Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (3 page)

      
Lady Harrington was a blowzy blonde whose voluptuous charms were far enough faded to look downright shopworn under bright light. She deftly trapped Alex into partnering her through an English country dance. As they returned from the floor, she tapped him lightly with her fan, eyes glowing avidly. "La, sir, do any of our young ladies take your fancy? I could arrange an introduction."

      
"You are most kind, but I don't believe I'm at all a suitable prospect," he said, deciding to see if he could titillate her with his Muskogee blood as his uncle had Lady Jersey.

      
"You mean because you're American?"

      
"No, milady. Because I'm Indian."

      
She blinked and looked at him as if he'd materialized that instant out of a puff of smoke. "Indian," she said consideringly, noting his swarthy skin and deep brown eyes. "The sun often darkens colonials. I would never have guessed but for that exotic slant of cheekbone. My, how positively delicious."

      
"Lady Jersey thought so. That's why she allowed me admittance," he replied dryly, noting how Lady Harrington quickly deflated when the prospect of spreading such juicy gossip was snatched from her.

      
"Pray, tell me about life among the savages."

      
Suddenly the avid gleam in her eyes, the shocked titillation in her voice, was no longer the divertissement he'd hoped it would be. "My father's people are rather tame. They scarcely ever practice human sacrifice anymore. Not like the good old days, I fear. You'd find them quite tedious, milady," he said as he steered her toward his aunt and Lady Jersey.

      
Sputtering, half in affront, half in excitement, she would have made further remonstrance to draw him out, but Lady Jersey caught his eye and made her way to them with Octavia following reluctantly. The patroness of Almacks was a young woman in her prime, trim but sturdily built with a plain face guileless of paints or powders. Her heavy dark hair was as simply styled as the green muslin gown she wore.

      
She inspected him with sharp hazel eyes and said, "So

you're Caruther's nephew, the wild Indian. You don't look dangerous."

      
"Since my father's ship docked two days ago, I have yet to take a scalp," he said as he saluted the white-gloved hand she presented him.

      
A low chuckle rippled from deep in her throat. "Pray keep it that way, or at least restrict yourself to taking powdered wigs. They come off more easily. Besides, they are so hideously out of fashion." Turning to Lady Harrington, she tilted her head in a regal greeting. "How is Suthington, my dear? He hasn't visited us this season."

      
"My father sends his regards, Lady Sarah. He shall be in London within the week."

      
"Your father is the Earl of Suthington?" Alex asked. "I made the acquaintance of your cousin, Miss Jocelyn Wood- bridge, when I debarked."

      
Lady Harrington stiffened, lifting her overlong nose as if scenting something noisome. "I might expect Jocelyn to be walking about the docks," she sniffed.

      
"She was quite properly chaperoned by your uncle, the Reverend Woodbridge." Alex felt it prudent not to mention the riot or Jocelyn's active participation in it.

      
"That street preacher. I'm afraid when he deserted the Church of England to join a sect and preach from box tops, the earl quite disowned him," Lady Harrington replied.

      
"What of his daughter? Surely a child cannot be held accountable for her father's eccentricities," Alex replied.

      
"The girl's mother was a governess," Octavia inteijected scathingly. "She passed on when Jocelyn was quite young. The girl's been allowed, even encouraged to pursue a highly unsuitable education, reading histories and philosophies, espousing social reforms among the lower classes." Octavia shuddered.

      
"Fancy that," Alex replied solemnly.

      
"I, for one, regret the gel did not receive a come out," Lady Jersey said, perhaps feeling a glimmer of kinship for another plain young woman lacking her own fortunate social connections. "However is a lady to make a suitable marriage if she does not have a season?"

      
The question was rhetorical. Everyone among the Quality understood the rules of the ton. Alex was beginning to have a pretty fair idea about them himself. And he did not like them.
No wonder Mother chose not to return to this life
. "I suspect Miss Woodbridge has other matters weighing more heavily on her mind than catching a husband," Alex replied ironically.

