Alex's Angel (3 page)

If she lost her rooms, she’d lose a lot more than mere shelter. Vagrants were sent to the almshouse—or worse yet, the workhouse. If she were incarcerated there, she’d lose her very right to control her own movements and decisions. She’d spent years chafing under the control of others, expected to mould herself according to their image of what they thought she should be. She’d never allow that to happen again.

Not even in wedlock.

In a way, losing her virginity in the name of keeping her liberty was fitting. It was a pledge that she would never give herself unto the authority of a man in marriage. For a girl could be ruined only once and it could never be undone. Pride alone would keep her from marrying any man who might look upon her as damaged goods.

It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing did. Only her continued newfound freedom mattered. Freedom that she needed to use her artistic talents to draw attention to the Barbary captives’ situation, to fulfil her life’s mission.

Having been saved from the fever, surely by only God’s own hand, convinced her more than ever that she ‘d been born to make a difference in the world.

Still, selling her virtue was a weighty matter, nothing to be taken lightly.

Suddenly it was as if unseen hands gripped and constricted upon her rib cage—she couldn’t draw a complete breath.

She forced a deeper breath and exhaled with equal measure, as if she could purge herself of her panic—because panic wouldn’t help her. She had twenty-five cents left to her name. If she gave in to fear now, she’d be lost. “I can’t tarry much longer, I need to speak with Mr Porter. But first I wanted to tell you my good news.”

“Good news, eh? Does anyone ever have any good news anymore?”

“Well, I have some. I got a message today from Mr Jefferson.”

“Mr Jefferson? Anyone I would know?”

“Thomas Jefferson—the Secretary of State.”

He lifted his brows. “You know the Secretary of State?”

“I have corresponded with him for the past two years.”

“Does he have a job for you?”

“No, but he’s found me an investor.”

“An investor?”

“For my book.”

”I don’t follow.”

“Investor is the wrong word, isn’t it? I mean a benefactor. He is going to finance the printing of my book.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Because he believes in the cause. I am to meet with him in a week at his house on the Schuylkill. ”

He quirked his mouth up. “Wonderful. You can pay your landlord with a copy.”

Unable to bear looking at his ironic expression, she made a great study of tracing the frayed trim on her reticule with her fingertip. “It’s very important work to me, John.”

“Ah, yes, you’re going to change the world with that book.” He chuckled, the sound hollow and cynical.

Stung, she looked up, lifted her chin and met his sardonic gaze evenly. “I don’t think my book will change the world—I
know
it will.”

“You’re just like my second eldest sister. She was always taking up some cause or another, a real bluestocking. All it took to change her mind was for a handsome cavalry captain to wink and tip his hat to her. Now she’s neck deep in soppy napkins and snotty noses.”

She blinked at him. “That will never happen to me. I have mission in life, a calling from the Creator.”

His lips twitched. “Wait and see which of us is proved correct.”

She wanted to take the reticule and knock him over the head for being so megrim-blue over her happy news. Was it too much to ask that her only remaining friend be happy about her chance at success? But his attention had drifted.

“I wish his type would stay the hell out of here,” John muttered. “Damned Federalists.”

Emily sighed. She loathed his political tirades. It wasn’t the Federalists’ fault that John’s conservative father had cut him off.

“Is it all so important?”

“Important?” His eyes bugged. “Goddamned straight it’s important. Federalist harpies are bent on changing the very fabric of this Republic. English-loving bastards want to make us over into the same royalist tyranny we’ve already won against. Just look at him.”

She dared a glance at the bar, expecting to see Satan himself. All she saw was the back of a gentleman who was deeply engrossed in conversation with Mr Porter.

He was the tallest man she could ever recall seeing. A well-tailored jacket of Federal blue clung to exceptionally broad shoulders and powerful-looking arms. Yet his body was not dense and heavy and barrel-chested, as with so many men with similar qualities. No, he was finely muscled and held himself with an elegant, upright posture.

In the yellow light from the lanterns hanging over his head, his queued hair glowed antique gold. John kept his dark hair cropped to his collar in support of radical liberalism and France’s revolution. But it wasn’t a universal gesture for all Republican-Democrats. Most men of moderate political feeling still retained their queues.

“You’re sure he’s a Federalist?”

He nodded. “I recognise him from my father’s dinner parties. That’s Alexander Dalton.”

“And why should that mean anything to me?”

“
The
Alexander Dalton.”

She shrugged.

“Don’t you know anything?”

“I suppose not.”

He shook his head. “Your grandmother has a lot to answer for, keeping you so homebound and ignorant of the world.”

His words awoke an urge to run home right now, to the comfortable two-storey house on Maple Street in Easton where they had once lived, and accept her grandmother’s warm, safe embrace. But those embraces had been like iron manacles, squeezing off her freedom. Guilt, sadness and, worst of all, relief churned together like an odd sort of nausea. It confused her too much. She couldn’t dwell on it. Not now.

She was on her own from here on out. Alone in the world. Forever.

She must be brave. She must be strong.

Wrinkling her forehead, she redirected the subject. “He doesn’t look like too much of a devil.”

“Oh, aye, all the ladies are taken with him. Why should I have expected you to have better sense?” He threw some coins onto the table, then rose. “But you really shouldn’t be here. Go on home.”

He took the dollar and thrust it at her, letting it fall onto her lap. Then he donned his tall, round hat with its tri-coloured liberty cockade, and walked away.

She glanced down at his money in her lap, gathered it up and jumped to her feet. She hurried after him, determined to return his money. But he exited before she could reach him. As she watched the door close behind his tall form, she slumped and sighed. She’d catch John at his offices tomorrow and give the money back to him then.

