To Tempt An Angel (Book 1 Douglas series) Page 3

  “My sister has been dead for four years,” she called. “When will you cease mourning her passing?”

  Robert stared at her for a long moment “One of us should mourn her,” he said finally, and left the foyer.

  Good God, he wished his sister-in-law would leave him alone, Robert thought as he hurried up the stairs and then walked down the corridor to his father’s study. Venetia wanted him merely so she could become a duchess when his father died. She and his nephew would never want for anything. Why did Venetia feel the need to torment him with her presence? She’d been trying unsuccessfully to seduce him into marriage for years.

  Without knocking on the door, Robert walked into his father’s study. He gazed for a long moment at the older man and decided that his father had aged since Gavin’s passing.

  The study was a man’s room. His father sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. High windows behind the desk allowed sunlight to bathe the chamber. On one side of the room was a marble hearth and mantel, above which hung a portrait of Robert’s deceased mother.

  Bookcases had been built into the walls, and above them perched portraits of every Campbell laird since the beginning of time. His father had even commissioned an artist to paint the images of ancient ancestors from descriptions only.

  Robert had always loved this chamber. As a boy, he would stare at the faces of these long-dead Campbells and wonder what they would think of him. When his father passed away, the awesome responsibility of being Campbell laird and the Duke of Inverary would fall upon his shoulders. A daunting prospect for a boy.

  “Come in,” the Duke of Inverary said dryly. He dropped his dark gaze to his son’s attire, and his lips quirked in a smile. “I suppose you were turning heads on Park Lane.”

  Robert shrugged and sat down in a chair in front of his father’s desk. He smiled sheepishly, thinking his father had the unique talent of making him feel like a boy.

  “Wool and grain prices have dropped again,” Duke Magnus said without preamble. “Someone keeps undercutting our prices.”

  “Alexander Emerson still blames me for Louisa’s death,” Robert said.

  “Colin will inherit if you don’t marry and sire an heir,” his father said, leaning back in his chair. “Why would Alexander undercut his own nephew’s profits?”

  Robert waved away his father’s silent offer of a drink. “Alexander’s bitterness prevents him from seeing beyond his own revenge,” he said, unconcerned. “Let him have his way for now. When he does us real damage, I’ll put an end to it. Speaking of grain, I still believe we can make a fortune by distilling Scotch whiskey for commercial sale.”

  “I’m listening,” Duke Magnus said.

  “No one can make a whiskey to compare with ours,” Robert continued, leaning forward in his chair. “Only in Scotland can be found spring water that rises through red granite and then passes through peat moss.”

  “But is commercial distillation feasible?” his father asked.

  “I have several men working on inventing a machine for continuous distillation,” Robert told him.

  “Let me know if these inventors of yours come up with something,” the duke said. Then he changed the subject, asking, “Are you entering the London Golf Match this year?”

  Robert relaxed back in his chair. “I wouldn’t miss the thrill of golfing down Pall Mall and St. James’s Street.”

  “Ah, if only I were twenty years younger,” his father said. After a silent moment, he changed the subject again, remarking, “By the way, Charles Emerson broached the matter of a possible match between you and Venetia”

  “No,” Robert said, his tone emphatic. He knew his father too well to believe this was a casual conversation.

  “Louisa has been dead for four years, “ his father argued.

  “Damn it! I know how long she’s been dead,” Robert snapped, his patience strained by his father’s echoing of his sister-in-law’s words. “I have lived with it every day.”

  “Remember to whom you are speaking,” the duke admonished him.

  “I apologize.”

  “You cannot blame yourself for Louisa’s passing,” the duke said.

  “Father, I do not wish to speak about this,” Robert insisted.

  “You need a wife and children,” Duke Magnus pressed on.

  The image of Angelica Douglas arose in Robert’s mind’s eye. Her mane of streaked blond hair, her heavenly blue eyes, her inviting lips—a seductive angel with loaded dice.

  “I need no wife or children,” Robert said gruffly, realizing in embarrassment that his father was staring at him. “Colin will be my heir.”

