Thunder and Roses
The Fallen Angel Series
Book One
by
Mary Jo Putney
ISBN: 978-1-61417-142-3
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 1993, 2011 by Mary Jo Putney. All rights reserved.
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Thank You.
The Fallen Angel Series
(in order)
Now available in eBook format
Thunder and Roses
Petals in the Storm
(revised from The Controversial Countess)
Dancing on the Wind
Angel Rogue
Shattered Rainbows
River of Fire
One Perfect Rose
To Marianne and Karen,
two of my favorite females
Prologue
Wales, 1791
Winter mists swirled about as they scaled the wall that enclosed the estate. The ghostly landscape proved empty of human life, and no one saw the intruders drop from the wall and make their way across the carefully tended grounds.
Softly Nikki asked, "Will we steal a chicken here, Mama?"
His mother, Marta, shook her head. "Our business is more important than chickens."
The effort of speaking triggered a coughing spell, and she bent over, thin body shaking. Uneasy and distressed, Nikki touched her arm. Sleeping under hedges was making the cough worse, and there had been little to eat. He hoped that soon they would return to the Romany kumpania, where there would be food and fire and fellowship.
She straightened, face pale but determined, and they continued walking. The only color in the winter scene was the garish purple of her skirt.
Eventually they emerged from the trees onto a swath of grassy turf that surrounded a sprawling stone mansion. Awed, Nikki said, "A great lord lives here?"
"Aye. Look well, for someday this will be yours."
He stared at the house, feeling an odd mixture of emotions. Surprise, excitement, doubt, finally disdain. "The Rom do not live in stone houses that kill the sky."
"But you are didikois, half-blood. It is right that you live in such a place."
Shocked, he turned to stare at her. "No! I am tacho rat, true blood, not Gorgio."
"Your blood is true for both Rom and Gorgio." She sighed, her beautiful face drawn. "Though you have been raised as a Rom, your future lies with the Gorgios."
He started to protest, but she shushed him with a quick hand motion as hoofbeats sounded. They withdrew into the shrubbery and watched two riders canter up the driveway and halt in front of the house. The taller man dismounted and briskly climbed the wide stone steps, leaving his mount to the care of his companion.
"Fine horses," Nikki whispered enviously.
"Aye. That must be the Earl of Aberdare," Marta murmured. "He looks just as Kenrick said."
They waited until the tall man had gone inside and the groom had taken the horses away. Then Marta beckoned to Nikki and they hastened across the grass and up the steps. The shiny brass doorknocker was shaped like a dragon. He would have liked to touch it, but it was too high.
Instead of knocking, his mother tried the doorknob. It turned easily and she stepped inside, Nikki right on her heels. His eyes widened when he saw that they were in a marble-floored hall large enough to hold an entire Romany kumpania.
The only man in sight wore the elaborate livery of a footman. An expression of comical shock on his long face, he gasped, "Gypsies!" He grabbed a bell pull and rang for assistance. "Get out this instant! If you aren't off the estate in five minutes, you'll be turned over to the magistrate."
Marta took Nikki's hand in hers. "We're here to see the earl. I have something of his."
"Something you stole?" the footman sneered. "You've never been that close to him. Be gone with you."
"No! I must see him."
"Not bloody likely," the footman snarled as he advanced.
Marta waited until he was close, then darted to one side.
Swearing, the servant swerved and made a futile grab at the interlopers. At the same time, three more servants appeared, summoned by the bell pull.
Fixing a fierce gaze on the men, Marta hissed with practiced menace, "I must see the earl! My curse will be on any man who tries to stop me."
The servants stopped dead in their tracks. Nikki almost laughed aloud at their expressions. Though she was only a woman, Marta easily baffled and frightened the Gorgios. Nikki was proud of her. Who but a Rom could wield such power with mere words?
His mother's hand tightened on his and they backed away, deeper into the house. Before the servants could shake off their fear, a deep voice boomed, "What the devil is going on?"
Tall and utterly arrogant, the earl strode into the hall. "Gypsies," he said with disgust. "Who allowed these filthy creatures to come inside?"
Marta said baldly, "I have brought your grandson, Lord Aberdare. Kenrick's son—the only grandchild you will ever have."
The room went dead silent as the earl's shocked gaze moved to Nikki's face. Marta continued, "If you doubt me..."
After a shaken moment, the earl said, "Oh, I'm willing to believe this revolting brat might be Kenrick's—his parentage is written on his face." He gave Marta the hot, hungry look that Gorgio men often gave women of the Rom. "It's easy to see why my son would bed you, but a Gypsy bastard is of no interest to me."
"My son is no bastard." Marta fished into her bodice and brought out two grubby folded papers. "Since Gorgios set great store on papers, I kept the proof—my marriage lines and the record of Nikki's birth."
