Fallen Angel (3 page)

He grasped her fingers and deliberately closed them around the small token, and he said very softly and seriously, "Nevertheless, Maddie, I want you to keep it for me."

Their eyes held, but after a moment, Donald Sinclair looked away, as if he wished to evade Maddie's searching gaze.

"Stuff and nonsense!" interjected Miss Spencer brusquely. "You Scots are so superstitious! Why we send missionaries to India, I'll never know. You're only a hairsbreadth away from being heathens yourselves. Your Celtic heritage, I don't doubt."

"And you English are always so superior," Maddie shot back, embarking on a topic which she knew would set the sparks flying from her aunt's patriotic hide.

"You are half English yourself, Maddie, as you should be proud to own."

"Proud? To admit that I have blood ties to the .most rapacious race on God's earth? No, thank you. I prefer to conceal that misfortune behind my Scottish heritage. Pity you have no such claim to respectability, Aunt Nell."

Within minutes, the gauntlet was taken up and for the remainder of the meal their lighthearted banter gave evidence of the ancient rivalry which had long existed between their two nations until an accident of fate had given them a common destiny.

Though Maddie kept up an amusing flow of conversation she was far from being the carefree creature she presented to her companions. Her eyes, beneath the concealing veil of her lashes, became more and more anxious as she studied her father through the evening. His mood swings became extravagant, shifting from unrestrained mirth one minute to self-absorbed silence the next. That he was well fortified from the brandy bottle was not in dispute, but Maddie devined that his fever-bright eyes betrayed a more sinister origin.

When it came time for them to retire for the night, she linked her arm through his and offered to walk him to his chamber. Once over the threshold, she detached herself from his arms and went to sit on the straight-backed chair which flanked the blaze of logs which Duncan had kindled as they dined. "Papa, what's wrong?" she asked without preamble.

Her softly spoken question seemed to strip away the vestiges of his pretense. He lowered himself on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, and he stared blankly at his clasped hands.

"You're so like your mother, do you know that, Maddie? She always knew when I was shamming."

"Am I?" This was a new tack and one she had not been expecting. She could not remember when her father had last spoken to her of her mother. In the five years since he had remarried, his conversation had been all of Cynthia, his new bride. Latterly, his expressions of admiration had given way to excuses for her unprovoked vituperation, and pleas for Maddie's understanding of a situation he was powerless to control. And when he had begged her forgiveness when circumstances made it impossible for the two women to live permanently under the same roof, Maddie had given it without reserve. She was not one to repine for the impossible. She had no more liking for the woman who was her stepmother than Cynthia Sinclair had for her. It was enough that her father loved her, though she sometimes wished . . .

"She would be so proud of you if she could see you now. You've grown into quite a beauty. Do you know that?" His voice was husky with emotion. "Whatever happened to the skinny little brat who, I once swore, would turn my hair a premature grey?"

"She's still here, Papa, under the grown-up finery and acquired polish—much to Aunt Nell's regret."

"She's taken you in hand, has she?"

"With a vengeance!"

"If only things had been different . . ."

"I know," she said softly, uncomfortable with the rush of guilt she heard behind his words. "But don't imagine I'm unhappy. I'm not. Naturally, I wish I could see you more often, but I've resigned myself to what must be. No, really! I mean it! I have my own life to lead now. I know that." "You haven't had much of a life since your mother died."

"Don't say so!" She sounded genuinely shocked.

He looked unconvinced. "Five years at that school for girls in Edinburgh, what was it called?"

"Miss Maitland's Academy. I was very happy there, and since you've brought up the subject, I might as well tell you that—"

"And then here at Drumoak, with only the sheep for company."

"You're forgetting Aunt Nell. And don't forget Malcolm. I still see him in the holidays. He should be home for the new year.

"Malcolm? Oh yes. The vicar's brat."

"The minister's son. This is Scotland, Papa, or had you forgotten? We don't have vicars here."

"He's at Oxford, is he?"

"No. St. Andrew's. He left Oxford after a year."

"I vaguely remember. Didn't he complain that the undergraduates spent more time in the coffee shops and bawdy houses than they did at their studies?"

"Something like that."

"How could I forget that this is Scotland, where even the shepherd thinks that schooling will make him the equal of his master?" He lowered himself to rest on one elbow. "Are you in love with him?"

"Who?" Her wide eyes had the look of a startled deer.

"Malcolm, of course!"

"Don't be ridiculous! We've known each other since we were infants."

"It's just as well. Your grandfather has someone picked out for you." He pushed himself to his feet, and walked unsteadily to the tall mahogany dresser which stood against the window wall. Maddie's eyes followed him and her lips tightened imperceptibly as she watched him fill a glass from a decanter of amber liquid.

"You saw Grandfather in London?" Her surprise was obvious.

"I did. Though only the direst necessity could have compelled me to seek him out."

"What necessity?" She heard the desperate edge in her voice, and forced herself to speak in more modulated accents. "What necessity, Papa? Tell me!"

He sank slowly into the depths of the feather bed and took a long swallow from his glass. After an interval, he said, "You need someone to look after you, Maddie."

"Someone to look after me?" she repeated blankly.

"A husband."

She looked at him for a long moment, and then she laughed. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Papa?"

His voice was slow and no longer distinct, and Maddie had to strain to catch what he said. "No. I am simply trying to provide for you the best way I know how," and he tipped up the glass in his hand, draining the fiery liquid.

Maddie's chin lifted a fraction. "I may have something to say about that."

He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. His eyes closed wearily and the empty glass slipped from his fingers. It fell with a soft thud to the threadbare carpet.

