Seducing an Angel (3 page)

It had been clear from the start that Elliott and Con did not like each other. More than that, it had been clear that there was a real enmity there.
Something
had happened between them.

“You would have to ask Moreland that,” Constantine said in answer to his question. “I believe it had something to do with his being a pompous ass.”

Elliott was
not
pompous—or asinine. He did, however, poker up quite noticeably whenever he was forced to be in company with Constantine.

Stephen did not pursue the matter. Obviously Con was not going to tell him what had happened, and he had every right to guard his secrets.

Con was something of a puzzle, actually. Although he had always been amiable with both Stephen and his sisters, there was an edge of darkness to him, a certain brooding air despite his charm and ready smile. He had bought a home of his own somewhere in Gloucestershire after his brother’s death, but none of them had ever been invited there—or anyone else of Stephen’s acquaintance, for that matter. And no one knew how he could have afforded it. His father had doubtless made decent provision for him, but to such a degree that he could go off and buy himself a home and estate?

It was none of Stephen’s business, of course.

But he did sometimes wonder
why
Constantine had always been friendly. Stephen and his sisters had been strangers when they suddenly invaded his home and claimed it as their own. Stephen had the title Earl of Merton, one that Con’s brother had borne just a few months previously, and his father before that. It was a title that would have been Con’s if he had been born three days later or if his parents had married three days sooner.

Ought he not to have been bitter? Even to the point of hatred? Should he not
still
be bitter?

Stephen often wondered how much went on inside Con’s mind that was never expressed in either words or actions.

“It must be as hot as Hades under there,” Constantine said just after they had stopped to exchange pleasantries with a group of male acquaintances. He nodded in the direction of the footpath to their left.

There was a crowd of people walking there, but it was not difficult to see to whom Con referred.

There was a cluster of five ladies, all of them brightly and fashionably dressed in colors that complemented the summer. Just ahead of them were two other ladies, one of them decently clad in russet brown, a color more suited perhaps to autumn than summer, the other dressed in widow’s weeds of the deepest mourning period.
She was black from head to toe. Even the black veil was so heavy that it was impossible to see her face, though she was no more than twenty feet away.

“Poor lady,” Stephen said. “She must have recently lost a husband.”

“At a pretty young age too, by the look of it,” Constantine said. “I wonder if her face lives up to the promise of her figure.”

Stephen was most attracted to very young ladies, whose figures tended to be lithe and slender. When he did finally turn his thoughts to matrimony, he had always assumed he would look among the newest crop of young hopefuls to arrive on the marriage mart and try to find among such crass commercialism a beauty whom he could like as well as admire and whom he could grow to love. A lady who would be willing to look beyond his title and wealth to know him and love him for who he was.

The lady in mourning was nothing like his ideal. She did not appear to be in the first blush of youth. Her figure was a little too mature for that. It was certainly an excellent figure, even though her widow’s weeds had not been designed to show it to full advantage.

He felt an unexpected rush of pure lust and was thoroughly ashamed of himself. Even if she had not been in deepest mourning he would have felt ashamed. He was not in the habit of gazing lustfully upon strangers, as so many young blades of his acquaintance were.

“I hope she does not boil in the heat,” he said. “Ah, here come Kate and Monty.”

Katherine Finley, Baroness Montford, was Stephen’s youngest sister. She had perfected the skill of riding only since her marriage five years ago, and was on horseback now. She was smiling at both of them. So was Monty.

“I came here to give my horse a good gallop,” Lord Montford said by way of greeting, “but it does not seem possible, does it?”

“Oh, Jasper,” Katherine said, “you did not! You came to show off the new riding hat you bought me this morning. Is it not dashing,
Stephen? Do I not outshine every other lady in the park, Constantine?”

She was laughing.

“I would say that plume would be a deadly weapon,” Con said, “if it did not curl around under your chin. It is very fetching instead. And you would outshine every other lady if you wore a bucket on your head.”

“Dash it all, Con,” Monty said. “A bucket would have cost me a lot less than the hat. It is too late now, though.”

“It is very splendid indeed, Kate,” Stephen said, grinning.

“But I did not come here to show off the riding hat,” Monty protested. “I came to show off the lady beneath it.”

“Well,” Katherine said, still laughing, “that was clever of me. I have squeezed a compliment out of all three of you. Are you going to Meg’s ball tomorrow, Constantine? If you are, I insist that you dance with me.”

Stephen forgot all about the curvaceous widow in black.

2

I
T
took very little effort on Cassandra’s part to learn of Lady Sheringford’s ball. She simply looked about the fashionable area of Hyde Park until she saw a largish group of ladies—there were five of them in all—strolling along the footpath together and talking quite animatedly among themselves as they went. Cassandra led Alice toward them and then strolled along ahead of them and listened.

She learned a great deal she did not wish to know about what was most fashionable in bonnets this year and about who looked well in such hats and who looked so dreadful that it would really be a kindness to tell them if only one could summon up the courage. She learned about the endearing antics of their children—each one trying to outdo the others. The antics were endearing, Cassandra suspected, only because their victims were nurses or governesses rather than the mothers themselves. It sounded to her as if every single one of the children described was a spoiled brat of the first order.

But finally the tedious conversation yielded a harvest. Three of the ladies were planning to attend Lady Sheringford’s ball tomorrow evening at the home of the Marquess of Claverbrook on Grosvenor Square. A surprising venue, that, one of them observed,
since the elderly marquess had been a recluse for years and years before he had finally left his home again to attend the wedding of his grandson three years ago. He had not been seen since. Yet now there was to be a ball at his house.

Rumor had it, though, apparently, Cassandra learned without being at all interested, that he spent a great deal of his time in the country with his grandson and his great-grandchildren. And that his granddaughter-in-law, the countess, had learned how to coax him out of the sullens.

