The house was set in a casual park that had none of the formal rigidity still prevalent in England.
His soldier’s eye, so used to measuring defences at a glance, automatically noted the estate’s weaknesses. A high wall had been installed around the perimeter of the park, but it would be easy enough for an agile man to defeat it.
Although Lucian had never seen the house before except in a drawing, he said instantly, “It is Belle Haven, the earl of Ashcott’s home, is it not?”
“Was his home. He is dead now, killed in a riding accident last winter.”
Lucian frowned. “I knew he died, but he had a son. Did the boy not succeed to his father’s title?”
“Charles died several months before his father. If he were still alive, you would not be marrying Kitty. He was Bloomfield’s first choice for her husband.”
“So instead of an old, prestigious title like Ashcott’s,” Lucian said cynically, “Bloomfield has to settle for my newly created one for his daughter. I gather Ashcott had no other son.”
“No other male heir at all. The title reverted to the crown.”
“What about Belle Haven. Who lives there now?”
David shrugged. “I believe Ashcott’s daughter, Lady Angela.”
Lucian wondered if the lady could be persuaded to sell it. It was a far handsomer property than Sommerstone, which he had laboured so long to attain.
“How did you know it was Belle Haven?” David asked. “Have you seen it before?”
“No, I recognized it from a drawing in one of Ashcott’s books, Journal of Belle Haven.” In it, the earl had chronicled his observations of nature at his country estate. Lucian confessed, “I have wanted to see Belle Haven ever since I read the Journal.”
Ashcott had been called “the scientific earl” for his work in advancing natural philosophy. His contributions lay less in the experiments he conducted in his “elaboratory” at Belle Haven than in his ability to grasp and explain new theories and discoveries in clear, felicitous prose that communicated his passion for his subject. Lucian had devoured all of Ashcott’s books.
He told David, “I had the honour of meeting Ashcott once years ago in London. I count the three hours I spent in his company as among the most memorable of my life.”
His friend grinned. “Considering the life you’ve led, that’s no small compliment.”
Ashcott had shared Lucian’s interest in astronomy. Once Lucian had dreamed of devoting himself to its study, but that had been before his father, Viscount Wrexham, had consigned him to the army when he was sixteen and washed his hands of him.
The young Lucian had been bewildered and heartbroken by his father’s rejection of him. Wrexham had always favoured Fritz, his elder son, over his younger, but as Lucian approached manhood, his father’s neglect of him had seemed to harden into hate.
The youth, who had tried so hard to please his sire never knew why.
He still did not know.
Chapter 3
When Angel reached her bedchamber after leaving Kitty’s, the voices of Horace and Rupert Crowe drifted through the door.
“It is a brilliant scheme,” Horace was saying. “Not only will it prevent Vayle from marrying Kitty, but it will rid us of our other problem, too.
“Aye,” his father agreed, “and far more cheaply than we could ever hope to do otherwise.”
Had another guest not picked that moment to step into the hall, Angel would have listened longer. When she stepped into her room Horace, in a flowing blond wig, was standing near the window. Cascades of lace dripped from his sleeves and cravat, and he carried a long cane decorated with scarlet-and-gold ribbon loops. Sir Rupert was lounging in a damask-covered armchair with carved, barley twist arms. They immediately fell silent.
“What are you doing in my room?” she asked.
“Making certain you are comfortable,” Sir Rupert replied smoothly, rising from the chair.
It was the first time that he had concerned himself with her comfort, and she looked at him sceptically. He was a muscularly built man who still retained some of the exceptional handsomeness that he had enjoyed as a young man, but dissipation had aged and coarsened his features. A hard cruelty lurked in his slate-coloured eyes.
Horace had been cursed with his father’s character but not blessed with his good looks. With a long sloping forehead, large nose, and receding chin, his profile—like his character—strongly reminded Angel of a weasel.
“If you wished me to be comfortable,” she said, “you would not have remained here where you were not invited nor wanted.”
“The Bloomfields should have invited us, too,” Horace complained. “We are their neighbours. It was rude of them not to.”
“No, it was rude of you to force your company upon them,” Angel retorted.
“Don’t presume to tell us what is rude, you stupid little chit,” her stepfather growled.
He stepped into the hall, and his son dutifully followed him.
They had been gone no more than three minutes when Kitty’s mother appeared at the door. She was his lordship’s second wife and fourteen years younger than he. It was from her that Kitty had inherited her beauty and her brown doe eyes.
She took Angel’s hands in her own. “I only just learned about your father’s missing will. I was never so shocked.”
Lord Ashcott’s last will and testament, in which he had bequeathed his daughter his considerable fortune, could not be found. That left in effect an old will that he had signed years ago, long before his wife had deserted him and their children. In that earlier document, he had left all he possessed to his son Charles; if Charles predeceased him, as he had, it went to his wife.
Lady Bloomfield said, “Your father must be turning over in his grave to have that woman whom he hated inheriting what should be yours.”
