Read The Rogue and the Rival Online
Authors: Maya Rodale
The Rogue and the Rival (24 page)
“He left? When? And where did he go?”
“It was a few hours ago. He spoke with some French blokes who have been staying in the village for the past few weeks, and then he left with them.”
“Did he say why? Or where he was going? Or when he was coming back?” Oh, she could not keep the panic and heartache from her voice.
“He probably just went to town for a pint with old friends,” Johnnie said.
“Or maybe to buy something for you. An engagement present,” William added, but Angela knew that was a lie.
“He’ll be back,” Johnnie said, and Angela knew that, too, was a lie.
By the next day, it was clear that he was gone. William and Johnnie had taken it upon themselves to inquire about Phillip in town. It was known that he rented a carriage and team of horses and left on the road west.
Twenty-four hours after Angela had stood before the abbess, joyfully informing her of the impending nuptials, Angela stood in the same position with considerably less feeling of any kind.
It was amazing, truly amazing, Angela thought, that one’s world could crash and burn within a day. It wasn’t amazing, actually. It was an unimaginable cruelty to have all you ever wanted just within reach, again, so close you could taste it, again, only to have it snatched away so suddenly, again.
Phillip had understood her and all her secret longings. She could see it on his face as he looked through her sketchbook. And she just knew that he comprehended that all she wanted was him, a child, and a Virgin Mary smile. And she saw the dawning in his eyes, the softening of his features as he realized, as she did, that he could give that to her.
He had to have understood that she loved him. Or perhaps he was as stupid as everyone said he was.
He left without a reason and without even saying good-bye.
She had been engaged and jilted within twenty-four hours. That had to be a record, even for Phillip Kensington. What, oh, what on earth had she been thinking? The man was legendary for abandoning women. He was the established King of all Scoundrels. And she was the Queen of Fools.
And now she was just another in a long list of delusional women who dared to think that he might come around. That he might love her. That he might, just might, this time, finally manage to walk down the aisle and say, “I do.”
She had cried herself to sleep last night. Along with the tears she shed, she also relinquished any faith and hope she had ever had for finding a man who would love her back.
“He left,” Angela said. The abbess spoke no words but opened her arms to Angela, and that said everything. She was pitiful, but someone still cared for her. Someone she was going to leave soon.
Queen of Fools.
Queen of Fools.
“You can stay. Forget about our bargain.”
“Thank you, but I cannot stay here now.” Not with so many memories of him clinging to every inch of the abbey. Every dark corner where they had kissed, every corridor they had walked down, his room, her room where she had lain awake thinking of him, the kitchen, and even the chapel. She could never enter that chapel again.
Besides, she had made a vow to the abbess, and unlike
some
people, Angela kept her word.
some
people, Angela kept her word.
“Where will you go?” Lady Katherine questioned.
“I really don’t know,” Angela replied truthfully. She hadn’t thought about that. She didn’t really much care, either.
“What about returning to your home?” the abbess suggested gently.
“It’s best for my sisters if I do not. I come from a small village, as you know, and it’s doubtful that anyone has forgotten about what I did. And,” Angela paused for a moment, “Mother told me not to come back.”
The abbess nodded and then fell silent for a moment.
“Your aunt in London was a dear friend of mine. I’m sure she’ll take you in.”
“I have an aunt in London?”
“In a manner of speaking. Your mother’s elder brother’s widow. Your uncle died years ago; you must have still been a child. But I’m surprised that you do not know of her.”
“No. My mother was never close with her family after her marriage.”
“Nevertheless, you shall go to London and stay with your aunt.”
“But . . .” Protests died on Angela’s lips. She didn’t want to impose, and she would certainly be an imposition, since she had no reputation and no money and no place to stay, if she did not go to pay a call on her aunt. She could stay there while she sought employment. Perhaps as a governess, and then she could mother children, even if they weren’t her own. Angela wiped her eyes, finding she still had some tears left after all.
“I’ll write a letter of introduction for you. I’m certain you and Lady Palmerston will get along famously.” Angela wasn’t, but at this point, that was the least of her worries.
“Thank you, Lady Katherine.”
“I’ll miss you, Angela, but I do think this is the right thing for you to do. You are always welcome to return here, of course. Now, one last matter to resolve: What shall I tell that scoundrel if he should return?”
Angela thought about this for a moment. She didn’t think for a second that he would return. But if he did . . . well, he didn’t deserve to know where she had gone. And if she left permission for the abbess to give him her address in London, then she knew she would always be half expecting him at every knock on the door. Thus she would be devastated on a regular basis.
But hope flared up. Perhaps there was a good explanation for his absence. Perhaps he would return. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps . . . the flame of hope flickered and died as quickly as it had arisen.
“Please do what you think is best, if he should return. I no longer trust my own judgment on such matters,” Angela answered honestly.
“Very well. I must say, before you go, that I have always admired your determination and your faith.”
“My faith? But I am leaving.”
“Your faith and determination that you will one day be blessed with whatever it is you long for. You keep trying, Angela, when others would have given up. I pray you don’t lose that.”
Angela didn’t have the heart to say that her faith was already gone. It had left sometime yesterday afternoon and hadn’t even said good-bye.
