“Max,” she managed at last,
opening her eyes and raising
her head, “will you not
remove your mask?”

Angel found she longed to see his face.

He shook his head slightly. “Better you remember me as I am now—your unknown cavalier, the man who is bewitched by your beauty. I would not have you think of me as I really am.”

Angel did not have the first idea of what to make of his words. Her brain seemed to be fully occupied in dealing with her heightened senses and the odd reactions of her body. It had never betrayed her like this. Why on earth…?

His mouth descended on hers with the softness of a butterfly alighting on a flower. The last vestiges of rational thought deserted her. She wanted…she wanted so much more. She reached her arms up to him and pulled him closer, returning a man’s kiss for the first time in her life.

Praise for Joanna Maitland’s recent titles:

A Poor Relation

“Regency purists will note that Maitland has a fine

command of the era’s sensibilities.”

—Romantic Times

My Lady Angel
Joanna Maitland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

‘I f I must take another husband, I suppose I could always marry Cousin Frederick.’

Lady Charlotte stared at her niece with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. She looked as if she had suddenly been confronted by a very bad smell. ‘If I thought for one moment that you might do such a wicked thing, Angelina… Why, even you would deserve to be locked in the round tower till you came to your senses.’

Her niece rose swiftly from her spoon-back chair by the fireplace and came to sit on the sofa beside her aunt, taking the old lady’s wrinkled hands in her own smooth white ones and stroking them reassuringly. ‘Dearest Aunt, there is no need to threaten me with the tower. It is enough to hear you call me “Angelina” to know that I have offended you. I was only bamming you, I promise. You know I am in no hurry to marry again.’ She managed to suppress the involuntary shudder that accompanied the word. ‘I would certainly never marry another man called “Frederick”,’ she went on, assuming a teasing tone.

‘Hmph,’ snorted the old lady. ‘You should not jest about Cousin Frederick and his family, Angel. They’re a bad lot, every last one of ’em. And I’m sure they would all be delighted to see you dead and buried.’

‘Aunt! You must not speak so. Truly, you must not. Especially of a man we have never met.’

‘Don’t need to meet him,’ Lady Charlotte said roundly. ‘Knowing your Great-uncle Augustus was quite enough for me, even if he was family. Never known a man so full of greed and envy. Couldn’t ever accept the fact that his son remained plain Mr Rosevale while your father inherited all three titles.’ Lady Charlotte had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead.

Angel tried another tack. ‘Well, Cousin Frederick should be happy at last. After all, he is Lord Penrose now.’ She smiled conspiratorially.

‘Minx! If I didn’t know you so well, I might have believed you meant that. What good is the earldom to Cousin Frederick when all the money and almost all the land goes with the barony? And to a mere slip of a girl at that?’ She returned Angel’s wicked smile with interest.

Angel dropped her gaze, trying to look like a demure young miss. She failed, as usual. ‘He does have a seat in the House of Lords, Aunt Charlotte. Perhaps that will be some consolation to him.’

‘I doubt it. The only law he would wish to enact would be to prohibit inheritance in the female line. Besides, he probably cannot afford to take his seat. It would not do for the Earl of Penrose to be threadbare.’

Angel tried not to smile at the picture her aunt’s words had conjured up. Cousin Frederick, now the Earl of Penrose, had inherited a small impoverished estate in Cornwall, a seat in the Lords—and nothing else. As long as Angel and her aunt were alive, Frederick would have only an empty title.

But if Angel died without an heir, he stood to inherit everything.

‘I think it is time we mended the feud, Aunt. After all, Frederick is head of the family now. We cannot refuse to receive him.’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ said the old lady. ‘There are two families now. You hold the barony. As Lady Rosevale, you are head of the Rosevale family. Frederick may out-rank you, being an Earl, but his is still the cadet branch. Let him head his own family. There is no need for us to receive him. No need at all. I, for one, shall never speak to him. It is impossible.’

Angel shook her head at her aunt’s stubbornness. The Rosevale family was notorious for its short tempers and prolonged feuds, but neither her father nor her aunt had ever been prepared to explain the origins of this one. ‘Aunt,’ she said, ‘I must ask you to tell me why Papa quarrelled with Great-uncle Augustus.’

‘No, dear.’ Aunt Charlotte looked decidedly mulish, but then, seeing Angel’s set expression, she added, ‘It was a very long time ago. It is best forgotten.’

Angel sat up even straighter. ‘As head of the family,’ she said, with emphasis, ‘I need to be fully aware of such things. You must agree with that. You yourself said that—’

‘No, I—’ Aunt Charlotte was shaking her head.

‘I insist, Aunt.’ Angel looked meaningfully at her. The old lady was stubborn, but she also believed implicitly in the role of the head of the family. It was only a matter of waiting.

‘Oh, very well. But it is not an edifying tale.’ Aunt Charlotte took a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket and touched it to her lips. ‘Your papa… Er…your papa was not yet twenty when he inherited. I was already of age, of course, but your grandfather had appointed his younger brother, your Great-uncle Augustus, to be your papa’s guardian and trustee. Uncle Augustus was very proud, very conscious of his rank. And grasping when it came to money.’

Angel’s face must have shown some reaction to her aunt’s outspoken description of the late Augustus Rosevale, for Lady Charlotte nodded bleakly and squeezed her niece’s hand.

‘You insisted on knowing, Angel, and so I must give you the truth with no bark on it. Augustus Rosevale was a miser…and a fortune-hunter to boot. Since he could not have the titles for himself, he did everything in his power to persuade your papa to marry his own daughter, Mary.

‘Your papa would have none of it. And I encouraged him in his resistance, I freely admit. Uncle Augustus was a tyrant…and Mary was a plain little mouse, with neither spirit nor brains to recommend her. A marriage between them would have been a disaster from the first.’

‘But I thought Papa’s first marriage was a love match?’

Aunt Charlotte smiled fondly. ‘Yes, indeed. Your papa had already met and fallen in love with Lady Jane Ellesmore. He paid no heed at all to Uncle Augustus’s attempts to separate them or to advance the claims of his own daughter. The day your papa came of age, he proposed to Lady Jane. They were married within a month.’

‘But she died.’

‘Yes, she died. Although they did have twelve happy years together. In spite of Uncle Augustus.’

Angel looked at her aunt enquiringly.

‘Your father’s first marriage was not blessed with children, Angel. And Uncle Augustus took every possible opportunity of reminding your papa of the fact, never caring how much it might hurt him. It was even worse for poor Jane. It made her feel that she had failed as a wife.’

Angel turned her head away, biting her lip.

Aunt Charlotte was concentrating on her tale. ‘She said to me once, not long before she died, that it might have been better if your father had married his cousin after all.’

Angel managed a nod. ‘How terribly sad,’ she said quietly.

Aunt Charlotte sighed. There was a faraway look in her eyes for a moment, but it was soon replaced by a martial glint. ‘Poor Jane was barely cold in her grave when Augustus was back, trying yet again to persuade your father to wed Mary. Well! You will not be surprised to learn that your father sent him to the right about. Said Mary was too old to bear him an heir, even if he’d been able to stomach the sight of her, which he could not.’

Angel gasped.

‘No, it was not well done of him, I agree. It was not Mary’s fault, after all. But, you must understand, he had just buried his wife. And he had loved her dearly. Indeed, he was so distraught that, at one stage, I thought he…’ She paused, swallowing hard. ‘However, he did recover enough to decide that he must marry again, to ensure the succession, for it was clearly unwise to rely on Julian.’

‘Julian? But…but surely he died when he was just a boy?’

‘Is that what your papa told you?’

Angel nodded. Papa had spoken only once of his younger brother and it had seemed to give him pain. Angel had never felt able to press him for more information. And, apart from a single portrait of Julian as a child, there was no trace of him here at the Abbey.

‘I can understand why he would have told you that but I…I fear it was not true, my love. Julian died, but… Oh, dear, this is very difficult.’

Angel waited.

Aunt Charlotte sighed. ‘Julian was years younger than either of us, and so wild that we despaired of him. He did not see why he should pay any heed to your papa. They quarrelled all the time, I’m afraid. Your papa wanted Julian to marry in order to ensure the succession, but Julian refused to give up his wicked bachelor ways. Drinking and gambling, and—Julian said your papa was perfectly capable of getting an heir for himself. All he had to do was to find himself a better breeder than the one he had buried. You can imagine how your papa reacted to that! Yet another family rift, of course. Julian took himself off to France and never came back. I…I heard that he did marry there, but he and his wife, and all her family, were killed in the Terror. She was the daughter of the Comte d’Eury, you see, and—’

Lady Charlotte rose and walked to the window. Angel could tell, from the set of her shoulders, that she was trying to master a sudden surge of emotion.

‘No matter how wild he was,’ Aunt Charlotte said in a low, passionate voice, ‘he did not deserve to die like that. No one did.’

Angel sat silent, wondering, waiting for her aunt to recover her composure. She had clearly loved Julian, in spite of his faults. Perhaps Papa had loved him too? Had he banished all the reminders of Julian from Rosevale Abbey because the memory was too painful? It certainly seemed to be so for Aunt Charlotte. Angel forced herself to resist the temptation to go to the old lady and put a comforting arm around her. Aunt Charlotte would have upbraided her severely for doing such a thing. A lady should never lose control of her emotions in public. Never. And if, by some mischance, she did, it was the height of bad manners for anyone present to notice.

‘And Great-uncle Augustus?’ prompted Angel, when Aunt Charlotte had turned back to face her once more.

‘He and your father never spoke again. The breach was too deep to mend. Why, your father did not even go to the funeral when Augustus’s son died. He didn’t go to Augustus’s funeral either.’

‘Oh,’ said Angel, considering. ‘But I thought Cousin Frederick was Great-uncle Augustus’s son.’

‘No. Grandson.’

‘Oh,’ said Angel again. ‘So…he is not an old man, then?’

‘No, of course not. You knew that, surely? You said he might do as a husband for you. You were not planning—’

‘Dear Aunt, I was only teasing you, I promise. I know nothing of Cousin Frederick. I supposed that he was…oh…fifty at least, and rather stout. With a large red nose,’ she added, hoping her aunt would forget her momentary megrims.

‘You, Angel, are most definitely in need of a spell in the tower,’ said Aunt Charlotte bluntly, reverting to her normal self once more. ‘I don’t know why I— I’d do better to take myself off and leave you to your own devices.’

‘But then you’d miss all the fun.’

Lady Charlotte raised both eyebrows.

‘Since we are out of mourning at last, dear Aunt,’ continued Angel, assuming a determined expression, ‘it is time that we looked about us a little. I should so like to travel on the Continent, now that Boney is safely disposed of. In a month or two, perhaps, once the weather is better. But I fancy we should open up the London house first, do not you?’

‘I—’

‘And if we should happen to encounter the new Earl of Penrose, we will receive him with politeness, however stout his middle or florid his complexion.’

