Angela sucked in a breath sharply. “You killed him?”
“No, dear, I only blackmailed him,” The Baron said with an impatient sigh. “The two miscreants I hired to rough him up bungled the job disastrously, I’m afraid. It was quite regrettable.”
Angela didn’t see any signs of regret from The Baron. In fact, he spoke about it in an eerily unemotional way, as though he were detached from it completely.
“Blackridge’s scheme was to ruin me financially and you socially. Seems it worked.”
“No!” Lady Blackridge cried. Seeing the devastation that had to be clearly written on Angela’s face, she shook her head and said, “Don’t—”
In that one moment, Angela’s heart turned to glass, shattering into a million pieces. It had all been a lie. A vicious, tearing, heart-ripping lie. She ignored the viscountess, mustering the strength to ask, “He’s going to turn you in, then?”
“Incredibly, no, but that’s the least of my worries. I’m to answer to your father for all my past transgressions.”
“My father?”
“He’s here, in London, and none-too pleased with me. You don’t know who he is, do you?”
“No.”
“Why, he’s king of some small country, which makes you a princess, my dear. It’s rather like a fairytale in a sickening sort of way.” The Baron’s expression showed his disgust at the idea.
Her father was a king and she a princess?
Impossible.
Improbable.
Highly unlikely.
Could it be true? Suddenly, she hated her real father for leaving her to be raised by this horrible man. She hated Ian for using her, for making her fall in love with him when his motive had been revenge all along.
A movement in her peripheral vision caught Angela’s attention, just before Mrs. Brown charged in, broom in hand. She bashed The Baron on the back of the head with a loud thwack. He tumbled forward, dropping his gun. It discharged as soon as it hit the floor, the sound magnified by the confines of the room. The bullet whizzed past Angela’s right side, barely missing her, striking a vase. The ceramic exploded, sending shards flying in every direction. One of the tiny projectiles struck Angela in the forehead, just below her hairline. A trickle of blood ran down between her eyes. The indomitable Lady Blackridge screamed.
All this occurred within only a few seconds, though it seemed to Angela to have happened in slow motion. She blinked her eyes, realizing there was a pile of bodies on top of The Baron. Phillips, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Haversham, Mrs. Olsen, Rosemary, and dear, sweet old Connors, had all jumped on Eberly, and were presently beating the tar out of him. The scene would have been quite amusing if she hadn’t been in shock at the moment.
The other servants were standing by with mops, brooms, pans, and various other implements, apparently having grabbed whatever was at hand to use as weapons.
“What the bloody hell is going on in here!” Ian’s voice boomed as he rushed into the room.
When his gaze settled on Angela, face pale, body frozen like a marble statue, blood trailing down her forehead, he was immediately at her side.
He lightly gripped her upper arms. “Angela, my love, are you all right?”
Did he just say, my love? His concern seemed genuine, but how could she be sure? It no longer mattered, not after what he’d done. Angela didn’t know if she would ever be able to forgive him. Without looking at him, she said, “I’m fine.”
To look at him would only weaken her resolve.
Producing a snowy white handkerchief, he dabbed tenderly at the cut on her forehead, his fingers trembling slightly.
The servants had successfully subdued Eberly, who now stood with his arms held behind his back by Phillips. The once chaotic sounds of scuffling, cursing, and shouting were replaced by a hushed silence as everyone turned toward the stranger who had entered the room.
Angela looked up to see a man dressed in elegant splendor, a man with the regal carriage of royalty. She blanched as the reality of it set in. Was this her father?
“My God, ‘Tis my sweet Anna who stands before me!” the man exclaimed, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Angela, precious daughter, it is I, your father.”
A dozen sets of eyes shifted from the man to Angela and back again. No one dared speak as she mutely gazed upon her true father for the first time in her life. He matched Ian in height, but his frame was stockier, more muscled. The only evidence of his age could be found in the streaks of gray running through his dark brown hair, and the lines in his face. His dark eyes reflected joy, sorrow, and the wisdom of a man well acquainted with the vagaries of life.
