Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) Read online

  Alex pulled the letter from his pocket to read his father's dire prognostication, but when he looked at Joss's pale, stricken face, he immediately reconsidered. Why worry her with events neither of them could prevent? Instead, he scanned down the pages to his mother's portion of the letter.

  "If war breaks out, what will we do?" Joss said desolately.

  He looked at her deadpan and pointed his finger as if it were a pistol. "Why, Miss Woodbridge, for the glory of my country I'd have to shoot you."

  Joss stared at him for an instant, then started to laugh. He made her so happy. Please, don't let a war separate us.

  Alex rustled the pages of the letter and said, "Let me read you the latest on-dits from Savannah. Mother writes that the French Brutus cut for gentlemen has been greeted with hooting in the public houses. The Georgia courts refuse to admit jurors sporting trousers. They must wear proper attire—knee breeches!"

  "Just like Almacks," Joss said merrily, her good humor restored.

  "Ah, here it is, the best of motherly advice." He cleared his throat, then read Barbara's bold sweeping script. " 'You must remember, Alexander, that you are your father's sole male heir. You have a duty to contract a suitable marriage, although I would be the last to stand as example for that, having been all but disowned for spurning a viscount for a man of mixed blood. Nevertheless' "—he paused for emphasis, rolling his eyes—" 'you surely will be able to find a young lady who will return your regard. Ask for her hand and bring her home posthaste to meet your family. We miss you ...' etc., etc., all the usual exhortations from a loving mother to her son. Can you imagine me wanting to settle down, Joss? I've just passed my twenty-second birthday. Papa was twenty-six when he wed."

  "And you'd as soon best his record by waiting a few years more," Joss said with a smile. But some day, Alex, you will find the suitable young lady who returns your regard .. . and how shall I bear it?

  "I certainly will endeavor to break all records in avoiding leg-shackling. Why—"

  He stopped midway, replacing the letter in his pocket as a low growl followed the sound of a loud shriek. The door to the small kitchen area where they sat swung open when the business end of a broom smashed against it. The old hag wielding the broom chased a bundle of brindle fur under the scarred pine table, then circled, jabbing wildly at the dog, who held a large ham bone clenched in his sturdy yellow teeth.

  "Poc! What have you done?" Joss cried, standing up so abruptly she knocked over her chair and nearly went tumbling down with it.

  " 'E's stolen me supper, that's whot th' sneak thievin' worthless rascal done. Bloody wretch—beggin' yer pardon, Miss Woodbridge," the crone added as she and the dog eyed each other warily. Poc showed no sign of letting go of his prize, no matter that his enemy looked fierce as a Sherwood game warden cornering a poacher. Her nose was bulbous, blazing beet-red above a sharkish mouth pulled wide in a grimace that revealed half a dozen rotted teeth.

  At least the dog has her beaten if it comes down to a biting match, Alex thought, then reconsidered. Her blackened gums were probably as hard as Toledo steel and her angular lantern jaw could snap a mastiff's neck. He stood up, reaching out to steady Joss when her skirts tangled on her overturned chair leg. Poc tried to make a run for it but the old woman, amazingly agile considering her age and girth, slammed the door shut, cutting off his only means of escape short of leaping through the window glass.

  Recovering her balance, Joss stepped between Zelda Grim and her prey just as the cook's helper raised her broom to deliver the coup de grace to Poc, who hunkered against the door, clutching the bone in a death grip. If Alex had not seized the weapon from behind, Joss would have been brained along with the dog.

  "Gor! Leave me be, ye bloody jackanapes," Zelda screeched, this time so enraged no apology was forthcoming for her profanity.

  "I shall handle this, Zelda," Joss said. 'Tell me what happened."

  " 'E stole me bone! It were left over 'n' I were goin' ta boil it with some greens fer me dinner. Then this 'ere 'eathen come sneakin' in 'n made a mighty leap up on th' stool by the washtub. Afore we knowed it, 'e was off with me bone," Zelda finished on a plaintive whine.

  Joss looked down at the dog, who had come out of his hunkering crouch now that Alex had neutralized the threat from the broom. "Bad dog, Poc. You know it's wrong to steal." He looked singularly impenitent with his loot clamped firmly between his jaws.

