Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (2 page)

      
Not wanting to attract any further attention, Derrick mollified the innkeep by placing several coins in her palm as he flattered her until she was blushing like a school miss.

      
“I do thankee, sir. Ye be the kindest gentleman I've ever met, even if yer an Englishman!” To that backhanded compliment, she added, “Just remember, Coey Smollett's always got a cool pint waiting whenever ye stops by her place, she has.” With a malevolent glare at Beth, she reached down and picked up the dead chicken before waddling around the stable toward the inn.

      
Derrick turned to the girl, who had remained suprisingly mute through the exchange. Perhaps she'd been in trouble with the old crone before, since the woman seemed to know her. No doubt a local farmer's daughter. “I say, you don't look quite the thing, gel. Have you injured yourself?” he inquired as she continued to stare mutely at him.

      
“I...that is...I'm quite...quite the thing...that is, I'm uninjured,” she finally managed to get out. “But Barn-smell's taken off for the city and he may be the one who's been hurt and I have to go find him before my brother does or else I'll be in terrible trouble and Papa will forbid my painting any more landscapes and I don't know what I would do if that happened!” It seemed as if once she began speaking, she could not stop. He smiled again, which sent her heart into another frenzy of palpitation and stopped her babbling so he could get a word in edgewise.
 

      
“I take it, er, Barnsmell is the dog who overran me and deposited Mistress Smollett's poor bird on my head?”

      
Beth felt her cheeks flame. “Yes, I'm afraid so. You must let me repay you the cost of the chicken—not to mention the expense of replacing your clothing.” Realizing she carried no money with her, Beth felt even more the fool. “Er, that is, my father will—”

      
“Please,” Derrick interrupted, eager to be quit of the troublesome chit so he could check the documents in his ruined jacket. “I insist that you not give it another thought. I shall be sailing for home very shortly. And by the time I arrive, the jacket would doubtless have been out of fashion anyway,” he added when she made as if to protest further.

      
Beth nodded bleakly. He obviously wanted to rid himself of her—and who could blame him? “Well, then, I do thank you, sir. I had better collect my horse and painting equipment and go after my dog.” She backed slowly away, loathe to leave him even though she knew she was making an utter cake of herself. How her Aunt Barbara, that redoubtable Englishwoman, would laugh if she saw her niece in such a tizzy over a mere male.

      
Derrick watched, bemused, as she practically backed into the stable. To his utter amazement, she emerged a moment later riding a handsome Arab filly. She sat the beautiful roan with the practiced skill of one used to riding fine horseflesh. No matter her incredible garb or clumsy manner, she could not be a tavern wench or farm girl.

      
Most puzzling, these Americans. But then, the deranged were often a curious lot.

      
Musing to himself, he slipped inside the now deserted stable to check on the condition of the documents inside his jacket. Only on his ride back into Washington did he recall that he'd not asked the singular female's name.

* * * *

      
Dolley Madison's Wednesday afternoon salons were considered by many wags in Washington to be the high-water mark of Jemmy Madison's administration. The president's lady was witty, charming and open-minded. Her salons attracted people of all political persuasions. A small orchestra played on a dais at one end of the ballroom, and servants moved through the press of guests carrying trays of sherry for the ladies and whiskey for the gentlemen.

      
Women in soft pastel gowns of sheer mull picked daintily at bowls of fresh fruit, while men in starched cravats cut wedges of strong cheddar cheese from a giant wheel. Dressed in her usual pale cream silks with an ostrich plume bobbing from the huge turban that had become her signature headgear, the First Lady moved through the room, breaking up disputes with her laughing chatter wherever voices grew strident.

      
Everyone discussed politics. Quintin Blackthorne was in one corner mediating an argument between John Randolph and Henry Clay. His wife Madelyne was engaged in a heated discussion with the crude and annoying Representative Johnson from Kentucky. Beth sighed and looked around the room at the assembly of eligibles—congressmen, merchants, attorneys and diplomats.