What does one say upon meeting one’s father for the first time? “Where have you been?” Angela asked pertly.
In a tender voice filled with emotion, he answered, “I’ve been in purgatory, fighting my way back to you, sweetheart. Please allow me to tell you the whole story.”
Feeling an overwhelming need to be gone from Ian’s house, she made a quick decision. “Will you take me with you, away from this place?”
“If that is your wish, certainly,” her father said. He hesitantly looked from her to Ian.
“Angela,” Ian said in a low, cautionary voice.
Angela directed her attention to Ian. “I know what you’ve done, what you did for your revenge,” she stated flatly. “Even he, pathetic man that he is,” she said, her chin jerking in Eberly’s direction, “deserves a fair trial, not your medieval notions of retribution.”
Ian moved toward her, his hand reaching out. “At least give me a chance to explain—”
“I need no explanations!” Angela shouted, backing away from him. It was the first time anyone, even Rosemary, had ever heard her raise her voice in anger. “I’ve had enough of lies and deceit. I’m leaving with my father. We have much to catch up on, and he has much to answer for. I’ll send for my things later.”
Remembering she had set Sprinkles down on the sofa when Eberly had burst into the room, she scooped up the kitten, not wishing to leave him behind. She might hate Ian at the moment, but the kitten was the most beautiful gift she’d ever been given.
Ian stood as though carved from wood, his hand dropping to his side.
Before Angela made it through the doorway, however, Viola stepped into her path. “You must reflect on your decision, little one,” she rasped in her aged voice. “Go now with your father, but remember where your heart truly lies. Everything will come together, you will see.”
Viola grinned. Amazingly, she still had all her teeth. She placed her hand on Angela’s arm, her fingers looking like the twisted roots of an ancient tree. “The circle is complete.” Then she retreated, melting into the background as silently as she’d appeared.
Yet another prophetic speech from the eccentric old woman, Angela mused.
The king turned to a tall stranger standing at his side. He was a serious-faced man dressed in black, and wore a long, tiered cape that gave him the aura of some spectral character from a dark poem. “Take Eberly back to his house,” her father said to the man. “Keep him there under watch. And see what’s become of Ivan.”
The dark man clicked his heels together and bowed his head. He jerked his gaze toward two large men who seemed to have materialized from nowhere, and nodded. The men escorted Eberly, one on either side, out of the library, the tall stranger following silently in their wake.
“Shall we depart, my dear?” the king said to Angela.
Angela turned to Rosemary, giving her an affectionate hug. “I will send for you as soon as I’m able, dear friend,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” Mutely, and without so much as a glance at Ian, she walked with her father out the door and into his elegant coach.
Ian watched as the only woman he’d ever loved walked out of his home, and his life. He wondered what forces would be able to move him from the spot he was presently rooted in. The room had cleared, leaving him alone in his bewilderment, or so it felt. What had just happened? She hadn�
�t even given him the opportunity to defend himself.
When he’d heard the sound of the pistol going off, panic had seized his chest. His thoughts had centered on Angela and the possibility that she’d been shot, maybe even killed. The relief he’d felt when he’d seen her standing there – alive – had been indescribable.
Lord knew how thankful he was for having such loyal and diligent servants.
His mother’s voice broke the silence. “Ian, darling, why don’t you sit down and think this through. She’s had more than one shock today, what with her step-father trying to shoot her, learning the truth about what you – well, you know, and seeing her real father for the first time.”
Ian finally realized that standing there like a stupefied idiot wouldn’t accomplish anything, so he stumbled backward, sinking into a chair by the cold fireplace. “I could use a drink, mother.”
“Absolutely, I agree,” she said, opening the liquor cabinet. “Your father always recommended strong spirits as a good remedy for many an ailment. I’ve been known to imbibe myself, in times of need.” When Ian darted a look of surprise her way, she said, “Don’t look so shocked, dear. Just because I’m your mother doesn’t make me a prude.”
