Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (48 page)

      
The scandal spread from one end of London to the other. That mysterious painter of harem life was none other than the Earl of Lynden's American wife, who had actually been one of those decadently lounging nudes. No one dared to mention this in front of the earl, of course. He learned about the debacle from his highly embarrassed solicitors, who informed him of the astronomical sums the Quality as well as the Cits were paying for his wife's work. It was rumored that even the Regent himself had one of the paintings hanging in his bedroom.

      
The name of Elizabeth Blackthorne Jamison, the Countess of Lynden, was on everyone's lips. Even though Derrick's finances were certainly on the mend, he could not afford to buy up all the paintings to get them out of circulation. What he could do was ride at once to the Hall, destroy what she was currently working on and take away her paints.

      
It would be tantamount to taking the breath from her body.

      
“Ah, puss, what a fine tangle we have made,” he murmured sadly, staring at the erotic and lovely work of art, the last of the new arrivals on display at a gallery on Berkeley Square.

      
“Her use of light is quite extraordinary,” Ralph High-tower, the gallery owner, said hesitantly as he approached the earl. “She is almost the equal of Mr. Turner.”

      
“She studied with him in Naples last year,” Derrick replied, still staring intently at the haunted expression in the eyes of the woman being perfumed and powdered in the painting. She bore no physical resemblance to Beth, but he knew his wife had put a part of her soul into the work.

      
He bought the painting and extracted an oath from the dealer to bring any more of the countess's work to him. After arriving home with the canvas, he locked himself in the study with orders not to disturb him until further notice. Sitting before the picture, he then proceeded to empty a bottle of brandy as he stared into the fathomless eyes of the odalisque.

Chapter Twenty-six

      
Evon Bourdin had waited for the perfect opportunity since his disastrously failed attempt on Derrick's life the past December. No more hiring cheap, ineffective thugs to waylay Derrick on public streets. The Frenchman composed a note very carefully and had it delivered to Derrick's house late in the afternoon, just as a light spring rain began to fall.

      
Derrick read the message. The Count d'Artois requested the pleasure of his company this evening to discuss a matter of some delicacy. He had come into possession of a most shocking painting done by the earl's wife. The note suggested that the work far surpassed the others in the nature of erotic detail.

      
Derrick's first impulse had been to throw the sly missive into the fire and watch the Frenchman's spidery script turn to ashes. But something stayed his hand. Could she have painted something so lascivious that a jaded old roue such as the count would be titillated sufficiently to attempt blackmail? Her other works were exquisitely rendered, haunting and far more sad than titillating. He had spent hours studying the one he'd purchased and felt as if he had looked into Beth's tortured soul. It was an expression of genuine art, not the sort of erotica about which the count hinted.

      
Does she hate me so much that she'd paint such a thing as d'Artois describes?

      
The question haunted him as he rode Dancer through the gathering darkness to the count's current lodgings. The stallion had been returned to him when the thief attempted to sell him at Tattersalls. Derrick had one of the Bow Street Runners riding with him, posing as a groom. Both men were alert for assassins. Either Bourdin or Quinn could be lurking around the next corner.

      
Derrick was ushered into the narrow foyer by a grim-faced servant who merely pointed toward the sitting room door, which stood ajar. The old itch was back. Something did not feel right. The moment he stepped into the room and saw the count lying on the floor, he knew his instincts were still good. D'Artois had been shot through his heart. An ugly red stain stood out starkly on the gold satin waistcoat stretched across his belly. He was stone cold dead.

      
“I’ll simply place the count's weapon in his hand after I shoot you with it. You, sadly, will already have shot poor d'Artois,” Evon Bourdin purred as he stepped from behind the heavy velvet draperies at the window with a fancy new LePage percussion lock pistol leveled at Derrick.

