by Allison Lane
If Blackthorn was truthful, then Atwater must have more than one enemy. If he had even temporarily pulled the wool over the eyes of society’s most knowing gossips, could she trust anything they said – including tales of Blackthorn’s own crimes? A shiver almost of excitement tickled her spine. Was he less black than people claimed? It was a difficult question because no one in society seemed capable of thought. They blindly followed a handful of fashionables like a flock of unusually stupid sheep.
Blackthorn was rude and possibly crude, but he had never treated her dishonorably – not even when she argued with him. Meeting away from the eyes of the polite world had allowed them to speak freely. Neither had any reason to put his best foot forward, so she could trust her impressions more readily than with other people.
In a way, Atwater also gave her glimpses of truth. He was on his best behavior. But that revealed what he thought she wanted from him. His extravagant compliments implied that she was empty-headed and vain. He made even the most innocuous decisions for her, implying that she was incompetent and biddable. None of it was true.
Tucking the handkerchief away, she sighed. She must discern the truth about Blackthorn and Atwater for herself. Other people’s claims were suspect. But answering all her questions would take more time than she had.
Angela glanced in a mirror to check her face, then pleaded a headache, forcing her mother to take her home.
Had Atwater killed his wife? Perhaps a tendency toward violence was what disturbed her about the man. Yet Blackthorn never incited even a flicker of unease despite being the most violent man she had ever met. Fortunately, studying their characters was no more than an intellectual game. Thank God for Garwood.
“How is your head?” asked Sylvia when they had settled into their respective beds. She had heard about the ball from Lady Forley.
“Better. Any other night it wouldn’t have mattered, but I could not remain another minute.”
“Who can blame you? Blackthorn sounds unhinged. What did Lord Atwater say?”
“Very little, and nothing to the point. But he was coiled so tightly, I feared he would explode.”
“Do you think they came to blows after you left?” She sounded excited by the prospect.
“I doubt it.” She would never admit knowing that Blackthorn had left during supper. “Atwater resists every provocation.”
“The marquess is mad. Why else would he press so adamantly?”
“Perhaps he believes the tales about Lady Atwater’s death.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know what to believe, but I will accept Garwood, so it is irrelevant. Atwater would never make a comfortable husband. He treats me like a four-year-old who is incapable even of eating without his advice and assistance. In his mind, female intelligence is a contradiction of terms.”
“Gracious! Thank heaven Andrew does not embrace that notion.”
Angela laughed. “He will be a supportive and loving husband, though he is so frustrated right now that male intelligence seems the contradiction.”
Giggles rippled through the dark. “If you plan to accept Garwood, why haven’t you told your mother?”
“I have, but she ignores anything she does not wish to hear and is determined to change my mind. Since all she cares about is title and social position, she considers Garwood utterly ineligible. She’ll never understand me.”
“I’ll try to help you convince her. Do you love Garwood?”
“No, but we are comfortable.”
Sylvia subsided into sleep, but Angela had felt that flash of sorrow at her admission. The girl was too young to accept that few marriages were based on love. But love wasn’t necessary. Philip would make a good husband. And she would work hard to keep him content, though his touch was no different than Andrew’s. Could she enjoy intimacy with a man who felt like a brother? Why couldn’t he be as stimulating as Blackthorn?
What an unfortunate thought to fall asleep on, she reflected in the morning. Her dreams had been haunted by furious eyes in a harsh face. And oddly enough, by compassionate arms that comforted her while she wept.
Chapter Eight
The rumors about Atwater’s first marriage echoed in drawing rooms and men’s clubs, ballrooms and theaters, anywhere, in fact, where two members of society met. New details emerged hourly, accusing him of brutalizing his wife from the first day of their marriage, of mistreating his tenants, of visiting excessive punishments on miscreants. Everyone embraced the scandal, though few believed it. And because they assumed Blackthorn had fabricated the tales, many added new charges, willingly changing details to make the stories more dramatic. What difference could embellishing fiction make? Sprigs whose behavior had drawn Atwater’s censure leaped on the chance to retaliate.
Blackthorn dogged Atwater’s footsteps, the hatred that pulsed between the men nearly visible. But Angela at last understood his antagonism. Atwater’s first wife had been Blackthorn’s cousin. He must believe that the earl had killed her. And since Blackthorn had not started the rumors, someone else also believed it. Thus an element of truth must underlie the tale. Atwater’s refusal to assume mourning supported his guilt.
Society waited expectantly for Atwater to challenge Blackthorn. All eyes followed him. All ears pricked to attention whenever he opened his mouth. Every muscle in his body noticeably tightened whenever Blackthorn appeared. The betting books bulged with wagers about when and how the duel would proceed.
But Atwater confounded London’s gamesters, for when he broke, he eschewed a physical confrontation, instead choosing to counterattack in the arena where he was the undisputed champion.
“Lord Atwater has confessed the truth of his wife’s death,” Lady Debenham announced one afternoon to the ladies assembled in her drawing room. “And it is obvious why he hoped to hide the circumstances.” She smiled sympathetically at Angela, confirming that despite the stories, society still expected her to become the next Lady Atwater.
