To Surrender to a Rogue (5 page)

In the smoky light of the oil lamp he could just make out his own reflection. Leaning in closer, Jack curled his lips upward.

See, the marchesa was wrong
—
he was perfectly capable of smiling.

The laugh might have been more of a snort, but that was beside the point She had no right to criticize, not when her own expression took on such a razored edge whenever she looked at him.

Cutting. Contemptuous.

Yet he couldn't keep from picturing her emerald green eyes, alight with inner sparks of gold. And her sculptured cheekbones and elegantly arched brows, proportioned with perfect symmetry.

And her shapely hips, swaying like poetry in motion.

Poetry?
Hell, he needed a drink.

Stepping down from the carriage, he stalked into his club's reading room and signaled the porter to bring him a bottle of brandy. A look around showed he would likely be drinking alone, which only exacerbated his feeling of malaise.

Draining his glass in one gulp, he poured another. And another.

"Why the dark face?"

Jack looked up to find his eldest brother standing over him. "I can't help it—I'm the black sheep of the family."

George eyed the near empty bottle and then pulled up a chair. Favored with flaxen hair and the pale, Nordic complexion of their Viking ancestors, the heir to the Ledyard dukedom was his opposite in looks.

"True, you're the only one of us who shows a hint of our Latin ancestors," he replied. "But you have to admit it's a very romantic story—a shipwrecked admiral from the Spanish Armada washed ashore on English soil, a love-struck young noblewoman nursing him back to health—"

Jack made a rode noise. "I'm in no mood for fairy-tale stories of romance, if you don't mind."

"Mother assured me that the tale is true." George helped himself to the brandy. "What's the matter? Having trouble with Jenny—or is her name Jeannette?"

In answer, Jack ordered another bottle, a very expensive port "And put it on the marquess's bill," he added. "His Lordship can well afford it"

"By all means. If you wish to drown your sorrows, might as well do it in tasteful style." George slanted him a sidelong look. "Maybe you've had enough for the night You look like shite."

"Bloody hell, not you, too," he swore.

"Any specific reason for your ill-humor?"

Jack shrugged and slowly swallowed the last splash of his brandy. "Tell me something," he said abruptly. "Did I never laugh as a child?"

His brother arched a brow. "You had four older brothers who took great glee in kicking your arse. As I recall, you yelped a lot"

Jack grinned in spite of his foul humor. "I gave as good as I got"

"Aye, you were a tough little bugger." George tapped his fingertips together. "As for your question, you were the most serious of all of us. Which is not to say you were a stick in the mud. You weren't" He thought for a moment "The truth is, you were always far more interesting than William or Charles or Edward."

The statement took him by surprise. "I always thought you liked Wills best"

"I like all my brothers. They are capital fellows. It's just that you have more God-given talents than the rest of us." George propped a boot on the brass fender. "Now, why the question on laughter?"

Jack stared through his glass at the flickering fire. Strangely enough, his brother's praise left him feeling even more morose. "Never mind. It's not important"

They sat for some moments in companionable silence before George cleared his throat "You know, I was speaking to Killingworth the other day, and he mentioned that Wright had asked you to accompany him to Egypt. Said something about a position as the expedition's artist but that you turned it down."

"Can you imagine Father's face had I announced I was going to travel to a faraway desert in order to draw pictures of crumbling bits of stone?" Jack grimaced. "He would not have found the idea remotely amusing."

"So what?"

Jack straightened from his slouch.

"Father is a duke, not a deity, Jack. His wishes need not be taken as the word of God," said George. "You upheld family tradition by serving honorably, and with great distinction, in the military. You are allowed to make your own choices on how you will live the rest of your life."

"I-I always assumed you and the others would frown on the idea of having a scholar in the family."

"Because it isn't manly?" George shook his head. "Lud, I'd give a monkey to be as clever as you are, rather than just a clodpoll who knows how to shoot and ride and swing a saber."

Jack blinked, suddenly seeing his eldest brother in a whole new light

"And as for Father, why don't you let me have a word or two with him on the subject of art"

"Don't do it when he's in the Gun Room, lest you want your arse peppered with buckshot," warned Jack.

