Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (5 page)

      
But Alex had no more use for polite society than he did for account ledgers. Almacks was run by a rigid set of harridans intent on arbitrating the London marriage mart, a thought to make him shudder in his newly acquired Hessian boots. Even the more exclusive men's clubs to which his uncle introduced him seemed stifling. Brummel and Alvanley were amusing enough—in small doses. But he chafed under the rigid protocols for everything from tying a cravat to inhaling snuff.

      
Not that he disapproved of the Beau's taste in clothing. The simplicity and elegance of black superfine and snug doeskin breeches was not lost on a tall, slim young man who knew he had the perfect body to display for the fairer sex. Alex spent lavishly at the tailors on Bond Street.

      
However, after living a life of action in the backcountry, he found the seemingly endless rounds of balls, routs and banquets tame fare indeed. Not so gaming hells, horse races, boxing matches and hunting parties. Of course to gain ingress to such activities, he had to cultivate acquaintances with the young sporting bloods about the ton.

      
After the incident at Goodysale's, gossip about Caruthers's wild Indian nephew from the colonies spread rapidly. He became an overnight sensation with the more avant-garde members of society. Lady Holland, a divorcee only tolerated on the fringes of the ton, was titillated enough to invite him to her famous salons, where he mingled with painters, actors and writers, many of whom he found genuinely interesting. He created a stir at Tattersalls after bidding fifteen hundred guineas for an Arabian mare to breed with the big stallion he had brought with him from America. When he won twenty thousand pounds in a marathon whist game at Whites, his reputation was made. Every rakish buck in London wanted to be seen with Alex Blackthorne.

      
His fascination for the women of the Great Wen became equally the rage. Although marriage-minded mamas kept their virginal misses well out of his reach, the more libertine females of the Quality succumbed readily to his dazzling golden looks and the aura of sexual danger that radiated from him. Ladies of the Cyprian class were even more accommodating, going to prodigious lengths to attract his attention.

      
One performed a perfectly-timed swoon and literally tumbled beneath the feet of his horse while he was riding in Hyde Park; another slid down a silken drapery cord at Covent Garden to reach his private box. One Sunday while he was strolling with his current amour in Vauxhall a slighted female admirer accosted them, which resulted in a clawing, shrieking catfight, attracting all sorts of amused and aghast attention until Alex was able to separate the combatants.

      
Within a few months he settled into a routine of sorts, rising at noon, taking a brisk ride through Hyde Park, then either visiting Gentleman Jackson's to spar with the boxers or perhaps taking a trip to one of the excellent race courses on the outskirts of the city to watch the horses run. The past two weeks he had begun going to Angelo's Haymarket Room, where the master Domenico was teaching him the gentlemanly art of fencing. But his weapon of choice remained the knife he carried in his boot. His evenings were spent dining with friends at various clubs, attending the theater, then on to the gaming hells, where he played faro and whist until the wee hours of the morning.

      
The only breaks in his sybaritic existence were his occasional visits with Miss Jocelyn Woodbridge, much to the amusement of his uncle, who tweaked him acidly for spending time with such a bluestocking. His first visit to Joss's residence had been as much an adventure as their other two encounters. The clean but shabby public rooms of the inn were in stark contrast to the opulence of his uncle's house. The starched respectability of the establishment also contrasted with the seamy underworld of gaming hells and prizefights that he lived in after hours.

      
A heavyset old woman with sharp gray eyes, wearing a hideously old-fashioned wig, had advanced on him as soon

as he had stepped inside the door. "I'm Mrs. Gower, the proprietress. What do ye want?" she asked by way of greeting, quickly judging by the cut of his clothes that he had too much of the ready to desire lodgings. In her experience, rich young dandies were usually bent on mischief.

      
"Alexander Blackthorne, madam." He sketched a bow with a smile dazzling enough to soften a brass doorknob. "I'm here to call upon Miss Woodbridge and the reverend."

