Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (9 page)

      
She stood in a far corner, deep in discussion with a slight, fair-haired man who must surely be English judging by his pallor. Turner, the painter. Their conversation was animated.

      
Derrick smiled faintly.
Always so predictable, puss. Art before pleasure.

      
Of course, he also had a professional reason for wangling an invitation through the English charge d'affaires office. He had mixed and mingled, listening and convincing several of Queen Caroline's ladies-in-waiting to reveal with whom her majesty had been corresponding in recent weeks. If the exiled Napoleon planned to foment an uprising in Italy, Lord Liverpool's government in London would be advised of it well in advance.

      
That was how he'd justified his presence at the masquerade to his snappish “manservant.” Drum had fumed about Derrick being tricked out like a Bartholomew baby when he dressed all in black from domino and swirling cape to thigh-high leather boots.
 

      
The idea of masquerading as a highwayman had a certain ironic appeal for a spy, he'd told Drum, who merely scoffed, saying that Jamison's only reason for the costume was to appeal to his latest paramour. Although he vehemently denied it, Derrick was forced to admit that Beth Blackthorne had taken hold of his imagination...and more physical parts of his anatomy.

      
Was she right? Did he desire her because he had not yet had her? Or was this fascination something more complex? There was only one way to find out. He began wending his way across the room to her, but before he could get through the press, a man dressed as a Turkish sultan swept her onto the dance floor. The long fringes on her costume swayed in time with the music, parting enticingly to reveal flashes of sleek long arms and legs. His mouth was dry as he watched her laugh and banter with the “pasha.”

      
“Might I cut in, old chap? There's a good fellow,” he said to the elderly Neapolitan gentleman who was left standing flummoxed in the middle of the floor as Derrick whirled Beth away.

      
“I don't believe Signore Valpolicino understood a word you said, and it was rather rude of you to cut in that way,” she said with no apparent displeasure. The tiny white silk domino she wore shadowed her eyes, but her lips were tilted in a delighted smile.

      
“I doubt the relations between Naples and England can be set back much further than the Royal Navy has already done,” he replied, also smiling as they glided around the floor. “You are dressed as a red Indian. Tell me, do the women take scalps as well as the men?”

      
“No, but we're justly famed as skilled torturers.”

      
“Oh, I know well how skilled you are at torture, madam,” he whispered against her neck.

      
The heat of his breath sent a shiver racing through her body. “How did you gain admittance to the palace?” she asked, shifting the conversation to a safer topic.

      
“I had an invitation. Of course, it was issued to Sir Edmund Osgood, who works for the British charge d'affaires. I've known Eddie since school days.”

      
“How convenient. Did you come just to dance with me?”
What made me ask that?

      
“What other reason could I have?” he murmured, holding her far closer than propriety allowed.

      
Her laugh was low and seductive. “I do believe I like the obvious reason very much.”
What a dangerous game I play,
she scolded herself, then stopped.
No. I'm not the childishly rebellious young prude who arrived in Naples so long ago. I am a woman dedicated to my painting, but that need not mean that I cannot enjoy life's other pleasures as well.

      
Her fingers glided over the satin of his cape, which flew rakishly behind him as they danced. She could feel every muscle in his shoulder and her fingertips flexed, digging into the steely hardness. Her eyes were at a level with the broad column of his neck, but she could glance down at the crisp black hair peeking out of the black linen shirt he wore open halfway to his waist. She wanted to bury her face against the wall of flesh, inhale the maleness of his scent. “You make a most convincing highwayman, Derrick. I can imagine you thundering over the moors on a big black stallion, terrorizing the local gentry and making all the ladies swoon even as you rob them.”

      
“I've never owned a black stallion, but I thank you for the compliment nonetheless.” He could feel her heart beating in time with his as they whirled about the floor. The high color staining her cheeks and the delicate little pulse at her throat revealed that she was his for the taking. He would take her, yes, but he would not use her, he vowed.

      
This is the second time I’ve made exception for you, puss. What is it about you, hmm?
He knew she was certainly not the virginal miss he'd met in America, but then again, what did he really know of Americans? Of her? Perhaps his assessment of her innocence had been wide of the mark even then. She had been alone in the wilderness with only a dog for chaperon. If she had been an amoral free spirit from her childhood days, all the better for this evening's agenda, he assured himself.

      
When the music stopped, he took her hand, and they made their way across the floor to where the Contessa di Remaldi waited watchfully. Derrick knew the worldly older woman could see what was going on between him and her young charge. He could not imagine that a woman of her reputation would object to Beth’s dalliance with him—unless the cunning contessa suspected that he might be a spy using Beth.

      
I shall simply have to charm her mistrust away.
A task easier vowed than accomplished, he knew. Her smile was wide and appeared genuine as she greeted them, offering a hand dripping with sapphires this night, the gems matching the heavy royal blue border on her elegant Grecian robe. She was dressed as the goddess Athena, a most appropriate choice, he thought with wry amusement.

      
“A notable turnout,” the contessa said, scanning all the important court officials around the room, then returning her penetrating black eyes to him as he raised his head after saluting her hand.

      
“ I understand the duke is one of the most ardent supporters of the king among the Neapolitan nobility. It would make sense that everyone of import would attend if invited,” he replied with a smile.

      
“Even though you are a gentleman of some import, how did you receive an invitation, having just arrived two days ago?”

      
“I went to Eton with a chap who's now working for the charge d'affaires here. He fell ill and gave me his invitation.”

      
“How convenient,” the contessa murmured.

      
“Precisely what Beth said,” he returned with another blinding smile. “Would you be shocked if I confessed that I put an emetic in his afternoon tea in order to be here to dance with Beth?”