‘Angel, we cannot—’

‘As head of the family,’ Angel said, with emphasis, ‘I wish the breach to be healed. We must make the attempt. Both of us, Aunt.’

Lady Charlotte shook her head a little, but the look on Angel’s face must have made an impact, for the old lady did not try to argue any further. ‘Very well. If I must, I will receive him. Shouldn’t think he’ll be stout, though. His father and his grandfather were both as thin as rails. It suited their penny-pinching characters, I always thought.’

‘Thin and florid, then.’

Lady Charlotte looked sideways at her niece. ‘Well,’ she said airily, ‘you might be surprised on that front. Frederick is unlikely to be florid. Not yet. After all…’ she paused, narrowing her eyes ‘…he’s not that many years older than you are.’

‘But, surely—?’ Angel stopped in mid-sentence. The door had opened to admit old Willett, the family butler. His quiet entrance had been drowned by Angel’s exclamation of surprise.

‘There is a gentleman arrived, m’lady,’ Willett said in his soft voice. He was making no attempt to conceal his disapproval of their visitor. ‘He…he says he is related to your ladyship’s family, but—’

Angel laughed. ‘There, you see, Aunt. What did I tell you? It is Cousin Frederick, come to heal the breach himself.’

Willett coughed apologetically. ‘The…er…gentleman gives his name as Rosevale. Julian Rosevale.’

Angel put her hand to her throat.

And in that same moment, Lady Charlotte, who never allowed herself to show the slightest emotion in company, sank softly to the floor in a dead faint.

Hatless and head bowed, the Earl of Penrose remained on one knee by the graveside for several minutes more. He refused to acknowledge the rapidly waning winter light, or the steady rain that was soaking into his caped coat.

Ross Graham, standing awkwardly on the other side of the plain grey slab, seemed to be about to speak, but then thought better of it. He bowed his head once more, waiting.

At last, Penrose raised his head and stood up. His thick dark hair had been slicked down by the rain. He rubbed the back of his neck to wipe away the droplets that were now threatening to run down inside his shirt. Then, with a tiny shrug, he brushed the dirt from his pantaloons and resumed his beaver hat. ‘Come, Ross,’ he said, a little gruffly, ‘let’s get ourselves back to the inn. You look as if you are freezing.’

Ross smiled half-heartedly, but fell into step beside his friend. Their boots sank into the muddy grass. ‘Every time I’ve come here, the weather has been foul.’ His soft Scottish accent was unmistakable in almost every word he spoke. ‘Do you think she’s testing us?’

Penrose laughed in his throat. ‘No, not she. Aunt Mary was kindness itself. You know that just as well as I do. She’d not ask us to put ourselves to the least inconvenience on her behalf.’ He looked back at the tiny posy of snowdrops he had found to lay on Mary Rosevale’s grave. She had always loved snowdrops. The rain was making them look bedraggled already, yet they seemed to glow against the drab stone. As much of a ray of sunshine as Aunt Mary had ever had in her grey existence.

‘Penrose, I—’

‘Do you have to call me that, Ross?’ The Earl sounded more weary than angry.

‘No. But it is your name.’

Penrose shook his head. ‘Yes, I suppose… But I have plenty of others, too, as you know very well. If you must be so pompous, you could try Frederick, for example, or Maximilian, or even—heaven help me—Augustus!’

Ross laughed and clapped the Earl on his soggy shoulder. ‘I think not. The last time I called you Augustus, as I remember, you threatened to knock me down.’

‘Yes. You deserved it, too.’ Ross was his oldest friend and one of the few who ever dared to tease him when he was in a fit of the sullens. They had grown up together. Aunt Mary had been like a mother to them, and the bonds remained strong, both to each other, and to her memory. ‘You might be safer to stick with “Max”.’

Ross merely nodded and continued to stride towards the carriage where the Earl’s groom waited, hopping impatiently from one foot to the other.

‘You’re soaked to the skin, Cap’n,’ he said bluntly.

‘We’ve been through much worse, Sergeant,’ replied Penrose, reverting to their army ways without a moment’s thought. He and Sergeant Ramsey had shared many a flea-ridden billet in the Peninsula, in searing heat and in bitter cold. ‘A little wet won’t hurt me.’

‘No, sir, but—’

‘Might I suggest that you two continue your discussion once we are back under cover?’ said Ross with a lift of his eyebrow. ‘I, for one, am looking forward to a bowl of steaming hot punch. I am sure that his lordship feels the same.’

Ramsey looked nonplussed for a moment at the implied rebuke, but he was soon bustling his gentlemen into their seats. ‘We’ll have you back at the inn in a pig’s whisper, m’lord,’ he said, grinning as he pronounced the unfamiliar title. ‘You, too, sir.’

Penrose leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. It always affected him, the sight of Aunt Mary’s grave. He should have come home earlier, helped her more… Her life had been so hard, at the beck and call first of her own father, and then of his. Neither of them had treated her as more than an unpaid servant. His own father, miser that he was, had insisted that Mary bring up his son so that he could be spared the inconvenience of finding another wife. For marriage, his father had said, was a plaguey expensive business. A new wife was always bent on finding ways of emptying a man’s purse, whereas a spinster sister was easily controlled. Poor Mary. She had had so little of life’s luxuries. And she had never had a home of her own, or children. Those joys had been denied her, by her own family, and by the heartless old man who had held the Penrose titles.

The new Earl of Penrose shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the thought of his hated predecessor. A pity there had been no chance to avenge Mary’s wrongs. There was only a sister and a daughter left. He could not make war on women.

Old man Penrose had made war on Mary, had he not?

But Mary had had some consolation. She had been loved, and dearly so, by Penrose and by Ross Graham, the orphan she had taken in and defended against all the world, including her own family. Meek as a lamb where her own interests were concerned, she had become like a tigress when her boys were under attack. She had saved them, many and many a time. But, when it had come to saving her, Max and Ross had come too late.

‘A penny for ’em.’

Max looked up. Rather against his will, he found himself returning Ross’s smile. There was something about those glinting blue eyes… Ross’s sunny nature seemed to admit neither defeat nor despair. And his optimism was infectious on a dank February day by a graveyard.

‘What you need, my friend,’ said Ross, his smile broadening into a grin, ‘apart from the punch, of course, is a battle to fight. Can’t be brooding on your own troubles if the enemy is marching over the ridge.’

Max laughed, but there was precious little humour in it. ‘No chance of that, Ross. Boney’s finished now.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of Boney, as it happens, though I, for one, won’t write him off till he’s dead. Elba is too near France for my liking.’

The Earl shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

‘No, I was thinking about you, Max. You need to get your teeth into something. Something worthwhile. Why don’t you do something in the House? You were talking about the plight of the old soldiers begging in the streets. Why not take up their cause?’

‘Because I can’t afford to take my seat, if you must know. With no money, I’m a pretty sorry excuse for an earl.’ He realised he was sounding increasingly testy. It was yet another lamentable Rosevale trait. He must make more effort to curb it.

‘Forgive me, but I don’t understand. You were comfortable enough before.’

‘I still am—for an anonymous captain in a marching regiment. But an earl… That’s entirely different, Ross. An earl has houses, estates, retainers, obligations… I have the title and the obligations, but nowhere near enough blunt to meet them. That’s just one more charge to lay at old man Penrose’s door. He and that daughter of his have tied me hand and foot.’

‘You speak almost as if he were still alive. What on earth is the matter with you? Old Penrose is dead more than a twelvemonth. You are the Earl of Penrose now.’

‘Aye, but his daughter lives on to laugh in my face. The haughty—and wealthy—Baroness Rosevale carries on where her father left off. Both venting their spite on our family.’

‘You—’

‘Confound it, Ross. You know as well as I do how they treated Aunt Mary. Old Penrose was a black-hearted devil. I’d wager his daughter is the same.’

‘Word is, she’s barren.’

‘What?’

‘Married for years, but no children. Surely you knew that? So it’s just a matter of time. One day the barony, and all that goes with it, will come to you. You’ll be able to take your seat in the Lords then.’

Max shook his head. ‘I doubt that very much, Ross. You’ve forgotten that her ladyship is several years younger than I am. Probably disgustingly healthy, to boot. No, I’m afraid that if I’m eventually to inherit, it will have to be through my children.’

‘Er…doesn’t that require you to have a wife, first?’

‘You know perfectly well that it does,’ his lordship said sharply, pressing his lips together into a tight, angry line.

‘Mmm.’ Ross paused. ‘You know,’ he said musingly, totally ignoring his friend’s dark frown, ‘you could always think about marrying the Baroness yourself. That way, you would get control of your inheritance all the sooner.’

Penrose merely shook his head wearily. He had his temper well in hand now. ‘I had always thought you were out of your mind, Ross. Now, I’m sure of it. Must be the fiery red hair. Clearly all that heat addles the brain.’

‘No more! No more!’ Lady Charlotte pushed away the smelling salts that Angel had been waving under her nose. ‘I am perfectly recovered, I assure you.’

Looking at her aunt’s ashen features, Angel knew better. The old lady was still far from well, but argument would achieve nothing. Besides, there was still their astonishing visitor to consider.

‘Shall I tell the gentleman that your ladyship is not at home? I—’

‘No, Willett,’ said Angel, glancing up from where she knelt by her aunt’s chair, ‘that will not do. Not if he is part of the family. Ask him to wait in the library. Tell him I shall join him there presently. Lady Charlotte will remain here until she is recovered.’

‘As your ladyship wishes.’

The door had barely closed behind him when Lady Charlotte said urgently, ‘He is an impostor. He must be. If Julian were still alive, he would have contacted us long ago. It’s been more than twenty years. Why would he wait until now?’

Angel rose to her feet, still holding her aunt’s slightly clammy hand. ‘Because…because now he can claim the titles,’ she said slowly.

Lady Charlotte started, and then nodded reluctantly. ‘That would be true, of course. My brother was…is…was no fool. Though he would be nearly as poor as Frederick, since neither of them has any claim on the Barony. Oh, Julian…’ She shook her head, frowning slightly, but suddenly her expression cleared. ‘If it is Julian, just think how Frederick’s nose will be put out of joint. He’ll be mad as fire to be plain Mr Frederick Rosevale all over again. Why, it is famous!’

Angel released her aunt’s hand and moved towards the door. ‘Poor Frederick,’ she said under her breath. She closed it quietly behind her and started down the staircase to the library.

Poor Frederick, indeed. His earldom might not be worth much, but it did confer a certain standing in Society. To have it whisked out of his fingers, barely months after he had grasped it, would be humiliating in the extreme. Had he done anything to deserve this kind of treatment? Aunt Charlotte seemed to think so. But Aunt Charlotte’s views were not unbiased, judging by today’s outburst of venom. On occasion, she could be remarkably difficult. Why did—?

Willett had already thrown open the library door. And, as Angel reached it, the gentleman standing by the huge stone fireplace turned round to greet her.

