Wicked Angel (44 page)

"Miss Stepplewhite," he mumbled, skipping the formality of a bow.

"Good evening, your grace. Are you enjoying the ball?" she chirped.

Ah, polite little banter undoubtedly learned in her drawing room. The only thing that could possibly be worse would be for the little tomato to quote some ancient proverb or rattle off a pithy little poem. She probably expected him to add his name to her dance card because it was a
nice thing to do
. The memory of that long-forgotten Harris ball jabbed at him. "Yes," he answered curtly, then slid a heated look to Lord Stepplewhite before stalking away, leaving the pudgy young woman to stare after him in hurtful shock. It served her and her overreaching father right.

"That was not very well done," Arthur said disapprovingly, as he followed closely behind.

Alex whipped around and glared at his brother. "If you are worried, you are welcome to soothe her tender feelings," he responded nastily.

"All right, Alex, that's enough. I know you are hurting—"

"And you are beginning to sound like an old woman!"

"But there is no need to take it out on an innocent girl," Arthur continued evenly.

"And since when did you become my conscience?" Alex snarled.

"Since you seem to have misplaced yours!" Arthur shot back irritably.

Alex downed his champagne. "Is there a
reason
you have appeared at my side?" he asked, leaning against the wall and surveying the crowd with disgust. "Other than to point out my numerous faults?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. There is someone with whom I thought you might want to speak."

Alex's heart slammed into his ribs. It was Lauren. For one insane moment, he
wanted
to see her and those sparkling blue eyes. But his determination to cut her from his heart quickly regained control. "I am not interested in anything she has to say," he muttered, not realizing what he had revealed until he saw Arthur's smirk. His scowl deepened dangerously.

"I was referring to Paul Hill," Arthur replied. "I saw him in Southwark just last evening."

Alex had not wanted to hit his brother since they were in short pants, but he was perilously close to putting a fist in Arthur's nose. "You are mad," he muttered angrily.

"No, but I have certainly considered the possibility that
you
are," Arthur said with deadly calm.

"By all that is holy, Arthur, I am just a hairbreadth away from breaking your face," Alex warned sincerely.

"Do us both a favor and get out of my sight."

Arthur merely shrugged. "What harm is there in talking to him?"

"What the hell for?" Alex growled, and snared another glass of champagne from a passing servant, trading his empty glass for it.

Arthur frowned at the crystal flute. "You are pitching headlong for ruination, Alex. There are men in this room who are itching to call you out because of your open regard for their wives. You drink yourself mindless at every opportunity, your mother is frantic with worry, and you haven't looked at our books in weeks! All because of some obscure lover's spat—"

"
Jesus
, you must want a broken nose!" Alex growled. Arthur snorted angrily as he lifted the champagne to his lips. But he could not tell Arthur what had happened, not without breaking. No, it was better this way. Mind-numbing indifference was infinitely more desirable than the hell she had put him through. Was
still

putting him through.

Arthur sighed and turned away. "Your self-pity is—" he suddenly stopped, his eyes focusing on something across the room. Suddenly conscious of the murmuring in the crowd, Alex glanced in the same direction.

His heart stopped. He had to remind himself to breathe as Lauren floated into the crowded room on the arm of his own cousin, David Westfall. Goddammit, she was
beautiful
. Wearing a creation of gold and creme chiffon, her skin positively glowed. A mass of chestnut curls was piled on the crown of her head, adorned with gold filigree.

The crowd's murmuring seemed to intensify, and slowly, he realized they were whispering about her.

From Paddy, he knew some of the things that were said about her, owing chiefly to Lady Whitcomb, who had struck like a mother cat when he had ended his betrothal to Marlaine. But he had not realized until this moment how intense the talk apparently was.

"My God," said Arthur, glancing about them.

Every eye in the house was on her. Across the room, Lauren searched the crowd until her cobalt eyes found him. His heart slammed against his ribs, warning him, but Alex could not tear his gaze away. She looked at him very poignantly, and he stared hard at her, inwardly fighting the overwhelming desire to go to her.