      
The contessa's eyes grew merry. “You are a rogue, sir.”

      
“I am a man who knows what he wants,” he replied, his gaze traveling to Beth.

      
“Ah, but how ruthless are you in obtaining it…and to what end?” Her words hung on the air and her expression was once again wary.

      
Beth had watched the fencing between Vittoria and Derrick with a bit of bemusement. Whyever would her mentor, who had so long urged her to take a lover, object to a man like Derrick Jamison? She must assure her friend. “I shall confess something myself,” she interjected into the pregnant silence. “I am flattered that a gentleman would go to such lengths for the pleasure of dancing with me.”

      
“What greater pleasure could there be?” His words were suggestive, “And since they are striking up another waltz, would you do me the honor, Beth?” he asked,bowing as he extended his hand.

      
Sure of himself, the cheeky devil,
the contessa thought, amused in spite of herself. “You had best start dancing lest trouble interrupt. Here comes Bourdin, his majesty's illustrious captain of guards.”

      
“How dare he even approach me after his conduct at the palace the other night?” Beth seethed with fury.

      
“The Frenchman who attacked you in the garden?” Derrick asked, eyes narrowed on the tall blond wending his way toward them. He was accompanied by a companion, also dressed in the elaborate gold braid uniform of Murat's palace guardsmen.

      
“Evon Bourdin, late a captain in Napoleon's Grand Army during its ill-fated invasion of Russia. He's a particular favorite of the king. I would not further antagonize him were I you,” the contessa cautioned.

      
“Even if he's an animal who tears the clothes off women in fits of drunken lust?” Derrick asked, clenching his jaw.

      
Vittoria was silent, but she eyed the Englishman with increased interest.

      
“As I tried to explain the other night, Derrick, I could have handled him, especially because he was drunk. The first time he attempted it, he was sober, and I put a six-inch gash across his right arm. It quite spoiled his lovely white uniform,” Beth said with equal parts disdain and loathing as she stared at Bourdin's pale narrow face. Turning back to Derrick with a smile, she added, “Although I thank you for your gallant dispatch of him in the garden, Vittoria is right. Further antagonizing him would be imprudent.”

      
“You could take his scalp, I suppose,” he suggested, attempting to cool his fury. He had been instructed by the British ambassador in Vienna to keep a low profile at Murat's court and make friends among his sycophants, not engage them in duels, he reminded himself.

      
“I'm wearing my weapon tonight,” she replied, her hand resting lightly on a beaded sheath cleverly concealed on the waistband of her dress.

      
“Good evening, Contessa, Miss Blackthorne,” Bourdin said with an oily smile. When neither woman offered him her hand, his insolence remained undaunted. “Surely you do not still hold my impetuosity against me, fair ladies. Beautiful women must be used to driving mere men to rash behavior. May I have the honor of presenting my superior officer, Major Carascossa?” The older man bowed politely as Bourdin continued. “He has been an admirer of the contessa for many years. Perhaps while they become acquainted, you will do me the honor of dancing with me.” His words were couched as a demand.

      
“Major Carascossa and I are already acquainted,” Vit-toria said with a cool lift of an eyebrow.

      
“I would not dance with you, Captain,” Beth replied, “if my only other choice were to stand still on burning coals.”

      
“Such spirit,” he said,reaching for her hand in spite of her clear refusal.

      
“I believe the lady has made her wishes known in no uncertain terms,” Derrick said in perfectly idiomatic French, stepping between them.

      
The captain turned to Jamison with a brisk nod. “I do not believe we have been introduced, sir.”

      
“Ah, yes, since you were groveling on all fours in the dirt at our last encounter, introductions seemed rather pointless. I am Derrick Jamison, late of London, at your service.” He watched with perverse pleasure as the Frenchman's pale complexion reddened with anger.
So much for my low profile.

      
“You were the cur who slipped behind me—”

      
“As you were forcing yourself on a lady. And as for cur, you were the one on all fours. In any case, I'm facing you now, Captain.” Jamison's voice was a deadly purr.

      
“Captain, Mr. Jamison,this is neither the time nor the place for such a display,” Major Carascossa said, his French thickened by a Calabrian accent. His eyes moved meaningfully to the Duke di Arcovito and several other important Neapolitan nobles and French favorites at court.

      
“As always, dear Etore, you are nothing if not discreet,” the contessa said to Carascossa, ushering Beth and her Englishman away from the still red-faced Bourdin. “You have made a deadly enemy, signore,” she whispered to Derrick.

      
“One the two of you have already made as well,” he replied.

      
“You know nothing of Neapolitan politics. We are women, and women can manage things quite differently. I could have sliced his arm off right in the midst of that waltz and no one at court would have done anything but applaud me,” Beth said in an angry whisper. “Bourdin has a filthy reputation with women, which Murat ignores, but the queen would protect me. You she would feed to the
lazzaroni.
”

      
“She is correct. As an Englishman newly arrived in Naples, if you were to have an altercation with one of the king's favorites, the best you could expect would be for their majesties to send you packing immediately.”

      
Derrick smiled at Vittoria. “Then I am in your debt, my lady, since the last thing on earth I wish at this time is to leave your beautiful country.''As he spoke, his eyes moved to Beth. “Perhaps it would be wise if we departed while the king's illustrious captain of guards is otherwise occupied?” he suggested to her, adding, “that is, if you and Mr. Turner have concluded your earlier discussion?”

      
“We have arranged to meet at sunrise the day after tomorrow at the Duomo so that I might see how he paints the light against stone,” she replied in acquiescence.

      
Vittoria, seeing which way the breeze wafted, silently sighed in resignation. With an amused smile, she said, “Take very good care with her, Signore Jamison.”