"I'm the heir, so I'm not likely to be the target of frying bullets. Besides, I think he'll listen, especially when I tell him how many famous generals were also noted men of arts and letters. There are a number of excellent examples— Peter the Great, Frederick Barbarossa, the Holy Roman emperor Charles IV." George coughed "And Hannibal"

"Hannibal?"

"Well, I made that one up. But Father isn't likely to check through the history books." George took a sip of his wine. "In any case, my point is, from now on, you need not hide your interest in classical antiquities under a rock, so to speak. Go ahead and explore what makes you happy. And if Mils or Chas or Neddy dare utter a disparaging word, I'll thrash them to a pulp."

Jack felt a strange flutter in his chest. But as Pierson men were known for their steely reserve, he refrained from throwing his arms around George and tossing him up to the plaster ceiling rosette. Instead, he waggled a hand at the passing porter. "On second thought, Hobbs, you may put the port on my account It appears I owe my brother for a favor."

George acknowledged the oblique thanks with a grin. "A rather large one."

Jack raised his glass in salute.

"One last thing. Have you heard about the excavations set to start next week on a new site of Roman ruins near Bath?"

Jack nodded. "It was all people could talk about at the last meeting of the Julius Caesar Society. Preliminary indications are that it is a very important discovery. Several of our high-ranking members have been invited to serve on the Excavation Committee."

"Yes, well, I saw Lord Fanning at a diplomatic reception last night, and he mentioned that a sudden illness in the family was going to prevent him from participating?" A pause. "So I took the liberty of suggesting to him that he ask you to go in his place."

"Me?" For an instant Jack held his breath, then slowly shook his head. "Hell, the position is one of great honor. There are far more experienced Society members who will get the nod over me."

"None of them have your unique skills at drawing, to go along with your knowledge of ancient architecture," replied his brother. "Fanning agreed that someone adept at keeping a visual record of the discoveries would be a valuable asset for the project."

A chance to watch the foremost experts in the field at work?
It was the opportunity of a lifetime. "By Jove, I owe you a case of the port, George," he murmured.

"I'll settle for one of your watercolors of the Temple of Sating."

"I can't help feeling that I am getting the best of the bargain," answered Jack. "You get a puling painting and I get an answer to my prayers."

His brother chuckled. "Maybe you should wait before thinking of me as your savior. There's always a chance that you won't find the excavation at all to your liking."

"I assure you, George, it will be heaven on earth."

A blond brow quirked in question. "Even though you will be parted from the fleshpots and gambling hells of London for several weeks?"

"I think I can survive without sex or carousing for that amount of time," said Jack dryly. "I shall channel all my baser urges into the serious study of art"

"You'll also be parted from Lady Mary Stiles," observed George after a small pause.

It took a moment for the remark to register. "Oh, that" Jack shrugged. "There is no formal agreement between us. It is Father who has been touting her as a possible match."

"And what is your feeling in the matter?"

"I have none to speak of. I am reaching the age when Duty—and the duke—demands that I think about marriage," muttered Jack.

After refilling his port, George gave the glass a meditative swirl.

"As a younger son, I don't have the same complex considerations as you did in choosing a bride," Jack continued, a little nettled by his brother's quizzical expression. "Father informs me that the only expectations for me are that I choose a young lady with a suitable pedigree and a handsome dowry, so as not to be dependent on your purse when he sticks his spoon in the wall."

A snort sounded above the crackling logs. "As if I would be such a nipcheese as to beggar my brothers when I come into the title."

"You're more than generous," said Jack. "However, I don't fancy living in your pocket for the rest of my life." He stared into his wine. "I suppose that Lady Mary would make a perfectly pleasant wife. She is pretty and her manners are polished."

He paused as a random picture of his future passed through his head. The breakfast room, conversing with Lady Mary about... about nothing more than platitudes.

Perish the thought that a well-bred young lady might dare express an individual opinion or original observation.
Her duty was simply to manage his household and provide him with an heir.

"You don't sound very enthusiastic over the prospect" George pursed his lips. "But I suppose the fact that your comrade-in-devilry has just surrendered his freedom is coloring your feelings."