      
Husband material.
She knew that was why her mother had insisted she come to the capital. True, this session of Congress was debating Great Britain and France's violations of American shipping rights on the high seas. And true, her father, the senior senator from Georgia, was embroiled in the fight against war with either power, but her parents' major concern was finding a suitable match for their only daughter.

      
Beth admitted that she had not been very cooperative in that regard, scorning all the gallants in Georgia. Her art was her life and that left no time for husbands, babies or other such foolery. She intended to go to Italy and study painting. Unfortunately, neither her parents nor her brothers felt that was at all natural for a young miss.

      
Sighing, she looked across the room. Men were so boring. The only matters they could discuss were themselves and this accursed war—which prevented her from sailing to Italy. Even that perfectly gorgeous young Englishman she'd encountered at the post inn the preceding week would no doubt be a crashing bore if she but spoke with him for more than ten minutes. Beth had spent several restless nights reliving the humiliating encounter. Why, after making such an utter fool of herself, could she not seem to banish his face from her mind?

      
Probably because he would make such an excellent portrait subject.
At least that was what she kept assuring herself. Of course, if she were ever to consider marriage...he was English, and bother the old war, it was traditional for English gentlemen to take their brides on a grand tour of the Continent. What a delightful fantasy that was—but only for a moment until reality intruded. She shook her head at the absurdity of the daydream. Marry an Englishman indeed! Anyway, war had spoiled the opportunity to travel on the Continent for English or Americans since that wretched Napoleon had the whole of Europe in an uproar. Beth sighed. Best to forget the handsome mystery man.

      
“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Blackthorne,” Aiden Randolph said wistfully. “You look quite vexed.” Aiden was tall, pale and gaunt, with a strabismus of the left eye that made looking at him directly rather difficult. At present, his one good eye was fixed on her adoringly while its mate flitted vaguely around the crowded room. He was quite sweet and frightfully vapid.

      
“Actually, Mr. Randolph, I was just thinking about how I would much prefer to be outdoors on such a lovely day.” She bit her tongue, fearing he would ask to accompany her on a walk after the salon. Eager to change the drift of the conversation, she launched into a description of her latest landscape sketches. That normally drove suitors away.

      
Across the room, Derrick observed the tall, striking redhead in the mint green mull gown. She was a bit on the thin side and too young for his tastes, but fetching with all that heavy auburn hair falling in artlessly arranged curls over her shoulders. Something about her gestures and posture seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not for the life of him place her.

      
A hoarse chuckle from his companion drew his attention away from the girl. “A pretty bit of fluff, Blackthorne's daughter, but I'd not trifle with her, my boy,” Roarke Kenyon cautioned. Kenyon, a short stocky fellow with merry hazel eyes and an ear for gossip, had proven an invaluable source of information regarding the sentiments of pro-British Federalists in his home state of Massachusetts.

      
Derrick wished to satisfy his curiosity about the girl and learn more about the illustrious Blackthorne family. Brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the ruffled shirtcuff spilling from the sleeve of his new dark blue jacket, he inquired, “Is she the merchant's daughter or the planter's daughter?”

      
“The planter, Quintin. Quite opposed to a war against your country. A sensible fellow, even if his reasons are not the same as ours.”

      
“And his reasons would be?” Derrick; prompted.

      
“Relates to his cousin Devon.”

      
“Ah, he runs a large shipping enterprise, does he not?” Derrick had heard about the two patriarchs of the fabulously wealthy Blackthorne clan. “Old Devon would have a deal to lose if war breaks out.”

      
“True, but Devon has an English wife. His son's been living in London for the past year, as a matter of fact. Married an earl's niece, so rumor has it. Then, too, Dev and Quint were raised together, more brothers than cousins, and Dev's part Creek.”

      
Derrick paused incredulously in the ritual of opening his cloisonne snuff box. “You mean red Indian?”

