WANTON ANGEL

March 2002
Leisure Books
ISBN 978-0843949735

A devoted artist, Elizabeth Blackthorne has earned a scandalous reputation with her free-spirited ways -- she's been known to run about unchaperoned and even pose nude. But Englishman Derrick Jamison is uncharted territory. He acts like a foppish dandy, yet his disarming smile and intoxicating touch inspire feelings more extraordinary than her reputation. Beth Blackthorne bowled him over the day they met. True, the fire-haired American didn't mean to topple him, but the fit of her lush body against his completely distracts Derrick from his mission of spying against Napoleon. From the United States to Italy to England, her siren call beckons until he knows the only safe harbor he will find is in her arms.

Reviews

"WANTON ANGEL is such a non-stop action thriller that readers will need oxygen to keep up with the frantic pace. However, the cost of all the action is that the characters are not quite developed so that the audience never understands Beth's attitudes on life, so different from her peers. Still Shirl Henke knows how to spin a heated tale so that Regency fans will enjoy a change of pace caper after caper tale that never slows down until the final safe kiss." -- Harriet Klausner, The Best Reviews

"Sweeping from America to Italy, from a pirate ship sailing the high seas to a dey's harem, to England and back again, Shirl Henke takes readers on a whirlwind adventure. With a huge cast of characters, a strong secondary love story and non-stop action, this novel is reminiscent of those long and lush, old-fashioned historical romances of the '70s." -- Kathe Robin, RT BookClub

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Washington D.C., Spring, 1811

The Honorable Derrick Lance Jamison was a spy.

Of course, Beth Blackthorne had no idea of this as she watched him stride back and forth on the springy moss, admiring the way his tall whipcord lean body filled out snug doeskins and a beautifully cut jacket of fine buff- colored kerseymere. What was she, Elizabeth Blackthorne, artist, free spirit, doing even noticing how lithe and pantherish were his movements? Or how perfectly chiseled were his features? Absurd. The distance was far too great to be certain anyway. Most probably a trick of the light.

As if to distract her, Barney took off in a ground-eating lope, headed for Mistress Smollett’s chicken coop behind the inn. “Come back here, you rascal,” she hissed. Thankfully, the handsome stranger paid her no heed. Barney returned to her, tail dragging disconsolately. Barnsmell, or Barney, was her brother Benjamin’s huge brown sheepdog whom she had taken along as protection. Being the youngest of five siblings and the only female in the lot, Elizabeth Isolde Blackthorne had always felt smothered and misunderstood.

Take this afternoon’s excursion to paint for example. The only way she dared slip from the house was to promise Ben that Barney would “protect her.” Otherwise her brother would have tattled to their father, and that would have put a finish to her day of freedom. As if she required protection! Beth had grown up surrounded by male relatives, all of whom were crack shots. She had always been a tom-hellion, riding, shooting, engaging in unladylike pursuits to the despair of her mother and father. Over the past few years her brothers, formerly co- conspirators, had become patronizingly and most irritatingly concerned because she’d had the misfortune to be born female.

Putting aside all thoughts about her “inferior” status, Beth strolled over the hill in search of a scene suitable for a spring landscape. A tall stand of sugar pines surrounded by a rolling field of deer grass and trout lily beckoned. Soon even thoughts of the young stranger who had so taken her seventeen-year-old fancy faded as she set to work.

Her new palette of colors was almost perfect to capture the delicate shades of green, the rich purples and soft buttery yellows of wildflowers. But the sienna for the muddy earth tones was a bit off. She began mixing and blending from several vials of color. “There. Perfect,” she sighed and resumed painting.

* * *

His Excellency Luis de Onis y Gonzales, the Spanish ambassador to the United States, was a royal pain in the arse, Derrick Jamison decided as he paced in front of the inn. The brash young Englishman had waited for nearly an hour in the execrable heat of this glorified swamp the Americans called a capital. What a drab little town it was. Derrick would not dignify the motley collection of buildings with the appellation of city.