Maddie rose to her feet and came to stand over him. "I don't wish to be married," she said forcefully.

"You don't understand," he mumbled under his breath. "You have no choice in the matter. I've done the best I can, under the circumstances."

"Papa, what are you talking about? What circumstances?" Fear constricted her throat.

He made no answer, and she touched him gently on the shoulder. "Is it Cynthia? Has something happened? Tell me Papa!"

Her words must have penetrated because his eyes opened slowly, but he stared past her. "Cynthia?" he asked stupidly, and then he laughed, and the sound of it tore at Maddie's heart. "Deceitful bitch! You're a fool. Deveryn won't have you! Not even when you're free of me. To him, you're just a warm willing body. But I've told you all this before. Go to your lover, then! See if I care."

Maddie hardly knew what to say. Though she was shocked, she could not admit to any real surprise. On the few occasions she had been in the company of both her father and her stepmother, she had observed an utter want of consideration and affection in Cynthia Sinclair for the husband who was so patently enamoured of his young wife. And on one occasion, she had opened a closed door to hear her father's voice raised in anger. She had shut the door stealthily, but not before she had hear the word
slut.
At fifteen, the word had meant nothing to her.

One hand went out and she smoothed back the tangle of curls at his temple. His dark hair was shot with silver, and lines of dissipation were carved into his once handsome face. She felt a sudden overwhelming pity, but could not determine whether it was for herself, or for her father, or for a world which had lost its innocence.

At that moment, he seemed to her to be a broken man. "Papa! Oh Papa! I'm so sorry."

He had difficulty focusing on her. "He's taken everything from me." The words were spoken so softly, she could hardly hear them.

"Who Papa? Who has taken everything?"

"Your grandfather . . . Deveryn . . . damn them to hell." He reached for her hand. "Maddie! Maddie! Say you forgive me!"

"Of course," she answered soothingly, and tears welled in her eyes.

"I don't deserve your tears. Save them for yourself. Send Duncan to me, and kiss me . . . one last time."

She brushed his brow with her lips. It was pointless to linger. With a last anxious look at the inert form on the bed, she went in search of Duncan.

The following morning, at dawn, before the house stirred, Donald Sinclair was wakened by Duncan and he went for a solitary swim in the arctic waters of the Forth. He never returned. His clothes, neatly folded, with his boots on top to weigh them down, were found among the sand dunes.

At the coroner's inquest, Drumoak's housekeeper, Miss Janet Ross, testified that in days gone by, the master and other young bucks of the area had been used to disport themselves in such manner on Christmas Day for a lark, but that the tradition had gradually died out with the advent of a younger, more circumspect generation. It was presumed that it was an attack of nostalgia that had cost Donald Sinclair his life. A full sennight was to pass before the tides washed up the body, far from Drumoak. The coroner, as expected, brought in a verdict of accidental death.

Word
of the tragedy was sent posthaste to the widow in London, who immediately set off for Drumoak. It was remarked that Miss Madeleina Sinclair, throughout the ordeal, conducted herself with laudatory fortitude.

But inwardly, Maddie seethed. How different now was the interpretation she placed on every inflection, every expression, every careless word of her father on that last unhappy night which was indelibly impressed on her mind. She kept her own counsel, however, and concealed her pain behind a frozen impassive countenance. Not for the world would she reveal her suspicion that Donald Sinclair had taken his own life.

By degrees, pain gave way to anger, and anger to an implacable hatred. The name "Deveryn," though she spoke of it to no one, became a torment to her, and to design a fitting torment for her tormenter afforded her more comfort than all the conventional expressions of condolence which were pressed upon her.

The Viscount Deveryn checked his team with a negligible movement of one wrist and drove his high steppers through the Stanhope Gate and into Hyde Park at a fair clip.

"Deveryn! You drive to an inch." The hackneyed flattery was uttered by a feminine voice at his elbow.

Deveryn inclined his head gravely. Only an intimate would have been able to tell his companion that the ghost of a smile on the viscount's frankly sensual cast of countenance was the one he habitually assumed to mask his boredom with present company.

The lady, a certain Dolores Ramides, an opera dancer with Covent Garden, was blissfully in ignorance of this fact. She tossed her dark ringlets in an attractive though selfconscious gesture, and adjusted the fox capet on her shoulders, a parting gift from a former admirer, wrapping it more securely round her swan-like throat.

To be taken up by the viscount in his curricle was something of an honour. Apart from his four sisters, who were nothing out of the ordinary, only the beauties of both the beau and demi-mondes were ever granted that privilege. Miss Ramides was highly gratified. Even the weather seemed to conspire with her. The chill in the air on that late January afternoon was just what was required to bring out the new fox capet with matching muff and high poke bonnet which graced her charming person.

"Oh Deveryn, look. There's Teddy Banks and Gerry Cooke. I do believe they're going skating on the Serpentine. What fun!
Do say we may return another day and try it."

Miss Ramides tensed imperceptibly as she waited for the viscount to respond. She knew herself to have made a bold suggestion. Deveryn had yet to intimate that she would play any part in his future, immediate or otherwise. But she had hopes, not without some foundation. It made her bolder. She laid one elegantly gloved hand against his sleeve. "Do say we may, Deveryn, please?"

"It's possible," he replied non-committally, though there was no lack of civility in his tone.

At her escort's short answer, Miss Ramides, wisely, smiled to hide her resentment. The viscount was known to give short shrift to encroaching females who made demands upon him. And really, when she thought about it, she was sure she was making progress. It was she who had been invited to drive in his open carriage when other ladies of her acquaintance would have given their eye teeth to come within arm's reach of him.