No Place for an Angel Read online

  He certainly hadn’t expected Fate to walk in and turn his life upside down. Who could have foreseen that his youngest sister and her husband—both only twenty years old—would be struck down by illness, forcing Valbourg into the role of guardian to their four-year-old son? Who could have known that with Sarah’s death, the sybaritic lifestyle he’d led would come to an abrupt end? That the room he had used as a study would be converted to a nursery, or that Nanny Lamb would be coaxed out of retirement and that overnight, the heir to a marquessate and one of London’s most eligible bachelors would become a sober and responsible family man.

  Certainly not him.

  But, in fact, that was precisely what had happened, and in the two years since Sebastian’s arrival, Valbourg had become a model of sobriety and restraint. A paragon with no vices and few regrets.

  Except one—and he would be seeing her tonight. Miss Catherine Jones. The Angel of London. The one temptation he had tried—and so far succeeded in—resisting.

  It must be Fate interfering in his life again, Valbourg reflected moodily as he set out on foot for his father’s house. Only a perverse deity would bring the Angel into his life at a time when he could do absolutely nothing about it—because only Fate knew how desperately he wanted her. He had, ever since the first time he had seen her on the stage of the Gryphon Theatre in the role of Flora, goddess of spring.

  Garbed in a flowing white gown and with her silken hair caught up in a coronet of roses, Catherine Jones had appeared to him like something out of a dream; a golden-haired goddess sent to bewitch and beguile him. Her incredible, bell-like voice had filled the theatre and caused the chattering crowd to raise their lorgnettes and peer with wonder at the glorious creature standing before them.

  Unfortunately, it was not only her voice that had captivated Valbourg. When at the end of that first performance, she had stared out into that vast auditorium, raised her sapphire-blue eyes to the first row of boxes, and her gaze had connected with his—and she had smiled. From that moment on, Valbourg had been lost. The thought of holding Catherine in his arms kept him awake at night, while the desire to lose himself in the softness of her body made him ache.

  Quite simply, the woman was intoxicating; more seductive than the finest wine, more addictive than the strongest opium. And like an addict, Valbourg kept returning to the Gryphon Theatre night after night, simply for the pleasure of watching her. She never glanced in his direction again, but it didn’t matter. The die had been cast. Valbourg became her greatest admirer...and she didn’t even know his name.

  But she would after tonight, because tonight, she would be singing at his sister’s betrothal celebration. Mary had specifically asked him to engage Miss Jones to entertain their guests, and his father had asked him to look after the young lady while she was in his house.

  Not an onerous responsibility. Indeed, Valbourg could think of a hundred men who would have jumped at the opportunity. But not him. For him it would be an exercise in frustration. A test of will-power...because the day he had become Sebastian’s guardian was the day he had vowed to lead an exemplary life. One that gave no one any room to criticise his behaviour or a reason to take Sebastian away—which a liaison with Catherine Jones would most certainly do. That meant he had no choice but to keep her at arm’s length. He would greet her when she arrived at his father’s house and introduce her to his sister and her fiancé at the appropriate time. If called upon to do so, he would even talk to her as though she was any other woman and not the bewitching creature who charmed with her music and ensnared with her beauty.

  He had a reputation to uphold and a six-year-old boy to take care of. Not even the glorious Catherine Jones could be allowed to jeopardise that!

  * * *

  The Marquess of Alderbury’s town house was an imposing Georgian edifice graced with five levels of windows, a row of sculpted Gothic columns and a fringe of grinning gargoyles that glared down on unsuspecting visitors. A house built to impress and intimidate.

  Catherine was not intimidated. She might have been when she had first arrived in London five years ago, but so much had changed in her life since then she no longer gazed with open-mouthed wonder at such things. Her employer, Theo Templeton, owned an exceedingly gracious residence just a few streets away, and she had often been invited to attend receptions given by the former actor and his flamboyant wife, also a former stage actress. Together, they had introduced Catherine to an eclectic group of actors, writers, artists and entrepreneurs, few of whom would have been made to feel welcome in the drawing rooms of polite society, but all of whom were accepted and embraced in the Templetons’.

