Owen joined her in the library bowing and kissing her gloved hand. He smiled, his green eyes traveling to the fireplace where a fire crackled merrily, all evidence of their earlier escapade cleared away.
“Just think—when word of what we did today gets around you will surely join the ranks of the eccentric elite.” There was an amused look on his attractive face. “They will call you the Mad Duchess of Brightling!”
“I think they must already—what with a highwayman lover, a murderer for a husband, and viscount for my daughter’s tutor. My life is such a tremendous hodgepodge of absurdities that this will be considered much too tame.”
They sat silently inside the carriage as they headed for the outskirts of London. Angela had been pleasantly surprised with the contrast to Owen’s usually sober appearance. His coat was claret velvet with a pale pink waistcoat beneath it embroidered in gold. Even Mr. Brummel wouldn’t sneer at the perfection of his carefully wound cravat with a ruby stickpin winking against the snowy white silk. His buff nankeen breeches were fashionably skintight revealing long muscular legs. Angela almost asked him if he had polished his mirror-bright black Hessians in champagne froth but instead she just smiled at the thought in the darkness.
They arrived at a side street lit only by a dim lamp outside an ordinary looking house. A small panel in the door opened at Owen’s knock and they were admitted immediately.
“Good evening, Viscount Somerset,” said the impeccably dressed butler bowing from the waist.
“You have been here before,” whispered Angela almost accusingly.
“Not recently,” replied Owen handing his hat and redingote to the butler.
He helped Angela remove her wrap and couldn’t suppress a gasp of astonishment at the magnificent picture she made against the backdrop of a hundred candles set in crystal sconces. She watched as his eyes darkened like a changing sea, taking in every detail of her dress and her flawless radiance. Tonight she was an enchantress, elegantly adorned, her delicate symmetry dazzling in the opulence of the gaming hall.
With a small smile she took his arm and he said so softly that no one could possibly overhear, “If I had known you would look like this I never would have brought you. I’m sure to be called out a dozen times before the night is over!”
“So you are sorry we came?”
“Never! I will be the most envied man in the city tomorrow and everyone will speculate as to who my mysterious new mistress is. And they will wonder how in the world I can afford to keep you!”
Her laughter rang out musically and several people turned to look and were frozen spellbound by the handsome couple, especially the lady. As they strolled leisurely from room to room a sort of hushed silence followed their progress.
“Do they stare so at all newcomers?” inquired Angela ingenuously.
“I have never seen anyone cause such a sensation as you have in the short time we have been here. You are sure to have half a hundred proposals tonight, decent and indecent. So take care and stay close to me,” Owen warned.
The club was elegantly appointed and luxuriously decorated all in gold and white. The walls were covered in snowy moire and satin, studded with gold and crystal sconces. Great chandeliers hung from spectacularly plastered ceilings, reflected in the highly polished wood parquet floor. Even the French gilt chairs and settees were upholstered in white velvets, satins, and silks. Ivory draperies were looped back from the windows with thick golden ropes and the fireplaces were pearly marble, gleaming red and orange with reflected flames. The whole place spoke of understated elegance.
The people played various card and dice games, danced to the music wafting down from a balcony in the ballroom or walked around being seen or observing who was present. Some stood in small groups gossiping, their eyes dissecting every person that came in, and everyone held a glass of wine or champagne.
“I’ve reserved a room upstairs for a light supper,” said Owen. “If you don’t mind dining alone with me.”
“Why should I?” rejoined Angela giving him a sidelong glance. “I’m perfectly safe with you, aren’t I?”
“Of course, but I thought you might be worried about appearances. It is possible someone might recognize you and believe we are on intimate terms.”
“I have never cared a fig for what other people think. And I would love to see one of those upstairs rooms,” confessed Angela, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
They dined upstairs in a small, plush room complete with a chaise longue discreetly placed in a shadowy corner. They joked about it as they ate the superbly prepared food. Owen told her that the French chef at this club was one of the most renowned in England and other clubs were always trying to steal him away. Angela could see why. She had never tasted such wonderful food and the strawberry tarts were excellent. “I would come here just for the tarts!”
“That’s why most of the men are here,” said Owen and it took her a moment to realize he wasn’t speaking of pastries.
He could be polished and witty when he wanted to, revealing a side she had never known existed and Angela wondered about his past, which he never spoke of. In a way he was just as mysterious to her as she was to him.
But those tantalizing little glimpses into each other’s personalities that shone through occasionally kept things interesting.
As they descended the broad, sweeping double staircase a man stood looking up at them familiarly. Angela had never seen him before and didn’t want to meet him. Just one glance and she took an instant dislike to him. He was over six feet tall with bulging muscles visible even through his clothes. He had a large hooked nose and tiny eyes, like jet beads, that fastened on Angela like leeches. The too full, sensual mouth broke into a smile lending a leering note to his white dissipated face. His hair was as black as Angela’s and he reminded her of a pugilist.
“Well, Owen, you have been making yourself scarce lately.” His voice grated harshly on her ears. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your—lady friend?” The pause was insulting.
“My lady, this is the Duke of Remington, Thurston Vaughn, my brother.”
