Fallen Angel (31 page)

Maddie fared little better, for no amount of willpower could keep Deveryn from her dreams. She awoke feeling little refreshed for her night's slumber, and could not throw off the weight of dread which seemed to hang on her neck like a millstone.

She was in the breakfast room when she heard her grandfather's roar of displeasure. The cup and saucer in her hand rattled so hard, she was compelled to set them on the table.

"What was that?" she asked of her aunt in a tremulous whisper. "It sounds like an animal in pain."

"Papa in one of his rages," Miss Spencer replied, and placidly went on buttering her dry toast. "I saw his solicitor, Mr. Gregson, enter his study as I came downstairs. I wouldn't be in his shoes for the world."

A moment later, the same imperious voice bellowed just outside the breakfast room door, and Maddie jumped.

"Maddie? Where are you? Get in here at once, d'you hear?"

"Oh dear!" said Miss Spencer. "I wonder what has occurred to put him in such a taking."

She spoke to air. Maddie's slender form was already gliding through the open door in answer to the summons.

In the study, she found her grandfather, lean and impatient, stalking up and down like one of the caged lions she had once seen in the menagerie at the Tower of London. His quarry, whom Maddie took to be the poor solicitor, was cornered in the lone armchair in the room. She'd heard once that the only way to deal with a ravening beast of prey was to face it down. She discovered that she was not so sanguine.

"You w-wanted me, G-Grandpapa?" she stammered.

His tawny eyes, several shades lighter than her own, pinned her to the wall.

"What's this I hear from Scotland?" he bellowed.

Her knees buckled. Speech deserted her. She could not think how he'd come by the particulars of her pseudomarriage unless Deveryn had divulged their secret. She waited for the axe to fall, the keg of gunpowder to ignite: domesday, Armageddon.

"Don't look like that child. I shan't eat you."

She found herself sitting on a straight-backed chair and could not think how she had got there.

As if from a long way off, she heard her grandfather demand, "Why didn't you tell me that I was not named as your guardian in your father's will?"

Evidently, she made some suitable reply, for the next few minutes were taken up with a discussion between the two men on the inconvenience this intelligence occasioned.

Gradually, it was borne in on Maddie that her grandfather was in ignorance of her more pressing dilemma. The wash of relief enabled her to pay attention to what was being said..

"Your father and I had everything settled between us before he removed to Drumoak, or so I thought. I warned him to put his affairs in order before he left town. Gregson drew up the necessary papers. I've since learned that your father never signed them. Did he mention anything to you?"

"About what?"

"Your future."

A vague recollection came to mind, but the edges were blurred and would not sharpen. "Now that you mention it, Papa did intimate that I might be coming here for a visit."

"You were to make your home with me permanently or until such time as you were to marry."

It made sense. Her father had lost Drumoak. Where else was she to go? It must have galled him to come to his father-in-law to beg for favours.

"I don't think my guardian will trouble himself over much about my welfare. I should think Uncle Thomas will be delighted to learn that you've taken me under your roof."

"It's your marriage I was thinking of," said Mr. Spencer crisply. "Nothing can be done without your guardian's consent."

"That
s
carcely signifies since
I
'm not thinking of getting married," said Maddie carefully.

"You're betrothed to the Duke of Raeburn," was the short answer.

"Who?" It didn't sound like "Deveryn."

"Raeburn. The man who escorted you to London. You're not averse to him, are you?"

"No, but. . ."

"Then it's settled."

Aghast, her thoughts chaotic, Maddie could not find the words to voice her objection. A pit seemed to yawn at her feet. Raeburn. Deveryn. Checkmate!

"I've told you, Scotland won't answer," she heard her grandfather say to the little man who had voiced a timid suggestion. "A peer of the realm must be certain that his progeny are legitimate. Look at Paget. He married his countess in Scotland, but as soon as he could find a cleric in England who wasn't averse to marrying a divorced man, he married her again."

Maddie's ears pricked. "What's wrong with marriages performed in Scotland?" she asked.

"For the Scots, nothing at all. But these quick marriages are scarcely worth the paper they are written on if the parties are domiciled in England."

"Mr. Spencer, I beg to differ," interjected the solicitor. "In a court of law . . ."

"Who is talking about a court of law?" roared Spencer. "We're talking of the ton. We're talking of St. George's in Hanover Square. We're talking of the Prince Regent. D'you think I'd permit my granddaughter to follow in her mother's footsteps? There's nothing for it. The marriage will be delayed until this . . . guardian . . ." he said the word as if he had just swallowed some foul tasting medicine, "this . . . guardian . . . can be found and his consent obtained. See to it for me, Gregson. And don't come back with any more half-cocked ideas like the one you just offered."

Maddie knew that she must be in shock. The craving for one of Janet's hot toddies was overwhelming. She wondered what the penalty for bigamy was, and resolved that she would never find out.

"How did you come to meet my father?" she asked for something to say.

"What? Oh, we met at his club."

For some reason, she had the feeling that her grandfather was hedging. She tried again.

"I'm surprised. I understood that your aversion to my father was fixed. What can have transpired to make you change your mind? You never cared before to know anything of me or my mother. Why is it that having ignored our existence without a qualm for all these years, you suddenly turned charitable?" She had meant to speak calmly, without heat, but was aware that her words came out clipped and edged with acid.

