To Surrender to a Rogue (19 page)

If the subject hadn't been so serious, Jack would have laughed. Instead, he stared thoughtfully at the seagulls circling overhead.
Yet another mystery surrounding the marchesa.

"Well, I daresay she has a good reason."

The little girl began to draw a wicked-looking pistol "Maybe she killed someone in a duel."

At that, Jack couldn't hold back a smile. "You have a very vivid imagination, Miss Isabella, which is a great asset in art. However, in real life, you must take care not to say such wild things."

"I'm not just imagining things." Darting a furtive look at her mother, Isabella leaned in a little closer and whispered, "I'm not supposed to talk about it, but we left Casa Neroli in a great rush. It was the middle of the night, and I didn't even have a chance to pack my favorite doll."

Jack ruffled her curls. "There are any number of reasons for leaving at an odd hour. Travelers must always consider things like ferry schedules, border crossings, and traversing the mountain passes in the light of day."

Isabella looked unconvinced. "I suppose. But Perry thinks it sounds awfully havey-cavey."

"You know what I think?" murmured Jack.

The pencil ceased its scratching.

"I think that you and Perry ought to stop reading all those bloodthirsty horror tales." And yet, even as he said it, his own imagination was racing through a gamut of macabre motifs for the marchesa's strange behavior.

Pistols at twenty paces?

No, not in his wildest fantasies did he think Alessandra della Giaraatti capable of killing someone. However, Isabella's playmate was right—something havey-cavey was going on.

* * *

The bronze fragments would need an acid bath to dissolve the sediments, the glass mosaic tile needed to be tested to determine its origin...
Alessandra tried to concentrate on her upcoming work, but her mind's eye kept forming the picture of a sword-wielding knight fighting a fire-breathing dragon.

If only.

If only storybook fantasies could come alive. She slanted a look at Jack, who was wielding a pencil with consummate skill, judging by her daughter's admiring expression. His handsome face no longer looked as forbidding as it once had. If one looked closely, the chiseled lines had a subtle softness, the dark eyes had a rich warmth.
Like melted chocolate.

Alessandra sipped her wine, savoring the sweet memory of his mouth. His kisses had released all sorts of sensations that were... best left locked away in her heart, along with her past

She couldn't help wonder, though, what Jack had been about to say just before Frederico had spoiled the moment with his reckless play. There had been an odd spark in his eye. As if, despite all her previous rebuffs, he was willing to offer her help.

A fresh gust of wind blew over the water, the sharp, salty air swirling through the hemp and canvas. Lifting her face, she let its sting slap against her skin. Her gaze followed the rise and fall of the ocean, the deep, dark seagreen waves moved by some inexorable force, some mysterious rhythm.

Oh, if only she dared appeal to his sense of honor now...

Spill her secrets?

Her insides gave a lurch. Oh, no, she dared not He would be disgusted at the truth. Better to have him dislike her than to despise her. She couldn't imagine what he would think if he knew she had been a party to murder.

A violent criminal.
And now, about to become a conniving thief. Someone willing to betray every principle he held dear.

Black Jack Pierson might be a hero for some lucky lady. But not, alas, for her.

"Bloody hell," murmured Kate as she stared down at Alessandra's latest letter. The smudges marring the neatly penned lines looked awfully suspicious.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Katharine?" The elderly butler turned around with the tea tray, a symphony in silver, from his perfectly combed mane of hair to the ornate pots and glittering heirloom platter cradled in his dove-gray gloves.

She squinted into the brilliant reflections, a habit from her seafaring days that annoyed her imperious grandfather to no end "Nothing, Simpson," she answered "I was merely talking to myself."

Which was another little quirk that drove the duke to distraction. But thankfully he was ensconced in his study, reviewing account books with the steward from his Kentshire estate.

"Very good, ma'am." The butler bowed and slipped silently from the room, despite the heavy load of precious metal in his arms.

Sighing, Kate returned her attention to the letter. "I wish Charlotte had not left London," she muttered to herself a moment later. "I fear we have a far more pressing problem than Huntfont's essay on our hands." She was quite sure that she was reading between the lines correctly. Alessandra sounded like a stranger—a cheerful, chatty stranger who was as different from the real marchesa as chalk was from cheese.

She lifted the letter up to the light Besides, after years of sailing the seas, she knew damn well what a splash of salt water looked like.

If Alessandra was reduced to tears, something was seriously amiss. And yet, she had not dared to confide in the Circle.

Kate's brow creased.

What could possibly be so dreadful?

It took the sharp crackling of paper to make Kate aware that her hands had clenched into fists. On second thought, she conceded that some secrets were not easy to share, even with one's closest friends.

"Damn." The curse came out a great deal louder than before.

The tweeny who had tiptoed into the sitting room to dust the hearth gave a terrified squeak and nearly fell into the coal scuttle.

