by Henke, Shirl
Chapter Eighteen
“What am I going to do, cara?” the contessa asked Beth as they shared a late-morning meal one crisp day in September. “Piero says he will sail before winter comes. He demands an answer.”
“As much as I would hate to lose my dearest friend, I think you should marry him and go to America,” Beth replied gravely.
“It would mean giving up the life I've worked so hard to build,” Vittoria protested.
“What would you have to fear?”
“How about his family? Have you considered what they will think when Piero brings back a bride such as I? They're Sephardic.”
“And they're Americans. The rules of the Old World no longer apply. Your noble blood, his lack of it. Anyone can wed anyone they choose, no matter their religion or station in life, something that certainly wouldn't have happened if Derrick and I had met in England.”
“It did not happen here in Naples when we were young either.” Vittoria sighed.
As if echoing her thoughts, Beth said, “You and Piero have waited too long to waste another moment.”
The contessa's expression turned arch as she replied drolly, “Ah, but cara, we have not wasted any time at all since we've been reunited.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Beth scolded. “You must marry him. Take the gamble.”
“And it was worth it for you and Derrick?” Vittoria's smile was tinged with a faint bit of worry.
The question, coming out of the blue, unsettled Beth. She had gone to great lengths to assure her friend that everything was good between her and Derrick. “I cannot imagine living without him,” she answered honestly.
“Nor can I think of losing Piero again.... Men are such a bother, cara. Why do we put up with them?”
“Oh, I can think of at least one reason,” Beth replied with a hearty chuckle.
* * * *
With Beth, Derrick and Quint as witnesses, Piero and Vittoria were married in a quiet ceremony presided over with considerable misgivings by Father Vivalde. Performing a marriage for two members of the Church of England was one matter; performing one for his lifelong friend Vittoria and a Jewish American was quite another! Yet he could not help liking the charming outsider who had won the contessa's heart so long ago.
After the celebration, Quint planned to sail for home, finally satisfied that he had done the right thing leaving his child in the care of the Englishman. But then fate intervened when a black-bordered letter arrived from the Earl of Lynden's solicitor in London. Beth received the missive from a special courier who had been sent directly from the harbor. A feeling of dread swept over her as she held the heavy velum envelope in her hands. Although she knew Derrick was not close to any of his family, it boded ill that someone had died.
“What's troubling you, puss?” he asked, coming from his office at the rear of the villa into the foyer after hearing the echo of hoofbeats.
“Tis for you,” she replied gravely, giving him the letter with trembling hands.
He tore it open at once and began to read, then cursed succinctly beneath his breath. As he continued to scan the pages, he began pacing like a caged cat.
“Tis the earl, isn't it,” she said, fighting the wave of dizziness that swept over her. Pray God that the countess had been safely delivered of an heir by now!
“Yes. Leighton is dead. He broke his fool neck when his mount went down during a foxhunt,” Derrick snarled with an oath.
Beth sank into a chiavari chair, awash in misery, her whole world vanquished by this stroke of a pen. “And the countess?”
“Twas a girl.” His eyes met and held hers. ”I am now the ninth Earl of Lynden.” The despair in his voice was mirrored in his eyes.
Beth understood better than anyone how strong was her husband's sense of duty. He would go to London and assume the title, look after his sister-in-law and infant niece, restore the honor of the family name—and his own. But Beth would be an albatross about his neck, utterly unsuitable. Tis not as if I were the earl and you my countess...
“I must sail for London as soon as possible.”
Thoughts tumbled about in her mind helter-skelter until his clipped words broke into her trance. He'd said I, not we. Beth fought back tears as she said, “Of course, I shall remain here in Naples.”
Derrick was too engrossed in the enormity of the calamity that had just befallen him to think coherently. He knew Beth would hate London, hate giving up her life here every bit as much as Vittoria had. And lord knew, if the social arbiters of the ton found out about her shocking background, it would certainly put a period to any hope of redeeming his name from disgrace.
