Angel in Scarlet by Jennifer Wilde Read Free Book Online

pulled a book from the pile. It was entitled A General History of The Most Famous Highwaymen by a Captain Charles Johnson and was extremely battered, the pages thumbmarked and threatening to fall loose. Sunlight streamed lazily through the windows and made wavering patterns on the floor as I turned the pages and looked at the crude but fascinating engravings.
    â€œI forgot about that. It was sent along by mistake, apparently got mixed up with the titles I requested. It was published in 1734, looks it, too. The binding’s in tatters. I suppose I’ll have to send it back,” he added, and he sighed again, as though the task were completely beyond him.
    â€œLet’s keep it,” I suggested. “I’ve always adored highwaymen.”
    My father smiled his vague, indulgent smile, the one he reserved exclusively for me. “Handsome, dashing creatures in long black capes and rakish black masks,” he said, “wielding pistols with aplomb. A romantic image, I confess, but the reality would fall far short.”
    â€œHave you ever met one?”
    â€œHaven’t had the privilege,” he admitted, “though I’m sure they’re a vile, bloodthirsty lot, pockmarked and puny and far from a maiden’s prayer. Keep the book if you like, Pumpkin. It’s probably no bloodier than some of those thundering melodramas Solonge sneaks home to you.”
    â€œI read good books, too!” I protested.
    â€œSometimes I fear you read altogether too much,” he said, though I could tell he didn’t mean it. “What kind of wild, unprincipled prodigy have I sired? You’re twelve years old and far, far too knowing for your age, and far too mischievous, too, I might add. No wonder your stepmother is always in a state.”
    â€œWould you like me to grow up to be like Solonge and Janine?” I asked.
    â€œGod forbid.”
    â€œJanine’s a slug,” I confided, “but Solonge is not so bad.”
    â€œSolonge is destined to bring ruin and destruction to any number of unfortunate men. It’s in her blood, though she’s singularly lacking in malice or spite. No, Pumpkin, I wouldn’t have you grow up to be like either of your stepsisters.”
    â€œAt least they’re beau tiful.”
    â€œThey’re gloriously lovely, yes, and I fear that will be their downfall. You, my darling, have your own kind of beauty.”
    â€œI’d rather have glossy blonde hair and blue eyes,” I informed him.
    Father chuckled, shuffled some papers aside and stood up. He was tall, a bit stooped, a bit overweight, though far from fat. In his youth he must have been glorious himself, I mused, but all the years of living with Marie, all the years of trying to drum a smattering of knowledge into the heads of recalcitrant schoolboys had taken their toll. I loved him with all my heart and soul and saw him through a haze of rapt adoration, but even so I knew he was not a happy man. The wry humor, the amiability and gentle, distracted manner failed to conceal the aura of sadness and lost dreams. Strange though it might be, I often felt I was the adult, he the child, and I felt a strong protective feeling toward him. I took his hand and squeezed it, expressing emotions mere words couldn’t convey.
    Father smiled again and patted me on top of the head, and then, looking at the litter of paper and twine as though wondering how it got there, he began to place the new books on the shelves, wedging them in wherever he could find an inch or two of space.
    â€œAnd what particular mischief have you been getting into today?” he inquired.
    â€œNothing much. I—uh—I was with The Bastard today, Father.”
    â€œIndeed? I assume you’re referring to Hugh Bradford?”
    I nodded. “He—he spanked me.”
    â€œOh?” He wasn’t at all perturbed. “And how did this shocking event occur?”
    â€œI—well, I guess you