Devall's Angel (24 page)

And it
had
been before Atwater, he assured himself as he turned toward Kensington. Perhaps he could have been more diplomatic with Cloverdale, but fighting had never crossed his mind before the earl attacked. Coldstream had been pure bad luck. The man had caught him questioning the Seven Dials abbess who had lost two girls to his depravity. Hiding his intentions at that point had been useless.

He sighed. Angela’s harping had nearly convinced him to make a push toward redeeming himself. Baring the details to her had been a test of sorts. She had readily accepted the truth – not that he had expected otherwise. His real surprise was that Lady Sylvia had likewise believed him. Now he had to decide whether those two were indicative of society as a whole. It was a question he could not yet answer.

Shelving his thoughts, he pulled up before the veterans’ house. Ned should be in. The man had not yet moved to his own lodgings.

It took only a moment to collect Ned and head for Jack’s rooms.

* * * *

Jack and Ned called on Brummell that afternoon.

“Lady Atwater’s maid will corroborate the story,” Jack told an astonished Beau when he had concluded his explanation. “As will several other servants and the shepherd who revived Mr. Parker.” He gestured toward the former infantryman.

Brummell nodded. “It fits. Hartleigh claimed in his last letter that Miss Warren was being unjustly persecuted. Why?”

“I wish I knew,” said Jack with a sigh. “This goes beyond all reason. All she did was refuse his offer.”

“Which would indicate that she has some intelligence – despite her idiot mother.” He idly swung his quizzing glass while he considered the situation. “I believe you, Major. This should be an interesting evening.”

* * * *

“I am so sorry,” said Barbara when Angela joined her in the drawing room before dinner.

“What now?” Had Atwater contrived some new charge that would get her kicked out of society for good?

“Sylvia did not tell you?” she asked in surprise.

“She had already left for the Seatons’ house when I returned from Hatchard’s.”

“Just after you went out, Andrew received a message from Forley Court. A fire broke out in the stables last night. They were able to save the horses, but the building is a total loss.”

Angela shuddered. “Was anyone injured?”

“A few minor burns. But much equipage was lost, and everything is in turmoil. He left immediately.”

“Dear God. Troubles never come alone, do they?”

Barbara shook her head. “He does not know if he will be able to return to town. Lord and Lady Ashton will accompany us tonight, but we must make other arrangements for tomorrow.”

What could have happened? A careless stable boy tipping over a lantern? A horse gone berserk? But either possibility seemed out of character for both the staff and the animals. Perhaps this was the excuse she needed to leave town. In light of the fire, no one could accuse her of running away.

Yet Devall had been right, she admitted two hours later. The cuts and stares continued, but those not actively shunning her seemed less judgmental. Perhaps it was because no one could identify even one of her supposed paramours – the two libertines Atwater had named had each denied any contact – or maybe Devall’s friends were finally winning converts, but occasional whispers now questioned the tales. And nearly half her sets were spoken for.

Brummell delighted the hostess by appearing unexpectedly after supper, then shocked the
ton
by immediately seeking out Angela for a brief conversation that ended in mutual smiles and a courtly kiss on her gloved hand. He followed up this performance by disdainfully quizzing a matron who had cut her and a sprig who was miming one of the parodies, then gave Atwater the cut direct before retiring to the card room. The crowd buzzed for the rest of the evening. Brummell’s actions drove the first real wedge into Atwater’s armor.

The following night, Angela’s entire card was filled, and she actually enjoyed the ball. Her supporters were rapidly discrediting Atwater now that several of his former servants had publicly recounted their experiences with the earl. Jack’s voice carried more and more weight as people recalled that Wellington’s staff officers were both honorable and intelligent.

By the time the shocking affair between Lady Driscoll and Lord Hunt exploded into Mayfair drawing rooms, Angela was accepted by all but the highest sticklers. With only a week left before she returned home, she turned her thoughts to the future. Would Andrew allow her to remove to the dower house – properly chaperoned, of course? Their mother would no longer be needing it.

