Chapter 11 #2
The nursery? Angel’s eyebrows went up but, before she could say a word, Della took her hand and towed her towards the staircase.
Chin up, her eyes glinting with a fiery light that promised someone trouble, she moved like a queen, and left Lord Sheringham standing in the entrance hall without a backwards glance.
Angel said nothing until Della had shown her into an elegant parlour and closed the door behind them.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, colouring a little as she met Angel’s gaze. “I hope you do not wish to run away in the light of my dreadful behaviour. It’s only that he vexes me beyond all bearing.”
“So I see,” Angel replied with a smile. “And no, actually, it made me even more eager to stay. I cannot stand young women who gaze upon men as higher beings, who laugh at all their jokes and think them infallible. I’d much rather see a performance like that one. You were magnificent.”
Della snorted, a rather unladylike sound that only made Angel like her more. When they had first met, Angel had been rather in awe of the beautiful duke’s daughter. She had been so self-assured, so very perfect, it had been daunting.
“Well, much as I would like to accept your praise, I fear I fell into the first category until recently. Then my eyes were opened.”
“Oh, dear.”
Angel moved to the seat Della indicated, looking about her.
She thought this must be the dowager’s favourite room, for it had the feel of a well-loved space, still elegant but warm instead of the rather intimidating grandeur that she had seen on her way to it.
The scent of fresh paint lingered in the air, faint but suggesting it had been recently decorated.
The top half of the panelled walls had been papered with a pale green design of climbing roses, and delicate plasterwork adorned the ceilings and walls.
Two pretty damask sofas were arranged around the fire, with a trio of armchairs upholstered in a soft moss green.
One was clearly the favourite: squashy, well-worn cushions were stacked up on it, and a small, embroidered footstool sat before it.
An elegant walnut tea table stood close by, ready for use.
It was a room for conversation with family and friends, not for strangers, and Angel felt rather privileged to see it.
Lady Della rang for tea and sat down beside Angel on the sofa.
“‘Oh dear’ is right,” she said with a sigh. She regarded Angel frankly, an expression Angel remembered from their first encounter. Lady Della was a forthright creature, and one Angel suspected made up her mind quickly and was hard to budge once she had done so. “Do you enjoy gossip?”
Angel considered the question. It needed an honest answer. What might have happened to her Pops if Izzy had gossiped about what she’d learned of him?
“No,” she said, holding Della’s gaze. “Oh, if I hear about Lord so–and-so doing something scandalous with Lady P., I might listen, I suppose. I’m not as angelic as my name might suggest. But I would not repeat it.
I dislike tittle-tattle, and what might seem like an amusing anecdote to one person might be the last straw for another. ”
Della let out a sigh and smiled, and the beauty of it struck Angel. She truly was a lovely young woman. “I knew I liked you,” she said, making Angel laugh with the fervour of her pronouncement.
“I should reserve judgement,” she said, seeing no point in being coy. “I’m not the most ladylike of ladies. I’m forever in some scrape or another or putting my foot in my mouth.”
Della only looked more delighted. “Is that supposed to put me off?”
Their mutual admiration was paused for a moment as a female servant came in carrying a tea tray.
“Jenkins, where is my grandmother?”
The maid put the heavy tray down and bobbed a curtsey. “She’s having a nap, miss, but she knows you’re back. She said to tell you not to eat all the biscuits, as she would join you in a little while.”
Della laughed and handed the plate to Angel. “She knows me too well. Thank you, Jenkins, that will be all.”
Once they were alone, Della poured the tea, handing a cup to Angel.
“So,” Angel said nonchalantly. “About Lord Sheringham.”
Della pulled a face. “There’s not much to say, except that I’m an idiot. He’s been my brother’s friend for as long as I can remember, and for most of that time I fancied myself in love with him. Hardly an original story, is it?”
Angel sipped her tea, setting the cup down gently as she regarded Della. “He’s very handsome, I imagine he can be charming when he wants.”
“And an absolute viper when he doesn’t,” Della said bitterly. Colour rose to her cheeks, and she stared down into her teacup. “It was my own fault. I tried… I tried to tell him and—”
She swallowed and Angel reached out a hand, covering Della’s. “I’ll never tell another soul. Upon my honour.”
