Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy)

by Henke, Shirl

  “You read the message before bringing it to me.” It was not a question.

  Nor did it require an answer. “I don't trust the froggies, and I trust their Italian minions even less. How do we know his information is reliable?”

  Jamison grinned. “Spoken like a true Englishman. My sources in Naples vouch that he's expert at breaking codes and reading sympathetic ink. If he wants to meet with me, I think it worthwhile.”

  Drum shrugged. “It may be your funeral.”

  “Since you'll be covering my back, it had best be yours first, old chap.”

  * * * *

  The “Oil Merchant” was his code name. He was known to the British Foreign Office, even though he was in the pay of the restored Bourbon monarchy in France. A short, rotund man with an ever-ready smile and the unctuous manner of a street peddler, he waited in the deep shadows of the old church, Santa Maria del Carmine. The flickering lights from hundreds of votive candles gave off a reddish glow, faint in the small alcove where he hid, pretending to pray at the small altar. His ear remained alert for the sound of the Englishman's footfalls.

  “Will the Eagle soar once again?” Jamison used the agreed-upon passwords.

  Alessandro Forli spun around, crossing himself in reflex, surprised at how silently such a big man could move. “You are late,” he whispered angrily to cover up his unease.

  “That is not the appropriate response,” Jamison replied, turning to leave.

  “Not if we clip his wings.” The Englishman stopped but remained standing. “Even if you are a heretic, kneel beside me so we may talk without drawing attention.”

  “No one is about. It's the middle of the bloody night,” Derrick replied but knelt all the same. “What do you have for me?”

  From a choir loft high in the back of the church, Drum observed the conversation taking place between his countryman and the Italian. He kept a pair of Egg pistols cocked and ready to fire should the need arise.

  After an exchange that lasted a good quarter of an hour, Jamison rose and left the fat man in front of the altar. By the time he reached the church door Drum was waiting for him, weapons nowhere in sight. “Was it worthwhile?”

  “Quite. A bit of spiritual uplifting would do wonders for you as well, my man. You should try prayer sometime.”

  “Quite amusing,” his companion drawled as they set out down the steps and crossed the piazza just as a light drizzle began to fall.

  “The Polish Wife paid a visit to Napoleon last week,” Derrick said.

  The Polish Wife was the derisive title given to a young Polish noblewoman who had become the emperor's mistress during his earlier triumphs against Russia. Unlike his other paramours, the Countess Maria Laczynska Wal-ewska remained fiercely devoted to Napoleon after his fall from power. She moved freely around the capitals of Europe and was a trustworthy courier for her lover.

  “So, the plot does thicken. Hmmm,” Drum said as Derrick finished his summary.

  “ Murat’s backwater country is not the key to the conspiracy. Forli agreed with me. That crafty Corsican is going to head straight for Paris, Italy be damned. If only those buffleheads in the Foreign Office would see it,” Derrick said in frustration. “I should be in Marseilles or Monaco, or in Livorno if I must remain in Italy. At least there I could observe the ships coming and going from Elba.”

  “Leaving Naples would mean leaving Beth Blackthorne. Are you certain you could do that?” Drum asked.

  The question took Derrick by surprise. Of course he could—couldn't he? “I would regret it, naturally,” he

  said.

  “Naturally,” Drum echoed. Was there just a hint of a smirk in his voice?

  “Normally when a relationship is this new, neither partner is ready to cry off—if they suit, that is.”

  “And you and she do suit, don't you?”

  “Not in the manner you mean,” Derrick snapped. “I do wish—”

  “Quiet,” Drum hissed. Without another word he dropped back into the shadow of an awning.

  Derrick continued walking down the long narrow street. It was nearly three in the morning and all the taverns and public houses had closed hours ago. Other than the occasional bark of a stray dog, not a sound could be heard...but for the pad of soft-soled shoes over cobblestones.

