Obviously, she intended to line up a new lover. Her claim to be a virgin was most likely another lie, and the more he thought about it, the more Ian convinced himself that her passionate responses had been very un-virgin-like.
“Looks like your pigeon has found another place to call home.”
Ian spun around, ready to slam his fist into the face that belonged to that voice. Lord Bennett was a man Ian counted among his friends. Bennett followed Ian’s escapades with amused interest, openly admitting that he aspired to The Devil Rogue’s level of notoriety. And he was very close to his goal.
But what was most interesting about the Earl of Bennett was his similarity in looks to Ian, although Bennett was younger by several years. Bennett was titled, rich, and handsome. Ian often wondered if perhaps his father had sired a bastard, but as far as he knew, his parents had been quite devoted to one another.
He relaxed his fists, even though his friend’s comment had struck a nerve. “Bennett,” he snapped. “Don’t you have your own little pigeon to worry about, without bothering me?” Ian wasn’t in the mood to bandy clever quips back and forth with his usual enthusiasm, something he and Bennett usually enjoyed on a regular basis.
“Oh, she’s here, powdering her nose, or some such silly female thing,” Bennett said, waving his arm in dismissal. “Wasn’t that your mistress who just wondered off with some other gent?”
“Shut up, Bennett.”
“Maybe I should take over – show you how it should be done, eh, Blackridge?”
Ian’s temper, which was already boiling toward the surface, flared to life. He pushed Bennett up against the balustrade. Grabbing the man’s lapels in his fists, Ian bent him backward over the rail. “Lay one hand on her and you’ll be looking down the length of my sword,” he growled.
Bennett held up his hands. “It was just a joke, Blackridge. I didn’t mean anything by it. Looks to me like you’ve gotten in a little too deep with this one.” He strained against the force of Ian’s hold on him. He matched Ian in size and strength, but Bennett knew Ian was deadly with a blade. “Besides, my interests lay elsewhere – no pun intended,” he said with a grin.
Ian released him, a little shaken by his volatile reaction. “My apologies, Bennett. I don’t know what came over me. I was just so sure she was—” He’d been so sure of her innocence. Until she’d left with another man.
“Apology accepted, my good man,” Bennett said, his mood remaining good-natured. He was never one to hold grudges – against his friends, anyway. “I have the perfect solution. A brandy in hand and a beautiful woman in your lap is always a good remedy at times like these.”
“I don’t think so,” Ian said distractedly.
He couldn’t forget the sight of Angela walking away with that man. Perhaps he should have followed her – made sure she was all right. She’d been very upset – a prime target for some predator without scruples. Someone like himself, or Bennett, even.
“What!” Bennett placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “The Devil Rogue himself is actually refusing an evening of drinking, gambling, and women? It’s unfathomable.”
“I’m not in the mood, Bennett,” Ian said, intending to step off the terrace, and follow in the direction Angela had gone.
Bennett placed his hand on Ian’s arm. “You’re not going after her, are you?” His voice was filled with disbelief. “Listen to me – the last thing you need is to find them in the act. It would do you no good.”
“Of course you’re right, my friend,” Ian said. It would do him no good to see her in the arms of another man. “Go back to your lady. I’ll be fine.”
Bennett hesitated for a moment, and then gave Ian a quick nod, slipping back inside.
Ian’s feelings of guilt and concern for Angela died a quick death as he left the terrace in the opposite direction, in search of his carriage. He would wait for her back at the house, and when she returned, he would inform her of his decision to cancel their bargain.
IT WAS VERY late, at least past one in the morning. Angela tried to be as quiet as possible, entering Blackridge’s house at the rear servant’s entrance. Thankfully, it was unlocked.
She’d had to walk from her father’s house, and even though it was only about a mile or so away, it had taken her an eternity to travel that short distance. Determined to avoid being seen, she’d stuck to the shadows, creeping through backyards and alleyways.
Wincing in pain, she closed the door quietly behind her. It was dark inside the house and deathly silent. Her ears pounding in rhythm to the beating of her heart, she strained for any sound that might indicate someone was up and about, most especially, Blackridge.
Her body throbbed in more places than she could count. Her eyes were both horribly swollen, and her skull felt like it was about to split open. She was sure he’d broken a couple of ribs this time.
She walked stooped over like an old hag, her hands out in front of her, shuffling her feet as she made her way through the hall to the stairs. God, how was she going to make it up those two flights? She’d never received such a powerful beating from The Baron before. If she hadn’t whacked him over the head with that heavy volume of the world atlas, effectively rendering him unconscious, Angela knew the baron would have killed her.
Their argument had escalated quickly – she demanding to know what right he had in refusing any marriage offers, and he trying to convince her to give him the money she would receive from Blackridge. She’d made the mistake of laughing at the idea that she would share any part of it with him.
They’d torn into each other then, like two wild animals fighting over a kill. She’d kicked and scratched and punched, but his strength had eventually overpowered her, leaving her curled in a ball in a vain attempt to cover her head with her arms. From her position on the floor, she’d seen the large book within reach, had scrambled for it, and then swung with all her might. He’d crumpled to the floor, dead for all she knew. All she could think about was to get out of there and back here, where it was safe.
