Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (16 page)

      
“I would not wager on that. Acting as impetuously as we did was insane...but I wanted you quite badly. You know I had no idea that you were a virgin. I assumed you'd taken measures. When I realized you had not...” It was his turn to shrug. “You are quite the little Puritan after all, aren't you, puss?” A flicker of amusement lit his eyes then.

      
She smiled, conceding, “Scarcely Puritan, but I suppose I never realized how much my strict Episcopalian upbringing has influenced me. Vittoria was appalled when I admitted that we had not been taking precautions.” Beth knew her face had grown pink in the candlelight. “She explained what I needed to do long before you and I met.”

      
“Do you want children, Beth?” His mood shifted once again, became expectant, tense.

      
She could feel his discomfort and it more than equaled her own. “No.” That was the answer he wished, but a sudden epiphany told her that it was not the one she wanted to give him. “If I was to have a child, I would have to give up painting, wouldn't I?”

      
Did you want him to say that you need not? That he would not ask it of his wife?
Such pretty dreams. She had known they were nothing more. And her heart had broken.

      
After those days on the coast, she had begun to test him, although not consciously at first. She had danced with ogling admirers in the homes of Vittoria's noble friends, spent even more time down on the waterfront in her scandalous peasant clothing, given in to Pignatelli's importuning and again posed for him.

      
Her reputation in Naples was utterly wicked. The old women of the nobility gossiped, saying that the young American was even worse than her mentor the contessa. And none of it seemed to matter a fig to Derrick Jamison.

* * * *

      
The subject of Beth's late-night ruminations stood hunched in the noisome squalor of the
fondachi,
waiting for Volio, the self-styled “King” of the cutpurses, prostitutes and other rough elements of the city. Derrick had little time before Murat's guardsmen alerted the watch and every nook and cranny of the twisting streets and back alleys would be crawling with armed soldiers. He'd paid a runner to deliver instructions to Drum.

      
He could not take the time for a circuitous escape route from Naples. The information he possessed regarding Napoleon's flight from Elba must be delivered to the heads of state assembled in Vienna by the swiftest and most reliable messenger. He dared trust no one but himself. He waited inside the door of what looked like the very gates of hell, a warren of small filthy rooms from which emanated the stench of unwashed bodies, human waste and rotting garbage.

      
Derrick could hear the cries of the watch. Soon they would begin their systematic search and he would never be able to get out of the city. If Volio lived up to his reputation, and for the price Derrick was paying him he had better, then he would soon be hidden in a small skiff on the bay. He heard the stealthy sound of footfalls on the cobblestones and the small wiry
lazzarono
seemed to materialize out of the murky air. At least the weather had begun to cooperate as a heavy night fog settled over the city.

      
“Come with me, signore. It is all arranged,” Volio whispered in the guttural dialect of the lower class, looking over his shoulder. “Hurry!” The flicker of a torch cast shadows at the end of the street.

      
They slipped down the hill in the opposite direction, heading toward the bay. Several times they were forced to backtrack to avoid the watch, but Volio's boast about knowing every inch of the waterfront sections of the city was not an idle one. Within the quarter hour Derrick was lying in the wet musty bottom of a small boat that reeked of fish.

      
“I wish to land as close to the Piazza Sannazaro as possible,” he reiterated in serviceable Italian. He kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger, not trusting the
lazzarono
any further than he could throw the Duomo. Although he had already paid Volio an exorbitant sum, the fisherman would not receive a coin until he arrived at his destination.
If only Drum is waiting...

      
Derrick was relieved to see they were indeed headed in the right direction. In moments he was on a deserted stretch of beach to the north of the city and the skiff had vanished into the fog once again. If he had been betrayed, surely the guards would be upon him by now...but where was Drum?

      
Just then a black-cloaked apparition materialized, leading a four-footed creature that could most charitably be called a nag. “Bloody hell, Drummond, surely you don't expect me to cross the Apennines riding that beast? ”

      
“From the looks of you, I don't expect you to cross the street. You must see a physician or you'll bleed to death by dawn.”

      
“I don't have time to bleed to death, much less to waste with a leech. You have only one horse. I instructed you to bring two. You'll have to leave Naples or Murat will arrest you as well.”

      
“I'm not bouncing about on horseback after you. Even if I had been able to secure a second mount, I confess to being the world's worst rider. I shall make arrangements to travel by sea after you're taken care of.”

      
“What of the dog?” Derrick asked as they walked toward the shelter of a thick stand of cypress trees.

      
“I placed a summary of what has transpired in his collar and gave the command. Considering how he obeys orders regarding the upholstery, not to mention our clothing, I have my doubts he will reach his destination, but there you have it, old chap. One does what one can.”

      
“Let's hope good old Percy earns his dog bones this time.” Derrick stopped short, wincing in pain.

      
“You can't ride, man—bloody hell, you can barely walk.” Drum looked at the widening red stain around Derrick's waist.

      
“I'll make it,” Derrick gritted out. “There's no choice.”

      
“Stow the king-and-country balderdash. How will it serve either if you lie dead by the roadside?” Without waiting for an answer to his rhetorical question, Drum took Derrick's arm and slung it across his own narrow shoulders, supporting the much larger man as they walked through the trees. Leading the horse,he struggled back to where his small rig lay hidden in a swale.

      
“We can't...go driving about the...countryside,”Derrick protested, laboring for breath as Drum shoved him into the vehicle.

      
“Quite so. That is why I have devised a plan,” Drum replied, tying the reins of the nag onto the rear of the rig.

Within ten minutes it became apparent to Derrick where they were headed. “You can't take me to Vittoria—are you mad? She'll turn me over to Murat in a trice.”

