Angel Rogue fa-4

by Mary Jo Putney

  It took Maxie a moment to understand. Then she exclaimed, "Good heavens, did Robin and Margot plunder your wardrobe on my behalf?"

  "Not quite. I was having several gowns made up. Since you and I are about the same size, Margot asked if there were any garments that I was having second thoughts on." Clare smiled. "I was regretting the crimson one. The fabric was lovely, but no Methodist minister's daughter could comfortably wear that color in public. You, however, look quite splendid."

  A little helplessly, Maxie said, "I was expecting to be shredded. Instead, everyone is being so nice."

  The others laughed. "London society has more than its share of cats and worse, but you won't meet any tonight." Kit gestured around the room. "I must say that the men here have turned out rather well for a group of over privileged Old Etonians."

  "Rabblerouser," Clare said without rancor. "Kit is our residential radical."

  The conversation turned to politics, with all of them agreeing that the recent war between Britain and the United States had been a piece of utter nonsense that never would have happened if women ran the government. As they spoke, a footman came around with sherry for the two countesses, and lemonade for Maxie. She felt delightfully pampered, and had never enjoyed a party more in her life.

  Desdemona and Giles arrived together, acting as if they belonged that way. Her aunt looked positively spectacular; Giles was having trouble taking his eyes off her.

  After greeting her aunt and Giles, Maxie looked around for Robin but didn't see him. Lady Strathmore was nearby and not engaged in conversation, so she asked, "Kit, have you seen…"

  Then her voice trailed off as the woman turned toward her. Eerily, she was Kit, yet at the same time not Kit. Maxie blurted, "You're not Lady Strathmore, are you?"

  The other woman chuckled. "You're correct, I'm not Kit, I'm her sister, Kira Travers. You're very observant to deduce that so quickly. Some people never do grasp that there are two of us. And no, my sister and I did not plan to wear gowns the same shade of blue-we simply do things like that Last year our darling daughters were even born within twentyfour hours of each other."

  Maxie grinned. "I glad to know I wasn't imagining things."

  "You're Miss Collins, the American, aren't you? My husband is also from your side of the Atlantic." Kira scanned the room, then gestured him over.

  Maxie stiffened as a rangy, brownhaired man approached. He would surely recognize her as a halfbreed, and he would be more likely to have prejudices on the subject than a Briton would.

  Kira said, "Miss Collins, my husband Jason Travers, the Earl of Markland."

  He bowed politely. For a moment Maxie thought that his pained expression was for her. He quickly dispelled that by saying, "My wife loves using my title, knowing that it hurts my Yankee heart to hear it." He gave Kira a deeply affectionate smile. Looking back to Maxie, he said, "You have Indian blood?"

  She straightened to her full height. "My mother was a Mohawk," she said warily. He could insult her if he liked, but if he said a word, one single word to disparage her mother, she would go upstairs for her knife.

  He must have guessed what was in her mind, because there was a distinct twinkle in his eye when he said, "I hope you don't hold to the old feuds. Since my great grandfather was a Huron, that would make us blood enemies."

  She had to laugh. So much for anti Indian bigotry. Making a connection on the name, she said, "Are you the Jason Travers who owns the Travers Shipping Company in Boston?"

  His face lit up. "You're from Boston?"

  It took them only a few minutes to establish that they had several mutual acquaintances. The two of them could have spent the rest of the night talking.

  When the dinner gong sounded, Robin appeared at her elbow. Amused, she asked, "How do you do that? You're like a cat, with the ability to materialize in a spot that was empty two seconds earlier."

  "Some of my best spying lessons came from cats. Move quietly, sleep with one eye open, and always be prepared to bolt if the situation takes a turn for the worse." Robin gave her a smile of warm approval. "You're taking to the murky and shark infested waters of London society like a racing swan."

  "I'm having a wonderful time. Margot was right about these being genuinely nice people."

