Devall's Angel Page 2

  Angela retrieved the vinaigrette and sighed. Would this ride never end? She turned back to the window, only to find the Black Marquess’s eyes again clashing with hers, much closer than before. They were mesmerizing – dark, dark gray glittering with silver highlights in the afternoon sunlight. Piercing. Penetrating clear to her soul while revealing none of his own thoughts. Was he plotting a crime or some other nefarious scheme?

  Not until the coach moved past, breaking the contact, could she breathe. He was dangerous. Yet she still did not fear exposure. Glancing back, she watched him cross the street and disappear around a corner.

  Why did she trust him? Pondering the question carried her all the way to Clifford Street. Her reaction lacked logic and sense, though they were her most consistent virtues.

  Or did it?

  Her mother dramatized everything, making the woman’s claims suspect. After all, Blackthorn was still received in his clubs. But that was not why she trusted him. Those eyes had promised silence. She didn’t know why, but he would not reveal her actions.

  Idiot!

  She was not reading his mind. Such a feat was impossible. Flustered by an impression unsupported by any fact, she concentrated on logic. His intentions or lack of them counted for nothing. He could not know her identity, for their coach had no crest – another of Lady Forley’s complaints; Andrew was entitled to one. Thus she was safe. Even if he mentioned the incident, no one could connect it to her. Describing her appearance might make her momentarily uncomfortable, but she was not the only red-haired lady in town.

  The carriage rocked to a halt. A footman helped the sobbing Lady Forley down.

  Having convinced herself that she remained anonymous, Angela turned to the orphan. “Come with me. We will find food, and then we must talk.”

  Warily setting his hand in hers, he allowed her to lead him into the house.

  * * * *

  Devall Sherbrooke, ninth Marquess of Blackthorn, scowled as the carriage moved past. The chit threatened his peace of mind – which was a ridiculous thought to have on a sunny afternoon. Nothing could disturb him. Certainly not so unconventional a hoyden!

  He had seen her twice before, once on Bond Street – the memory momentarily distracted him, for it was the fact that she had not cut him that had drawn his attention to her, which only proved that she did not know his identity – and more recently on Piccadilly, where she had sneaked up on him.

  He nodded. That second meeting explained his discomfort. His well-honed sense of danger always protected him when he was conducting business. So why had it failed? More importantly, how much had she heard?

  That last concern had focused his eyes on her. She had still not known him. Why else had she held his gaze so long?

  He usually had no interest in society misses – scheming opportunists, every one, with more hair than wit. Their only interests were gossip and parties. He’d known many of them in the years before his betrothal, and had approved none of them. Society hadn’t changed since those days.

  So why did he have to work so hard to drape the image around this newest arrival? Even yesterday it hadn’t quite fit. That auburn curl escaping her bonnet had hinted at a passionate nature. As did the sparkle in her moss green eyes. Yet he had never expected this!

  Good God! She had jumped from a moving carriage into a crowded street. She could easily have broken a leg, been kicked by a horse, or been knocked down by a wagon. And she’d risked a worse danger than injury.

  She might have been seen.

  He shook his head.

  The only explanation was that she’d recognized the boy. The lad was a thief – hardly surprising in London. Perhaps he had accosted her as she exited a shop, stealing her reticule or a package. Most girls kept a footman at hand to prevent such an occurrence, but her behavior today proved that she was inadequately supervised. The lad’s appearance was distinctive enough that his victims would remember him. Yet she had not turned him over to a constable. How naïve!

  Was she stupid enough to think she could reform a London thief? She wouldn’t be the first, but turning the boy into a page would be a big mistake. He would rob her blind. He probably lived in a flash house, where continued food and shelter depended on bringing in his daily quota of goods. For his master to move him into Mayfair, he had to be experienced.

  Should he warn her?

  Devall snorted. Even this unconventional chit would never believe him.

  Pain stabbed his chest. It was so unexpected that it took a moment to realize that the admission hurt. Why should he care? Granted, she was different from most people – and not just because she had a soft spot for supposedly helpless orphans – but her opinions meant nothing.

