Impulse

“Do you think the allegations at the divorce trial were true?” he asked abruptly, startling Pettigrew, whose thoughts had not followed the same trail.

“What? Oh, well, uh, she did not deny them.” Pettigrew was well aware that he was treading on very delicate ground. No man, least of all one as proud as Cameron Monroe, would like to think that he was going to marry a hussy. He thought hastily. “On the other hand, she certainly does not look like the sort of woman who would … ah …”

“No,” Cam agreed quickly. “She looks—well, except for sometimes when she seems to forget herself and gets angry and her eyes flash—she looks almost mousy. But Angela never had an ounce of fear in her.” He smiled faintly. “I remember how she used to ride, even when she was little, how she’d throw her heart over the fences.”

Pettigrew looked at his employer narrowly. He heard the tinge of affection in Cam’s voice, and not for the first time, he wondered what had linked Monroe with this woman in the past. He knew no more than anyone else in the United States did what Cameron Monroe’s history had been before he came to America. He had heard stories, of course, about his grit and determination, about his courage in the oil fields of Pennsylvania and his shrewd business sense. But about the time before he had arrived in New York, at the age of twenty, Pettigrew knew nothing.

“You, ah, taught her to ride?” he asked colorlessly.

Cam shook his head. “No. That was old Wicker’s job, and he was quite jealous of it. He taught all the Stanhopes to ride. I came to work in the stables when I was eleven. I used to watch her riding about the ring on her little pony, Wicker holding the leading rein. She always wanted him to let her go. She was only seven. Later, when she was older, I would ride out with her to make sure she came to no harm—as if anyone around here would have touched a hair on her head. They all loved her.”

Jason was growing more and more interested. He was beginning to suspect that his employer had been one of those many people who loved her. Had he loved her all these years? But then, Jason reminded himself, the means that Monroe had chosen to persuade Angela Stanhope to marry him would hardly qualify as loverlike. No, only anger and bitterness could have engendered his harsh methods.

“Perhaps, sir,” he suggested cautiously, “you might want to woo the lady in question.”

“Woo her?” Cam’s eyebrows vaulted upward.

“Yes. Women seem to like that. Perhaps she does not like to feel as if you were, ah, purchasing her, no matter how pragmatic she may be in marrying for money. Or it is possible that she might resent the manner in which you forced her hand.”

Cam cast him an amused glance. “Are you trying to say, in your diplomatic way, that the lady despises me because I am forcing her into marriage? I am well aware of that. I am not asking for her affection.” His face turned grim. “But, damn it to hell, why is she not giving in despite her dislike?”

“You do not care if your wife dislikes you?” Pettigrew asked neutrally.

Monroe frowned at him. “I should think you, of all people, are well aware that this is no love match.”

Pettigrew refrained from pointing out that, at this moment, it was no match at all. Angela Stanhope might be willing to risk Monroe’s bad temper, but Jason was not. “Yes, sir. It is just that it seems a mite uncomfortable, sir. There is a vast difference between an indifferent marriage and one in which there is open animosity.”

Monroe gave him a level look. “I believe I will be able to handle it.”

“Of course, sir.”

Monroe turned away from him and walked to the window. He stood silently for a few minutes, gazing out at the gardens. When he turned back, his face was set and impassive. “We will have to apply more pressure.”

Jason hesitated. “You mean, tell the Earl about the … the information we have?”

“Yes.” Cam paused, watching his assistant. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Jason glanced away, then brought his gaze back to meet Cam’s squarely. “I am not accustomed to blackmail, sir.”

“Don’t worry. You will not have to do it. I shall speak to Bridbury myself.”

“He—he seems a nice enough man,” Jason went on.

“And you would hate to ruin his reputation, is that it?” Cam smiled faintly as Jason nodded, a little sheepishly. “Well, you need not be ashamed of feeling that way, man. There’s nothing wrong with having scruples. Don’t worry, ‘tis an empty threat. I would not use it against him, either. It is useless to me except in the possibility of using it. The actuality serves me nothing. But I hope it will concern them enough that they will agree to my terms.”

“Yes, sir.” Pettigrew still looked slightly troubled. “But, sir … well, is it worth it?”

“Oh, yes. To me it is. It is very much worth it.”