Angela hid her grimace. She had been trying to distance herself from the earl for days, hoping that the scandal would make the break easier, but her mother and Atwater between them had blocked every effort.
“What is the truth?” demanded an elderly dowager, sounding gleeful that Lady Debenham had apparently stolen a march on Lady Beatrice, whose purple face and dagger eyes glared at her hostess.
Lady Debenham deliberately poured tea for a new arrival before responding. “He admits to striking his wife, knocking her down and bringing on her miscarriage.” Satisfaction blazed in her eyes as gasps rolled around the room. “But we must sympathize with the poor man. He loved her with all his heart and was thrilled that she had conceived so quickly. He showered her with attention, catering to her every whim. Then his entire world collapsed.” She paused until the silence was nearly unbearable. “Another man had fathered the child.”
Someone shrieked.
“How awful!”
“Poor Atwater.”
“How could so shy a girl be so unscrupulous?”
“Who?”
All eyes returned to Lady Debenham.
“When he confronted her, she laughed, bragging at the ease with which she had deceived him. She had carried her lover’s child on her wedding day.”
More gasps echoed.
“Who?” demanded Lady Beatrice.
“Her cousin, Lord Blackthorn.” Lady Debenham smiled, raising her teacup to her lips as her visitor’s shock gave way to avid chatter.
“Scandalous!”
“That man should have been hung long ago.”
“The entire Sherbrooke family should be ostracized.”
“How like him to turn the tale against Atwater.”
“It is no wonder Atwater cannot mourn her.”
“How did the poor man survive such betrayal?”
Angela hardly heard the talk as it swirled around her. The truth will out… Well, the truth was out with a vengeance.
Or was it?
She followed Lady Forley
to their carriage as she tried to pin down that elusive feeling that something was wrong.
“I told you there could be no basis for those malicious rumors,” said Lady Forley as their carriage circled Berkeley Square. They passed the crowd outside Gunter’s, where footmen raced in and out filling orders for ices. “Perhaps now you will believe that I know what is best for you. You must support your intended husband in his time of trial. Let everyone know that you accept his innocence.”
“He is not my intended husband!” Her mind finally brought that elusive thought into focus. Lady Atwater had died nine months to the day after her marriage. If she had been increasing before her wedding, why did everyone attribute her death to a miscarriage? The timing did not fit. “He struck his wife, Mother,” she continued. “Such behavior is unacceptable.”
“Nonsense. He had cause. The worst thing a woman can do is foist an ill-gotten heir onto her husband. You must support him, and the best way to do so is to dismiss Garwood. You demean yourself by allowing him to dangle after you when you have no intention of wedding him.”
“Stop forcing your own views onto me,” she demanded coldly. “I refuse to consider Atwater as a husband. He makes me uncomfortable. And his explanation clearly prevaricates. If she was already increasing when she wed, why had she not delivered before this so-called miscarriage?”
“Fustian. Rid yourself of these ridiculous phantoms. Only Atwater can assure you a place in society. Garwood will never bring you to town every Season as is your due. You will die if you are immured in the country for years on end. And you have no idea how demeaning it is to have one’s wardrobe stripped to the bone, to have to entertain while living in a neighborhood of cits, to use a traveling coach for making town calls. If you wed Garwood, you would soon find yourself barred from the higher circles. As the Countess of Atwater, you will be a pillar of society. His credit is high, his position inviolable, his townhouse properly situated on Upper Brook Street…”
Angela tuned out the familiar refrain. It was true that she did not consider their present circumstances demeaning. She cared nothing for such trivial matters. Nor did she covet the annual treks to town. She had spent her entire life on the estate, working with its tenants, helping Andrew rebuild his inheritance, supervising the household Lady Forley disparaged as beneath her touch – this despite that her own father had been a baronet, so her marriage had been a huge step up.
Forley Court was the life Angela knew and loved. That was the sort of life she wanted after marriage – a husband with whom she could feel comfortable and who would install her as lady of the manor on his own estate.
Atwater would never be such a man, regardless of the truth about his first wife. Yesterday’s confrontation had been the last straw. He had unexpectedly appeared at her modiste’s to collect her from an appointment.
“My own carriage is waiting,” she had protested.
“Lady Forley needed to go out. I have already dispatched it and will look after you myself.” He’d smiled.
She had been furious but helpless. Her mother had obviously seized yet another opportunity to force her into Atwater’s company and inextricably link their names. Even if some emergency had arisen that demanded use of a carriage, Hart’s town coach was available. Sylvia had remained at home.
“Come,” he ordered, motioning her toward the door.
“I am not finished.” She turned back to Jeanette. They had been discussing the details of a new evening gown and had the fabric spread over a table while they compared it to a fashion plate.
“Let the dressmaker do her job,” he snapped, an iron grip forcing her hand onto his arm. “If she is capable of doing so. I cannot believe you would patronize a country upstart. There are any number of top modistes in town. Your beauty deserves only the best.”