She wouldn’t be able to give Blackridge a story this time. She’d be forced to explain her condition to him tomorrow. Unfortunately, she’d also have to explain everything else. It didn’t matter. She was tired of all the lies, tired of trying to be strong, of bearing this alone.
A sudden noise came from the darkness, somewhere in front of her. In the deep silence, it was loud as a pistol crack. “I see you found your way,” said Blackridge’s disembodied voice.
Angela shivered, licking her swollen, cracked lips before speaking. “M-my lord, I-I—”
“I want you packed and out of my house by dawn.” His voice was cold and flat.
“Y-you want me to leave?” She was shaken by the unemotional tone in his voice. “But I have nowhere to go.” She hated how pathetic she must sound.
“That, my dear, is none of my concern. Go back to your father. I don’t really care.”
Her eyes filled with tears, burning her cheeks as they fell on the fresh scratches there. “My father?” She laughed hysterically. “I just left my father. I think I killed him.”
“What are you babbling about?” Ian demanded. She was behaving strangely, panting as though she’d just run a great race. He moved forward, in the direction of her voice, closing some of the distance between them.
“I’m not feeling very well,” she said miserably.
“That seems to be a regular occurrence lately,” he said, refusing to be swayed by her words, her pitiful sounding voice.
She whimpered, and then it was followed by the crash of pottery shattering against the floor. Ian was startled into action. He found her with his blindly seeking hands, crumpled in a small pile. He picked her up and carried her to the stairs. She cried out with a scream of pain and then fell silent. It was too dark to see her face, to check her condition. His heart raced as he sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
What was wrong with her?
Where did she say she’d been – her fath
er’s house? Did she say that she’d killed him?
Jesus!
Once he reached the landing, the glow from the low-burning lamp in his room guided him down the hall. He carried her in, laid her on the bed, stepping back in horror. His breath lodged in his throat when he got a look at her. Her ball gown was torn at one shoulder, the sleeve hanging down to expose the smooth, white skin of her slender arm. The material was stained with spots of blood, the hem dirty and torn.
He looked at her face.
Dear God.
Her face was bruised and swollen and bleeding, with several scratches marring her perfect skin. There were two dark, hand-shaped imprints marking her neck as though someone had tried to strangle her.
Mrs. Brown appeared in the doorway, breathing rapidly from her rushed descent down the servants’ stairs. “What’s happened, my lord? I heard a crash. Is that – oh, my dear, sweet Lord!” She clasped her hands to her bosom at the sight of Miss Hopkins lying so still upon the bed.
“Send for a physician, will you, Mrs. Brown?” Ian said, calmly.
“Of course, my lord.” Mrs. Brown hurried away.
Had it been her father Miss Hopkins had left the ball with, then?
And Ian had let her go.
He should have gone after her and stopped her. Why hadn’t he?
He’d been jealous.
Ian shoved his fingers through his hair. How could he be jealous of a woman he’d never even bedded? That thought struck him like bolt of lightening, causing his world to shift on its axis. When had he begun to care about her enough to provoke an emotion he had never felt before?
At the ball, when she’d been confronted by Wardley, Ian had felt fiercely protective of her, regardless of his suspicions. He’d been ready to take the man’s head off for his insults.
She’d seemed genuinely confused and upset about Wardley’s claim to have asked for her hand. Ian already knew of Wardley and his offer, and the large amount of money paid by his family to the baron. Since the Wardleys were social climbers, they couldn’t afford the threat of a scandal.
Ian was beginning to believe that maybe her father was the sole player in this debacle.
Determination to help her spurred Ian forward. He closed the door, and moving to the bed, began to carefully remove her gown. Each time he had to shift her position, she cried out. Ian wondered if maybe he should wait for the doctor, in case she had a more serious injury than what was obvious. But his concern for her immediate needs won out, so he resumed his task as gently as possible.
He finally had her gown off, and began working on her stockings and chemise. Her naked body showed numerous bruises and red marks where she’d obviously been struck repeatedly. Ian was sickened by the violence evidenced on her battered body.
But what made him burn with rage were the pale scars across her otherwise flawless back, vicious imprints caused from the lash of a whip. There was one that curved around her waist, almost touching her belly button.
Her fascination, or rather, her empathy toward his own scars now became clear, as well as her opinion of herself as not being beautiful.
As he pulled the quilt up, he caught a glimpse of the bandage on her arm. She’d claimed to have cut herself helping in the kitchen – but had she really?
Suddenly, an image flashed in his mind – of her standing in the attic that first night, crouched in a defensive stance, facing her father. Ian now remembered the knife that lay on the floor near her kneeling parent. The significance of that knife hadn’t registered until this very moment. It had somehow remained dormant in his memory until he was able to correlate the facts together.
Tears of rage and guilt and remorse stung his eyes. What a fool he’d been in not seeing her for what she really was – an innocent victim. He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, his head dropping into his hands.
What was he going to do with her now?