And still he could not imagine leaving her behind. “Of course you will go with me to London,” he snapped, feeling put-upon. He did not want to examine his feelings about her as his countess any more than he wanted to think about being the earl.
Beth stood up on shaky legs, taking a deep breath to clear her spinning head. “I do not think it wise, Derrick.”If he had hinted that he did not give a fig for the opinion of the ton, declared that he cared too much for her to leave her behind—if he had said anything at all conciliatory, matters might have proceeded differently.
But Derrick was not feeling particularly conciliatory at the moment. “What you think—or what I want—does not signify at this time, m'dear. Duty calls.”
“And we both know how seriously you take your duty, don't we, husband?”
The stark pain in her voice seemed nothing but bitterness to him. “Twas your father who forced the issue, puss,” he replied in a low, deadly voice.
Beth recoiled as if he had struck her. “And I agreed after your most dutiful importuning. More fool I for giving up my freedom!”
“A fate worse than death—becoming a countess. Many of your countrywomen would sell their souls for English titles.”
“While I only had to sell my body?” she asked icily.
“You've given it readily enough in the past—Quinn, Kasseim, God only knows who else before them. At least this time you'll get Lynden Hall and the Jamison jewels in return. A more than generous recompense, madam.”
“You bastard! You...you...” She launched into a tirade of the worst oaths she'd learned on the waterfront, spewing them out in Italian as she advanced on him, ready to claw his eyes out.
“That sluttish little tongue will earn you the cut direct,” he said, seizing her upraised hands in a bone-crushing grip and hauling her against his chest as she continued to curse him. “I'll teach you to mend it before we reach England.”
Even though their argument was loud enough for the servants to overhear, none would have dared interfere. Sir Percival, however, was under no such constraints. The sound of his mistress's shrieks of distress brought him on the run from her studio, where he'd been asleep in the sun. He bounded down the stairs toward the struggling couple, who were so intent on each other that neither noticed his barking until he sank his teeth into Derrick's ankle and held on with a loud growl.
Now it was Derrick's turn to spew forth a barrage of furious oaths as he released Beth and tried at the same time to kick free of the dog. The King Charles spaniel hung on with the tenacity of a pit bull. Fortunately his “master” was wearing boots and the dog's sharp teeth did not penetrate the leather. Unfortunately the dog's jaws were incredibly strong and the discomfort of the bite considerable.
Derrick tried raising his foot to shake loose Percy's hold, but the dog weighed too much and he nearly overbalanced himself in the attempt. Beth shrieked at him not to harm her rescuer, delivering a stout blow to his shoulder just as he reached down to try to pry the dog's jaws loose. At that same moment Percy jerked his head backward, teeth still firmly embedded in the boot. This time Derrick did lose his balance, pitching headfirst toward the stone stairway.
Percy reached the decision that it might be judicious to relinquish his grip just before Derrick landed—face forward against the newel post. As he slid down onto the bottom step, holdin
g one hand to his bloodied nose, the other massaging his aching ankle, the dog trotted over to his mistress, well content with the afternoon's work.
Beth knelt beside Percy, more to inspect from a safe distance the extent of damage to her husband than to pat the dog for his heroism—which she did anyway. Derrick's oaths were now muffled in the handkerchief he held to his battered face. He seemed otherwise unharmed. She deemed it prudent to take the dog and withdraw, allowing her husband to explain what he would to the butler after she instructed the servant to bring an ice pack to the foyer.
That night Beth paced in her studio, uncertain what to do. Derrick had stormed out of the villa within an hour of their fight and had not as yet returned, although it was well past midnight. There were many divertissements in the city, especially if one had money enough. Now that he was a bloody earl, Derrick certainly need never again worry about possessing enough of the ready, she thought bitterly, imagining him in the arms of one of the beautiful Neapolitan noblewomen who had practically thrown themselves at him.