Lord Aberdare glanced impatiently at the documents, then stiffened. "My son married you?"
"Aye, he did," she said proudly. "In a Gorgio church as well as in the way of the Rom. And you should be glad he did, old man, for now you have an heir. With your other sons dead, you will have no other."
Expression savage, the earl said, "Very well. How much do you want for him? Will fifty pounds do?"
For an instant, Nikki saw rage in his mother's eyes. Then her expression changed, becoming cunning. "A hundred gold guineas."
The lord took a key from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to the oldest servant. "Get it from my strongbox."
Nikki laughed aloud. Speaking in Romany, he said, "This is the finest scheme ever, Mama. Not only have you convinced this stupid old Gorgio that I am of his blood, but he is willing to give you gold! We will feast for the next year. When I escape tonight, where shall I meet you—maybe by the old oak tree that we used to get over the w
all?"
Marta shook her head and replied in the same language. "You must not run away, Nikki. The Gorgio truly is your grandfather, and this is your home now." Briefly her fingers fluttered through Nikki's hair. For a moment he thought she would say more, for she could not possibly mean what she had said.
The servant returned and handed Marta a jingling leather purse. After expertly evaluating the contents, she raised her outer skirt and tucked the purse into a pocket in her petticoat. Nikki was shocked at her action—didn't these Gorgios know that she had contaminated them, made them marhime, by raising her skirt in their presence? But they were oblivious to the insult.
She gave Nikki one last stare, and there was wildness in her eyes. "Treat him well, old man, or my curse will follow you beyond the grave. May I die tonight if this is not so."
She turned and walked away across the polished floor, her layered skirts swirling. A servant opened the door for her. Inclining her head like a princess, she stepped outside.
With sudden horror, Nikki realized that his mother was serious—she truly did mean to leave him with the Gorgios. He raced after her, screaming, "Mama, Mama!"
Before he could reach her, the door swung shut in his face, trapping him in the sky-killing house. As he grabbed the knob, a footman caught him around the waist. Nikki kneed the man in the belly and clawed at the pale Gorgio face. The servant bellowed and another came to help.
Feet and fists flailing, Nikki yelled, "I am Rom! I won't stay in this ugly place!"
The earl frowned, revolted by the display of raw emotion. Such behavior must be beaten out of the brat, along with every other trace of his Gypsy blood. Kenrick had also been wild, spoiled by his doting mother. It was the news of Kenrick's death that had brought on the apoplexy that had turned the countess into the living corpse that she was now.
Harshly the earl ordered, "Take the boy to the nursery and clean him up. Burn those rags and find something more suitable."
It took two men to subdue the boy. He was still wailing for his mother as they carried his thrashing figure up the stairs.
His face a bitter mask, the earl looked again at the documents that proved that the dusky little heathen was the earl's only surviving descendant. Nicholas Kenrick Davies, according to the registration of his birth. It was impossible to doubt the bloodlines; if the boy weren't so dark, he might almost have been Kenrick at the same age.
But dear God, a Gypsy! A dark, foreign-looking, black-eyed Gypsy. Seven years old and as adept at lying and thievery as he was ignorant of civilized living. Nonetheless, that ragged, filthy creature was the heir to Aberdare.
Once the earl had prayed desperately for an heir, never dreaming that his prayers would be answered in such a way. Even if his invalid countess died and left him free to remarry, the sons of a second wife would be superseded by that Gypsy brat.
As he thought, his fingers clenched on the papers. Perhaps, if he was ever able to remarry and have more sons, something could be done. But meanwhile, he must make the best of the boy. Reverend Morgan, the Methodist preacher in the village, could teach Nicholas reading and manners and the other basics required before he could be sent to a proper school.
The earl turned on his heel and entered his study, slamming his door against the anguished cries of "Mama! Mama! Mama!" that echoed sorrowfully through the halls of Aberdare.
Chapter 1
Wales, March 1814
They called him the Demon Earl, or sometimes Old Nick. Hushed voices whispered that he had seduced his grandfather's young wife, broken his grandfather's heart, and driven his own bride to her grave.
They said he could do anything.
Only the last claim interested Clare Morgan as her gaze followed the man racing his stallion down the valley as if all the fires of hell pursued him. Nicholas Davies, the Gypsy Earl of Aberdare, had finally come home, after four long years. Perhaps he would stay, but it was equally possible that he would be gone again tomorrow. Clare must act quickly.
Yet she lingered a little longer, knowing that he would never see her in the cluster of trees from which she watched. He rode bareback, flaunting his wizardry with horses, dressed in black except for the scarlet scarf knotted around his throat. He was too far away for her to see his face. She wondered if he had changed, then decided that the real question was not if, but how much. Whatever the truth behind the violent events that had driven him away, it had to have been searing.
