Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (18 page)

      
Alex sighed. "Do we give a damn about the ton?" Then he added firmly, "You must promise me, if the earl becomes impossible, if you are ever in trouble again, you must confide in me. We'll find some way to work it out together. Promise?"

      
Grudgingly she replied, "I promise, but never fear, I have the old devil in hand. You see, he does cloak my activities with respectability, even if he remains unaware of what I'm doing."

      
"Because he is your uncle and therefore providing you guidance?"

      
She nodded with a sprightly smile. "Now, you rascal, tell me what you have been about. Breaking all the Cyprian hearts or winning at the whist tables?"

      
His mood grew somber as he shook his head, then reached into his waistcoat pocket and extracted the timepiece.

      
Joss saw the glint of gold, then gasped when he laid the family heirloom in her palm. She felt the familiar weight and her fingers closed over it before she opened the case and lovingly traced the inscription engraved inside. "Where did you find it, Alex? How?"

      
"That's where I've been these past days, Joss—searching out the lair of the assassins who took this from your father," he said gently, as her eyes filled with tears.

      
She blinked them back and met his gaze head-on. "You found out who murdered Papa?"

      
He nodded. "Jem Barker. He hired an assassin whose name was John Slocum."

      
"Past tense, Alex? You .. . you killed these men?"

      
"Let's simply say I dispensed justice," he replied evenly.

      
It was her turn to nod. "I see. My faith teaches me to forgive, not exact vengeance, yet because they would have preyed on so many more innocent victims, I cannot regret their deaths. But you've risked your life once again for me. You could've been killed on such a dangerous quest."

      
Alex grinned now, reassured at her scolding mien. "As Grandma Charity always says, I'm too much of a rascal to die young. Besides, I wasn't alone. Drum helped me."

      
"Then I am in his debt as well. I shall have to thank him." Her lips thinned imperceptibly at the prospect.

      
Alex chuckled. "You look as if you've just swallowed a persimmon, Joss."

* * * *

      
The long winter months melted into the spring of 1812 and talk of impending war with the upstart Americans was eclipsed by the assassination of Prime Minister Spencer Percival on May 11. By month's end the government fell. While the lower classes rioted in the streets of London, the salons of the literati were abuzz over the remarkable new poet who had written Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

      
Alex attended a few soirees where the new literary lion was present, but the scandalous excesses of Lord Byron held little interest for Joss. She continued to slip away from her uncle's city house, using the pretext of lessons, teas and other suitable social gatherings. At first she had feared he would insist upon her accompanying him to the country when he went on one of his frequent visits, but he granted her wish to remain near her "tutors," doubtless relieved to be free of a troublesome burden.

      
Her work at the hospital took most of her afternoons. The mission board allowed her to teach in the mornings since they were able to find another clergyman to oversee the school.

      
Things had continued smoothly while the irascible earl spent most of the winter months at his ancestral estate. But when he returned to London in April, matters became quite sticky. Joss detested lying, but there was simply no help for it if she wished to do the work that gave her life meaning.

      
To further complicate the situation, his lordship took an intense dislike to Alex, whom he considered one of the ungrateful colonial rabble who dared to threaten the British government. After Alex's last visit ended in a fierce argument in which he and the earl almost came to blows, Joss decided it might be prudent for her and Alex to meet away from the city house whenever her uncle was at home.

      
Alex's reputation as the wicked angel of sex and sin was equaled only by that of Lord Byron himself. Although he would regale her with humorous accounts of his wins and losses at the gaming tables and racecourses, he never mentioned the beauteous Cyprians with whom she knew he kept company. Marriage-minded young misses pined over him and set their caps for him. That he did discuss with amusement, for he had no intention of leg-shackling himself to any of the puff-brained debutantes. Joss secreted her dreams deep in her heart and prayed that her eyes never revealed the ache of longing that tore at her soul.

      
Their lives might have gone on indefinitely in this manner if not for Poc. One summer afternoon while Joss was at the hospital, he came walking proudly up the street with the largest rat ever seen on the wharf clamped firmly in his jaws. By nightfall word of the prodigious feat spread far and wide. Unfortunately, word also spread that the remarkable Staffordshire terrier was owned by the dead preacher's daughter.

      
When Joss arrived home that evening, the earl was waiting for her in his "lair," as she had come to think of the imposing study with its trophy boar's head glaring down from the wall with beady red eyes. The boar's malevolence was as nothing compared to the icy blue glare of the eighth Earl of Suthington.

      
"I have had a most distressing report, Jocelyn. One that I devoutly wish to be untrue," he began without preamble as soon as she took a seat in front of his Chippendale desk.

      
Joss had prayed the gossip would not reach Mayfair, but knowing the ways of servants and tradesmen, she supposed it was inevitable that her ruse would be discovered. "What report is that, milord?" she inquired innocently as her mind raced.

      
He smiled thinly, a harsh, nasty, scowling smile. "What report, indeed! A Staffordshire terrier has set a record of sorts, it would seem, for rat killing. And he brought his prize to his owner, a nonconformist cleric's daughter, at the East End charity hospital. Is this so? The truth, gel!"

      
Joss moistened her lips, then inquired, "That Poc killed a huge rat that everyone made a fuss over or that I was at hospital?"

      
"Blast the rat and the dog to perdition! Were you at that wretched hospital, performing heaven knows what shockingly unnatural tasks?"

      
She held up her head and stubbornly set her chin as she replied, "I was volunteering at hospital, yes, but I do not consider nursing the sick as either shocking or unnatural. My faith enjoins me to perform acts of kindness."

      
"Does this Methody humbug also enjoin you to lie and steal?" His tone shifted from furious to scathing now.