Angela cast an apologetic glance at Jeanette, but she could not resist his force without creating a scandalous scene that might harm Jeanette’s business. Without her own coach, she had no choice but to go with him.
“You have more important duties today.” He glared as he all but threw her into his phaeton. “Why are you not at Atwater House overseeing the preparations for tomorrow’s rout?”
“Mrs. Lincoln knows what to do. How many times must I remind you that I am not your hostess?”
“You should be. Your place will always be at my side. You are the light of my life, the love of my heart, the ornament I need to brighten my home after so much agony.”
She shook her head. Did he really believe that pouring the butter boat over her head would influence her? She was possibly above average in looks, but was certainly no diamond. And she had protested often against involving herself with his rout. Lady Forley had volunteered her services, of course, but this was one instance in which she had dug in her heels and refused. His housekeeper was capable of handling the arrangements. The subject had come up often during the last fortnight, but she had continued to refuse. His deliberate disregard of her wishes triggered her temper.
“You will take me home, my lord,” she said firmly. He had turned toward Brook Street. “Immediately.”
“There is too much to be done for you to turn missish,” he countered, eyes glittering dangerously.
“Quite right. I have much planned for today – at my own home. You have already interfered too much, without my invitation and over my repeated objections. It is time to prove that you deserve the title gentleman. Take me home.”
Fire flashed in his eyes, and for a moment she feared his reaction, but he relaxed his grip on the ribbons and turned his charming smile on her.
“My apologies, Miss Warren. Lady Forley disclaimed any plans for the day.”
“Mother is often muddled. You cannot accept her word for anything, my lord. She is stupid and selfish and deliberately forgets that my brother is head of the family.”
Another sharp glance pierced her, but he had turned his horses toward Clifford Street.
Thrusting the memory aside, she sighed in despair. She could not face Atwater’s hovering another minute.
Philip would be at tonight’s rout. It was time to end this farce of a Season and settle her future. She would bring him up to scratch if she had to turn the tables and ask for his hand. She was sick of games, sick of insincere smiles and flattering falsehoods, sick of the endless posturing. That furious gleam in Atwater’s eyes still made her skin crawl. She could easily see him striking down so insignificant a creature as a wife.
* * * *
Atwater’s rout was little different from a hundred others, though Lady Forley sulked during the entire ride to Brook Street. She had wanted to be the first arrival, thus fostering the image that Angela was the hostess. But Angela had anticipated the stratagem, deliberately procrastinating over her toilette so that his house was crowded when they entered. If she had been given a choice, they would be at the opera tonight – she’d not yet seen von Weber’s Abu Hassan – but when had her desires ever mattered?
It took only half an hour to discover that this was the most enjoyable evening since her come-out ball. Atwater was stuck in the receiving line, leaving her free to laugh, to talk, to lightly flirt. He wasn’t at hand to restrict her companions or to dampen their spirits with that proprietary stare she was coming to loathe.
If she’d had any doubts over accepting Philip, they were now gone. She only hoped he would arrive soon. Tonight’s freedom provided a perfect opportunity to settle their betrothal.
Atwater would be tied up for most of the evening. His public admission that he had struck his wife guaranteed that every member of the ton would be here tonight. And he would have to greet them. Lady Forley lurked determinedly at his side, leaving Angela to her own devices.
But Philip was late. The excessive crush made it difficult for carriages to negotiate the street, and the rooms were so crowded that Angela could barely move.
Eventually, the heat and oppressive air that signaled an approaching storm drove her away. But the retiring room was full of lad
ies gossiping about Blackthorn. Unwilling to listen to the self-righteous prattle, and equally unwilling to draw attention to herself by pointing out the discrepancies in Atwater’s claims, she sought a small anteroom outside Atwater’s office where she could recover in peace. It was usually used as a waiting room for tradesmen.
She had risen to return to the drawing room when the office door slammed shut. Angry voices stopped her in her tracks.
“Imbecile!” snapped Atwater. “How dare you allow Garwood into the house! I expressly forbade his appearance.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” whispered a shaken voice – the footman who had been stationed at the front door. “I do not know how he got in, for he did not pass me.”
“Liar. I saw him come up the stairs. You were fawning over his grace of Woburton and paid him no heed.”
The footman gasped.
“I do not countenance incompetence, James, as you well know. You will leave my employ immediately. There will be no reference.”
Angela stifled a protest. The last thing she needed was for Atwater to corner her alone in this room. Being compromised had no place in her plans.
Again the door slammed.
She could not believe such high-handed cruelty. And why had he tried to bar Garwood? She knew Philip had received an invitation, for he had mentioned it only yesterday. Had Atwater planned to embarrass him by having him ejected from the house? Such a childish plot belied his reputation, but it fit well with a man who admitted beating his wife and who threw out a servant over so trifling a transgression. So the original rumors were probably true.
She walked slowly back to the rout. The footman should not have been expected to carry out such a plan. But it gave her the ammunition she would need to counter her mother’s fury when she accepted Philip. Not that she could do so tonight. He was undoubtedly gone, and Atwater was no longer receiving guests. She spotted him in the drawing room, apparently looking for her.