Into Passion's Dawn

  Also by Michele du Barry

  Volumes II and III of The Loves of Angela Carlyle:

  Across Captive Seas

  Toward Love’s Horizon

  MICHELE DU BARRY

  The Loves of Angela Carlyle (Vol. 1)

  Into Passion's Dawn

  Futura

  To my husband

  A Troubadour Book

  Copyright © Michele du Barry 1981

  First published in Great Britain in 1986 by Futura Publications, a Division of Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd London & Sydney

  All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 0 7088 2973 2

  Printed in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading

  Futura Publications A Division of Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd Maxwell House 74 Worship Street London EC2A 2EN

  A BPCC pic Company

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE Bad Blood

  PART ONE Shadows In The Night

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  PART TWO The Fallen Angel

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  PROLOGUE

  Bad Blood

  England

  1797

  I am as I am and so will I be,

  But how that I am none knoweth truly,

  Be it evil, be it well, be I bound, be I free,

  I am as I am and so will I be.

  —Sir Thomas Wyatt

  The sweetness of autumn was in the air. In the woods the scent of ripe blackberries, damp earth, moss, and dead leaves combined into an elusive fragrance, the harbinger of winter.

  Angela had lingered far too long among the flaming trees and now she was late. Running at a furious pace along the leaf-strewn path she could feel her hair slip down her back into a disordered tangle. There would never be time to freshen up before tea and today of all days she should have known better.

  The Duke of Brightling, a distant relation of her mother’s by marriage, would be arriving at any moment, and it would be her fault if she disgraced her parents. She should never have given in to the lure of the forest today. But the autumn with its cool breezes and splendor of gold, crimson, and purple was Angela’s favorite season. Even wet, rainy weather couldn’t dampen her enthusiasm for wandering among the trees, and this day had been fine and sunny.

  Her brother, Brian, was probably all dressed and combed, waiting for their guest in the sitting room. Angela sighed. Why had she inherited all the wildness of her mother’s bad blood? Not that the taint had affected her well-bred mother in any way. It just cropped up periodically among the descendants of the Campbells’ and had chosen her in this generation.

  Angela had heard over and over again the story of the infamous Clan Campbell. How they had been guests of the Macdonalds’ for twelve days, until her distant kinsman Robert Campbell and his troops repaid their hospitality by massacring them. Blood had flowed scarlet and hot, spattering the snow, drenching the earth. The nefarious deed still rang through the annals of Scottish history. Glencoe, Glen of Weeping, that place of bare mountains and gloomy skies would be forever haunted by the vileness of that treachery.

  Bad blood never changed and it had left its mark on Angela Carlyle. Where else could her unruly mane of black hair have come from, if not her Scottish forebears? Her parents were both fair and so was her brother. An impetuous, reckless disposition always landed her in trouble over the least incident. In fact trouble seemed to seek her out, taking pleasure in dogging her footsteps.

  Flying out of the woods, Angela paused, then ran around to the back of the old timbered cottage her father had inherited from his great-aunt Felicia. If it hadn’t been for Aunt Felicia’s timely death they would be as poor as church mice. As it was they were only slightly better off. That was the reason for the duke’s visit-money.

  Angela’s mother, Clarissa, was a delicate semi invalid. One more winter in England, the doctors said, would seal her fate. So her most prized possession, the ancient Celtic necklace that had been in the family for over six hundred years, was being bartered off to the duke. He had had his eye on that piece for years and was about to be granted his wish—another magnificent prize for his vast collection.

  If all went well there would be enough money to take them to Italy, a land of sunshine and temperate weather that the doctors recommended for consumptive patients. And if the sunshine didn’t effect a cure, perhaps the countless specialists on the continent could help. A secret smile curved Angela’s mouth. There might even be enough left over for a horse, her fondest dream.

  Peeking into the kitchen, Angela found it empty, but it wouldn’t be for long. Cakes and scones were baking and the tea kettle was on the stove. She scurried through and into the hall before Molly, the eagle-eyed maid, could catch her. As she tiptoed past the sitting room a flash of color caught her eye.

  The temptation of the empty room was too much. With a furtive glance down the hall she went in, stopping short before the table and the square of black velvet on which rested their salvation. The colored stones winked at Angela in a conspiracy, daring her to touch them. The afternoon sun slanting through the diamond-paned window was a beacon beckoning her on.

  Holding her breath she let the tips of her fingers brush gently over the necklace. Growing bolder, Angela carefully picked it up and clasped it around her neck. The old gold felt strangely warm against her skin, as if it were alive. Staring into the mirror the jewelry seemed to spring into motion, moving and swaying.

  The ornate spirals and links were intertwined with mythical birds, beasts, and flowers and lay heavily on her chest reaching to her waist. Tiny gems of every color of the rainbow sparkled with fire. In the very center was a huge aquamarine, exactly the same color as her eyes. It glittered with a pale intensity that outshone all the other jewels. The ancient thing would have better graced the neck of some barbarian queen, lost in the dark ages of the past.

