Devall's Angel

by Allison Lane

Carefully maintaining his ground-devouring stride, he lowered his head as though deep in thought, then stumbled, lurching sideways to knock Atwater into one of the bow windows that flanked the entrance.

  “Clumsy oaf!” Devall glared at the impeccably dressed earl. “Disguised already, Gabriel? Why don’t you watch where you are reeling?”

  Fury erupted on Atwater’s face. “We both know who was at fault,” he said, dusting his shoulder. His fingers froze, and he frowned. “You tore my coat.”

  “Just as well. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “I ought to call you out for that.” Atwater smoothed Weston’s exquisite creation. “Name—” His gaze sharpened, his eyes boring into Devall’s face. In less than a second, his expression slid into a sneer, only the slightest catch in his voice revealing that he had read what was reflected there. “But one can expect manners only from a gentleman.”

  Turning away, he rapidly disappeared into Bond Street.

  Damnation!

  Devall watched until Atwater was out of sight. Still swearing over losing control of his face, he entered Hatchard’s.

  If only he had been prepared for this meeting! But it was too late for regrets. He had tipped his hand, losing the game even at the moment of victory. But the rubber was not over, though winning would now be more difficult.

  He must choose his next encounter with greater care – and be sure they had an audience. Atwater would lose credit if he ducked an affair of honor in front of witnesses. Why had no one of consequence been nearby today?

  A ball would provide scores of witnesses – which returned his mind to the problem of gaining entree into society. He must seek out Lady Chartley after all.

  * * * *

  Angela sighed as she added Byron’s The Giaour to a stack that already held Jane Austen’s latest novel Pride and Prejudice. The problem with bookshops was that she never left with only the volume she had intended to get.

  “Well, if it isn’t the soft-hearted hoyden,” The unexpectedly deep voice startled her as she turned down the next aisle. “How much has he stolen?”

  Lord Blackthorn leaned against a shelf. He was again dressed in black, but it was his eyes that riveted her attention – hard and black in the dim light, yet blazing with fury and hatred. Oddly, neither was aimed at her, despite his dripping sarcasm. Something had put him in a raging temper.

  She shivered at this latest flash of mind-reading, trying to thrust it aside. But curiosity over his anger battled prudence and irritation. She ought to retreat lest others assume they were together. Yet the volume she most wanted was visible just beyond his left shoulder.

  “Excuse me, sir.” She looked past him in the hope that he would move. All sorts of people patronized the shops, but she was not obligated to talk with them.

  Even though you want to.

  She jumped at the inner voice. Blackthorn was clearly trouble. How could she wish to speak with an outcast? But she did. Even more urgent than discovering what had infuriated him, she needed to know why her reputation was safe in his hands.

  “Playing the timid miss today?” he asked. “We both know it’s not the real you.”

  This was the Black Marquess of rumor. His fury had faded, but his eyes still glittered like black ice. No hint of warmth entered his voice. His stance dared her to oppose him, promising instant retribution if she tried.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she repeated. “I must reach that shelf just behind you.”

  “Tell me your name first.”

  Arrogant fool! How dare he?

  But she could never resist a challenge, especially when another’s bad manners triggered her own temper. “Why? So you can ruin me like so many others? I already know too much about you, Lord Blackthorn. If you must know my name, find someone to introduce us. Not that any reputable person would do so, and I know no others.”

  “So, my first impression was right,” he drawled, crossing his arms. “Do you enjoy brawling with street vendors?”

  “When they are beating defenseless infants.”

  “Defenseless? The lad is a thief. You do him no favor when you let him get away with crime. You’d best run home and see how much he has stolen.” Straightening, he loomed over her in a way that would intimidate a strong man, his piercing gaze more effective than Brummell’s quizzing glass.

  She ignored his glare. “Presumptuous, aren’t you? And conceited, as well. Do you always judge without bothering to learn the facts? Or are you so sure of your own infallibility that you accept every impression as gospel? That boy is no thief.”