His black brows came slanting together. "You are mistaken. It was your father who kept the estrangement going long after I relented."

"But I always thought. . ."

"What?"

"That it was of your making."

"Who told you that? Your father? Well perhaps it was, at the beginning. But after your mother died, I came to my senses. Unfortunately, your father's pride was greater than my own. He was wonderfully revenged for my former coldness. He kept my granddaughter from me."

He could not know how his words had shocked her. It was not that her father had lied to her. Over the years, her grandfather's name had been scarcely mentioned. She had not even known of her aunt's existence until she had met her by chance at some musical evening or other when she'd been so unhappily first introduced to society. No; her father had told her no lies. But she felt in some sort as if she had been deceived.

She brought her thoughts to the problem in hand and said as mildly as she could contrive, "Grandfather, I don't think I care to marry Raeburn, with or without my guardian's consent."

The eyes he turned on her were hard, though his words remained gentle. "You know nothing of such things, child. Trust me. Everyone's best interests will be served by this marriage."

She'd heard those words, or words like them, before. Deveryn had said them to her. "Everyone's best interests will be served by what I propose," he'd said.

She let her eyes rest on her grandfather's straight figure. By her reckoning, he was close to seventy years old, yet he gave the impression of being younger, though his hair was silver. She thought that perhaps as a young man, his colouring had been similar to her own. She could sense his restless energy.

Already he had lost interest in her. He had spoken. There could be no further argument. The message was conveyed in the set of his features and his slashed brows. Altogether, she thought him an unapproachable, cold man.

There seemed no urgency in standing up for her rights. She did not know how long it would take to get a reply from Canada, but she thought it must be at least three months. She determined that she would send her own letter across the Atlantic begging her Uncle Thomas to withold his consent to a marriage she could not, under any circumstances, enter upon.

In the hour before her tutor was due to arrive, she kept to her room and lost herself in
Media.
The unhappy plight of Euripides's tragic heroine was not comforting. Medea's husband, another Jason, had also said, "Everyone's best interests will be served by what I propose," or words to that effect. And then he had proceeded to make Medea absolutely miserable. That women were regarded as little more than chattels by men was very evident. The significant men in her own life—her father, her grandfather, Deveryn—were perfect examples of this deplorable masculine attitude.

Perversely, she wondered at Deveryn's complacent acceptance of her flight from Drumoak. There'd been plenty of time for him to reach London and seek her out. But he hadn't. She was sure she was glad. Deveryn's offences were not forgotten. He had wronged her father. He had browbeaten her into marriage and then promptly given her birthright to another woman! Unforgiveable!

Henceforth, she decided, no man would mistreat her with impunity. She had meant what she had said to Deveryn. She was perfectly capable of making her own way in the world. If she was pushed to the limits of her endurance, she would prove it. More! She would push back.

The Viscount Deveryn winced imperceptibly as he descended the steps from his rooms on Jermyn Street. He turned hard right and set off in the direction of his club in St. James, a mere stone's throw from his lodgings. Sheer force of will kept his back straight and an indolent half-smile fixed on his lips. Despite two bruised ribs, and against doctor's orders, he had dragged himself from his sick bed to perform what he considered to be a distasteful though necessary duty. It was his design to face down the cajolery of his peers and squelch the report he half-expected would be circulating, that he had taken Cynthia Sinclair to be his mistress.

The irony of his situation was not lost upon him. Little more than a month before, he had been at some pains even then to conceal the identity of his former mistress. His object, as he remembered, was to spare his mother's feelings. And he had succeeded. How much more imperative did it appear to him now to conceal from Maddie the knowledge that Cynthia Sinclair and he, Deveryn, had been discovered in a compromising position in his bed-chamber at the Falcon in Grantham; And irony of ironies, on this occasion he was innocent of wrongdoing!

He was also furious with Maddie. In some sort, he blamed her for his present predicament, for if she had been present on that long tedious drive from Edinburgh to London, it would have been she in his bed, and this farce need never have run its course! And most iniquitous of all, she had deprived him, the husband who loved her, of his conjugal rights. The long nights of passion which he had anticipated with such pleasure had been rudely snatched from him. He supposed that his disclosure that Cynthia was to be his pensioner had been the prod for Maddie's impetuous flight. Who could say with Maddie? Her thought processes were an enigma to him. Intimidation and brute strength seemed the only means of compelling her attention. When he finally caught up with her, he intended to blister her backside till she could not sit down for a week.

The thought sobered him. When he caught up with Maddie, there would be the devil to pay, no matter which report of Grantham got back to her. Better by far, he grimly decided, that she believe the woman who had been discovered in his chamber was anyone,
anyone
other than Cynthia Sinclair.

He slowly manoeuvered himself across St. James Street and with as light a step as he could contrive, ascended the stairs to the entrance of White's. His eyes flicked to the bow window on his left. Brummel and Alvaney were already ensconced at their familiar posts, lazily surveying the passers-by and the patrons who entered the hallowed portals of White's and the less exalted, adjacent Boodles and Brooks, the Whig stronghold across the street.