  With the overactive imagination of the young, Angela didn’t see a child of ten with tangled curls and a smudge marring her nose, but a beautiful princess, proud and regal. The worn cotton dress was a satin robe and she smiled, inclining her head graciously to her besotted subjects.

  “Angela!”

  She gave a choked scream of fright as her mother’s voice abruptly ended her daydream. Spinning around, frantically trying to undo the necklace at the same time, she froze. In the doorway were her parents—and the duke! Brian made an impish face at her and clapped his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. She had been so caught up in her musing that she hadn’t even heard the coach arrive.

  The catch on the necklace seemed to have locked and now she was caught red-handed. The gold tightened around her neck, cutting off her breath. With flaming cheeks Angela watched in a daze as the duke entered the room, his watery brown eyes glued to her face.

  With his advancing bulk, the sunlight disappeared from the room and the atmosphere became chill and damp. An involuntary
shiver went up Angela’s spine. He was tall and fat, dressed as splendidly as a peacock, with a white-powdered wig perched on his head. Leaning heavily on a gold-headed cane, the duke limped toward her.

  “Angela, make your curtsy to the Duke of Brightling, child,” chided her mother softly.

  She made a jerky little curtsy, staring fascinated yet repelled at the wrinkled face carefully inspecting her from head to toe. Angela had never seen anyone dressed so outrageously with so many different colors and materials.

  The duke smiled, revealing broken tobacco-stained teeth. Then he took her hand and placed a wet smacking kiss on it. “Charming, just charming,” he said as Angela surreptitiously wiped her hand off on her skirt. “You have a lovely daughter, Clarissa. She certainly makes the perfect setting for those jewels.”

  But the duke was not looking at the necklace; in fact he had hardly glanced at it. Instead his eyes wandered from Angela’s rosy, parted lips to her unusual eyes, gliding over the creamy youthfulness of her complexion. Someday she would be a startling beauty, and already a plan was forming in the back of his mind.

  He smiled, well satisfied, and sat down as Molly arrived bearing a large silver tray laden with tea. The others took their places and Nigel looked with distress at his daughter. She needed a firm hand, yet he was always loath to dispense discipline.

  “Go to your room, Angela,” he told his mesmerized daughter, who was still standing staring rudely at the duke.

  “No! Let her stay,” boomed the duke imperiously, banging his cane on the floor. “Here, girl, sit in this chair next to me—and keep that necklace on. You’ll wear it little enough. Damn! if that stone isn’t the same color as your eyes.”

  He chucked her under the chin with strong brown and white mottled fingers and Angela shrank back into the chair. Her father was looking at her with distress in his anxious eyes and she knew exactly what he was thinking: Blood and breeding always tell, and you my girl are an untamed little savage.

  There would be no dinner for her tonight so she concentrated on eating as much as possible, trying to ignore Lord Percival Harrington’s lecherous eyes.

  As the conversation progressed through tea, Angela learned that Lord Harrington’s third wife and Clarissa had been distant cousins. But his duchess had died giving birth to the duke’s only son many years ago.

  “Yes,” said the duke, a wide grin on his raddled face, “they say I’m rough on my women. That’s why I’ve gone through so many wives.”

  Angela looked in puzzlement at her mother’s normally flushed cheeks blazing with scarlet mortification. Nigel cleared his throat nervously, almost upsetting his teacup, his soft eyes casting around, desperately trying to think of something to say.

  “And I’ll be damned if my son isn’t cast in the same mold! That young devil is already cutting a wide swath where women are concerned.” A scowl suddenly settled on Lord Harrington’s features and he shook his head. Angela sneezed as some powder from his wig wafted her way.

  “But that one’s a troublemaker. Has been since the moment he was born. Rebellious and arrogant! Too much of that dark Scottish blood in him.”

  Angela’s ears pricked up. So, this anonymous cousin of hers had the same problem she did. She would like to meet him and compare troubles. In a way it was comforting to know that she didn’t have the full share of Campbell wickedness—at least she shared it with someone else. A little frown settled on her brow. She wondered what “cutting a wide swath with women” meant. Maybe Brian knew.

  She looked at her brother. Yes, he knew. There was a half-suppressed smile on his face and Angela was determined to get it out of him later. Even though he was four years older than she, she knew how to twist Brian around her little finger. She smiled. Sometimes that blood came in handy for boldly finding out things she wasn’t supposed to know.

  At least having dashing, mysterious ancestors led to some excitement. Life would be very dull without that, and Angela had a feeling she would never be bored with her future.

  PART ONE

  Shadows In The Night

  England

  1802-1803

  Stay, gentle Night, and with thy darkness cover

  The kisses of her lover;

  Stay, and confound her tears and her shrill

  cryings,

  Her weak denials, vows, and often-dyings;

  Stay, and hide all:

  But help not, though she call.

