To Surrender to a Rogue (12 page)

Gravel crunched underfoot as Alessandra shook off Frederico's touch and quickened her pace along the garden path. The scent of roses perfumed the night, with a hint of lilac wafting in and out of the bordering trellises. Up ahead she saw a marble fountain pooled in moonlight, its pale stone framed by a boxwood hedge.

Drawing a steadying breath, she took up a position with her back against its railing. "I take it you have a reason for wishing to speak with me alone?"

"What makes you think I desire anything more than the pleasure of your lovely company?"

"Please don't waste your golden words on me anymore. What is it you want?"

"Come now, Alessa, we used to be friends." Frederico paused. "Very good friends."

"That is all in the past," she muttered.

He pursed his lips. "Much as we may not like it, the past is always a part of our present lives."

"Pietro said you had taken up the study of history." Alessandra made no attempt to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "I would have advised the study of ethics."

Flicking aside the tails of his coat, he took a seat on the stone and crossed one elegant ankle over the other. "Oh, I am familiar with the subject. Enough to know there is no such thing as absolute right and wrong."

She bit her Up.

He cocked his head and looked up at the stars, as if savoring the subtle night music—the splash of the water, the chirp of the crickets, the rustle of the breeze through the leaves.

A shiver stole up her spine. She was ashamed to remember that once their thoughts had been in perfect harmony.

Frederico seemed to sense her thoughts. "Very well, seeing as you are in no mood to reminisce, I shall not keep you much longer. It is true, I have a favor to ask of you."

"You must be joking."

"It's a small one. A harmless one—"

"No," declared Alessandra, somehow keeping her outrage in check.

"Still so impetuous, I see. A lady alight with spark and fire." He fanned his cheeks, a gesture she found insufferably patronizing. "You haven't heard what I have to say."

"I don't have to," she said. "Nothing—
nothing
—could persuade me to help you."

The falling water muffled the scrape of his shoes as he rose and came close. "Are you sure of that?"

"The last time I did as you asked, a man ended up dead. How does that feel on your conscience?"

"My conscience? How can you say that, when in truth it was you who mixed the lethal concoction..." His words trailed off with an eloquent shrug.

"The mixture was altered without my knowledge," stammered Alessandra. "I—I only did what you asked."

"Ah,
cara"
A soulful sigh caressed her cheek. "I think perhaps that you misunderstood my words that night," he said in that same silky tone she recalled so well. That boudoir voice—soft, sensuous, soothing. Sliding over her misgivings like the finest gossamer silk.

Now it made her skin crawl.

"No, I did not misunderstand," she whispered. "You lied to me."

"So you say," he replied with a choirboy smile. "But in a court of law, it will be your word against mine. And my oratorical skills are far more polished than yours. Need I remind you that I have a great deal of practice in making pretty speeches?"

Alessandra felt the bile rise in her throat

"Who do you think they will believe?" he crooned.

"You are a fugitive, wanted for murder," she croaked.

His smile stretched a little wider. "So are you, my dear."

"Damn you to hell."

"Tsk, tsk." Frederico contrived to look injured. "There is no need to be nasty,
cara.
It's a simple thing I ask. And if you do your part, no one will get hurt. I promise." He reached out and ran his thumb lightly along her jaw. "Don't you remember how well we worked together? You may find that you like it—"

Alessandra pushed his hand away. "That time and that naive young girl are long gone, sir. I was a fool once. I won't make the same mistake twice."

Anger flared in Frederico's eyes, turning their topaz color into a swirl of liquid fire.

How had she been so blind to his arrogance? In the past, she had seen his passion as idealistic. A force for freedom and equality. When all he really wanted to do was change one tyrant for another.

His gaze quickly hardened, turning flat and cold as stone. "It's not quite so easy to dismiss those days—and nights—in Italy. You speak as if what went on between us was ancient history, Alessa. But it is still very much alive." He paused for effect "Just ask the Austrian authorities."

Alessandra sucked in a breath, taking a moment to still the pounding of her heart against her ribs. "Your clever little speeches fall on deaf ears. Your threats no longer have the power to frighten me, sir. The English are not about to hand me over to a foreign power. Go ahead and denounce me in public. My mother's family is not without influence in this country. I will survive any scandal."

"A pretty speech,
cara.
It appears you have learned to stand up and speak for yourself." He stepped back and set a hand on his hip. "Or have you? As I recall, you used to depend on Stefano to protect you from life's harsh realities, leaving you free to indulge in your passion for antiquities and abstract ideas. And then, when he was gone, you turned to me."

The truth of his words hit her as hard as a physical blow. Summoning all her strength, Alessandra willed herself to stand firm. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

"So I can't help but wonder," continued Frederico. "Does a person ever really change? Or have you just found some new protector to cling to? Someone who you think will shield you from your own impetuous nature?" His lips twisted into a cunning curl. "You think that fancy aristocrat—Lord James—might be willing to play the knight in shining armor?"

"Clearly
you
have not changed," replied Alessandra, refusing to dignify the ugly innuendo concerning Jack. "You are still the same selfish, manipulative demagogue as before."

His smirk became more pronounced. "You didn't seem so averse to my manipulations at your villa at Como."