She turned again to the bar. John’s Federalist devil had turned his head to the side, revealing his profile. She caught her breath.

He had a refined handsomeness. A proud, broad forehead, fine, high cheekbones, a straight nose, thin yet sensual lips and a strong jaw, an almost regal air… Her fingers itched for her charcoal so intensely that she tightened her hands into fists to dull the sensation.

The sight held her transfixed. She’d never seen a more beautiful person—at least not outside a book.

As if he felt her scrutiny, he turned sharply in her direction. His gaze, blue-grey and as fierce as storm clouds, locked with hers and stripped her mind clean of anything but him.

Something solid bumped into her, jarring her out of her transfixed state. She half turned. A man loomed over her. He flared his nostrils and blew hot, stale, rum-scented breath over her. It burnt her nose and she gagged. He narrowed his green eyes and grabbed her arm.

“Lookin’ to pick my pockets, girlie?”

“G—goodness no!” She tried to push him away. He was lanky, but his body was like a stone wall of hard, muscled flesh.

“Oh yes, then, what’s this?” he asked in a slurring voice. He plucked the crumpled dollar from her hand.

“That’s mine—give it back!” she cried.

“I see you’ve already hit some sap tonight.” He tightened his grip on her upper arm and gave her a shake so hard her that teeth rattled against each other. “Were we in another country, I could cut your nose off for what you’ve done, to warn other men, and no one would say a word.”

Again, she pulled against his hold, but it was futile. “Let. Me. Go.”

With one yank, he twisted her arm behind her. Pain spiked through her shoulder joint. She cried out and tears sprang to her eyes, distorting her vision. She blinked hard.

“Don’t bat those pretty eyes at me, girlie—I’ve no tolerance for cunning little cats.” His breath felt closer than ever. “You’ll not make a fool of me.”

“Let her go,” a masculine voice said with icy calm.

Chapter Two

Emily’s captor trembled against her and the odour of male sweat rose from him with nauseating intensity. As his hands slackened, she lurched forward. He instantly strengthened his hold and swung Emily with him as he turned. The room span by her. As he stopped, she reeled and swiped at the tears with her free hand.

The Federalist devil stood there, tall and broad-shouldered. His expression was pleasant but his eyes were steely hard.

“Mind your own business, Dalton!” Her assailant tightened his grip on her, his nails digging sharply into the bare flesh of her arm beneath the gown’s little cap sleeves. She winced.

A sharp exhalation escaped Dalton’s lips, and the skin tightened across his cheekbones. He shot his arm out to grasp the other man by his high, stiffly starched collar.

“I said, let her go.”

The man released Emily so suddenly that she went tumbling forward onto the nearest table. As her chest slammed into the flat, cloth-covered surface, the air was driven out of her with a whoosh. A moment later her chin hit, knocking her teeth together with a jarring effect. She stood slowly, using her tongue to make a careful inventory of her teeth. The metallic taste of blood greeted her search and she grimaced, wishing she could spit but not daring to under so many
gazes
.

“Green, I’m not surprised you’re creating trouble like this,” Dalton said smoothly.

 
“I bend my knee to no one, Dalton, so either face me as an equal, or back off now,” Green said.

The whole room quieted to a hush. Emily flickered her gaze over the men holding their cards carelessly or their tankards halfway to their lips, many of them grinning from ear to ear.

“I’ve no objection to or hesitation about facing you—in fact your abuse of this young lady makes it imperative. Name the time and your weapons of choice.”

“Here and now. Bare knuckle, as those not blessed with your exalted situation settle their scores.”

“Excellent.” Dalton’s voice rang with firm confidence.

Astonished at this turn of events, Emily jerked her gaze back to his face. He appeared immensely pleased, his tall, powerful-looking body posed taut, his eyes gleaming like a predator’s.

She cast a glance at Green, taking in his flushed, sweat-beaded face, his angrily bulging eyes and the extended cords in his neck.

Oh, this was a fine way for her first night of employment to start. Porter was sure to tell her to leave. As if sensing her thoughts, the tavern-keeper caught her eye and winked.

All grins, he was practically beaming.

She breathed out a sigh and went a little limp. He wasn’t kicking her out into the street—not yet.

“Gentlemen, in here, please.” He motioned to a door that opened onto an empty backroom.

The crowd got to its feet, the sound of scraping chair legs, raised voices and clicking heels erupting loudly. Porter positioned himself at the door and busied himself taking bets while the flock poured into the backroom.

The tavern girls hurried through as gleefully as the male patrons. Emily walked hesitantly to the doorway and stood there.

Green was already in the centre of the room, stripping off his plum-coloured jacket and waistcoat.

Heavens, they really were going to fight. Her tummy knotted up again. She placed one hand to it and hugged the doorframe with the other. She’d caused this, somehow.

A light touch brushed her arm. Emily jumped and turned to look straight into blue-grey eyes. Alex leant forward, bringing his lean, golden-tanned face so close to hers that she could see the fine lines around his eyes and his lips.

As impossible as it seemed, this close he was even more handsome. Beyond gorgeous. A sun god come to life in a Philadelphia disorderly house.

“Well, darling,” he said, just loudly enough for her to hear. “Are you all right?”

Once, Grandfather had given her a taste of cognac. Heavy and lush and spicy-dark upon her tongue, it had warmed her long after she had swallowed it. This man’s voice was like cognac for the ears. She stared at him, helplessly bemused as she rubbed her arm.

He touched her forearm again, brushing his fingertips over the bare skin between her long, black evening gloves and the black lace on the claret-coloured capped sleeves. The gentle caress sent sparks of sensation racing along her flesh. Her nipples beaded.