The hurt that plagued him won. He had no idea what she was doing here, and at the moment, he bloody well did not give a damn. In the space of a single morning, she had utterly destroyed him. Without a

word, he put the flute down and walked in the opposite direction of her, through a throng of people and out the door, in search of his driver.

After days of moping about, Lauren had cried her last tear, determined to occupy her thoughts with more pleasant matters. Exactly how to do that had required some creative thinking, and she had finally decided that taking a box of jam to the infirmary would do as well as anything to cheer her.

The last few days had been sheer hell. She had no one with whom to even talk, unless one counted Davis, but she was not quite that desperate. As usual of late, Paul was away from the house, enjoying the last few days of the parliamentary session. He was absolutely besotted with Home Secretary Robert Peel, the man who had led the Catholic Emancipation through the Commons. At breakfast, he had talked excitedly about one day following in Peel's footsteps.

Paul had found purpose in his return to London, but her return had been a complete disaster. For days now, she had sought ways to speak with Alex but had been thwarted at every turn, beginning with the Harris's closing ball. She would never forget the look of revulsion on his face when he had seen her across that crowded room. It was matched only by the ghastly disgust he had shown when he had turned on his heel and marched from the room. It had wounded her deeply and she had been forced to endure her public humiliation for the rest of the evening—an evening in which she also had discovered she was a pariah among the
ton
.

Everyone avoided her.

With the sole exception of Lady Pritchit, whose disdain for her had swollen to terrifying proportions. At one point, she had sidled close to where Lauren was standing, and very loudly explained to a friend that Lady Whitcomb laid the blame for ruining Lady Marlaine's future as a duchess at Lauren's feet. A foreign wanton, she had called her. Lady Pritchit's friend had turned bright red as the old bag had added that what
might
be acceptable behavior in the nether regions of the continent was most certainly
not
acceptable in London.

Mrs. Clark's afternoon tea had been another nightmare, she thought, as she methodically stuffed a box with jars of jam. The jovial widow had called on her personally to insist that she come, obviously and very nobly trying to deflect some of the talk surrounding her. She had not wanted to go, but Paul had thought that perhaps Mrs. Clark could help.

Despite her deep misgivings, Lauren had gone. She had been standing in the foyer, nervously fidgeting with her reticule and trying to muster the courage to enter a drawing room stuffed to the rafters with ladies. Much to her great surprise,
he
had come, escorting Lady Paddington. He had looked right through her, as if she did not even exist. As she tried desperately to find her tongue, he had bid his aunt farewell, then had turned and walked out of the foyer. She was still gaping at his broad back when Lady Paddington had greeted her with great uncertainty. At least it was not the complete disdain she was to see on the face of every other guest.

She continued stuffing the box with jam, her thoughts flitting to the Harrison Green rout to which Paul had insisted she accompany him. Dear God, what a
catastrophe
that had been! Except for rather sharply correcting Lord Brackenridge, who had clumsily grabbed her hand and drunkenly suggested she was now considered "for the taking," she had hardly said a word all night. Everyone avoided her as if she carried the plague, but she was acutely aware of the little tête-à-têtes that occurred behind gloved hands.

Simply put, her presence was not tolerated.

Especially by Alex. Her ill-timed attempt to speak with him had gotten her a cruel, public dismissal.

Unfortunately, she had caught him by surprise, coming up behind him and touching his arm. He seemed to jump a good two feet before whirling around, his face going white when he saw her. Everyone within a ten-foot radius saw it, too, and closed in on them, straining to hear the exchange between the Duke of Sutherland and the woman who was rumored to have ended his betrothal.

"Your grace, good evening," she had murmured, suddenly devoid of any coherent thought. His green eyes had flashed with fury; his jaw had clenched shut as his eyes flicked to those around them. The situation notwithstanding, she had frantically grabbed at the opportunity. "I had hoped… I need to talk to you, Alex," she had whispered, her heart roaring in her ears.

"I am engaged at present," he had said coldly, and had presented his back to her as he smiled charmingly at his blond companion. It was an appalling cut. Up until that very moment, Lauren thought the hardest thing she ever had to do was to end her engagement to Magnus. Oh, how
wrong
she was! The hardest thing in her life was to hold her head high as she had walked away through a throng of gaping onlookers.