Chapter Fourteen

Atwater sprawled despondently behind his desk and stared at the portrait above the mantel. The picture lied. He had never been that carefree. The artist had painted him as he would have appeared had life been fair. But it was not.

Why was the world so vicious? No matter how hard he tried, people inevitably turned against him. And he
had
tried, adhering to every stricture of polite society, conscientiously carrying out his duties, judiciously chastising the lawless who came before his magistrate’s bench, protecting those in his care. All he asked in return was love, honor, and respect.

But fate had cursed him. Everyone he had ever loved had rejected him, abandoning him without warning.

The first had been his mother. His fingers clenched, driving a penknife painfully into his palm. Eleanor, Lady Atwater, daughter of the Duke of Rainsbrough. He could hardly remember her face, though many claimed he strongly resembled her. She had spent much of her time in the nurseries – playing games, sharing the wonders of the world, supporting him through injury and illness…
I will always be here to comfort you,
she had sworn after a riding accident. It was a promise she had repeated often, a promise he had foolishly believed. But she had not. The day after his sixth birthday, she had left without a word, leaving him behind as if he were a trifle no longer in fashion. His father admitted that she had gone away for a while, proving that her protestations of love had been a sham. He had waited years for her to return. Not until he left for school did he give up hope, repudiating her and consigning her memory to the dust bin. She had proven herself unworthy of his love. Only after his cold, brutal father died did he learn the full truth. She was buried in the churchyard, having died six months after her disappearance, and a two-month-old brother with her. No one had thought to inform him. But it changed nothing. She was false, promising what she could not deliver. And they had lied, every one – his father, his nurses, his aunts and uncles and cousins. In a wave of revulsion, he had repudiated the lot, barring them from his doors forever. How could they have been so cruel? Again his fist closed around the penknife, adding a new cut to a palm scarred with scores of others. Furious, he cast it at the portrait and raised a glass to his lips.

Then there was his sister. Amelia. So full of life. Her laughing blue eyes and silky blonde curls danced before his eyes. After their mother disappeared, he had clung to her, ignoring all other efforts to comfort him. Only a year older than himself, she knew no more than he about the fate of the lady who had been the center of their universe, but Amelia’s solace touched him. He needed her gaiety to counter his devastation, needed her love to plug the rending hole in his soul. When he repudiated their mother, Amelia became even more vital, for she remained alone in her love for him. Their father had grown even colder since their mother had run away, withdrawing into his study and rarely showing his face to his children. But Amelia too had run. Literally. She had angrily lashed out at him, striking him and calling him hateful names before taking flight. Vengeance had been swift and merciless. A moment’s careless inattention, a shifting stone, and she had hurtled over a cliff, her cruel words still echoing on the breeze. Amelia. Her bright eyes forever dimmed, her golden curls drenched in blood.

Everyone blamed him. His teasing had caused her death, they sobbed. None of them understood, but the accusations hurt. And there was no Amelia to offer comfort. If only she had accepted her role. But at fourteen she had grown indifferent to his wishes, allowing the flirtations of the squire’s son to turn her head and bragging about the beaux she would attract in London. In shock, he had reminded her that she would not join society until he had no more need of her, but she had scoffed and taunted him, running from his love and turning her back on his need so that God was forced to strike her down. Her death had left him alone with their father, who unfairly blamed him for the tragedy, turning a cold shoulder to the heir who had snuffed the last ray of sunshine from their lives.

He had resigned himself to a life of loneliness and grief – until he met Lydia. A sob tore from his throat. Lydia. Dearest Lydia. He had loved her most of all, more than life itself – her sweet shy ways; the light that appeared in her eyes whenever he approached; her beauty; her grace. She was his joy, his most precious possession. Fate had finally relented. He showered her with gifts, worshipping at her feet. His love knew no bounds. Yet she too had run. Why? The question still tormented him. He had corrected the mistakes of the past, protecting her from the corrupting influence of unworthy men, keeping her away from dangerous parts of the estate, personally escorting her whenever she left the house lest some harm befall her when he was not at hand to help. All he asked in return was that she care for him as his mother had cared for her family.