Would he remember her? Probably not. He'd only seen her a handful of times, and she had been a child then. Not only had he been Viscount Tregar, but he was four years older than she, and older children seldom paid much attention to younger ones.
The reverse was not true.
As she walked back to the village of Penreith, she reviewed her pleas and arguments. One way or another, she must persuade the Demon Earl to help. No one else could make a difference.
* * *
For a few brief minutes, while his stallion blazed across the estate like a mad wind, Nicholas was able to lose himself in the exhilaration of pure speed. But reality closed in again when the ride ended and he returned to the house.
In his years abroad he had often dreamed of Aberdare, torn between yearning and fear of what he would find there. The twenty-four hours since his return had proved that his fears had been justified. He'd been a fool to think that four years away could obliterate the past. Every room of the house, every acre of the valley, held memories. Some were happy ones, but they had been overlaid by more recent events, tainting what he had once loved. Perhaps, in the furious moments before he died, the old earl had laid a curse on the valley so that his despised grandson would never again know happiness here.
Nicholas walked to the window of his bedroom and stared out. The valley was as beautiful as ever—wild in the heights, lushly cultivated lower down. The delicate greens of spring were beginning to show. Soon there would be daffodils. As a boy, he had helped the gardeners plant drifts of bulbs under the trees, getting thoroughly muddy in the process. His grandfather had seen it as further proof of Nicholas's low breeding.
He raised his eyes to the ruined castle that brooded over the valley. For centuries those immensely thick walls had been both fortress and home to the Davies family. More peaceful times had led Nicholas's great-great-grandfather to build the mansion considered suitable for one of Britain's wealthiest families.
Among many other advantages, the house had plenty of bedrooms. Nicholas had been grateful for that the previous day. He never considered using the state apartment that had been his grandfather's. Entering his own rooms proved to be a gut-wrenching experience, for it was impossible to see his old bed without imagining Caroline in it, her lush body naked and her eager arms beckoning. He had retreated immediately to a guest room that was safely anonymous, like an expensive hotel.
Yet even there, he slept poorly, haunted by bad dreams and worse memories. By morning, he had reached the harsh conclusion that he must sever all ties with Aberdare. He would never find peace of mind here, any more than he had in four years of constant, restless travel.
Might it be possible to break the entail so that the estate could be sold? He must ask his lawyer. The thought of selling made him ache with emptiness. It would be like cutting off an arm—yet if a limb was festering, there was no other choice.
Still, selling would not be wholly without compensations. It pleased Nicholas to know that getting rid of the place would give his grandfather the ghostly equivalent of apoplexy, wherever the hypocritical old bastard was now.
Abruptly he spun on his heel, stalked out of his bedroom, and headed downstairs to the library. How to live the rest of his life was a topic too dismal to contemplate, but he could certainly do something about the next few hours. With a little effort and a lot of brandy, they could be eliminated entirely.
* * *
Clare had never been inside Aberdare before. It was as grand as she had expected, but gloomy, with most of the furniture still concealed under holland cov
ers. Four years of emptiness had made the place forlorn as well. The butler, Williams, was equally gloomy. He hadn't wanted to take Clare to the earl without first announcing her, but he had grown up in the village, so she was able to persuade him. He escorted her down a long corridor, then opened the door to the library. "Miss Clare Morgan to see you, my lord. She said her business is urgent."
Taking a firm grip on her courage, Clare walked past Williams into the library, not wanting to give the earl time to refuse her. If she failed today, she wouldn't get another chance.
The earl stood by a window, staring out across the valley. His coat had been tossed over a chair, and his shirt-sleeved informality gave him a rakish air. Odd that he had been known as Old Nick; even now, he was scarcely thirty.
As the door closed behind Williams, the earl turned, his forbidding gaze going right to Clare. Though not unusually tall, he radiated power. She remembered that even at the age when most lads were gawky, he had moved with absolute physical mastery.
On the surface, he seemed much the same. If anything, he was even more handsome than he had been four years ago. She would not have thought that possible. But he had indeed changed; she saw it in his eyes. Once they had brimmed with teasing laughter that invited others to laugh with him. Now they were as impenetrable as polished Welsh flint. The duels and flagrant affairs and public scandals had left their mark.
As she hesitated, wondering if she should speak first, he asked, "Are you related to Reverend Thomas Morgan?"
"His daughter. I'm the schoolmistress in Penreith."
His bored gaze flicked over her. "That's right, sometimes he had a grubby brat in tow."
Stung, she retorted, "I wasn't half as grubby as you were."
Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series Page 1