"Hadley won't find marriage boring," said Jack. "His new bride is... interesting."

"Yes, I've heard that she is rather unique."

"But be that as it may, I have no intention of taking a wife anytime soon," he muttered. "I've better things to do with my time."

"Like muck around in the mud," murmured George.

"Yes, like muck around in the mud." Jack thumped his glass down on the side table. "So Father may bloody well stick...a cork in his mouth when it comes to potential brides. When I decide to don a legshackle, I'll damn well choose my own ball and chain."

George raised his drink in smiling salute. "I applaud your mettle."

"Ass," growled Jack through his teeth.

Finishing off the port with an exaggerated swallow, his brother rose. "In that case, I'll toddle off to the card room, where my witticisms will be welcomed by a more appreciative audience. Enjoy your sojourn to Bath." He paused. "And try not to dig yourself into any trouble."

"Ass." This time it was said with a grudging grin. "Archaeology is not exactly a subject that is apt to stir up much trouble."

"Did
you know there are more than seventeen different species of shorebirds on the Cornwall coast, not counting seagulls?" Charlotte looked up from the letter she was reading. "Ciara and Hadley are certainly enjoying their wedding trip. It says that they will stay in Penzance for another few days, then..."

Alessandra dutifully smiled, and tried to pay attention to the cheerful commentary on how their fellow 'Sinner' and her new husband were passing the first few weeks of wedded bliss. But her thoughts kept straying to her own unsettled life. She, too, had received a letter in the morning post, an oblique warning from her cousin that trouble might be brewing.

Damn Marco.
Why was it that men were much more eloquent with blades and bullets than they were with ink and paper?

Instead of offering any helpful information, her cousin had merely dashed off a few lines of warning. And even those had been maddeningly vague. No details, no explanations, other than the fact that he had heard yet another disturbing bit of news from Italy hinting that the past had not been forgotten.

'Be alert for any danger,' he had cautioned, underlining the hurried scrawl.

As
if there were a moment when she had ever let down her guard during the last year.

She heaved an inward sigh. He had promised to keep a close eye on things and send more news soon. However, he had also added that an urgent errand for Lord Lynsley required his presence in Scotland. He was, in fact, already on his way north.

The shortbread in her fingers broke, spilling a trail of crumbs across her plate. Alessandra was not precisely sure how her cousin was involved with Lord Lynsley, whose official government title was Assistant Minister to the Secretary of State for War. Marco's past was somewhat of a mystery. She suspected some of the wild tales she had heard about his exploits were not entirely exaggerated...

But right now, her only concern was her present predicament That Marco was clever—as well as quick and deadly as a cobra in a fight—were skills she would welcome at this moment But even a man known as
U Serpente
to his friends could not move fast enough to be in two places at the same time.

No, she could not count on her cousin to protect her from trouble. Which brought her full circle back to the cold truth. She was on her own...

"Isn't that marvelous, Alessandra?"

Her head jerked up. "Sorry?"

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" observed Charlotte with a quirk of her lips.

"Sorry," she repeated.

"Charlotte was just reading us the news that Ariel and Sir Henry have propagated a new bloom," piped up Kate.

"Good heavens—at their age!" exclaimed Alessandra.

"Kate was referring to
botany,
not biology, my dear," replied Charlotte, as Kate dissolved into a fit of giggles. "You know of their interest in exotic flowers. Well, they have succeeded in crossing two rare species of poppies."

"How lovely," murmured Alessandra.

"What's wrong?", demanded Kate after the rustling of the paper faded. "You've been acting queerly all meeting. It's as if your mind is miles away."

"F-forgive me," stammered Alessandra. "I—I suppose I am preoccupied with the upcoming excavation. And with keeping Isabella happy while we are in Bath." Groping for any excuse to change the subject, she quickly added, "By the by, her art lessons are going very well."

"Don't try to muddle the picture," said Kate with her usual bluntness. "I can tell that you're keeping something from us."

Alessandra dropped her gaze, carefully avoiding her friend's eyes. "Nothing to speak of. Just a private family matter." It wasn't exactly a lie, she told herself. "My cousin is upset about a past incident in Italy that he feels is cause for worry."