      
“None other. Quite the scandal some years back, but no one much remembers his origins now that he's become bloody rich.”

      
Derrick nodded, piecing together what he had painstakingly gleaned over the past few months. “I understand the Indian confederacies are pro British because they want to halt American expansion into their lands in the west. Do tell me more about this fascinating family.”

      
Kenyon's expression grew crafty. “Wouldn't be thinking about taking an American heiress for a wife, would you? Rather a turnabout on the way the Blackthornes have done it.” He chuckled heartily at his own wit.

      
In order to learn more about the influential Blackthorne family's politics, Derrick nodded, searching the crowd for the redhead. “As a second son with modest prospects, I must confess, there is a certain appeal...if she's rich enough.”

      
“Oh, Elizabeth's rich enough all right.” Kenyon's chuckle set his ample belly to rolling beneath his brocade waistcoat. “But the gel's got bats in her belfry. Wants to be an artist, if you can believe that. Dabbles in paints, running around the city dressed like a ragamuffin. It would take a strong hand to straighten her out, I tell you.”

      
Derrick was flummoxed. Never taking his eyes off Elizabeth Blackthorne, he choked out, “A painter, you say?” It couldn't be his harlequin...could it?

      
Kenyon proceeded with an embellished description of the girl's disgraceful attire. It was she!

      
“She doesn't look the hoyden, I must say,” the Englishman said uncertainly.

      
“Appearances can be deceiving, my boy,” Kenyon replied gravely.

      
When Beth saw him walking across the floor she nearly sank to her knees with embarrassment. He was heading directly toward her! Would he remember their awful encounter from last week? How could he not? Of course, she had looked much different in her painting togs. She was suddenly grateful for the way Mama had insisted on tricking her out for this affair.

      
“Beth, you look ready to pick up your skirts and run,” Madelyne said, trying to discern the reason for her daughter's panic. Then she saw him, quite the handsomest young man in the room, moving in their direction along with Roarke Kenyon. Beaming, she looked back at Beth. “Oh, do try to smile, dear. I daresay he won't bite you.”

      
When they approached the ladies, Roarke introduced his companion as Derrick Jenkins, late of Manchester, England. Elizabeth Blackthorne curtsied to him rather stiffly. The awkwardness of her normally graceful daughter was not lost on Madelyne. Derrick bowed with an affected flourish that he'd found most American females adored. Before Miss Blackthorne could do more than smile wood-enly, Quint motioned to his wife and political ally Kenyon from across the room. They made their excuses to the two young people and went to join him.

      
“You look far better without paint on your nose,” he teased when they were alone. “In fact, I wouldn't have recognized you if Kenyon hadn't mentioned that you dabbled at painting.”

      
Her eyebrows arched sharply and her wide green eyes narrowed imperceptibly, a sure sign of danger, as her brothers could have warned him. “Dabbled?” she echoed sweetly.

      
“His word, not mine, but you must confess it is rather unusual for a lady of your background to go about the countryside in the company of a chicken thief.” His grin was infectious.

      
She was not certain whether she should be amused or incensed. If only he weren't so damnably good-looking. He quite unsettled her. She decided incensed was safer. “I'm sure I prefer the company of an honest thief to that of a condescending Englishman,” she said with frosty dismissal, turning away from his penetrating blue eyes before she drowned in their depths.

      
“Just because our countries may one day be at war does not mean that we need be,” he said. “Besides, I'm given to understand that you have English relatives on both sides of the Atlantic.”

      
“Aunt Barbara is an American now and Cousin Alex's wife Joss will be too. They do not laugh at the idea of a woman wanting to be an artist.” Actually, having never met her new cousin, Beth had no idea how Joss felt.

      
Elizabeth Blackthorne sounded so young and earnest in her righteous anger that he reconsidered his earlier impulse to use her as a source of information. There were many other older and wiser women on whom he could work his charms, women who knew far more about military and political matters than this backcountry miss. Magnanimously, he decided to let her go.