Fallen Angel
pedigree.
    “I also have a sister, with whom I live in London. She is married to a baron, who is very active in politics. Have you perhaps heard of Lord Wasteney?”
    “No, I have not. Do you know, Miss Jolliffe, I am becoming quite exasperated at the effort it is taking to drag information out of you. Do you suppose you might be a bit more forthcoming?”
    Again those clear gray eyes looked up at him. “But what is it you wish to know?”
    “Tell me the story of your life,” he snapped out.
    “There is really little to tell,” she replied. “I have led quite a humdrum existence until now.”
    “I shall be the judge of that.”
    “Well, Francis was fifteen and my sister Petronella was seventeen when I was bo rn , and according to my governess, I was rather a surprise for my parents. My sister married before I was out of leading strings, so I did not really come to know her well until I had a Season in London. Do you wish to know about my years as a child? They were in no way remarkable.”
    “I believe we can skip ahead to the Season you mentioned,” Gabriel said.
    She hesitated, then said, “Do you know, I am not at all sure it will be any more interesting. My sister presented me at court, and my father paid for me to have a Season, but I did not take. Because I am so very plain with no vivacity to speak of, my father saw little point in wasting his blunt giving me a second Season, especially when my sister offered me a place in her household.”
    With effort Gabriel resisted the impulse to tell her that her life was in truth every bit as boring as she had warned him it was.
    “And now, sir, might I know a little about you? I am afraid I do not even know your name.”
    “Sherington,” he said curtly. When he did not elaborate, she lapsed into silence.
    The bracken-covered moors and fells around them became more bleak and bare, and the higher the road climbed, the more snow lay in the ditches and hollows, out of reach of the feeble rays of the winter sun.
    But when they attained the crest of a particularly tall hill and Gabriel looked beyond to the distant horizon, he discovered in himself a surprising affinity for this desolate land, which had a stark beauty all its own.
    “Tell me about Northumberland, Miss Jolliffe,” he ordered, not bothering to disguise his command with polite phrases.
    “Well, to the south lies Hadrian’s Wall, which was built by the Romans, and here in the north there are any number of castles and castle ruins—”
    “I have no interest in stones, no matter how ancient or how cleverly they have been piled on top of each other,” he said, putting an end to that topic of conversation.
    After a moment’s thought, she tried again. “I have heard that the salmon fishing is quite good in the River Tweed, but”—she added quickly before he could interrupt again—“perhaps not in December.”
    Tilting her head, she looked up at him inquiringly, but he merely waited silently, leaving the burden of the conversation with her.
    “Do you hunt?” she asked finally.
    “No,” he said flatly, then added, “it has always seemed a singularly pointless pursuit compared to managing an import and export business.”
    “Then since you are in trade, I suppose I need not tell you that there is a strong coal mining industry along the coast?”
    “Indeed, Miss Jolliffe, I am not such a lackwit that I do not understand what the expression ‘carrying coals to Newcastle’ means.”
    There was an even longer pause, then Miss Jolliffe made another effort. “Have you ever had any particular interest in sheep?”
    Any number of sarcastic replies popped into his head, but mindful of the tedium of the miles which still lay before them, Gabriel said merely, “I do not believe that I have actually, up until this time, spared a thought for sheep, either individually or collectively.”
    With a sigh of relief, which brought a reluctant smile to Gabriel’s lips, his companion began to discourse
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