  Catherine had been similarly welcomed, because in that gloriously ornate room, no one knew about the scandals in her past. No one knew about Will Hailey, the young man with whom she had fallen in love and committed that one terrible mistake, or about Thomas, the beautiful, golden-haired child who had resulted from it. No one knew about Will’s father, the Reverend James Hailey, who had ripped Thomas from her arms when he was but a baby and then told her to leave. A man whose hard-hearted actions had necessitated the dramatic changes in her life.

  No one knew any of that because here she was just Catherine Jones, the much-admired singer who had taken London by storm; a woman celebrated for her talent rather than looked down upon for her sins.

  A woman who had buried her pain so deep no one even knew it existed.

  Catherine glanced down at her gloved hands and sighed. She must be talented indeed to be able to fool all of London into believing she was happy.

  The marquess’s carriage rolled to a stop at the bottom of the stone steps and one of the liveried footmen jumped down to open the door. He was too well trained to peer inside, but Catherine knew he was waiting for her to disembark...something she knew better than to do. Actresses were not deposited at the front door of elegant residences. They were admitted through the servants’ entrance and taken up the back stairs, hopefully without being seen by any of the guests. No doubt, the butler would soon come out and instruct the driver to move on.

  But to her dismay, no such direction came. And when a shout rang out from one of the carriages in line behind them, the footman finally poked his head in and said, ‘Excuse me, miss, but we have to move on.’

  Catherine bit her lip, wondering who was responsible for the mistake. She glanced at the crowds milling beyond the carriage door and knew exactly what they would think if she were to emerge from Lord Alderbury’s carriage now. Unmarried women of good birth did not arrive unescorted at evening events and certainly not in the carriages of their hosts. That suggested an association well-bred people chose to ignore. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t sit in the carriage all night.

  And so she climbed out, trying to appear nonchalant as she stepped into the crowd of richly dressed women and their elegant escorts. A few of the ladies raised well-groomed eyebrows while others just whispered and smiled behind their fans.

  Catherine smoothed out the folds in her gown and pretended not to notice. She wanted to tell them she had been specifically invited by the Marquess of Alderbury to perform at this evening’s soirée, but if that was the case, why had no one been sent to meet her? Had his lordship forgotten she was coming—?

  ‘Good evening, Miss Jones. Welcome to Alderbury House.’

  The voice, polite, reserved and as smooth as warm honey, came from somewhere to her left and, turning around, Catherine saw a gentleman walking towards her. He wasn’t old enough to be the marquess, but neither could he be mistaken for a member of the household staff. Tall, dignified and impossibly handsome in exquisitely tailored evening clothes, his self-sufficient air suggested a man who was at home in his surroundings. One who had been born to the role. Another member of the family, perhaps? ‘Thank you, Mr...?’

  ‘Valbourg,’ he said. ‘My father is engaged elsewhere, but asked that I be on hand to gre
et you. I apologise for having kept you waiting.’

  ‘My apologies, Lord Valbourg,’ Catherine said, belatedly aware that she was addressing the marquess’s eldest son. ‘I hope you will convey my gratitude to your father for having been so kind as to send a carriage to collect me from the theatre.’

  ‘Actually, that was my doing,’ Valbourg said. ‘Since I asked you to come immediately after your performance, I thought the least I could do was provide comfortable transportation to bring you here. A carriage will also be made available to take you home at the end of the evening.’

  ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ Catherine said, well aware that the infamous Stubbs would be watching for her arrival and preferring not to have to pay him extra to forget what he had seen. ‘I am able to make my own way around London.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, but you will not be required to do so this evening.’ He indicated the stairs. ‘Shall we?’

  There was nothing in his tone to indicate disapproval of her response, but Catherine felt it none the less. Obviously Lord Valbourg did not deem it appropriate for a woman to travel around London on her own and had no doubt formed an opinion as to her character and morals as a result. Pity. She didn’t like being judged on appearances, especially when those appearances were misleading.