  '"The bone's too badly chewed up for anyone to eat it now. Best to let him have it," Alex ventured. He certainly had no intention of trying to get the bone away from thirty pounds of fighting terrier!

  Joss sighed. "That would scarcely teach him the error of stealing food. I've tried to break him of sneaking into the kitchen and lying in wait for cook to turn her back. We've little enough to feed the children as it is," she said as she knelt down beside the dog and reached out one hand.

  "Joss, be careful. He's a pit dog," Alex said, but the dog released his treasure and backed away after a moment's eye contact with his mistress. Poc laid his chin down on the floor with a piteous whimper as Joss picked up the bone, shaking it like a teacher's rule, scolding him.

  "You should be ashamed of yourself and well you know it, Apocalypse."

  " 'E's th' very messenger of ole Scratch. Name suits 'im, it does," Zelda said, taking the well-gnawed bone Joss offered her. "Whot am I ta do fer dinner now? I can't be eatin' this," she whined.

  "There's not a shred of meat on it. You couldn't have eaten it before the dog seized it," Alex said, taking some coins from his pocket. "Here, buy something at the butcher's for your dinner."

  "Gor! Thank 'e, sir, thank 'e," Zelda said, bowing to her benefactor. Her bloodshot eyes almost popped from their sockets as she squeezed the coins in disbelief, then grabbed up her broom and quit the room with a swish of ragged skirts.

  "That was kind of you, Alex."

  He shrugged. "Did I mention I was very lucky at that marathon whist game? Another of the reasons I came here today—I wanted to give you a gift for the children," he said, handing her a well-laden purse.

  "Oh, my," Joss said, startled by the weight of it. When she opened it and saw the amount, she tried to give it back to him. "You've been generous before, Alex, but I can't possibly accept this much—you might need it if your luck deserts you."

  A broad smile flashed across his face. "Luck has never deserted me—and even if it did, my father's allowance is most generous. I can spare it, Joss," he replied, placing his hands around hers and gently pushing the purse back to her.

  "Are you certain?" she asked dubiously, thinking of all the food, books and medicines the money could buy.

  "I'm most certain."

  'The children will be so grateful, as am I," she said with a smile.

  Poc chose that moment to emit a low, pitiful whimper.

  "I think he's saying that everyone has been taken care of but him," Alex said with a laugh, looking pointedly at the chewed ham bone lying on the table beside their teacups.

  "We're only encouraging him to steal," she replied, relenting.

  Sensing her capitulation, the dog sat-up and began to wag his tail from side to side like a metronome. Poc waited politely as Joss picked up the bone and offered it to him. He took it almost daintily in his mouth, careful not to place his teeth anywhere near her fingers.

  "He's amazingly well mannered. I confess I was afraid he might prove dangerous after the way he was raised."

  Joss knelt and scratched his head fondly as he gnawed on the bone, cracking it with his powerful jaws. "Poc only kills rats. He's been wonderful at reducing the danger from the nasty things around the school and the hospital. I take him with me everywhere I go now."

  Alex raised one eyebrow. "Everywhere?"

  She chuckled. "Well, not to church and prayer meetings, but he's fiercely protective of me and of the children. Rat bites are only one of the threats to them. The flash house boys and pimps are afraid of him. Since I brought him here, they don't come around trying to brib
e or kidnap my students anymore."

  "I'm glad you decided to rescue him then."

  "I couldn't have without your help." When the clanging of a heavy brass bell sounded from the next room, Joss said, "I must return to the children. I only have them for another hour."

  He helped her to her feet and waited as she dusted off her ugly navy-blue skirt, wondering why she chose such shapeless, unflattering clothes. Probably they're castoffs since her father's too poor to afford a dressmaker for her. For some reason, her lack of pretty things bothered him, although he could not for the life of him imagine why since she was so unconcerned. "I must be going, but first I want to tender an invitation."

  "An invitation?" She cocked her head, willing her erratically thumping heart to steady its beat. He 'll scarcely ask you to a cotillion, she scolded herself.

