Devall's Angel (22 page)

“Poor Devall. But I will not have to endure this much longer. As soon as they grow bored of being shocked, the furor will wane. Then I will be dropped as a social liability.”

“Don’t despair, Angela,” he said, placing a gentle kiss on the palm of her hand. “Truth will win in the end.”

He left her in the library and returned to the garden. What the devil had gotten into him? He shuddered at the remembered feel of her in his arms. Never had he known a woman who felt so good – or who inflamed him so easily. She was yet another cross he would have to bear, for he could never pursue her.

Shaking his head, he went in search of Jack.

* * * *

Devall threaded the traffic in Kensington, but his mind was not on his driving. What else might help Angela? It was infuriating the way society refused to even listen to Atwater’s crimes. The man had mesmerized them with his charismatic charm, deafening them to any hint of the truth.

He was headed for the cottage where he housed disabled veterans until they regained their health. Many stayed on until he found them jobs. Some he had established in business; others worked on his estates or in the convalescent hospital he had founded where those with the most crippling injuries lived. A few he staked to a new life in America, though since the stupidity of two governments had resulted in war with the United States, he was restricted to sending them to Canada. He had been seeing off two of his protégés when he’d stumbled across Lydia’s maid. Rescuing her from the brute who was forcing her on board had required the combined efforts of all three of them.

So how could he help Angela? She had been right to accuse him of hiding behind his reputation. It gave him the freedom to pursue activities that society disapproved. But it also prevented him from countering people like Atwater.

He sighed.

He really ought to set the record straight, not that he would ever be fully accepted. But only a little effort should clear the air of the most serious charges. Yet this particular moment was bad. Society would hardly accept two black sheep into the fold at once, and restoring Angela’s good name was more important. He had already demonstrated his ability to live outside accepted circles. She had not.

Atwater’s phaeton was drawn up in front of Devereaux’s love nest. Former love nest. Devereaux had recently sold the cottage, but the name of the buyer had remained secret.

Atwater could not have cared much for Angela if he was already setting up a ladybird. Or did he need someone on whom he could vent his frustrations now that he had no wife? It was an uncomfortable thought, and one that demanded action. Devall would have to delegate someone to keep an eye on the house and report any abuse. It was one more entry to the growing account he must settle with the earl.

If only he had investigated Atwater when the man had first turned his eyes toward Lydia. But he had not. She had been wildly excited about attracting his attention. Her mother approved his title and charm, her father admired his fortune and estates. Assuming all was well, Devall had left town early in her courtship. But a serious investigation would have revealed Atwater’s deficiencies. Lady Trotter wasn’t the only neighbor who knew damaging tales.

Atwater must pay for his cruelty, though Devall no longer knew how. His original plan was fatally flawed. The earl would never challenge him, no matter what the provocation. And while Devall had collected much evidence of abuse, he had nothing that could be taken before the House of Lords. Unfortunately, beating one’s wife was not a crime. Nor was mistreating tenants and servants. Actions that would get the lower classes transported – or even hung – were accepted in the aristocracy. It was an inequity he had long decried.

So he must redress the wrong by himself. But not with violence. Angela would never approve, even against a beast like the earl. Perhaps depriving Atwater of something he prized would be sufficient punishment.

He frowned.

What did Atwater love? There was his reputation, of course. The man had always been the darling of the
ton,
for his angelic features and natural charm had the gossips eating out of his hand. There was also his wealth. And his looks.

Debunking the charges against Angela would badly damage his reputation, but that was not enough. The looks could only be destroyed in a fight, but Devall had just forsworn violence. That left money. But how?

He mulled the question until he reached the house, then pushed it aside. He had found the perfect situation for Ned Parker, a place where his missing arm and weak hip would not hinder him.

* * * *

Angela’s morning ride was the only time of day she could truly relax. Even at home, tension mounted. Everyone was so determinedly optimistic that she wanted to scream. But for this half hour, she was free to be herself.