      
"La, sir, whatever is more important to us poor weaker vessels than a proper marriage?" Lady Jersey said, keenly gauging his reaction.

      
"Miss Woodbridge and the reverend are determined to end the exploitation of climbing boys ... and prostitutes."

      
"Prostitutes?" Lady Harrington echoed in a shocked whisper.

      
Octavia's dark eyes narrowed furiously on her husband, silently accusing him for bringing this graceless colonial clod into their home and social circle.

      
Lady Jersey smiled thinly but said nothing.

      
Throughout the exchange, Monty stood back observing with detached amusement. The boy had a deal to learn, but he was young. Lud, had he himself ever been that young? Probably not. Reaching over, he clapped his nephew on the back, saying, "The way you rush to defend Miss Woodbridge, I cannot help but wonder if you'd consider offering for the poor ape-leading bluestocking." The expression of appalled surprise on Alex's face delighted the baron almost as much as the lad's swift recovery.

      
"I have no plans to wed while I'm in England, neither Miss Woodbridge nor any of the fine young ladies of the ton."
      
Turning from his uncle to Lady Jersey, he added with a devastatingly rakish grin, "Give their mamas my assurance that their progeny are safe from the depredations of this red Indian."

      
"Come, Mr. Blackthorne. You must tell me about growing up among your father's people," Lady Jersey said, determined to redeem the conversation from its distressingly gauche turn. She took Alex's arm and steered him toward the refreshment table.

* * * *

      
"Joss, you've not been attending me. I was saying how my dyspepsia has grown ever so much worse since our last cook ran off with that wretched froggie," Aunt Regina remonstrated. "I think to double my dose of calomel pills for relief."

      
Lost in reverie, Joss looked up at the old woman. "What? Oh, your dyspepsia, yes," Joss replied vaguely.

      
"As much of a noddy as you've been the past few days, Jocelyn, I wonder if you received a cosh on the head t'other day at the docks. Or perhaps you've taken to some gentleman," she added, chuckling at the unlikelihood of that.

      
Joss could feel the heat stealing into her face and fought to control it. "On the shelf as I am, I'd be quite the lackwit to moon over any gentleman," she replied crossly.

      
"Ha! Why's yer face red as a carbuncle then?" the crusty old woman responded, squinting nearsightedly to assess Joss.

Regina Gower's fleshy nostrils quivered when she was on the scent of fresh gossip. She was not really any kin to Joss, but everyone who lodged at the Fin and Feather called her Aunt Regina. Her slightly askew wig and the tight laces enclosing her thick midsection proclaimed her staunch opposition to the shockingly libertine fashions and mores of the new century.

      
Joss longed to confide the dreams that had been haunting her to someone, yet could not bring herself to discuss Alex Blackthorne with Aunt Regina, who for all her well-meaning kindness was as incapable of keeping a confidence as a sieve of holding water. No, Alex would remain a cherished secret, deep in her heart. "If you must know, I'm concerned about Papa's insistence on attending that dog-fighting contest tonight," she replied, firmly changing the subject.

      
"Demned dangerous. That man takes the most sapskulled notions! Them nobs will be fierce displeased if the reverend stops the show—the owners and their underworld cronies even more. I've heard bets on dogs are devilish high," the old woman said worriedly. "Lord Darter was said to have won ten thousand pounds there last week."

      
"That's what I'm afraid of. Papa's already made some powerful enemies." She shuddered, recalling the dead fellow lying in the alley, the sour stench of his clothes, his grimy hands seizing her.
So unlike when Alex held me
. Joss mentally shook herself. She was acting like an utter cake over Mr. Blackthorne.
Stop it!

      
"Good evening, Joss, Aunt Regina. I've selected the text and prepared my sermon for tonight," Elijah Woodbridge said as he walked into the crowded hearth room of the inn.

