Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (12 page)

      
Andrew Chase Perkins, a member of the Missionary Society and an affluent coal merchant, had offered to do a kindness for the children in her school. Since Alex's money had already provided for books and lunches, she decided a field outing to the fabled park would be an acceptable luxury. Now seeing the autumn sunshine warm on their chalk-white little faces, she knew she had made the right choice.

      
As she ushered her charges through the gates, Joss was aware of the hostile disdain of the attendant collecting the money. She had ignored his snide comment about turning loose a pack of flash-house cutpurses on the better sort in the gardens, although she itched to wipe that sour smirk off his face with a good set-down. Why of late was her behavior so impatient and frustrated, her sense of propriety and charity for human foibles so diminished?

      
Alex would have taken this rude pipsqueak and set him on his ear.
The thought came suddenly and she knew the reason for her growing malaise.
Alex.
Her friendship with the American was both the balm and bane of her life. She enjoyed talking with him, exchanging ideas and sharing laughter. His confidences regarding the quirks of his sisters, nieces and nephews, and his parents' hopes for his own marriage were bittersweet intimations of what it would be like to belong to a large and loving family.

      
A family from which she would be forever excluded. Alex's friendship was all she could ever aspire to, she continually reminded herself. Yet his way of looking at society, his whole free-thinking philosophy of life, unbound by rules of class and decorum, swept like a clean, rain-washed wind through her staid existence. She chafed under the strictures of society in ways she never had before she met him.

      
The children's exclamation over the statuary and paintings called her attention back to the matter at hand and she began to instruct them. "That figure is a most famous composer. Can anyone tell me his name?" Several eager hands were raised. "Yes, Charles?"

      
"Handel, mum. I read the nameplate," the seven-year-old said proudly.

      
Joss commended him and continued pointing out various things, noting joyously that her small band was enraptured by the nine-hundred-foot-long avenue of elms and the incredibly realistic painting of ancient Near Eastern ruins. These children had never seen any more trees than grew on one of the small city lots of the rich. No green space at all existed in the noisome warrens of stone and wood where they themselves abided.
 

      
She and her small clutch of chicks made their way down the grand walk, ogling the sights and the occasional elegantly dressed "better sorts" who frequented the garden. Because it was afternoon, the number of strollers was small, for the Quality did not usually deign to turn out until after fashionable five when the evening musical entertainment and fireworks took place. The gardens were open late and revelers often picnicked and held assignations until three a.m.

      
"Ooh, lookit, Annie, that lady's dress!" little Maggie Warren whispered to her companion. "She ain't got 'ardly a thing over 'er bosoms."

      
Joss followed her pupil's wide-eyed gaze. The object of the child's attention was obviously one of the demimonde, with brassy yellow hair and heavy face paint. Although cut low to display her ample charms, the round neck of the satin gown was no more scandalous than those worn by women of the upper ten thousand. The children of the slums were quite familiar with prostitutes, albeit not as clean and well turned out as these. Joss quickly guided their attention elsewhere.

      
The gardens were unfortunately used by Cyprians displaying their wares and rich young toffs who were shopping—or showing off their latest light-skirts. Joss had heard of the regrettable practice, but in the Great Wen, there was nowhere outside of church to escape the pervasive influence of vice. All she could do was to arm the youthful innocents with education and Christian morality.

      
The children skipped along the wide walk toward the grove where an immense colonnade sheltered a hundred supper boxes. Since one of these meals al fresco cost a whole shilling, Joss planned only to allow the children to see the murals on the back walls. By then it would be time to begin the long journey back to the East End. As they neared the colonnade Joss froze in midstride, and one of the children stepped on her heels, almost tripping her.

      
"Beg pardon, mum," Billy said, red-faced. "I weren't watchin' my way."

      
"No, no, it's all right, Billy."

