Angel's Devil

by Suzanne Enoch

  He scowled. "Hunting with Westfall will give me an attack of apoplexy." Angel couldn't stifle a chuckle, and the marquis glanced over at her. "Do I amuse you?" he queried, raising an eyebrow.

  She shook her head. "I'm trying to imagine you suffering from an apoplexy."

  He gave a slight grin. "Ah, but you've never seen me attempting to converse with Westfall."

  The dowager viscountess snorted. "The last time you conversed with Westfall you relieved him of seven hundred pounds at Boodles' club, did you not?"

  The marquis furrowed his brow. "Was that Westfall? I remember it seemed quite amusing at the time, but—"

  "What's amusing?"

  Angel started. "Simon," she exclaimed, as he strolled into the room.

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips, then glanced over at his cousin. "Generally, James, when someone is accompanying someone else, the first someone does not storm off in a rage and leave the second someone behind to make his apologies."

  "I didn't ask you to apologize," the marquis returned shortly. "And if you and Grandmama would stop meddling in my affairs, I wouldn't have to go storming off anywhere." He glanced over at Elizabeth. “Did it occur to either of you that I might simply want to spend this autumn at Abbonley? That I might enjoy being home after having been away for nearly two years?"

  Lady Elizabeth stood. "You're right, Jamie," she sighed, stepping over to kiss him on the cheek. She looked over at Angelique. "May I leave you in the company of these rapscallions for a moment?"

  "Of course," Angel agreed, glancing over at the marquis, and for the sake of her reputation grateful that Simon was present.

  "What are you up to now, Grandmama?" James queried suspiciously.

  "I'm going to send a note to Julia Davern to inform her that I was in error and my grandson will not be available to go fox hunting after the Season."

  "Oh, good God," Abbonley groaned, motioning her out the door. "Please."

  Simon grinned. "You can't blame us for trying, you know."

  "Yes, I can."

  "I thought you wanted to be respectable," Angelique added, and was rewarded by a scowl from the marquis.

  "That's correct, my lady. Respectable." He dropped onto the couch beside her. "Not sent to Bedlam. That quadrille lasted for twenty-five minutes. I conversed, quite charmingly, I might add, with Miss Wainwright for that entire time. I received three responses." He ticked them off on his fingers. " 'Yes, my lord,' 'no, my lord,' and 'whatever pleases you, my lord.' "

  Angelique nodded and took another sip of tea. "That is what you required, is it not?" she said mildly. "I'm afraid I don't see the problem.”

  "What are you two talking about?" Simon interjected.

  "That was bloody well not what I required," the marquis snapped, ignoring his cousin. His emerald eyes, though, seemed considerably less than annoyed as he met her gaze.

  He was enjoying the argument, she realized. And so was she. "Miss Wainwright is quiet, respectable, and from a good family. That is what you—"

  "All right. I see your point." James threw up his hands in mock surrender. "There's no need to stab me with it." He shook his head, a reluctant grin touching his lips. "Next time, please add intelligence to the list."

  She nodded again. "Very well, my lord." Angel gave a slow smile she was unable to suppress. "I may have someone in mind for you." A brief, guilty thought crossed by her, but she ignored it. James Faring might truly wish for a wife, but she would show him that he couldn't simply pick a few choice ingredients and be happy with the results.

  "Will someone please tell me what's going on?" Simon asked.

  Before the conversation could continue, James's grandmother returned and Miss Graham had to take her leave. Elizabeth invited both of her grandsons to supper, then left them. With Angelique gone, the drawing room seemed quieter and darker, and James rose to go find something with which to occupy himself.

  "James, may I speak to you for a moment?" Simon returned from the doorway where he had parted from his betrothed.

  "That sounds rather formal," the marquis commented, nodding and sitting back again.

  "You seem to... get along rather well with Angel."

  That didn't sound promising. James raised an eyebrow. "That was an argument we were having, Simon."

  "You like to argue," his cousin pointed out. "You always have."

  "Well, excuse me for enjoying a spirited conversation. I thought you'd be happy that Lady Angelique and I are dealing well."