‘Oh—’ Angel stopped on the threshold, transfixed. The man before her was certainly no newly discovered uncle. This man was probably no older than Angel herself.

But he was, without doubt, the handsomest man she had ever beheld.

Chapter Two

A ngel’s breath had caught in her throat. For a second, the two simply stared at each other. Neither seemed able to utter a word.

Then, with a tiny shrug, the apparition straightened and came towards her. An odd smile fluttered for a moment at the corner of his mouth as he made his bow, an old-fashioned courtly gesture, with an elaborate sweep of his arm. ‘My lady, you do me too much honour.’

That bow belonged to a bygone age, Angel thought. How strange. This man might claim to be a Rosevale, but he could not be English. He—

Just then, he straightened and smiled at her. It was such a dazzling smile that, for a moment, she could neither think nor speak.

He took another step towards her.

Angel forced her tumbling thoughts into the beginnings of order. She must take charge of this encounter. She was the head of the Rosevale family, was she not?

She nodded politely towards her visitor and stepped further into the room. Behind her, the door closed with a tiny click. Willett was no doubt standing on the other side, ready to defend her against the foreign intruder. Willett had a profound distrust of all things foreign.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Angel said evenly. ‘To what do we owe the honour of your visit?’ She looked steadily at him, her head tilted slightly to one side as she assessed him more fully. Yes, there might be a slight family resemblance…but almost all the Rosevales were fair, like Angel herself, whereas this man had chestnut hair and dark eyes. And the features of a Greek god.

‘My lady, I seek the Marquis Penrose.’ He pronounced the title in the French fashion, but that barely registered with Angel.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden thundering of her pulse at the visitor’s question. He did not know! She took a deep breath. ‘The Marquis of Penrose died more than a year ago, sir,’ she said. ‘Since my father left no male heirs, the title died with him. There is no longer a Marquis of Penrose.’

For a moment there was a shocked silence. Angel saw that her visitor’s widening eyes were dark blue rather than brown, as she had first thought. Perhaps he was a Rosevale after all?

‘Your pardon, my lady. I do not understand,’ he said at last, shaking his head.

Angel motioned him to one of the wing chairs. He waited courteously until she had seated herself before following her lead. He moved with a degree of elegance that would draw every female eye.

‘If you will have the goodness to explain your errand, sir, I am sure I shall be able to provide you with the information you seek. Tell me, why did you wish to see my father?’ She tried to smile encouragingly at him.

‘I am Julien Pierre Rosevale, my lady. I arrived from France just a few days ago. The crossing was—’ he closed his eyes for a second, and swallowed ‘—painful.’

Angel’s mind was racing—a Frenchman called Rosevale?—but she forced herself to nod in sympathy. Only the most urgent business would persuade any sane person to brave the Channel in the depths of winter.

‘I came to seek help from the Marquis since he is…was my father’s brother. It was not possible to travel before, because— Well, no matter. I think…you and I are cousins, I think?’ It seemed that he was more than a little bewildered.

‘You are Julian Rosevale’s son? But—’ Angel smoothed her silken skirts in an attempt to hide her consternation. ‘Forgive me, monsieur, but I had understood that my uncle and all his family perished on the guillotine. How is it that you alone escaped?’

‘Not I alone, my lady. I have a younger sister. Her name is Julie. Both of us escaped the terrible fate that took my father and mother, and all my mother’s family. My father’s servants saved us both and brought us up. They swore we were their own children.’

‘Your father’s servants?’

‘Gaston, and his wife, Hannah,’ he said, nodding. ‘Gaston came from the d’Eury family estate at the time of my parents’ marriage. But Hannah is English. She made us both speak English always when we were alone. Never outside the house, of course. We were always afraid that one of the spies might hear us. There were spies everywhere.’

That explained his remarkable command of English, Angel concluded. His use of the language was almost faultless. Only the occasional tiny slip betrayed his origins.

And the longer he talked, the less obvious it seemed to become.

Aunt Charlotte’s tightly clasped fingers were almost as white as her face, but her back was ramrod-straight and her features were set.

‘Aunt, you will allow me to present our visitor,’ Angel said simply, drawing him into the room. ‘He is lately arrived from France, in spite of the winter storms. He says his name is Julien Rosevale, son of your brother, Julian.’ It was an odd way of performing an introduction, to be sure, but she was not about to accept this man’s word as to his identity. Aunt Charlotte would be in a much better position to judge the truth of his claim. ‘Sir,’ Angel continued smoothly, ‘this is my late father’s sister, Lady Charlotte Clare.’

Aunt Charlotte had risen from her place, acknowledging the visitor’s extravagant bow with only a slight nod. She did not extend her hand. Instead, she stared intently at him. ‘You do not have the look of the Rosevales, monsieur,’ she said at last.

‘No, my lady. I take after my mother’s family. The d’Eury family all have…had dark hair.’

Aunt Charlotte nodded thoughtfully and motioned the visitor to approach. ‘You are much of a height with Julian, certainly. As to the rest…’ She turned to Angel who had remained near the door, watching. ‘My dear, would you be so good as to go to my chamber for me? In the drawer beside my bed you will find a carved ivory box.’ She began to fumble inside the high neckline of her gown.

Angel hesitated. There were servants enough to run such errands, surely?

‘Forgive me, my child, but I cannot entrust my box to a servant.’ She finally succeeded in extracting a fine gold chain from under her gown and detached two keys from it. ‘You will need the key,’ she said, handing the larger one to Angel.

‘Very well, Aunt.’ Angel felt oddly reluctant to leave the old lady with the strange new arrival. There could be no danger, of course, with so many servants about, and yet…

‘Thank you, Angelina,’ said Lady Charlotte, with decided emphasis, nodding in the direction of the door. It seemed she had no qualms about being alone with the Frenchman.

Angel turned to leave. Her new-found cousin was before her, however, opening the door with a flourish. Where on earth had he learned such manners? They did not sit at all well with a child of the Revolution.

She ran lightly up the stairs to her aunt’s bedchamber, wondering what could possibly be in this mysterious carved box. She was sure she had never set eyes on any such thing. It must have been kept well hidden.

The table alongside Aunt Charlotte’s bed was nothing out of the ordinary. The brass key slid into the lock in the single drawer and turned easily. This drawer must have been opened many and many a time.

The drawer contained a bundle of letters tied with a black ribbon, a pressed posy encased in a protective sleeve of finest muslin, and a beautiful carved box.

The box was locked.

Lifting it out, Angel was struck by the warmth of the ivory in her hand. The box was very old. It was worn, particularly around the small brass lock, where it was only just possible to make out the tiny sprays of carved flowers. What could it contain? It seemed to weigh nothing at all.

She carefully closed and locked the drawer, casting a last glance at its contents. Such a pile of letters. And the posy looked fragile enough to shatter at a breath. Who had given it to Aunt Charlotte? Her late husband? Or was there perhaps a secret lover in the old lady’s past? It was most intriguing.

She hurried back down to the drawing room, carrying the precious box. Willett was standing guard outside, just as before. He had been listening, of course, but he would never admit to it, not to her. If she wanted to know what had been discussed in her absence, she would have to ask her aunt.

The Frenchman jumped to his feet the moment the door opened. He had been sitting close by Lady Charlotte on the sofa. Angel fancied he had even been holding the old lady’s hand. He was certainly quick to seize an opportunity. Angel had not been gone from the room above ten minutes.

‘Thank you, my love,’ said Lady Charlotte, reaching up to take the box. ‘This is just what we need.’ She busied herself with the tiny key, talking all the while. ‘I am sure that Pierre is just what he says, but I shall produce the proof in a trice.’

‘Pierre…?’ Angel looked enquiringly towards the Frenchman.

‘My family have always called me Pierre,’ he said quickly. ‘Since my father was Julian, and my sister is Julie, it seemed easier for everyone.’ He smiled at her, as if he knew she would understand. And she found that she did.

‘Here we are!’ said Lady Charlotte.

The box was open. Its deeply cushioned interior contained two miniatures—of a man and a woman, both dressed in the elaborate style of the French court of decades before.

Lady Charlotte offered the man’s portrait to Angel. ‘This is Julian Rosevale, my dear. Your uncle…and Pierre’s father.’

So that explained the locked drawer! Aunt Charlotte must have found a way of keeping in touch with Julian, in spite of the family feud.

The portrait showed a Rosevale, no doubt of it, in spite of the powdered wig. He looked like a younger version of Angel’s dead father. She felt a sudden sadness at the thought of her uncle’s terrible end, and the fact that she had been told almost nothing about him until now. That cursed Rosevale temper!

‘And this—’ Lady Charlotte handed over the second portrait ‘—this is Amalie d’Eury, Julian’s wife. And Pierre’s mother. The likeness is very strong, I think.’

Angel studied the beautiful miniature. It was impossible to tell the colour of the lady’s hair, since it was heavily powdered, but her brows were dark and her eyes were blue. She had the same fine features as Pierre, and the same determined chin. If the portrait was a true likeness, there could be no doubt that Pierre and Amalie d’Eury were related in some way.

And if Pierre was Julian’s legitimate son, he was the rightful Marquis of Penrose, and the Earl of Penrose besides.

Poor Frederick, indeed!

Lady Charlotte was plying Pierre with questions. ‘Tell me of your sister. Julie, you said? Heavens, I never learned that Julian had even one child, far less two. How old is she now?’

Pierre was gazing fondly at the miniature. For a second, he stared into the distance. Then he blinked, and said, ‘Julie is twenty-four, madame, less than a year younger than I. She is—’ he turned to look searchingly at Angel ‘—she has a great look of your niece. Julie’s hair is perhaps not quite so silvery fair… But apart from that, they might almost be twins.’

‘She would not come with you? We would have been delighted to welcome her into the family, would we not, Angel?’

Pierre looked startled. ‘Angel? Surely—?’

‘My name, sir, is Angelina. It became something of a family joke to call me “Angel” when I was small, since I was definitely nothing of the kind. And later, it amused my father to use it still. You were speaking of your sister, however. Pray continue.’ She refused to let herself be beguiled. As head of the family, it was her duty to judge his claim with a cool head. She must not let him change the subject. She needed a great deal more evidence before she would accept his story. He seemed to have charmed Aunt Charlotte in a trice—somehow—but he would soon learn that Angel was made of sterner stuff.

‘The truth is, madame, that we have very little money. There was only enough for a single passage, and it was obviously out of the question for Julie to travel alone. I have promised to send for her, as soon as I am able.’

Angel thought he had begun to look a trifle uncomfortable. Poor man. It must be very difficult to admit to living in such poverty. ‘You will understand, sir,’ she said quickly, before her aunt had time to expose them further to a possible impostor, ‘that I must ask you for proofs of your claims. Forgive me, but you must see that a physical likeness to my uncle’s wife is not sufficient. Your relationship to the d’Eury family could be…er…other than the one you have described.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the beginnings of a flush on her aunt’s neck. Lady Charlotte was outraged, of course, at even the subtlest suggestion that Pierre might have been born on the wrong side of the blanket.