  He rested his hand on the butt of the pistol he wore at his waist beneath his cloak. A wicked knife was concealed in his boot as well. It might be a good idea to rid himself of the long outer garment if he was forced to fight in close quarters. Just as he began to unfasten his cloak, the footfalls suddenly accelerated. Derrick reached down and slipped the knife into one hand while his other withdrew the pistol from his belt. He whirled around, sending the cloak flying at the first attacker, stopping the assailant's progress when the man's dagger became entangled in the voluminous cloth.

  As he stumbled back trying to free himself, the second adversary shot but missed. Cursing, the assassin withdrew a second pistol, but before he could raise it to fire,Derrick ploughed into the first man, knocking him back into the arms of his comrade. From up the street Jamison could hear the crack of a single shot. Drum. He must be dealing with still more assassins.

  “I could use some help here, old chap,” he called out as his two attackers quickly disentangled themselves and faced him, pistols and knives gleaming in the moonlight.

  There was something familiar about the taller one, although his face was obscured by one of the broad-billed straw fedoras worn by the peasantry. With no time to consider that, he fired his own weapon, and the tall man dropped his pistol, turned and fled into an alleyway. Derrick could see that his shot had found its mark; the man held one arm. The first attacker, armed only with a wickedly long stiletto, faced him since his path into the alley was cut off by Derrick.

  The two antagonists circled each other, knives at the ready, each feinting, testing the other's strengths, looking for an opening. The assassin was smaller, his reach not as long as Derrick's, but his agility was considerable and he was lightning quick, grazing his opponent's arm the first time they crossed blades. Trapped, he wasted no words, concentrating with single-minded intensity on the task of killing. Derrick knew that made him doubly dangerous.

  Back down the street, Drum stood over the body of one dead assassin, looking at the other as he withdrew the length of his sword from the man's heart. He had intended to take this second one alive for interrogation, but it was not to be. Hearing Derrick yell for help, he turned and swiftly darted down the street toward the sounds of a fight in progress.

  The deadly ballet played out before him. He had never seen Derrick work before, and was curious to learn if he was any good. He was. So was his opponent. An even match, Drum observed, holding his sword ready to intervene if the fight turned against his countryman. Derrick parried a lightning-swift strike to his left, then feinted to the right, high but scoring in a lowering arc that sliced through the assassin's shirt, bloodying his sternum. The Italian grunted, seeming impervious to what must have been considerable pain. Both men were cut, neither dangerously...yet.

  Derrick had seldom seen a man fight so ferociously. His muscles screamed and numerous nicks and slices stung, his breath coming out in low pants, matched by those of his foe. He's tiring, too... Derrick backed off, moving his blade back and forth at waist level, as if trying to retreat. Come on...come on...

  The assassin took the bait. He had seen Drum standing in the background, and desperation made him rash. He lunged forward, trying to thrust over Derrick's blade and sink his own in his foe's throat. Just as the killer's arm extended with blurring speed, Derrick dodged to the left while seizing the Italian's right arm, jerking him off balance. The man's blade sliced harmlessly over Derrick's arm as his own knife plunged directly into the assassin's gut. A harsh swift hiss of agony accompanied the sound of the knife as Derrick shoved it upward toward the heart, then allowed the corpse to drop onto the cobblestones.

  “Done to a cow's thumb, old chap. Couldn't have handled
it better m'self,” Drum drawled, fastidiously cleaning the blood from his slim sword before sliding it inside his polished walnut walking stick. He rolled the dead man over onto his back with the toe of one boot. “Pity you had to kill him.”

  “You could have intervened.”

  “I would have rescued you if need occurred. Besides, I wanted to take your measure first. From what I have observed, the Blackthorne women expect courage from their men.”

  “Will you cease and desist with that!” Derrick hissed angrily.

  Drummond did not deign to reply, instead looked around the deserted street. “Two others lie dead under the awning. What happened to the fourth man?”

  “I hit him, but he got away down that alley.”

  “Any idea who they might have been? The dead ones look like lazzaroni. ”

  “The other did not seem so.” Derek replied.

  Drum looked up to where a candle had finally been lit in a fourth-story window down the street. “We'd best be away lest we end up answering to the local constabulary—or worse, some of the king's Frenchie guardsmen.”

