Fallen Angel (57 page)

"Efface your femininity, Medea! Exult in those qualities which have been supposed, wrongly, to belong solely to the male. You are clever, brave and audacious. You need all your wits about you. You are about to do what few women before or since have ever attempted. You are about to cross swords with your lord and master. And you, Medea, will come off the victor."

Maddie's impassioned monologue was interrupted by a slow handclap. That it was derisory, could not be doubted. She spun to face her mocker.

"Jason Verney at your service," said Deveryn at his most debonair, and he slowly sauntered into the room. Maddie's bracing speech, taken to heart so sincerely a moment before, was instantly discarded as the viscount's eyes boldly made love to every female they encountered. In that moment, Maddie knew that every feminine heart, her own included, was beating just a little faster. She could not help herself. She just stood there, grinning like a monkey. Deveryn, she thought, had that effect on women.

"Miss Sinclair," he said suavely, bending over her hand. She heard the sighs of several of the girls and snatched her hand away as if she had laid hold of an asp.

"Lord Deveryn," she said. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

He did not answer, but strolled among the players, acknowledging first one then another of the girls. He looked, thought Maddie, as if he were Gabriel straight from heaven.

"Is Miss Sinclair leading you astray?" he inquired of "Medea," taking her hand in his. "I'd be delighted to act as antidote," and he winked rakishly.

"Medea" giggled and blushed, and looked to be entirely smitten.

Deveryn came toward Maddie and offered his most disarming grin. "Don't get yourself in a pucker, Miss Sinclair. I'm just passing through and thought I'd look up old friends when I'm in the neighbourhood."

His words shook her. Surely,
surely,
he would not abandon her to her unhappy fate?

"Personally," he said, addressing the girls, "like most men, I always thought that Medea was a prime candidate for Bedlam. But what do I know? I bow to Miss Sinclair's superior knowledge of the female psyche. However, the male psyche is well within my province. I should like to address a few remarks to those of you who play the parts of the gentlemen in this play. You there! Medea's husband. What's your name again?"

"Jason," muttered Maddie.

"Yes?" asked Deveryn.

"No! No! Jason is the name of Medea's husband."

"Is it indeed?" he said softly. "I had forgot."

Maddie studiously avoided his eyes.

"You there, Jason," he said. "Don't ever think to cower before the spleen of any woman, no matter how formidable her cleverness, her courage, or her audacity. For you have that one quality above all others which the impassioned Medea lacks. You personify cool logic, an attribute which, in my experience, is rarely to be found in the female of the species, present company, one hopes, excepted. Think on these things, ladies, as you go over your lines. You're dismissed, unless of course, Miss Sinclair, you wish to say a few words to the chorus?"

"No," said Maddie, "the chorus is unexceptionable."

"My sentiments exactly—a group of admirable ladies who possess all the virtues of the softer sex. Ladies, you are excused."

The girls, with much uncharacteristic batting of eyelashes and gurgles of laughter, slowly and reluctantly made their exit.

"And now, Lady Deveryn," said -the viscount in an imperturbable tone, "Take my arm, if you please. There are a few words I have to say for your ears only."

They took a turn in the square.

"Charming," said Deveryn looking about him, "and quite reminiscent of Bath. I'd no idea Edinburgh had an elegant side to her."

"Oh yes," said Maddie, more than a little eager to keep the conversation in neutral channels, "this is theNewTown, built in the last century, by Adam and Craig. There are many fine squares besides this one, as well as crescents and . . ."

"Maddie," he interposed gently, "Why did you run away?"

"Because," she said, and could not think what to say next.

"Can't you tell me?"

She looked at him blankly as if she had lost the thread of their conversation.

"Don't you know?"

"Yes," she said, her voice low and throbbing, "I. . . I wanted . . . revenge." It sounded so petty when baldly stated, and she could not prevent the blush that stole over her cheeks^

With something like pain in his voice he observed, "I suppose I deserved that. But . . . well, where there is love, there can be no question of revenge." After a moment he went on in a steadier tone, "My sins must be grievous indeed."

There was no answer. He sliced a look at her. She was staring at him as if, he thought despairingly, she were a fawn and he the hunter who had cornered her to move in for the kill.

"For God's sake, don't look like that!" he said roughly. "I won't hurt you. How can you even think it?"

Her eyes fell away and he was moved to speak more gently.

"Maddie, we haven't dealt very well together in the past. My fault, I own it. But. . ." he exhaled a long breath, "I'm wiser now.

He was remembering that last interview with his mother on the eve of his departure for Drumoak. Her tongue had been scathing as she'd recounted scandal after scandal involving generations of the Verney men. "Congenital savages," she'd called them. He'd been truly shocked at her disclosures until she'd very gently but persistently forced him to examine his own conduct with respect to Maddie. He counted it a small mercy that his mother did not know the half of it!

He'd given a solemn undertaking that when he had his wife under his hand, he would conduct himself in the manner of a true English gentleman. He was, when all was said and done, as much a Darnley as a Verney, or so his mother told him, and with a little practice he might very easily cultivate some of the softer virtues which would endear him to a wife.