      
But it was not all right, not all right at all, for there, strolling into one of the supper boxes was Alex and the most stunning redhead Joss had ever seen. Her fiery tresses and milk-white skin were set off by a gown of deep green silk. An emerald the size of a pigeon egg winked from the deep vale of her cleavage, no doubt a gift from the golden-haired man whose swarthy face she was caressing in a wanton public display.

      
Joss castigated herself for seven kinds of a fool. She knew the sorts of assignations that went on here, and in her heart of hearts she knew, too, that Alex would bring his latest bit-o-muslin here. After all, weren't his exploits among the demimonde touted by every scandal sheet in London?
I'm making a complete cake of myself.

      
She tried to hurry the children along before he noticed her gawking like a mooncalf. Yet when he threw back his head and laughed at some
bon mot
of his companion, then took her hand and pressed the bare palm intimately to his lips, Joss could not seem to look away.
What must it feel like, his breath hot against her skin, the pressure of his mouth warm and firm... did he touch her palm with his tongue?
Joss's face flooded with rosy color at such an indelicate and shockingly lascivious thought. Where had it come from? What had Alexander Blackthorne done to the staid, sensible woman she had been? He had turned her world upside down and he did not even know it, damn the man!

      
While Joss stood mired in inner turmoil, several of the more adventurous boys, chafing under the strain of behaving for so long, took advantage of the schoolmistress's inattention. Billy Ballum took a small red ball from his pocket and showed it to Pug Wilson.

      
"Where'd you nick that?" Pug asked, reaching for the well-worn yet coveted toy.

      
"I didn't nick it. I found it," Billy whispered righteously. "In a wagonload of trash behind some banker's 'ouse, I did."

      
"Lemme see it," Pug demanded, being the bigger and older of the two.

      
"It's mine," Billy said, bouncing the ball defiantly under Pug's nose. When he tried to repeat the trick, Pug's hand snaked out and snatched at it, knocking it from Billy's grasp. The ball went bouncing erratically down the smooth surface of the walk. "Cor, see what you done," he cried, dashing to retrieve his lost treasure with Pug right behind him.

      
Billy ran with his eye fixed on the ball to the exclusion of all else. Just as he bent down and scooped up his toy, Pug overran him and they both went flying headfirst into a couple strolling on a crossing walk. The woman escaped untouched with a squeak of outrage, but the man bore the full force of the collision, stumbling back with a snarled oath. He quickly regained his footing and glared at the two ragged street urchins sprawled in the grass. They looked at his angry face guiltily, then began to scramble away in terror when he pulled a sword from the scabbard at his waist and swung the flat of the blade at them.

      
"What the deuce are you gutter-scum jackanapes doing here? The park is for your betters, you filthy little wharf rats!"

      
Pug succeeded in escaping their tormentor with only one stinging blow across his back, but Billy was not so fortunate. The officer seized his frayed coat collar and yanked him back, raising the sword to deliver more punishing blows.

      
Hearing the boy's frantic cries, Joss looked down the walk. Pug dashed into her arms, sobbing, "We didn't mean no 'arm, mum, honest! We wuz chasin' the ball—it's all me fault 'e dropped it!"

      
Joss instructed him to stand perfectly still, then raced toward the ugly scene. Good heavens above, the brute was beating the boy half to death! "Stop this instant, sir!" she cried out, picking up her skirts to run headlong, terrified that the blade might accidentally turn and cut the boy. "In the name of Christian charity, stop!" Joss screamed, reaching up to grab hold of the officer's sword arm when he raised it for another blow. That was when she recognized those cold yellow eyes.

      
Alex witnessed the commotion from his box on the gently sloping rise. "Chamberlain, you brutal bastard," he muttered as he vaulted over the side of the box and took off down the hill, leaving the redhead staring, her mouth a startled O.

      
Joss hung like a bulldog on Chamberlain's arm while he tried in vain to shake her off and at the same time keep his hold on the sobbing boy. "Get the bloody hell off of me, you half-blind bitch," Chamberlain yelled as he slammed Billy's squirming body into Joss.