  Yet he could not get those differences out of his mind.

  Again she had not cut him. Her eyes had bored into his as if she could see into his tortured soul. Yet they had held no censure. She’d recognized him – after yesterday, that was inevitable; someone would have warned her who he was – so why did she not despise him? She was not bad looking, either. A whole tangle of auburn curls had peeped out today, framing her heart-shaped face. A truly unique and delectable maiden.

  Damnation!

  He strode rapidly around a corner, resisting an urge to look over his shoulder. Were her eyes really boring into his back? Thinking about her was dangerous. Despite her odd behavior, she was obviously a lady, which widened the gulf between them. He had repudiated the hypocrisy of society six years ago, along with its cheerful back-stabbing and double standards. Thus respectable women were off limits. Aside from sex – which he could easily get without attached strings – he had no use for females. Especially for naïve girls like this one. Even if she did indeed prove to be different, he could not pursue her. The slightest attention from him would ruin her.

  Again that delectable face distracted his thoughts, diverting his attention from business. She was older than most new arrivals, which only added to her attraction. Her eyes danced with intelligence. What had kept her from town earlier? Had her family suffered a series of deaths? He rarely spent much of the Season in London, but he surely would have noticed her if she had been here before.

  Devil take it!

  He was doing it again. He had more pressing problems than one intriguing hoyden. Banishing the incident from his mind, he concentrated on business.

  Despite his lurid reputation, he took his position as head of the Sherbrooke family seriously. He did not tolerate misbehavior, even from those related only by marriage. Gabriel’s transgression demanded satisfaction, but Devall had no interest in hearing his family’s private affairs bruited about clubs and drawing rooms. Thus he needed another pretext. What insult would provoke Gabriel into issuing a challenge? And how soon could Devall complete this chore? He preferred the peace of Wyndhaven to the noise and filth of London.

  Thoughts of his estate raised a lump in his throat that nearly choked him. He had renovated the house and grounds when he’d acceded to the marquessate, erasing everything that reminded him of his childhood. It was now his refuge from the world, his sanctuary, the one place where he could be himself.

  The town house never let him relax, he realized, again distracted from business. It still reflected his father. He must do something about that. Family affairs and private interests were bringing him to London with increasing frequency. As long as he was already here, he might as well order its refurbishing. Cost was irrelevant. For all the man’s faults, his father had made wise investments, expanding a comfortable inheritance into a fortune. It was a knack Devall had inherited, increasing his worth three-fold since gaining the title. Not that he cared.

  Enough!

  How was he to initiate the necessary confrontation? Where? When? His reputation barred him from society gatherings, so he would have to study Gabriel’s habits. Once he knew where to find him, inciting a response should be easy. Gabriel was too accustomed to adoration to tolerate contempt.

  * * * *

  “Lord Hartleigh
,” announced Paynes, stepping aside so the earl could enter the drawing room.

  Angela sighed in relief. Andrew was out. Her mother’s complaints had given way to strong hysterics once they’d arrived home. Convincing the woman to rest before an evening excursion to the opera had drained Angela’s last reserves of energy.

  The orphan had remained silent, allowing as his name was Jimmy, but refusing to answer further questions. So she had sent for Hartleigh, who owned the estate next to Forley Court.

  “Hart.” She smiled as Paynes closed the door. “I was afraid you might have gone out, but Cassie was so tired when we left that I hesitated to disturb her by returning in person.”

  “Thank you. What happened?”

  She sighed. “I realize I am not supposed to know this, but Cassie once mentioned your orphanage.”

  He raised his brows but said nothing.

  “I found a child this afternoon. A vendor was beating him for stealing an apple.”

  “Poor boy,” he murmured under his breath. “Where is he?”

  “In the kitchen. I can have Paynes fetch him.”

  “No. He will be more at ease if we go to him. What do you know about him?” He followed her downstairs and through the door leading down to the servants’ hall.

