Fallen Angel (52 page)

"You're hurting me," she hissed at him, trying to shake free of the clamped hand on her elbow.

Deveryn's smile was everything that was cordial though the glance he threw at her could have melted an iceberg. "This way, Miss Sinclair. It won't take a moment. It's a very old scroll, and I'd like your opinion of it."

Maddie recognized the ruse for what it was, but short of creating a scene, she was powerless to gainsay him. She thought he would break her arm if she as much as blinked an eye.

"Smile," he growled, and without thinking, she obeyed him.

He adroitly avoided the stray well-wisher, but at the door their exit was blocked by a very determined figure sheathed in black satin.

Maddie felt Deveryn's hand tense then relax. "Cynthia," he drawled, "how . . . pleasant to see you again. I'd no idea you had an interest in the scholarly."

The two ladies exchanged frigid bows of greeting.

"Put your mind at rest, Jason," said Cynthia Sinclair with an intimate smile that did not include Maddie. "I make no pretense of being other than I am. You, of all people, should know where my interests lie."

Maddie made a small sound that might have been a cough or a snort of derision. Deveryn was far more sanguine.

"I haven't forgotten," he interposed and flashed a disarming grin which carefully included Maddie. "I'd be happy to lay your bets for you when I'm next in Newmarket."

The widow looked faintly amused and boldly suggested, "When you're next in Baker Street, I'll be happy to follow your lead. There's not much you don't know about riding and . . . horses."

"Delighted to be of service," said Deveryn amiably, and forcefully propelled Maddie round the obstacle which Cynthia presented. "I shall bring Maddie. It's time she expanded her horizons. A steady diet of oatmeal and classics has quite put her in the doldrums," he interpolated, as if an explanation of Maddie's frankly polemic expression was necessary.

The foyer was almost empty of people. In two strides they came to a short flight of stairs. He began to descend, dragging Maddie behind him.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded and stumbled after him.

"To the powder room."

"The what?"

At the foot of the stairs was a door. He opened it, pushed her through and closed it firmly behind him. The room was no bigger than a closet, the only light from one small window. It was bare of furniture.

"What's a powder room?" she prevaricated.

" You know, for gentlemen of a former era when they wished to powder their wigs or hair. And stop evading me."

Suddenly he swooped down on her, and her small cry of fright was smothered as his lips took hers in a hungry kiss. His hands were everything, touching, testing, boldly claiming every curve and hollow, and finally came to rest on the swell of her stomach.

"Maddie," he groaned, his lips skimming over every exposed part of her skin above her collar, "why aren't you happy about this?" and he pressed his hands lightly to her abdomen.

He didn't wait for her to answer but swooped again, cutting off her breath in another demanding kiss.

With arms and elbows flying, she struggled free of him. "Deveryn!" she sputtered. "You're no better than an animal. I'd feel safer with that lion—what's-his-name in the Tower menagerie."

He spread his palms on the wall on either side of her head. "So you would be," he agreed, offering a cozening grin. "Nero is an old dog who's had his day. I'm just coming into my prime—lucky for you. Now answer my question. Why aren't you happy with this new thing that's happened to us?"

For a moment she thought she might cry ignorance. But one quick look at his knowing eyes and the temptation died stillborn.

"Who says I'm not happy?"

His hand cupped her neck, kneading the taut muscles that told against her.

"Then what's wrong?" he asked softly. "Maddie, tell me."

"What could possibly be wrong?" she demanded.

"Don't lie to me, Maddie."

"Oh, I'm a liar, am I? Look who's calling the kettle black.

You're the most consummate liar in all of England, and that's saying something."

"When have I ever lied to you?"

"When have you not? You lied to me about Grantham, didn't you?"

 
 
His hand lifted from her neck in one heartbeat of a pause, then descended and began a slow, soothing massage.

"I've never lied to you."

"Haven't you?" she asked, trying to sound arch and managing to sound pathetically close to tears. "I beg to differ. In fact," and she hauled herself out of his arms, "I don't think you know the meaning of the word 'honesty.'"

He stood with folded arms, observing with something like long suffering patience as she gave him her back and stared resolutely out the small window. After a few minutes of this unnatural silence, he began to look merely amused.

"Do you often stare at brick walls, Maddie?" he asked.

"What?"

"The brick wall which has captured your attention. I believe it's the west wall of the wash house should you wish to know."

She rounded on him in pent-up fury. "You talk to me of brick walls when I'm calling you a liar?"

"How did I lie to you?" he asked calmly.

"You told me that the woman in Grantham was that. . . that opera dancer. But she wasn't, was she Deveryn? She was my stepmother."

"I told you no lies. You jumped to conclusions—as you're doing now."

"Do you deny that Cynthia was the woman who was discovered in your chamber at the Falcon?"

"I told you the truth. The lady was not there by my invitation. Nothing of any significance happened. That's all you need to know."

"Was she or was she not Cynthia? A simple 'yes' or 'no' will suffice. Don't bother with the lecture. Well?"

A pulse beat furiously in his cheek. "Yes," he stated.

"Then why did you let me think it was someone else?"

"Because you have this irrational antipathy to Cynthia Sinclair. My God, look at you. You're almost foaming at the mouth. For God's sake Maddie, calm yourself. You'll harm the child."

