Angel Rogue
Fallen Angels Series
Book Four
by
Mary Jo Putney
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-179-9
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Copyright © 1990, 1995, 2012 by Mary Jo Putney. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Thank You.
Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
Mary Jo Putney
"She is a pleasure to read... always."
—The Literary Times
~
"[Angel Rogue is] Pure magic... a sumptuous reading experience by one of today's great romance authors."
—Romantic Times
~
"Woven throughout the story are musings on regret and forgiveness, madness and sanity, and on the importance of learning to look beyond the surface of what we see.... The plot winds and twists and finally ties up neatly.... Putney's strong points are her thoughtfulness and her well-drawn cast of compelling and very human characters."
—Booklist
~
"In her superb, inimitable style, Putney... takes a pair of magnetic, beautifully matched protagonists, places them in a dark, impossible situation, and makes it work."
—Library Journal
~
"Mary Jo Putney never fails to deliver a winning story with heartwarming characters."
—The Literary Times
~
"Fascinating."
—The Romance Reader
~
"Intelligent, passionate characters flow through this powerful love story.... Putney delivers another superior story, beautifully written with her penchant for eloquently portraying her heroines as unique individuals filled with life."
—Rendezvous
~
"Passionate.... The author has created a realistic, well-crafted story, laced with elements of suspense and mystery and featuring sympathetic protagonists whose biggest mistake was marrying too young."
—Publishers Weekly
~
"A winner."
—Midwest Book Review
To the furry friends who are always there.
~
With special thanks to Theresa Jemison,
for letting me use her
Mohawk name, Kanawiosta.
Prologue
The great estate of Wolverhampton graced the Vale of York like a royal crown, its placid majesty dating from the late days of the seventeenth century. The mansion had been built by the first Marquess of Wolverton, whose grand taste in architecture had been matched by his eye for heiresses; in his long life he had married and buried three of them.
In the century and a half since its completion, Wolverhampton had been visited by the great and notorious of every generation, and had provided a splendorous setting for a succession of worthy lords and ladies. The Andrevilles were the first family of northern England, its members known for unimpeachable honor, conscientious management, and sober behavior.
At least, most of them were.
* * *
It would have been more sensible to hire a post chaise, but Robin preferred to ride through the English countryside after so many years away. The weather was dry and relatively warm for early December, though there was a hint of snow in the air, the hushed stillness that heralds a coming storm.
The ancient Wolverhampton gatekeeper recognized him and rushed to open the gates, almost falling over himself with eagerness. Robin gave a brief smile of greeting, but did not linger to say more.
The mansion itself was half a mile farther, at the head of the elm-lined drive. He reined to a halt and scanned the vast granite facade. Wolverhampton was not a homelike place, but nonetheless it had been his home, and it was here his weary spirit had demanded to return when his duties in Paris were done.
A footman spied him and bustled out. Robin dismounted and wordlessly handed over his horse before climbing the steps to the massive, ten-foot-high double doors. He should have notified his brother that he was coming, but he had chosen not to. This way, there was no chance to be told he was unwelcome.
The footman who crossed the marble-paved foyer was young and didn't recognize the newcomer until he looked at Robin's calling card. Eyes widened, he blurted out, "Lord Robert Andreville?"
"In person," Robin said mildly. "The black sheep returns. Is Lord Wolverton receiving?"
"I shall inquire," the footman said, his face properly blank again. "Would you care to wait in the drawing room, my lord?"
"I can find my way there on my own," Robin remarked when the servant started to show the way. "I was born here, after all. I promise I shan't steal the silver."
Coloring, the footman bowed, then disappeared into the depths of the house.
Robin strolled into the drawing room. He was overdoing the nonchalance; anyone who knew him well would realize that he was nervous. But then, he and his elder brother did not know each other well, not anymore.
He wondered how Giles would receive him. Despite their vastly different temperaments, they had been friends once. It was Giles who had taught him to ride and shoot, and who had tried—with little success—to keep peace between formidable father and contrary young brother. Even after Robin left England, he and Giles had maintained a tenuous contact.
But it had been fifteen years since they had lived under the same roof, three years since the last brief meeting in London. The occasion had been bittersweet, the pleasure of reunion undermined by a tension that had ended in a short, furious quarrel just before it was time for Robin to leave.
Giles seldom lost his temper, and had never done so with his brother, which had made the incident all the more upsetting. Though they had managed to patch matters up and part amiably, the painful regret was with Robin still.