He took her hand and kissed it while Angela barely managed to suppress a shudder of disgust. Thurston squeezed her fingers meaningfully before releasing her.
“Really, Owen, your manners are atrocious. Aren’t you going to tell me your companion’s name?”
“I think not,” Owen said, his face a polite mask, behind which Angela had not an inkling of what he was thinking.
The duke laughed, an ugly sound, and his eyes were cruel. “Don’t want to lose another lady to me, eh, Owen? The last one wasn’t really worth it, but this one is a jewel beyond price. I really must compliment you on your good taste. But then you always had that where women were concerned.” With a curt nod he left them, but Angela had an uneasy feeling that she had not seen the last of him.
Her fingers trembled on Owen’s arm and their eyes met, hers confused and his brimming with misery and hate.
“I wish I could apologize for my brother’s lack of manners,” he said it as if loath to admit any kinship with the horrid man. “But I won’t. His uncouthness speaks for itself. He is a swine of the lowest order!”
“Please, Owen,” Angela said, her grip tightening on his velvet-covered arm. “Don’t be upset. You couldn’t know he would be here or what would happen. Let’s just ignore the incident and enjoy ourselves.”
For the rest of the night Angela joined in the gambling, losing some and winning less. There was whist, faro, Ambigu, Macao, Hazzard, ombre, and many other games going on. Owen stayed close to her side watching, but refused to join in. “I never gamble anymore. I lost once too often, years ago,” was his cryptic explanation.
Angela continued with the game but made a mental note to inquire further into his statement when they were alone and could talk. She sipped her champagne with the feeling that all eyes in the room were on her. Looking up she found Lord Remington inspecting her as if she was up for auction. His black, be
ady eyes raped her and he moistened his red lips as if he would have her for dinner.
She was perfectly safe amidst the hubbub of the club, surrounded by admiring men and with Owen by her side. But his look conveyed the idea that he always got what he wanted, and he wanted her.
Angela’s eyes glittered through the slits in her white silk mask, no less brilliant than the aquamarines she wore, and Thurston Vaughn racked his brain for a hint of who she was. He had seen her before, of that he was certain; one didn’t forget such hair and eyes easily. No, she wasn’t one of the demi-reps, she didn’t have the air of a huntress out to snare a keeper, unless she already had a provider. It wasn’t his brother. Owen couldn’t afford to keep a church mouse in poverty and he wondered where they had met.
She had the air and graceful movements of a great lady yet in his mind’s eye he could see her surrounded by huge crowds of people. An actress? It was possible but not probable. Thurston frequented the theaters and would have noticed her there. If she wasn’t a Cyprian or an actress she could only be a lady, a new arrival in the city, because he hadn’t seen her recently. Perhaps her husband or father kept her buried in the country; he surely would if she was his. In any event he would soon learn her identity.
A very late arrival broke his reverie, much to Angela’s relief, and she stared at the bizzare sight that met her eyes. A shriveled little stick of a man entered the room with a huge black negress on his arm. She was at least six feet tall and wore a towering red and yellow silk turban festooned with ostrich plumes. The dress she wore was purple satin and green velvet. Diamonds blazed at her throat, ears, and wrists against her smooth ebony skin. To top the whole thing off a parrot perched on her shoulder screeching obscenities in French.
“The Marquess of Hounslow,” whispered Owen as everyone went back to what they had been doing before the remarkable appearance, “and his latest mistress. She’s a Watusi, a tribe renowned for their height. She would make a wonderful ceiling duster.”
Angela couldn’t help laughing at that for she did indeed seem to sweep the high ceiling with the nodding feathers. Then the thought of such an incompatible pair in bed together set off fresh gales of laughter and she couldn’t continue playing.
Excusing themselves they wandered into the ballroom and stood talking, sipping wine while couples whirled around the room like exotic flowers to the music of a waltz. As Owen turned to select another glass of wine from a proffered silver tray Thurston Vaughn appeared and grabbed Angela’s wrist swinging her into his arms and out onto the dance floor.
She stumbled in surprise, a jolting fear coursing through her body. Her feet had no recourse but to follow where he led and the room spun dizzily as they circled around and around. His big hand at her waist felt cold and clammy through the thin stuff of her dress. Those beady eyes played over her breasts, wildly devouring. Angela wished she hadn’t come or that the earth would open and swallow her up.
Then everything stopped as Owen jerked her out of his brother’s arms and tossed the contents of his glass directly into Thurston’s face. A collective gasp of surprise filled the ballroom attracting a vast audience. Red wine dripped down Thurston’s face spattering his white shirt and cravat and he just stood there motionless, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened.
“My seconds will call on you tomorrow,” said Owen, his voice as cold as frozen steel. “Angela, shall we go?” In a daze she took his arm and somehow managed to walk the length of the room beneath the scrutinizing eyes riveted on them. They didn’t speak until they were safely seated in the darkness of the carriage.
“Owen, I am so sorry,” Angela told him miserably. “I never meant for anything like that to happen.”
“I know. There was no way to foresee what would happen. It wasn’t your fault,” he soothed. “It was that blackguard brother of mine. I’m ashamed to be related to him!”
