My Lady Angel. Joanna Maitland

in looks, to be sure, but still there was something in their manner… Perhaps that had been the spark? The contrast between Aunt Mary’s honesty and the Baroness’s flagrant disregard for it had been too much. His temper had gone off like a rocket. In all those years as a soldier, Max had never lost his temper with anyone weaker than himself but, faced with a single silver-haired Jezebel, he had forgotten every vestige of how a gentleman should behave.

      He should be ashamed. It did not matter what she had done. Or what she might still do. He owed it to himself—to his own honour—to behave like a gentleman.

      He would have to apologise.

      He let his shoulders droop and let out a long sigh. Yes, he would apologise. Eventually. But certainly not today. He could not face her again today.

      Besides, she was ill…

      He sat up sharply, his senses all on the alert. No. He had not imagined it. There had been pain in her face.

      She really was ill.

      And he had forced her to meet him, forced her to listen to his insults, forced her to remain when she wished only to flee from him.

      His behaviour had been totally unforgivable.

      Angel stood rigid until the door closed behind him, and then she collapsed into the nearest chair, moaning softly. She was in too much pain to move.

      But she was just lucid enough to curse her cousin. He was even worse than Aunt Charlotte had suggested. He was the devil!

      ‘My lady—’

      Angel looked up to see the butler standing in the doorway, aghast.

      ‘I’ll fetch Benton at once, m’lady,’ he said, almost slamming the door behind him in his haste.

      Angel closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against the cool damask of the chair. That was a little better. Her head ached so.

      ‘My lady, let me help you to your chamber.’

      Angel breathed a sigh of relief at the welcome sound of Benton’s voice. She could not have faced Aunt Charlotte’s incessant questions. Not now. Benton would keep Aunt Charlotte at bay. In a very short space of time, Angel was upstairs and in her own bed, and Benton was gently cooling her brow with a cloth soaked in lavender water.

      Angel opened her eyes a fraction. The curtains were closed and the room was dim, lit only by the fire. It was blissfully peaceful.

      ‘Have the pains returned, m’lady?’

      ‘Yes. And I have the headache now, too.’

      ‘Shall I fetch you a little laudanum?’

      ‘No, Benton. You know how I hate it. Sleep is all I need.’ Angel smiled weakly at her faithful abigail. ‘You may ask my aunt to prepare one of her tisanes. It will make her feel useful.’

      Benton rose obediently.

      ‘You need not tell her whether or not I drink it,’ Angel added softly, snuggling down into the welcoming softness. She really ought to stop to consider what Cousin Frederick had said, but her head ached so much that she could not begin to order her thoughts. She would just close her eyes for a space. In a moment or two, her mind would be clearer, and then she could…

      Angel woke with a start. She lay for a moment, listening.

      There was no sound at all. The house was totally silent. Everyone must be abed. The faint glow from the dying fire showed that she must have been asleep for hours. And the pain was gone.

      She lay back on her pillows and gazed up at the silken canopy. In the gloom, it seemed to be floating.

      So that was Cousin Frederick.

      She closed her eyes, trying to picture him in her mind. She could not. She ought to be able to do so, surely? It was very strange. But Cousin Frederick’s character was so overpowering that she had only the vaguest memory of his face. She could remember little more than his fierce anger. That, and his voice—taut as a tempered steel sword blade, whipping at her skin. No, she would not soon forget that hard, merciless voice.

      For the rest, he was tall and strong—strong enough to master a mere woman, at least—and he had dark hair. In fact, from what little she could remember, he had not looked like a Rosevale at all. Why, Pierre was more a Rosevale than Frederick!

      Was he? The question hit Angel like a blow.

      She turned on her side and fixed her gaze on the fireplace as she strove to remember Cousin Frederick’s exact words. He had said… He had accused her— Good God, he already knew about Pierre! But how…?

      Aunt Charlotte. Of course. Who else?

      It did not matter that Angel had counselled caution. Pierre had promised to do, and say, nothing, but Aunt Charlotte had given no such undertaking. She would probably have broken it, even if she had. No doubt she had written to only her dearest friends, and in strictest confidence. No wonder the rumours were flying all over London.

      And what of Pierre? Had he heard? Angel did not know which circles he now moved in. Perhaps he had been spared the covert looks and sly whispers. She must see him as soon as possible, warn him of the dangers of speaking out of turn.

      She must warn Aunt Charlotte, too. And take her to task for her lack of discretion. That would not be easy. Since her father’s death, Angel had gradually learned to take on the responsibilities of her new status, but it was incredibly difficult to play the part of the stern head of the family with an old lady who had been like a mother to her for years.

      None the less, it must be done. Tomorrow.

      And the moment Angel was well enough to travel, they must set out for London, in hopes of saving Pierre from Cousin Frederick’s wrath.

       Chapter Four

       ‘S o it was a waste of time?’

      ‘Completely. I learned nothing more than we already knew. Perhaps if I hadn’t lost my temper with her…’

      Ross shook his head. ‘It never was your most attractive feature, I will admit. And just lately…’ He held up a hand. ‘No, do not turn that wicked tongue of yours on me, if you please. I promise you that I should not respond, so it would be a waste of energy. You would do better to spend some time in the ring. Do you good to hit someone.’

      Max strode over to the window and stared down into Dover Street. Why was he so bad-tempered these days? He’d learned to control it when he was in the army, dammit, so why couldn’t he do it since his visit to the Abbey? ‘She’s coming to town,’ he said at last, willing his tense muscles to relax. He turned back to Ross. ‘She’s out of mourning now, of course. I fancy she plans to set herself up in Rosevale House and start introducing that cursed Frenchman to the ton as the rightful Earl of Penrose. It makes my blood boil, Ross. I could cheerfully strangle her.’

      ‘Why? You said yourself that the title is worthless.’

      ‘Aye, but I’ll not have it stripped from me to provide amusement for a…for a…’ Words failed him when he thought of her. He felt that all-consuming anger again. What was it about that woman…?

      ‘It’s understandable that you are angry,’ Ross said calmly. ‘But have you thought that she might be an innocent victim in this? She may have been taken in by a plausible rogue.’

      Max made no attempt to hide his disbelief.

      ‘It wouldn’t be surprising,’ Ross said, ‘considering the kind of life she’s led. She’s by no means fly to the time of day. She’s been in mourning for years, remember, first for her husband and then for her father. And she was kept pretty close before that—married out of the schoolroom, by all accounts. Her husband never permitted her to come to town, you know.’

      ‘How on earth did you learn that?’

      ‘I have made it my business to find out,’ Ross replied