  The truth was, she seldom went anywhere on her own because Mrs Rankin, the lady who had been with her since her arrival in London and who acted as both companion and chaperon, made sure she did not. It was only as a result of the lady being so dreadfully ill—and Lily being otherwise engaged—that Catherine had come on her own tonight. However, suspecting there was little she could say that would change his opinion, she gathered her skirts and started up the stairs beside him. She would deal with the issue of the ride home later.

  They entered the hall, a magnificent room sumptuously furnished and sprinkled with priceless artwork and gilt-edged mirrors. Guests were directed up the white marble staircase and to the left, where Catherine assumed the marquess and his family were receiving.

  She was taken up the stairs and to the right.

  ‘I thought you would like to see where you will be performing,’ Valbourg said politely. ‘Refreshments, if desired, will be brought to you there.’

  Catherine inclined her head. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ As kind as Valbourg’s offer was, she knew what he was saying. She was the paid entertainment; not an invited guest. Strange how that still had the power to hurt. ‘Actually, I never eat before a performance,’ she added in a voice as remote as his. ‘I find it affects my voice.’

  ‘Then I wonder at you having the stamina to perform so magnificently in Promises night after night.’

  Her head came round sharply. ‘You’ve seen the play?’

  ‘Indeed. I was curious to know what all of London was talking about.’

  ‘Really.’ She resented having to ask, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘Very much.’ Valbourg glanced briefly in her direction. ‘And you were...exceptional.’

  His gaze lingered for no more than a moment, but it was long enough for Catherine to form an impression of sculpted cheekbones, dark eyes and a firm, sensuous mouth. Lord Valbourg was an elegant and powerful man; one whose slightest glance would bring women flocking to his side in the hopes of securing his affection.

  How fortunate she was not one of those women.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, returning her gaze to the stairs. ‘I would not have thought Promises the type of play a man like you would enjoy, but I shall certainly pass your comments along to Mr Templeton.’ She flicked another glance in his direction. ‘I cannot recall having seen you in the audience.’

  ‘Why would you? I am but one of the many thousands who stare at you every night,’ Valbourg said. ‘In such crowds, all faces blur into one, none of them distinguishable or particularly memorable.’

  And yet, yours would be, Catherine found herself thinking. In fact, as she glanced at Valbourg again, she realised there was something familiar about his features. The black, wavy hair, the dark slash of eyebrows above expressive eyes and a slender, aristocratic nose. And that mouth, capable, no doubt, of humbling a man with a few carefully chosen words, or of bringing a woman to ecstasy with a lingering kiss—

  ‘I say, Brother, what gem have you brought into the house tonight?’ A very different voice cut into her musings. ‘Can it be the Angel of London come to grace us with her presence?’

  Valbourg stopped and turned around, causing Catherine to do the same.

  ‘Ah, Hugh, I wondered when I would be seeing you. Miss Jones, allow me to introduce my brother, Lord Hugh Nelson. Hugh, Miss Catherine Jones.’

  Brother. Yes, Catherine could see the resemblance. Though he looked to be younger than Valbourg, Lord Hugh shared his brother’s dark hair, sculpted cheekbones and slender, aristocratic nose. But where Valbourg’s eyes were a warm chocolate brown, Lord Hugh’s were the cool clear grey of a winter morning. His clothes were more dandified than Valbourg’s, and where the latter’s build suggested a man who enjoyed outdoor pursuits, Lord Hugh’s was already tending towards corpulence.

  But it was in their attitudes towards her that Catherine saw the biggest difference. Valbourg’s regard was polite but uninterested. Lord Hugh’s was engaged and appreciative, leaving her in no doubt as to the nature of his thoughts.

  ‘So, we are to be treated to a performance by the Angel of London,’ he murmured, reaching for her hand. ‘How honoured we are.’