  "I'm racing this weekend at a track outside the city. Drum and his chums refuse to go near a racecourse—too smelly and muddy for their delicate sensibilities and elegant tailoring."

  "Mr. Drummond would think so," Joss said with a sniff.

  Alex chuckled at her sudden pique. "You and Drum don't like each other much, do you?"

  "I suspect 'detest' would describe our mutual feelings a bit better. He is an unmannerly misogynist, but what has that odious man to do with me?"

  "I don't mean the invitation to sound secondhand, Joss, but since Drum won't be present, would you consider attending the race with me? I've finally been able to convince the track owners to let me run one of the horses I brought with me from America against a field of Britain's best. I need a friend—one brave enough to cheer for the United States."

  "And, of course, you thought of me."

  "Who else has your courage?"

  "I have never been to a horse race. There would be gambling on the race, wouldn't there?" She chewed her lip in vexation, wanting to see Alex on horseback. She knew he would be splendid. What an adventure it would be! I could spend the day with him!

  "Your father wouldn't approve, I'm afraid," Alex said ruefully. "I'm sorry I tempted you, Joss."

  Pray heaven you never realize how you tempt me. "No, Papa wouldn't, nor would the ladies of the Missionary Society ... but I would like to see you race! When is it?" The words burst from her exuberantly before she could stop them. What have I done?

  A dazzlingly white grin split his face. "Saturday next. I'll call for you at ten in the morning!"

  Her father would be hurt and frightened for her. Already her friendship with a man of Alex's libertine reputation had caused the reverend much prayerful anguish. She had never before in her life done anything to cause him a moment of worry. Though he would never forbid her to see Alex, Joss knew how concerned he was. If he realized the nature of her feelings for Alex, he'd spend the rest of his life on his knees praying for her deliverance!

  She considered how she would explain attending such a sinful event as a horse race. To see if the animals were being mistreated? Or perhaps to investigate what went on at such an event with an eye to organizing a protest march? No, she concluded with a sigh. If she wanted to attend the race, then she must be honest about it and tell her father that she was going to watch Alex race ... but she would tell him nothing else.

  Chapter Six

  "Why the deuce do you call him Sumac, old fellow?" one dandified racing enthusiast asked Alex as a group of men crowded around his big roan stallion.

  "Sumac because he's red, my dear Puck," his companion responded, nodding to Alex for confirmation.

  "Partly. It's also because he's so hard to beat that all the other horse owners avoid him like poison sumac," Alex replied, nibbing the roan's nose affectionately.

  "How long is the course?" Puck asked.

  Joss stood to the side, a plain brown wren in her shapeless woolen gown. She clutched a shawl around her shoulders to ward off the chill spring wind. Pewter clouds scudded across the sky, hinting at more rain. The racecourse was already soaked from last night's showers. Any further rain would turn the ground into a bog, but Alex seemed unconcerned, even a bit pleased with the weather.

  So was Poc, who pranced through the squishy yellow mud in tail-wagging glory, impatient with the restraint of the leash, which Joss kept firmly wrapped around her wrist. She was grateful she'd had the foresight to confine him, as many of the horse lovers were also dog lovers whose canine friends accompanied them. Poc loved people but was not on overly cordial terms with other dogs. Looking about the elegant assembly of gentlemen in cutaway riding coats and ladies twirling ruffled parasols, she felt it prudent to hold him on a short leash indeed.

  "So you believe this uncertain breed from the colonies can win over my Pegasus," Colonel Sir Rupert Chamberlain said smugly, tugging on his immaculate white gloves.

  Alex studied the tall, narrow-faced aristocrat, resplendent in his scarlet uniform. A saber cut above his left eyebrow marred what would have been a perfectly molded, if harsh, countenance. His hot yellow eyes looked almost satanic when he returned Alex's level gaze.

  "Sumac will take first place," Blackthorne asserted coolly. "He's undefeated in the twenty-six races he's run to date."

  "Against American horses?" Chamberlain spoke disdainfully, looking down his long, thin nose at the American, who was dressed in buckskin pants and a loose-fringed shirt of the same material. "Did he perchance triumph over Indian ponies?"

