Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy)

by Henke, Shirl

  The nanny, Tilda, was only an upstairs maid temporarily assigned to care for Constance while the special French governess Annabella had hired was ill with an infected tooth. Without saying so directly, Tilda indicated that the woman left much to be desired as caretaker for a child. Beth decided to speak with Derrick about the matter, but feared that once Annabella moved to her own household she would do what she wished. Of course, the earl would be paying the bills....

  As she sat on the floor with Tilda, playing ball with Constance, she did not see Derrick in the doorway. He'd heard the sounds of Beth's voice blending with a child's laughter and had come to see what was happening. The sight of her with his niece stunned him. Beth actually seemed to be enjoying herself, to have a natural way with children in spite of what she had said about wanting none of her own.

  Of course, he knew well that many women of the upper classes spent a few moments a week cosseting their offspring, then sent them off with servants and promptly forgot them. That sort of motherhood was little inconvenience, the variety his own mother had chosen. What kind of mother would Beth be?

  Before he could mull further, the serving girl saw him and began scraping and bowing to the new earl. Unselfconsciously holding Constance, Beth got up and walked over to him. “Meet your new niece. Connie, say hello to your Uncle Derrick.”

  “We've already met,” he surprised her by replying. “Earlier this morning.” When he reached out and took the little girl, she came eagerly into his arms. He thoroughly enjoyed the expression on Beth's face.

  “I would never have credited that children would like you,” she finally managed.

  “Odd; I would have said the same of you,” he replied as their eyes met over Connie's silky blond head.

  He always knew how to wound her, she thought sadly, not realizing she had just done the same thing to him.

  * * * *

  The following week, Annabella and her entourage moved. Beth would have been overjoyed to see the last of the hateful woman if not for her daughter. But she was able to see that Tilda was assigned as the little girl's permanent companion. The chilly French governess was dismissed. If Annabella cared at all, she did not indicate it. Beth decided she would have Tilda bring Connie over for frequent visits.

  Derrick threw himself into straightening out the affairs of the estate. In the weeks that followed, he was closeted with solicitors, bankers and factors who oversaw the various enterprises the Jamison fortune had been built upon. In addition, Parliament would convene in a fortnight. He made friends with several influential members of Lords and Commons and joined Brooks, an exclusive Whig men's club on St. James Street, so as to keep abreast of political machinations.

  Beth spent several weeks with decorators, selecting colors and fabrics for walls, draperies and carpets, to give the dark old house a touch of the light airiness of Naples and Savannah. The place was vastly improved once Annabella departed with her bric-a-brac and baroque furnishings. Beth replaced them with clean-lined Greco-Roman pieces.

  The climate was less amenable to change. Leaden skies soon began to pour rain and sleet, promising a long dreary winter. The public market yielded none of the marvelous variety of tropical fruits and vegetables and little of the fresh seafood she had grown used to in Italy. Derrick was gone more than he was present, often missing dinner because of late meetings with political or business associates.

  Beth dutifully accompanied her husband to several functions, but until the following month, when their official period of mourning for Leighton was over, a full social calendar was not acceptable. She wore pale gray and purple and felt at times as if she were turning into one of the lengthening shadows that filled every corner of the city house.

  Suprisingly enough, the only friend she found among the Quality was Bertie Jamison. The day after Annabella moved out he came calling. Beth was upstairs when he was announced. Derrick was gone as usual. She would have to greet his cousin. Hurriedly she smoothed her hair and removed the apron covering her day gown. Giving one last glance into the mirror, she sighed and headed downstairs to the receiving parlor where Bertie waited.

  “So good to see you, Cousin,” she said with an uncertain smile. “I’m afraid Derrick is not at home—”

  “Tut, m'dear, I did not come to see him but you,” he said, bowing over her hand. The buttons on his waistcoat strained across his thickened middle as he straightened up, bestowing on her a twinkling smile. “After the other evening, I felt you were owed an apology. Demned if there's any race as stiff-rumped as the English...unless it's the Froggies.”

