Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (12 page)

      
As Derrick scanned the missive, Beth looked out over the balcony at the city below them. She had everything now. Naples, her work and a man to love.
But did he love her?
Where had that thought come from? Ofcourse he was not in love with her—any more than she was in love with him! Being lovers implied just that, a physical relationship, nothing more.
Then why do you want more?

      
Her troubling thoughts were interrupted by the cause of them. “You're in a brown study all of a sudden, puss. What were you thinking to mar that lovely face—not still brooding about Drum, I hope?”

      
“Oh, no. It was nothing really, just a bit of homesickness,” she prevaricated.

      
“It's been three years since you've seen your family. That is a long while,” he murmured, thinking fleetingly of his own family.

      
She shrugged. “Eventually I will return for a visit, but they own a fleet of ships. If Papa weren't so disapproving of my desire to paint, they could have visited me in Naples long before now.” Visions of Quintin Blackthorne's reaction to her relationship with Derrick were more than a little unsettling. She changed the subject. “What about your family? You have never spoken of them,other than to say you are a second son.”

      
His expression turned from warm and smiling to grim. “I said I was a scapegrace; in fact, nearly a scapegallows as well.”

      
“And the old earl did not approve,” she guessed.

      
“He was a rigid man of the old school...duty to king and country, to family, to the Church...to everything which, according to him ‘holds civilization together.’ At least,the English definition of it.”

      
“That sounds little different than the way Americans view life. But you put me in mind of another irredeemable rascal, my cousin Alex.”

      
“It greatly lightens my mind that you Americans have produced some rogues equal to me.” Drum had mentioned his friend Alex, although Derrick certainly had no intention of explaining that to Beth. Instead he asked, “Alex is the one with the English wife you've referred to, is he not?”

      
“My favorite cousin. We got into all sorts of scrapes together as children. I imagine he's leading Joss a merry chase. I would love to meet her, but they sailed for America just as war broke out. What of your brother, the new earl?” she asked, hoping he had some redeemable family relationship left now that the old earl was gone.

      
“Leighton gave me the cut direct the last time we met in London. I’m no longer received at Lynden Hall.” He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

      
“And he is your only brother? Have you no other family?” Coming from an enormous extended family with siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins by the dozens, Beth found it difficult to imagine being so alone in the world.

      
“Oh, a few cousins once or twice removed. The direct Jamison line will die out, I’m afraid, unless Leighton does his duty and provides an heir for the title.”

      
She snorted. “That is the way a man would think of it.”

      
“And how, pray, does a woman think of it?”

      
“It is the countess, not the earl, who must perform the difficult duty of providing an heir.”

      
It was his turn to shrug now, his mood lightening. “I will concede that the man's role is considerably less difficult than the woman's.”

      
“But a woman may certainly enjoy the initiation of the process equally as much as a man.”

      
“Only if the man is a skilled initiator,” he said smugly.

      
“You are insufferably vain,” she replied, rising to leave. ”I promised to meet Vittoria and I am already late.”

She kissed him quickly and started for the door as he called after her, “The very reason you are late is reason enough for me to be vain.”

* * * *

      
“Gnat of a man, indeed!” Drum huffed. He had been in high dudgeon ever since Beth departed. “I've a good mind to suggest to Alex when next we meet that he should take that impudent young baggage and paddle her backside.” He looked over at Derrick, who remained seated at the table on the terrace staring out at the bay. “By the by, old fellow, what are you going to do about the Oil Merchant?”

      
“You read the message before bringing it to me.” It was not a question.

      
Nor did it require an answer. “I don't trust the froggies, and I trust their Italian minions even less. How do we know his information is reliable?”

      
Jamison grinned. “Spoken like a true Englishman. My sources in Naples vouch that he's expert at breaking codes and reading sympathetic ink. If he wants to meet with me, I think it worthwhile.”

      
Drum shrugged. “It may be your funeral.”

      
“Since you'll be covering my back, it had best be yours first, old chap.”

* * * *

      
The “Oil Merchant” was his code name. He was known to the British Foreign Office, even though he was in the pay of the restored Bourbon monarchy in France. A short, rotund man with an ever-ready smile and the unctuous manner of a street peddler, he waited in the deep shadows of the old church, Santa Maria del Carmine. The flickering lights from hundreds of votive candles gave off a reddish glow, faint in the small alcove where he hid, pretending to pray at the small altar. His ear remained alert for the sound of the Englishman's footfalls.

      
“Will the Eagle soar once again?” Jamison used the agreed-upon passwords.

      
Alessandro Forli spun around, crossing himself in reflex, surprised at how silently such a big man could move. “You are late,” he whispered angrily to cover up his unease.

      
“That is not the appropriate response,” Jamison replied, turning to leave.

      
“Not if we clip his wings.” The Englishman stopped but remained standing. “Even if you are a heretic, kneel beside me so we may talk without drawing attention.”

      
“No one is about. It's the middle of the bloody night,” Derrick replied but knelt all the same. “What do you have for me?”

      
From a choir loft high in the back of the church, Drum observed the conversation taking place between his countryman and the Italian. He kept a pair of Egg pistols cocked and ready to fire should the need arise.

      
After an exchange that lasted a good quarter of an hour, Jamison rose and left the fat man in front of the altar. By the time he reached the church door Drum was waiting for him, weapons nowhere in sight. “Was it worthwhile?”

      
“Quite. A bit of spiritual uplifting would do wonders for you as well, my man. You should try prayer sometime.”

      
“Quite amusing,” his companion drawled as they set out down the steps and crossed the piazza just as a light drizzle began to fall.