Devall joined her two days after rescuing her in the garden. That kiss had kept her awake ever since, but she was determined to forget it. The man was an admitted rogue. So though she would never complain of something she had enjoyed, the kiss meant nothing to him beyond a moment’s pleasure. Yet she blushed as he greeted her. And she was very surprised to see him. Sylvia was riding with her.

“You seem to be holding up well,” he said once the introductions were complete.

“I must be a better actress than I thought.” She sighed. “I expected to fall apart by now, but we will be gone in another two weeks. I suppose I can survive that long.”

“Running away?”

“Never. Sylvia and Andrew will wed a fortnight later. I must be there to make the final arrangements and welcome the guests. We’ve already remained in town longer than we initially planned.”

“So we have only two weeks to expose Atwater.” He frowned.

“I doubt it can be done. My only hope is to plant enough seeds of doubt that people will eventually realize the truth. Then I can someday return to town.”

“You are resigned to becoming a social outcast, Miss Warren?” His voice was cold, his address formal in deference to Sylvia’s presence, though the girl had dropped back to ride with the groom. “It has its advantages.”

“For you, perhaps,” she snapped, her spirits revived by his change of tone. Sparring with him was always exhilarating. “A man can use a wretched reputation as an excuse to flout convention. A lady can never do so. Without respectability, I am treated like a courtesan, as you well know. Reputation is a lady’s only protection. We have not the physical strength to ward off assaults. We have not the financial security to live on our own. Perhaps if I commanded the wealth of Lady Hester Stanhope, I could attract enough respect to overcome my perceived foibles, though even she chose to leave the country rather than endure society’s censure. If only I could follow her example. There must be some place in the world where people would accept me for myself.”

“You cannot believe that I flout convention.”

“You claim to be conventional?” She stared, shocked. “You elope with another man’s wife and abandon her overseas. You fleece a man of his fortune without regret.”

“You, of all people, should know that rumor often lies.”

“So why not tell me the truth? I’ve asked for it often enough. You know I prefer to judge facts.”

“And you know that I prefer to live in the shadows.” But he lowered his voice, moving his horse nearer hers. “I did not elope with Constance, though I did escort her out of the country.” Glancing back at Sylvia, he inched even closer. “We are of an age and grew up on neighboring estates. I remember her from childhood escapades as a vivacious hoyden who was invariably kind. She treated everyone from marquess’s heir to tenant’s son exactly alike. Not that she had much choice, for there were few children our age in the area. Anyone who shunned the lower classes had no playmates.”

She nodded. Her own childhood had been similar.

“Once I left for school, I saw less of her. She staged her come-out shortly after I started at Oxford, married Cloverdale two months later, and settled on his estate. The affair held no interest for a student.” He shrugged. “I had not seen her in several years when she sent an urgent message begging me to meet her in Green Park. I was appalled at her appearance.”

“What?” The word escaped without thought.

His face twisted at the memory, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She had been badly beaten. Both eyes were swollen nearly shut, her nose was broken, and bruises covered her arms.”

“Dear Lord!” The choking exclamation came from Sylvia. Even his softest voice carried on the quiet morning air.

“My feelings exactly,” he agreed, abandoning secrecy by resuming his normal tone. “She didn’t need to explain that the beating was far from her first. Older, fading bruises were still visible. She begged my help, claiming that she had been under assault for seven years, starting immediately after her marriage. But the attacks were growing harsher. After several miscarriages, Cloverdale believed that she would never produce an heir. Fearing for her life, she wished to leave him.”

“Could no one stop him?”

He shook his head. “A wife is chattel under English law, subject to whatever treatment her husband metes out. It is one of the inequities that must change, but for now there is no legal redress against men like him.”

Sylvia paled at his words.

“Forgive my plain speaking, Lady Sylvia,” he begged. “And do not fear for your own future. Lord Forley is nothing like the brute we are discussing.”

“I know.”

Angela nodded. “What did you do?”