It was only by the greatest force of will that he could hold himself to that promise. For when he looked at Maddie, knowing that she belonged to him, he was seized with the almost overpowering urge to make his claims upon her in the oldest way known to primitive man. He ruthlessly restrained himself.

With a calm that he was far from feeling, he said, "You have made your sentiments very plain. Forgive me for not heeding your words sooner. I promise that things shall be just as you desire, from this moment on."

Whatever Maddie had expected of Deveryn when he caught up to her, it was not this resigned almost indifferent gentleman who walked at her side. She thought, then, that she would welcome a tongue lashing, a beating—anything but this annihilating civility.

Miserably she answered, "Thank you."

"May I say something in my own defense?"

She signified that he might.

"About your father, Maddie . . ."

"Yes?"

"I cannot believe he took his own life. I made some enquiries, you see. He'd made some. . . investments. He wasn't destitute, as you seem to think. You can verify this very
easily for yourself with his man of business in London."

She stored the information away for future reference. Whether or not she had ever truly believed that her father had taken his own life was highly debatable.

"It. . .
it doesn't signify," she said, trying to convey that, in spite of everything, she still loved him.

To Deveryn's ears, her words were damning. He stiffened but doggedly pursued a subject that he had long rehearsed. "For my past, I make no apology, though I never was, as you seem to think, a libertine of the first order. But I swear that since I met you there have been no other women in my life, in spite of appearances to the contrary. Maddie," he went on, a little more desperately when she remained discouragingly mute, "I swear I have been a faithful husband."

His tone of voice, his whole demeanor was so forbidding, that she took no comfort from his words. She would have forgiven him a hundred women, a thousand, if only she could have her old Deveryn back. She divined his object. She was to be made to realise how much she was losing by her rash behaviour.

More miserable than ever, she remarked, "You owe me no explanations."

If there was any hope for her, he would order her to pack her bags and haul her off to Drumoak. She waited for his command in vain.

Abruptly, he asked, "Have you heard anything from Caro Lamb?"

The sudden change of subject confused her. "Caro Lamb?" she repeated.

"Did you know that she was writing a book?"

Cautiously, she answered, "Yes. What of it?"

"It's out.
Glenarvon,
she called it.
Lord Byron
more like. It's touted as a novel, but every character is recognisable, even poor William. He hadn't an inkling what she was about. Did you know, Maddie?"

"Yes," she answered in a very small voice.

"And you never thought to tell me so that I might warn William?" he reproved.

"She told me in strictest confidence. Besides, William Lamb is a complacent husband. Nothing Caro does ever shakes him
from his habitual indifference."

"He's shaken now. His family is pressing him to seek a legal separation. I think he may."

Her steps faltered and she turned to him with a troubled expression. "But why, now, when before he permitted Caro to go her own way and when he indulged her every whim, yes, and condoned every indiscretion?"

"Who can say? There is only so much that even the most complacent of husbands will permit, after all."

She heard his words as the death knell to all her hopes. "Oh," was all she could think to say but thought that she and Caro Lamb must be the sorriest women in Christendom and they had brought it on themselves! She was not conscious of the telling sigh which she exhaled on her next breath.

Deveryn squeezed her hand gently. "Don't repine. William, I am persuaded, still loves Caro in spite of everything. Do you think there's a lesson there for us, Maddie?"

All she could think of was "legal separation," and could scarcely hold back the tears.

Gradually she became aware that Deveryn had embarked on a spate of commonplaces. She listened in deepening gloom as he paid tribute to the beauties of Scotland.

"What a difference a few months make," he remarked, putting his head back and inhaling deeply. "Marvellous! This sea air really blows the cobwebs away. It's as good as a restorative."

"Quite," agreed Maddie.

"When this is all over, I thought we might do a bit of touring—Inverness, the Highlands and so on."

"I didn't think you cared much for Scotland," she said, and let her thoughts drift to Oxfordshire and London, where the air was softer and already the blossoms were on the trees.

"What of my grandfather and Aunt Nell?" she asked at length. "Were they very vexed with me?"

"No," he said shortly. "How could they be? You were not there, I was." His look spoke volumes. "You shall have the pleasure of meeting up with them very soon. I expect them some time next week."

Striving to appear as composed as he, she said, "Oh, I had heard something to the effect that a party of your friends was
arriving by sea?"

"You heard correctly," he replied without elaboration.

"And . . . and that there was to be a betrothal party at Drumoak."

"Oh? So you've heard?"

So, it was true! And now she could congratulate herself on being at long last shot of him. When she was sure that she had command of her voice, she said, "Will . . . will Cynthia be there?"

"No," he said, evincing some surprise. "She wasn't invited."

"But. . .
but it's her house!"

He seemed to lose patience with her. "The house is not Cynthia's. It belongs to you and your heirs. I've told you so before. If Cynthia cares to make her home at Drumoak until such time as she marries, she is free to do so. But she never will. She detests Scotland."