  “If Venetia remarries or returns to her father’s home, the Campbell heir will be controlled by others,” his father argued.

  “Venetia won’t leave.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Venetia enjoys the accommodations and status of being a Campbell,” Robert said with a cynical smile. “We are one of the richest families in Britain.” Without preamble, he asked, “What do you know about the Earl of Melrose?”

  “Graham Douglas?” Duke Magnus said in obvious surprise. “We were the best of friends, but I haven’t seen him in ten years. Why do you ask?”

  “What happened to your friendship?” Robert evaded the question.

  “Nothing happened,” the duke answered. “Melrose and his family disappeared about ten years ago. Emerson told me Graham was living in Europe. I searched for him, but—”

  “I found him,” Robert interrupted.

  Obviously shocked, Duke Magnus rose from his chair. “Where is he?”

  “Relax, Father.”

  “I want to know everything,” Duke Magnus said, taking his seat again.

  “I want to know how Melrose lost his fortune,” Robert said. “Did he drink it away?”

  “Graham never touched alcohol,” his father told him. “He always said it clouded his mind. I was in Scotland at the time Graham suffered his loss, but heard later that several men, including Charles Emerson, had swindled a great deal of money out of him. With his fortune made, Emerson managed to gain the Winchester title. Later, Emerson purchased Graham’s estate for a piddling sum.”

  “And you allowed Gavin and me to marry into a family like that?” Robert asked, surprised, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Gavin was in love,” Duke Magnus said with a shrug. “I could no more prevent his marriage than I can get you into one. Now, where can I find Graham?”

  “Seeking him out would not be a good idea,” Robert told him. “The man is an alcoholic and living in poverty.”

  “I cannot believe—”

  “I met his eldest daughter at the fair yesterday,” Robert continued, his voice softening at the thought of Angelica Douglas. “She was running a thimblerigger’s game and cheating outrageously at dice.”

  “Oh, I must help them.”

  “I’ll help her.”

  Duke Magnus cocked a dark brow at his son. “Her?”

  The old fox certainly picked up on that slip of the tongue, Robert thought. “Angelica Douglas seems to be the head of the family.”

  “She can’t be more than eighteen years old.”

  “Her father is in no condition to take care of anyone,” Robert said. “I’ll let you know when he’s sobered up. Perhaps then—” His voice trailed off.

  “Angelica was a lovely child,” the duke said with a smile of remembrance. “Is she still pretty?”

  “Beyond pretty,” Robert answered, rising from his chair. “I promised to visit today. Her father nearly killed himself yesterday by drinking a bottle of lavender perfume.”

  Duke Magnus winced. Then he remarked, “You seem interested in the girl.”

  Robert refused to reply. Without another word, he crossed the study to the door.

  “You must be interested if you won’t respond to me,” his father called.

  Robert heard the laughter in his father’s voice. “Remember, Your Grace, make no matches for me.”


  A few miles and a world away from Park Lane, Angelica fed Jasper a breakfast consisting of sunflower seeds, peanuts, and fresh water. She left the cage open and then turned toward the window. Sunlight streamed into the room, promising a perfect summer day.

  “Great grunting shit,” Jasper swore loudly. “Drink, drink, drink.”

  Angelica looked over her shoulder at the macaw. The bird had learned the most vulgar words and phrases from her father.

  “Great grunting . . . drink, drink, drink.”

  When the bird repeated its words, an idea popped into Angelica’s mind. She hurried across the chamber to the pot used for hiding money. Lifting the plant, she felt inside.

  The pot was empty. One hundred and twenty-eight pounds plus her sisters’ earnings had disappeared.

  “Aunt Roxie,” Angelica called.

  “Roxie! Roxie!” Jasper mimicked her.

  “Good morning, darling,” Aunt Roxie said, breezing out of her chamber. “I sent Samantha and Victoria to search for chickweed, larkspur, and other necessary midsummer herbs. I feel my clients will need some advice today.”

  “The money is missing,” Angelica announced.

  “I managed to hide a hundred pounds in my chamber before your father confiscated it,” her aunt told her, pouring tea into a cup.