‘That is a trifle difficult at present,’ he said brusquely, looking her directly in the eye. ‘However, I am sure I shall be able to explain matters satisfactorily when I meet your father’s heir. Where is he to be—?’

‘I am my father’s heir,’ said Angel flatly. ‘I am the Baroness Rosevale, and head of the family.’

‘But you are a woman.’ The words came out in a rush, and were followed by a look of acute embarrassment.

‘Just so. No doubt things are managed differently in your country, monsieur, but in England a title as old as my father’s may descend in the female line, in the absence of sons. You were about to explain…?’

He frowned and swallowed hard. ‘Julie and I were born at the time of the Revolution, as you will know, my lady. Everything was in turmoil then. I do have the record of my parents’ marriage, but, for the rest…’ he shrugged eloquently ‘…I have nothing but my word, and the testimony of Gaston and Hannah. Just before he was taken, my father insisted we flee as far as possible from Paris to escape the guillotine. Julie and I…we were mere babes. We remember nothing of those times. It might be possible to find written proof if I went back to Paris to search, but I would not know where to begin. And I have no money to buy information.’

Angel chose to ignore that, for the moment. ‘May I see the record of your parents’ marriage?’

‘It is at home. With Julie. We could not risk—’

‘Yes, I quite see that you would not wish to bring it all the way to England. Tell me, where is your home?’

‘We live in a small fishing village, between Marseilles and Toulon. It is called Cassis.’

‘And Julie is there?’

‘Yes, of course. With Gaston and Hannah. We could afford only one passage, as I told you, and even then by the slowest and cheapest route. We thought that, if I could reach the Marquis, he would help us…for his brother’s sake.’

‘Of course we will help you,’ Lady Charlotte said, reaching out to touch Pierre’s hand in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection. ‘Angel—’

‘We will be happy to help you to search for the proof you need, monsieur. But I must say I am a little surprised that you expected to receive help from my father. You must know, surely, that my father and his brother had had no contact since Uncle Julian left England? Forgiveness was not in my father’s nature. Nor in Uncle Julian’s either, according to my aunt.’

‘I am aware of that. But I could not believe that any man would allow his dead brother’s children to starve. Julie is an innocent. She is the niece of an English marquis and the granddaughter of a French count, yet she is almost destitute and living like a mere peasant. Do you tell me, my lady, that your family would have spurned her?’

‘No, but—’

‘Of course we would not!’ Lady Charlotte seemed determined to take Pierre’s side. ‘We will help you both. And the servants who shielded you. You will understand, of course, that it is necessary to have the proof of your birth in order to establish your claim to the titles. Cousin Frederick will demand nothing less before he will relinquish his hold on the earldom. But have no fear, we shall send to Paris to search for the documents, and we shall—’

‘I think I should discuss matters with my lawyer before we make any definite plans, Aunt Charlotte,’ said Angel, interrupting quickly. ‘If Mr Rosevale will tell us where he can be reached…?’

‘Mr Rosevale, indeed! Why, Pierre is the Marquis of Penrose and should be addressed by that title. He—’

‘I think it might be wise, Aunt, to make no such claim at this stage. Forgive me, sir, but if you are the rightful Marquis, then you are also the Earl of Penrose. That title passed to my cousin Frederick after my father’s death. I fancy it might be unwise to broadcast your claim until you have something more than a family likeness to substantiate it.’ She watched him carefully, trying to judge the effect of her words. He now seemed totally open and unembarrassed. She could not detect the slightest sign of duplicity in his face.

Pierre smiled warmly at them both. Oh, he was a handsome man, no doubt of that. He had charming manners, too. When he smiled in just that way, with such warmth in his deep blue eyes, Angel found herself wanting to believe that he was exactly what he said. It would be so easy to take his part. And if she came to know him better, they might perhaps become friends, even— No! Angel pulled herself up short. She must not allow her judgement to be swayed by his looks and his charm. As head of the family, she must do her duty by this man, as calmly as—

‘May we not invite Pierre to stay here at the Abbey, my dear? It must be very difficult for him, all alone in a strange country…’

Heavens, what would Aunt Charlotte say next? Such impropriety was quite unlike her. It seemed that even an old lady’s head could be turned by a handsome face and old-fashioned courtesies. Pierre was certainly dangerous.

Pierre took Lady Charlotte’s hand and bowed over it, almost touching it with his lips. ‘You are most kind, my lady, but I could not accept. I am lodging in London. With Hannah’s brother. I could not impose upon you both while my situation is…unresolved. It would be most improper.’

Lady Charlotte sighed deeply, but said nothing more. For a second, she looked a trifle chastened.

‘I thank you for your understanding, sir,’ Angel said with sincerity. ‘If you will furnish me with your direction, I shall ensure that you are kept informed of any developments. I cannot promise you that you will have news quickly, however, no matter how many envoys I send to Paris.’

‘But you will send them, Angel?’ Aunt Charlotte was beaming now. ‘That is splendid. Just think what a blow it will be for Frederick. He will be reduced to plain Mr Rosevale all over again. I declare, we shall soon have Great-uncle Augustus turning in his grave.’

‘Max?’

He groaned a little, not opening his eyes.

‘Max, it is morning. You said you had to leave early.’ Louisa laid a gentle hand on his dark stubbled cheek. ‘And you are much in need of a shave,’ she whispered, trying to hide the smile in her voice.

His eyes remained stubbornly closed. He did not move an inch.

She lay back on her soft pillows, luxuriating in the warmth of the bed and the closeness of the man at her side. She knew better than to continue when he so clearly did not wish to be roused. He would—

In less than the space of a heartbeat, he had pulled her into his arms! ‘What I am in need of, my dear one, is much more urgent than a shave.’

‘Indeed, sir? And what, pray, is that? You—’

She was not permitted to say another word. His mouth came down on hers for a long and increasingly passionate kiss that made her forget the advancing hour and the winter chills outside. He was on fire already, and he knew exactly how to light an answering flame in her.

Louisa groaned in her turn.

He stilled immediately. ‘What is it? Did I hurt you?’

She groaned again, deliberately. ‘You are an idiot, Max.’ She ran her free hand down his back and began to trail her fingers over the soft skin of his buttocks. ‘After all these years, you really should have learned a little more about me, you know.’

‘Impossible,’ he said. Her hand moved again, raking the nails across his flesh. He gasped and rolled on to his back, taking her with him and trapping that roving hand. ‘It is impossible to understand any woman, my sweet. No man should even begin to try. But then again—’ he put his hands around her waist and settled her astride him ‘—there are certain things that can usually provoke a reaction.’ He reached up to cup her breast, weighing it in his hand and then delicately skimming the rough skin of his thumb over her nipple.

Louisa closed her eyes, trying not to moan at the pleasure of it. In some things, he understood her only too well.

‘Mmm, yes. That is most certainly a reaction.’

With her eyes closed, Louisa could no longer tell precisely what he was doing to her. All her skin seemed to be burning, as if he was stroking every inch of her body at the same time. That was impossible, and yet…

‘And now, my sweet,’ he said softly, in a voice so thick with desire that it reached into her very heart, ‘you may do with me what you will.’

‘For a man who cannot understand women, you manage remarkably well, I think.’

Max paused in the act of arranging his cravat and turned to gaze down at her. In the aftermath of their lovemaking, she looked particularly beautiful, her skin still slightly flushed, her dark hair pooled on the rumpled pillows. He was tempted to rip off his clothes and return to her.

‘No, Max.’ She shook her head and sat up, pulling the covers up to her chin. She could read him much too well. ‘You know you must go. But I may expect you to come back tonight?’

‘No,’ he snapped.

‘Max—?’

‘Forgive me, Louisa, that was uncalled for. I am not angry at you. I have…other things on my mind. I have to go out of town today. On…family business. I do not expect it to be pleasant.’

She did not ask for any further explanation. She never pried. She was truly a woman in a thousand and he was lucky to have found her. He smiled affectionately at her and returned to the matter of his cravat.

He heard her give a long, deep sigh. What on earth—?

‘Max, there is something I must say to you, my dear. I ask you to hear me out.’

He turned back to her. He had never heard her use quite that tone of voice before. And she was suddenly very pale, almost as white as the sheet she held against her neck.

‘I know you will not say this, so I must. Max, my dear… When you marry—and I know it must be soon—you must give me up. You are a man of honour. You should not betray your wife with a woman like me.’ She was twisting the sheet in her fingers as she spoke.

He felt an enormous surge of fury as the full import of her words dawned on him. His Louisa was worth a dozen simpering Society wives! She gave him friendship, and laughter, and the shared delight of their joining. Now, for perhaps the first time in their long relationship, she was giving him advice—to leave her.

‘My wife, whoever she may be, will know better than to interfere in what I choose to do. If she marries me to gain a title—and what other reason could there be?—she would be well advised to learn to content herself with that, and to concentrate on giving me the heir I need. She will do as I bid her, Louisa, and that includes turning a blind eye to my relationship with you.’ He managed to stop the rush of angry words. She was staring down at the coverlet now. ‘Unless you wish to be rid of me?’

‘Oh, Max, you know very well that I do not. But I understand you better than you think. Perhaps better than you understand yourself. The marriage you have described is a stony-hearted business alliance. If you go that route, you will end up hating your wife, and hating yourself, too. You need to marry where there is love…or affection, at least.’

He shook his head wonderingly. In the course of their long liaison, she had never presumed. On his rare visits to England, on leave from the Peninsula, she had always been warm and welcoming. She had treated him as if he were her only lover, though he had known full well that he was not. Without a protector, she would have starved.

And when he had returned for good and was able to afford—just—to set her up for himself alone, she had not changed. She took his money, but she was generous of herself. She was a diamond. He would never give her up.

‘Marriage is a matter of business, Louisa. You know that as well as I do. You are right that I shall have to take a wife. And since my earldom is threadbare, she must be richly dowered. I do not doubt I shall find a rich father who is willing to sell me his daughter in exchange for a title. Believe me, I plan to drive a hard bargain in return for assuming the shackles. I must have control of her fortune; and she must be biddable. I do not insist on any great degree of beauty, though it would not go amiss if—’

He stopped short. Louisa was gazing up at him with an expression of profound distaste on her lovely face.

‘Confound it, I sound like a coxcomb, do I not? Whoever she is, I shall treat her well, I promise you. There have been quite enough downtrodden women in my family—’ a vivid picture of poor Mary Rosevale came immediately to mind ‘—and I have no intention of forcing another into that sorry state. She will have money, and influence, and, God willing, children at her skirts.’

‘But she will not have your love.’