Lydia had vowed to love him for all eternity. Just like his mother. He should have suspected then, but he had not. In the end, she too had betrayed him. Despite his love, despite his gifts, despite the care and attention he devoted to her, she had run. She had not even done it defiantly as had Amelia. She did it surreptitiously, without even leaving him a message. He had discovered her sneaking away to rejoin her parents. In a burst of spite, she threw his love in his face and cursed him even as he fought to quiet her fears and return her to the bed her condition required she occupy. Fate had punished her for her betrayal, but he suffered as well. She had died that night, and his son with her. What had he done to deserve such pain?

Then there was Angela. An appropriate name, he had decided the moment he saw her. Perhaps fate would relent if he chose someone who did not resemble his faithless mother. Angela. Shy and demure. Her soft green eyes had glowed when he first danced with her. Her auburn hair had burned like a new dawn, offering him a last chance at happiness. He wanted nothing more than to love her, care for her, and revel in fate’s reprieve. Yet after basking in his adoration for much of the Season, she too had run, publicly repudiating him in a way even Lydia had not dared, making him a laughingstock among his friends. Such cruelty could not be borne. He had tried to teach her a lesson by letting her feel rejection for herself. He had prayed she would repent and return to his arms, but she had remained defiant, flaunting her disdain as she danced and laughed with lesser men.

His fingers dug holes into the leather arms of his chair. The pain was unbearable. He had paid enough. Fate had sent Angela to relieve his agony. It was time she accepted her destiny.

* * * *

“Andrew will return the day after tomorrow.” Angela announced, glancing up from his letter as Sylvia entered the drawing room.

“Has he finished at the Court already?” Her eyes lit with excitement.

“Work is underway to replace the stables. The steward has everything in hand, so Andrew need not remain.”

“Two days. I can hardly wait. It has been so very dull since he left.”

“Are you implying that London cannot amuse you for even one week during the height of the Season?” Angela said teasingly. “Society’s hostesses will be devastated. The fops and fribbles will rend their peacock feathers in despair. The gossips must cast all their stories aside since they hold so little interest.”

They laughed.

“Goodness! How long has it been since you’ve laughed?” asked Sylvia when she had caught her breath. “It is good to see you so relaxed.”

“Life has settled into such a pleasant routine, I am almost sorry to be leaving.”

“Forgive me. I never meant to belittle how your affairs have recovered.” Distress dimmed her eyes.

“Don’t apologize. You know I was teasing.”

“Did Andrew learn what happened?”

Angela’s light mood evaporated. “The fire was deliberately set, though no one knows why or by whom. It began in the disused end of the stable.”

“Dear God!”

“Precisely. There are too many deranged people loose in the world.”

Barbara joined them, followed by Paynes with a tea tray. She was as incensed as they over the news. “And he has no idea why someone would do such a thing?”

“None that he committed to paper,” said Angela. “He did not even say whether this was a random incident or an act aimed at him.”

“He may not know,” said Sylvia with a sigh.

“I merely wondered in light of everything else that has happened to you of late.”

“But that was pique that I turned down his offer,” explained Angela. “The man is overwhelmingly conceited and could not stomach the thought that someone as unprepossessing as myself would not fall at his feet in worshipful adoration.”

“A perfect description. Has Andrew any enemies?”

“None that I know of.” Angela shrugged. “He is a proper and conventional gentleman who has worked hard to rescue the estate from our mother’s profligacy. His treatment of the tenants is exemplary, and none of the staff has been so much as reprimanded, so I doubt anyone harbors a secret grudge. In fact, under his care, both tenants and staff have improved their living and working conditions beyond what they can possibly remember. My grandfather was as blind to country affairs as my father.”

“It was likely a wanderer of unbalanced temperament then, or perhaps a vagrant whose cooking fire got out of hand,” decided Barbara. “Such fools care nothing for the suffering they cause. Let us hope that he is not still in the area, or Hart may suffer similar problems.”