  “Where is my father?” Angelica asked, irritated that he’d stolen her hard-earned money.

  “Graham went to find himself a bottle of peace,” Aunt Roxie answered. She shrugged and asked, “What could I do, darling? I didn’t want him poisoning himself again.”

  Angelica opened her mouth to reply, but the sound of horses drew her attention. She crossed the room to the window and said, “You have a customer—Lucille Dubois.”

  Aunt Roxie wrinkled her nose in distaste. Then she pasted a dimpled smile on her face and opened the door for her guest. “Mademoiselle Dubois, what a wonderful surprise.”

  Dark-haired, green-eyed, and voluptuous, Lucille Dubois walked into the cottage and glanced with disdain around the cramped quarters. With her was her four-year old daughter, Daisy.

  “Madame Roxanne, I desperately need a reading and a potion to bring—I mean, keep my lover content. Can this be done?”

  “Of course, darling,” Aunt Roxie drawled. She smiled winsomely and added, “However, it will be expensive.”

  “The money will be well spent,” the woman replied.

  “We require privacy,” Aunt Roxie said to Angelica. “Take Daisy into the garden.”

  Angelica grabbed her harp and smiled at the little girl. She held out her hand, saying, “Come with me, Daisy.”

  Daisy accepted her hand without hesitation and held up a small basket. “I’ve brought Jasper some green apples.”

  “Jasper adores green apples,” Angelica said.

  “Take the bird with you,” Lucille ordered. Followed by the macaw, Angelica and Daisy walked outside and around the cottage to the small garden. When Angelica breathed deeply of summer’s intoxicating scent, Daisy imitated her.

  “Sit here beneath this oak tree,” Angelica said, plopping down on the ground. She reached for the girl’s arm to help her down.

  “Ouch!”

  “Did I hurt you?” Her touch on the girl had been light.

  “My arm hurts,” Daisy said.

  Angelica set the basket down in front of Jasper, who immediately began crunching on the crisp green apples. Then she reached for the sleeve of the girl’s gown and pushed it up.

  Purple bruises ran up Daisy’s right arm. Her left arm had the same discoloration.

  “Did you fall?” Angelica asked.

  “No,” Daisy answered, gazing at her through enormous dark eyes that seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Did you bump into something?”

  “No.”

  “How, did you get hurt?”

  Daisy shrugged.

  “You can share your secrets with me,” Angelica coaxed her.

  “Lucille says I’m the naughtiest girl,” Daisy told her.

  “Lucille?”

  “Mother makes Lucille feel old,” Daisy whispered, as if divulging a secret.

  What kind of woman deprived her own child of the right to call her mother? Angelica wondered. Daisy needed a mother, not someone she called Lucille.

  “Did Lucille give you these bruises?” she asked.

  Daisy looked away, saying, “I don’t remember.”

  Bull’s pizzle, Angelica thought with anger swelling inside her. How could any woman injure her own child? The harlot was unnatural. But what could she do to prevent such cruelty from happening again?

  “Lift your chin for me,” Angelica said, picking a daisy from the grass. She held the flower under the girl’s chin and said, “Oh, I see that you adore butter.”

  Daisy laughed and clapped her hands together. “How did you know?” she cried.

  “If this daisy reflects yellow beneath your chin,” Angelica explained, “then you love butter.”

  “Let me try.” Daisy held the flower under Angelica’s chin and exclaimed, “You love butter, too.”

  “Yes, I do. Shall I play my harp?” Angelica asked. “Or shall we lay on our backs and see the cloud pictures in the sky?”

  “Daisy, darling,” Aunt Roxie called from the window, “Lucille is leaving now.”

  “I wish I could stay here forever,” Daisy said, throwing herself into Angelica’s arms. “Then I could look at cloud pictures every day and listen to your harp every night.”

  “I wish you could stay here, too,” Angelica said, rising from the grass. “But Lucille would miss you.”

  Taking the girl’s hand in hers, Angelica escorted her around to the front of the cottage. She hesitated for a moment and then asked the other woman, “Would it be possible for Daisy to spend the day here? You could send your carriage for her after supper. Or tomorrow morning, perhaps?”

