Devall's Angel

by Allison Lane

  “Will he dare speak with me in public?”

  “I believe so. His own position is so solid that he runs no risk.”

  “Good, for I would hate to see Lady Ashton suffer. She is a decent girl.”

  “What are you planning?”

  She pondered her options for some minutes before answering. “I cannot run, for you are right about the effect that would have on my future. If, by some miracle, I ever wed, I must be able to bring out my daughters. Which means I have to fight for my honor. But it won’t be easy. If I appear at Almack’s, the patronesses will revoke my voucher in a trice. I can only hope they will make no hasty decisions if I don’t push them. I will attend those events for which I have invitations, and comport myself as befits a lady. With luck I won’t break down. There is too little time to truly change opinion, but perhaps I can raise a few doubts.”

  “I don’t see any other choice,” he agreed on a long sigh. “At least we will soon learn who our real friends are.”

  * * * *

  It was even worse than she’d expected. After only an hour at the Bradbury ball, Angela feared she would never survive the evening. Tears burned the backs of her eyes, but she kept a smile fixed on her face, ignoring the cuts. No one spoke to her. Lady Hervey and Grace Styles stalked to the farthest point of the room when she arrived. Miss Gumply, a chronic complainer who had not taken well, surprisingly found herself the center of an attentive audience when she fervently criticized Angela’s temerity for exposing them to such immorality. Three starchy dowagers loudly condemned her. Lord Heatherton, who had a reputation as a cutting mimic, drew round after round of laughter as he parodied her supposed transgressions, employing the girlish tones of a pea-brained widgeon loudly proclaiming innocence even as she is discovered en flagrante.

  Angela danced a set with Andrew and one with Ashton, then refused several libertines and a couple of lecherous old men who were looking for an illicit relationship.

  Atwater put on a show of horrified outrage to find her there, tempered only by his duty to control himself in deference to his hostess. But his tongue was busy. New details were already making the rounds. She was little better than a harlot, leading a steady parade of gentlemen to her bed. In fact, she was now being compared to Lady Darnley, London’s most notorious matron, who made no effort to hide her liaisons despite having been widowed only three weeks before. The woman was rapidly becoming a courtesan.

  The next night was worse. Lady Forley refused to accompany her. Her hostess cut her in the receiving line. Society’s tongues tripped over themselves in their eagerness to condemn her, though many voices sounded almost envious of her supposed daring.

  What had she done to deserve such a fate? Angela cried into her pillow that night. Her name had been sullied by the very people who professed to love her – her mother, the man she had chosen to wed, and the man who claimed to adore her.

  She was galloping through Hyde Park’s early morning fog when Blackthorn joined her.

  “You are out early today,” he said.

  “I couldn’t sleep – which should surprise no one.”

  “You have my deepest sympathies.” He sighed. “I had no idea Atwater would turn on you like this. Perhaps it would have been better had I not warned you off.”

  “You did nothing, my lord. You know I was determined to reject him. And your disclosures made it easier to withstand his anger and my mother’s hysterics.”

  “I always knew you were intelligent. Any idea why she pushed so hard?”

  She nodded. “Her motives came out after I refused him. She planned to use his purse to support her permanent return to town, which explains why she refused to listen to me and kept him close at hand. He was impervious to my coolness, deciding that it denoted shyness. I should have just told him straight out that I would never consider his suit. Marriage must be a partnership if it is to succeed, and he is not a person to ever consider his wife as an equal.”

  “You have unusually clear sight.”

  “For a female,” she finished for him.

  “I did not say that. Nor did I mean it,” he protested. “I might have tempered it with for one of your experience. It is difficult to read hidden character when one’s life has been spent in the country.”

  “That is society’s arrogance talking. Having cast aside my mother’s blinders, I’ve discovered that human nature varies little from class to class. I have spent much time working with the people who live near our estate.”

  “What led you to turn him down, if I might be so bold? Surely it was not solely because of how he discharged that footman.”