      
"Thrashing women and little boys hardly seems the thing for a sporting fellow such as you, Colonel," Alex said in a deceptively soft voice. His grip on Chamberlain's arm, however, was as hard as iron.

      
Chamberlain released Billy, shoving him at Joss, who stumbled back, breathless from her exertions. She knelt and took him in her arms, soothing him as she glared up at the angry bully.

      
"I should have expected you'd materialize to champion your unlikely damsel in distress again. Tell me, do all colonials have your execrable taste in women?" Sir Rupert asked with an arrogant lift of his chin.

      
"In America, gentlemen respect women—or pay the consequences," Alex replied levelly, knowing he was being provoked and deliberately returning the insult.

      
"Really, I doubt there's been a gentleman set foot on that barbarous soil since General Cornwallis sailed in eighty-one," Chamberlain drawled.

      
"As I recall"—the young American smiled—"he did not really set sail. He set his tail between his legs and slunk back to his kennel. Perhaps you would do well to emulate his example."

      
Chamberlain's face, already flushed, turned almost purple. "If it were not for the vast chasm that exists between our social stations, I..."

      
"Ah, yes, the famous code duello. I've heard of it," Alex said dryly, then paused. "If you're too cowardly to challenge a savage red Indian ..." He shrugged insultingly and turned to help Joss to her feet. Chamberlain's slap stung the edge of his cheekbone. "I shall instruct my second to meet with yours this evening—that is, if you have a friend to stand by you in all of London."

      
Joss gasped. Sir Rupert Chamberlain was one of the most feared duelists in England. "No, Alex, please don't do this."

Chapter Seven

      
Alex stroked his chin, grinning wickedly at Drum, who had agreed to act as his second.

      
"As the man challenged, you have the choice of weapons. Given that Sir Rupert is reputed to be a dead shot at forty yards and Domenico Angelo's finest fencing student, I doubt pistols or foils would be wise selections," Drum replied dryly. "Of course, you could choose muskets or war clubs ..." he added, arching one delicately thin eyebrow mockingly, then continued, "but after seeing your back-alley performance the night we met, I rather thought you would fancy my suggestion. Since you were that lethal foxed, I suspect you'll acquit yourself against the colonel well enough sober."

      
"I'll take care of Chamberlain. The devil of it is I haven't the vaguest idea why he's taken such a personal dislike to me."

      
"Heigh ho! You've only trounced him at the racecourse, had his wife fair slobbering on your breeches and then publicly accosted him in Vauxhall. Can't think of a reason on earth he should dislike you." Drum's expression was guilelessly somber.

      
"It's more than that. At our first introduction the fellow was insufferably rude, even by the obnoxious standards of haughtiness among the peerage. He goaded me into offering a wager higher than he thought I could afford."

      
"Obviously that chamber pot didn't expect to lose. I've heard rumors he's been out at heels ever since he ran through his wife's dowry."

      
"A rather common practice among the ton, I gather," Alex said sardonically, thinking of the odious relationship between Monty and Octavia. He could not resist a grinning jab at his friend. "You're always in dun territory, Drum. Ever think of leg-shackling yourself to a wealthy heiress?"

      
Drum clutched his throat with a look of mock horror. Then he carefully laid out a precise pinch of snuff on the back of his wrist and raised it to his nostrils, saying, "I never much fancied the fairer sex. A voluptuous pair of teats never had the same effect on me they most obviously do on you, old chap. But at times I envy your appetites." He met Alex's dark eyes and the two men exchanged a look of understanding.

      
After inhaling the snuff, Drum sneezed delicately into his handkerchief and went on briskly, "You must be careful of Chamberlain—he is a deadly adversary, battle hardened with ice-cold nerve. But you'll have to disable the bastard without killing him."

      
Alex looked puzzled. "I'd be better served to kill him and have done. He's not a chap to forgive an enemy."