Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (39 page)

      
When Derrick did not return by noon and Annabella came downstairs, Beth decided to inspect the mews and meet the stablemen in charge of the horses. She was on her way up to change when the sounds of a child's gleeful squeals echoed from the opposite end of the long hallway. The nursery. As was the usual English custom, Constance and her nanny had been banished to the farthest reaches of the house.

      
Beth decided she wished to meet her new niece and walked toward the sounds of babyish laughter. A young woman with a pleasant smile was sitting in the middle of the floor rolling a ball to a chubby little girl of approximately eight months. Although not adroit enough to catch it, Constance was quick to crawl after it, moving across the carpet on all fours with good coordination.

      
“Hello. I'm Beth Jamison, the earl's wife,” she said to the nanny, still uncomfortable using her new title in spite of raised eyebrows among the servants.

      
“Oh, how-do, your ladyship. I’m that honored to meet you,” the young nursemaid replied, jumping to her feet and bowing as her charge crawled up to Beth with a big grin revealing four perfect tiny white teeth.

      
“She's an absolute love,” Beth said, kneeling down to scoop up the baby in her arms and cuddle her. “So affectionate.” In fact, she seemed hungry for attention, and Beth could not help wondering how much loving the little girl received. Certainly none from her own mother.

      
The nanny, Tilda, was only an upstairs maid temporarily assigned to care for Constance while the special French governess Annabella had hired was ill with an infected tooth. Without saying so directly, Tilda indicated that the woman left much to be desired as caretaker for a child. Beth decided to speak with Derrick about the matter, but feared that once Annabella moved to her own household she would do what she wished. Of course, the earl would be paying the bills....

      
As she sat on the floor with Tilda, playing ball with Constance, she did not see Derrick in the doorway. He'd heard the sounds of Beth's voice blending with a child's laughter and had come to see what was happening. The sight of her with his niece stunned him. Beth actually seemed to be enjoying herself, to have a natural way with children in spite of what she had said about wanting none of her own.

      
Of course, he knew well that many women of the upper classes spent a few moments a week cosseting their offspring, then sent them off with servants and promptly forgot them. That sort of motherhood was little inconvenience, the variety his own mother had chosen. What kind of mother would Beth be?

      
Before he could mull further, the serving girl saw him and began scraping and bowing to the new earl. Unselfconsciously holding Constance, Beth got up and walked over to him. “Meet your new niece. Connie, say hello to your Uncle Derrick.”

      
“We've already met,” he surprised her by replying. “Earlier this morning.” When he reached out and took the little girl, she came eagerly into his arms. He thoroughly enjoyed the expression on Beth's face.

      
“I would never have credited that children would like you,” she finally managed.

      
“Odd; I would have said the same of you,” he replied as their eyes met over Connie's silky blond head.

      
He always knew how to wound her, she thought sadly, not realizing she had just done the same thing to him.

* * * *

      
The following week, Annabella and her entourage moved. Beth would have been overjoyed to see the last of the hateful woman if not for her daughter. But she was able to see that Tilda was assigned as the little girl's permanent companion. The chilly French governess was dismissed. If Annabella cared at all, she did not indicate it. Beth decided she would have Tilda bring Connie over for frequent visits.
 

      
Derrick threw himself into straightening out the affairs of the estate. In the weeks that followed, he was closeted with solicitors, bankers and factors who oversaw the various enterprises the Jamison fortune had been built upon. In addition, Parliament would convene in a fortnight. He made friends with several influential members of Lords and Commons and joined Brooks, an exclusive Whig men's club on St. James Street, so as to keep abreast of political machinations.

      
Beth spent several weeks with decorators, selecting colors and fabrics for walls, draperies and carpets, to give the dark old house a touch of the light airiness of Naples and Savannah. The place was vastly improved once Annabella departed with her bric-a-brac and baroque furnishings. Beth replaced them with clean-lined Greco-Roman pieces.

      
The climate was less amenable to change. Leaden skies soon began to pour rain and sleet, promising a long dreary winter. The public market yielded none of the marvelous variety of tropical fruits and vegetables and little of the fresh seafood she had grown used to in Italy. Derrick was gone more than he was present, often missing dinner because of late meetings with political or business associates.

      
Beth dutifully accompanied her husband to several functions, but until the following month, when their official period of mourning for Leighton was over, a full social calendar was not acceptable. She wore pale gray and purple and felt at times as if she were turning into one of the lengthening shadows that filled every corner of the city house.

      
Suprisingly enough, the only friend she found among the Quality was Bertie Jamison. The day after Annabella moved out he came calling. Beth was upstairs when he was announced. Derrick was gone as usual. She would have to greet his cousin. Hurriedly she smoothed her hair and removed the apron covering her day gown. Giving one last glance into the mirror, she sighed and headed downstairs to the receiving parlor where Bertie waited.

      
“So good to see you, Cousin,” she said with an uncertain smile. “I’m afraid Derrick is not at home—”

      
“Tut, m'dear, I did not come to see him but you,” he said, bowing over her hand. The buttons on his waistcoat strained across his thickened middle as he straightened up, bestowing on her a twinkling smile. “After the other evening, I felt you were owed an apology. Demned if there's any race as stiff-rumped as the English...unless it's the Froggies.”

      
Beth's smile broadened. “Cousin Bertie, I do believe you and I shall deal quite well together. Please have a seat and I'll ring for some tea.”

      
“Wouldn't happen to have some of that perfectly marvelous American coffee about, would you?” he asked with a grin.

      
“As a matter of fact, 'tis my favorite beverage.”

      
Over coffee and scones, which Bertie consumed in sufficient quantities to place an additional strain upon his waistcoat, they discussed life in London, politics, even art when Beth chanced to mention that she had gone to Naples to study painting.