  "I am. And stop being so hostile," Simon scowled, walking over to pour himself a brandy. He raised the decanter in James' direction. "Thirsty?"

  The marquis shook his head. "No. And I'm not being hostile."

  "You shouldn't be harassing Angel. It's bad enough that her parents are half ready to call off the wedding simply because the Devil's returned to London."

  A muscle in the marquis's lean cheek twitched. "My apologies, cousin," he murmured, "if my having survived Waterloo is upsetting your wedding plans."

  Simon flushed. "That's not what I meant."

  "Well then, please, explain exactly what it is you did mean."

  "James, I wanted... to ask your assistance."

  "You've a funny way of going about it." He gestured in Simon's direction. “Continue."

  "You know Angel and I don't want to wait until next April to marry," his cousin said slowly, and the marquis nodded.

  "So I gathered."

  Simon leaned back against the window sill. "Last night I happened to notice her mother's reaction to seeing the two of you waltzing."

  "So you want me to stay away from her. "The marquis stood, turning away so Simon wouldn't see how much that hurt. "Very well."

  "No, James, I don't want you to stay away from Angel. Just the opposite, in fact."

  Thinking he must have heard wrong, Abbonley stopped halfway to the door and turned to stare at Simon. "What?"

  "Her parents are concerned that perhaps we've rushed our decision to marry. What if they're right?"

  James frowned, wondering why he hoped that what he was hearing was true. "Simon, it's certainly no concern of mine if you and Lady Angelique have changed—"

  Shaking his head, Simon took a step forward. "What I mean is, what if the Marquis of Abbonley began showing interest in Angel? If they realized that, her parents would surely—"

  James shook his head. "Absolutely not, Simon. I won't step between you and a woman. Ever. If I've learned one damned lesson, it's that one."

  Simon paled. "It wouldn't be like... Desiree," he muttered. James turned again for the door, and Simon strode after him. "James, I'm sorry. I meant it would only be for show. It would only be to convince her parents that delaying the wedding would be a mistake." He lowered his hand. "That they'd be better off if they allowed us to wed immediately."

  "No, Simon."

  His cousin paused. "You owe me, James."

  James turned to look at him. "I owe you?" he repeated slowly.

  "I've spent most of my adult life helping you make your escape, literally and figuratively, out of women's bedchambers, making certain you returned home safely when you were too foxed to see straight and had just gambled some lord or other out of half his birthright, and," Simon hesitated for a moment, then raised his chin, "and being your second in duels."

  He stopped, but James stood quietly, waiting for the rest. "And?" he finally prompted, looking at his cousin.

  "And so I'm only asking one favor. A large one, I'll admit, but I'll never ask you for another."

  "Why did you never write and tell me about your Angel?" James asked instead of answering.

  Simon eyed him suspiciously, apparently sensing that he was being put off. "It was actually something of a surprise."

  "You mean you proposed by accident?" James returned, raising an eyebrow. "That seems a bit scatter-witted for you, cousin. You being the sensible one, and all."

  His cousin relaxed a little. "It was no accident. I meant that we met early last
Season, Angel and I, and we had so much in common and became such good friends, that, well, I suddenly realized I was very much in love with her."

  James studied his cousin for a moment. "So elope."

  Simon actually blanched. "I could never do such a thing. Angel's parents would never forgive us."

  "But they'd forgive you playing this little game with their daughter's honor?"

  "They won't know it's a game. And as the three of us will, her honor will never be at risk."

  "What about the rest of the ton? They've already got their noses into this. And I'm trying to make amends. I'm looking for a wife. I don't want—"

  His cousin snorted. "You? Looking for a wife?" He gestured toward the door Angelique had disappeared through. "That was what you two were talking about?"

  "Why does everyone find the combination of myself and matrimony to be so damned amusing?" James growled.

  Apparently seeing that he was serious, Simon sobered. "All right," he said, "find a wife. After you've helped me." He raised a hand when James began to protest. "Your reputation will receive barely another scuff. And with your wealth, there are females about who wouldn't care if you were a one-eyed dwarf with a hunched back, anyway."

  "Simon—"

  "James, please. I want to get married. Help me."