  Derrick gathered up his cloak and they slipped quickly down the street. “The man who escaped looked familiar to me. Taller, muscular, clean shaven…there was something I recognized in the arrogant way he moved—Bourdin! I’d bet my last guinea on it. Your mention of Murat's guardsmen must have triggered the association.”

  “The rotter from whom you rescued Miss Blackthorne? He'd certainly have reason enough,” Drum mused.

  “If it was that simple, why not call me out? He's purported to be quite the deadly duelist.”

  “You think he plays a deeper game, then? That would mean Murat is aware of your mission. Things could get rather sticky for us in Naples, old chap.”

  “Perhaps he works for the king...or someone else... We won't be leaving Naples just yet—and I'll have to send a report to our contact via Sir Percival tonight. You'd best change into dry clothes before you set out, old chap.”

  “How solicitous of you,” Drum groused as they trudged through the rain toward their apartments.

  Chapter Seven

  Beth sat back and looked critically at the scene she had just sketched. Her hours spent with Mr. Turner had proven invaluable. But then, so had the hours spent with Derrick, she thought as her mouth spread in one of the dreamy, foolish grins about which Vittoria continually teased her.

  The warm golden days of autumn were now blending with the slight nip of what passed for winter in the Mediterranean. The weeks had flown into months and she had been painting more productively than ever. Perhaps having a lover was as conducive to her art as instruction from the famous J. M. W. Turner. She was deliriously happy...as long as she kept busy and did not think about the time when Derrick Jamison would return to England and their magic interlude would end.

  “He is the son of an earl, and as such he will sooner or later be forced into making a suitable marriage,” the con-tessa had warned only a week ago as they were sharing an early evening meal at the villa.

  “And you have made me more than aware that I am not ‘suitable,’ ” she had replied, striving for a light and unconcerned tone.

  “Cara, it is never my intention to hurt you, but I do not want him to hurt you either.” Vittoria sighed. “Perhaps with a first love it is inevitable.”

  “Do you still love Piero?” Beth asked softly.

  The contessa sipped from her wineglass, considering her words. She had confided about her first lover, a goldsmith's son, deemed unworthy by her family because he was a commoner and a Jew. The unthinkable misalliance was quashed by arranging her marriage to an older nobleman whose vast estates adjoined their own when she had barely turned seventeen. Piero Torres had left Naples for America, and although she had never seen him again, a small part of the practical Vittoria would always mourn for what might have been.

  “Sometimes I think of him and wonder if he prospered in your country...he had kinsmen there, I think.”

  “You have not answered me,” Beth chided gently. “I asked if you still loved him.”

  Vittoria shrugged and smiled. “Who is to say what that means, that much used word ‘love’. I prize many things and people...I do not think of love in the way you define it.”

  “Oh, and how, pray, do I define it?”

  “Being in love, completely wrapped up in one person upon whom your entire happiness depends, needing to spend the rest of your life together, bound by marriage vows and children,” Vittoria replied, studying Beth's expression.

  “If you think that is what I want with Derrick Jamison, or with any man, you could not be more mistaken. I would have to give up painting and become someone who lives by society's rules, someone who is not me, someone I would grow to hate...and in the process I would come to hate my husband as well. No, I shall not do that, Vittoria.”

  “Ah, cara, why do I fear that you have already taken the first step?” the contessa had murmured sadly, more to herself than to Beth.

  Giving herself a mental shake, Beth returned to her sketching and tried to put that troubling exchange with her friend out of her mind. Did she truly, in her heart of hearts, want to spend her life with Derrick, bear his children?

  “Well, it's not possible, so I’d best content myself with enjoying our time together, however brief. There will be other men after he is gone.” Liar, a voice deep within replied.

  * * * *

  “I simply cannot credit it! Our Elizabeth, behaving like a common…courtesan.” Quintin Blackthorne struggled for a word not quite so harsh as the one that first sprang to mind when he read Drum's letter.