  His words were as flattering as his regard, but Catherine suspected honour had very little to do with them. ‘Thank you. I was delighted to be asked and look forward to performing for your father’s guests.’

  ‘Not nearly as pleased as we are to have you. I say, Val, why don’t you leave Miss Jones in my care until Mary is ready for her to sing?’ Lord Hugh said, his hands pressing moist heat into hers. ‘I’m sure you have more important things to do.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do not,’ Valbourg said, pointedly freeing Catherine’s hand from his brother’s. ‘Mary charged me with the responsibility of looking after our guest and that is what I intend to do. Come, Miss Jones, the music room is just ahead. I’m sure you would like a chance to rehearse before the guests start arriving. One of the footmen will keep watch outside.’ He levelled a warning glance in his brother’s direction. ‘I have left instructions that no one is to be admitted until you are ready to begin.’

  With that, he placed his hand in the middle of Catherine’s back and gently propelled her forward.

  Catherine was not sorry to walk away. She was familiar with Lord Hugh’s type: men who had been indulged since birth and were used to having what—and who—they wanted. He no doubt enjoyed the company of actresses and ballet dancers, many of whom were, for the most part, elegant prostitutes, and while Catherine did not think of herself in that way, she was realistic enough to know that others did.

  For that reason, she was surprised when a few minutes later, Valbourg said, ‘I apologise for my brother’s behaviour, Miss Jones. There is nothing he likes better than to find himself in the company of beautiful women, and while I cannot say he would not have made an improper advance, he would certainly have tried to monopolise your time.’

  Catherine slowed, her expression thoughtful. Valbourg thought her beautiful? ‘Thank you, my lord, but there is no need to apologise. I have encountered your brother’s type before and am perfectly able to take care of myself.’

  ‘Are you?’ A glint of amusement warmed the brown eyes that suddenly turned to meet hers. ‘Have you a bronzed Nubian bodyguard you call upon at such times?’

  Catherine allowed herself a small smile. ‘No, but I do know a few techniques that can come in useful. Ways in which to deflect a gentleman’s unwanted amorous attentions.’

  ‘If force is required to put distanc
e between you and an admirer, he can hardly be called a gentleman.’

  ‘Ah, but he can,’ Catherine said. ‘A man will always treat a lady with respect, but he is not obliged to show the same consideration when in the company of an actress.’

  ‘He is when in this house,’ Valbourg said. ‘If you are treated with anything less than the respect you deserve, you are to find me at once and I shall deal with it.’

  There was no trace of amusement in his voice now and Catherine was flattered by his concern. For all her fame, actresses were seldom accorded such consideration. It was refreshing to know there were still decent men in the world and that Lord Valbourg was one of them. What a pity their situations in life would prevent her from having a chance to know him better.

  ‘Thank you, my lord, but I doubt any of your father’s guests would be so inconsiderate as to misbehave beneath his roof. It would be a poor repayment of his hospitality.’

  ‘It would indeed, Miss Jones,’ Valbourg said. ‘And for everyone’s sake, I hope they remain aware of it.’

  * * *

  After making sure that Miss Jones was safely ensconced in the music room, Valbourg left her alone to practise, insisting she lock the door as soon as he left. The lady might believe herself wise to the ways of the world, but Valbourg knew there was very little she would be able to do against a man who had serious seduction on his mind. For that reason, he waited until he heard the click of the lock falling into place before making his way back to the ballroom.

  Not surprisingly, his brother was waiting for him; a drink in his hand and a scowl on his face. ‘I say, Val, I didn’t care for the way you spoke to me back there. You had no right to be so dismissive in front of Miss Jones.’

  ‘And you had no right to move in on her the way you did. Dear God, Hugh, she is a guest in our father’s house,’ Valbourg said tersely. ‘Could you not have restrained yourself?’

  ‘She is an actress, not a guest,’ Hugh informed him. ‘One no doubt possessed of the same questionable morals as all the rest. She is only here to sing for her supper, and you can be damn sure she’ll be looking for a wealthy man to take her home. For a hefty price, of course.’