“The worst is that when Mama married Rupert Crowe immediately after Papa died, control of her property passed to him. I hate what he is doing at Belle Haven. He raised the tenants’ rents far above what they can possibly pay. And he turned away the older servants that Papa had promised to take care of for their lifetime.” It was all Angel could do to keep from crying in anger and frustration over her stepfather’s cruelty to people for whom she cared deeply. “I am fighting him, but it is hopeless unless I can discover the will.”
Lady Bloomfield’s lips tightened in disgust. “So Rupert had an even more dishonourable motive than I thought when he married your mother.”
“What did you think his motive was?”
“That he foolishly hoped marrying the Earl of Ashcott’s widow would help him regain the position he long ago forfeited in society, but she is a greater pariah than he is. Rupert does not care for himself, but everyone knows how much that dreadful son of his yearns to be accepted.”
Lady Bloomfield, still holding Angel’s hands in her own, squeezed them tightly. “Why, dear child, did you not write to me in London about this dreadful situation with your papa’s will?”
“You could have done nothing.”
“Perhaps not, but I would have tried.” Her ladyship relaxed her grip on Angel’s hands. “Do you have no clue at all to where the missing will might be?”
“No,” Angel said sadly. “Rupert maintains there never was another will, but I know there was. Papa showed it to Uncle John and me.”
“But unfortunately your uncle is dead, too, and cannot help you,” Lady Bloomfield said grimly. “Could the Crowes have found and destroyed the will?”
Angel, swallowing hard, admitted, “It is my worst fear.”
Lucian’s gaze roved over the scores of people crowded into Fernhill’s long gallery to celebrate his engagement to Kitty.
“Searching for your betrothed?” Lord Randolf Oldfield asked at his elbow. “She is over there.”
Lucian realized that he had not been looking for Kitty at all, but for the Winter girl.
He had caught a quick glimpse of her as the Crowes had escorted her into the long gallery
. The distaste on the faces of the other guests at their entrance was no more than the Crowes deserved, but unfortunately Miss Winter, because she was with them, shared in the disapproval.
Lucian glanced in the direction that Lord Oldfield had indicated, but his gaze did not linger on his betrothed. Instead it moved on restlessly, still searching for the Winter lass. He did not understand why he was so eager to catch sight of the little hoyden again, but he was.
On a balcony at the end of the gallery, an orchestra, partially concealed behind a bank of flowers, began to play again.
Lucian noticed David Inge, who usually stood with military erectness, slouched against the far wall. What the devil was wrong with him? Initially David had refused to come to Fernhill, and now that Lucian had persuaded him to do so, he looked as though he were at a wake instead of a betrothal celebration.
Lucian finally located the Winter girl standing alone near a door to a small terrace. In another black gown that was as simple as it was unfashionable, she was a sombre contrast to the other women in their elaborate, colourful silk, satin, and lace creations. Her dark hair had been pulled tightly up into an unbecoming knot. No one came near her, and Lucian’s heart went out to her.
Even had she been as fashionably dressed as Kitty, her entrance on the Crowes’ arms undoubtedly would have tainted her, and the other guests would have shunned her. While the Crowes deserved to be outcasts, she did not. She must be miserable, he thought sympathetically.
He would have gone to her, but Kitty came up to him. “Who are you watching so intently?”
“The girl by the door.”
Kitty looked in that direction. “You mean Angel?”
Angel—so that was her given name. Lucian smothered a smile. From what he had seen of the little hoyden, she had been singularly misnamed.
“Why would you watch her when the cream of society is here tonight?” Kitty demanded incredulously. “Are you not delighted by all the important people who have come to fete us?”
Clearly Kitty was. She was as ambitious as her father.
Lucian had not wanted this elaborate celebration. He had intended to make a fast trip on horseback to see Ardmore, the estate in Hampshire that he had just purchased sight unseen. He could not be absent from London long because King William was in Ireland and Lucian was one of the Council of Nine that the king had appointed to help the queen rule in his absence. William had gone to Ireland to put down a rebellion led by the ousted king—his father-in-law—James II.
Bloomfield had not cared that Lucian could scarcely spare the time to stop at Fernhill and still travel to Ardmore but had insisted upon this party. His future father-in-law was determined to call maximum attention to his connection with a favourite of King William and Queen Mary.
“It is the most exciting night of our lives!” Kitty gushed. Not of Lucian’s. He would rather be at Ardmore, but he kept that thought to himself. Instead, he said lightly, “I would find it even more exciting if we danced.”
Angel had never been to a ball nor any other society soiree before. She was far too excited by the splendid panorama before her to notice that she was being ignored by her fellow guests, virtually none of whom she knew anyhow.
She was dazzled by the opulent beauty of the clothes and jewels. The women’s gowns of silk and satin had draped overskirts open at the front and looped at the sides to reveal wonderful petticoats with tiers of lace or fine pleating.
Angel had always heeded her papa’s stricture against an interest in fashion, but it had been easier to do to in the seclusion of Belle Haven. Now, among this glittering crowd, she could not help wishing that her plain, dull gown was more like the other women’s. Could it be that she had one of those idle, frivolous minds Papa had ridiculed?
Beautiful as the women’s gowns were, they were often outshone by the male raiment. The men’s magnificent coats and vests of brocade or velvet dropped to the knee. They were ornamented with gold braid, elaborate embroidery, and long rows of buttons.