“I must not sit about and brood all night,” she murmured to Percy, who hovered close at her side, knowing all was not well in the household. She could go to Vittoria, but Piero was there and he was Derrick's friend. No, there was no use burdening the contessa with her problems.
To further tangle matters, her father would be concerned about her going to England. If anyone knew how ill she would fit in such a society, it was Quintin Blackthorne. What would she tell him? And Vittoria? They had both urged her to wed Derrick and would feel guilty about this disastrous turn of affairs. Perhaps after he cooled down, Derrick might consider leaving her here. Divorce was possible, especially given the fact that she was a foreigner with a scarlet reputation.
But that course of action was predicated upon her not being pregnant. And for the past several weeks she had grown increasingly sure that she was. She felt different from the way she had before they were married when everyone had been so certain she was breeding. Since her last courses, she'd begun to experience fatigue, irritability and stomach upset. Even her breasts were growing tender. She could feel her body changing and knew the cause.
At least he'll believe the child is his. That thought gave her little comfort since the child would also bind them together in this bitter union for the rest of their lives. Before this afternoon, she had been turning over in her mind how to tell Derrick that he was going to be a father. There was a good likelihood that he would not have been pleased in any event. Even as plain Mr. and Mistress Jamison, they had unresolved issues, but as members of the peerage, the problems would be a hundred times worse. Any son of hers would one day become the tenth Earl of Lynden. And Derrick believed she was unworthy of mothering his heir.
“This stewing is not good for the babe,” she said to Percy, who gave a woof of agreement. “What I need is a good night's sleep. Then I'll consider what to do in the morning.”
But she would not sleep in the same bed with Derrick, who—assuming that he did come home before daylight—would reek of some courtesan's perfume. She instructed Donita to prepare the guest bedroom for her. The little maid nodded sorrowfully. She knew that her employers had had a terrible fight and suspected that her lady was breeding. Such a way to treat his wife! Donita would never understand foreigners, especially Englishmen.
Beth took a languorous bath to relax herself, then retired to the small bedroom adjacent to her studio. The fatigue that had been her constant companion for the past weeks soon sent her into blissful oblivion.
* * * *
Across the city, Derrick had been seeking oblivion of his own. In a bottle. He raised his head and gave the waterfront cantina a bleary-eyed inspection. It was not the worst place on the quay, but neither did it cater to the better sort of clientele. The ceiling was low, its beams blackened by decades of thick smoke that rose from the huge fire pit in the center of the room where the morrow's mutton roasted on a spit, giving off a strong greasy aroma.
“What in the hell are we going to do, puss?” he asked the empty tumbler in his hand. It held no answers.
From their first encounters in Naples she had made it abundantly clear that she valued her unconventional life more than hearth and home. When faced with the possibility of motherhood, she'd still had to be cajoled into marriage, and that only with his assurances that he would do nothing to stand in the way of her painting pictures on commission, attending radical salons and visiting the quay dressed like a virtual prostitute—hardly socially acceptable behavior by the standards of the ton!
She would be ostracized and wretchedly unhappy as his countess. They had never discussed what they would do about children. She'd told him that she did not want any long before they wed. When her courses came on their wedding night, he had been greatly relieved, not only because the doubt of paternity had been removed, but also because she would not be happy as a mother. But now he was the last of the direct Jamison line and it was his duty to have a son and heir.
“My duty...my bloody duty,” he slurred into the glass as he poured himself another drink, emptying the bottle. Duty was what had landed him in every mess since he'd been a callow twenty-year-old whose honor demanded a duel. Duty had sent him to purchase a commission but end up a spy. Then it had led him to Beth.
“There, there, caro, let Angelina cheer you.” The inn-keep's pretty daughter ran her hands over his shoulders and nuzzled his neck so that he was afforded a close-up view of the bounty spilling out of her low-cut blouse. Angelina was young, clean and rather pretty in a coarse sort of way, with long straight black hair and huge breasts. He could do worse. He often had...but not tonight.