  “Nothing, except that the bystanders claimed he is an orphan who moved into the neighborhood about a month ago. His name is Jimmy. Beyond that, he refuses to talk. I would estimate his age at around five, and it is obvious that he has not had enough food for some time.”

  Hart shook his head. “It couldn’t be,” he murmured, but gasped when they entered the kitchen.

  Jimmy sat at the table, still eating, his thin body so frail it was a wonder he was alive. Even heavy grime had not muted his blazing red hair, but washing now revealed a blanket of freckles covering nose and cheeks. His growing bruises revived Angela’s anger.

  “Jimmy,” she murmured soothingly. “This is Lord Hartleigh. He has a house full of boys where you can stay.”

  Fear coursed through the blue eyes.

  Hart dropped onto a low stool, bringing his eyes to Jimmy’s level. “It’s not a flash house,” he assured the lad, pausing to examine his face more closely. “Is your name McFarrell?”

  Angela gasped.

  Jimmy finally nodded.

  “I thought so.” Relief threaded the words. “Your brother Harry has been frantic about you.”

  “You know ’Arry?” Tears sprang to his eyes.

  “Yes, I know him.” Hart rested his large hand atop Jimmy’s small one. “A month ago I rescued him from a beating. He was unconscious for nearly a day, but his first words on awakening were to ask where you were. I’ve been looking for you ever since.”

  “I was scared when ’Arry didn’t come ’ome,” he sobbed. “Then I ’eard ’bout a body nosin’ ’round, askin’ questions, so I ran.”

  Hart pulled the boy into his arms, letting him cry out his fear and loneliness against the superfine wool of his jacket. “It’s all right, Jimmy. You needn’t ever live on the streets again. Harry is waiting for you at a house in the country. As soon as you recover your strength, I will see that you both go to school.”

  “I can’t believe you know him,” said Angela, shaking her head. “Who is he?”

  “The McFarrells were a poor but respectable family that fell on hard times,” he answered, still patting Jimmy’s back. “The father was a dock worker, but seven years ago – shortly after Jimmy’s birth – he suffered an injury that left him incapable of lifting heavy loads. Without employment, they had to move into two rooms on a mean street. He did odd jobs until he died two years later. The mother found work with a seamstress, though they had to give up one of their rooms. But her eyes steadily weakened until she was no longer able to sew. Ten-year-old Harry tried to provide for the family, but soon fell into the clutches of one of the more reprehensible thief-masters, and the pittance he was paid barely kept the family in food. Mrs. McFarrell died three months ago. Harry kept things going for a time, but his master was dissatisfied with the goods he brought in and set on him as an example to the other boys. That was when I found him. If only he had been conscious, I might have recovered Jimmy then. This month must have been brutal for him.”

  “From his looks, he is near starvation.”

  Hart nodded. “Come, Jimmy.” He swept the boy into his arms. “Let’s go home. You can sleep in a soft bed, and we’ll find you some clothes. Then tomorrow, I will take you to Harry.”

  “Thank you, Hart.” She smiled damply.

  Returning to the drawing room, Angela stared at the uninspired furnishings. Thief-masters and Almack’s patronesses. London contrasts were even starker than she had imagined.

  The city had seemed magical when she had first spotted it in the distance, its skyline dotted with church spires and dominated by the dome of St. Paul’s and the bulk of Westminster Abbey. Yet her first close view was of mean streets, derelict buildings, and poorly dressed people. Disappointment had been settling over her when the streets suddenly widened into the opulent glory that was Mayfair.

  Yet even here, contrasts were everywhere – well-dressed lords and ragged beggars, haughty matrons and cowering shop girls, nanny-tended children in the park and boys like Jimmy on the streets. Even her own class contained contrasts. Lisping fops minced about clad in outlandish costumes; formidable dandies wielded pretentious quizzing glasses; boisterous Corinthians endlessly relived the latest mill or race. They were joined by sober clubmen, starchy hostesses, pushy matchmakers, giggling girls fresh from the schoolroom…

  Where did Angela Warren fit into this mosaic?