Brushing a lock of sweat-dampened dark hair from his forehead, he scanned the miasmic marsh surrounding the rude post inn where his assignation was to take place. He paced beneath the shade of an ancient willow tree, watching what passed for a road, fervently hoping Onis would arrive soon. “I won’t complain if I’m sent to Gibraltar or even Tunis after this assignment,” he muttered, combing long slim fingers through his hair.

Even the worst pestholes of North Africa had dry climates. The wet heat of the Virginia coast was intolerable to one born and bred on the Scots borderlands. Of course, this being his first posting abroad, he had no real knowledge of Tunis or Gibraltar. But surely they could be no worse than this. “One does what one must for king and country,” he sighed as the ambassador’s coach at last pulled up.

Oniz y Gonzales had just handed Derrick a sheaf of documents detailing American incursions into Spanish Florida when the thunderous roar of a weapon rent the air. “Madre de Dios, we are found out!” he croaked in terror, crouching down so his spindly knees nearly gave way. “The Americans are upon us!”

“The shot came from behind the inn. It was not intended for us,” Derrick reassured the old Spaniard. The blast was followed by furious barking and the squawking of chickens. Derrick could well envision what was going on but felt compelled to make certain.

He turned to say so to his companion, but Onis was scrabbling off toward his coach. “I shall report to you regarding the filibusters into Florida next week,” he flung over his shoulder.

There was another deafening roar, followed by more barks, squawks and a string of rather startling oaths from the innkeep. Derrick had made Mistress Smollett’s acquaintance earlier in the morning when he broke his fast. Perhaps it might be best to let her deal with the chicken thief. He carefully inserted the papers inside the lining of his jacket, then smoothed the expensively tailored garment.

He had been enjoined by his superiors in the Foreign Office to play the role of fop. No one, especially uncouth Americans, took fops seriously. Such concern with sartorial splendor had been alien to him back on his family estates, but that was a world and a lifetime ago, he thought sadly. The uproar out behind the inn continued as he strode toward the stable to retrieve his mount. Hoping to avoid the fracas, he quickly turned the corner of the building.

“Oomph!” The sound of air escaping from his lungs was the only noise he could make as he was knocked to the ground hugger-mugger by a harlequin.

Derrick realized his harlequin was a flame-haired female, or at least he believed it to be a female. As they struggled to disentangle arms and legs, she scooted away from him on her hands and knees. The wench was dressed in utter rags, brightly smeared with splotches of paint in every color of the rainbow.

As she shook her head to clear it from the force of their collision, a great mane of dark russet hair flew about her face in riotous fuzzy curls. The gesture reminded him of the large shaggy herd dog that worked sheep on his father’s estates. Upon closer inspection, he saw that part of her raggedy garb consisted of a greatcoat of some sort, with large pockets bulging with more rags and paintbrushes. A look of utter consternation covered her paint-smeared face.

“My sienna!” she shrieked.

“I beg pardon?” he replied, certain now that he was dealing with either an escapee from the American equivalent of Bedlam or a Gypsy caught stealing the innkeep’s chickens.

“Oh, I spent ever so long mixing it and used all the raw umber and gold ochre Cousin Alex sent me from London.” she babbled on, eyeing his chest with decided apprehension.

He followed her gaze and saw with shocked horror the multicolored swirl of thick paint that covered the front of his shirt and jacket. A small wooden artist’s palette with the remnants of color smeared across it lay incriminatingly at his side. “You’re an artist?” he asked in an incredulous voice, alarmed that the documents from Onis might be irreparably damaged. His first impulse was to pull them out to check, but just as he reached inside his jacket, he realized that would not do in front of a witness.