When he declined her offer she huffed off, stamping her feet and wriggling her hips to show him just what he was missing. He got unsteadily to his feet and paid the bill, then headed for the door. Even half-drunk, he had sufficient experience to know how dangerous it was to drink alone in a bad neighborhood. As he walked, he kept his hand on the pistol at his waist and watched for any sign of movement from the other patrons seated at tables scattered about the large, dimly lit room.
No one in the cantina wanted to tangle with the dangerous-looking armed Englishman. He walked around to the stable where he'd left his mount with the inn's ostler. Several other stablemen stood about as he paid the man, then swung up into the saddle and headed for home. The streets were narrow and dark, silent as the tomb at this hour. Derrick felt a familiar prickling of unease, that sixth sense he'd developed over the years working for his government.
Someone was following him, cutting stealthily through back alleys to head him off. He tried to clear his liquor-addled wits and recall the lay of the land between where he was and the open piazza at the edge of the city. If he could make it that far, he'd be in the clear. Was there more than one? He could not tell for certain, but he heard the faint pad of footfalls coming from his left side. Then he saw it two blocks ahead: the best place for an ambush,a low archway over the intersection with a second street.
Whoever wanted to attack him—a robber or someone with a more personal and deadly motive—had probably intended to make his move when Derrick left the inn, then found the stablehands waiting with his horse and had to revise the plan. Derrick slowed his mount ever so slightly, calculating quickly. If one man dropped from the archway as he rode beneath it, others could rush him from around the corners of the buildings on either side of the intersecting street.
Now the only sound he could hear was the steady clop of his horse's hooves. No sign of the watch. He had only one chance. He shoved the reins between his knee and the saddle. Drawing his pistol, he shifted it to his left hand and pulled the dirk from his boot with his right. He kicked the big bay into a full gallop,controlling it with his knees. Just as he was almost clear of the arch the attacker dropped, missing his shoulders but seizing his left arm as he began to slide from the horse's rump.
Derrick slashed wickedly at the man, unable to see his face. The sound of a high-pitched curse echoed down the
empty streets as his blade found its mark. The man fell away as two others rushed at him, one from each side of the street. He shot the one on his right and kicked the one on his left.
He realized he'd been very fortunate. Going into the slums and getting drunk was suicidally stupid. He also knew why he'd done it—Beth. As he rode he considered how their lives might have turned out if Leighton had not gotten himself senselessly killed. In time they might have been able to make the marriage work. They enjoyed simple pleasures such as riding, sailing and sharing quiet meals while they watched the sun set on the bay. Lord knew they enjoyed bed sport together. She had ruined him for other women, damn her! He felt the hard tight itch of desire just thinking of her and his groin throbbed in spite of the prodigious amount of rum he had consumed in the past hours.
By the time he reached the villa it was very late and the whole household was asleep. The entryway was in utter darkness. When he stepped inside, he nearly broke his neck over a large urn that a servant had rearranged at some point after he'd departed in the afternoon. He groped his way to the stairs, cursing the fact that no one had thought to leave so much as a candle burning for his use. Once he reached the upstairs hall, the moon lit his way to their bedroom. The door was ajar.
He could sense even before he lit a candle that the bed was empty behind the canopy. Damn her! He knew where she'd be. His blood was pounding in his ears as he sat on the chair in the corner and pulled off his boots and stockings, carefully removing the knife and pistol and laying them on a bedside table. Tearing off his shirt, he stalked down the hall.
By now his eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. Barely leashed fury had begun to sober him slightly as he opened the door to the guest bedroom. Just as he'd imagined, Beth lay curled up once more on the small mattress, a sheer layer of mosquito netting covering the bed. He moved soundlessly into the room, then froze at the familiar sound of a low growl.
“Call off your dog or I'll throw him out the window, so help me God,” he rasped out as Beth awakened and sat up.
