Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (3 page)

      
“My dear Miss Blackthorne, I wish you every success as an artist, and please note that I am not laughing as I do so,” he replied with feigned boredom.

      
“You are every bit as insufferable as Cousin Alex described the Earl of Suthington!”

      
Having met Suthington, Derrick understood the magnitude of the insult better than she. As he watched her stalk away, a most peculiar sense of something lost squeezed his chest. The sudden pang was akin to how he had felt when his family disowned him.

Chapter Two

The Quay, Bay of Naples, Fall 1814

      
Derrick Jamison stood on the deck of the brigantine
Mayfair
, surveying the sparkling aquamarine depths of the bay. Small fishing skiffs and sloops with their characteristically curved sails skimmed across the water, nets heavy with the morning catch. The high tenor voices of the fishermen echoed along the quay. In the distance Mt. Vesuvius released a lazy curl of smoke, teasing the deep purity of the azure sky. Along the shoreline steep tiers of stucco buildings gleamed white as snow, their seemingly pristine appearance given the lie by the harsh odors of fish and animal dung blending with the sickly aroma of sulfur, all wafting on the balmy breeze.

      
It was an invigorating sight to the Englishman after the icy rain of the North Atlantic. Feeling the warmth of the autumn sun beating down on his shoulders, he studied the wide sandy stretch of beach where rude vendor's stalls boasted a colorful array of fresh produce—aromatic bins of golden figs, the deep crimson of halved watermelons, piles of hairy tan coconuts, bright splashes of lemons and oranges.

      
That was when he saw her—or rather, heard her. A low rich voice vibrating in a loud burst of staccato Italian, which was generously interspersed with cursing, some of it so idiomatic he could not comprehend the specifics. Her tone of voice combined with the Italian words he did know clearly gave him the gist of it. She stood surrounded by a gaggle of older, lower-class women, dressed as she was in brightly colored skirts and loose white blouses. They appeared to be encouraging her in a diatribe against one of the local fishermen whose catch lay in piles on the sand.

      
Derrick struggled to keep up with the argument. The woman was a redhead, a good foot or so taller than any of the other females. When the crowd parted, he could see her great mass of deep russet hair spilling in unruly curls down her back, stopping just short of a tiny waist that rounded out to a pair of beautifully curved hips and a lush derriere. Her Amazonian form was outlined through the thin cotton of her short skirt as the breeze whipped the bright green cloth around slender ankles. He leaned forward on the deck's railing and peered at her, willing her to turn so he could see her face.

      
If it's half as good as her backside, I want her tonight,
he thought with a sudden tightening in his groin. In service of king and country Jamison could be more abstemious than most, but he saw no reason to deny himself one brief night's pleasure before getting down to the business for which he'd been sent.

      
Just then she bent down and seized a large mackerel from the fisherman's pile and smacked him roundly across the face with it. This action seemed to incite the rest of her companions to take up arms. Before the hapless man could beat a retreat, the rest of the women picked up scaly cudgels and pelted him with his offending wares. Seemingly satisfied, the redhead spun on one sandaled foot and strode down the beach.

      
“Bloody hell, she's magnificent,” he breathed as the wind molded her soft blouse against high, generously rounded breasts. The strong clean lines of her face in stark profile would have been the envy of a Greco-Roman goddess.

      
“You may quit your embarrassing salivating any time now, old chap. It quite unbecomes a gentleman to behave like his spaniel,” Alvin Francis Edward Drummond remonstrated.

      
“Do not remind me of that accursed beast,” Derrick said, gritting his teeth.

      
A slight smile curved Drummond's lips, then quickly vanished as he recalled how he had spent the previous evening, picking dog hairs from a kerseymere jacket. “Would that I had the luxury of such blissful forgetfulness.”

      
The dandy's slight stature and effete mannerisms belied a core of sinewy toughness, and his cool green eyes missed nothing. He was utterly calm under fire, which was precisely why he had been chosen to accompany Derrick Jamison on this assignment.

      
Derrick returned his attention to the girl on the beach. “I suppose she's
lazzaroni.
Shouldn't be too difficult to locate her, hmmm?” he mused.

      
“And aren't they the local riff-raff who, according to our briefing, sleep with a crucifix on one side of the bed, a rifle on the other and a stiletto beneath their pillow?” Drum reminded him. “She's probably got a man, some great hulking fellow who shall slit your gizzard in one of those noisome and narrow alleyways.”

      
“I'll take my chances,” Jamison replied with a grin.

      
“Don't you always, old chap?” Drum murmured.

* * * *

      
Beth Blackthorne sighed and tossed the letter down on the Dante chair. “How can they be so...so obtuse! So provincial!” She had come straight from the market, flushed with victory over Signore Begani, only to be laid low by this. She paced across the marble floor of the villa's portico, oblivious to the musical call of the fountain or the warm sunlight streaming down through the wisteria-covered pergola overhead.

      
“Another missive from America, I take it,” Vittoria, Contessa di Remaldi, said with a smile. The contessa was a striking woman of middle years, voluptuous of body, with heavy black hair lightly threaded with silver. Her olive complexion was lined with the tiny crinkles that came from much laughter. “Who writes to scold you this time, your mother or one of your now reformed brothers?”

      
“My father. He's heard the rumor about my posing for Signore Pignatelli.”

      
“Oh, my—the whole rumor?” the contessa asked delicately.

      
“Just because I posed au naturel for an artist with Pignatelli's gift—why, his nudes are considered the finest since Tintoretto—my provincial father demands to know how I could debase myself in such a manner!”

      
Chuckling gently, the contessa asked, “And will you explain that such was the price of the master so that he would tutor you in portraiture?”