Lady Sheringford’s ball at the Claverbrook mansion on Grosvenor Square, Cassandra recited mentally, committing the relevant details of the conversation to memory as she tried to ignore the myriad irrelevant ones.

Three of the ladies were going, though none of them
wanted
to, of course. It was really quite incomprehensible that a lady as respectable as Lady Sheringford had been willing to marry the earl when he had behaved so shockingly just a few years before that he ought never again to have been received by decent folk.

Gracious heaven, he had even had a
child
with that dreadful woman, who had left her lawful husband in order to run away with him—on the very day he had been pledged to marry her husband’s sister. It really had been a scandal to end all scandals.

The three were going to the ball anyway, though, because everyone else was going. And really one was interested to discover how the marriage was progressing. It would be surprising indeed if it were not under severe strain after three whole years. Though no doubt the earl and his lady would put on a show of amity for the duration of the ball.

Two of the ladies were
not
going. One had a previous engagement, she was relieved to report. The other would not step over the doorstep of a house that contained the
Earl of Sheringford
even if everyone else was willing to forgive and forget. Even if someone were to offer her a
fortune
she would not go. It was most provoking
that her husband positively refused to attend any balls when he knew that she loved to dance.

Better and better, Cassandra thought. The Countess of Sheringford lived under a cloud cast by the earl’s reputation as a rake and a rogue. It was unlikely they would turn anyone away from their doors, even without an invitation. Though clearly the earl’s reputation was going to bring more guests to the ball than it would drive away, curiosity being the besetting sin of the
ton
—and probably of humanity in general.

The Sheringford ball would be it, then. It was tomorrow night. Time was of the essence. She had enough money left for next week’s rent and for food for another couple of weeks. Beyond that there was a frighteningly empty void in which money would need to go out but none would be coming in.

And she had dependents as well as herself to house and clothe and feed. Dependents who could not, for various reasons, provide for themselves.

Alice walked silently and disapprovingly at her side. Cassandra had shushed her as soon as they had started strolling ahead of the five ladies. It was a loud, accusing silence that she held, though. Alice did not like this at all, and that was perfectly understandable. Cassandra would not like it if
she
had to stand helplessly by while either Alice or Mary plotted to prostitute herself so that she could eat.

Unfortunately, there was no alternative. Or if there was, Cassandra could not see it, even though she had lain awake for several nights looking for one.

She glanced around as they walked, feeling a little as though she were at a masquerade, her identity effectively hidden behind a mask and domino. Her black veil was her mask, her heavy widow’s weeds her domino. She could see out—dimly—but no one could see in.

It was surely as hot as hell beneath the black clothes and the veil.
She waited hopefully for clouds to cover the sun, but they were few and far between.

The whole of the beau monde must be squashed into this really quite small segment of Hyde Park. She had forgotten what the fashionable hour was like. Not that she had ever been a part of it. She had married young, and she had never had a come-out or an accompanying Season. Her eyes moved over all the ladies in the crowd and noted their bright, fashionable, costly attire. But it was not upon them that she focused her attention. They meant nothing to her.

It was at the gentlemen that she looked closely and consideringly. There were many of them, all ages and sizes and conditions. A few of them looked back at her despite her disguise, which must be singularly unappealing. She saw none she particularly fancied. Not that she had to
fancy
the man who was going to put money into her empty coffers.

Her attention caught and held upon two particular gentlemen, not just because they were both young and handsome, though they
were
, but because there was such a startling contrast between them that she felt she was looking at the devil and an angel.

The devil was the older of the two. She would put him in his middle thirties if she had to guess. He was very dark of both hair and complexion, with a handsome, rather harsh face and eyes that looked black. It seemed to her that he might be a dangerous man, and she shivered slightly despite the terrible heat in which she was enclosed.

The angel was younger—probably younger than she. He was golden blond and classically handsome, with regular features and an open, good-humored face. His mouth and eyes—she was sure they were blue—looked as though they smiled frequently.

Her eyes lingered on him. He looked tall and graceful in the saddle, well-muscled legs showing to advantage in tight buff riding breeches and black leather boots as they hugged the sides of his mount. He looked slender but well formed in his dark green
close-fitting riding coat. It molded itself to his frame, and she knew that it must have taken all of his valet’s strength to get him into it.

Angel and devil had both noticed her and were looking—the devil boldly and appreciatively, the angel with what looked like sympathy for her widowhood.

But then they were distracted by the sight of someone they knew—two people actually, a very fashionable lady on horseback and her companion, a man who was mockingly handsome.

The angel smiled.

And perhaps sealed his doom.

Something about him suggested an innocence to match his angelic looks. He was no doubt a very wealthy man indeed—Cassandra had just realized that the women behind her were talking about him.

“Oh,” one of them said with a sigh, “there is the Earl of Merton with Mr. Huxtable. Have you ever seen a more gorgeous man than he? And all that wealth and property to go with the looks. As well as the title. And golden hair and blue eyes and good teeth and a charming smile. It does not seem fair that one man should have so much. If I were just ten years younger—and single again.”

They all laughed.

“I think I would prefer Mr. Huxtable,” one of the others said. “In fact, I know I would. All that brooding darkness, and those Greek looks. I would not mind if he set his boots beneath my bed one of these days when Rufus was gone.”

There were shrieks of shocked glee from her companions, and Cassandra noticed when she glanced at Alice that her lips had thinned almost to the point of disappearing altogether and that there were two spots of color high in her cheeks.

Angel and innocence and wealth and aristocracy, Cassandra thought. Could there be a more potent mix?

“I am either about to melt in a puddle on the path,” she said, “or explode into a million pieces. Neither of which is something I would enjoy. Shall we leave the crowd and walk home, Alice?”