“Of course not, mother,” Ian huffed, not in the mood for humor. “By all means, pour yourself a glass while you’re at it.”
Isabella handed the filled glass to her son, taking a seat in the chair opposite him. She sipped from her own glass before speaking. “We will figure this all out somehow. Give her the time she needs with her father. In the meantime, you need to formulate a course of action.”
“Course of action?”
“Why, a courtship, dear,” Isabella said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I’m in love with her, you know.”
“Yes, I do know, or rather, I suspected.”
Ian raised a brow at his mother. “Is it that obvious?”
“Indeed, it is. Your eyes reveal what’s in your heart when you look at her. Your actions show your high regard for her. Your voice, when you speak to her, softens.”
He expelled a long sigh. “Will she ever forgive me?”
“That I do not know.”
5
Villarreal / The Devil Rogue
Chapter 22
“I’VE BROUGHT YOU tea, your highness.”
Angela couldn’t have cared less about tea, but she didn’t have the heart to refuse the dark-haired, petite servant with the exotic eyes and strange accent. Everyone here spoke with that same accent, including her father. She was having difficulty acclimating to the unfamiliar people and surroundings, not that she should complain. There were at least a hundred servants in the palatial mansion who were more than happy to cater to her every whim.
She was a princess, after all. Everyone looked at her as though she were an angel descended from the heavens. Ryani, her dark-haired, dark-eyed personal servant had explained to her that everyone in their country knew about her, knew of her father’s anguish in losing his only love and daughter. To them, it was like a tragic fairy tale, with an unexpectedly happy ending. Too bad she didn’t feel like it was a happy ending.
She missed Ian.
As much as she wanted to hate him, to stay angry with him, she couldn’t. A week had passed with not one word from him since leaving his house with her father. Could she blame him? She hadn’t even given him a chance to explain. But at the time, her feelings had been too raw. She’d felt hurt, used, and betrayed.
Since her arrival here, she’d been pampered as only a royal princess could be. A dressmaker had arrived to sew one-of-a-kind gowns in every hue of the rainbow. It had been made clear by the king himself that silence would be kept about the scars on her back. When he’d declared a new wardrobe was in order, as was fitting for one of her station, she’d had to explain the scars. She recalled how he’d listened quietly, nodding his head, all the while a storm brewing in his soulful eyes.
She now had mountains of dresses, cloaks, and underclothes made with expensive silk, lace, buttery-soft wool, and fine cotton. Every gown was complimented with matching gloves, hats, shoes, and bows. Her father had presented her with a fortune in beautifully handcrafted jewelry consisting of every precious gem she’d ever heard of, and some she hadn’t. It was her legacy, he’d told her, part of her inheritance as a royal princess.
So how could she feel so gloomy? It was not that she was ungrateful; she just missed Ian, and the rest of them. She missed Rosemary’s buoyancy, Mrs. Olsen’s warmth, Mrs. Brown’s motherly presence, and Phillips’ youthful charm. She missed everyone she’d left behind at Blackridge House, but most especially, she missed Ian.
Yesterday, Angela had sent a note to Rosemary asking that she join her here at her father’s residence. In her loneliness, Angela keenly wished for the company of her dearest friend. And as if just thinking of her had the power to conjure her presence, Rosemary burst through the door to Angela’s apartments in a rush. The sight of her most trusted companion caused Angela’s eyes to immediately fill with tears of joy.
“Oh, honey, it’s so good to see you!” Rosemary cried. She approached Angela with outstretched arms. Seeing Angela’s tears, she quickly pulled her into an affectionate embrace. “Don’t cry, my friend, all will be well.”
“I’m just so happy you’re here, Rosemary,” Angela sniffled. “Even with all these people around, I’ve been so lonely.”
Rosemary pulled away, her hands on Angela’s upper arms. “Let me get a good look at you. What’s this you’re wearing? It’s magnificent!”