Once—
once
—she had allowed him into her bed. The night of her birthday, when the flames of the lakeside terrace torcheres had lit a feeling of overwhelming longing inside her.
Loneliness. Loss.
Alessandra closed her eyes for an instant, recalling the silvery shimmer of moonlight on the water, the dampness of the mists against her skin. She had been a young widow, suffering through the doubts and fears of her recent loss.

And Frederico, her husband's brilliant protege, had taken shameless advantage of her weakness...

No, the blame did not lie entirely with him.
She bore the responsibility for her own decisions.

Which was all the more reason to put an end to this meeting.

"You disgust me," she said in a fierce undertone.

His smirk disappeared.

"You have an exaggerated opinion of your prowess," she went on. "Just as you have an exaggerated notion of your hold over me. My answer is no. And that is final." Turning in a ruffled swoosh of silk, she started to walk away.

"Not so fast, Alessa."

She kept going, but he caught up to her in several swift strides and grabbed hold of her arm. "Do you think I have traveled all the way to this cursed cold island just to let you turn your back on me?"

I've told you, I don't care what you say about me," countered Alessandra. "You cannot force me to help you."

"Oh, yes. I can." His smile was back in place. "You might not care about yourself, or your reputation. But what about your daughter? Dear Isabella is such a pretty little girl. It would be a pity if anything were to happen to your only child."

"You
wouldn't?"

Yet she knew he would. He had killed without compunction before.

"As you saw the other day at the river, accidents happen easily, especially to children. And there won't always be a noble
cavaliere
to ride to the rescue." He brushed a leaf from his trousers. "The
Inglieze
are so conventional. Do you really think that a war hero would offer his sword to a cold-blooded murderess?"

Her throat froze.

Sensing her fear, Frederico pressed on. "Trust me, I am not acting alone on this, Alessa." A low laugh stirred the air by her cheek. "Indeed, you would be greatly surprised to know just how powerful an ally I have. So if I were you, I would not risk opposing us."

"You—you leave me little choice," she whispered.

"There, you see. It is not so difficult to agree with each other, is it?"

Alessandra stared down at the dark stones beneath her feet.

"Don't look so stricken,
cara"
replied Frederico. "I shall see that you don't regret the decision."

It took all of her courage to ask, "W-what is it you want me to do?"

"No rush,
cara,
now that we have come to an understanding." Frederico drew out his snuffbox and inhaled a pinch. "Let the excavation settle into a comfortable routine. I shall let you know the specifics when the time is right"

A sudden swirl of wind spattered some spray from the fountain against her cheek. Squeezing her eyes shut, Alessandra blotted a teardrop from her lashes.

"Of course, it goes without saying that any word of this to another person would have serious consequences, eh? And don't think that you can run and hide. We would find you, and poor little Isabella would suffer for your sins."

Murder. If
she had the physical strength, she would throttle him on the spot

"So... how do the
Inglieze
say it—mum is the word." His lips curved in a scimitar smile. "It will be our little secret"

"Thank you, my dear. How very thoughtful of you. I wasn't aware that the latest shipment from America had arrived." Charlotte unwrapped the package of books that Kate had brought with her from Hatchards.

"There looks to be a new volume of experiments by Benjamin Silliman, the chemistry professor at Yale." Kate poured herself a cup of tea. After choosing a slice of almond cake, she added, "Lud, things are sadly flat around here with all of our friends away. I miss the excitement—the intellectual excitement, that is."

"Yes, I daresay the scandal that swirled around Ciara was frightening enough. We can do without any more of us being accused of murder," replied Charlotte dryly.

Kate choked back a cough.

"Have a sip of tea. And remember—take ladylike bites."

"Right," murmured Kate, brushing a crumb from her lip. "I keep forgetting all the rules on polite behavior."

"Most of London is away in the country, now that the Season is ended," observed Charlotte. "Are you terribly bored without the evening entertainments?"

"Hell, no!"

"Language, my dear," chided Charlotte.

Kate made a face. "I'm actually relieved to have a respite from the silly soirees and fancy balls. Grandfather seems determined to have me married off to the first suitor who meets
his
lofty standards. Never mind
my
feelings on the matter." A biscuit snapped in her fingers. "I would have thought he had learned a lesson with my mother. But apparently not"

Charlotte sighed in sympathy. She knew that the story of Kate's family history was a turbulent one. The iron-willed Duke of Cluyne had clashed with his daughter— Kate's mother—over her choice for a husband, and the young lady had eloped with an American sea captain. A lifelong estrangement had followed. However, a deathbed promise to her parents had led Kate to seek reconciliation with her grandfather.

But things were not sailing along very smoothly.

"Has someone caught your fancy?" inquired Charlotte. "Someone His Grace might consider ineligible?"

"No." Kate shuddered. "The truth is, I've no desire to get married. I much prefer my independence. Such as it is." Another grimace pinched at her mouth. "English ladies are subject to far more rules than I am used to. Given my background, I—I am not sure that I will ever fit in here."

"It may take a little time, but you will meet kindred spirits in England, my dear," counseled Charlotte. "After all, you found us, the Circle of Sin."