  Beth's smile broadened. “Cousin Bertie, I do believe you and I shall deal quite well together. Please have a seat and I'll ring for some tea.”

  “Wouldn't happen to have some of that perfectly marvelous American coffee about, would you?” he asked with a grin.

  “As a matter of fact, 'tis my favorite beverage.”

  Over coffee and scones, which Bertie consumed in sufficient quantities to place an additional strain upon his waistcoat, they discussed life in London, politics, even art when Beth chanced to mention that she had gone to Naples to study painting.

  “I was a great admirer of Angelica Kauffman. Reynolds brought her to London, but of course, the ton couldn't accept a female painter back then,” Bertie remarked wryly.

  “Women in the arts are still considered dabblers, I'm afraid.” Beth sighed.

  “Sad but true. Most men are afraid of intelligence in a woman.”

  She grinned at him. “But you are not.”

  “I appreciate capability in either gender, perhaps because I'm chitty-faced and a bit cow-handed to boot,” he confessed, remarking upon the unfortunate combination of a baby-faced countenance with a prematurely receding hairline, as well as his propensity for clumsiness. He appeared a bit embarrassed when she tried to remonstrate that he was nothing of the sort. Changing the subject, he asked, “Wouldn't happen to have any of your work I could view, would you?”

  Beth was flattered.He seemed both sincere and knowledgeable. “Cranston has just uncrated two boxes in the room that's to be my studio when the redecorating is done.”

  “Then by Jove, let us have a gander.” He rubbed his plump white hands with enthusiasm as she led him upstairs to where the heavy wooden crates sat in the center of a room stripped bare of furnishings.

  He exclaimed over several of the landscapes, making lavish comparisons to her idol, J. M. W. Turner. When he saw the portrait of Derrick, he studied it with fascination for several unnerving moments. Thinking better of her plan to present it as a wedding gift, she had never shown it to another soul since completing it. It probably reveals too much about me…and my feelings for him, she thought uncomfortably.

  Bertie walked around it, almost tripping over Percy, who had entered the room with uncharacteristic silence as they were talking. The dog walked to her side and stood perfectly still when Bertie said, “You could rival Reynolds himself, m’dear. ” He continued to study the portrait, then murmured sadly, “I can only imagine what it would be like to be loved this much.”

  “Is it that apparent?”

  He flushed again, embarrassed, then shifted the subject. “All of your work has great emotion in it. I've heard it said the greatest artists give a part of their soul to each painting. You've skill enough for admission to the Academy.”

  “I did work for commissions while we lived in Naples. Of course, that was before Derrick inherited the title,” she hastened to add. ”I do miss the salons and the friends we had in the art community.”

  “Although I know we're poor recompense for Italian wit, I would be most happy to introduce you to Lady Holland and her friends. You must understand, she's not received in the best circles. Divorced, you know. But her salons are famous—artists, actors, writers—even Byron favors her with an appearance from time to time, as does George Dance. You would enjoy his portrait sketches.”

  “That sounds positively exhilarating!” Beth replied with delight, then realized
how Derrick would react. But surely if Bertie went, her husband could not object to her attending with his cousin as escort.

  “Smashing!” Bertie exclaimed. “I shall send word as soon as our mourning period is over. Then we're for Holland House!”

  * * * *

  With Derrick being gone so much of the time, Beth came to look forward to Bertie's visits and kept busy as best she could inside the house. Her time spent with her husband was confined largely to the bedroom. At his insistence, for which she was secretly relieved, they continued to share the master bedroom, leaving her adjoining suite unoccupied.

  Outside of Bertie's friendship, her only salvation lay in painting. Beth threw herself into it with abandon. The largest room on the third floor had at last been converted into her studio. It was no equal to what she'd had in Naples, but it served.