But Angel was most staggered by the men’s long, flowing wigs. She had never seen her papa in a wig, but then her father had dismissed all male fashion as foolish foppishness. In the case of wigs, she decided he was right. She did not find them attractive.
Yet all the males in the room, save one, wore wigs with masses of curls cascading over their shoulders.
The only exception, to Angel’s delight, was Lord Vayle. His thick black hair, gleaming like polished jet in the candlelight, was tied back at the neck.
He and Kitty took the dance floor and glided gracefully through the intricate, stately pattern of a minuet.
Angel watched them admiringly. Papa had taught her to dance, but she had never done it anywhere except in the privacy of her home. Kitty’s gown was one of the prettiest in the room. Its purple petticoat was decorated with row after row of lace while its tiered lavender overdress fell into a train behind her. Angel was proud of how beautiful her friend looked.
She could not help feeling dowdy in comparison, but Angel firmly reminded herself of her beloved papa’s disgust for fashion.
It did not comfort her as much as it should have.
Lord Vayle was resplendent in a gold brocade coat. He was the tallest man in the room, yet he moved with an easy grace that was surprising for someone of his size.
As Angel watched him, she felt a little breathless. Warmth curled within her, and she wondered dreamily what it would be like to dance with him.
Not that she would ever know.
When the music ended, her gaze drifted over the crowd and fell on Kitty’s former love, David Inge. Angel knew who he was because earlier she had overheard him being introduced to another man. Now he was leaning against the wall, watching Kitty with love in his eyes as Lord Vayle led her from the floor.
The gallery had grown very warm, and Angel slipped out to the coolness of the terrace. It was deserted except for one couple looking out over the balustrade toward the lawn, now swallowed in darkness. Angel made her way to a dark corner so quietly that the couple did not notice they were no longer alone.
“Did you see how Kitty is preening herself tonight,” the woman said waspishly. “She is so proud of capturing Lord Lucifer. Wait until she discovers she must share him with his mistress.”
“She will demand that he give up Selina, but he won’t,” the man predicted. “Nor would I if I were in his place. Selina is worth ten of Kitty.”
“Old Bloomfield is ecstatic over the match,” the woman said.
“He should be. For a cunning, ambitious politician, he miscalculated badly in supporting King James so enthusiastically. Our new king has a long memory for such things, and Bloomfield is desperate. Having Vayle as his son-in-law is his chief hope of insinuating himself into Dutch William’s good graces.”
“What I do not understand is why Vayle would want to marry Bloomfield’s daughter. He could have done better.”
“Aye, but it was Vayle who proposed the match,” the man said. “Old Bloomfield could scarcely believe his good fortune.”
The pair fell silent for a moment, then began discussing an assassin who had attacked Lord Colefax, a leader in the intrigue that had replaced James on the throne with his daughter Mary and her Dutch husband.
The man said, “I suspect the killer was in James’s pay.”
“James is a fool to think he can regain his crown from William and Mary,” the woman said.
“But James was always that. That is why he is no longer king. If the assassin is in his employ, Vayle better guard his back. Close as he is to Dutch William, he would be a likely target.”
Angel smothered a horrified gasp. Although she had only met Vayle that day, the thought of him lying dead— his teasing silver eyes closed, his wicked smile erased— distressed her so much that she gripped the stone rail of the balustrade.
“It is growing cool,” the woman said. “Let us go in.”
From the shadows, Angel watched them return to the long gallery. She wondered wha
t they had meant by Kitty sharing Vayle with his mistress. How did a wife share her husband with another woman? Did they all live in the same house?
Angel sighed. There was so much she did not know about the mysterious things that happened between men and women. Her dear papa, who had been eager to instruct her on subjects like astronomy and mathematics, had been silent and even hostile whenever she had raised this topic, telling her brusquely that she had no need to know.
He had actually gotten angry at her when she had asked him how babies were made. By then Angel had known how they were born—although for years she had thought that they were found under a cabbage leaf as her old nurse had said. But she had wanted to know how babies got into their mama’s belly in the first place.
Papa had adamantly refused to discuss it with her. Angel surmised that it was connected to the secret thing a man and a woman did behind the bedroom door that people whispered and smirked about. Angel hated being ignorant about anything. As she stared up at the distant stars, glittering in the night sky, she wondered whom she could ask.
“Counting the stars?” a resonant male voice inquired behind her.
Whirling around, she discovered Lord Vayle so near her that she could smell his pleasant, spicy scent. The strange, uneasy quivering that had plagued her earlier in the woods began again, stronger than ever. Angel did not understand it at all.
She tried to step backward to put a little more space between them but discovered that she was trapped against the balustrade. When she spoke her voice was unexpectedly wobbly. “What. . . what are you doing here?”
“Turning the tables.” The light that fell through the window beside him illuminated the strong planes of his smiling face. He was very handsome when he smiled, Angel thought. “This time I followed you. Fortunately, I did not require a rope to reach you.”
Angel was startled by how thrilled she was that he had sought her out.
Devil’s Angel Page 3