      
"Cor, are ye now," Aunt Regina said as his charm worked its usual magic. Patting her wig, she graced him with an exceedingly uncharacteristic simper. "Ye'd be the gentl'man Joss first met at the docks. She told me all about ye, she did. Come in my best private dining room and I'll fetch some refreshment. Would ye care for—"

      
Her effusive hospitality was interrupted by a loud screech and a series of low raspy barks. Then a blur of yellow fur streaked past her feet with a brindle dog in swift pursuit. Feline and canine circled the public room twice. The cat overturned a teapot when it leaped across a table. Barreling after it, the dog knocked aside several chairs in his path, then toppled a small table sending dishes, cups and flatware clattering to the floor.

      
"Out, out, ye hound of the Apocalypse! Look at the fine mess!" the old woman shrieked, seizing a broom from the corner.

      
"Oh, no, Poc. Not again! Please don't hurt him, Aunt Regina. Poc, come here, you naughty boy, come," Joss commanded firmly. Abruptly abandoning his chase of the stray cat, Poc obediently trotted up to her and sat while Aunt Regina used the broom to chase his prey out the front door.

      
"Are you always in the thick of battle, Miss Woodbridge, or does it occur only when I happen in the vicinity?" Alex queried from the sidelines, where he had watched the spectacle.

      
Joss turned with a startled gasp. "Alex! I mean, Mr.

Blackthorne—I didn't see you—what are you doing here?"
I'm babbling like a schoolroom miss.

      
"I came to pay a social call on a friend and to see how her patient is faring," he replied, looking down at the dog. "I see he's mended rather well."

      
"Thanks to you, Mr. Blackthorne. Your grandmother's herbal remedies are quite remarkable. Poc was up and about in a matter of days."

      
"Poc?" he asked. The terrier's tail began to thump against the rug excitedly.

      
"A shortened version of Apocalypse, a name I fear he's earned every day since coming to live with us." Joss cast a placating smile in Aunt Regina's direction. The old woman muttered to herself as she swept up broken crockery. "I must help clean up this mess. Please do have a seat in the back and I shall join you shortly," she said, gesturing to the open door into a private dining area.

      
Alex shook his head. "Since I am in some measure responsible for unleashing the Apocalypse on this household, please allow me to help you," he replied, walking over to where Mrs. Gower was plying her broom.

      
With a few economical movements he returned the table and chairs to their proper positions while Joss and Aunt Regina disposed of the broken dishes. If Poc was in any way abashed by his earlier destructive behavior, he did not show it as he followed them into the back room.

      
"I'll fetch some tea and the plum cake cook baked this morning," the old woman said as she scurried out after providing herself an excuse to return and eavesdrop.

      
"I assume by the way he obeys you that you've had no trouble with this fellow," Alex said, kneeling down and patting his knee for the dog to approach.

      
"Not at all. It's just as I said. He loves people and he's the finest ratter Aunt Regina's ever had at the inn. That's why she puts up with his ... er, playfulness."

      
Poc trotted up to Alex, his tail wagging with delight.

      
"You are a fine fellow, aren't you? Do you remember me, eh?"

      
As Alex made friends with Poc, Joss observed his natural way with animals. She was certain it extended as well to virtually all the humans he met. The crusty old landlady had certainly been won over. While he was occupied with the dog, Joss allowed her eyes to feast on him for a moment, noting his elegant cutaway jacket and faultlessly tied cravat.

      
He looked a perfect macaroni. She had heard snippets of gossip in the dining room about the scandalous young American who had taken London's elite and the demimonde by storm. She had hoped he would call, yet feared it, too. Falling under the spell of a man like Alex Blackthorne was sheer folly for a nonpareil, worse for the likes of a tabby such as she.

      
Laughing, Alex thumped the terrier several times, then stood up as Joss said, "My father is out. He'll be sorry to have missed your visit, Mr. Blackthorne."

      
"After all the mayhem we've survived together, Miss Woodbridge, don't you think it fitting we dispense with surnames? After all, we did agree to be friends, did we not? Please, call me Alex."