  Their official mourning ended just in time for the galas of the holiday season. They were besieged with invitations, many of them issued because Derrick was a scapegrace and the ton wanted to see how he would conduct himself now that the weight of Lynden rested on his broad shoulders. But even more, they were dying to meet his strange American countess. It was whispered that the earl had wed her in Naples before he knew of his ascension to the title. Did he repent an ill-made bargain? Lady Annabella certainly hinted that it was so. The gossip was positively delicious!

  “We have been invited to the Duchess of Westover's ball,” Derrick said, sorting through the stacks of engraved white velum piled on the breakfast table, tossing most, choosing a few to which he felt it judicious to respond.” “Tis Friday next. Here are several more. If any of the others interest you, we shall attend them as well.” Knowing his wife's dislike of society, he imagined she would choose to go nowhere. Truthfully, he was not at all fond of the endless rounds of holiday parties, but Beth needed to do more than commandeer scullery maids to pose for her sketching.

  “I've already looked through them. I know none of these people so must rely on your judgment. The Westover gala will be fine,” she replied without enthusiasm.

  “You'll require some new gowns now that you're out of mourning.” Any other female of his acquaintance would have leaped at the offer of a trip to the dressmakers. His other mistresses—mentally, he cursed and corrected himself—his past mistresses had always been ecstatic. His wife was not interested.

  “I brought quite a few things from Naples. I'll not require much beyond a warm cloak or two.”

  “Fashions in London are a bit more...decorous than on the continent. It would be wise to consult with someone who understands the nuances.”

  “Someone such as Bella?”

  She was baiting him, damn it! “I was referring to one of the dressmakers on Oxford Street. Since you have no female companion suitable to accompany you, I shall do so myself.5” He was trying to be conciliatory.

  “I can select my own clothing, Derrick,” she said very quietly.

  He knew the warning in her voice. “You can't go about town alone, Beth. It simply isn't done.”

  “Tut, you're beginning to sound like Drum,” she mocked. Then her expression turned serious. “Derrick, you know well that I'm already the subject of gossip, an impossible American baggage—”

  “I regret Annabella's outburst—damn it, I regret An-nabella. I’d scarce hold her up as a paragon of virtue to be emulated, but you could make friends and find a place for yourself here if you'd but give it a chance.”

  He seemed earnest about wanting her to make a life in London. Working up her courage, she said, “If you're concerned with my making friends, Bertie has issued a marvelous invitation—to us both—to attend a salon at Lady Holland's on Wednesday.”

  “Lady Holland is not received, Beth. You will not be either if you mingle with her crowd.”

  “Bertie attends her functions and he is received. So do a great many of the upper ten thousand.”

  “Not the women. This isn't Naples, puss.” Although she'd not experienced a bit of morning sickness in two mönths, the kippered herring on her plate suddenly smelled like the scullery garbage bin. She shoved it away. “In Naples you weren't an earl,” she said angrily. “In Naples we could enjoy life.”

  He threw down his napkin and stood up. “Yes, but now I am Lynden. If you think I like it one bit more than you do, you're considerably in error.”

  She watched in silence as he stalked from the room.

  * * * *

  Derrick's frustration did not altogether stem from his worries over his wife. His irresponsible brother and sister-in-law had done more than their share to gray his hair with their profligate ways. True to the predilections of the ton, Lee had been scrupulous to pay his gambling debts but let everyone from tailors to chandlers go begging for the sizable sums he owed them.

  The mews behind the city house were filled with expensive horseflesh and the very latest in fancy rigs. He'd given Bella a team and one small carriage. After spending the morning inspecting the stables and questioning the men who worked there, he made decisions about which pieces of equipment to sell. He and Beth did not require four phaetons, two barouches and a racing sulky.

  But that left the horses, and Derrick confessed to sharing his brother's weakness for fine horseflesh. That was why he decided to test the best of the racers and carriage horses himself before deciding which to sell. He patted the big black stallion's neck, almost certain it would be one he wished to keep.

  “'Ee be a good 'un, m'lord,” Spralding, the head stableman, said in his thick Yorkshire accent as his gnarled hands held the reins, steadying the horse while a stable boy threw a lightweight saddle on the black's back and secured it with deft ease.