Della made a soft sound that might have been a laugh, though it had a bitter quality to it.
“He asked if I had lost my mind, or if I believed he had. Why in the name of everything holy would he risk his friendship with Hawkney for a ‘silly spoiled chit just out of the schoolroom?’ He said to go away and grow up, ‘or try your charms on a man with more hair than wit—except his words were rather less kind than those, but I shan’t repeat the whole.’”
Angel winced, her heart aching for Della, who told the story lightly, but that it had hurt her deeply was beyond doubt.
“He was right, of course. I should thank him really, for he’s set me free. All these years I’ve pined for a man who never looked at me twice. I have been silly and childish, and it’s time I grew up. All the same, I felt I deserved to be treated rather kindlier than that.”
There was a mixture of regret and defiance in the words and Angel nodded, squeezing her fingers.
“Men can be wretched creatures, but there are good ones out there too. You deserve to find a man who will value you, who will look at you and think himself the luckiest man on God’s green earth because you have deigned to smile upon him.”
Della laughed, looking far more cheerful. “There, I felt sure you would understand. And now you have listened to my shameful secret, I beg you will share one of your own. I will take it to my grave, of that you may be assured.”
Angel patted Della’s hand and reached for her tea.
She did not know Della well enough to be certain that the revelation of her bloodline would not be a terrible shock to her.
She did not appear to be a snob, but her brother was known for being high in the instep.
Besides, Angel did not think it was the kind of confession Della wanted.
“I believe you, but at present I have no dark secret to share with you, though I am hopeful I will find one dreadful enough to please you in due time.”
She winked at Della, who regarded her with interest.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I believe you will.”
They looked up as the door opened and a grand old lady walked in. She was still straight and elegant and wore a gown of deep royal blue. A magnificent sapphire and diamond necklace glittered at her throat, and many bracelets adored her wrists. Angel shot to her feet and performed a deep curtsey.
When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly deep and somewhat crackly. “Get up, child, I’m not the queen.”
Angel darted a glance at Della, who returned a rueful smile.
“Grandmama, this is my friend, Miss Angelica Everdene. Miss Everdene, my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney.”
“Well, come here, gel, where I can see you.”
Angel obligingly moved closer so the dowager could look her over. Blue eyes, faded with age but shrewdly interested, examined her. “Lovely. Got foreign blood, have you? All that jetty hair and them dark eyes are unusual. Nearly black.”
“I believe my grandmother was Spanish, my lady,” Angel replied, hoping that would suffice, for she really did not know more.
Her father’s pedigree was excellent, and entirely British, but Black Jack knew little of his heritage, save a few vague memories before he’d run away to sea as a child, stowing away and landing a job as a cabin boy.
The dowager seemed to consider this as she settled herself in the chair with the cushions.
Della hurried over to help her, arranging them to her satisfaction.
“Everdene, you say? Ah, ain’t your pa Cecil Everdene?
Youngest son of Viscount Crowley? He built that flashy house on the far side of the village? ”
“Gee-Gee!” Della exclaimed, straightening up to glare at her outspoken relation.
“Well, it is flashy,” the old woman objected. “But then Cecil was always something of a dandy, as I recall.”
Angel choked back a laugh. Oh, she could not wait to tell Black Jack about this meeting, even if he was the one responsible for the flashy design and not her father.
“Well, you are quite right that my father is rather keen on turning himself out in the latest fashion. But he is not responsible for the design, rather, that was the… er… architect. He had rather definite ideas.”
“Hmph, and your papa is easily led,” she said with a snort, making Angel realise she must know him, or of him, quite well.
“Tea, Grandmother?” Della asked, her voice rather loud as she tried to get the dowager onto less provocative ground.
“Did you eat all the biscuits?” she demanded as Della shot her an apologetic glance.
“No, Gee-Gee, there are plenty to go around.”
Della obligingly handed the plate to her grandmother, who began to make her way through them, chewing contentedly and regarding Angel with a thoughtful expression.
Della poured the tea, looking as if she was sitting upon thorns, wondering what the dreadful creature would say next.
The dowager’s eyes glinted with mischief and Angel braced herself.
“You don’t look a whit like your pa, and your mama didn’t have looks so striking. Did she have a lover?”