Mary Putney - Angel Rogue

Except, of course, his daughter.

If her father had tried blackmail, could it have been aimed at his brother? Family secrets would be the easiest to come by.

Maxie's fists clenched so tightly that the nails gouged her palms. She must consider the possibility that Lord Collingwood might have had his own brother killed. Perhaps the villainous looking man from London was a hired assassin.

Was her uncle capable of such a monstrous crime? She wished that she could dismiss the idea out of hand, but she couldn't. Though her uncle had seemed fond of Max, filial affection might have vanished in the face of attempted blackmail. One thing that Maxie had learned in the last months was that the English had a passion for appearances. Threatening to reveal a particularly ripe scandal could easily have gotten Max killed. Her uncle would have undertaken extreme measures with regret, but she did not doubt that he would do what he thought necessary.

It was all horribly farfetched, but then, so was murder. She closed her eyes, wondering if she were going mad. She had always had a vivid imagination-lurid, according to her father-and that imagination was running riot. Perhaps there was a simple, noncriminal explanation of what she had overheard.

If so, she could not guess what it was.

The logical thing would be to ask her uncle what he had meant in that damning conversation, but that did not seem like a prudent course. He was unlikely to reveal what he had gone to such trouble to conceal. Worse, if he were guilty of a crime, he might be a threat to her. She didn't think he would want to harm her, but if he had ordered his own brother's death, he was unlikely to have compunctions about doing the same to his niece.

She bit her lip, her mind churning with grief and confusion. Only two things seemed sure: Her father had not died naturally, and she herself was persona non grata in her ancestral home. She had known that Lady Collingwood did not like her, but even so she was appalled by the depth of hostility revealed in that overheard conversation. Heathen… dusky little savage… halfbreed.

She must leave Chanleigh this very night, after the household had retired. But she would not return tamely to Boston-not until she had gone to London and discovered the truth about her father's death.

She sat up, the need to plan steadying her chaotic emotions. She had the address of the inn where Max had been staying, as well as the names of several old friends he had intended to visit. That was enough to begin an investigation.

The only question was how to reach London. While she had a few pounds, it was not enough for a coach ticket, so she would have to walk. The distance was easily two hundred and fifty miles, but that was no great challenge to someone who had spent half her life traveling the back roads of New England.

This time, however, Maxie wouldn't have her father's protection, and traveling alone would be foolish-for a female. She had never deliberately masqueraded as a male, but the rough roads of America had made it advisable to dress as one much of the time. Luckily, she had brought her masculine attire to England. With her breasts bound, her hair under a hat, and a loose shirt, vest, and coat, she would look like a nondescript young boy. And if someone wanted to investigate too closely, she had her knife.

Packing was easy, for she had accumulated very little in a quarter century of living. Besides her male clothing, she would need one female outfit for London and a cloak that could double as a blanket. Her precious packet of American herbs would be useful protection on such a journey. Her mother's silver cross was already around her neck, and her father's watch, her own simple gold earrings, and her harmonica would be safe in an inside coat pocket. Cooking and eating utensils could be purchased from a tinker.

Everything fit easily into her small, battered knapsack. Then it was only a matter of waiting until after the household had gone to bed. Unable to face her aunt and uncle at dinner, she sent down a message that she had a headache and requested a meal in her room.

The hardest task proved to be writing a note. Having been a guest in the Collingwood home for months, it would be very shabby to disappear without a word. Odd how manners remained even when she was deeply suspicious of her host and hostess. More important, she did not want them to realize that she had overheard that cryptic, disquieting conversation.

Maxie gnawed on the quill pen for some time before inspiration struck. All she had to do was say that she had decided to go to London to visit her other aunt.

Desdemona Ross was the much younger sister of Cletus and Maximus, and a widowed bluestocking of ferocious and unbridled opinions. Since she was cordially loathed by Lady Collingwood, she seldom visited the family seat. Maxie had never met Lady Ross, but they had corresponded. In fact, a letter had arrived only the day before, so she would say that Desdemona had invited her niece to London.