Maddie was, at that moment, at the end of her tether. Seething with mingled outrage and anguish since she'd taken possession of her father's cancelled debts; haunted by a resurgence of remorse for having in some sort betrayed him by her marriage to Deveryn; weakened by a habitual morning sickness which she could not shake; stung by her stepmother's graphic taunts of a few moments before, she heard Deveryn's unfortunate choice of words and her control broke.

"Irrational! Irrational antipathy! Inmutable loathing, more like, and with good reason," she shrilled at him in a voice that the fish-wives of Edinburgh would have eschewed.

He reached for her and she jerked her arm from his grasp. "Don't touch me! Don't lay a hand on me. Liar! Adulterer! Cheat! Murderer!"

The venom in her voice shocked him as much as the words. Stung to a passion almost as great as her own, he grabbed her shoulders and roughly shook her.

With a menace she could not mistake, he said, "Speak to me in those tones again and I'll lay the lash to you. Now explain yourself, madam, and keep a civil tongue in your head,' and administering one last shake, he abruptly released her.

She stumbled back and, straightening, shot him a look of furious contempt. Her voice throbbing with suppressed emotion, she said, "Deny it if you dare, Deveryn. My father lost not only Drumoak to you at the gaming tables, but also the sum of ten thousand pounds."

"I don't deny it. Get to the point."

For a moment, she was at a loss for words. She'd had it on the tip of her tongue to convict him of his denial with the evidence of her father's cancelled debts. She'd never expected him to admit to her accusations.

"Well?" he demanded.

Rallying, she went on. "My stepmother did almost as well. Between the two of you, you bilked my father of close to twenty thousand pounds."

"I see. And I take it you have newly come by this information."

"Two days since, when my father's cancelled debts came into my hand."

He made a gesture of impatience. "Though I don't expect you to believe me, I'll say it anyway. I never expected to collect on that gaming debt. It was my man of business's doing. I gave him leave to act for me when I was in Scotland. He found your father's vowels and presented them to your father's solicitor here. There was nothing I could do. But I wish you would believe that I have invested every penny in Drumoak. And even if I did win such a sum of money from your father, I wish you would tell me how that makes me a murderer."

She tried to match his control but failed miserably. "It's not hard to figure out," she said with a break in her voice. "Consider that my father was infatuated with his young wife. She takes a lover. In very short order, my father loses the wife whom he adores, his estate, and . . . and the whole of a legacy to which he had newly come into. Like a wounded animal, he makes for home." She paused to steady her breath, then said very softly. "Do you truly believe that my father lost his life in an accident? I tell you . . ."

His fist slammed into the wall and the spate of accusing words froze in her throat.

"Why am I to blame?" he thundered, his mouth contorted in fury. "Why not your father? I wasn't the one who allowed my wife
carte blanche
so that any man thought that she was his for the taking; I was not the one who gamed away your precious Drumoak; I was not the one who wagered his last groat on the turn of a card. If your father did take his own life, and I can scarcely credit it, how am I to blame? The man was a weakling, without character. He gave not a second thought to your unhappy fate!"

"You're a fine one to talk of character!" she railed at him, angry past caring. "You stole a man's wife; forcibly dishonoured his daughter; what more can you do to him unless you mean to visit your vendetta on the next generation of Sinclairs!" She tossed her head and stared at him with defiance smouldering in her eyes. "I'd be a fool to let you get your hands on my child."

His face went starkly white and his hand clenched as if to strike her. She noted the gesture, and her eyes widened with sudden knowledge of the jeopardy she had brought upon herself.

Shaking, visibly controlling his temper, he said, "You may - well flinch from me, madam wife. What you have said is unforgivable!"

Long moments passed, Maddie not daring to flex a muscle so threatening did Deveryn's presence seem in that small room.

Finally, he smiled, then laughed. "What a performance!" he exclaimed softly and shook his head at the spectacle she presented. "Melodrama does not become you, Maddie. I think your study of Greek drama has mounted to your head. This is England, or had you forgotten?"

Keeping his eyes locked with hers, he murmured, "For a clever girl, you're not very sensible. Have you considered that you're not in a strong position? What are you to do? Where can you go? To whom can you turn? Certainly not to your grandfather! He's more like to beat you senseless when he hears of the hoydenish escapade you've involved us both in. In a very short while, you will come to know how much authority a husband wields over a rebellious wife. Use the wits you were born with, Maddie. Swallow your bile and sue for terms while I'm still in a humour to be reasonable."

He smiled ironically in that twisted, satanic way which had earned him the soubriquet "the fallen angel."

Maddie goaded, but still deathly afraid, challenged cautiously, "Are you th-threatening me, Deveryn?"

He laughed, and let her go. "No. I'm telling you what you may expect. You've been spoiled past redemption. Oh, not in any material sense, but by virtue of the fact that you've been free these many years past to go your own way. From now on, you'll learn to accept the bit between your teeth, or you'll suffer the consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

Staring doggedly into his face, she said, "I think you must not have been listening when I gave my address in your father's library."

"What? That faradiddle about the power of a defenceless woman?" For all that his voice was soft and silky, it grated on her ears. "Maddie, admit it. You can't do a damned thing. Do your worst. I dare you!"