“Oh, it’s just some old gown I just threw on,” Angela teased. The long-sleeved gown was copper in color, with a daringly low-cut bodice, and it shimmered in different shades as she moved. It was cut to accentuate her small waist and full bosom.
“God’s nose, it’s gorgeous!” Rosemary shrieked.
“I know! By my word I have a hundred more just as beautiful. Would you like to see?”
“Why, yes, your highness,” Rosemary answered, her tone obsequious, take me to your closet.”
“You don’t have to call me that, you know,” Angela said over her shoulder. “Since I’m so bloody rich now, I’ve decided I no longer need your services.”
Rosemary stopped dead in her tracks, her face stricken. “What did you say?”
“I said I don’t need your services as a maid any longer.” Angela grinned. “However, my friend, I do hope you’ll remain as my handsomely compensated and spoiled companion.”
“Do you mean it!”
“Of course, you ninny.” They clasped hands, jumping up and down, giggling like schoolgirls. “You know you’re like a sister to me. If only I could make you one in truth.”
“Then I would be a princess, too!”
Laughing together, they skipped into the largest closet either one of them had ever seen.
“Oh, my sweet Lord,” Rosemary breathed. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven!”
“Wondrous, is it not?” Angela sighed with reverence. “And I’ve requested the apartment right next to mine for you, with a closet just like this one, waiting to be filled with your own beautiful gowns.”
“Oh, but you don’t need to—”
“Nonsense. I expect my companion to be well-dressed,” Angela said with mock effrontery. “What would people say?”
“Thank you,” Rosemary said, smothering Angela with a hug.
“That’s not all.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll have a maid of your own, and I’m setting up a hefty dowry so you can find yourself some handsome, titled gentleman to marry.”
“It’s too much. You’re going to kill me!”
“I hope not! I expect to be godmother to your future children.” Angela’s face dropped.
“What is it?” Rosemary asked, her forehead creasing with worry. “Tell me what troubles you.”
“It’s just that I – I’m pregnant, I mean I think I am, that is, I’m pretty sure that I am.”
/> “Holy Mary Mother! What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from Ian all week. I don’t even know if he—”
“Oh, he wants you, make no mistake about that,” Rosemary said firmly. “He’s been in a drunken stupor since the day you left.”
“He has?” Angela whispered. Somehow, the image of Ian drowning his misery in drink lifted her spirits, although the idea that he suffered tore at her heartstrings. She straightened her spine, swiping at her nose. “Well, he can just snap out of it, and come crawling here on his hands and knees, begging for my forgiveness.”
“That’s the attitude!” Rosemary cheered. “Now, show me all your new dresses.”
IAN HAD NO intention of crawling to Angela on his hands and knees. He was too busy feeling sorry for himself. He sat in his usual spot in front of the fireplace, a half-full glass of brandy in his hand, the decanter on the floor at his feet. There was no fire this warm summer’s eve, just the cold, black ashes left behind in memory of past blazes. Like his heart, it was lifeless, dead, burnt to cinders. He sat slouched in the chair, feet outstretched, staring unblinking at the sooty pile, brooding over his fate.
Had he really expected her to forgive him? He had hoped, at least. The house seemed empty and morose since her departure, as though she’d taken a piece of its soul with her. As he listened to the soft pattering of rain against the windows, it felt as though she’d taken the sunshine with her, as well.
The entire household was affected by her absence, evidenced by flaring tempers, somber moods, and the most telling of all, undercooked and over-spiced dishes at mealtime. Both Mrs. Olsen and Mrs. Haversham had demonstrated their disapproval by giving him sour looks, and making sure his meals were as unpalatable as possible. Not that he had much of an appetite anyway. He’d been content enough to drink most of his meals.
Ian ran his fingers through his hair, probably for the hundredth time, making it more unkempt than it already was. His shirt was rumpled, the tails hanging out of his breeches, and a dark growth of stubble shadowed his face from lack of shaving. He was a mess, and he knew it, but he didn’t care. Not when the light had gone out of his life.
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