He studied the drawing room. It was brighter and more appealing than before: Versailles softened by a touch of English coziness. Probably that was Giles's doing; he had never had much patience with pomp. Or perhaps the redecoration had been done by the woman who had briefly been Giles's wife. Robin had never met her, did not even recall her name.
He considered taking a seat, but it was impossible to relax when he could almost hear the echoes of old rows with his father rebounding from the silk-clad walls. Instead he paced the drawing room, flexing his aching left hand. It had not healed well after the incident several months earlier when an unpleasant gentleman had carefully broken the bones one by one. A pity that Robin was left-handed.
<
br /> Portraits of stern, upright Andrevilles adorned one wall, their reproachful gazes following their unworthy descendant. They would have respected the goals for which he had worked, but they certainly would not have approved of his methods.
The place of honor above the carved mantel belonged to a portrait of the Andreville brothers, painted two years before Robin had left Wolverhampton for good. He paused to study the painting. A stranger would not know the two youths were brothers without reading the engraved plate. Even their eyes were different shades of blue. Giles was tall and broadly built, with thick brown hair. At twenty-one he had already worn the grave air of someone who carried great responsibilities.
In contrast, Robin was no more than average height, slightly built and brightly blond. The portrait painter had done a good job of catching the mischievous twinkle in his azure eyes.
Superficially, he knew that he had changed very little, though he was now thirty-two instead of sixteen. Ironic that he retained that boyish look when he felt so much older than his years, from having seen and done things better forgotten.
He moved to the window and looked across the rolling, green velvet grounds, immaculate even in late autumn. The first light flakes of snow were starting to fall.
What was he doing here? A scapegrace younger son didn't belong at Wolverhampton. But Lord Robert Andreville didn't belong anywhere else, either.
Behind Robin a door swung open. He turned to find the Marquess of Wolverton poised in the doorway, slate-blue eyes scanning the room as if doubting the footman's announcement.
Robin suppressed a shiver at the sight of his brother, for Giles's stern, handsome face was far too reminiscent of their late and unlamented father. The resemblance had always been there, and years of authority had strengthened it.
Their eyes met and held for a long moment, wary azure to controlled slate. Using his lightest tone, Robin said, "The prodigal returns."
A slow smile spread over the marquess's face and he moved forward, his hand extended. "The wars have been over for months, Robin. What the devil took you so long?"
Robin clasped his brother's hand in both of his, almost dizzy with relief. "The fighting might have ended at Waterloo, but my special brand of deviousness was useful during the treaty negotiations."
"I'm sure," Giles said dryly. "But what will you do now that peace has broken out?"
Robin shrugged. "Damned if I know. That's why I've turned up on your doorstep, like a bad penny."
"It's your doorstep, too. I've been hoping you would come for a visit."
After too many years of deceit, Robin felt a powerful need to be direct. "I wasn't sure I'd be welcome," he said baldly.
Giles's brows rose. "Whyever not?"
"Have you forgotten that the last time we met, we had a rousing argument?"
His brother's gaze shifted. "I haven't forgotten—I've regretted it ever since. I shouldn't have spoken as I did, but I was concerned. You looked as if you were at the breaking point. I was afraid that if you returned to the Continent, you'd make a lethal mistake."
Perceptive of Giles; that had been a difficult time. Robin looked down at his damaged left hand and thought of Maggie. "You were very nearly right."
"I'm glad I wasn't." Giles put his hand on his brother's shoulder for a moment. "You've had a long journey. Would you like to rest and refresh yourself before dinner?"
Robin nodded. Trying to keep his voice casual, he said, "It's good to be back."
* * *
They talked through dinner and into the night while silent snowdrifts rose outside. As the level in the brandy decanter declined steadily, the marquess studied his brother. The signs of strain that had concerned him three years earlier had intensified to the point where he suspected that Robin was on the edge of mental and physical collapse.
Giles wished there was something he could do or say, but realized that he did not even know what questions to ask. He settled for saying at the next conversational lull, "I know this is premature, but do you have any plans for the future?"
"Trying to get rid of me already?" Robin said with a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Not at all, but I think you'll find Yorkshire rather flat after all your adventures."
The younger man tilted his gilt head back into a corner of the wing chair. In the flickering light he seemed fragile, not quite of the mundane world. "I found adventures to be deucedly tiring. Not to mention dangerous and uncomfortable."
"Are you sorry for what you have done?"
"No, it was needful." Robin's fingers drummed an irregular tattoo on the arm of his chair. "But I don't want to spend the second half of my life the same way I spent the first half."