After that, she had begged Paul to return her to Rosewood, but he had refused, and they had argued heatedly before striking a bargain. Some bargain! Paul had
coerced
her into trying one last time, but not in a crowded salon or ballroom, where he effectively argued that Alex's pride was at stake. The only reasonable place, he insisted further, was at the duke's residence on Audley Street, since it was apparent he would not be calling on
her
anytime soon.

Reluctantly, she had finally agreed. The truth was that in spite of her very strong misgivings about Paul's idea, she desperately needed to end this insanity once and for all. So she had gone to Audley Street, only to have her courage fail her miserably when she had seen him through a window. The next attempt was equally as daunting, as was the next and the next. Every day at promptly three o'clock, she had walked past his house. And every day she was quite unnerved by the sight of his dark head through a corner window.

This whole messy affair had become impossible to cope with. Last evening, she had cried for what seemed the hundredth time since returning to London. This surveillance of him was ludicrous! As if the
ton
did not have enough to talk about without her walking up and down Audley Street each day seeking the nerve to knock on the blasted door! Her lack of courage angered her, and she was weary of tears.

She simply had to
make
herself see him so that she could return to Rosewood without delay, because she had absolutely no hope he would receive her apology with anything less than hatred.

She was as prepared as she would ever be, but it was hours yet before she could go. In the meantime, she would take her jam to the infirmary. They would welcome her—they welcomed
anyone
who took the time to call. Yes, it would be the perfect diversion from her misery.

A generous patron of the Haddington Road Infirmary, Hannah Christian made a point of visiting every third Friday of the month. Her pattern was the same: she listened to Mrs. Peabody's catalog of complaints, read a weekly paper to Mr. Croyhill, and visited the newcomers. Having completed her rounds this month, Hannah walked to the infirmary door, listening to Dr. Metcalf expound eloquently on his plans to operate a wing for those suffering from consumption. As she pulled on her gloves, a commotion outside caught her attention, and distracted, Hannah glanced through the front door's thick panes of etched glass. Though her view was distorted, she could swear it was Countess Bergen. She took a step closer to the door, and lifted her quizzing glass.

It
was
Countess Bergen! Her arms extended, she was nervously urging a hack driver not to drop the box he edged from the top of the hack and held high above his head. The man stumbled backward, but quickly regained his balance, squatted, and slowly brought the box down to rest carefully on the sidewalk. Curious, Hannah watched as Countess Bergen extracted what looked like a small jar and handed it to the driver. They exchanged a few words, and she produced another jar. His face beaming with delight, the driver dipped his hat no less than three times as he returned to his hack, gripping the two jars against his chest.

Hannah smiled as Dr. Metcalf came to stand beside her and peer outside. "Who is that? Oh my, Countess Bergen!" he exclaimed with some dismay.

"Has she been here before?" Hannah asked, watching as the countess knelt to rearrange the contents of the box. She smiled up at a passerby, responding with a cheerful nod to his greeting.

"She has visited from time to time," he muttered. "But that was before we
knew"
he said, and reached for the brass handle.

Hannah glanced at him. "Knew what?"

The doctor colored. "Before we knew of her…
reputation
," he said, almost strangling on the word.

"I shall take care of this." He slipped out the door before Hannah could stop him and marched down the steps to where Lauren stood. Hannah could see her beatific smile; it was no wonder Alex was so in love with her.

That glorious smile faded rapidly, however. Motioning to the box, Countess Bergen exchanged words with the doctor. His back to the door, he brought his hands to his hips and looked down at the box, adamantly shaking his head. The countess paused, her hand delicately brushing a loose curl from her cheek. Clutching her reticule, she glanced uneasily up the street. Dr. Metcalf said something else, his head bobbing intently like a little bird. Countess Bergen nodded slowly and turned toward the street, leaving the box at the edge of the infirmary steps. The doctor called a man working nearby to fetch the box, and turned toward the door, his step light as he bounded up the steps. As he entered the foyer, he grinned at Hannah. "Nothing to fear, your grace," he announced grandly. "I have sent that woman on her way."