience is now clear.

                                          Blackthorn

She quietly folded the letter and laid it on her escritoire. Poor Lydia. Poor Ned Parker. And his sister. How many others had Atwater brutalized? And how could society remain so blind? Could no one else see beyond that angelic exterior to the black rot within?

Sighing, she returned to her book. If he was this prone to violence, she must couch her refusal very carefully.

* * * *

“My dearest Angela,” Atwater began the next morning. “I trust you know why I am here. You are the most perfect lady ever created, a light that must defeat every shadow. My heart has been in your keeping since first we met, my love. I want nothing more than to find you always at my side…”

She listened silently as Atwater’s absurdities filled the drawing room. The words were too flowery for belief, and she could now see beyond them to his need to possess her, body and soul. That intensity was what had made her nervous.

“… I know you well, my love, for though you find it difficult to speak openly of that which lies in your heart, your dear mother has often described her loving daughter. Marry me, my love, and I will dedicate my life to making you happy.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said gently. “I cannot accept your kind offer, for we should never suit. I am not the biddable miss you think me. My apologies if my mother led you astray, but though she has long championed your courtship, I have never been warm to it.”

Atwater looked as if someone had just shot him. “Are you daft? Where else can you acquire the social cachet held by Lady Atwater? Where else will you attach such wealth to your name?”

“I care for neither,” she said coldly. “As you would know had you made any attempt to converse with me. I prefer to judge people on their character. It is for that reason that we should not suit, for you desire a meek wife and I would demand recognition as an equal.”

“An equal? A more stupid chit I have never seen. Turning down the Earl of Atwater!”

“What arrogance!” She forgot to school her tongue. “Go flummox someone else, my lord. You need an awe-struck seventeen-year-old with more hair than wit.”

“You actually believe the lies, don’t you?” He slapped her face hard enough to raise a red welt on her cheek.

“With justification, it would seem,” she snapped, rising to ring for Paynes. “You will leave this house, sir. After such an insult, you will not be welcomed here again.”

“You have not heard the last of this,” he rasped, nostrils flaring. His eyes narrowed until his brows formed a continuous slash across his face. “Think you to cast off the Earl of Atwater? Garwood was right. You are little better than a harlot with your teasing ways. You will rue this decision for the rest of your life.” Turning on his heel, he stalked from the room.

“Angela!” Lady Forley slammed the drawing room door hard enough to rattle the paintings on the wall. “Why is Lord Atwater so angry?”

“I informed him that we should not suit,” she stated calmly, though her hands were trembling with reaction.

“How dare you?” screamed her mother, slapping her other cheek even harder. “How dare you turn down the most eligible earl in town? You ungrateful chit. What am I to do now? You will be forever a spinster, beholden to your miserly brother, who is even stricter with me than with you. How can you be so cruel? I cannot stand being buried in the country! I will die if I cannot live in town!”

“Enough!” Angela sidestepped another assault, appalled at her mother selfishness. “You care nothing for me. Your every action had just one purpose, didn’t it – to create a cozy home for yourself where you could foist your outrageous extravagances on someone else’s purse. Well, forget it. You have harmed me more than your empty head could possibly understand, first by driving off the man I had chosen, then by encouraging one whose pretty face hides a fiend the likes of which you have never imagined. God only knows what he will do to repay this insult.”