He laughed harshly. ‘Come, Louisa, do you really think me capable of that? Is any man of my station? I never saw a love match, neither in my own family nor in all my time in the army. The poets have much to answer for. Love, if it exists at all, comes between a man and his mistress.’ He lifted her hand from the ruined sheet and raised it to his lips. Her eyes widened in surprise at such an unusual display of affection.

A sharp knock interrupted them. The door did not open, however. Louisa’s servants were too well trained to intrude.

‘What is it?’ called Louisa.

‘His lordship’s carriage is at the door, ma’am.’

Max settled Louisa’s hand gently on the coverlet and looked towards the door. ‘Tell Ramsey to walk the horses. I will be down presently.’

‘Aye, m’lord.’

‘I must go, my dear. I will…think on what you have said.’

‘You will consider it for the space of a second or two, you mean, and then discard it.’

He shook his head, smiling wryly.

‘What is more, you have had no breakfast.’

Trust Louisa to know exactly when to change an unwelcome subject. She was a companion that any man would envy. ‘I shall take something when we stop to bait the horses.’ He bent to put a hand on her cheek and drop a tiny kiss on her lips. ‘And, in any case,’ he went on, straightening and turning for the door, ‘what need have I of food? I am already very well satisfied this morning.’

She was blushing deliciously. It was a good memory to take with him on this unwelcome journey.

‘Goodbye, my dear. I shall return as soon as I may.’

He ran lightly down the stairs to the tiny hallway where the servant was waiting with his heavy driving coat and his hat and gloves. At this time of year, he could not complete the journey in the day. There was too little daylight and the roads were always bad. Curse the woman! With her background, she could not help but be a thorn in his flesh, but why did she have to choose the middle of winter to inflict her scheming ways on him? He shook his head impatiently. He had no alternative. It would be a long, cold journey but he must confront her now, while he had the advantage of surprise.

The servant opened the door. Outside, the streets were white with frost. The horses’ breath rose in great clouds in the half-hearted winter light.

By the time he reached Rosevale Abbey—if he ever did reach it in such weather—he would have devised some very choice words for his unknown cousin. Very choice indeed.

Chapter Three

‘H ave you seen my thimble, Angel? I seem to have mislaid it and I cannot possibly go to London without my canvas work.’

Angel sighed. Aunt Charlotte had been getting worse and worse since Pierre’s visit. For days, she had talked almost non-stop about how she planned to help Pierre to oust Cousin Frederick. Only Angel’s announcement that they were leaving for London, no matter what the weather, had served to divert the old lady’s mind. Now the subject of her endless lectures was London Society and the need for her niece to make her mark there. Angel had become heartily tired of hearing about modistes, and fripperies, and Almack’s.

‘It is probably at the bottom of your workbag, Aunt. I am sure your woman will be able to find it for you.’ She rose from her desk and crossed to the library door to give her aunt an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘Forgive me, dear Aunt, but I must finish these letters or we shall never be able to leave. I will join you for a nuncheon in an hour or so.’ She patted Lady Charlotte’s hand and turned back to her desk, forcing herself to give all her attention to the paper before her.

Angel waited, trying to read, until at last she heard the click of the door. Aunt Charlotte had gone. She began to write swiftly then. Her instructions must be quite clear or—

A sudden cramp bent her almost double. Oh, no! Not again. It was not even three weeks since the last time. She threw down her pen and put both hands to her belly, kneading her flesh in an attempt to allay the pain. The spasm receded. But she knew it would soon come again. She would have to go upstairs to her abigail. Benton was as bad—worse—than Aunt Charlotte. She meant well, but she would go on and on about Angel’s erratic courses even though they both knew that there was no remedy to be had.

Angel shuddered at the sudden memory invading her mind. She tried to push it away but it was too vivid—the midwife’s filthy hands forcing her legs apart, probing into the most secret recesses of her body, ignoring her screams of pain. And the doctor’s sneering voice in the background, bidding her to be silent. She shuddered again. She could almost feel those freezing fingers tearing at her body.

Another spasm racked her. Dear God, why was she so cursed? It made no sense to have to suffer so. For years they had said she was barren. Everyone had told her so, the doctors, the cackling midwife, her husband, the Honourable John Frederick Worthington, and even her father—

No. Her father had never used that word. He was infinitely sad that she did not conceive, but he had never used that word. Not to her face, at least. Perhaps Papa had simply thought she was a slow breeder, like most of the Rosevales. He himself had had only one child in two long marriages. And Aunt Charlotte had none.

But the doctors had been so sure. And her husband had been so very angry, so insistent that she try every possible cure. John Frederick had forced her to give up her riding and almost all other kinds of exercise, and shut her up at home under the watchful eye of that tipsy midwife. He had given her disgusting food to eat and stood over her to make sure she swallowed every last bite. And he had come to her bed at every opportunity, insisting that she do her duty as his wife. ‘You are mine,’ he would always say. ‘Mine!’ There had been times when she had even been glad of the untimely arrival of her courses, in spite of the unbearable pain.

Except for that last time.

Her courses had been more than seven weeks late. Her body had felt…different. She had dared to hope…and made the fatal mistake of telling John Frederick of those hopes.

Too soon. Within a fortnight, she had lost the babe.

Ignoring Angel’s terrible distress, the hovering midwife had immediately declared that she would never be able to carry a child to term. Worse, the woman had told her husband, too.

John Frederick was coldly furious. He said not a single word. He simply ordered the servants out of the room and then laid into Angel’s pain-filled body with his riding crop. She thought he was going to kill her.

But some vestige of humanity must have remained, for he threw down the crop and stalked off to the stables in the pouring rain, to vent his rage by galloping full tilt to the furthest reaches of the estate.

The resulting chill was probably inevitable. It went to his lungs. And in the end, it had killed him.

Angel had buried the grief for her child deep within her heart. She had said nothing to anyone about her loss or about what her husband had done, though she knew that her abigail suspected. There was no point in distressing Papa, who knew Angel too well to think that she was happy with the man he had chosen for her. If he noticed that her mourning was less than sincere, he never said so. And, crucially, he told her that there was no need for her to rush to take another husband.

I shall continue to follow his advice, Angel resolved, waiting for the pain to subside so that she could rise from her chair. I shall not allow Aunt Charlotte, or anyone else, to push me into marriage, for what would it bring me but pain and even more grief? The chances of my bearing an heir must be very slim indeed. I should be trading my new-found independence for—for what? At best, companionship. At worst…at worst, yet another enslavement of body and soul.

No. It is out of the question. I shall never marry again. Never.

‘My lady…’

Angel struggled to open her eyes. How long had she been asleep?

‘My lady, the Earl is here. He insists on seeing you. Says he will not leave unless you come down.’

Angel shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. What on earth was the abigail talking about? ‘Earl, Benton? I do not understand.’

‘The Earl of Penrose. Your ladyship’s cousin.’

Angel sat bolt upright, moving so fast that for a moment she was quite dizzy. She put a hand on the back of the chaise-longue for support. ‘I… The Earl of Penrose? Here? What can he possibly want with me?’

‘Willett told him your ladyship was indisposed, but he still refused to leave. Said as how he’d come up here to see you in your bedchamber if you would not go down to him.’

Angel swung her legs round and put her feet on to the floor. Yes, that was better; she was steadier now. Thank goodness she had not taken the laudanum that Benton had been pressing on her. She took a deep breath, waiting for the return of the pain. It seemed to have gone. Aunt Charlotte’s tisane had worked, for once.

‘Does my aunt know that the Earl is here?’

‘I am not sure, m’lady. Willett offered to fetch her, seeing as you was asleep, but the Earl said—’ Benton blushed rosily. ‘The Earl said that his business was with your ladyship, and that no one else would do.’

Angel frowned. It was clear that the Earl’s choice of words had been somewhat less circumspect than the abigail’s version. Whatever Cousin Frederick’s errand, he was in no friendly mood. She stood up and straightened her shoulders. She would go and meet this unknown cousin. And she would make it clear that, as head of the Rosevale family, she was not to be browbeaten by anyone, even a belted earl.

‘You had best fetch me a fresh gown and tidy my hair, Benton. I would not have his lordship think that I have been dragged through a hedge.’

Benton smiled uncertainly, but did as she was bid. ‘Shall I ask her ladyship to join you?’ she said as she patted the last silver curl into place.

‘No. Yes…’ Angel thought back to Aunt Charlotte’s uncharitable opinion of Cousin Frederick and her rash enthusiasm for Pierre’s claim. The old lady was quite capable of saying more than she ought, especially when she found herself face to face with a man she believed to be an enemy. ‘No,’ she said with determination. ‘If his lordship wishes to discuss a matter of business with me, I shall meet him alone. I am the head of the family. I am perfectly capable of handling my own affairs.’

She headed for the door, throwing a sideways glance at the glass to ensure her gown was presentable. She was no longer in mourning but, for this encounter, the dove-grey gown felt exactly right—demure and quietly elegant, as befitted a widow and a lady of rank.

Max had been pacing up and down in the drawing room for fully half an hour. The delay was doing nothing for his temper. Trust a woman to pretend to be indisposed in order to avoid an unwelcome visitor. She would learn that he was not so easily gulled. He would force her to receive him, even if he had to pace this room for a week.

He only hoped that she would come alone, when she did finally arrive, for he was not sure that he would be able to curb his temper if she brought her aunt. The old hag had encouraged the Marquis’s unforgivable insults to Aunt Mary. And now she had produced a French pretender, like a rabbit from a hat. Did she really think she could succeed with such an obvious deception? She had probably helped her niece to start all these confounded rumours, too. No doubt these two harpies thought that it would improve their protégé’s chances if all London was buzzing with gossip about the long-lost heir.

Long-lost impostor, more like! If the Frenchman—

The double doors opened. For a second, a tall stately lady dressed in half-mourning stood framed within the opening. Then she nodded slightly and took a pace forward, allowing the butler to close the doors at her back.

She did not speak, nor did she offer her hand. She was assessing him, just as he was assessing her. He would not have called her beautiful—her expression was much too severe for beauty—but her colouring was striking. She had hair like spun silver. He recognised it as the famous Rosevale hair, inherited from the first Baroness, centuries before, but not found in anyone on his side of the family. Would she think him a changeling, with his dark locks?

No. She would not give a thought to such a detail. A warrior entering the lists did not concern himself with his opponent’s colouring, but with his ability to fight. The woman who was coolly appraising him had the look of a doughty adversary. He would do well to be on his guard.

He bowed from the neck, not lowering his eyes. It was important to watch every move she made.

She dropped him a quick curtsy, the very minimum demanded by good manners. ‘I understand you wished to see me, Cousin Frederick?’

Her voice was low, with a hard edge that was not pleasing to the ear. Had she deliberately chosen the mode of address that he most hated? Only his father and his grandfather had ever called him Frederick. He had despised them both; and he detested the name they had bestowed on him.

‘I am obliged, ma’am, that you have felt able to rise from your sickbed to receive me. I trust you are quite recovered?’ He saw a flash of anger in her eyes. A hit! Excellent. It was important to keep her on the defensive.