  “I'll take him over to the park for a good run.”

  “That 'ee'l give ya, m'lord.” Spralding's toothless mouth spread wide in a grin as he bowed respectfully to the new earl.

  Derrick swung smoothly into the saddle and kneed the stallion into a trot. Since it was considered a savage hour by ton standards, no one was about except for a few tradesmen and household servants. Derrick carefully wended his way toward Hyde Park to give the horse a thorough run. Patting the glossy black neck, he murmured, “Do us both a world of good to work off some tension, eh, boy?”

  The feel of a fine horse beneath him and the wind blowing his hair exhilarated him as he let the black have his head. It felt good, an escape from the confinement of city life and the troubles pressing him. He leaned forward, urging the stallion to take a hedge several dozen yards ahead.

  Effortlessly, they breezed over it as if the black had wings on his hooves. Derrick grinned, knowing he'd keep Night Dancer. He turned the stallion sharply and headed for another hedge across a slight swale, confident now that the horse was able to make the jump, which was a good bit higher than the first one. Just as he felt Dancer's muscles tense for the leap, the saddle began to slip to the left. He considered for an instant trying to rein the horse in and turn him, but feared injuring his mount. Instead, he kicked free of the stirrups and jumped.

  The saddle came sailing off and hit the ground with a loud whump as Derrick landed hard on his right shoulder and rolled up into a ball to avoid Dancer's flying hooves. As the horse cleared the hedge, Derrick sat up and took inventory of his body, thanking his luck for the dreary soaking rain that had fallen earlier in the week, softening the earth considerably. No broken bones, but he'd have one devil of a set of bruises.

  Quickly he got to his feet and climbed through an opening in the hedge. Dancer had stopped and turned, tossing his head nervously. Derrick spoke soothingly to the skittish stallion as he approached and took the reins, leading him around the hedge back to where the saddle and blanket were strewn on the grass.

  Within the hour he was back at his stable and Spralding was examining the tack. ”Yer that lucky, m'lord. See ‘ere.” The old man held up the saddle girth that had broken.

  “It's been cut halfway through. A wonder it didn't break when I started to race Dancer and made that first jump,” Derrick
said, realizing how easily he could have broken his neck flying through the air at such a speed.

  “I'm that sorry, m'lord. I don't know 'oo cudda done this'n.” His rheumy brown eyes met the earl's penetrating blue ones, the question unasked—did Derrick have any enemies?

  “Then this was deliberate.” He had been pretty certain when he'd checked the saddle in the park.

  “Aye, m'lord, but I'd stake m'soul on th' lads whot work ‘ere...”

  “Do you have someone new?” Derrick prompted.

  The boy's name was Jem and he'd been working on tack that very morning. A search of the mews revealed that he was no longer anywhere around. One of the stable hands said he had left without a word just after Derrick rode off on Dancer.

  As he soaked in a tub that afternoon, Derrick reviewed a number of potentially dangerous events that had occurred since he'd become Lynden. He'd dismissed nearly being run down by a drayman en route to his solicitor's office and the tiles that had fallen from a rooftop and shattered on the street inches from where he was standing while engaged in conversation with an old acquaintance from Eton. If he added the attack just before he'd left Naples, there might now have been four attempts on his life. Until the tampering with his saddle, all had seemed random bad luck.

  Over his years as a spy, he'd made more than his share of enemies. Between leaving Spralding and retiring to this soak, he'd visited Lord Burghley at the Foreign Office and learned some interesting news that might well have a bearing on the attempts to put a period to his life.

  Evon Bourdin was in London. Amazingly, Murat's former palace guardsman was descended from one of the oldest and highest-ranking noble houses of France's Ancient Regime—and he was cousin to Bella's odious friend, the Count d'Artois. Ardent hater of Bonapartists that he was, the count was forced to acknowledge Bourdin because of his cousin's pedigree. Proper lineage was all. That was the way things worked in the ton.