      
Joss stiffened. "The Methodist religion is not a humbug, milord. I have acceded to your wishes and worshiped with you in the established church, but I still consider myself a follower of Mr. Wesley. As to my telling you I was otherwise occupied when I was at hospital, I am guilty. I took the money for the music and art tutors and bought medical supplies with it. They were badly needed. I would hope that you could—"

      
"What—excuse your impossible behavior? Condone your taking my funds under false pretenses? Forgive you making me the laughingstock of the ton after I took you in from the very streets?"

      
"I am sorry that I was forced to deceive you, Uncle Everett." Not exactly a handsome apology as those things went, but there it was. She simply did not regret her work at the hospital or using a pittance from the earl's stockpile of wealth for a good cause. She waited as his voice rose in pitch and volume along with the heightening purple stain on his cheeks.
 

      
"You are an ingrate and an unnatural female. I can do nothing about the former, but I shall take steps to remedy the latter."

      
A prickle of alarm brushed her neck. "What do you mean, milord?"

      
"I need not answer you, nor shall I," he said, dismissing her.

      
By week's end word of her shameful escapades would be on everyone's tongues. What cork-brained impulse had led him to offer her the protection of his august name and rank? Of course if he had left his only brother's orphaned daughter destitute, that would have reflected poorly on him as well. Neither alternative was acceptable. There was only one solution. He would marry her off. Even an ungainly long Meg who championed the great unwashed could be wed—if the price were right. It would be money well spent in his books.

* * * *

      
Alex sat staring morosely down at his mother's latest letter as Constanzia massaged his neck with practiced hands. He sat in the overfurnished parlor of her apartment, for which he was currently paying the rent.

      
He flexed his bare shoulders and leaned back in the chair. Lud, his head ached abominably from an excess of Chitchester's excellent brandy. It was a good life ... if he did not weaken. As Constanzia ministered to him, she tried to read surreptitiously over his shoulder. "What does your mama say,
querido
, she asked in a throaty, purring voice laced with a thick Spanish accent.

      
Responding to her query, he said offhandedly, "Just the usual, pet, exhortations to work hard, to take care of my health." To get married.

      
He shuddered.

      
"Are you cold,
querido.
I will have Bram lay a fire."

      
The room was already stifling from her heavy perfume and their recent bout of lusty sex. "No, I'm not cold, although I must get dressed. I have to be at the warehouse at half past the hour."

      
Her carmined lips puffed out in a moue of disappointment. "That wretched bookkeeping again ... do not go, my stallion ... I know ways of spending the afternoon ... which are much finer than adding dull columns of numbers." She punctuated her words with nibbling kisses on his neck and shoulders, bending over him until her full breasts pressed against his back and the thick fall of her loose raven hair spilled over his arm.

      
Alex sighed in resignation, then stood up. "Sorry, 'Stanzia, but I've already missed a day this week for the running at Newmarket. Old Bertie was quite put out." He folded the letter, which his footman had just delivered, and slipped it into his jacket, then began dressing.

      
He had not been much in residence at the Caruthers's city house since acquiring Constanzia, who was constant neither in temperament nor in loyalties. For the moment, the reigning queen of the Cyprians was taken with the whispers about his exotic lineage and the aura of danger that clung to him. He planned to enjoy her inventiveness in bed until one or the other of them grew bored, then move on. There were so many fascinating challenges in the world of the demimonde. Alex intended to sample every female who took his fancy.

      
Unless his parents had their way. The thought did not bear considering. As he slipped on his jacket and inspected himself in the cheval glass in Constanzia's bedroom, he tried to forget his mother's impassioned plea. Damn Toby for having the unmitigated bad grace to pass on last year. Charity's and Susan's husbands wanted nothing to do with the shipping trade. His youngest sister Polyanne had just announced her engagement to a highly successful portrait painter from Williamsburg, and to put a cap on it, his widowed sister Mellie was courting with a farmer from Carolina!

      
That left the responsibility for the family business resting heavily on his shoulders. But if that were all he was asked, Alex would have been willing to make the sacrifice. In the past year he'd actually come to find the complexities of running a large export and import house to be an intellectual challenge. He had a flair for selecting oriental artwork and African ivory, which wealthy British and American customers bought eagerly. Even Bertie Therlow was pleased with his work. Well, most of the time . . .

      
But running the business was not paramount in his parents' minds. Marrying him off was. With the last of her daughters soon to be wed, Barbara had focused her full attention on her only son. She worried about him. And were those scandalous stories about gambling and loose women true?

      
Lady Barbara Caruthers had been reckless and high living after her come-out. Since she knew firsthand about all the vices to which the Quality fell prey, he could not hope to fool her. His parents had decided it was time for him to settle down, to find one special young lady with whom to spend the rest of his life, a wife who would make him truly happy.

      
An oxymoron if ever he'd heard one
, he thought morosely as he made his way to the warehouse. Since Constanzia's quarters were not far from the docks, he often walked, preferring the brisk exercise to sitting closed up in a stuffy hackney. So deep was he in thought, brooding over his troubles, that he was nearly run over by a dray. He ignored the drayman's curses and shaking fist as he crossed the cobblestones.

      
"If only there were some way to placate my mother," he murmured to himself, garnering some odd looks from the working people on the street. Of course, it was not just his mother, but his father as well, who was determined to see Alex wed. Devon had gone so far as to indicate he might disinherit Alex if he did not grow up and assume his responsibilities, the primary one being providing the next generation of little Blackthornes to carry on the family name. No matter that his cousin Rob was already doing that. Devon and Barbara wanted their son to provide them with Blackthorne grandchildren.