  It increased her own enjoyment to see how pleased Robin was. London might have its share of sharks, but if she had a handful of friends like the people she had met tonight, the sharks wouldn't matter.

  Chapter 31

  Before the evening was half over, Giles had decided that he should spend more time in London. Much as he liked his Yorkshire neighbors, the dinner conversation there was never this good.

  After a short spell over the port, the gentlemen went to find their ladies. Giles's gaze immediately went to Desdemona. His stern, worldly reformer was glowing like a schoolgirl. There was nothing girlish about her appearance, though; sitting next to her at dinner had made him feel like a lust crazed youth. It had been all he could do to keep himself from staring at her lovely… neck. Every time she laughed, or lifted her wineglass, he had wanted to drag her from the room to a place of greater privacy. And she knew it, too, the redheaded vixen.

  It would have been amusing, except that he found himself feeling twinges of uncharacteristic jealousy every time one of the other men looked at her. Candover and Desdemona had been political acquaintances for years, but Giles was willing to wager that the duke had never looked at her as admiringly as he did this evening. If Candover hadn't been a friend for several decades and famously besotted with his wife, Giles would have been tempted to suggest pistols at dawn.

  He smiled at the absurd thought and deliberately turned to other guests. It was an easy, unstructured gathering, with people drifting from one conversation to another. Maxima Collins was fitting in effortlessly, with the wit and presence to equal any other woman in the room. She'd make Robin an admirable wife.

  After a lively discussion of free schools with Lady Aberdare, he decided it was time to find Desdemona again. He looked around, and saw her talking with Robin in front of the French doors. This time, it was harder to laugh off his stab of jealousy. Why did she have to look so captivated? A stupid question; Robin had that effect on everyone.

  Hating himself for resenting his own brother, he started toward the pair. As he did, Robin snapped his fingers and conjured up a lily of the valley that he must have stolen from one of the flower arrangements. Desdemona accepted the blossom with delighted laughter.

  Giles's irritation soared to dangerous heights and his pleasure in the evening vanished. Damn Robin's effortless charm, his gilded tongue, and the impervious marble heart that enabled him to use his gifts so ruthlessly.

  Not seeing Giles approach, Desdemona moved away to speak with her niece. Instead of following her, Giles said brusquely to his brother, "Join me for some fresh air."

  Robin looked puzzled, but said amiably, "If you wish."

  Robin was always amiable; it was another irritating trait.Fighting a losing battle with his temper, Giles stalked out to the spacious stone patio. He had no idea what he wanted to say to his brother, but he was damned well going to say something.

  The two men walked to the wall that edged the patio. The famous Candover House gardens were lovely, but Giles showed no interest in the moonlit greenery. Robin studied his brother's grim expression uneasily, wondering what had happened. It was fortunate that Giles's bad moods were very rare, because Robin had always found them deeply disquieting.

  Wanting to lighten the atmosphere, Robin remarked, "Lady Ross is splendidly formidable. I wish I'd been there when she swooped into your study with her parasol."

  Giles braced his hands on the wall and stared into the night. "If you had been there, a great deal of trouble would have been avoided. I wondered what had become of you."

  "Surely you weren't worried?" Robin replied. "Only that morning I'd said I might wander off if something-or someone-interesting came along. Perhaps it was a premonition."

  "I r
eminded myself of that," Giles said with unmistakable dryness. "But I would have felt better if you had sent a note or left a message in the village."

  "Sorry. I honestly didn't think of it."

  "I'm sure you didn't." Giles's hands tightened on the wall, the knuckles going white. "You never did think of anyone but yourself."

  Robin stiffened. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  Giles glanced over, every trace of blue leached from his eyes, leaving them as flat as slate. "In all of those years of being a hero, did you ever spare a single damned thought for the people who cared about you? Did you ever wonder what it was like to wait for months on end, wondering if your only brother was dead, and if so, how he had died?" Hard lines appeared around his eyes. "I'm sure you didn't. After all, you had so much more interesting, important things to occupy your mind."