  Lucille Dubois stared at Angelica as if she’d grown another head. Looking down her nose at her, she said, “Daisy’s father is an important man. She couldn’t possibly pass the night in this hovel.”

  Angelica flinched as if she’d been struck. Then she felt her aunt’s hand on her shoulder, calming her.

  “Get in the carriage,” Lucille ordered her daughter.

  “But I want to—”

  Lucille grabbed the girl’s upper arm and gave her a violent shake. “What did I tell you about being naughty? If you cry, I’ll give you something more to cry about.”

  Daisy scrambled to climb into the carriage. The little girl gave Angelica a forlorn look.

  “We’ll play next time,” Angelica assured her. Watching the carriage retreat down the road, she whispered, “I despise that bitch.”

  “Thinking about the uncontrollable is a waste of time, darling,” Aunt Roxie said.

  Angelica nodded. She knew her aunt was correct but couldn’t recapture her earlier good mood. Her father’s drinking and Lucille Dubois’s cruelty had destroyed it

  “Please take Jasper inside,” she said. “I want to be alone.”

  “Of course, darling,” Aunt Roxie said. “Come, Jasper.”

  Frustrated by her inability to help the little girl, Angelica returned to the garden and sat beneath the oak tree. She leaned back against its massive trunk and felt its comforting strength.

  Angelica wished there was something she could do for Daisy Dubois. She could only imagine the miserable life the girl endured with that woman. Pretty gowns and fashionable addresses could never replace a mother’s love.

  Trying to soothe herself, Angelica began to play her harp. The serenade, an atmospheric bath of sound, grew and faded and then grew again. Her song evoked a celestial wind, a broad expanse of blue sky, a bubbling brook winding its way through a valley.

  “You play like an angel.”

  Surprised, Angelica looked up and then smiled. There stood Robert Roy, a devastating smile lighting his face.

  He is Old Clootie, she thought. Only the devil could be that handsome.
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  Angelica patted the ground beside herself in invitation, and he accepted. She began to doubt her own common sense when she realized that the side of his muscled thigh touched hers.

  “Sacred sevens, she thought shivering from the heat coursing through her body. Why did this stranger affect her so intensely?

  “How is your father?” Robert asked.

  “He has recovered sufficiently to steal my money and take himself drinking,” Angelica answered, a rueful tone in her voice.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Apologizing is unnecessary,” she told him. “My father’s illness is not your fault.”

  “Whose fault is it?” he asked, his black gaze holding hers captive.

  Angelica wondered how much to tell him. He had saved her father’s life and let her win a large sum of money. Judging from his attire, he wasn’t a rich man. And yet he did possess the bearing of a gentleman.

  She decided to trust him. Perhaps Robert Roy could help her scheme for revenge. He could gain entry into more places than she.

  “Five men are responsible for my father’s illness,” Angelica said. “Magnus Campbell, Charles Emerson, Alasdair Trimble, Henry Drinkwater, and Archibald Mayhew.”

  “Archibald Mayhew is dead,” Robert told her.

  His announcement surprised her. Who was this Rob Roy, a man in wrinkled clothing, to know members of the upper class? Was he a gentleman who’d fallen upon hard times? If that were true, why had he been willing to lose a hundred and twenty-eight pounds to her?

  “Archibald has a son, Mungo,” Robert added.

  “Then Mungo Mayhew will pay for his father’s sins,” she replied.

  “That doesn’t sound fair to me,” he said. “Do you pay for your father’s sins?”

  “Every day of my life,” Angelica answered bitterly, gazing into his black eyes.

  Robert inclined his head. “What is your plan?”

  “I intend to pauper them at the gaming table,” Angelica announced.

  Robert laughed. “You mean cheat them at the gaming table,” he corrected her.

  “I am willing to do whatever it takes,” she told him.

  “Ladies are not allowed in gaming halls, angel,” Robert reminded her.

  “You could gain entrance in my place,” Angelica said, touching his arm. She rushed on before he could refuse. “You carry yourself like a gentleman, and I could share all my knowledge with you.”