      
“The Polish Wife paid a visit to Napoleon last week,” Derrick said.

      
The Polish Wife was the derisive title given to a young Polish noblewoman who had become the emperor's mistress during his earlier triumphs against Russia. Unlike his other paramours, the Countess Maria Laczynska Wal-ewska remained fiercely devoted to Napoleon after his fall from power. She moved freely around the capitals of Europe and was a trustworthy courier for her lover.

      
“So, the plot does thicken. Hmmm,” Drum said as Derrick finished his summary.

      
“ Murat’s backwater country is not the key to the conspiracy. Forli agreed with me. That crafty Corsican is going to head straight for Paris, Italy be damned. If only those buffleheads in the Foreign Office would see it,” Derrick said in frustration. “I should be in Marseilles or Monaco, or in Livorno if I must remain in Italy. At least there I could observe the ships coming and going from Elba.”

      
“Leaving Naples would mean leaving Beth Blackthorne. Are you certain you could do that?” Drum asked.

      
The question took Derrick by surprise. Of course he could—couldn't he? “I would regret it, naturally,” he

said.

      
“Naturally,” Drum echoed. Was there just a hint of a smirk in his voice?

      
“Normally when a relationship is this new, neither partner is ready to cry off—if they suit, that is.”

      
“And you and she do suit, don't you?”

      
“Not in the manner you mean,” Derrick snapped. “I do wish—”

      
“Quiet,” Drum hissed. Without another word he dropped back into the shadow of an awning.

      
Derrick continued walking down the long narrow street. It was nearly three in the morning and all the taverns and public houses had closed hours ago. Other than the occasional bark of a stray dog, not a sound could be heard...but for the pad of soft-soled shoes over cobblestones.

      
He rested his hand on the butt of the pistol he wore at his waist beneath his cloak. A wicked knife was concealed in his boot as well. It might be a good idea to rid himself of the long outer garment if he was forced to fight in close quarters. Just as he began to unfasten his cloak, the footfalls suddenly accelerated. Derrick reached down and slipped the knife into one hand while his other withdrew the pistol from his belt. He whirled around, sending the cloak flying at the first attacker, stopping the assailant's progress when the man's dagger became entangled in the voluminous cloth.

      
As he stumbled back trying to free himself, the second adversary shot but missed. Cursing, the assassin withdrew a second pistol, but before he could raise it to fire,Derrick ploughed into the first man, knocking him back into the arms of his comrade. From up the street Jamison could hear the crack of a single shot. Drum. He must be dealing with still more assassins.

      
“I could use some help here, old chap,” he called out as his two attackers quickly disentangled themselves and faced him, pistols and knives gleaming in the moonlight.

      
There was something familiar about the taller one, although his face was obscured by one of the broad-billed straw fedoras worn by the peasantry. With no time to consider that, he fired his own weapon, and the tall man dropped his pistol, turned and fled into an alleyway. Derrick could see that his shot had found its mark; the man held one arm. The first attacker, armed only with a wickedly long stiletto, faced him since his path into the alley was cut off by Derrick.

      
The two antagonists circled each other, knives at the ready, each feinting, testing the other's strengths, looking for an opening. The assassin was smaller, his reach not as long as Derrick's, but his agility was considerable and he was lightning quick, grazing his opponent's arm the first time they crossed blades. Trapped, he wasted no words, concentrating with single-minded intensity on the task of killing. Derrick knew that made him doubly dangerous.

      
Back down the street, Drum stood over the body of one dead assassin, looking at the other as he withdrew the length of his sword from the man's heart. He had intended to take this second one alive for interrogation, but it was not to be. Hearing Derrick yell for help, he turned and swiftly darted down the street toward the sounds of a fight in progress.

      
The deadly ballet played out before him. He had never seen Derrick work before, and was curious to learn if he was any good. He was. So was his opponent.
An even match,
Drum observed, holding his sword ready to intervene if the fight turned against his countryman. Derrick parried a lightning-swift strike to his left, then feinted to the right, high but scoring in a lowering arc that sliced through the assassin's shirt, bloodying his sternum. The Italian grunted, seeming impervious to what must have been considerable pain. Both men were cut, neither dangerously...yet.

      
Derrick had seldom seen a man fight so ferociously. His muscles screamed and numerous nicks and slices stung, his breath coming out in low pants, matched by those of his foe.
He's tiring, too...
Derrick backed off, moving his blade back and forth at waist level, as if trying to retreat.
Come on...come on...

      
The assassin took the bait. He had seen Drum standing in the background, and desperation made him rash. He lunged forward, trying to thrust over Derrick's blade and sink his own in his foe's throat. Just as the killer's arm extended with blurring speed, Derrick dodged to the left while seizing the Italian's right arm, jerking him off balance. The man's blade sliced harmlessly over Derrick's arm as his own knife plunged directly into the assassin's gut. A harsh swift hiss of agony accompanied the sound of the knife as Derrick shoved it upward toward the heart, then allowed the corpse to drop onto the cobblestones.

      
“Done to a cow's thumb, old chap. Couldn't have handled it better m'self,” Drum drawled, fastidiously cleaning the blood from his slim sword before sliding it inside his polished walnut walking stick. He rolled the dead man over onto his back with the toe of one boot. “Pity you had to kill him.”

      
“You could have intervened.”

      
“I would have rescued you if need occurred. Besides, I wanted to take your measure first. From what I have observed, the Blackthorne women expect courage from their men.”

      
“Will you cease and desist with that!” Derrick hissed angrily.

      
Drummond did not deign to reply, instead looked around the deserted street. “Two others lie dead under the awning. What happened to the fourth man?”