      
“I was a great admirer of Angelica Kauffman. Reynolds brought her to London, but of course, the ton couldn't accept a female painter back then,” Bertie remarked wryly.

      
“Women in the arts are still considered dabblers, I'm afraid.” Beth sighed.

      
“Sad but true. Most men are afraid of intelligence in a woman.”

      
She grinned at him. “But you are not.”

      
“I appreciate capability in either gender, perhaps because I'm chitty-faced and a bit cow-handed to boot,” he confessed, remarking upon the unfortunate combination of a baby-faced countenance with a prematurely receding hairline, as well as his propensity for clumsiness. He appeared a bit embarrassed when she tried to remonstrate that he was nothing of the sort. Changing the subject, he asked, “Wouldn't happen to have any of your work I could view, would you?”

      
Beth was flattered.He seemed both sincere and knowledgeable. “Cranston has just uncrated two boxes in the room that's to be my studio when the redecorating is done.”

      
“Then by Jove, let us have a gander.” He rubbed his plump white hands with enthusiasm as she led him upstairs to where the heavy wooden crates sat in the center of a room stripped bare of furnishings.

      
He exclaimed over several of the landscapes, making lavish comparisons to her idol, J. M. W. Turner. When he saw the portrait of Derrick, he studied it with fascination for several unnerving moments. Thinking better of her plan to present it as a wedding gift, she had never shown it to another soul since completing it.
It probably reveals too much about me…and my feelings for him,
she thought uncomfortably.

      
Bertie walked around it, almost tripping over Percy, who had entered the room with uncharacteristic silence as they were talking. The dog walked to her side and stood perfectly still when Bertie said, “You could rival Reynolds himself, m’dear. ” He continued to study the portrait, then murmured sadly, “I can only imagine what it would be like to be loved this much.”

      
“Is it that apparent?”

      
He flushed again, embarrassed, then shifted the subject. “All of your work has great emotion in it. I've heard it said the greatest artists give a part of their soul to each painting. You've skill enough for admission to the Academy.”

      
“I did work for commissions while we lived in Naples. Of course, that was before Derrick inherited the title,” she hastened to add. ”I do miss the salons and the friends we had in the art community.”

      
“Although I know we're poor recompense for Italian wit, I would be most happy to introduce you to Lady Holland and her friends. You must understand, she's not received in the best circles. Divorced, you know. But her salons are famous—artists, actors, writers—even Byron favors her with an appearance from time to time, as does George Dance. You would enjoy his portrait sketches.”

      
“That sounds positively exhilarating!” Beth replied with delight, then realized how Derrick would react. But surely if Bertie went, her husband could not object to her attending with his cousin as escort.

      
“Smashing!” Bertie exclaimed. “I shall send word as soon as our mourning period is over. Then we're for Holland House!”

* * * *

      
With Derrick being gone so much of the time, Beth came to look forward to Bertie's visits and kept busy as best she could inside the house. Her time spent with her husband was confined largely to the bedroom. At his insistence, for which she was secretly relieved, they continued to share the master bedroom, leaving her adjoining suite unoccupied.

      
Outside of Bertie's friendship, her only salvation lay in painting. Beth threw herself into it with abandon. The largest room on the third floor had at last been converted into her studio. It was no equal to what she'd had in Naples, but it served.

      
Their official mourning ended just in time for the galas of the holiday season. They were besieged with invitations, many of them issued because Derrick was a scapegrace and the ton wanted to see how he would conduct himself now that the weight of Lynden rested on his broad shoulders. But even more, they were dying to meet his strange American countess. It was whispered that the earl had wed her in Naples before he knew of his ascension to the title. Did he repent an ill-made bargain? Lady Annabella certainly hinted that it was so. The gossip was positively delicious!

      
“We have been invited to the Duchess of Westover's ball,” Derrick said, sorting through the stacks of engraved white velum piled on the breakfast table, tossing most, choosing a few to which he felt it judicious to respond.” “Tis Friday next. Here are several more. If any of the others interest you, we shall attend them as well.” Knowing his wife's dislike of society, he imagined she would choose to go nowhere. Truthfully, he was not at all fond of the endless rounds of holiday parties, but Beth needed to do more than commandeer scullery maids to pose for her sketching.

      
“I've already looked through them. I know none of these people so must rely on your judgment. The Westover gala will be fine,” she replied without enthusiasm.

      
“You'll require some new gowns now that you're out of mourning.” Any other female of his acquaintance would have leaped at the offer of a trip to the dressmakers. His other mistresses—mentally, he cursed and corrected himself—his
past
mistresses had always been ecstatic. His wife was not interested.

      
“I brought quite a few things from Naples. I'll not require much beyond a warm cloak or two.”

      
“Fashions in London are a bit more...decorous than on the continent. It would be wise to consult with someone who understands the nuances.”

      
“Someone such as Bella?”

      
She was baiting him, damn it! “I was referring to one of the dressmakers on Oxford Street. Since you have no female companion suitable to accompany you, I shall do so myself.5” He was trying to be conciliatory.

      
“I can select my own clothing, Derrick,” she said very quietly.

      
He knew the warning in her voice. “You can't go about town alone, Beth. It simply isn't done.”

      
“Tut, you're beginning to sound like Drum,” she mocked. Then her expression turned serious. “Derrick, you know well that I'm already the subject of gossip, an impossible American baggage—”

      
“I regret Annabella's outburst—damn it, I regret An-nabella. I’d scarce hold her up as a paragon of virtue to be emulated, but you could make friends and find a place for yourself here if you'd but give it a chance.”