‘You are too kind, sir. I understand you have important business you wished to discuss with me? Business that could not be delayed?’

‘Indeed, ma’am.’ Max waited for her to invite him to sit, but she did not. She simply stood there, glaring at him. It seemed he had caught her on the raw. So, that was to be the way of it. If she wanted a bout with the buttons off, he would happily oblige her. ‘I must ask you for an explanation of this disreputable imposture you are promoting. You—’

‘I am promoting nothing of the sort,’ she snapped. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing?’

‘Do not think to play me for a fool, Cousin,’ Max replied. ‘I am perfectly well aware that you and your aunt are behind the rumours that are circulating in London. I am only surprised that you have not arrived in town already, with your French puppet in tow. I warn you now, I will not tolerate any attempt to undermine my position. Even from a woman.’ The last few words came out in a hard, rasping voice that he barely recognised. He stopped abruptly, conscious that he was allowing his temper to get the better of him after all. What was it about this woman? He prided himself on his self-control with the female sex, but with her…

She lifted her chin and stared at him, with astonishingly dark blue eyes that were alight with fury. Her skin seemed to have grown paler; or perhaps it was the contrast with the spots of anger now burning on her cheeks. She took a step forward as though she might like to strike him, but her arms were held rigidly at her sides. She was controlling herself with difficulty. ‘I take it you have proof of your outrageous allegations?’ she said.

‘Do I need proof? The fact that you do not need to ask for details of them is proof enough for me, Cousin.’ Confound the woman, she was as bad as he had expected. Worse, perhaps. Why had he bothered to make this journey? He should have known better. He was struck by the irony of it all. ‘Like father, like daughter,’ he said acidly. ‘It is perhaps as well that one title, at least, is no longer the preserve of the more dubious side of the Rosevale family.’

She gasped and turned completely white.

He had never felt such searing anger. He had gone much too far, and he knew it. By attacking her dishonourable behaviour in such terms, he had sunk to her level. He should apologise. But his throat was so constricted that, for a moment, he could not utter a word.

She had reached out a hand to clutch the back of a chair. A spasm crossed her face. It looked almost like pain. Then she straightened again and said, with an obvious effort, ‘This discussion is now at an end, sir. I will thank you to leave. My aunt and I plan to travel to London next week. If you have anything more to say to me, you may say it there. And you may be sure that I shall take the greatest of pleasure in introducing you to my cousin, the rightful Earl of Penrose.’ She spun on her heel and started to move to the door without giving him any chance to reply.

‘Not so fast, Cousin.’ Max strode forward and grasped her wrist, forcing her to stop in her tracks. ‘We have not finished this interview yet.’

‘Release me this instant.’ Her voice was a furious hiss. She kept her head turned towards the door as if she could not bear to look at him.

Max took a long slow breath and then deliberately reached round to grasp her other wrist. Her bones felt tiny and fragile. He had no intention of injuring her, but he was determined that she would hear him out. For several seconds, they both stood motionless. Then Max exerted just enough pressure to turn her back to face him.

She did not try to pull herself free. She simply stood there, refusing to look at him. Her extraordinary silver hair was on a level with his chin.

‘So, madam, you have decided to pit your French impostor against me, have you? Are you sure that is wise?’

‘I am sure that the rightful Earl of Penrose is a gentleman, sir,’ she replied evenly, gazing fixedly at her trapped wrists, ‘which you are not.’

Max had recovered just enough control over his temper to recognise that she was deliberately trying to provoke him. He resisted the immediate temptation to let her go. ‘Clever,’ he said softly. ‘But also rash. If you are so sure I am no gentleman, ma’am, why did you consent to this private interview?’

He paused. She did not reply.

‘Quite. However, I am gentleman enough to remember that you are a lady, in spite of this fraud you are intent upon. I ask you, as a lady, to abandon it, for your own sake. It will do you, and the Rosevale family, nothing but harm.’

She looked up then. For a moment, Max thought he saw real pain in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by black anger. ‘My position is unassailable, sir,’ she retorted. ‘Yours, on the other hand, is somewhat precarious. I will thank you to release me and leave my house. We have nothing more to say to each other.’

The woman was impossible! Why had he ever thought to reason with her? It was a waste of words!

‘You are foolish, madam,’ he said, dropping her wrists abruptly. ‘Your family already has enemies enough. You cannot afford more. But, I promise you, you have added another today.’

He stalked to the door and wrenched it open. Then he turned and bowed mockingly. ‘Good day to you, Cousin. Be sure that we shall continue this discussion at a later date.’

Then he walked smartly down the stairs to the entrance hall to retrieve his coat and hat. The butler was waiting for him, with a look of alarm on his face. It was almost as if he expected Max to strike him!

Max caught the reflection of a black-browed man with a face like thunder in the glass near the bottom of the stairs. Good God! It was himself! No wonder the old butler was quaking in his boots.

Taking a long deep breath, Max willed his heart to slow. It had been pounding fit to burst, as if he were about to charge the enemy. That silver-haired woman must be a witch to have affected him so.

The butler silently helped Max into his coat. Then he held out Max’s hat and gloves, without raising his eyes from them, as if he could not trust himself to look Max in the face.

Max was not about to enter into an altercation with a mere servant. He took his things with a brief nod of thanks and hurried out into the gathering gloom where Ramsey was waiting with his carriage.

‘Drive back to Speenhamland, Ramsey. There is nothing more for us here.’ He flung himself inside and threw his hat and gloves into the furthest corner, the moment the carriage began to move down the driveway.

What on earth had come over him?

He stared unseeingly ahead. He must have run stark mad to allow his temper to rule him in such a way. With a lady, too. What had happened to his manners? Dear God, if Aunt Mary could have heard him…

Aunt Mary. Yes. There was something about the Baroness that reminded him of Aunt Mary. The two were totally unlike 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 with a rather satisfied smile. ‘While you were posting off to confront the wicked Baroness, I decided there might be subtler ways of handling the situation.’

Max nodded somewhat reluctantly.

‘There is plenty of speculation about your Baroness, Max. She may not have spent time in Society, but her aunt appears to be a gossip of the first order. Since the Baroness is a very wealthy woman, every gazetted fortune-hunter in London will be after her, I imagine. The Frenchman may well be one of them. Had you thought of that?’

Max ran an unsteady hand through his hair. ‘No, I hadn’t.’ He paused, thinking. ‘It’s more than possible, as you say, that the Frenchman is a fraud who means to trap her into marriage. She’s a wealthy prize—rich enough to set any man up. I should have thought of that. I’m afraid I have not been thinking straight at all since I met her.’

Ross looked at him in surprise. ‘So Captain Rosevale, the consummate tactician, is no more? Pity. I’m sure cold logic would be a better weapon than blind anger.’

‘You’re right, of course. As usual. And, for once, I shall take your advice to heart. We need to plan our assault like a military campaign. And the first thing we need is intelligence. What have your subtle enquiries discovered about the Frenchman?’

‘Unfortunately for us, he is playing his cards very close to his chest. I’ve found out where he comes from—somewhere near Toulon—but nothing more. If we are to smoke him out, we’ll need to do a deal more digging.’

Max nodded. ‘That means a trip to France. But I’m loath to leave London while that—while my dear cousin is in residence. Even if she has been duped—though she struck me as too strong-minded for that—she could create a great deal of mischief. I don’t think I can risk leaving the field to her.’

‘I don’t suggest that you should.’ Ross put a hand on Max’s shoulder. ‘Look, Max, there is no call for both of us to go. Provided you trust me to—’

‘Devil take it, Ross! You know very well—’

‘If you trust me with such a delicate mission, old friend, I will gladly go to France and do your spying for you.’ He laughed infectiously. ‘Could be quite like old times, eh? Creeping around among the Frenchies, trying to discover the lie of the land.’

Max smiled back. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from him. ‘I do believe you intended to go all along, you rogue.’

‘Yes, well, perhaps…’

‘Believe me, Ross, I am very much in your debt. There is no one else in the world I would permit to do this for me. You—’

‘I am nowhere near repaying everything that I owe you, Max, so I suggest you stop praising me to the skies. Besides, I’ve a notion that a trip through France would just suit me. What we saw of it last time was not exactly…ideal, was it?’

They exchanged a look of shared understanding. The memory was very real to them both. The whole of Wellington’s army had been glad to leave the Pyrenees behind and start across the French plain. Conditions had been harsh, for everyone, but the army had known that victory was almost within reach, after so many years of struggle.

‘I think I begin to envy you, my friend,’ said Max after a moment.

‘I am sure I have the easier task. I have only to make my way to the south of France and bribe my way to the information we need. Whereas you must brave the drawing rooms of the ton and this impostor’s nefarious schemes…and the matchmaking mamas, too, of course.’ Ross grinned. ‘You are become an eligible bachelor at last.’

‘You think you are jesting, Ross, but it is no joke, believe me. The acquisition of a title seems to change even a man’s appearance. When I was a mere Captain Rosevale, I had neither face nor fortune to commend me. I have little more by way of fortune now, heaven knows, but it appears that an unmarried earl will always be described as handsome by the ladies of the ton—especially those with unmarried daughters. I heard it with my own ears.’ He shuddered. ‘Downright nauseating.’

‘Don’t worry, Max. I promise to keep reminding you to look in the glass. Besides, if your impostor has his way, you will be plain Mr Rosevale again…in more senses than one.’

‘It does have its attractions, Ross. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.’

‘You are too modest, Max.’ Ross gave his friend a long appraising look. ‘And you are not ugly… Well, not really…’

Max grinned, refusing to rise to Ross’s bait.

‘More seriously, though,’ Ross continued, ‘I ought to warn you that your impostor really will turn the ladies’ heads. He is quite disgustingly handsome. And he has the manners to match, too, I’m afraid. I suppose we’re lucky he isn’t wearing regimentals. If he were, the ladies would be falling at his feet.’

Max grunted. It seemed the odds were stacked against him. He could rely on Ross to ferret out what information there was to the Frenchman’s discredit, but it would take time. Meanwhile, Max himself would have to find ways of undermining the man here in London. Or, if not the man, then the woman… That blasted woman! She—

He refused to let his temper rule him, this time. He must plan his next moves with the utmost care. If necessary, he must be all smiles and soft words. Logic and cold calculation were what he needed now. In hot blood, a man made mistakes.

And after all, Ross could well be right. She might be innocent of any wrongdoing. She might be the prey, not the predator.

‘If the Frenchman is after her money, will you protect her?’ said Ross, echoing Max’s unspoken thoughts.

‘I should, of course…’ Max had a mental picture of the silver-haired harridan with a temper as fiery as his own. ‘But, having met her, I doubt if she’d accept protection from me. I can’t force her to spurn him, can I?’

‘No. You’d have to marry her yourself to do that.’