Maxie bent to the writing paper with satisfaction. It was rude and eccentric to leave at night with no warning, but no one would pursue her, which was all that mattered. She doubted that anyone would bother to wonder where she had gotten coach fare.

In fact, she really would visit her aunt, whose letters had always been amiable and witty. It would be pleasant to discover some member of her father's family for whom she felt kinship.

Leaving Chanleigh Court was easy. Maxie was delighted to don her boy's clothes again after too many months in skirts. Among her mother's people, women wore leggings, and she was as comfortable in them as in the white man's gowns. Her farewell note was left in her room. With luck, it would not be found until well into the next day.

She stopped by the kitchen for cheese, bread, tea, and a slab of ham, which would spare her limited funds at least until Yorkshire. After some hesitation, she also took an old map of the road to London from her uncle's study.

She let herself out a side door. It seemed a good omen that the skies had cleared after an evening of intermittent rain. The night air was damp and rather chilly, but she drew it into her lungs eagerly, already feeling happier and freer.

Her practiced stride took her swiftly down the drive, but she stopped for a last glance at the great house. Maximus had been glad to return to his family home, and wherever his spirit was now, he must be pleased that his bones rested here.

But while Chanleigh had been her father's home, it was not hers, and it was unlikely that she would ever return. She had been a mere discordant ripple on the surface of a deep pool of Englishness, and like a ripple, she would soon be forgotten.

She covered five or six miles before the moon set. Seeing a small building silhouetted against the starlight, she picked her way across a soggy field to a storage shed. Remnants of the previous year's hay crop were stored inside, and it made a fragrant nest. She settled down with her pack for a pillow and her cloak as a blanket.

It was not the first night she had spent in a barn, and it would not be the last. It was, however, the first time Maxie had been entirely alone. In the past her father had always lain an arm's length away.

The thought produced an ache deep inside her, a pain that was both grief for her father and sorrow for her own isolation. On the verge of a sob, she curled her fingers around her mother's silver cross. She was a Mohawk, an American, and a Collins, and she would not feel sorry for herself.

But as she drifted into sleep, her last conscious thought was to wonder bleakly if her father's death meant that she would spend the rest of her life alone.

The brothers shared breakfast in a silence broken only by the occasional flutter of a newspaper page. However, the news was uninspiring as well as several days old, so the Marquess of Wolverton began studying his brother over the top of his Times.

When they were boys, the fiveyear difference in their ages had been significant and Giles had been very much the elder brother. He had hoped that over the winter, they would finally have a chance to become friends as adults and equals.

That hadn't happened. Robin had revealed some of himself his first evening at Wolverhampton, but after that night, he had withdrawn. He had been the perfect guest, always ready to talk, be silent, or participate in the neighborhood social rounds when required. Yet his thoughts and feelings were concealed behind the formidable barrier of his humor and charm.

It wouldn't have mattered, except that Giles knew that something was gravely wrong. The zest for life that had been Robin's most vivid characteristic had vanished. Too often Giles had found his brother sitting silently, staring at nothing. The marquess wondered if the blame should be laid on the woman who was now the Duchess of Candover, or if the reasons were deeper and less easily defined.

Whatever the cause, he felt that something in his brother had been broken, perhaps past mending. He grieved for that, for his own sake as well as for Robin's, but he had no idea what he might do to help. With a sigh, he laid his Times aside. "Do you have any plans for the day?"

Robin hesitated. "Perhaps I'll take a stroll through the west woods. I haven't visited that part of the estate yet."

Knowing he sounded overhearty,, Giles said, "I can't believe what a tame life you're living. I keep expecting you to vanish."

His brother smiled. "If that happens, don't worry. It would just mean that I found something amusing like a band of Gypsies and couldn't resist going off with them."