Mary Putney - Angel Rogue

When not making love, they lay in each other's arms and talked, sharing their thoughts as intimately as they had shared their bodies. It was with the greatest of reluctance that Giles acknowledged the lightening sky outside. "Dawn comes too early at this season." His breath stirred her tangled hair. "I don't want to leave, but it's time."

She rolled over so that she lay half across him, her chin on his chest. There was no trace of the angry, defensive woman who had first exploded into his sedate life. Now she was all soft welcome. "Why leave? The servants will already have deduced what is going on."

"Except for my coachman, not necessarily." He smiled. "I admit that for persons of our advanced years, propriety is not of first importance, but I prefer there be no gossip around your name."

Smiling impishly, she wiggled her lush curves to such good effect that he drew her down for another kiss. When it was necessary for survival's sake to stop for air, he panted, "You're a shameless woman. And I'm a lucky man."

Her pale redhead's skin colored rosily again.

He said with interest, "Your enchanting blushes go much farther than I realized."

That made her blush even more. By the time Giles had finished investigating exactly how far the blushes went, another half hour had passed. After, as they lay twined together, she said softly, "I didn't know it could be like this."

"Neither did I."

She raised her head and regarded him with surprise. "Truly?'

"Truly." He stroked her bare shoulder. "I suppose I've had the normal amount of experience, but I've never before made love with my beloved. Nothing in the past has ever equaled this." He kissed her again, lingeringly. "Are you ready to make a decision about marriage, or do you need more time?'

She laughed and linked her arms around his neck. "Do you think I'm such a fool as to let you go?"

The Abingdon Inn was on a street called Long Acre near Covent Garden. As the hackney carriage halted in front, Maxie's face tightened. Ever since she'd awakened, the black anxiety had been suffocatingly close. She could not shake the feeling that she was on a course that would shatter forever the life she had known. Yet she had no choice but to go forward.

She and Robin had agreed that it was best to simply visit the inn and make inquiries. Surely the death of a guest would be remembered. And if they did not receive straightforward answers to their questions, well, that would give her another kind of information.

Robin helped her out of the carriage. She took a moment to study the building. It was small and respectable, but only just. Her father had not had money for grander establishments.

Taking Robin's arm, she lifted her chin and walked to the door.

As the welldressed young couple disappeared into the inn, the owner of the tobacco shop next door peered through the grimy glass of his front window, squinting to confirm that the pair matched the description he had been given: a blond fellow as cool as a lord, and a dusky little pocket Venus. The old man nodded. Aye, these must be the ones.

Turning to the lad who assisted him, the tobacconist said, "Go 'round the corner and tell Simmons that the folk he asked me to watch for are in the Abingdon now. Mind you hurry, and if he ain't there, go after 'im. There'll be a halfcrown for you if 'e gets here in time."

And there'd be three quid, less the halfcrown, for himself. Vastly pleased, the tobacconist treated himself to one of his own most expensive cigars.

They had agreed in advance that Robin would speak, since men were usually taken more seriously. When they found a spotty young clerk, Robin asked, "May we speak with the landlord, please?"

The clerk looked up from the newspaper he was reading. After in insulting glance at Maxie, he said, "I can rent you a room, but you'll have to pay for a whole day even if you only want it for an hour."

"We do not need a room," Robin said in a voice edged with steel. "We want to speak to the landlord. Now."

The clerk considered making a surly reply, men thought better of it. "I'll see if Watson'd speak to you."

Maxie clenched and unclenched her hands as they waited. If it hadn't been for Robin's calming presence, she would be ricocheting from the walls. She was grateful that he didn't attempt conversation; in her present mood, she might bite his head off. She had fought off wolves in a winter blizzard with more composure than she was showing today.

Closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe more slowly. The tram would have to be better than living with such anxiety.

The clerk returned and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "He'll see you. Down the hall, last door on the left"

Watson was thin and balding, with an expression of chronic irritation. Not bothering to rise from his desk, he barked, "State your business and be quick about it I'm a busy man."

"My name is Lord Robert Andreville," Robin said crisply. "About three months ago, one of your guests, a Mr. Collins, died unexpectedly."

"The American bloke." Watson's face went blank. "Aye, he turned up his toes here."

"Could you tell us something of the circumstances of his death?" When the manager didn't reply, Robin prompted, "Who found him, and what time of day was it? Was Mr. Collins still alive when he was found? Was a physician called?"

The manager scowled. "What business is it of yours?"

Unable to keep silent, Maxie said, "He was my father. Surely I have a right to know what his last hours were like."

Watson swung around to study her, his expression unreadable. "Sorry, miss." Glancing away, he said, "A maid found him in the morning. He was already gone. The physician said it must have been his heart. He went suddenlike."

"What was the physician's name?" Robin asked.

Watson stood, his expression surly. "You've taken enough of my time. There's nothin' more to know. Collins died and that's it. If it hadn't happened here, it would have been somewhere else, and I wish it had been. Now get out. I've work to do."

Maxie opened her mouth to protest, but Robin took her arm firmly. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Watson."

After her companion steered her out of the office and closed the door, she hissed, "I want to ask him more, Robin. He was hiding something."