  “His possessiveness, for one. It implied a poor opinion of my character, for he trusted me with no one else, even on a dance floor. And his eyes flashed in anger whenever someone contradicted him or argued his ideas. His treatment of Ned Parker at the theater was insupportable, of course. Then there were the rumors. Even before stories of Lady Atwater’s death surfaced, I had heard of an incident in which he nearly came to blows with another gentleman in Lady Debenham’s drawing room. It hinted at an ungovernable temper.”

  He nodded. “His character is there for all to see. But you are one of the few to actually do so. Too bad he is bent on revenge.”

  “It has been difficult,” she agreed in vast understatement. “Andrew convinced me to stay in town and face the charges, but I have been wondering if my situation is too hopeless to warrant the pain. It must hurt both him and Lady Sylvia to associate with me.”

  “You must face society. You cannot allow this cloud to continue, for it is entirely false.”

  She nodded. “And not even original. The initial charges were a variation of those he leveled at you and his wife, which themselves were a twisted version of your reasons for ending your betrothal. Now he has lifted Lady Darnley’s reputation and applied it to me. Surely someone must eventually notice his sources.”

  “They will, but since they are true in Lady Darnley’s case, people can easily accept them.” His brows had risen at the reference to his own past, but he made no comment on it. “The gossips are out of control for the moment, but if you persist, they will eventually begin to question the facts. I will do what I can to hasten that end.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t think there is much to be done.”

  “We shall see. What will you do when this is over?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. It will be years before we can return to town. Sylvia will take over the Court, so I’ll practice biting my tongue and being invisible. Setting up my own establishment is out of the question – especially now.” She pulled her horse to a halt, appalled at the self-pity that had entered her voice. “Forgive me. Fatigue has gotten the best of me. Normally I would never burden another with my problems.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. What of your mother?”

  “She will move to the dower house, whether she will or no,” she declared firmly. “But I will not go with her. I cannot live with her complaints and abuse.”

  He shook his head. “Try to keep up your spirits. The truth will emerge eventually. And when it does, Atwater’s reputation will be in shreds.”

  “A comforting thought. I will try to believe it.”

  Blackthorn watched her leave. She couldn’t hide her bitterness, though she had every right to it. His heart bled for her, but he thrust pity aside. Exiting the park, he headed for Jack’s rooms.

  The major had been out of town for several days and had not yet heard the news. They spent the morning compiling a list of friends and army officers who might counter the rumors. Then Jack headed for Clifford Street to assure Angela of his support.

  * * * *

  Lady Forley stormed into the house, nearly in hysterics.

  “You have ruined us!” she wailed at Angela. “Even the tradesmen smirk at me. One even refused me service. I will never be able to hold my head up in London again. And it is all your fault. I will die!”

  “Do you begin to understand why I could not accept
him?” Angela asked, trying one last time to reach her mother. “He is evil and would have made my life miserable.”

  “Fustian!” swore Lady Forley. “A man’s character means nothing, for a knowing woman can always bend him to her will. You would have had rank and wealth. What more could you want?”

  Shaking her head, Angela left her mother to her megrims.

  Another evening of cuts made her question whether fighting for her reputation was worth it. And the blow she received on awakening did nothing to help. A note accompanied her chocolate.

  Angela,

  I cannot accept the life of an outcast that you have deliberately and maliciously forced upon this family. Your father would have been appalled, but as he is no longer here to whip you to your senses, I must plan my own future.

  Henry has asked for my hand. We are leaving at once for Italy. I do not expect to see or hear from you again, as I am determined to cut all contacts that could lower my consequence. As Henry’s wife, I will retain my credit and once again be able to hold my head up in town. It is time he takes his seat in Parliament.

  now Lady Styles

  It was too much. Angela burst into tears, but anger was even stronger than the pain of yet another betrayal. How dared the woman leave at such a time? It could only make her own position worse.

  Throwing on a gown, she joined Andrew at the breakfast table.