Angela decided that the best way to avoid Cam was to take a long walk with her dogs. Accordingly, she put on a pair of stout boots and headed out the front door, Wellington and Pearl close on her heels. But before she could reach the front door, Cam stepped out of the library.

“Angela.”

She came to a halt, mentally cursing her bad luck, and slowly turned around. He came toward her. The two dogs turned and watched him, Pearl with interest and Wellington with some distrust. As he came closer, Cam looked down at the dogs, and a small smile touched his lips.

“Well, hello, old fella,” he said quietly, extending a hand toward Wellington. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d still be here.”

Wellington came forward slowly, sniffing at the outstretched hand. His tail began to wag and he put his head under Cam’s hand, giving it an inviting bump. Cam chuckled and began to stroke him.

“Traitor,” Angela murmured.

“Well, I am the one who gave him to you,” Cam pointed out. “You have a good memory,” he told the dog, scratching in just the right spot behind Wellington’s ears.

Even Angela had to smile a little at the memory. She and Cam had been riding, only a few weeks before Cam had admitted his love for her. They had come upon the miller’s son and a few of his cronies down by the pond. The boys had been throwing a puppy into the pond, a rock tied to his neck to pull him down. “That’s true,” she said softly. “I’ll never forget the way you jumped into the pond to save him.”

He cast her an amused glance. “Nor will I forget the way you boxed the miller’s boy’s ears.”

Angela shrugged. “Well, he deserved it. He was a heartless little criminal. As I remember, you sent him on his way with a few choice words in his ear.”

She did not add, though she remembered it quite well, that she had given her heart utterly into his keeping at that moment, when he had walked toward her from the pond, dripping wet, holding that squirming little puppy against his chest. Angela cleared her throat and looked away.

“Well, Wellington has managed to stay alive quite well ever since then. Now, if you will excuse me, we were just on our way out.”

“Perhaps I could walk with you. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” she replied shortly, turning her gaze away from his. “And I prefer to be alone, thank you.” She started for the door, snapping her fingers for the dogs to follow. Cam made no move to follow her, merely stood watching her until she and her companions were out the door.

Angela managed to stay well out of Cam’s way the remainder of the day, not returning from her walk until it was almost time for dinner. She wished she could have skipped that, too, but nothing less than illness was an acceptable reason to her grandmother for not dressing formally and coming down for the evening meal.

It was not a comfortable dinner party. The eldest Lady Bridbury was haughty and frigidly polite, obviously displeased at being forced to break bread with a former groom. Jeremy looked quite pale and contributed little to the conversation, while Cam was about as voluble and expressive as a rock. It was left to Angela and Mr. Pettigrew to utter a few inanities about the weather and the landscape. Angela’s mother contributed by describing the latest condition of her health. Angela was relieved when the elder Lady Bridbury rose, indicating that the ladies could retire. She spent only a few minutes with her mother and grandmother in the drawing room, listening to her grandmother complaining bitterly about what the world had come to, what with grooms eating with earls, before she pleaded a headache and retreated to her room.

It was some time later, when Kate had helped her change into her nightclothes and had herself retired, and Angela was sitting up reading in the hopes that it would help her to fall asleep more easily, that there was a light tap at her door and Jeremy stuck his head in the door.

He gave her a small, set smile. “Hallo. Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not.” Angela laid her book aside and motioned him toward the other chair. Though she and Jeremy were very fond of one another, they had never been the sort for cozy late-night chats. She remembered the way he had seemed through the evening meal. “Is something wrong?”

Again he gave her a forced smile. “Wrong? No, I just wanted to talk to you.” He paused, scrutinizing his hands for a moment, as if they contained the secrets of the universe. “Well, actually.” He sighed. “Yes. There is something wrong. I—Cam talked to me again this afternoon about the possibility of your marrying him.”

Angela grimaced. “I told him very plainly this morning that I would not. I cannot think what he hopes to accomplish by badgering you about it.”

“Uh, well, I believe he feels that I could, ah, persuade you to accept his proposal.”

Angela gave him a flat look. “Is that why you came here tonight? To try again to convince me to marry him?”

Her brother’s stricken look was all the answer she needed.

“Jeremy! I told you. I thought you understood.”