  Robin stared at his brother, feeling as if a vast crevasse were opening under them. The crack had always been there, a fatal weakness in the foundation of their relationship, but both of them had preferred to ignore it. They had managed to be friends by never discussing what lay beneath the surface.

  Now, for whatever reason, Giles wanted to break the silence and drag them both into the abyss. And if that happened, the bonds between them might fracture beyond any hope of repair.

  Praying that Giles would be willing to return to safe ground, Robin said mildly, "Much of what I did was tedious beyond belief, with not a trace of heroism in sight. Of course there was always the risk that I would ran out of luck, but I did my best to ensure that if anything happened to me, word would be sent to Wolverhampton as soon as possible."

  "How thoughtful," Giles said with heavy sarcasm. "I'm sure that if I'd known that, it would have made a great difference."

  Robin felt a familiar prickle of rebellion. "Is this about the fact that I was insufficiently deferential to the head of the family? I barely tolerated that from Father, and I will certainly not tolerate it from you."

  "I'm talking about simple courtesy," Giles retorted. "You were constantly sending information to England, yet a letter a year seemed to be the best you could manage for your family."

  Robin's eyes narrowed. "What was there to say? 'I've been lying, stealing, and occasionally killing. When I'm not busy with villainy, I live with a woman who has too much sense to marry me. I'm not dead yet. I hope you are well and the crops are prospering this year. Respectfully yours, Robert.' "

  The effect of his words was explosive. Giles swung around, his rage showing in every line of his body. "Are you implying that I'm a coward? God knows that it wasn't my choice to stay safely at Wolverhampton. I would have given everything I owned to go into the army after I left Oxford."

  The irrational intensity of his reaction was shocking. Realizing that he had inadvertently triggered a profound and painful regret in his brother, Robin replied, "I know perfectly well you're no coward. Frankly, staying under the same roof with Father took more courage than I've ever had."

  Unmollified, Giles growled, "Someone had to take the family responsibilities seriously, and it certainly wasn't going to be you. You were too busy seeing the world and risking your life."

  Beginning to feel anger of his own, Robin said sharply, "I had no family responsibilities-I barely had a place at the table. I wasn't the favored son, and my existence or lack of it never made a damned bit of difference at Wolverhampton. I always assumed that staying the hell out of England was the best thing I could do for the noble name of Andreville."

  "Don't be childish," Giles snapped. "I was the heir, so of course Father spent more time with me, but he treated you fairly. He was downright generous, considering that your behavior was enough to try the patience of a saint."

  "Ah, yes, our generous, fairminded father," Robin said bitterly. "You were never around when he grabbed me and stared at my face as if he couldn't believe he had been so unlucky as to have me for a son. Only once did he actually say it was my fault she died-that he wished to God it had been her who survived, not me-but the thought was always in his eyes. Always."

  There it finally was, almost palpable with pain: the memory of the woman whose death had ripped the heart out of a family.

  Incredulous, Giles said, "Father actually said that to you?"

  "Yes." Robin glared at his brother, so angry that he spat out what he had tried never to think. "You never said it aloud, but I always knew you felt the same way."

  For the space of three heartbeats, there was silence. Then Giles asked, "Whatever gave you that idea?"

  "Do I have to spell it out?" Robin said tightly. "She was your mother, his wife. You were five years old and adored her, a feeling that was entirely mutual. Every day she came to the nursery to read stories and sing songs to you. I understand that she even taught you to read."

  Face ashen, Giles whispered, "How could you know that?"

  "I learned it from the servants. Never having had a mother, naturally I was curious about what I was missing. It was my first exercise in information gathering. She was a legend in the servants' hall, you know, because her behavior was so unlike what they expected of a marchioness." Robin closed his eyes, fighting back a fresh wave of the desolation that had permeated his childhood. "God, how I envied you for having her, even if it was only for five years. In your place, I would have arranged a lethal accident for the brat who had killed my mother."