  “I see you’ve heard,” he commented dryly, motioning to his own missive.

  “She decided to leave lest she be tarred with my misdeeds. It seems I have deliberately heaped dishonor and disgrace on her head, maliciously preventing her from enjoying the society she should be running,” said Angela. “I am informed that she is severing all contact with a family that can only be considered a millstone around her neck.”

  Anger suffused his face. “Of all the gall…”

  But her own anger died as the ramifications of her mother’s elopement became clear. “She has made her bed. Let her lie in it. I hope she enjoys Italy, for it is all the society she will ever know.”

  Interest lit Andrew’s eyes. “What tale is this?”

  “I have often been forced into Lord Styles’s company, for he hovered around Mother almost as much as Atwater did. One of our more agreeable conversations – which did not include her – compared the merits of country versus city living. He despises towns, forcing himself away from his beloved hunting grounds only to bring out one of his daughters – usually in York. Grace is the last. Her marriage now forces him to look for someone to run his house and care for his tenants so he can continue the sporting life unencumbered. Why did it never occur to her that she has not seen him in thirty years even though she spent every Season in town before Father’s death?”

  “Good God! He lives in Northumberland.” Andrew’s eyes widened as he burst into laughter.

  “Yes, and his estate is even more isolated than Forley Court.”

  “Nor is he weak-willed like Papa was, much though I loved him.”

  “As did I. But Lord Styles will never bow to the wiles of a mere woman. He is firmly set in his ways and cares for nothing beyond his own interests. He is also a confirmed miser.” She joined in his mirth, though reality soon intruded. “There are problems that we must immediately address. Her defection will trigger new rumors.”

  “We can handle that.”

  “Sylvia cannot remain here without a chaperon. Even were I pristine, it would not do. The last thing I want is to tarnish her reputation.”

  He paled. “Dear Lord. Does that mean we must run for home after all?”

  “When is Lady Trotter due?”

  “Yesterday, unless her doctor forbade travel. I’d better call at Trotter House and find out if she has arrived.”

  “If so, Sylvia can join her immediately. If not, then she must return to the Grange. We can still remain in town.”

  * * * *

  Barbara, Lady Trotter, was appalled at Andrew’s story.

  “Nonsense,” she scoffed when he announced that Sylvia would join her that afternoon. “Your sister is innocent. I will move to Clifford Street immediately.”

  “What about Lord Trotter?”

  “He will not arrive for at least a fortnight as James is suffering another bout of fever,” she explained, mentioning her oldest son. Had she not promised to assist Sylvia, she would have stayed at home herself, for she was barely six weeks out of childbed.

  She ordered her trunks sent to Lord Forley’s residence and accompanied him home.

  * * * *

  “You may have performed the good deed of the century,” said Sylvia that night, laughing.

  “What?” Angela met her eyes in the mirror – Sylvia’s maid was still readying her for bed. They had attended different events that evening.

  “Miss Gumply. You know what a harridan she has become.”

  “Don’t we all!” Miss Gumply’s acidic criticisms had driven away scores of potential suitors. For all she was an antidote, her extravagant dowry should at least have attracted the fortune hunters, but few could abide her tongue. The more her popularity waned, the more she found to criticize. “She has been on a downward spiral for weeks.”

  “Not any more. Given the current fashion, her willingness to pillory you has attracted an admiring audience, begging your pardon.”

  “I am immune to reminders.”

  “And you’ve doubtless noticed Lord Heatherton’s impersonations.”

  “Were I not personally involved, I could laugh myself silly at some of them. Who can blame people for being so entertained?”

  “Well, he has recently noticed Miss Gumply’s antics. All the approval has encouraged her to inject humor into her tales, making them an admirable complement to his pantomimes. They have begun working together.”

  “My God!”

  “They may well make a match of it. They slipped into the garden for quite half a set tonight. You know, she’s not really an antidote when she smiles.”