"Yes, but he wasn't going to say more, not without physical violence, and it's premature to try that. There may be a better way to learn what we want." Instead of following the hall to the front of the building, Robin turned the other way. "Servants always know what's going on, and perhaps no one has ordered them to hold their tongues."

The door at the end of the passage led to a cobbled yard with stables built around three sides. Maxie followed Robin across the court to a set of open doors.

Inside, an elderly hostler was oiling a piece of harness and whistling tunelessly between crooked front teeth.

"Good day, sir," Robin said cheerily.

The hostler looked up, startled but not displeased to be interrupted. "Good day to you, too, sir. What can I do for you?"

"My name's Bob Andreville." Robin offered his hand. His accent had become distinctly American, far more so than Maxie's. "I was wondering, have you been working here long?"

"Nigh on to ten years." After wiping one oily hand down his trousers, the hostler returned Robin's handshake. "Name's Will Jenkins. You an American?"

"That I am, but my father was born in Yorkshire. This is my first trip to England. Would have come sooner, but for the war." He shook his head. "Damned fool things, wars. Americans and Britons should be friends."

"Ain't that the truth," the hostler agreed. "I've a cousin in Virginia. You from that part of the colonies?"

The two men continued in that vein while Maxie fidgeted, restless but realizing that Robin was right. They would learn far more from the friendly hostler than the hostile landlord.

Eventually Robin said, "A friend of mine, Max Collins, came here for a visit a few months back. Right before I sailed over myself, I heard he'd died, but no one knew exactly what had happened. I remembered he was staying at the Abingdon Inn, so I thought since I was in town I'd stop by to see what I could learn to tell his family." He pursed his lips. "We hear stories about how dangerous London is. Did thieves set on him?"

" 'Twas no such thing. Mr. Collins died right here in his bed." Jenkins shook his grizzled head. "A sorry thing, that. He was a fine gent, very pleasant to everyone, even that mawworm Watson. It was a real shock when he killed himself."

The words hit Maxie like a cannonball, the impact so shattering that it was beyond pain. He killed himself.

He killed himself. As Robin inhaled sharply, she gasped, "No. Max wouldn't do that."

Jenkins said compassionately, "Sorry to be the one to tell you if he was a friend of yours, miss, but there ain't much doubt. The gent tried to arrange it so's no one would know, but he wasn't careful enough. Musta been upset about somethin' and decided he couldn't take it no more. Most everyone feels that way sometimes. Mr. Collins was one who did somethin' about it."

As a child, Maxie had once ventured onto a frozen pond during a January thaw. Even twenty years later she had not forgotten her terror when ice she had believed solid began breaking up beneath her. Desperately she had tried to retreat to the shore, but there had been no hope or safety anywhere as the ice splintered in all directions. She had plunged into the frigid water and nearly drowned before her father heard her screams and rescued her.

Her feelings now were similar to when the ice broke under her, but a thousand times worse. What Jenkins said was impossible, unbearable, and it was not water engulfing her but unbearable anguish.

"No," she repeated, burying her face in her hands. "Papa would never kill himself. He wouldn't!" Yet the pieces fit together with horrible precision. This explained everything that she had been unable to understand.

Mindlessly she whirled away, up the alley to Long Acre. She heard Robin call her name, but his voice was distant, of no importance.

When she bolted out of the alley, she collided with a man who smelled of onions. She lost her bonnet and almost fell, but managed to regain her balance. Blindly she raced into the street, heedless of the heavy traffic.

A hoarse shout sounded in her ear. Someone grabbed her arm, jerking her from the path of a horse that reared into the air, its pawing ironclad hooves barely missing her skull.

Ignoring her rescuer, she broke away and resumed running, as if somewhere there were a place where the past was different, where she would not have to believe that her father could have killed himself. She tripped and fell full length on the filthy pavement. The breath was knocked out of her, yet she felt nothing when her knees and palms smashed into the cobblestones.

Scrambling to her feet, she was about to resume her flight when strong hands seized her. Robin's familiar voice said urgenyly, "Stop, Maxie! For God's sake, stop before you get yourself killed."

She tried to escape, but he wouldn't release her. As he hauled her out of the street, she clenched her hands into fists and struck him. "My father would never have killed himself and left me!" she cried, wild tears pouring down her face. "He loved life and he loved me. He would never have done that!"

Robin guessed that it was herself that she was trying to convince. He tried to immobilize her flailing fists by pinning her arms to her sides with an iron embrace. She continued to struggle frantically.

He gasped when one of her elbows smashed him in the stomach, knocking him breathless. She was a dangerous woman to hold against her will, but he dared not use more force. Desperate to calm her before she injured herself, he said sharply, "We don't know for sure what happened, Kanawiosta. Perhaps Jenkins was wrong. We need to know more."

She gave an agonized gasp and became still, her small body trembling in his arms. Somehow he knew that his words had produced the opposite effect of what he had intended: Rather than convincing her that the hostler might have been wrong, they had made it impossible for her to deny the truth.

He ached for her misery, knowing she was in some private hell that he could not share, not unless she would let him. Ignoring the curious onlookers, he continued speaking to her in a low voice, his lips near her ear, hoping the sound would soothe her even though she was beyond absorbing the words.