“Oh, your jacket — and that lovely white lawn shirt! I am ever so sorry,” she said. Climbing over his legs on all fours, the demented creature extracted a rag reeking of turpentine from one of her multitudinous pockets. “Here, let me — ”

He seized her wrist as she tried to daub at his jacket. “That is quite all right. No sense in making matters worse,” he remonstrated. Damnation! All he needed was for the foolish twit to dissolve what was left of the papers with spirits. The delicacy of her bones surprised him. Her hands, although paint-smeared, were soft and well manicured, not at all the hands of a scrub woman or a Gypsy.

The mysterious Englishman, for with that accent he could be nothing else, studied Beth’s face as she returned the favor. Good Lord above, it had been no trick of the light. He was the most beautiful male she’d ever seen in her life. Beth suddenly found her tongue, which was normally so glib, sticking to the roof of her mouth. Breathing had inexplicably become difficult and her heart was pounding so furiously she felt positively muzzy-headed.

He got lithely to his feet and extended a lean elegant hand down to her. She reached out to him just as another report of the blunderbuss erupted from the other side of the stable. “Barnsmell! I completely forgot!”

Before he could pull her to her feet, a second creature moving at an alarmingly swift speed collided with him, this time making painful contact with his posterior.

Derrick tried to maintain his balance while holding on to the flailing girl, but it was hopeless. He was propelled into her and they fell in a compromising sprawl with him on top. A dead, bloody chicken bounced off the side of his head as a huge shaggy brown cur leaped over them with a loud, “Arf!”

“Barnsmell!” came a muffled cry from beneath him.

The beast paused only a moment before rounding the opposite side of the building, racing toward the road.

Head ringing, he struggled into a sitting position. Some of the feathers from the ill-fated chicken had fallen and stuck in the gooey multicolored mess of drying paints on his chest. He shuddered with distaste but found that recovering his breath was a bit less difficult than it had been the first time.

Perhaps he was getting used to being knocked insensate, he though wryly before the dull throbbing of his nether parts began in earnest. Gingerly, he rolled to his knees and rubbed his buttocks before realizing he was in the presence of a female, albeit certainly not a lady. What the devil was she babbling about as she tried unsuccessfully to climb to her feet — something about a barn smell? Her wild gesticulations toward the chicken, then the road stretching toward town, made no more sense than her choked raving as another boom of the blunderbuss shook the ground.

Americans! They were all deranged.

“There ye be, missy!” Mistress Smollett said as she rounded the side of the stable. “I sent yer accursed hound back toward the city, tail tucked twixt his legs right and proper, I did.” As if to prove her point, the squat, raw- boned woman tightened her grip on the blunderbuss.

Beth had scrambled away from the Englishman and once more attempted to rise, but the hem of her paint smock caught on the heel of her shoe and she would have fallen on him again if not for the proximity of the stable wall. Reaching out frantically for a splintery board, she righted herself, panting and humiliated. For once in her life, she was speechless.

By then Mistress Smollett noticed for the first time the gentleman kneeling in the dirt. “Mr. Jenkins, sir, I’m that sorry, I am! Ooh, look at yer fine jacket. That foolish gel’s gone and ruined it.” Then the innkeep saw the carcass. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she fixed Beth with a beady glare that had sent more than one drunken farmer scurrying for home. “Now who’s going to pay for me chicken, eh?”

Derrick struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain shooting from his buttocks down his legs. “Never fear, Mistress…Smollett, isn’t it?” he inquired with a charming grin that sent most women into a daze. “I’ll pay for the damages.”

His charm had the intended effect on the old woman — and the young one, too, even if Derrick was not aware of it. Beth stood mesmerized by that slash of perfect white teeth, and the lock of black hair that fell artlessly over his brow when he cocked his head. His eyes were the cerulean blue of the Atlantic off the Georgia coast and, Lord above, he even had a dimple in his right cheek!

Not wanting to attract any further attention, Derrick mollified the innkeep by placing several coins in her palm as he flattered her until she was blushing like a school miss.