      
“I might as well have sold myself in the Porta Capucina cribs. It would be no worse by my father's lights. How on earth did that tale travel all the way to Savannah?”

      
“You have become quite the toast of the court,
cara
. An American female, single and living independently, studying painting...becoming successful at it.” There was a note of pride blended with concern in Vittoria's voice.

      
“You are very kind, but you well know that without your sponsorship I would have had no entree to local artists' circles, not to mention all the wealthy patrons at court. I don't know how I should have survived without your friendship, Vittoria.”

      
“Come here, child,” the contessa said, patting a cushion on the chaise beside her. When Beth walked over and took a seat, Vittoria said, “Mark my words, you shall always survive, with or without me. You crossed the wide Atlantic all alone, with nothing but a small inheritance and your dream of painting to sustain you. American courage has always been considered dauntless. Once I saw you standing on the quay, pale and nervous to be sure but with your back so straight, I knew you were going to be someone formidable.”

      
“I was frightened as a hare surrounded by hounds that day—and my Italian was atrocious,” she added, chuckling as the memories of those harrowing days three years earlier came back to her.

      
“Well, you speak like a native now, and barter like the
lazzaroni
on market days.”

      
“And who taught me to enjoy the freedom of peasant garb and the fun of haggling with waterfront vendors?” Beth reminded her friend.

      
“What fun it can be, although I must confess I never had the flair for it that you have exhibited. But now, enough of reminiscences and recriminations from across the Atlantic. I shall write your father assuring him that you are under the most proper chaperonage of the Contessa di Remaldi—tomorrow. Tonight is Queen Caroline's ball, and your gown has just been delivered by the dressmaker.”

      
Beth made a face, “You know how I detest dressing up in court regalia. High-heeled slippers pinch my feet.”

      
“Duke Umberto d'Aquino will be in attendance, and I hear he's looking for an artist to paint his family.”

      
“I shall be most winsome and charming to him, then,” Beth said with a grin. “But the slippers will still pinch my toes.”

* * * *

      
“Not a bloody trace of her.” Derrick stared out the window of the handsome quarters Drum had let for them. “I made inquiries all about the waterfront. Even ventured into the
fondachi.
” He shuddered, remembering the Neapolitan version of English slums, with their tiny airless rooms, noisome and dark as caves.

      
“Ah, my boy, your lust will one day see you dead in an alley. Of course the beggarly classes around the waterfront wouldn't talk with you—even if, mind, you could converse in passable Italian, which you cannot.”

      
“Neither can you.”

      
“Ah, but being a rational man, I have no desire to communicate with
lazzaroni
,” Drum retorted as he continued unpacking their trunks. “His Britannic Majesty's English is all I aspire to speak.”

      
“Scarcely a practical attitude for a man sent to the Continent to spy for that very same Britannic Majesty,” Derrick replied dryly.

      
Drum shook out a pair of doeskins and inspected them critically, saying, “I am not the spy. You are. If it weren't for some slight misunderstanding with my creditors in London, I would never have departed fair Albion's shores.”

      
Jamison gave a snort of laughter. “A slight misunderstanding in the neighborhood of twenty thousand pounds. Actually, I thought it rather generous of the Foreign Office to buy your way out of Newgate.”

      
“Generous indeed. In return I must risk my life on this absurd venture, acting as bodyguard to a reckless madman,” Drum said with a sniff.

      
“Not just bodyguard, body servant, my dear Drum, body
servant
.” Derrick chuckled.

      
The little dandy stiffened and dropped a pile of starched neckcloths into the drawer of a huge
armadio
. “I shall remember this humiliation whilst I'm guarding your backside against Calabrian thugs. My aim might be a bit off.”

      
“Your aim is never off,” Jamison reminded him, returning to brood as he stared out the window at the narrow cobblestone streets six stories below their quarters. What had become of the stunning woman with the russet hair and Boadicean stride?

      
His reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. The landlord's pudgy young son stood panting after his sprint up the steep stairs. “For the signore,” he said in broken English, handing a sealed note to Drum, then waiting for a reward for his swift delivery.

      
Derrick crossed the room and flipped a coin into his grimy fingers. Swift as a thief, he took off. Drum closed the door, then handed Jamison the missive. Breaking the seal, he read, scowling. “You'd best hurry with the unpacking. I've just been summoned to an audience with the queen.”

* * * *

      
Caroline Bonaparte Murat had never been a beauty like her sister Pauline, but rather favored their brother, with plump pouty features and a heavy mien. Like Napoleon, she also took her role as head of state very seriously. Her husband, the dashing and handsome Joaquim, tried to be a good ruler but was far better at leading cavalry charges. With the exile of Napoleon to the not-too-distant isle of Elba, both Queen Caroline and King Joaquim of Naples walked a tightrope between British naval power and Austrian land forces.

      
Thus the gaiety of their court appeared a bit strained during the autumn days of 1814. But the decadent Spanish Bourbons, who had held the kingdom before the French interlopers arrived, had known how to live like royalty, and the soaring towers and vast stone walls of their palaces were tangible proof of it. Inside, the number of rooms and lavishness of appointments boggled the mind of northern visitors.

      
Not wishing to be outdone by their predecessors, the Murats threw masques, balls and carnivals for the Italian nobility, currying popularity, if not loyalty. But now, with the fate of Europe on the negotiating tables of Vienna, the Murats intrigued to gain advantage from all quarters.

      
The English had traditionally found Italy a favorite haven from dank north Atlantic winters, and when the war ended, a flood of wealthy and bored British expatriots once again took up residence in Naples. Ostensibly, Derrick was the wastrel younger brother of an earl, frittering away his income under the warm Italian sun, a perfect cover from which to observe the comings and goings between Naples and Elba.