"All families have a skeleton in the closet," pointed out Charlotte.

Despite her friend's reassuring tone, Alessandra flinched. She quickly turned the tiny movement into a shrug. "Marco has a tendency to be melodramatic, so I'm sure it will turn out to be nothing. Hopefully it will have blown over by the time I am back from Bath." Reaching for her reticule, she put her notebooks away. "Speaking of which, I had better be getting home. We leave tomorrow and I have yet to pack up my tools and reference books."

A tiny frown tugged at Charlotte's lips, but she tactfully dropped the subject "Well, do write often and keep us informed on your progress."

"I promise."

"Remember that Bath is a spa town, a place for relaxation and rejuvenation. So try to have some fun," remarked Kate. "Perhaps you will meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger."

The remark stirred a sudden vision of Black Jack Pierson.

God forbid.

"Perhaps you ought to stop reading those silly novels on love and romance," replied Alessandra dryly. "Besides, even if I did meet a prince in Bath, he would likely be an octogenarian afflicted with gout"

"Mama, are you sure my new paint box is safe?" Isabella craned her neck and tried to observe the packing of the baggage coach.

"Yes,
tesoro"
said Alessandra. "It was wrapped in lamb's wool before being placed in your trunk." Her own fragile technical materials, including an assortment of acids and special chemicals used to help determine the composition and age of an artifact had also been carefully prepared for travel.

"I wish I could have kept it with me. I should like to practice my brushstrokes during the journey," said her daughter with a flourish of her fingers. The brightly varnished wooden case had hardly been out of Isabella's sight since its arrival from the art shop. Indeed, this morning, Alessandra had found it nestled in the pillows of her daughter's bed.

She gave silent thanks for the little girl's enthusiasm. It was a welcome change from her recent moody sulks. "I'm afraid that bumpy roads, jars of water, and paint do not mix well." She placed several sketchbooks and a box of pencils on the seat. "You will have lots of time in Bath to practice your painting. In the meantime, you can work on your pencil technique."

Isabella was already opening the book to a fresh page.

"It seems that you are enjoying your lessons with Herr Lutz," remarked Alessandra.

"He is very strict and serious." Isabella tapped the tip of her pencil to her chin. "But he says that to be a good artist, one must have a great deal of discipline."

With children, there was such a fine line between being too tough and too lenient To Alessandra's surprise, the Swiss drawing master had somehow drawn up just the right course of study for her daughter. The first few lessons had been fun, and yet challenging. And when Isabella had understood that he would tolerate no nonsense from her, she had applied herself diligently to win his approval.

Biting her lip, Alessandra stared out through the misted panes of glass.
Oh, if only she could see things more clearly.

For days she had been struggling to coax the pinched expression from Isabella's face. But all her efforts—a visit to the British Museum, sweets at Guenter's—had done little to lighten her daughter's unhappiness. She knew that the little girl was lonely, especially as her best friend, Peregrine, would not be returning from Kent for some weeks. London was still foreign to Isabella, and as Alessandra was somewhat of a recluse herself, they had few social invitations where a young girl might meet other playmates.

Was she being terribly selfish to subject a child to such a life?
It wasn't as if she had much choice.

"Look, Mama, I've drawn your portrait."

Alessandra stared for a moment at the grim slash of a line that depicted her mouth, and quickly forced a smile. "How lovely. What a clever way you have of drawing hair."

Isabella beamed with pleasure. "Next I will try to draw a picture of Perry. Herr Lutz says it's a good exercise to try to draw something from memory. It teaches you to be more ob...ob..."

"Observant," finished Alessandra. She closed her eyes, imagining for a moment her villa and gardens overlooking the Lake of Como. "Yes, indeed it does."

"Is Herr Lutz really going to be in Bath for some of our visit?"

She shook off her momentary melancholy. "Yes, we are fortunate that he has a commitment to spend several weeks in the city while we are there. He was kind enough to schedule several lessons for you."

Isabella's dark curls bobbed as she bent her head over the paper. "Then I had better practice, so I can show him how much I am improving."

Art helped Isabella pass the long hours on the road, while Alessandra occupied herself with several scholarly books on the history of Roman rule in Britannia. But even with such distractions, both of them were happy when the carriage finally rolled into the city of Bath on the following afternoon.