  “So naïve! Do you actually believe his claims? Boys like him are carefully coached in a variety of heartrending tales that can gain them access to homes worth robbing.”

  “As you know first hand? Maybe your friends lie and cheat, but not Jimmy.” Her fists were clenched to keep from slapping him.

  “So you made him your page. You would have been better off consigning him to the workhouse.”

  “Hardly. And why would I put so young a lad in service? No child should be exploited.”

  “Good Lord! He really got to you, didn’t he? You’d best face the truth before he and his friends make off with all your possessions.”

  She was past caring what he could do to her reputation. Nor did she consider why she could argue with the most menacing scoundrel in London when she could barely exchange the time of day with reputable gentlemen. “You wrong me, sir. Jimmy has neither the incentive nor the opportunity to harm me. He is now in a well-run orphanage where his brother has lived for some weeks. Nor is he the hardened criminal you imply. Their parents were respectable before falling on hard times. Once the boys recover, they will remove to school.”

  “Soft-hearted wench, aren’t you?”

  “Odious wretch! Better soft-hearted than cruel. But why should I explain myself to you? You are hardly qualified to judge propriety. Now step aside so I can get my book. My carriage is waiting.”

  “Haven’t you enough already?” He stared at the dozen books in her arms. “That should keep you busy for the rest of the Season.”

  “Determined to flaunt your ignorance, aren’t you?” She ignored the voice that warned against goading so dangerous a man. “And making quite a cake of yourself. Move aside.”

  “Which one is it?” He settled back against the shelves, an immovable obstruction.

  “The Importance of Educating Members of the Working Classes.”

  “Not another reformer,” he drawled.

  “Only the educated are free. That is as true today as when Epictetus uttered the words seventeen hundred years ago, and he would know better than most. Without the ability to read, people can only believe what they are told, putting them at the mercy of unscrupulous masters, deceitful landowners, and other dishonorable folk. We’ve taken the first steps toward abolishing slavery in the colonies, yet we keep our own lower classes enslaved in ignorance.”

  His brows raised but he made no comment. Pulling out a volume not much larger than a pamphlet, he idly leafed through its pages.

  “I had hoped it would be more detailed,” she murmured, sighing in disappointment. But perhaps it contained different ideas than the others she had read.

  Blackthorn said nothing, oblivious to both her disappointment and her growing anger.

  “My book?” she demanded at last.

  “Your name?” He narrowed his eyes, raising those sharply peaked brows.

  “Lucifer himself,” she muttered, shaking her head. “No wonder people claim you were spawned by the devil.”

  “And how pleased they are when I prove them right.”

  “That is the worst excuse for misbehavior I have ever heard!” She glared. “Give me my book.”

  “Your name, my little bluestocking reformer!” He lazily dangled the treatise just out of reach.

  “Why? So you can pillory me by trumpeting my shortcomings to society?”

  “Would I do that?” He pursed his lips as though deep in thought. “If I behaved in so ungen
tlemanly a fashion, you would retaliate by exposing mine. You could ruin me.”

  She gasped, eliciting a chuckle that sent excited shivers down her spine. Was he flirting with her? Or was this a veiled warning against mentioning those soldiers? But that would mean that he’d hired them to do something worse than any of his past deeds. The only worse crime she could think of was murder. The next shiver was icy.

  His face lightened, bringing silver sparks to his eyes. “The fact that I’ve known damaging information about you for nearly a fortnight yet did not reveal it makes me look soft-hearted.”

  “Which might improve your image.”

  “Horrors! I work hard to maintain my reputation and don’t care to have it damaged. Your name!”

  She sighed. Teasing her was highly improper. But what did she expect? He had all but bragged that he enjoyed shocking people. Unless she told him her name, she must return for the book another day. “Miss Angela Warren.”

  “Lord Forley’s sister?” Surprise blossomed across his face, proving that he really hadn’t known who she was.

  “I suppose you will now destroy what little credit I have. Haven’t you ruined enough people?”