  His wife Madelyne, sitting calmly while he paced furiously, tried to soothe his raging temper, something she had spent the major portion of her life doing. “In the first place, Quint, Beth is not selling her favors to Mr. Jamison.”

  “Oh, no? What would you call it, then?”

  He threw down the letter, which she had read before he returned to Savannah, since it had been addressed to both of them. She had taken the time to read between the lines and consider what Alex's friend had really intended to convey. “Beth is in love with the Englishman, who is certainly from a good family. They do things differently in Europe than—”

  “They damned well do,” he snapped furiously. “They are decadent lechers who would take advantage of an innocent's virtue and laugh at the consequences. Well, there will be consequences—consequences that the Honorable Derrick Jamison will not find amusing!”

  “Now, Quint, calm down!”

  “I am quite calm, darling,” he replied, moderating his tone with gritted teeth, as he pulled on his greatcoat.

  “Where are you going?” Now Madelyne was alarmed.

  “To the city to check Dev's sailing schedules. I will be on his next ship to Naples.”

  * * * *

  “Now, hold still—no, no, not like that. You look as if you've just taken a seat on a sharply pointed stick!” Beth burst into laughter as Derrick's face darkened thunderously.

  “Mock me, will you? And yet you dare to ask that I sit for a portrait.” He reached over and grabbed her sketchbook from her hand. “Let me see if—”

  “Oh, no, you don't,” she cried, seizing back the pad and shoving him firmly down onto the ancient oak limb lying across the mossy floor of the glade. “Now, lean back as I showed you, there's the way...just relax...” Her voice faded as she tried to concentrate.

  Beth recalled vividly when she'd finally worked up sufficient courage to ask him to pose for her. One morning she had awakened in his bed, drowsy and sated from a long and lovely night of making love. She had observed him as he slept, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the rising sun. He lay on his side, facing her,one powerful leg thrown possessively over her thigh, a hand warm against her breast. She had eased slowly away, careful not to awaken him so that she could study the sheer male beauty of his naked body.

  Thank God, the superficial nicks and cuts he had received during the attempted robbery
outside that gambling den had disappeared weeks ago without adding to the scars he already bore. Still, even those scars only added to his virile allure. His long lean frame filled the bed, skin dark against the pristine whiteness of the sheets. How, she had wondered, did an Englishman living in cold northern climes get so deeply tanned? Her fingertips traced the pattern of black hair on the back of his hand and forearm, marveling at the slim strength and beauty of his hands, hands that could control a powerful team of horses or caress her flesh with consummate skill.

  He had stretched and rolled over onto his back, affording her a better view. His shoulders were wide, his chest thick and powerful, covered with an even heavier growth of black hair, which then tapered into a narrow line toward his navel and arrowed to the black bush where his phallus lay dormant in repose. His body was contoured with lithe muscles that rippled more than bulged when he moved.

  But most of all she loved his face. The shadow of his black whiskers should have given him a piratical air, and would have had he been awake. But asleep his expression was younger, almost boyish, as she brushed that always errant lock of inky hair from his brow. She studied the arch of his eyebrows, the high planes of his cheekbones, the straight clean line of his jaw, but most of all, his mouth. The heat of it had the power to scald her. When he kissed her it had the power to draw her very soul from her body.

  The ancients, so she had read, believed that when a person's likeness was captured in a picture, a part of his soul was owned by the one who possessed the likeness. You own my soul, Derrick...why should I not claim at least a small part of yours? Her disturbing and bold thought had been interrupted at that very instant when he awakened, capturing her wrist in his hand. He brought her palm to his mouth and kissed it. Before she could lose her nerve, Beth found herself blurting out, “I want to paint you, Derrick.”

  He had refused at first, but she had cajoled and teased until he finally agreed to allow her to do some sketches. To her surprise and secret amusement, the bold, self-confident Englishman was decidedly uncomfortable about posing as an artist's subject. One of the reasons he had finally given in was that she had bribed him with the promise of a picnic in this secluded woodland glade, beside a small stream with a waterfall and a pool.