  She laughed. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “There is another story making the rounds,” Sylvia continued. “It seems Garwood has need of a new secretary.”

  “Was he abandoned for an employer of higher consequence?”

  “No, the fellow apparently made a fortune and can now pursue life as a gentleman. His own breeding is good.”

  Angela remained silent. So Garwood had unjustly accused Lord Renford as well. It was his own secretary who had absconded with his papers.

  But that was of no consequence. The rumors were even worse now that Lady Forley had eloped. No one believed that a mother would abandon an innocent daughter.

  Chapter Twelve

  “We need more support if we are to rescue your reputation,” said Barbara at breakfast. A round of calls the previous afternoon had demonstrated the extent of the problem. Society was in a feeding frenzy, with Angela as the main course. “Who believes you so far?”

  “Lord Ashton,” said Andrew.

  “And Lady Ashton,” put in Sylvia.

  “Major Caldwell has recruited several of his friends,” reported Angela.

  “I had not heard that he was in town,” Barbara said in delight. “He is a strong champion.”

  “For the moment. He will return to Spain any day now. And some people interpret my sudden attraction to so many officers as proof of immorality.”

  Everyone sighed.

  “Hart is writing letters,” said Sylvia. “And Lord Shelford has taken Hart’s support to heart.”

  “If Hart came to town, it would be even better.”

  “He can’t leave Cassie alone,” said Andrew.

  “If he didn’t hover, she would feel better,” declared Barbara firmly.

  “Only his insistence is keeping her from a full schedule in town,” Angela reminded her.

  Barbara frowned, but accepted it. “I can’t ask him to lend a hand then. My own friends will help, of course. And Trotter’s. We must go on the attack and make people question these stories. Most
are too ridiculous to be credible.”

  “Credibility is not the issue. It is fashionable to vilify me,” said Angela gloomily.

  “Then we must make it fashionable to vilify Atwater. His estate is only a few miles from ours. Unsavory rumors have abounded for years. I cannot understand why they never reach town.”

  “Atwater has the most powerful gossips in his pocket, and they will never admit that they misjudged him.”

  The truth of that was revealed again and again over the following days. Even Barbara’s friends taunted her for believing Angela, most attributing her credulity to her recent childbed. Lady Debenham was one of those.

  “Do not let the sensibility arising from your confinement lead you into exaggeration,” she chided her. “Lord Atwater is the most gentle and caring man of my acquaintance. I can understand his horror. He loved that girl with all his heart. Discovering that she is a grasping harpy with the morals of an alley cat was crushing.”

  “I am not exaggerating,” swore Lady Trotter. “His stories are blatant lies uttered in retaliation because she refused his suit. I know her well, for we grew up on neighboring estates. And I know Atwater, for his land runs with my husband’s. This campaign is typical of his behavior at home. A groundskeeper who informed him that tulips do not bloom in August was discharged with no reference, and a neighbor fell victim to this same sort of character assassination when he refused to redirect a stream onto Atwater’s estate.”

  “I’m sure you are misinformed about the cause of both incidents,” said Lady Debenham firmly. “And I can understand your loyalty. After all, your sister will soon wed Lord Forley. But you needn’t fear that the connection will harm you. Every family has its black sheep. As soon as she admits that society is closed to her, all will be well.”

  Major Caldwell was likewise stymied. “I have never seen the tabbies this ferocious,” he admitted during supper at that evening’s ball.

  “Nor I,” agreed Ashton. “I was sure that reason would have prevailed by now.”

  “No one wishes to admit making a mistake,” said Angela with a sigh. “Not the mistake of misjudging me,” she added as Lady Ashton raised a brow. “I am too little known to matter. But they have long assigned every virtue to Atwater. Accepting that his tales are lies concedes that his charm has blinded them for years. Do you honestly believe that puffed-up dowagers like Lady Beatrice and Lady Horseley can admit to poor judgment? They may believe the worst of others, but not when it calls their own intelligence into question.”