  James sighed. "All right. But one of us is going to regret this." He looked over at his cousin, his expression serious. "And I hope it's me."

  Simon stepped over and clasped his shoulder. "It will be neither of us. Trust me."

  Chapter Four

  “When do I get to meet your Simon?" Lily Stanfred queried as she and Angelique rode together in Hyde Park.

  "He's supposed to come for tea this afternoon," Angel smiled, then sighed.

  "What is it?"

  "Oh, just thinking. If I can stand my stuffy parents for another nine months, I'll be free."

  "And then what?" Lily smiled.

  Angelique threw out one hand. “I can do anything I wish! No one will complain about me ruining the floor or the furniture if I take in a stray dog, or cat, or... fox; no one will tell me I'll be ruined if I want to go walking in my garden without my bonnet, or without my shoes; no one to disagree if I like the ratty old chair in the morning room and don't want it moved up to the attic."

  "Heavens, Angel, it sounds as though you want to become a red Indian."

  "Well, I don't wish to scalp anyone, of course," Angelique answered, then laughed. "I only mean that it will be pleasant to make decisions for myself, without someone else dictating what's best for me."

  "As long as Simon approves," her friend pointed out.

  "Oh, of course."

  Angel smiled at Lily. If her friend had been there for the beginning of summer she might very easily have been named the toast of the Season. Fair-skinned, Lily Stanfred was gentle and elegant, with blue eyes soft as a lamb's and hair the color of—

  "The pollen that peppers the petals of proud primroses," a voice lisped, and Angel looked up, startled.

  Percival Alcott and his brother, Arthur, approached them. Angel cringed, for though she had managed to get through the Season with fewer than a dozen dances with both brothers, she considered even that number to be too many. "Beg pardon?"

  "I said, my lady, that your exquisite companion's fair locks are the very color of the pollen that peppers the petals of proud primroses," Percival repeated, his slightly nearsighted gaze on Lily.

  Angel gave her friend an amused glance. "Lily, may I present Mr. Percival and his brother, Mr. Arthur Alcott? Sirs, Lily Stanfred, daughter of Lord Stanfred."

  "I'm pleased to meet you," Lily nodded somewhat uncertainly.

  "Miss Stanfred," Arthur acknowledged. "A pleasure."

  "I am a poet, you know," Percival stated, raising a monocle to gaze at Lily through one pale blue eye.

  "I could tell immediately," Angel broke in, trying to stifle her laughter. She felt only a little guilt in her relief that Percival had set his sights on Lily rather than herself. Two more horsemen approached them, and the welcoming smile that came to her lips became even more amused as she recognized the second rider. Perhaps tonight she would have her chance to introduce Abbonley to his next possible intended.

  "Angel," Simon Talbott greeted her as he reined in. "You look lovely, as always."

  "Lady Angelique," James Faring echoed, giving her a speculative look when she was unable to cover her smile.

  He was mounted on quite possibly the most splendid stallion she had ever seen, a coal black Arabian giant with a long mane and full, arched tail. She had forgotten that the marquis was as well known for his taste in horseflesh as he was for his scandalous reputation.

  "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," the marquis said after a moment, looking over at Lily.

  "Nor have I," Simon murmured, and kneed his bay gelding, Admiral, forward. "Forgive my boldness, but you must be Miss Lily Stanfred."

  Lily smiled and placed her hand in Simon's waiting fingers. "Mr. Simon Talbott, I presume."

  Smiling, Simon raised her hand to his lips. "None other. How was your journey to London?"

  "Quite pleasant, Mr. Talbott. Thank you."

  "Simon, please," Simon begged, and Lily nodded.

  "Thank you, Simon."

  "Don't mind the rest of us, Simon," the marquis said dryly.

  Simon shook himself. "Beg pardon. James, Angel's dear friend Miss Lily Stanfred, and Mr. Percival Alcott and Mr. Arthur Alcott. Ma'am, gentlemen, James Faring, the Marquis of Abbonley."

  "My lord," Percival said, twiddling his fingers in a bizarre version of a salute.

  "I say, Abbonley, is it true you saved Wellington's life in Belgium?" Arthur asked, then subsided as it became apparent that he was being ignored.