Chapter 12
The
world outside the abbey felt like a foreign country to Angela. Everything was familiar and yet so different. Things had changed since she had last been waiting at an inn for the mail coach and then jumbled in with strangers for hours. Six years ago, it had been. And she had been ruined and brokenhearted.
world outside the abbey felt like a foreign country to Angela. Everything was familiar and yet so different. Things had changed since she had last been waiting at an inn for the mail coach and then jumbled in with strangers for hours. Six years ago, it had been. And she had been ruined and brokenhearted.
So perhaps not much had changed.
After a few hours, the wonder faded, and Angela was bored. The mail coach was full, with six passengers, including herself. There was a family of four: parents and two daughters. She did not find them very interesting after the first hour. The father slept, the mother embroidered, the daughters read novels. The older gentleman across from her intrigued her.
His hair was jet-black, except for strands of silver at the temples. His face was worn and rough. It was a face that seemed as if it had seen things and been places. It was a thoroughly lived-in face. His clothes were clearly well made. At the last inn where the coach had stopped, she had overhead him saying something about his own carriage breaking and needing to get to London urgently.
Occasionally, she and the man made eye contact, but mostly he read his newspaper. After hours in the cramped quarters, she was bored. Tortured. She couldn’t stop thinking about Phillip—his eyes as he said, “Marry me, Angela,” and how she had made him say it twice because she hadn’t believed she had heard him right the first time. But the thought made her heart ache and her eyes get hot. She would not weep in front of strangers in the mail coach. She did not want to think about Phillip. She had to get over him and the hurt, eventually. It might as well be now, she told herself.
What she really wanted to do was draw the man across from her.
She opened her bag, which contained one spare dress and chemise, a letter of introduction, the money the abbess had been able to spare for her, and her sketchbook and pencils. She skipped over the pages with her previous drawings, not allowing herself to look at them.
She began to draw. She started with the outline of his face—just the bridge of his nose, eyes, and hair. The newspaper obscured the lower part. She kept drawing as the carriage hit a particularly bumpy stretch of road.
One particular jolt caused one sister to fall forward into the other, one of the men to swear, someone bumped their head, and Angela’s sketchbook flew across the carriage to land in the man’s lap.
He picked it up, and without asking for permission, began to look through it.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said. He ignored her.
“I would like my property back, sir,” she said loudly. That got everyone’s attention, even his.
“You drew these,” he said.
“Obviously,” she retorted.
“They’re good.”
“Thank you?” she said, though it came out like a question. She accepted the compliment because she knew her drawings were good. She only questioned thanking him for complimenting something she had not given him permission to look at. He was eyeing her now, looking her up and down. She was suddenly ashamed of her old, very old and worn, gray dress and of her lack of possessions. She didn’t even want to imagine what he thought of her.
“I’ll hire you,” he said in a gruff voice.
“I beg your pardon! I am not for sale!”
And then he laughed; the sound was low and rich.
“For your drawings, miss. I have need of an illustrator, and you’ll do.”
Her first thought was relief that he did not think she was a prostitute. Then she was simply stunned speechless.
“Nigel Haven, publisher of the
London Weekly
,” he said, extending his hand. She took it but did not give her name. She did not know what sort of publication this
London Weekly
was, and the last thing her reputation needed was to be a known employee of some disreputable news sheet.
London Weekly
,” he said, extending his hand. She took it but did not give her name. She did not know what sort of publication this
London Weekly
was, and the last thing her reputation needed was to be a known employee of some disreputable news sheet.
“Take my card. Call on me at my office. We’ll discuss the terms of your employment.”
“I have not accepted employment,” she said. Women of her station did not work. And they especially did not work for surly men of suspicious publications. Although, she wasn’t sure what her status was anymore, and if her aunt didn’t take her in, she’d draw anything for anyone if it meant a roof over her head and food. She took his card.
“Yet, girl. Yet.” He returned her sketchbook. And then he turned back to his newspaper and ignored her until the coach arrived in London.
A short while later, Angela was standing in the foyer of Lady Palmerston’s town house, waiting to see if her aunt was at home to visitors. Even Angela knew that meant her aunt was deciding if she wanted to see her. Angela hoped her aunt would, if only for a cup of tea so that Angela might rest and refresh herself for a moment. She hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since early this morning, and she so longed to sit on a stationary object.
She was trying to figure out just what, exactly, she would do if her aunt was not at home, when the butler, a stony-faced man of indeterminable age, gestured that she should follow him.
The drawing room was overwhelming. Everything in it was obviously of the finest quality, and there was a lot in the room. The rooms were papered in a pale green pattern that Angela couldn’t discern because so much of it was covered by paintings in ornate frames. Over the mantel was a large portrait of a man who could only be her uncle, the late Lord Palmerston. He had the same coloring as her mother, his sister. Dark hair and eyes. Angela took after her father, she thought with a twinge of remorse.
She continued to look around the room instead of dwelling on her painful past. There was a table at the far wall decked with dozens of fragile figurines. In the center were two settees upholstered in dark green damask. A low table bearing a tea tray was between them. Two tall French windows looked out onto the street.
There was a chair placed with its back to the fireplace, upholstered to match the settees. Beside it was another table stacked with newspapers.
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