  “Now you wrong me,” he said, echoing her earlier charge. “I could have learned your identity long ago if that was my purpose.”

  “I can only pray you are telling the truth. My book, sir? If anyone sees me talking to you, that will be ruin enough.”

  He nodded, as if he had just realized the truth of that sentiment, but the book remained out of reach. “You really shouldn’t jump out of moving carriages, Miss Warren. You could have been badly injured.”

  “True, but I wasn’t thinking of myself.” She pointedly held out her hand.

  Smiling, he gently placed the book on her palm, brushing her fingers with his own. “It’s been a pleasure.” He winked.

  “Has it?” Turning abruptly away, she stumbled out to her carriage.

  Devall remained where he was, his eyes now narrowed in speculation. So that was Angela Warren. Very interesting. She was one of the girls Gabriel had danced attendance on in recent days, or so his informants had reported. Someone less like the first Lady Atwater he could not imagine. Was that the attraction? Or was Gabriel unaware of the passion that lurked beneath her surface? Perhaps cultivating Miss Warren could bring Devall closer to Atwater without following the lengthy – and onerous – path of charming Lady Chartley.

  But he immediately rejected the idea. He could not destroy an innocent bystander no matter how urgent his feud with the earl.

  He frowned. So what had he just been doing? His behavior astonished him. He was never rude to strangers, especially those for whom he had felt concern. Why had he done it? Surely he hadn’t been trying to ruin her! It wasn’t her fault that she had bothered him since their first encounter. And that would only get worse now that they had spoken.

  Damn! He had misjudged her on several counts. Not only was she less naïve than he had expected, but she was much more intelligent. It was always possible that her brother had quoted Epictetus, of course, but he suspected she had read it herself – perhaps even in the original Greek. She seemed familiar enough with the philosopher to know that he had started life as a Roman slave.

  How much had she overheard that day on Piccadilly? He still didn’t know, for asking her would have drawn her attention to the incident. Her demeanor gave him no clue. On the other hand, no one would believe the tale, so he was safe enough.

  She was intriguing, though he was not quite sure what to make of her. Two very different images floated before his eyes. The first grew from his own impressions – a fiery reformer bursting with life and vitality; a girl who did not adhere to the strictures of society when they conflicted with her own beliefs; a woman whose red hair and green eyes lent emphasis to her passionate fury, making him want to hug her in delight.

  He shook his head at the way she had confronted that vendor – in the middle of a public thoroughfare before the eyes of the world. That the gossips knew nothing of her escapade was blind luck. And talking to him was the height of folly. She had known his identity and reputation, yet had sparred with him in a bookshop patronized by all of society, meeting rudeness with rudeness, oblivious to who might have overheard.

  A lingering hint of heliotrope teased his nose. An unusual scent for an unusual lady.

  But a far different image emerged from his reports on Atwater’s inamorata. That Miss Warren was shy and demure, rarely raising her voice above a whisper and seldom meeting any gentleman’s eye. She was exceedingly proper and promised to make a biddable wife.

  He shuddered. Her society behavior matched that of the first Lady Atwater, though Lydia had been a blue-eyed blonde.

  Stupid!

  A wave of disappointment engulfed him – and fury at himself because he’d forgotten that she was one of society’s daughters, and Lady Forley’s daughter, at that. The opposing images meant nothing. She was putting on an act, mimicking Atwater’s first wife to attract the earl’s attention. And her reason was obvious. Title and fortune. It was what every chit wanted. She would be the Countess of Atwater, a big step up for Viscount Forley’s impoverished sister. Her delayed come-out could only be blamed on failing finances. She was conventional, all right – greedy, selfish, determined, and willing to employ deceit and manipulation to improve her position in society.

  How could he have been crazy enough to like her?

  Collecting his own pile of books, he added a copy of the educational treatise and headed home, swearing profusely when that animated face stuck in his mind. She was far too enticing when enraged.