"Not you, Mary," added Kate hastily.

Ye gods, the servants moved like ghosts through the ornate townhouse. And no wonder, seeing that the place was like a crypt Stuffy, silent Everything about it seemed devoid of life—the formal portraits, the ancient furniture, the hideously expensive
objets d'art.

"Will you kindly take word to my maid that I wish to make a trip to Hatchards." All of a sudden, Kate was in dire need of a breath of fresh air to think properly. "And please have her inform Simpson that I am going out"

"Yes, ma'am" The girl curtsied. "Right away."

Kate made a face at the haughty ancestor hanging above the escritoire, unsure if she would ever get used to being treated like royalty.

The long-dead duchess stared back in rigid disapproval.

A grin slowly replaced Kate's grimace. Rank and privilege did, however, offer some practical advantages. She took up the ivory pen and dashed off a note before hurrying from the room.

Alessandra felt a brackish chill seep through her boots as she struggled to climb to the top of the hill. The weather had been blustery for several days, and during the night, a thunderstorm had swept through the countryside, its torrential rains leaving the excavation site mired in mud.

"The cart paths are naught but a swamp," said Eustace's assistant, staring hatefully at the waterlogged ropes and half-submerged winch in one of the main pits. "I had to send the wagons back to town."

Dwight-Davis mumbled something in Latin, while Haverstick looked up at the heavens. "We may very well get another squall blowing through. It seems pointless to start work under these conditions."

The other committee heads nodded in glum assent

Eustace puffed out his cheeks. "We are falling behind schedule. But there's naught we can do when the elements conspire against us."

"So." Orrichetti shifted from foot to foot, his wet boots stirring a soft squelch of mud. "Back to Bath?"

"And a dram of brandy," muttered Haverstick. His ears were turning red in the raw, swirling wind.

"You all go on. I think I will stay for a while and catch up on my notes," said Alessandra. "If the rains hold off, I may even take a look at the upper grotto walls. I've not yet had a chance to collect some samples of the mosaic tiles and cement for chemical testing."

Jack had leaned a muscled shoulder against a tree and was thumbing through his sketchbook, for all appearances completely uninterested in the discussion.

"Do take care, Lady Giamatti. The rocks will be slippery." Dwight-Davis blew on his hands, sending up tendrils of ghostly white vapor in the morning chill. "Perhaps I should stay with you. I don't like the idea of you wandering around the site alone. It could be dangerous."

"Oh, please, there is no need for gallantry, sir, though I do appreciate the offer. In all likelihood I shall not stray from my tent."

"Well, if you are sure..."

"Quite," she replied firmly. "I prefer to write up my reports on-site. In case there are any questions, I can easily check on the details. As you know, the more accurate we can be, the more valuable the information."

"Very commendable." Haverstick looked impatient to be off. He had been limping earlier and Alessandra suspected that the expensive hobnailed shoes he had ordered from Bavaria were pinching his feet

"There is plenty of work to be done at the Antiquities Society," pointed out Alessandra. Knowing that the task would appeal to Dwight-Davis's organizational zeal, she added, "There are boxes and boxes of artifacts that need to be sorted and labeled."

"Indeed, indeed!" The scholar visibly brightened. "We shall need to establish a set of categories, and make sure we have plenty of cotton wool and pasteboard..."

"Then it's settled," said Haverstick. "Come along, everyone, let us inform the others that we shall be working in town today."

Still mumbling to himself, Dwight-Davis fell in line and marched off.

As the group faded to shadowy shapes in the mist, Alessandra turned and saw that Jack was gone, too. A sigh of relief slipped from her lips. The last thing she needed was his penetrating gaze following her every move.

As she left the bookstore, Kate paused and looked up at the sky. "Seeing as the weather is so nice, Alice, why don't we take a stroll up Bond Street, before heading home."

Her maid nodded dutifully and fell in step beside her. The woman was new to the position, the old one having resigned in despair the previous week over the state of Kate's wardrobe. Work in the laboratory tended to result in a number of peculiar odors. But it was probably the bloodstains from dissecting the frog that had done the trick, thought Kate. So far, Alice was showing more backbone.

Setting a brisk pace—which raised several eyebrows along Piccadilly—Kate skirted the Royal Academy and turned right

"Perhaps we should stop and shop for a pair of gloves to match your new ballgown," began her maid.

Kate kept walking. "I'm not interested in shopping, Alice." Her gaze skimmed over the fancy store windows, ignoring the expensive fashions and furbelows on display. Spotting an arched facade of pale Portland stone up ahead, she crossed the street and came to a halt in front of the doorway.

Her maid peered at the sign and Kate heard a sharp intake of breath.

"We must move on, milady. You can't be seen standing here."

Kate cut her off with a quelling look.