  "Bloody hell, Robin, I never felt like that," Giles exclaimed. "Of course I mourned-losing her was the single worst event of my life. But I never blamed you for the fact that she died and you didn't."

  "Father did. And he never let me forget it."

  Giles turned back to the garden, his broad shoulders rigid. "When a woman dies in childbirth, most surviving family members accept it as the will of God. A few, like Father, blame the child. Others are like me. They… they cherish the baby who survived because it is all they have left of the woman who died."

  Robin's voice softened. "You did that well. It made the guilt worse. I was responsible for your mother's death, yet you were always so patient with me."

  Giles made an impatient gesture. "Stop talking as if you committed murder. Mama loved babies-I know that she miscarried at least twice between my birth and yours, possibly more than that. She was delighted when her pregnancy was advanced enough to make it likely to be successful. She used to tell me about the new brother or sister I would have, and how I must watch out for you." His voice caught. "I've wondered if she suspected that she would not survive. Her health had always been delicate, and she had to have known that continued pregnancies were dangerous. Yet I'm willing to swear that she was facing the risk willingly. Did your informants tell you that?"

  "I never asked about the events surrounding her death. I… I didn't want to know more."

  Giles sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You were several weeks early and not expected to live. After she died, Father locked himself away and wouldn't speak to anyone. The household was in chaos. I heard one of the maids say that you would die without a wet nurse, so I rode my pony into the village. The miller's wife had just lost a baby a few days after birth, so I went to her house and practically dragged her back to Wolverhampton. I insisted that your crib be put in my room, so I could listen during the night and be sure you were still breathing."

  Robin stared at him, his chest constricted. "I never knew that."

  "It's hardly to be expected that you would-you weren't much bigger than a loaf of bread at the time." Giles made an obvious effort to master his emotions. "You were so like Mama-not just your appearance, but your quick tongue and your charm. Your precocity delighted everyone who met you even when you were behaving like a limb of Satan. I resented the way you got away with tricks that I would have been whipped for."

  "Since Father despised me whatever I did, I decided to give him good cause," Robin said dryly. "I was a damned sight better at being outrageous than I ever was at obedience."

  Giles shrugged. "Obedience is overrated. Father found my abilities u
seful, but no matter how hard I tried, I never seemed to be quite good enough."

  Beginning to understand what this conversation was really about, Robin asked quietly, "Why are we talking about this after so many years? What do you want of me?"

  Giles stared at his large capable hands, looking oddly vulnerable. Beyond the garden walls, a carriage rumbled along the Mayfair cobblestones.

  After a very long silence, he said in a voice that was almost inaudible, "It sounds so childish. I suppose what I really want to know is that… that I matter to you. You're the only close family I have. I tried to be a good brother, but because you always went your own way, no matter what the cost, I wasn't usually in a position to help you. Not with Father, not at school, and certainly not when you decided at a ridiculously young age to enter one of the most dangerous trades on earth."

  Robin frowned. "Of course you matter to me. How could you not know that? Surely you remember how I followed you constantly whenever you came home from school. You were incredibly patient. I wanted desperately to be like you. It was frustrating when I realized that was impossible. We were simply too different."

  "Were and are," Giles said, still looking at his hands.

  "Being unlike doesn't mean that caring is impossible," Robin said haltingly. "You were far more my father than our esteemed parent. Whatever I know of honor, discipline, and loyalty I learned from you." He sighed. "I suppose that one reason I became a spy was because I wanted you to be proud of me, and espionage was something I knew I could do well. Granted, it's a low, dishonorable pursuit, but against a monster like Bonaparte, the work was important. It hurt that you disapproved of what I was doing, but once I began, I couldn't draw back."

  Giles glanced up, his gaze intent. "I never condemned your activities. Actually, I was enormously proud of your courage and cleverness."

  Robin raised his brows. "You were? Every argument we ever had was over my work. It simmered between the lines of your exceedingly rare letters, and came to a boil that last time we met in London, four years ago."