"Oh, look at how the buildings curve!" Nose pressed to the glass, Isabella was eager to observe all the sights.

"That is the famous Royal Crescent,
tesoro.
It is a set of thirty houses designed by John Wood the Younger, and as you can see, he was greatly influenced by Roman architecture. That is because Bath is built on an ancient Roman town. It was one of the strongholds of the Imperial army, and they have left behind many fascinating reminders of their presence."

"Is that why you have come here?" asked Isabella. "To dig for buried treasure?"

Alessandra laughed. "Perry has been, telling you too many tales of pirates. We are not after plunder,
tesoro.
We seek to uncover the artifacts that tell us about daily life, so that we may learn valuable lessons about the past."

Isabella rolled her eyes, having heard the lecture countless times before. "Can't we dig for information in a more interesting place—like the Caribbean islands?"

She brushed an errant curl from her daughter's cheek. "I'm afraid you will have to make do with Bath."

The carriage rounded the Circus and proceeded down Gay Street. "There are many interesting things to see and do here," explained Alessandra. "We shall visit the Pump Room, where all the fashionable people go to drink the mineral waters. It is built atop an ancient underground Roman bath, which has lots of beautiful art and mosaics for you to sketch."

Her daughter's expression brightened.

"And there is the Society of Roman Antiquities." Alessandra pointed out a handsome classical building in the middle of the block. "I shall be working there some of the time."

"Will you be digging for Roman ruins in its cellars?" asked Isabella.

"No,
tesoro.
Our excavation site is in the wilds of the countryside, several miles outside of town. For the most part, that is where I shall be. However, when the weather is bad, I shall clean and catalogue our artifacts in the Society's work rooms."

A few minutes later the horses turned off onto Trim Street and stopped in front of the small townhouse Alessandra had rented for the duration of the dig. Her longtime butler, who had come down a few days earlier to prepare the place, hurried down the marble stairs to greet them.

"A message came for you this morning from Mr. Dwight-Davis,
signora"
he said, reaching for Alessandra's valise. "He apologized for the change in plans, but wished to inform you that his welcoming reception for the Italian scholars will be held tonight at the townhouse of the Bath Society of Roman Antiquities, rather than tomorrow."

"Tonight?" She sighed, wishing she could think of some reason for avoiding the social gathering. But considering that Dwight-Davis had exerted considerable effort to have her appointed to the Excavation Committee, it would be rude to cry off. This phase of the dig—a joint effort involving a special delegation from Rome—was a particularly prestigious assignment.

"Grazie,
Ferraro," she went on. "I had better tell Lucrezia."

"Luza and I shall take care of everything" he assured her. "Cook has refreshments waiting in the drawing room. You and the
angiolleto
must be hungry and thirsty."

"A cup of tea would be welcome," admitted Alessandra. She glanced back at the baggage coach, which had just pulled up behind her carriage. "As for the little Angel—"

"Buongiorno,
Ferraro!" Isabella jumped down from her seat "Look, I have drawn a picture of you, and one of Miss Wolcott"

The butler eyed the pencil profile, which greatly exaggerated his prominent Roman nose. "You have, er, excellent technique,
bambina."

Isabella beamed. "Miss Wolcott, come look—"

"Miss Wolcott will have ample time to review your portfolio after teatime," interrupted Alessandra. Seeing the little girl's governess approach, she handed over Isabella's sketchbook with an apologetic shrug. "I'm afraid you are going to learn more about art than you might wish."

The governess smiled. "Art is an excellent accomplishment for a young lady to have. And it appears there are a great many interesting sites for Isabella to sketch around Bath."

Reminded of her own reasons for coming here, Alessandra lifted her skirts and started up the stairs of her temporary home. Most people came for the famous curative waters and for the lively social scene, but her interest in Bath had nothing to do with such superficial pursuits.

Recalling Kate's teasing words about meeting a handsome prince, Alessandra made a wry face.
Men were the
very last things on her mind.
She was here to submerge herself in serious work, not to engage in Pump Room flirtations or drink the sulfurous elixirs.