      
Joss arose and walked over to him, taking the papers from his hand and glancing down at his spidery scrawl, which filled them front and back. "Papa, I don't think this is well advised. Aunt Regina said the Quality wager quite heavily at these events. If you deprive the dog owners and their backers of their ill-gotten gains—"

      
"Tut, m'dear. That is precisely the point. Ill-gotten gains lead men to perdition. It is my Christian duty to stand against gambling and all its attendant ills—drunkenness, oath taking, even fornication."

      
Joss sighed as the old man's voice began to rise. He was off, primed for tonight. There would be no stopping him. "I expect you are right. Such cesspools of sin must be closed down. Even if the people are beyond redemption, the poor animals they abuse are not."

      
"My child!" Elijah remonstrated, "you know no man is ever beyond redemption. It only wants that you and I do our best to show them the error of their ways."

      
"As you wish, Father," she replied with a grin. "I shall accompany you tonight on your mission."

* * * *

      
His legs were wobbly and his jaws slack, but the roar of the crowd spurred on his blood lust in spite of his exhaustion. After all, he'd been bred for this. The dirt floor of the rectangular enclosure was slick with blood. Rat carcasses lay scattered around, their necks broken. He had killed a hundred in the past hour. A record in Phineas Goodysale's sporting ring.

      
"Now the action will really start popping," Lord Haversham said, leaning past Monty to squint at Alex through the stale smoky air. "They'll bring out a badger next. That should put the little rat killer in the suds. A real fight to the death."

      
"A badger, really? That is a bit overdone, Haversham," Monty replied with a grimace of distaste. 'Truth to tell, I've already found the rat fight tiresome in the extreme."

      
"Getting squeamish, old fellow? Sure your wild colonial Indian here is a true cock of the game. You like your sport good and bloody, don't you, chum? I'd wager you've seen contests to put this one in the shade back among the savages."

      
"As a matter of fact, I have—but the Muskogee don't abuse animals for their amusement. They break each other's bones quite merrily in chunky matches," Alex replied. He was heartily sickened by the spectacle and wanted nothing but to escape the fetid stench of peat smoke and unwashed bodies.

      
"Really?" Haversham replied, his bloodshot eyes gleaming avidly. "What sort of contest is this chunky game?"

      
Before Alex could reply, the master of ceremonies appeared. The dog, a brindle terrier with the most ferocious teeth Alex had seen this side of the Atlantic, stood panting in one corner. Yet it made no move to attack the man when he climbed down into the pit.

      
The crowd comprised all levels and classes of society, mostly male with a smattering of the fairer sex gaudily decked out to display their wares. Silver pocket flasks were upended with regularity as were wine and port bottles. Alex enjoyed a good debauch as much as the next fellow, but the mood of this crowd was ugly. The nature of the gory spectacle they so obviously relished was even uglier. "That dog is too tired to fight anymore. He's earned a good meal and a night's rest," Alex said over the announcer's loud voice.

      
He stood up, intending to bid his uncle good night, when a loud commotion broke out at the back entrance to the low-ceilinged shanty. "Let me pass, sirrah! For shame on such drunken debauchery! We come on the Lord's work! Gambling is sin and the wages of sin is death!" There was no mistaking the stentorian tones of the Reverend Elijah Woodbridge.

      
"You mutton-headed marplot, who asked you to put in yer oar?" one of the sporting afficionados yelled belligerently.

      
The babble of angry voices rose sharply, diverting attention from the pit. In an attempt to remedy the matter, Phineas Goodysale opened the cage containing the badger. Starved and terrified, the creature erupted into the ring when the gate to his cage was raised. With a snarled hiss the forty-pound badger shook his thick shiny coat and waddled straight for his quarry.

      
The dog stood motionless for a second, sniffing the newcomer uncertainly. City bred, he had never scented such a creature before. When the badger's razor-sharp claws raked across his snout, drawing blood, he jumped back with a loud yip, then circled swiftly, attempting to sink his teeth into his foe's neck. The badger was not only many times larger than a rat, but its skin was draped so loosely on its body that the dog could get no purchase in it with which to snap the neck as he had with the rats. Each time he seized the badger, it twisted around and raked him wickedly with its razor-sharp claws.