“A distant branch of her family lives in Ireland. I escorted her there, and they agreed to take her in. She had no intention of remarrying – and who can blame her – so the fact that she was legally bound bothered none of them. All she wanted was to build a new life where she could be safe. She changed her name and now lives in a remote cottage. I wrote to her after the divorce to let her know she was free in case she ever changes her mind.”

“So you let your own name be dragged through the mud to protect her.” This was the inner Devall she had glimpsed before; the caring man she had long suspected he was. And he was right. Truth underlay the lurid tale, but oh, how badly it had been twisted.

He shrugged. “My reputation was already so black, it made no difference. I could only have countered his claims by producing Constance, but that was out of the question.”

She did not ask about Cloverdale’s death. Sylvia was too young for a tale that might not be so clearly altruistic. “What about Lord Graceford? I do not believe you cheated, but was it necessary to strip him of everything?”

“Yes.” His eyes dared her to contradict him. “He was another whom the law couldn’t touch. He supported himself by fleecing green youths. Though many suspected him of cheating, no one had ever caught him at it.”

“Couldn’t you have exposed him? Society would have taken care of the rest.”

“Exposing a cheat is difficult. Even a hint of your suspicions is grounds for a duel, with the winner considered truthful. He fought one such match early in his career, proving to be such an accurate shot that few dared challenge him. And he had always been a very good card player.”

“So was he a cheat?” she asked, catching an odd look in his eyes.

He grinned. “He was indeed. It took me weeks to figure out how he marked his cards. It was very subtle – he must have had eyes like a hawk to see the marks in the dim light found in most gaming rooms.”

“Yet you didn’t expose him.”

“Society would have been satisfied to run him out of town. But that would have been cold comfort to his victims. Many were starving. Two killed themselves when intoxication waned and reality intruded. They had been the sole support of families who were subsequently turned out of homes lost at the gaming tables.”

“Dear God!”

“Exactly. Having satisfied myself that he was cheating – and probably had done so for years – I arranged a game and surreptitiously replaced his deck with an identical one of unmarked cards. He immediately recognized the exchange, of course, but he could scarcely remark upon it without admitting his sins. He was under no constraint to continue playing past the single game we had agreed upon, but he had faith in his abilities. Believing himself to be a master at piquet, he failed to consider that he had relied on marking for so long that he had forgotten how to concentrate. When he had to rely on skill, it was no longer there.”

“So you stole his fortune.”

“I prefer
recovered
,” he chided her softly. “He could have quit, but anger distorted his reason. Then he fell into the gamester’s trap of trying to reverse his luck when it was obvious the night was not his. When the last card fell, he could only flee the country in disgrace. And much as it goes against my reputation to admit it, I did not keep any of the fortune I won from him that night, instead dividing it among the hardest-hit of his victims.”

“Anonymously, I suppose. That’s what you meant by preferring shadows.”

“Of course. It is not difficult to arrange an unexpected inheritance or return on investment. I have a reputation to protect.”

“You sound just like Hart,” said Sylvia in disgust. “Why do men find it so difficult to admit that they care about others?”

Blackthorn raised his brows.

“Hart has long helped abused servants and orphans, yet he refuses to lend his name to public efforts aimed at those same groups.”

“So that is the orphanage you consigned Mickey to.” He stared at Angela.

“Yes, and Jimmy before him. He really does wish to keep his activities secret,” she reminded Sylvia.

“As do I,” murmured Blackthorn, but Angela heard the words.

“So you also run secret charities.”

He nodded. “I won’t have a shred of reputation left after this.”

“Tell me about them.”

Sylvia seconded the request.

“There is little to tell.” He shrugged. “One is aiding injured former soldiers who have no families they can turn to. It is criminal the way the government uses them, then abandons them the moment they are unfit to fight.”

“I have often thought so,” agreed Angela.

His eyes softened. “There are many things they can do with only a little training or financial assistance. But too many people cannot abide deformity, and many of them have lost a limb. I do what I can, starting with reversing the starvation of the streets.”