“I can’t believe you are. But a duel. You could be killed over such a trifle.”
“It wasn’t such a trifle; he insulted you. Did you think I hadn’t seen the way he ogled you all evening? I’m glad of an excuse to kill him.” There was a suppressed savagery beneath his cool tone. “This isn’t the first time we have dueled.”
Angela squeezed his hand, blinking rapidly to keep from crying. The evening had turned into a disaster, all because she wanted a little diversion and excitement. There had certainly been that, but it had backfired. Owen turned toward her, his eyes glowing like a cat’s in the dark.
“There was another time and another woman—a girl.
She was just seventeen—Elizabeth, my sweet little Beth.” The words poured out of him like a waterfall and there was a heartrending tremor in his voice. “I was nineteen and we were in love, madly, innocently in love since childhood. She was the girl next door and we were the rich powerful neighbors. Words can’t describe her. To say that she had the softest auburn hair and big brown eyes that could melt my heart with a glance seems flat. I would need to be a poet to paint her with words.
“We planned to marry and I was the happiest person alive. The world was sunny even when it rained with Beth near me, the flowers were brighter and the birds sang more sweetly. She was gentleness personified, naive, and innocent.”
“What happened?” Angela’s voice was a tremulous whisper and she almost couldn’t bear to hear the rest of his story.
“My father died and Thurston came home the new duke. He had been away for years and now he came back to claim everything. It was all his, the land, the money, estates, and castles. Then he saw Beth. He wanted her because she was mine, because she was pure and virginal. It was always that way with him. Whatever was mine he took; whatever was good must be sullied.
“They married.” His voice was distilled anguish. “I can’t blame her. She was too young and unsophisticated; her parents pushed her into Thurston’s arms. What could I offer her but an empty title and a life of poverty?
“It was a nightmare, hell on earth! Beth was never the same again. I lived on the fringe of her life and watched as Thurston destroyed her innocence and her. Sometimes we met for a few minutes—held hands, talked, but she wouldn’t let me kiss her. She had a horror of being touched and I wondered what he had done to her. At night I lay sleepless and imagined Thurston brutalizing her.
“I watched Beth grow thin and pale and go into a decline, helpless to stop it. She died in my arms on a cold winter day. Her very last words were that she loved me.”
Angela was crying openly now and she placed the back of his hand against her wet, hot cheek, trying to let him know that she sympathized with him but was unable to speak.
“I still hear Beth’s voice calling to me, at night when it’s still and quiet. I think of the story of Echo who pined away for her unrequited love, until nothing was left of her but her voice.”
“Star-crossed lovers,” she whispered. “You and Beth, Scott and me. Destined to meet and touch—love—only to be torn apart!”
“I knew you would understand,” Owen admitted, gently wiping away her tears. “We are kindred spirits, you and I!”
Back home at last Angela poured brandy with a shaking hand and set down the heavy crystal decanter contemplatively. She had been so deeply affected by Owen’s story it was as if it had happened to her. So he had gambled that his sweetheart would love him enough to give up everything, and lost to his brother. He hadn’t said that, but somehow what he had said at the club about never gambling anymore, connected and seemed to fit together.
“Why did you take me there, Owen? You have been there before, you even said you would probably be challenged before the night was over.”
“I agreed to escort you because I knew you were going to go, no matter what. At least this way I could keep an eye on you, protect you.” He sipped his brandy and smiled just like Scott. “You are much too adventurous and trusting for your own good, Angela. What would have happened if I hadn’t been there? My brother always gets what he wants; he’s known for that. He is immensely rich
and corrupt, and has friends in high places. If he can’t buy what he wants he just take it it. Anything goes, no holds barred.”
She shuddered. “Let’s not talk about him. He makes my skin crawl.”
“I’m just warning you; be careful, especially if he finds out your identity. When we run into him again—”
“You speak as if it’s inevitable.”
“It is,” Owen assured her without a doubt. “He’s everywhere in London at once and now he will be looking for you. And when we go back to Madame Saisset’s—”
“I will never go back!”
“But you will. I know you too well. You will be drawn there again just like everyone else is. If you could be anywhere in the world right now,” he said changing the subject, “where would you be?”
“Australia,” Angela answered so quickly that she even surprised herself.
“Yes, with your husband. Then why don’t you go? Money is no object, but perhaps you don’t want to leave your children.”
“I will take them with me!”
“You mean you have already decided to go?”
“I meant to sail on the ship with Scott but I was sick and I lost my baby.” She warmed enthusiastically to the subject she had kept secret. “I have made inquiries and ships don’t just leave every day for Botany Bay! There is one scheduled to depart in the fall and I have already booked passage on it for myself and the children, but I have an even better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Scott owned a ship, the Dark Lady, and now it’s mine. She’s due back here in three weeks.”
Owen smiled. “I can see the wheels in your head turning. So you will leave on the Dark Lady. Is the ship named for you?”
“Yes, but just a moment. I have a picture of it.” Angela got up, set her glass down and rushed upstairs to retrieve her locket.
“Let me see,” Owen said on her return. He studied the miniatures while Angela poured out her plan.
Across Captive Seas Page 11