‘That’s the second time you have suggested I marry Angelina Rosevale. What’s got into you, Ross?’

Ross shrugged eloquently.

Max thought back to that tempestuous encounter at the Abbey. He had not behaved well—and he knew it. She was only a woman, after all, and an unworldly one, into the bargain. She had neither husband nor brother to defend her. So it was his duty to do so.

His duty did not extend to marrying her!

‘After our recent encounter at the Abbey, I think I am the last man on earth that Lady Rosevale would marry. In fact,’ Max added, remembering her exact words, ‘I’m sure of it. She told me I was no gentleman. I’d have to drag her to the altar by the hair.’

Ross’s eyebrows rose. ‘I hadn’t thought of abduction. But now you come to mention it…’ He grinned wickedly.

Max raised his eyes to heaven. He knew better than to respond when Ross was in one of his rollicking moods.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Ross after a moment, looking rather more solemn, ‘you would not need to resort to abduction. Much better to make the lady fall in love with you. She—’

‘Confound it, Ross, I—’

‘She wouldn’t be the first, would she?’

Max clamped his lips tight together.

‘Seriously, Max, you know very well how to turn her up sweet. After all your practice in Spain, an unworldly widow should be like wax in your hands. Charm her into favouring you over the Frenchman.’

Max began to shake his head, but stopped. It was true that he could make himself attractive to women. It was just that he had never tried it when the stakes were so high. In Spain, a little dalliance had been a light-hearted thing, a fleeting pleasure for both parties. But this? This was too important. His cousin was pursuing a dangerous path.

If she was being cozened by a plausible impostor, it was Max’s duty, as a gentleman and her closest male relative, to do everything in his power to save her.

And he would. Somehow. Whether she willed it or no.

Aunt Charlotte had fallen asleep. At last! Angel offered up a silent prayer of thanks, even though it had taken a long time. They would be in London in little over an hour from now. Not much of an opportunity for Angel to order her thoughts and decide what she was to do.

She had had time enough to reflect on Cousin Frederick. Days of time. It had not helped. She still could not make up her mind about him. She could not even remember him properly. His temper had been so overwhelming that she had thought of little else…apart from his strength when he had held her fast.

He had threatened her, had he not? And he had accused her of conspiring with Pierre to steal his title. Not in quite such stark terms, of course, but that had surely been the import of his words.

He had been furious. He had said things that were unforgivable. So she had every right to hate him, just as Aunt Charlotte did. And yet…

Angel glanced across to where Lady Charlotte slept in the corner of the carriage. Her mouth hung slightly open. Every now and then, a little noise emerged. How mortified the old lady would be to be told that she snored!

Angel smiled to herself. Poor Aunt Charlotte. She hated the idea of growing old and losing control. She prided herself on her self-control—except where Cousin Frederick was concerned. There she had no control at all. She had nothing but cold, implacable hatred for him, and for all his family. That, Angel supposed, must be the reason for her aunt’s unaccountably sudden acceptance of Pierre, too. Nothing else made any sense. It all seemed totally out of character for such a refined lady.

Angel shook her head. There was no point in brooding about Aunt Charlotte. She was impossible to fathom. Besides, Angel still had to decide what she was going to do in London. About Pierre. And about Cousin Frederick.

She did not fully trust Pierre, though she was not sure why. Perhaps it was because of Aunt Charlotte’s lightning conversion to his cause. On the other hand, he might be exactly what he said. Angel owed it to her honour, and to her family, to give Pierre every opportunity to establish his credentials. If he proved to be her Uncle Julian’s son, it would be Angel’s duty to take his part against Cousin Frederick.

A little tremor ran through her at the thought of taking on a man who could outface her in her own drawing room. She quelled it very deliberately, putting the odd sensation out of her mind, and reminding herself that she was wealthy enough—as Cousin Frederick was not—to call on all the resources of the law to back her. She could do it. But it was daunting, none the less. She—

The carriage hit a bump. Aunt Charlotte woke up with a start.

‘Oh, dear, have I been asleep?’ she asked, putting her hands up to straighten her lace cap. ‘I do apologise, my love. How boring for you to have no one to talk to. I promise I shall try to keep awake for the rest of the journey.’ Another bump jolted them both. ‘And if the road continues like this, I shall have no difficulty,’ she added waspishly. ‘Considering how high the tolls are, it is too bad that the road is in such an appalling state. Do you not think so, Angel?’

Angel nodded absently.

‘I wonder how soon Pierre will call on us. You did write to tell him we were coming to town, did you not, Angel?’

‘Yes, Aunt. I asked him to call on us the day after tomorrow.’

‘But why so long? We—’

‘I have asked my man of business to call on me tomorrow. I must discuss matters with him before we see Mr Rosevale again. I would not have Mr Rosevale cherish false hopes.’

‘Nonsense. There can be no question of that. You yourself saw the likeness to the portrait.’

Angel took a deep breath. Patience!

‘And he is such a delightful young man. So handsome! So charming! And so eligible, too. I predict he will have half the ladies in London dropping the handkerchief.’

‘Quite possibly, Aunt, though his looks will not avail him much without a title or an estate. He told us they were living like peasants, remember?’

‘Yes, and it is quite shocking. You must help him, my dear!’

‘Must I?’ said Angel warningly.

The old lady began to look a little flustered. ‘I very much hope you will help him. You cannot take Cousin Frederick’s part, surely? From what little you told me, he behaved to you like an absolute blackguard. Exactly what I should have expected from Augustus Rosevale’s grandson, of course. Not an ounce of good in any of ’em.’

Angel kept silent. She was not about to encourage her aunt’s intemperate outbursts even though, in this case, she was right. Her cousin had behaved in an appalling fashion. He was foul-tempered…and a little frightening, too. She felt that odd tremor again, running down her spine. She forced herself to ignore it and to focus on Pierre. Pierre was gentle, and charming, and understood exactly how to make a lady feel…valued.

‘They are certainly not at all alike, Aunt. But I wonder whether Mr Rosevale will be able to stand against Cousin Frederick. He will be a formidable opponent, I think.’

‘But Pierre will have you to stand with him. Will he not? He is exactly what a young man should be, you know, and you—’

‘If he were as perfect as you say, Aunt Charlotte, I should marry him myself!’ cried Angel, in exasperation. ‘He—’

Aunt Charlotte clapped her hands in delight. ‘Of course! That is exactly the solution! If you marry him, there can be no question about his place in Society. Your position would be unassailable, too, and—’

Angel closed her eyes in despair, trying to shut out Aunt Charlotte’s excited chatter.

What on earth had she said? She was mad, totally mad, to have even hinted at such a thing to Aunt Charlotte. The old lady was annoying, certainly, but there had been no justification for Angel’s loss of control. It was the curse of the Rosevales! In hot blood, the Rosevales said and did things that no sane person would ever dream of doing.

Now Aunt Charlotte would treat it as settled. And the last thing Angel wanted to think about was marriage. To anyone.

‘Dear Aunt,’ she said gently, ‘pray do not throw yourself into transports. I was teasing you—and I apologise for it. It was not well done of me. You know well enough that I have no desire to take another husband. Even one who is absolutely perfect.’ She smiled hopefully at the old lady, who was looking very disappointed.

Lady Charlotte frowned for a second, but then her brow cleared. ‘Let us not make any hasty decisions, my dear,’ she said brightly. ‘It is too soon to decide—of course it is—but nothing is impossible, especially with such an exceptional young man. We must wait and see. But I have a feeling that something special will come of your relationship with him. You mark my words! Just wait and see what happens!’

Angel groaned. ‘Thank you, Aunt,’ she said in clipped tones. ‘I think we have said quite enough on this subject.’ She stared meaningfully at the old lady until, finally, Lady Charlotte nodded and looked away.

Angel breathed a gentle sigh of relief. ‘I think I shall go to Célestine’s tomorrow,’ she said lightly. ‘If I am to go into Society, I need something to wear apart from half-mourning. I must say, it will be quite a treat to wear bright colours again.’

Lady Charlotte beamed and nodded, as if nothing had happened. ‘Indeed so, my dear. And, for a lady of rank, Célestine is the only possible modiste. She is particularly talented when it comes to gowns for great occasions, like Court presentations. Or weddings…’

‘Aunt…’ Angel warned.

‘But it is true, my love. Why, only last year, three of the grandest brides of the Season were dressed by Célestine and—’

‘It does not apply to me. I am a widow, not a new bride. And I am not planning to remarry. I must ask you to speak of something else, Aunt.’

There was an awkward silence for several minutes. But, as the carriage was now travelling through the villages on the outskirts of London, there was much to distract the ladies, especially Angel, who had not visited London for years.

‘My goodness,’ she said, when the carriage slowed to negotiate the increasingly heavy traffic, ‘I had not remembered that the city was as busy as this. At this rate, we shall not reach Rosevale House before dark.’

‘Don’t worry, my dear. John Coachman will find our way. Besides, some of the streets are now lit by gas lamps. I am told that it is as bright as day.’

Angel did not attempt to contradict her.

‘It makes the streets much safer, too, I hear. Not that you would be out in the streets after dark, of course. No lady of quality would ever do that. Which reminds me, Angel. I know you are a widow, but you are new to Society and you do have a reputation to lose. It is important that you know exactly how to go on. I shall help you, naturally, but I…er…I ought to remind you, my dear, that you must never go out alone. In fact, it would be best if you always took the carriage—’

‘I must take some exercise, Aunt.’

‘But not by striding around the countryside like a peasant searching for…for…’

‘Lost sheep?’ said Angel mischievously.

Lady Charlotte tut-tutted. She was in her element now. ‘You may take exercise on horseback. In the park. It is a splendid place to see and be seen.’

‘No doubt. But a quiet amble in the park, stopping to chat at every other moment, provides little by way of exercise, Aunt. I shall continue to walk.’

‘But—’

‘But, to please you, dear Aunt, I shall take a maid with me. Let us hope she can keep up!’

‘Angel, no! You must not make such a spectacle of yourself. Truly you must not! If you stride about like a…like a man, you will do your reputation no good at all. Imagine what Society would say of you! You must behave like a lady at all times. You really must. You know how important it is.’

Angel swallowed the hot words that rose to her lips. She would not let her irritation show, not this time. She must try to be fair to Aunt Charlotte, who certainly had Angel’s best interests at heart. Unfortunately, there would never be a meeting of minds on what those best interests were. Aunt Charlotte was convinced that Angel should behave, in almost all respects, as if she were a demure débutante. And she would continue to urge restraint on Angel at every opportunity. It was intolerable! But it was also understandable. Aunt Charlotte loved her and wanted her to find happiness. Sadly, they disagreed on the role of a husband in that blissful state.

Angel forced herself to smile at Lady Charlotte. Let the old lady believe she had won the argument and that Angel would behave exactly as her aunt wished. After all, Angel was mistress of her own household. She should certainly be able to find ways of escaping from the oppressive rules her aunt wished to impose.