“I do thankee, sir. Ye be the kindest gentleman I’ve ever met, even if yer an Englishman!” To that backhanded compliment, she added, “Just remember, Coey Smollett’s always got a cool pint waiting whenever ye stops by her place, she has.” With a malevolent glare at Beth, she reached down and picked up the dead chicken before waddling around the stable toward the inn.

Derrick turned to the girl, who had remained surprisingly mute through the exchange. Perhaps she’d been in trouble with the old crone before, since the woman seemed to know her. No doubt a local farmer’s daughter. “I say, you don’t look quite the thing, gel. Have you injured yourself?” he inquired as she continued to stare mutely at him.

“I … that is … I’m quite … quite the thing … that is, I’m uninjured,” she finally managed to get out. “But Barnsmell’s taken off for the city and he may be the one who’s been hurt and I have to go find him before my brother does or else I’ll be in terrible trouble and Papa will forbid my painting any more landscapes and I don’t know what I would do if that happened!” It seemed as if once she began speaking, she could not stop.

He smiled again, which sent her heart into another frenzy of palpitation and stopped her babbling so he could get a word in edgewise. “I take it, er, Barnsmell is the dog who overran me and deposited Mistress Smollett’s poor bird on my head?”

Beth felt her cheeks flame. “Yes, I’m afraid so. You must let me repay you the cost of the chicken — not to mention the expense of replacing your clothing.” Realizing she carried no money with her, Beth felt even more the fool. “Er, that is, my father will — ”

“Please,” Derrick interrupted, eager to be quit of this troublesome chit so he could check the documents in his ruined jacket. “I insist that you not give it another thought. I shall be sailing for home very shortly. And by the time I arrive, the jacket would doubtless have been out of fashion anyway,” he added when she made as if to protest further.

Beth nodded bleakly. He obviously wanted to rid himself of her — and who could blame him? “Well, then, I do thank you, sir. I had better collect my horse and painting equipment and go after my dog.” She backed slowly away, loathe to leave him even though she knew she was making an utter cake of herself. How her aunt Barbara, that redoubtable Englishwoman, would laugh if she saw her niece in such a tizzy over a mere male.

Derrick watched, bemused, as she practically backed into the stable. To his utter amazement, she emerged a moment later riding a handsome Arab filly. She sat the beautiful roan with the practiced skill of one used to riding fine horseflesh. No matter her incredible garb or clumsy manner, she could not be a tavern wench or farm girl.

Most puzzling, these Americans. But then, the deranged were often a curious lot.

Musing to himself, he slipped inside the now deserted stable to check on the condition of the documents inside his jacket. Only on his ride back into Washington did he recall that he’d not inquired the singular female’s name.

* * *

Dolley Madison’s Wednesday afternoon salons were considered by many wags in Washington to be the high-water mark of Jemmy Madison’s administration. The president’s lady was witty, charming and open-minded. Her salons attracted people of all political persuasions. A small orchestra played on a dais at one end of the ballroom, and servants moved through the press of guests carrying trays of sherry for the ladies and whiskey for the gentlemen.

Women in soft pastel gowns of sheer mull picked daintily at bowls of fresh fruit, while men in starched cravats cut wedges of strong cheddar cheese from a giant wheel. Dressed in her usual pale cream silks with an ostrich plume bobbing from the huge turban that had become her signature headgear, the first Lady moved through the room, breaking up disputes with her laughing chatter wherever voices grew strident.

Everyone argued politics. Quintin Blackthorne was in one corner mediating a dispute between John Randolph and Henry Clay. His wife Madelyne was engaged in a heated discussion with the crude and annoying Representative Johnson from Kentucky. Beth sighed and looked around the room at the assembly of eligibles — congressmen, merchants, attorneys and diplomats.

Husband material. She knew that was why her mother had insisted she come to the capital. True, this session of Congress was debating Great Britain and France’s violations of American shipping rights on the high seas. And true, her father, the senior senator from Georgia, was embroiled in the fight against war with either power, but her parents major concern was finding a suitable match for their only daughter.

