Fallen Angel by Elizabeth Thornton

through a mane of dishevelled-blond hair. Deveryn! Maddie's steps slowed and faltered to a halt. She steadied herself with one hand on the smooth oak handrail. Deveryn looked up and caught sight of her. She heard the hiss of his breath as he expelled it softly.
    "You," he breathed, and came toward her.
    Joy leaped to her throat, and she had to suppress the urge to fling herself down the last few steps and into his arms. A moment later, she was glad that she had not obeyed that first, rash impulse. A movement caught her eye. Her gaze shifted and she watched with something close to disbelief as Cynthia Sinclair made her entrance. In her form fitting, black redingote trimmed with black Russian sable, Cynthia's dark beauty was riveting.
    Maddie stumbled and would have fallen if her hand had not tightened instinctively around the handrail. She swayed, but forced her knees to straighten and hold her. Fortunately, only Deveryn was aware of the slight movement, for the hall seemed suddenly to be thronged with busy people who had come from different parts of the house to help with the boxes or greet the visitors.
    Maddie heard Deveryn's voice, low and urgent, close to her ear. "What is it? What's wrong?"
    From reserves of pride she was scarcely aware she possessed, she dredged up a cool intimidating smile. "I beg your pardon. So clumsy," she murmured and brushed past him, her hand outstretched to greet her late father's wife.
    "Cynthia," she managed, "it's been such a longtime," and she touched her cold lips to the proffered cheek.
    The introductions were soon made and the party removed to the front parlour where a blazing coal fire had been kindled. Though Maddie's mind was . reeling from the shock of discovering Deveryn's connection to her stepmother, she managed to remain neutrally polite. But it cost her something. She knew that she was unnaturally quiet and was aware of her aunt's anxious scrutiny. She longed to run away and lick her wounds in private like some creature of the wild, but pride kept her riveted to her place.
    It took a few minutes to make sense of what was being said around her. Cynthia asked some questions about the funeral which Miss Spencer took it upon herself to answer. There was a pause, and Maddie heard Deveryn's cultured English accent as he explained his presenceat Drumoak. He passed himself off as an acquaintance of the Sinclairs in London, and implied that he had been on the lookout for a hunting lodge in Scotland when word of the tragedy to Donald Sinclair had come to him. To accompany the bereaved widow to her destination seemed little enough to do in the circumstances, so he averred, especially when he himself was just about to set out for Edinburgh. His glib explanation was accepted at face value, though Maddie could not suppress the slight curl of her lip.
    "Please accept my condolences on your father's death, Miss Sinclair," Deveryn intoned in a quiet aside to Maddie.
    She heard her own voice calmly return some indifferent commonplace, and marvelled at her composure. It was, she decided, like playing a character in one of the school plays at Miss Maitland's. The thought revolved in her mind. When she finally brought her eyes up to look directly at Deveryn, she had herself well in hand.
    "Perhaps you would care for some tea?" She was careful to include Cynthia in the question.
    "Or perhaps something stronger," Cynthia responded pointedly. "Sherry for myself, and brandy for Lord Deveryn?" She turned to the viscount. "Donald always kept a fine cellar of your favourite cognac. And I remember your habit of having one drink before dinner. Indulge yourself while you may. There's not much at Drumoak to excite the palette of a connoisseur. You'll find our plain country fare a far cry from what you are accustomed to."
    Deveryn's eyes flicked an apology at Maddie, though he noted that it was Miss Spencer whose expression was patently affronted. "Thank you, but tea will be fine," he drawled easily. "And truth