  Angel looked sideways at Abbonley to find him exchanging pleasantries with Lily, and she scowled, displeased. Her friend was no match for the Devil. And with him wife-hunting, there was no telling what might happen.

  She was trying to decide how to intercede when a scrap of paper blew across the grass. At the sight of it her mare shied and reared. Used to the gray's flightiness, she leaned forward and pulled on the reins. Before she could complete the action a hand grabbed her bridle and hauled the mare down.

  "Let go! I can manage," she snapped, looking up to see the marquis close enough to touch, his eyes on her. He obliged, releasing his grip, but didn't move away. "So I see. You sit well, my lady."

  Before she could respond, Percival decided it time to put his twopence in. "That mare is too unpredictable for a lady," he noted stuffily.

  "Lady Angelique handles her well enough," the marquis contradicted.

  "Heaven is not unpredictable," she argued, glaring at Percival. "She's spirited, not a half-dead cart mule like you ride."

  "Angel," Simon admonished.

  The marquis gave a shout of laughter, his eyes dancing as he met her irritated gaze. She had already begun trying to decide how to take back what she had said, but as she looked at the amused expression on his handsome face the notion, and her annoyance, faded.

  "Heaven?" he chuckled, raising an eyebrow.

  Percival, blustering at the insult to his mount, bobbed his head. "Again, highly improper."

  "What do you call your... steed?" the marquis asked.

  Percival flushed. "Lancelot," he said loftily.

  "Ah, a noble moniker, indeed."

  Angel was enjoying the exchange. Anyone who thought Percival Alcott as great a fop as she, and had the wherewithal to point it out, was definitely an ally.

  "And what do you call that?" Alcott asked, indicating the marquis's grand stallion.

  "Demon," Abbonley answered promptly.

  Angelique chuckled, then stopped as both men looked her way. One gaze was pale blue and patronizing, the other wickedly amused emerald. She cleared her throat, seeing her chance. "There is to be a recital tonight at the Countess of Beaufort's. Lily and her mother will be going with Mama and me." She turned to look at Simon.
"Will you both be attending?"

  Simon threw a quick glance at the marquis, who shrugged. "It sounds quite tolerable. Why not?"

  Angel smiled. "Why not, indeed?"

  The rest of the day seemed interminably long, and even after she arrived at the Countess of Beaufort's drawing room with her mother, Lily, and Lady Stanfred, she was hard-pressed to keep from pacing. Most of the guests had arrived and were milling about the entrance to the music room, but Simon and the marquis had yet to appear. Since Abbonley was the only reason she'd suggested they all attend, she was beginning to feel quite aggravated.

  Finally the two gentlemen appeared at the top of the stairs. The unexpected presence of the marquis immediately set the rest of the guests, most of them female, buzzing. As soon as she spied Abbonley, the Countess of Beaufort parted from Lady Andrews and elbowed her way through the crowd to greet him. It took the two gentlemen several minutes to make their way over to Angelique's party, and she smiled, mostly with relief, as Simon reached her side.

  "Angel," he greeted her, brushing her knuckles with his lips. "And Miss Stanfred," he smiled, repeating the gesture. "Good evening, ladies."

  "I had no idea these functions were so popular," the marquis commented, taking her hand in turn.

  "The countess serves exceedingly savory refreshments," Angel explained, sotto voce, and he chuckled.

  "So that's the secret. I thought it might be the music."

  Angelique glanced across the room to see that the other guest she had been waiting for had also arrived. "Mama," she said, "Excuse me for a moment. Lord Abbonley has asked me to introduce him to someone."

  Camellia Graham stifled a frown. "The recital is due to start any moment, darling, so please hurry," she agreed reluctantly.

  The marquis was eyeing her curiously, but followed her willingly enough. "My future bride?" he queried at a whisper.

  "She meets all of your requirements," Angel returned. "Miss Peachley?"

  The tall young woman, leaning against one wall and looking quite bored, turned her head. "Yes, Lady Angelique?" the brunette answered, fingering her fashionable cropped ringlets.

  "May I present James Faring, the Marquis of Abbonley? My lord, Miss Hester Peachley."