Beth admitted that she had not been very cooperative in that regard, scorning all the gallants in Georgia. Her art was her life and that left no time for husbands, babies or other such foolery. She intended to go to Italy and study painting. Unfortunately, neither her parents nor her brothers felt that was at all natural for a young miss.

Sighing, she looked across the room. Men were so boring. The only matters they could discuss were themselves and this accursed war — which prevented her from sailing to Italy. Even that perfectly gorgeous young Englishman she’d encountered at the post inn the preceding week would no doubt be a crashing bore if she but spoke with him for more than ten minutes. Beth had spent several restless nights reliving the humiliating encounter. Why, after making such an utter fool of herself, could she not seem to banish his face from her mind?

Probably because he would make such an excellent portrait subject. At least that was what she kept assuring herself. Of course, if she were ever to consider marriage … he was English, and bother the old war, it was traditional for English gentlemen to take their brides on a grand tour of the Continent. What a delightful fantasy that was — but only for a moment until reality intruded. She shook her head at the absurdity of the daydream. Marry an Englishman indeed! Anyway, war had spoiled the opportunity to travel on the continent for English or Americans since that wretched Napoleon had the whole of Europe in an uproar. Beth sighed. Best to forget the handsome mystery man.

“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Blackthorne,” Aiden Randolph said wistfully. “You look quite vexed.” Aiden was tall, pale and gaunt, with a strabismus of the left eye that made looking at him directly rather difficult. At present, his one good eye was fixed on her adoringly while its mate flitted vaguely around the crowded room. He was quite sweet and frightfully vapid.

“Actually, Mr. Randolph, I was just thinking about how I would much prefer to be outdoors on such a lovely day.” She bit her tongue, fearing he would ask to accompany her on a walk after the salon. Eager to change the drift of the conversation, she launched into a description of her latest landscape sketches. That normally drove suitors away.

Across the room, Derrick observed the tall, striking redhead in the mint green mull gown. She was a bit on the thin side and too young for his tastes, but fetching with all that heavy auburn hair falling in artlessly arranged curls over her shoulders. Something about her gestures and posture seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not for the life of him place her.

A hoarse chuckle from his companion drew his attention away from the girl. “A pretty bit of fluff, Blackthorne’s daughter, but I’d not trifle with her, my boy,” Roarke Kenyon cautioned. Kenyon, a short stocky fellow with merry hazel eyes and an ear for gossip, had proven an invaluable source of information regarding the sentiments of pro- British Federalists in his home state of Massachusetts.

Derrick wished to satisfy his curiosity about the girl and learn more about the illustrious Blackthorne family. Brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the ruffled shirtcuff spilling from the sleeve of his new bottle-green jacket, he inquired, “Is she the merchant’s daughter or the planter’s daughter?”

“The planter, Quintin. Quite opposed to a war against your country. A sensible fellow, even if his reasons are not the same as ours.”

“And his reasons would be?” Derrick prompted.

“Relates to his cousin Devon.”

“Ah, he runs a large shipping enterprise, does he not?” Derrick had heard about the two patriarchs of the fabulously wealthy Blackthorne clan. “Old Devon would have a deal to lose if war breaks out.”

“True, but Devon has an English wife. His son’s been living in London for the past year, as a matter of fact. Married an earl’s niece, so rumor has it. Then, too, Dev and Quint were raised together, more brothers than cousins, and Dev’s part Creek.”

Derrick paused incredulously in the ritual of opening his cloisonné snuff box. “You mean red Indian?”

“None other. Quite the scandal some years back, but no one much remembers his origins now that he’s become bloody rich.”

Derrick nodded, piecing together what he had painstakingly gleaned over the past few months. “I understand the Indian confederacies are pro-British because they want to halt American expansion into their lands in the west. Do tell me more about this fascinating family.”