  —John Fletcher

  Chapter One

  The golden, sun-filled Italian days were over. The money from the necklace had flowed in an unending stream, but all things must end—and so did that.

  Angela sat with her cheek pressed against the cool windowpane watching the ceaseless drip of rain fall onto the beloved countryside surrounding Windy Arbor. They had left five years ago in the fall and had returned to the same season. Everything was exactly as it had been, but different.

  She was older and wiser, sadder because Brian had been left behind. Never again would he feel the cold English rain or see the spring flowers. They would not frolic in the snow anymore or pick summer apples. Forevermore he would lie beneath the foreign soil of a sunny land, so far away.

  In a moment she would be crying and she couldn’t stand that. Springing to her feet Angela threw down her unread book and hastened to the closet. Snatching up a hooded cloak she threw it around herself and escaped into the cool watery afternoon. She would be scolded later for getting drenched but she didn’t care. Clarissa had forbidden her to go out in such inclement weather for fear she would get a fever like the one that had taken Brian. But she was made of sturdier stuff than her mother and brother, and rebellion was her second nature.

  Angela ran through the orchard and on into the woods. The rain beat deliciously against her hot face and she laughed at a rabbit she startled. The soothing trees enfolded her. She was home.

  The years they had spent abroad had a dreamlike quality about them. The tiny villa they rented in the south of Italy, blue sunny days, swimming, sailing, riding, running wild—after three weeks at home it seemed like a fantasy. There had been the trips to Germany and Switzerland, taking her mother to the best lung specialists money could buy and always the same reply: Rest and sunshine, stay away from England. It’s too damp, too cold.

  She was glad to be home, if only her mother could spend the winter in Italy. Already Clarissa’s cough had returned and the bright spots of color on her cheeks too. She was worried and knew there was no way out. Their resources were at an end, the only alternative to live frugally in England and hope for the best.

  Angela racked her brain. If there was any way to send her beloved mother to a better climate, anything she could do she would. But what could a fifteen-year-old girl do? She was too young to get a job even if one were available. In a few years perhaps she could become a governess or companion but by then it might be too late.

  If only her father were stronger, more dependable; but he wasn’t. His poetry was the world to him, his life’s work, and if he was practically penniless and unappreciated now, maybe later the fame would come. Clarissa too was weak. Oh, she could manage the house and be a pretty ornament with her blond hair and big cornflower-blue eyes, but that was the extent of her expertise.

  In spite of their shortcomings Angela loved her parents with all her heart. They were kind, gentle people and they were all she had. If only Brian were still alive— but that didn’t count. If onlys didn’t make dreams come true; wishing for something, no matter how desperately, couldn’t make something happen. Only positive action counted in this world, and unless a person was strong they would be walked over.

  Fantastic plans of becoming a highwayman flashed through Angela’s mind. She had learned to handle pistols and swords when Brian did and had excelled beyond him. Why couldn’t she have been born a boy? That would have solved all their problems. No one would take a fragile girl seriously if she pointed a pistol at them and yelled, “Stand and deliver!"They would laugh and cart her
off to jail, or worse send her home to her parents to be chastised for another ridiculous prank.

  But she was the strong one in her family. Whatever was to happen would be her doing and she must think of something right away—today. Her firm chin tilted upward, stubbornly determined to find a solution to their problems. Let her wild blood come to her aid now! It must be good for something other than getting her into scrapes.

  There was only one answer—the duke. He was their only relation better off than they were. He was rich and powerful. Surely he wouldn’t let Clarissa die—not if Angela had anything to do with it.

  With a firm step she marched herself back through the trees and into the house. She was drenched but that didn’t matter. Her mind was made up as to what she would do and she would do it now.

  Without even bothering to remove her soggy cloak Angela sat at her father’s desk and drew sheets of paper from the drawer. She wrinkled her straight nose, concentrating on what to say. Mystery was the thing that would lure the duke there so that she could speak to him in person. Not once did she write of their needs, only of an important matter that required Lord Harrington’s urgent attention. With a dramatic flourish she mentioned that her whole life and future happiness depended upon him.

  With resolution she slipped from the house for the second time that day, intent on mailing her letter. The sooner the duke received it, the sooner their problems would be solved. It never entered her mind that she could be turned down. If she had to get down on her knees and beg, then she would do it.

  Two weeks was a long time for an impatient girl to wait but today all Angela’s plans would come to fruition. The duke would be calling on her! Excitement was in the air and in her as she prepared herself for the visit.

  She was perfect, except for her hair. Clarissa wouldn’t let her put it up yet and that would have been exactly the right touch. Angela wanted to look competent, older so she could command the duke’s respect. Her glossy black hair had been combed back from the sides of her face and held with a silver clasp, to tumble down her back in riotous curls that no amount of brushing could tame. It would have to do, she thought, with regret. At least the rest of her outfit lent her an air of sophistication.