* * * *

      
Beth had worked all day in her studio to escape from Annabella's cloying presence. Frankly, she preferred her sister-in-law's snide hostility to false solicitude. “Listening to her go on at the dinner table makes my head ache almost as much as my back,” she groused to Percy who barked agreement. He had been banished from the dining room for the duration of the family visit as he terrified Annabella into fits of the vapors.

      
Beth rubbed the persistent pain low in her back that had been plaguing her for the past several days. Small wonder. She was large as a sow about to birth a dozen piglets. There was no help for it but to dress for dinner. Perhaps she could prevail upon Annabella to torture the pianoforte. Even though she was a wretched musician, it was better than listening to her prattle. After ringing for Donita and ordering a bath, she sank into the big tub.

      
The little maid startled her, saying in Italian, “The master will be here soon.”

      
Beth stiffened. Donita had never spoken of the tense situation between her and Derrick before. “What would make you think that?” she asked guardedly. If this had been any other of the servants but her longtime maid, Beth would never have tolerated the comment.

      
“The babe has dropped. Your time is coming soon, and I know he will wish to be here to see his child born.”

      
“The physician Derrick engaged from Carlisle insists I have several weeks to go yet. What makes you think it will be sooner?” Beth wondered why the girl seemed so certain that the earl cared enough to come for the birth, but she did not ask.

      
“My mother was a midwife. I assisted her at many births. If you would like...I would be with you during your time,” she said shyly. “I do not believe that fancy doctor knows as much as he thinks he does. Women know how to care for women—men do not,” Donita sniffed.

      
“I would like that very much, Donita. Thank you,” Beth replied.

      
As she walked down the hall toward the stairs, Beth mulled over Donita's remarks. Was her time nearer than she had been told? And would Derrick come in any event? Money had been pouring in from the sale of her seraglio paintings and she could not believe he had taken no measures to stop her work. He must be making arrangements for a divorce that would disinherit her child. That was the only reason he would ignore her transgressions this way, she decided bleakly.

      
Her troubled thoughts were broken when she heard Bertie's voice coming from Annabella's quarters at the head of the stairs. Even if they were cousins by marriage, it was hardly proper for him to be there. A draft from the open window at the end of the hall must have pushed the heavy door ajar just a tiny crack. She could hear their angry exchange quite clearly as she approached the room.

      
“We must wait until the child is born, my love. If 'tis a boy, then we will let that Irishman take her, but if 'tis naught but a girl, she can pose no threat.”

      
“No!” Annabella responded to Bertie's wheedling tone. “I want that loathsome American baggage gone. I can endure not another day of feigning civility to a...a seraglio harlot. Why, look at those paintings she's doing! How will we ever live it down if she remains in England? I simply won't have it, Bertie, do you hear me, I won't have it! I want her sent back to that dreadful dey.”

      
“Now, now, Bella, don't work yourself into a pet. I shall have to send word to Quinn in any event, and that will take time...”

      
As he continued on, Beth backed away from the door, robbed of breath by the horror of what she'd overheard. Quinn! Here in the north, ready to abduct her and return her to Algiers! Her head reeled with the terror of it—and the treachery. Was there no one in this accursed place whom she could trust?

      
Harris! She would go to Lloyd Harris and tell him what she had overheard. Derrick had utter faith in the man. She turned to flee down the stairs when a sudden stabbing pain ripped through her abdomen, wrenching a sharp gasp from her as she doubled over, holding her belly.

      
The baby was coming! Donita had been right. She forced herself to straighten up and head for the stairs, but Bertie had heard the sound and noted the crack in the door. With a muttered curse he flung it open. Moving with amazing speed and grace, he seized her by one wrist and yanked her to his side. Had his cow-handedness also been an act?

      
As Beth looked into the cold, implacable depths of his gray eyes, she knew that the fumbling, kindly personality certainly had been. She opened her mouth to scream, but another contraction tore through her, once again robbing her of breath as he dragged her into the sitting room and closed the door.

      
“We need something to bind her with,” he said to Annabella. “The drapery cords will do,” he instructed as he extracted a white linen handkerchief from his waistcoat, preparing to stuff it in Beth's mouth.