Kenyon’s expression grew crafty. “Wouldn’t be thinking about taking an American heiress for a wife, would you? Rather a turnabout on the way the Blackthornes have done it.” He chuckled heartily at his own wit. In order to learn more about the influential Blackthorne family’s politics, Derrick nodded, searching the crowd for the redhead. “As a second son with modest prospects, I must confess, there is a certain appeal… if she’s rich enough.”

“Oh, Elizabeth’s rich enough, all right.” Kenyon’s chuckle set his ample belly to rolling beneath his brocade waistcoat. “But the gel’s got bats in her belfry. Wants to be an artist, if you can believe that. Dabbles in paints, running around the city dressed like a ragamuffin. It would take a strong hand to straighten her out, I tell you.”

Derrick was flummoxed. Never taking his eyes off Elizabeth Blackthorne, he choked out, “A painter, you say?” It couldn’t be his harlequin … could it?

Kenyon proceeded with an embellished description of the girl’s disgraceful attire. It was she.

“She doesn’t look the hoyden, I must say,” the Englishman said uncertainly.

“Appearances can be deceiving, my boy,” Kenyon replied gravely.

When Beth saw him walking across the floor she nearly sank to her knees with embarrassment. He was heading directly toward her! Would he remember their awful encounter from last week? How could he not? Of course, she had looked much different in her painting togs. She was suddenly grateful for the way Mama had insisted on tricking her out for this affair.

“Beth, you look ready to pick up your skirts and run,” Madelyne remonstrated, trying to discern the reason for her daughter’s panic. Then she saw him, quite the handsomest young man in the room, moving in their direction along with Roarke Kenyon. Beaming, she looked back at Beth. “Oh, do try to smile, dear. I daresay he won’t bite you.”

When they approached the ladies, Roarke introduced his companion as Derrick Jerkins, late of Manchester, England. Elizabeth Blackthorne curtsied to him rather stiffly. The awkwardness of her normally graceful daughter was not lost on Madelyne. Derrick bowed with an affected flourish that he’d found most American females adored. Before Miss Blackthorne could do more than smile woodenly, Quint motioned to his wife and political ally Kenyon from across the room. They made their excuses to the two young people and went to join him.

“You look far better without paint on your nose,” he teased when they were alone. “In fact, I wouldn’t have recognized you if Kenyon hadn’t mentioned that you dabbled at painting.”

Her eyebrows arched sharply and her wide green eyes narrowed imperceptibly, a sure sign of danger, as her brothers could have warned him. “Dabbled?” she echoed sweetly.

“His word, not mine, but you must confess it is rather unusual for a lady of your background to go about the countryside in the company of a chicken thief.” His grin was infectious.

She was not certain whether she should be amused or incensed. If only he weren’t so damnably good-looking! He quite unsettled her. She decided incensed was safer. “I’m sure I prefer the company of an honest thief to that of a condescending Englishman,” she said with frosty dismissal, turning away from his penetrating blue eyes before she drowned in their depths.

“Just because our countries may one day be at war does not mean that we need be,” he said. “Besides, I’m given to understand that you have English relatives of both sides of the Atlantic.”

“Aunt Barbara is an American now and cousin Alex’s wife Joss will be too. They do not laugh at the idea of a woman wanting to be an artist.” Actually, having never met her new cousin, Beth had no idea how Joss felt.

Elizabeth Blackthorne sounded so young and earnest in her righteous anger that he reconsidered his earlier impulse to use her as a source of information. There were many other older and wiser women on whom he could work his charms, women who knew far more abut military and political matters than this backcountry miss. Magnanimously, he decided to let her go.

“My dear Miss Blackthorne, I wish you every success as an artist, and please note that I am not laughing as I do so,” he replied with feigned boredom.

“You are every bit as insufferable as Cousin Alex described the Earl of Suthington!”

Having met Suthington, Derrick understood the magnitude of the insult better than she. As he watched her stalk away, a most peculiar sense of something lost squeezed his chest. The sudden pang was akin to how he had felt when his family disowned him.

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