      
“I am not taking you to the estimable contessa, but to the young woman who happens to be in love with you.”

      
“Who happens to live with Vittoria. Everyone in Naples knows of our liaison. Bourdin himself is probably waiting outside the villa for another shot at me.”

      
“That is the fly in the ointment, old fellow, I confess, but there simply is no other way. You must have medical attention and we can trust no one else. We shall have to sneak into her quarters...you do know where in that great sprawling place Beth sleeps, hmmm?”

      
“Of course,” Derrick replied, ignoring the sarcasm in Drum's tone.” 'Tis next to her studio in the east wing.”

      
“Wait here while I scout around,''Drum instructed after pulling the rig off the road into a thicket of olive trees.

      
Derrick would have protested that he should lead the way, but suddenly he felt quite woozy. The way his luck had turned this night, he would probably stumble into Bourdin's gunsights before he got within a hundred yards of the villa. He leaned back against the squabs and waited. The next thing he knew, Drum was shaking him awake and whispering.

      
“There are two of those buffoons from the palace guard nattering about the front drive, but if we approach from the rear, there is an open door leading from the portico into the first floor of the east wing. I say, are you up to climbing through a hedge or two?”

      
“I shall have to be,” Derrick replied, gritting his teeth against the pain. As they made their way to the east wing, he described what had happened at the palace in greater detail, concluding, “So you see, we have no time to waste. Bonaparte is already halfway to France. I shall cross the Apennines and sail from Pescara to Trieste, then ride directly to Vienna. But in case I do not make it, you must leave for Rome immediately. The Austrian ambassador to the Papal States will move the very Alps to alert the allies.”

      
“ 'Tis to be hoped Sir Percival has succeeded in his quest and a third messenger is already enroute to Leghorn to alert the Royal Navy. Perhaps they'll catch Boney before he sets foot on French soil.”

      
Derrick grunted. “That damned little Corsican has the devil's own luck. I wouldn't count on it.”

      
They made their way through the contessa's gardens, which were lushly overgrown with willows and almond trees, providing ample cover as they slipped silently toward the portico. The guards must have awakened the household some time ago. A dim light flickered in the main salon, and they could hear a servant complaining because he had been dragged from his bed at such an ungodly hour. The east wing was dark.

      
“Do you suppose Beth is with the contessa?” Drum whispered as they hid in the blackness of an alcove off the main rooms.

      
“No matter. I can make my way to her quarters from here. You must head pell-mell to Rome.”

      
“I mislike leaving you to stumble about in the dark, dripping blood.”

      
“The bleeding's stopped.”
 

      
Drum lifted one eyebrow. “If so, tis only because you’ve none left.”

      
Derrick grunted. He was not at all certain of his welcome now that Beth knew of his deception. She might scream the house down, and then both of them would be arrested.

      
Without further ado, Drum once again seized Derrick's arm and started toward the stairs to the second floor.

      
Beth lay in her bed, drowsing, unable to return to a sound sleep after being awakened some time earlier by what sounded like hoofbeats on the front drive. She'd had considerable trouble getting to sleep, tossing and turning for over an hour thanks to Derrick Jamison.

      
Just then a soft click broke the silence. Beth looked at the window near her bed. It was nowhere near false dawn. None of the servants should be stirring yet. She sat up and started to swing her legs from beneath the light cover when a familiar voice spoke from the darkness near the door.

      
“Hello, puss. Will you forgive me for deserting you tonight?”

Chapter Nine

      
Beth peered into the blackness, her heart suddenly hammering, her mouth gone dry. “Derrick?” Her eyes strained against the darkness, now seeing two shadows moving toward her. Derrick was slumped over, being supported by someone much smaller than he. His manservant Drum?

      
“ Tis I, Beth.” His voice was a hiss of pain.

      
She recognized Drum's voice as he said, “Slowly, old boy, have a care you don't start the bleeding again.”

      
Bleeding! She seized her robe with unsteady hands and slipped it on as Drum helped his master to the opposite side of her bed, where Derrick took a seat. “You've been injured?” she asked, knowing something was horribly wrong as she fumbled to light a candle. Seeing the blackened crust of dried blood that covered his midsection, she gasped.

      
“He's been shot,” Drum said matter-of-factly. “Just scraped a rib or two, but he's lost sufficient blood to make him quite loggerheaded.”

      
“What is going on?” she asked, kneeling beside Derrick to see the extent of his wound as Drum began unwrapping the makeshift bandage. When his companion pulled the dried cloth away, Derrick cursed beneath his breath. “Here, let me. You're too clumsy,” she said, steeling herself as the long ugly furrow across his side began to seep blood.

      
“Cow-handed? I? Not likely. Tis this buffle-headed maggoty-brain who is guilty of that, else he'd not be bleeding over your bed linens,” Drum replied.

      
“We’ll need yarrow to stop the bleeding and clean bandages,” she said in a businesslike manner, reaching for the bellpull to summon her maid.

      
“No, puss,” Derrick replied, his hand shooting out with surprising strength and steadiness to grasp her wrist. “You cannot disturb the household unless you wish to bring the king's guards from without to arrest me.”

      
“Arrest you?” She looked from Derrick's to Drum, her shock and fright giving way to anger. ”I will personally drag you to King Joaquim's gaol if you do not explain at once.”

      
“You had best be on your way, Drum. I will handle matters from here on,” Derrick said to his companion.

      
“I can see how swimmingly tis going thus far,” Drum replied dryly, showing no sign of leaving.

      
“You aren't a servant, are you?” She had noticed from the first time she'd met the little man that he did not act the way servants—especially English servants—acted in the employ of an earl's son.