  Chapter Four

  A week later, Devall leaned against a building in New Bond Street, watching the door of Grafton House, the linen draper’s across the way. Miss Warren should exit at any moment, for she rarely wasted her time on idle browsing. It was further proof that her public image was a ruse. Conventional chits adored shopping.

  Why are you following her?

  The question surfaced daily despite his constant guard, but this time he couldn’t suppress it. Ignoring the latest cuts – these from Ladies Horseley and Stafford – he considered his motives.

  It was true that he hated pretense, but that was no reason for stalking Miss Warren – which he had been doing for a week now. She employed no more deceit than other young ladies.

  He sighed. Atwater was a big reason, and not just because Devall despised the man. Miss Warren and the earl did not suit. Despite her greed, she deserved a husband who would appreciate her, but she was too naïve to recognize that Gabriel did not qualify. Somehow he must convince her that many gentlemen prized the traits she was hiding. By revealing herself as an Original, she could have much of society at her feet, including some who possessed the title and fortune she craved.

  She emerged into the morning sunshine. Today’s costume fit the role she was playing – an elegantly restrained but fashionable morning gown, a charming bonnet that completely concealed her fiery curls, and a mask of mindless ennui to hide her passions from the world. A very proper maid accompanied her.

  Deceitful wench! Fury engulfed him. He hated charades. He hated dishonesty. So why did she insist on both?

  Catching her eye, he bathed her with his most scathing stare.

  Within moments, she abandoned the meek facade. Good.

  Or perhaps not. She countered with a glare that knifed into his head, sending shivers clear to his toes. Naturally she spotted that faint ripple. The corner of her mouth quirked in satisfaction.

  This wasn’t the first time they had silently fenced, but she was becoming too adept at probing deep into his mind. Thickening the armor that protected his darkest secrets, he deliberately fed his fury, hoping to divert her attention.

  She was a deceitful wench. Greedy. And stupid, if she thought to manage Atwater after marriage. Inevitably her trickery would be exposed, but Devall doubted that she understood the consequences. His eyes bored into hers in warning, but she was
too stubborn – or too ignorant – to heed him. He ought to wash his hands of her, but revulsion forced him to abandon the idea.

  “Miss Warren,” he mouthed silently, nodding in greeting. The clatter of hooves and wheels on cobblestones drowned out sound at this distance, so speaking could only draw unwanted attention. Approaching her openly would ruin her, but he must make her understand. “Be yourself. Stay away from Atwater.”

  She straightened, anger animating her face.

  Ignoring the voice cautioning him to tread warily, he let his gaze travel over her body – and a very nice body it was. His eyes lingered on the best parts.

  She returned the favor, flooding him with heat. Then her lips moved, and he flinched. Surely she hadn’t just called him a lecherous rogue! But the satisfaction sparkling in her eyes confirmed it. She added something else that looked like conceited ass.

  “Baggage!” he mouthed, stifling a laugh.

  Pompous popinjay! she responded.

  A carriage passed between them, blocking his view. By the time it was gone, she was ducking into a nearby shop.

  “Damnation,” he muttered as he strode away. His hands were trembling. What the devil had gotten into him? If anyone had noticed that exchange, she would be ruined. Fortunately, society always cut him, which required that they avert their eyes. But she lacked that protection. He must avoid further indiscretions.

  * * * *

  Angela stared at the crowd packed into Almack’s and sighed. Despite warnings from both Cassie and her mother, she had not expected the days to be so ruthlessly filled with activities. Balls, routs, theater, opera, drives in the park, picnics, morning calls, at-homes, shopping… The list went on and on. Some nights they took in four events. Lady Forley was ecstatic.

  Angela was not. In this rush for quantity entertainment, quality got lost. As did enjoyment. Hundreds of events were scheduled during a Season that lasted only three months. And that didn’t include the daily round of calls, the fashionable hour in the park, the theater, or the opera. No one wanted to miss anything, so they all scrambled to attend everything.