"You are in a position to do anything you wish—scholar, sportsman, politician, man-about-town. That's more freedom than most people ever have."
"Yes." His brother sighed and his eyes closed. "The problem is not freedom, but desire."
After an uneasy silence, Giles said, "Since you were occupied on the Continent and communications were chancy, I didn't notify you at the time, but Father left you Ruxton."
"What!" Robin's eyes snapped open. "I assumed I would be lucky to get a shilling for candles. Ruxton is the best of the family estates after Wolverhampton. Why on earth would he leave it to me?"
"He admired you because he could never force you to do anything you didn't want to do."
"That was admiration?" Robin asked, his voice edged. "He had a damnably strange way of showing it. We couldn't spend ten minutes in the same room without quarreling, and it wasn't always my fault."
"Nonetheless, it was you who Father boasted about to his cronies." Giles gave an ironic half smile. "He used to say that the blood had run thin in me, and that it was a pity his heir was such a very dull dog."
Robin frowned. "I'll never understand how you could be so patient with the old curmudgeon."
Giles shrugged. "I was patient because the only other choice would have been to leave Wolverhampton, and that I would never do, no matter what the provocation."
Robin swore softly and rose from his chair, crossing to the fireplace to prod the embers unnecessarily. After coming down from Oxford, Giles had taken over the hard work of administering the immense Andreville holdings. He had always been the reliable one, quietly doing the difficult tasks with little reward or recognition. "Typical of Father to be insulting when you were making his life so much easier."
"It wasn't an insult," Giles said calmly. "I am a dull person. I find crops more intriguing than gaming, the country more satisfying than London, books more amusing than gossip. Father must have found some satisfaction in knowing his heir was reliable, but that didn't mean he particularly liked me."
Robin searched Giles's face, wondering if his brother was genuinely detached about such painful insights. Yet he couldn't ask; their friendship had very clearly defined limits. He settled for saying, "People are interesting because of what they are, not what they do. You have never been dull."
Expression unconvinced, Giles changed the subject. "I imagine you'll want to visit Ruxton. I've been looking after the place, and it's doing well."
"Thank you." Robin watched a log break apart and send sparks dancing up the chimney. "Between Ruxton and the inheritance I received from Uncle Rawson, I'll have more money than I know what to do with."
"Get married. Wives are excellent at disposing of excess income." For the first time, there was bitterness in Giles's voice. After a brief pause, he continued more smoothly, "Besides, Wolverton needs an heir."
"Oh, no," Robin said with a flicker of amusement. "Producing an heir is your duty, not mine."
"I tried marriage once, and failed. Now it's your turn. Perhaps you'll be more successful."
The flat comment made Robin wonder what the late marchioness had been like, but his brother's expression did not invite questions. "Sorry, but I've only ever met one woman I thought I could live with, and she had more sense than to accept me."
"You refer
to the new Duchess of Candover?"
Robin gave his brother a hard stare. "Apparently I am not the only one in the family with a talent for spying."
"Hardly spying. Candover is an old friend of mine, and when he returned to England, he knew I would be interested in news of your welfare. It wasn't hard to deduce that there was more to the tale than what he told me." Giles's voice warmed. "I met the new duchess. An extraordinary woman."
"She is indeed," Robin agreed in an unforthcoming tone. Then he sighed and ran his hand through his fair hair. Though they had never been as close as Robin would have liked, he knew he could trust Giles's discretion completely. "If you've met Maggie, surely you understand why the idea of marrying a bland English virgin is so unappealing."
"I take your point. There can't be another like her." His brother smiled slightly. "If neither of us is willing to do our duty by the family, there's always cousin Gerald. He has already sired a whole string of little Andrevilles."
Remembering Gerald, Robin assumed that any children would be dull, but worthy.
If Maggie had children, they would not be dull. He felt the familiar ache, and forced himself to cut it off before it could worsen. The past was a damned unhealthy place to live.
His thoughts were interrupted when Giles asked, "Do you intend to stay at Wolverhampton long?"
"Well," Robin said cautiously, fearing that speaking the words aloud might invite a rebuff, "I had thought through Christmas. Perhaps longer. If you don't mind."
"You can spend the rest of your life here if you choose," Giles said quietly.
Lord Robert Andreville, rebellious younger son, master spy, black sheep, and survivor, shut his eyes for a moment, not wanting to show how affected he was by his brother's welcome. Then he returned to his wing chair and settled in again, the peace of Wolverhampton beginning to dissolve tensions so old that he had thought they were part of him.
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