  The emotional extremes were nearly as bad – terror over appearing at the Queen’s drawing room; relief when she survived the ordeal; mortification at Lady Forley’s insistence on vulgar extravagance; nervousness that tied her tongue in knots whenever the ton’s highest sticklers appeared; fear that she might say something to alienate them; anger at Jimmy’s treatment; painful sympathy for his story; trepidation about her upcoming ball… Where in this muddle was pleasure? Or even contentment? So far, her London Season bore no resemblance to the glittering tales Lady Forley had spun since Lord Forley’s death.

  Blackthorn’s face again hovered before her own. Now there was a man who wasted no time agonizing over what society thought. How much simpler life was for gentlemen. They could break any number of rules and still be welcomed at their clubs. Ladies did not have that freedom. Only through rigid compliance to every expectation could she expect to find a husband during her brief stay in town. Failure was unthinkable – and not only because she was losing her place at the Court. Andrew had made many sacrifices to provide this opportunity for her. How could she waste it?

  I must marry!

  She sighed. Conformity must become her watchword. Society’s matrons had already made that clear. They had watched her like hawks when she first entered their drawing rooms, relaxing only when she proved to be quiet and deferential. But their attention was never far away. Any mistake could ruin her.

  It would be difficult. She had so many faults – an unladylike education, questionable manners, an unfashionable concern for the lower classes. Revealing any of them would lead to failure.

  Again she sighed. Why couldn’t she just be herself?

  Chapter Two

  Dear Lord! This will be a disaster!

  Angela stood in the receiving line, a false smile pasted firmly on her face. What was she doing here? Her mother was right that sharing a ball would harm her. She was an interloper, a mushroom, an upstart who did not belong in this illustrious company.

  When Sylvia had offered to share her come-out ball, their difference in station hadn’t seemed to matter. After all, they were only one rank apart, and Sylvia was happily marrying down. By the time Angela met society for herself, it was too late to change the plans.

  Why had she never realized the enormous gap that separated the upper and lower aristocracy? It was a difference she would hav
e learned at school had she attended one. But beyond even that natural separation, Lord Hartleigh’s credit was high, guaranteeing that the ball would be a squeeze. Not that it would do her any good. The friends of a wealthy, powerful earl would hardly be interested in the barely dowered bluestocking sister of a viscount. And how could she become acquainted with anyone in this frenzied atmosphere?

  “You will be ruined,” Lady Forley had moaned as their carriage approached Hartleigh House. “How can we hold our heads up after making a public admission of penury by bringing you out as an afterthought to someone else’s ball? We might as well place an ad in the Times announcing that you are unmarriageable.”

  “Hardly.” Angela had still been insisting that all would be well. Admitting her own fears would make it impossible to survive the evening. “Sylvia and I will be sisters in only two months. Cassie sees nothing wrong with it.”

  “How would she know? She’s hardly older than you, with no experience in entertaining. She shouldn’t even be here. Appearing in public when she is increasing is outside enough!” The ubiquitous vinaigrette waved beneath her nose.

  Angela bit back a sigh at the memory and smiled at the latest arrival. It was too late to rectify any mistakes. If only her mother had kept quiet just this once! That diatribe had done little to settle nerves already stretched to the breaking point.

  For six years Angela had listened to tales about the magic of the London Season – the parties, the people, the clothes and jewels, the sparkling conversation. All exaggerated.

  London intimidated her in ways she had never experienced at home. There, she entertained the neighbors with confidence. Whatever duties she had faced – and they were many, for Lady Forley refused to run the house or see after the tenants, devoting her time to endless complaints over her absence from London – she had handled with calm confidence.

  Yet here she could never relax, especially around the Almack’s patronesses and gossips like Lady Beatrice. The sparkling conversation was only endless repetition of the latest scandals interspersed with acid condemnation of anyone not present. The other girls were giddy, giggling pea-brains interested only in clothes and flirtation. Angela had nothing in common with them. How could she relate to people who accepted social facades as reality, dreamt only of jewels and gowns, and uttered nothing but regurgitated on-dits? They ignored her, content with the friendships they had formed at schools she had never attended.