  "In America there are a variety of places to find a horse race, in white settlements and Indian."

  "My, then it is true! You are part savage?" The small, voluptuous woman standing beside Chamberlain spoke breathlessly, looking at Alex's frontiersman's garb and the soft leather moccasins he wore in lieu of the fashionable riding boots affected by the other men. Cybill Chamberlain's heavily fringed violet eyes had strayed often to the American as he and her husband exchanged words.

  "I'm only part Muskogee, but I am all savage," Alex replied with a cool smile, taking in the stunning black- haired woman's bountiful curves and pouty full lips.

  With growing irritation Joss watched the colonel's lady flirt with Alex. She was clutching one of those tiny Maltese dogs so popular with the ladies of the ton, acting as if she expected Alex to gobble it up in two bites—and herself in three. Poc tugged restively on his leash, sniffing the air as the men resumed their barely civil discussion.

  "The gentlemen in Savannah and Charleston paid dearly to see how fast Sumac could run." Alex left the dare hanging pregnant in the chill, damp air, staring at Chamberlain.

  The colonel's eyes narrowed, glowing amber like those of a fierce predatory bird. A half smile touched his lips, then fled. "How much would you like to wager that your Sumac takes the field over my Pegasus? Say, one thousand pounds ... or is that a touch rich for your part-American, part-Indian blood, Mr. Blackthorne?" Chamberlain stroked his chin with a lazy insolence belied by his taut military posture.

  It's almost as if he wants to provoke Alex, Joss thought. Then Poc gave a strong tug on his leash, distracting her as Alex replied.

  "No, one thousand pounds isn't too rich. In fact, why don't we double it.. .just to make this interesting?"

  A murmur spread through the crowd. For a rural racecourse far from the city, a two-thousand-pound wager was rich indeed, especially staked upon an unproven horse from abroad. Everyone stared at Chamberlain to see what he would do.

  The colonel nodded curtly. 'Two thousand it is, Mr. Blackthorne. Who will be riding for you?"

  "No one. Sumac isn't civil to strangers. I'll ride him."

  Chamberlain's eyebrows rose. "Really? Do you think it advisable? All of the gentlemen present employ jockeys."

  "My, yes, Mr. Blackthorne, you're so tall. Why, you must surely weigh four or five stone more than those little men." Cybill Chamberlain looked as if she'd enjoy checking his precise weight. Her eyes traveled from his head to his moccasins and back, pausing somewhere in the vicinity below his waist. "It scarcely seems sporting."

  "I ride bareback, Mrs. Chamberlain," Alex replied, this time retu
rning her frank sexual perusal with a lascivious smile. If he angered her boorish husband, so much the better. "That always makes a difference—usually in my favor."

  "And does fortune always favor you, Mr. Blackthorne?" she asked, moistening her pouty little mouth with the tip of her tongue.

  Alex could see the arrogant British colonel watching the exchange but could not read his expression. What twisted sort of games do these bored blue bloods play? "They say luck is a lady, Mrs. Chamberlain."

  "In that case, you shall certainly win," she replied.

  "I have heard that luck is not a lady but rather a female of exceedingly uncertain constancy," Joss interjected. I am not jealous, she assured herself, unable to keep silent a moment longer during the licentious display.

  Cybill's violet eyes turned almost black as they swept over Joss with contempt. "Only a missionary zealot would see constancy as a virtue," she said dismissively.

  "It is, but then perhaps you are not so well acquainted with virtue as to judge it," Joss replied coolly.

  Alex could see Cybill's claws coming out as she stepped toward her taller, thinner antagonist, clutching that ridiculous bit of barking fluff to her bosom. Before she could make her furious retort, he extended his hand to the dog, which snapped at him.

  "Oh, Bonbon, do behave," she scolded, diverted from Joss. "Did she bite you? She's so high-strung, a result of her impeccable pedigree," Cybill added with a sniff toward Joss's terrier.

  "Unlike her owner," Joss murmured sotto voce, knowing the words carried. She simply must stop behaving in such an un-Christian manner. Before she could analyze that problem further, Poc, who had been growing increasingly