There must be a way. She would not be caged!

Angel stood in the imposing entrance hall of Rosevale House in Berkeley Square, watching her aunt mount the stairs and disappear in the direction of her bedchamber. Angel was still inwardly fuming, but she was determined to control her ire in front of the servants.

She turned a friendly smile on the waiting butler. ‘Good evening to you, Willett. I am glad to see that you made much better time than we did. I am afraid we were delayed by the traffic. I hope that Cook’s efforts will not be spoiled if dinner is delayed for an hour.’

‘Your ladyship’s wishes will be conveyed to the kitchen at once,’ Willett said.

Angel looked hard at the man. He sounded rather more pompous than usual. And he seemed to be lacking his normal composure. Strange. She would quiz Benton about what was going on. But first, she needed a bath. She felt hot and dirty from the journey.

As Angel turned towards the staircase, Willett coughed delicately. ‘Your ladyship has a visitor.’

Angel spun round. Who would be so rude as to intrude on a lady at such a moment? After more than a day on the road, she was in no fit state to greet a guest. Unless it was Pierre? Was he in trouble?

‘The Earl of Penrose, m’lady. He is waiting in the bookroom.’

With a sharp intake of breath, Angel picked up her dusty skirts and marched smartly towards the bookroom. Willett only just reached the door in time to open it for her.

Cousin Frederick turned as she entered. He was immaculate in a blue coat and pale pantaloons. There was not a speck of dust on his shining hessians. And there was a superior smile on his face that made her want to slap him!

‘To what do I owe this singularly ill-timed visit, Cousin? An emergency of some kind, I collect?’

Penrose’s smile vanished and was instantly replaced by a black scowl. Then his gaze travelled over her dust-stained clothing. She thought she detected a sneer at the corner of his mouth as he bowed to her. It was intolerable!

Angel did not offer even a nod in reply. She was much too angry. ‘I will thank you to state your business, Cousin, and allow me to go about mine. As you have clearly observed, I am in no fit state to entertain casual callers.’

Cousin Frederick’s eyes narrowed as he straightened once more. He looked coldly furious. ‘Your pardon, my lady,’ he said in clipped, formal tones. ‘I will relieve you of my unwelcome presence on the instant. I should not wish to inconvenience you in any way.’

With another perfunctory bow, he strode towards the door where Angel was standing, effectively forcing her to make way for him. How dare he?

‘Sir! You—!’

It was too late. Her impossible cousin had thrown open the door and marched out into the hallway. She heard the click of his heels on the marble floor, and then the sound of the front door.

Angel sank into the nearest chair and let out a long slow breath. Stupid! Stupid! Why had she not stopped to think before she spoke? She, after all, was the one who had said that they must make peace with Cousin Frederick’s branch of the family. Instead, she had taken one look at his haughty face and lost her temper. Again! What was it about that man? He made her behave like a foolish child rather than a grown woman.

Whatever the cause, there was no hope of reconciliation after an encounter like that. Her own hasty tongue had made an enemy of the man who was both her cousin and her heir.

Max strode off round the square at a cracking pace. Ross had had the right of it. Max needed to hit something—or someone—soon, or he would explode. So much for his good intentions! What was the point in trying to make peace with such a termagant? The benighted woman was utterly without manners or common decency. Just wait until the tabbies started in on her! Then she would reap the rewards of her unladylike behaviour.

And he would happily watch from the sidelines while the lady’s nemesis approached. If she continued in this vein, she would find herself ostracised from Society.

Did she not deserve it?

Max did not attempt to pursue that question. He knew that reflection was impossible when he was in a black temper. He would do better to follow Ross’s advice. Unfortunately, at this time of day, he could not go to Jackson’s Boxing Saloon.

With an exasperated grunt, he turned his steps towards St James’s and his club. If he could not punch his way out of his temper, he would drown it instead.

Chapter Five

L ady Charlotte gazed across to where Angel sat at the pianoforte, playing exquisitely, as usual. Angel looked calm, poised and quite beautiful in a sapphire and silver gown, one of Célestine’s fabulous creations. Lady Charlotte sighed with pleasure.

‘Your niece plays quite delightfully, my dear Lady Charlotte.’

Lady Charlotte turned to the elderly dowager at her elbow. ‘Yes, indeed, Lady Perrimer,’ she said, nodding.

‘She is come up to town in search of a husband, I collect?’

Lady Charlotte swallowed a gasp. The old tabby was nothing if not direct. ‘The Baroness Rosevale has a position in Society to fulfil,’ she responded in a crushing tone. ‘It was not possible for my niece to do so while we were in mourning for her father, as I’m sure you, ma’am, would be the first to agree.’

Lady Perrimer bowed her grey head a fraction. The two enormous plumes in her purple turban wafted down and then up again, rather as an afterthought. She raised her lorgnette to scrutinise Angel yet more closely. ‘Whatever your niece’s intentions may be,’ she said, lifting her glass to indicate the young gallant who was bending over Angel’s shoulder to turn her music, ‘it is a pound to a penny that every fortune-hunter in London will be trying to win her. Young Rotherwell there is but the first.’ At that moment, Angel smiled gratefully up at her escort, and Lady Perrimer snorted in disgust. ‘Should have thought you would have taught her not to bestow her favours on just anyone. Rotherwell hasn’t a feather to fly with…and is a rakehell, besides.’

‘My niece was taught manners from the cradle, ma’am,’ Lady Charlotte said acidly, ‘and that included the importance of being polite to any gentleman who renders a service to her.’ She tried to ignore the fact that Angel now seemed to be openly flirting with her cavalier. Confound the girl! She should know better than to expose herself, and her relations, to the criticism of tabbies like Lady Perrimer. Just wait till they were alone!

‘Outrageous!’ Lady Perrimer was clearly paying more attention to the evidence of her eyes than to Lady Charlotte’s quelling words.

‘Are your own family arrived in town, ma’am?’ said Lady Charlotte, with a tight smile. She refused to be drawn further on the subject of Angel’s behaviour. ‘Your two younger sons are as yet unmarried, are they not?’ She was gratified to see a tiny flush on the dowager’s neck. Let her have a taste of her own nasty medicine.

Lady Perrimer raised her eyebrows haughtily. ‘My three eldest sons are already well married, ma’am. As for the two youngest…I dare say they will be settled eventually. It is of little importance, since the succession is in no danger. When one has a fine family of sons…’ She smiled in a particularly condescending way. ‘Such a pity that your brother did not succeed in siring even one son. In spite of having two wives.’

Lady Charlotte knew when she was outgunned. Fortunately, Angel had just risen from the instrument and seemed to be moving in the general direction of the supper room on the arm of young Rotherwell. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I fear I must leave you. I promised to join my niece for supper.’ With a slight nod, she moved rapidly away, trying to ignore the fact that she had certainly lost that encounter. She must warn Angel about her behaviour before her niece’s reputation suffered irreparably. Angel might be a widow, and a Baroness into the bargain, but even she should not encourage the attentions of reprobates such as Rotherwell…or Lady Perrimer’s younger sons.

Max watched with distaste. His cousin was continuing to flirt openly with Rotherwell. Rotherwell, of all people! Was the woman so naïve, or so lacking in self-esteem, that she must stoop to consorting with Rotherwell?

She was laughing up at her companion now, reaching out to touch his sleeve in a revoltingly familiar way. Women! Did she have any idea of the risks she was taking with a man like Rotherwell? Probably not. She had led a sheltered life until now. Perhaps no one had warned her about the dregs of Society and the harm they might seek to do her.

He was relieved when Lady Charlotte drew her niece aside and began whispering urgently to her. High time the chit learned what was what.

But the Baroness was clearly in no mood to heed her aunt’s advice, for she was shaking her head and cutting short the old lady’s words. Lady Charlotte was beginning to look quite indignant. Was the chit so determined on her folly that she would dismiss her companion’s warnings without a hearing?

Max watched, astonished to see that his cousin would abruptly desert her aunt and return to resume her flirtatious tête-à-tête with Rotherwell. After only a few minutes, they were joined by two more of London’s most notorious fortune-hunters. Max was not in the least surprised. Such men would never willingly leave the field to only one of their number.

Max’s disgust grew. The haughty Baroness was clearly basking in the false compliments being showered upon her by her three money-grubbing suitors. Somewhat unwillingly, he admitted to himself that it was not only her money that was drawing them to her like wasps to a pool of honey. Her person, too, was more attractive than he had remembered. She seemed to have blossomed since he had last seen her. It was not simply that she was beautifully gowned. There was something more. Some men might even have called her beautiful—but only if they knew nothing of the character beneath.

Suddenly he was no longer in any doubt. She must be perfectly aware of what she was doing. She was sparkling with animation, smiling and laughing with the gentlemen and occasionally gazing coyly up at one of them through her lashes. So much for Ross’s warning that she might be an innocent in need of protection. She was nothing of the sort! And he would take pleasure in saying as much to Ross, as soon as his friend returned from France.

The longer Max watched, the angrier he became. The woman was drawing the censure of all the tabbies for her outrageous behaviour. Every eye was upon her! If she was not stopped, the Rosevale family would have no reputation left!

Max was striding across the floor to her before he was fully aware of what he was doing—or what he planned.

Rotherwell and his companions reluctantly made way for Max’s approach. He offered them only the briefest military bow. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said frostily, ‘you will allow me to deprive you of my cousin’s delightful company.’ He held out his arm imperiously, frowning down at the Baroness until she placed her gloved fingers on his sleeve. Then, with a curt nod to the three rakes, Max moved her away, leading her to the far side of the main saloon where empty sofas stood against the wall.

‘Will it please you to sit for a while, ma’am?’

She glowered up at him. ‘It pleases me not at all, sir. Why did you insist on bringing me apart, pray? We can have nothing to say to each other.’

‘Smile, Cousin,’ Max said coolly. ‘There is already enough conjecture in this room about your behaviour without adding the speculation that you and I are at outs.’

‘How dare—?’

‘Smile, Cousin.’ He waited, but she did not respond. ‘Watch. It is not so very difficult to do.’ He affected to smile down at her.

‘That is not a smile, sir. That is a grimace,’ she said sharply. ‘However, since you clearly wish to have speech with me, I can grant you…a few moments. I take it that will suffice?’

Max said nothing. He simply waited while she took her seat. She arranged her skirts demurely, taking much more time than was necessary, and then she looked up at him with a spark of challenge in her eye and a tiny smile on her lips. ‘You are squandering your allotted time, sir. I am waiting to hear what it is you wish to say to me…but my patience is not infinite.’

‘Neither is mine, madam,’ he said flatly, taking his seat beside her and stretching out his legs with an appearance of nonchalance. He refused to let her suspect how much she exasperated him.

He raised a hand to beckon a waiter with a tray of champagne. Without saying a word to the Baroness, he took two glasses and offered one to her. ‘I am sure you are in need of something to drink now.’

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