      
“Why, Bertie? Why are you doing this?” Beth asked.

      
He looked at her with what appeared to be a touch of genuine regret. “Why, to be the next Earl of Lynden, m'dear. My darling Bella quite enjoyed being the countess and will be again after we're wed.”

      
The expression on his face reminded her of Liam Quinn's that night at Lady Holland's salon and she felt chilled to the bone. “You plan to kill Derrick,” she said with dread choking her.

      
“Your precious husband will soon be dead,” Annabella said with all the venom of a woman scorned. “He made far too many enemies while he ran about Europe as a spy, I fear. Evon Bourdin salivates to kill him.” A sly smile curved her tiny bow mouth.

      
“No! ” Beth cried out, wrenching away from Bertie's grip when he reached for the bindings. Using strength born of utter desperation, she shoved Annabella against Bertie and. lunged for the door. He was after her in a flash, capturing her just as she pulled it open—and felt the terrible agony of another contraction. She screamed through it as Bertie cursed and tried to haul her back into the room before any servants chanced to hear her cries.

      
But Beth held on to the doorknob with a white-knuckled grip while Bertie hissed to Annabella, “My pistol's in your bedroom. Get it!”

      
“You can't hold the entire staff of the manor at bay, Bertie. Release me and I'll let you go,” Beth said as Annabella dashed into the adjoining room. They had been sleeping together here in the manor! “Can't you see, she's just using you to regain her title.”

      
“Perhaps,” he said in that oddly regretful voice. “But I adore her; have ever since we were children. Sad to say, I'm only a baron, and my gel has her heart set on wedding an earl.”

      
Annabella dashed back into the room, holding the pistol in front of her awkwardly. It was apparent that she had never shot a gun in her life. Beth released her hold on the doorframe suddenly, throwing Bertie off balance as she lunged awkwardly against him. Her hand shot out toward Annabella. She tried to seize the double-barreled Manton pistol.

      
“Ah, no you don't,” Bertie said, grabbing the gun dexterously and swinging it around to her breast.

      
Just then a loud bark sounded as Percy burst into the room. Bertie's eyes shifted for an instant to the dog, and Beth seized his gun hand in hers, raising the pistol overhead as they struggled with it. He started to slap her with his left hand, but the dog sank his teeth into his leg before he could connect. The searing pain in his hamstring brought forth a torrent of curses as he kicked at the dog and yelled at Annabella, “Demme, give some help here!”

      
Beth wanted to scream, but she needed every ounce of her strength just to hold on to Bertie's deadly weapon. Annabella stood frozen in horror as they struggled over the pistol. The dog, who terrified her, would not relinquish his hold on Bertie's leg.
 

      
He and Beth overbalanced and fell against the door frame, smashing her arm into the wall, but still she would not relinquish her hold on the pistol. Beth gripped it with maniacal strength as she fought her way through another contraction. She and Bertie both had their hands wrapped around the weapon, waving it wildly back and forth between them, neither quite able to point it at the other.

      
Trembling and sobbing, Annabella picked up a poker from the fireplace and tried to get near enough to strike Beth, but the struggling combatants kept twisting and turning so that the dog was between her and them. Feeling another contraction beginning to tear at her, Beth made a desperate lunge forward. This would be her last chance.
 

      
She succeeded in slipping her thumb inside the trigger guard on the pistol and pressed against Bertie's finger as they stumbled on the edge of the carpet. Their hands moved in a downward arc from above their heads while Beth tried to turn the barrel toward Bertie, squeezing with all her strength.

      
The gun discharged with a deafening roar. Annabella fell backwards, the poker dropping from her hand as she stared dumbly down at the blossoming red stain on the front of her pink silk gown. She teetered for a moment, then crumpled to the floor. Bertie cried, “Bella! My darling Bella!” He shoved Beth away. Percy released his hold and stood protectively in front of Beth, snarling.