      
She returned his smile self-consciously. "Then I am Jo- celyn—Joss is what Papa and most everyone calls me. That is, those who don't call me bird-witted, bluestocking, long Meg or cow-handed holy Hannah."

      
He whooped with laughter. "Believe me, I've been called worse names on this side of the Atlantic and the other as well."

      
"Well, to me you've been a guardian angel."

      
He continued chuckling and said wryly, "A pretty wicked angel, I fear, Joss."

      
"I've heard rumors to that effect, sirrah," she replied merrily. "Perhaps it's as well Papa isn't here, else he'd have us all three on our knees in prayer for your immortal soul."

      
"We'd have sore knees in vain, I fear. It's too beautiful a day to waste indoors petitioning the Almighty for a lost cause. Come take a ride in my new chaise instead."

      
"You tempt me, Alex, but I'm already late for a meeting and then I'm expected at hospital."

      
"Ye should go, gel. Do ye a world of good to get out. Of course, ye'd need a chaperone ...," Aunt Regina added coyly as she waddled into the room, carrying a tray with the plum cake, a pot of tea and three cups.

      
"Stuff. I'm scarcely a belle on the marriage mart," Joss said to the old woman, all the while stifling a laugh at the look of horror that had flashed across Alex's face when Aunt Regina made her suggestion. "I go unchaperoned to schools and hospitals, the homes of the poor. Why, last week I even entered a flash house by myself."

      
"A flash house?" Alex's face darkened. "You could've been killed."

      
"There was not a boy in the awful place above the age of twelve," she retorted.

      
"That's more than old enough to do you grave injury. What on earth were you doing in such a place?"

      
"Searching for a five-year-old boy named Billy Jenkins. He'd run away from a brutal monster of a sweepmaster to whom he'd been sold by his mother for a bottle of gin."

      
"Old Madam Geneva's been the curse of poor folk," Aunt Regina inteijected piously.

      
Alex shook his head in resignation. "I can see there is no hope of stopping your attempts to save the world. Your guardian angel must be run ragged."

      
"As must yours, for different reasons, I warrant," Joss replied dryly.

      
"If I cannot induce you to take a pleasure ride, then at least allow me to drive you to your meeting, wherever it may be."

      
"At the Widow Alsworth's home. The Bible society meets there every Tuesday at one o'clock. Would you like to join us?" some imp prompted her to ask.

      
Alex laughed. "I'd as soon spend a week in the stocks, thank you all the same." Turning to Aunt Regina, he smiled and said, "Although I do thank you for your gracious hospitality, dear lady, I must decline the tea and cake. After all, we wouldn't want to have Miss Woodbridge late for her meeting, now, would we?"

      
"My cook's always got a pot of tea brewing and summat in the oven. Ye just come call another time, Mr. Blackthorne," the old woman replied as Alex took Joss's arm to escort her out. When Poc raised his muzzle to sniff the warm plum cake, Regina snatched it away. "Just try it, ye moldering rat catcher, and I'll have cook spit ye over the hearth for tonight's dinner!"

* * * *

      
The room was packed with people, most either hunched over gaming tables or standing behind the players, avidly watching the contests. Hazard, Macao, whist, faro. Whatever manner the patrons chose to be parted from their blunt, they found it in gaming hells such as Wheatie's. The stakes were high, but life was quite cheap in this neighborhood.

      
Situated in a lower class area noted for prostitution, high crime rates and low numbers of watchmen on duty, Wheatie's drew cold-eyed professional gamblers from all sorts of unsavory backgrounds to rub elbows quite literally with the more reckless and adventurous young bucks of the ton. Alex found the aura of greed and danger stimulating. There were no social niceties to be observed at Wheatie's, but there was sufficient of the ready to be won—if a player was skilled or lucky.

      
He was both—at least as long as he remained sober, which he usually managed to do. Tonight, however, was an exception. He had imbibed enough champagne at a dinner party to gain a head start on euphoria before setting out with his friend Puck Forrester and cousin, the young Viscount Chitchester.