A few minutes of strained silence ticked by as Alice struggled to contain her mounting agitation.

"Miss Katharine!'' The warning was no longer a whisper. "This is a gentlemen's club—a gentlemen's
sporting club.
A place where they prance around half naked'—"

"Which half?" quipped Kate, which earned her a look of horror.

"A gently bred lady
cannot
be seen loitering around its entrance," insisted her maid, gamely trying to press her point.

"You ought to know me by now."

"Aye, miss." Alice chuffed a harried sigh. "And I also know your grandfather. Of the two, you are less likely to cut out my liver and feed it to the Tower ravens."

"I'm actually quite skilled with a sword and a stiletto."

Alice did not look amused.

"I promise you will suffer no consequences for my actions," added Kate. "Grandfather knows by now that none of his staff is to blame for my unladylike behavior."

Their exchange was cut short by the
thunk
of the paneled portal swinging open. Two young bucks emerged from the salon, still looking a little pink in the face from exertion.

Smiling sweetly, Kate moved to block their path. "Pardon me, sirs. Is Mr. Angelo holding fencing classes this afternoon? Or is it Mr. Jackson's day to give boxing lessons?"

"It's—it's fencing day," stuttered the ginger-haired gentleman.

"Aye," added his companion, whose round face and slightly bulging eyes gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a frog. "But if you are looking for lessons, you are out of luck. The Master doesn't accept female students—does he now, Derwitt?"

Ginger Hair tittered.

"Oh, that's quite all right—I doubt I'd need any pointers on how to carve your spleen into fish bait," she replied pleasantly. "You see, if I need to wield a blade, I'm certainly not going to fight by the rules."

Their grins turned a trifle uncertain.

"But speaking of rules, I wouldn't want to overset the delicate sensibilities of the club's members by setting foot inside. So would you kindly deliver this note to Mr. Angelo for me." She jabbed the paper in Frog Face's chest before he could object

"Er,well..."

"Hop to it, sir," snapped Kate. "I haven't got all day."

Both gentlemen did a quick about-face and scurried back into the academy.

The wait was lengthy enough to set her foot tapping. "Damnation," she muttered under her breath. It would be a cursed nuisance if she had to wait until the day after the morrow to try again.

Her maid gave an audible sniff, but refrained from comment

Finally, the portal swung open again, and out swaggered Conte Marco Musto della Ghiradelli, coatless and with his black hair damp and curling in Renaissance ringlets around his shirt collar.

Kate sucked in her breath as he lowered the towel from his brow.

Oh, no.
Of all the bloody,
bloody
luck.

In her travels through the seamier seaports of the world, she had encountered a good many rogues. Why in the name of Lucifer did her good friend's cousin have to be one of them? In Naples she had known him only as
Serpente.
While he had thought her to be...

Never mind that.

There was no reason to think he might recognize her now. The room had been hazed with cigar smoke, the single candle had been naught but a weak flicker of cheap tallow, and the conte had been three sheets to the wind. Maybe four. If she recalled correctly, fine French brandy had been his preferred poison that evening.

"I confess, I am used to ladies pursuing me, but this is a rather novel approach." Marco's cocky voice brought her back to the present.

Kate looked up through her lashes. In the light of day, it was clear why the rascal was rumored to have females following him all over Town, ready to swoon at his feet

His
bare
feet, she noticed, dropping her gaze. He had obviously been interrupted in the middle of a match, but most men would not saunter out into the streets in such a shameless state of undress.

But then, the conte was known for his flagrantly outrageous behavior.

"By the by," he went on, his deep voice tinged with an intriguing accent. "How did you know where to find me? I only arrived back in Town yesterday afternoon."

"A lucky guess," she murmured. Actually, she had read a snippet of gossip in the morning newspaper mentioning the divine Lord G's return. And as Alessandra had mentioned her cousin's prowess with a sword, Angelo's Fencing Academy seemed a logical place to look for him. "But that's neither here nor there," she hastened to add. "I need to have a word with you in private. It's a matter of some importance."

"Have we met?" inquired Marco after subjecting her to a lengthy scrutiny.

"No," she replied quickly, dropping her head a touch more. "But I've heard a great deal about you."

He toyed with the folds of his rolled-up sleeve, revealing another inch or two of well-muscled forearm. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. I've been told I'm a popular topic of conversation when the ladies of London make their rounds of morning calls."

Still the same arrogant ass,
thought Kate impatiently. However, for Alessandra's sake, she managed to keep her assessment to herself. "I wouldn't know, seeing as I don't waste my time in mindless tittle-tattle. Now please, would you mind getting dressed, sir? We really need to talk."

Setting a hand on his hip, Marco let out a sigh. "Can't it wait another quarter hour? I am leading Angelo on points going into the final round, and it is considered bad form among gentlemen to quit while you are ahead."