5
Villarreal / The Devil Rogue
Chapter 11
HER FATHER HAD been the one to cut her arm, and he was the one who had done this to her tonight.
Ian rose from the bed, went to the wash basin and soaked a cloth with cool water. Returning to Miss Hopkins – Angela, he bathed her face, washing away the tears and dried blood. It wasn’t as bad as it had first appeared, with several scratches and a small cut on her forehead just under the hairline. The area around both eyes was black and blue and there was split on the side of her swollen upper lip. His biggest concern, however, was the large purple bruise on her right side, and the sounds of her labored breathing. He feared she may have a broken rib or two.
With a tenderness he hadn’t realized he possessed, Ian stroked the side of her face with the pads of his fingers, gently moving aside a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. She looked so pale and fragile, like one of the porcelain figurines in his mother’s favorite parlor. His huge bed seemed to swallow her up, making her seem smaller than she was. It was where he’d wanted her all along, but under much different circumstances.
The family physician finally arrived, banishing Ian from the room. Ian grudgingly complied, only to find himself standing in the hall, staring at the closed door. He needed to speak with Angela’s maid, Rosemary. There was so much more to this story than he ever suspected, and he was determined to get some answers.
Ian was about to send for Rosemary, when she rushed down the hall toward him.
“My lord,” she said breathlessly. “I heard about Miss Angela. I-is she all right?” Her expression was fraught with worry as her gaze darted to the closed door.
“I don’t know yet. The doctor is with her now. I would have a word with you, Rosemary, if you’ll come with me.” Ian turned in the direction of the study.
Rosemary hesitated, staring at the door for a moment, but then followed quietly behind him.
Ian motioned for Rosemary to sit in one of the chairs placed near the hearth, seating himself in the one opposite. “Tell me about Miss Hopkins,” he said. “And no more lies, if you please.” His voice was dark and smooth, belying the undercurrent of fury running through his veins.
“Y-yes, my lord, no more lies, indeed,” Rosemary said grimly. “It’s about time, too, that someone should know what a monster that man is.”
“By ‘that man’ I take it you mean her father?” Of course, the suspicion was already there, but Ian wanted to hear it from Rosemary.
“Yes.” Rosemary took a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. “Ever since her mother died when she was young, he has treated her with nothing but cruelty. I don’t know why, but it’s as if he loathes her very existence.”
“At the ball tonight, we overheard rumors of marriage offers, and then a man named Wardley confronted her. He told her of his visit with her father some time ago, that his offer of marriage had been refused on the grounds of ungentlemanly behavior.”
“Oh, my – Wardley. I remember the fellow. He was young and handsome and kind. Miss Angela seemed to like him, but then he stopped coming around. She was quite disappointed.”
Ian pushed aside the spark of jealousy that arose, unbidden, at the idea that Miss Hopkins had attracted the attention of such an acceptable suitor. “Were there others?”
Rosemary paused to think for a moment. “Yes, there were, as a matter of fact. There were two others who had come to call on her.” She frowned. “They also ceased their attentions. But there were never any marriage offers she or I knew of, my lord.”
“I believe her father, the baron, had much to do with that. Did he hit her often?”
Rosemary’s lips thinned at his bluntness, her gaze sharp and assessing. Then she gave a short nod as though she’d weighed and measured him, and found him to be someone worthy of her trust – worthy of learning her beloved mistress’s darkest secrets. “He didn’t hit her often, but when he did, it was bad.”
The pride in her voice showed when she said, “Miss Angela never backed down from him. Most of the time, she was defending one
of the staff from his violent temper – or myself from his lecherous advances. She was very protective of us all, you see. We – the other servants and I, always felt horrible about it, but we couldn’t convince her to stop speaking out in our defense.”
Ian felt sick.
“Her first day here, she tried to accept the blame for something on behalf of the servants,” he said softly. “She expected to be punished.” He expelled a harsh breath. “Those scars on her back . . . how did she get them?”
Rosemary swallowed, pausing before she answered. “It was before I started working there. She wouldn’t talk about it. Eventually I discovered what happened from the other servants.”
“Go on.”
“Miss Angela was only about ten or eleven years old at the time, poor thing. Her father had been drinking heavily, flying into one of his rages. He’d made up some reason why she needed to be punished.”
Tears wet Rosemary’s cheeks as she related the gruesome story. “He took a whip to her, my lord, and then locked her in the broom cupboard for two days without food or water.”
Ian swore a foul oath.
“It was horrible, the way the servants told it. She almost died from the infection. Her father refused to send for a physician. He said he wasn’t about to spend good money on the whelp.”
“Jesus.” Ian had certainly misjudged Angela Hopkins from the very beginning. She had suffered nothing but cruelty and abuse most of her life, and he’d just added to it by being completely misinformed about her.
“Those beautiful dresses of hers,” Rosemary said softly, “she designed them and sewed them herself, you know, with only a little help from me. But it was her talent, mostly, that had half the ton envious of her wardrobe.”
“What happened to her gowns – the ones in the trunk? I now know they weren’t destroyed by mold.”
The Devil Rogue Page 10