"Thank god for the 'Sinners,'" said Kate. "Without your friendship, I would have long ago mutinied against Grandfather's rules and commandeered his pleasure yacht to sail to...somewhere far from Polite Society." Her expression brightened. "Come to think of it, the Barbary Coast is a haven for pirates and rebels."

"Only for men. They lock women in harems and veil them from head to foot, save when their lord and master wishes to take his pleasure," pointed out Charlotte. "I can't quite picture you as a submissive sexual slave."

A peal of laughter slipped from Kate's lips. "You are right—I wouldn't fit in very well there either."

The two of them shared a smile.

"That's what's so wonderful about you, Charlotte. You are never shocked by what I say." Kate stirred her lukewarm tea. "There are times when I feel that my comments make our other friends... uncomfortable. But you always seem to understand."

"I suppose that's because I tend to be a tad more cynical than the others. I sometimes fear that I am setting a bad example for you." Her eyes twinkled. "At my age, I can get away with murder, so to speak. You can't."

Kate jerked her gaze up from her cup. "S-surely you would never think that I would kill in cold blood—"

"I was joking, of course," said Charlotte quickly. "Though you have slain a number of Society's strictures without compunction."

"Ha, ha, ha." Kate's laugh was a little brittle. "I will try to temper my tongue. But it seems stupid to swathe my real self in silks and superficial sweetness. I—I would rather be accepted for who I am."

"Trust me, each of the 'Sinners' knows that feeling, my dear. We are all your true friends." Charlotte patted her hand. "And I am sure you will find others who share your outlook on life."

"Mmmm." Kate swallowed a small morsel of jam tart

"Perhaps a change of scenery would do you good. Tomorrow, I am traveling to Kent to stay with Helena Gosford for a week. Why not join us?"

"Thank you, but I think r shall forgo the pleasure. Much as I like science, geology bores me to tears. And Helena..."

"Never stops talking about the subject." Charlotte's lips twitched. "Helena is an old friend and I owe her a visit. But you need not sacrifice yourself."

"Perhaps I'll visit Bath and see how Alexandra's excavation is coming," mused Kate. "Grandfather would likely welcome the suggestion, thinking that I might meet an eligible gentleman taking the waters."

A discreet knock on the parlor door interrupted their conversation. "The afternoon post, milady," said the footman as he set a small tray on the table.

Charlotte glanced through the pile. "Ah, speaking of Alessandra, here is a letter from her..."

A last bit of stippling added an undertone of gray to the oak tree's foliage. Finally satisfied with the color, Jack set his paintbrush and sketchbook aside and reached for one of the bottles of Moselle wine he had cooling in the stream.

A heavy rainstorm during the previous night had closed down the excavation site for the day, so he had decided to give himself a holiday—a chance to forget about all the niggling expectations of his father and his new professional colleagues. He had packed a picnic— including ample liquid libations to celebrate the sense of freedom—and set out to explore the countryside. The rolling pastures, rocky hills, and ancient woodlands provided a number of interesting vistas.

Uncorking the wine, Jack took a drink. The clouds had cleared, allowing the sun to burn the dampness from the air. He leaned back against the slab of stone, feeling its heat slowly seep through the muscles of his back. He must have been hunched over his work for some time, judging by the stiffness of his shoulders. Funny how he lost all track of time when he was painting.

The truth was, he hadn't missed the sybaritic pleasures of London at all. His recent boredom had given way to the heady joy of creating colors and composition. Of capturing what he saw on paper. Each sketch was a new challenge, a unique opportunity for individual expression.

He gave an inner wince, imagining how his father would scoff at such artistic drivel. He could just hear the ducal bellow—
My son an artist? I'll not have such a blot on the family history.

Blast and damnation, Pierson men did not wax poetic over the sight of wind ruffling through the meadow grass. They wouldn't know azure blue from turquoise. The only hue that mattered was blood red. The color that flowed through a true gentleman's veins.

Jack rubbed at his neck. Of course he was proud of his family's heritage and the reputation for steadfast courage and loyalty that had been carved out over the centuries. He simply wished that his father might be a bit less rigid in his ideas on what constituted a good soldier.

And pigs might fly.

Sighing, Jack lifted the bottle to his lips again.
Hope springs eternal,
he thought wryly. In the meantime, he would savor this interlude of freedom.

His thirst quenched for the moment, he wedged the wine back between the rocks and turned his eye to a copse of silvery beech trees atop a nearby knoll. The play of light was creating an interesting mix of textures and color...

A flutter of burgundy suddenly appeared among the shades of green. He squinted, and then swore under his breath.

He had been looking forward to another few hours of uninterrupted solitude, but suddenly the pastoral scene no longer seemed quite so peaceful. Not with Minerva, the goddess of wisdom—and war—walking his way.

However, as Alessandra della Giamatti drew closer, he saw that instead of wearing her usual purposeful expression, she appeared distracted. In another world.

And beneath the flush of exercise, her face looked pale. Strange, but he could almost swear that pearls of moisture were clinging to her lashes.

Talk about a vivid imagination.

Chiding himself for romantic nodcock, Jack ducked his head and shifted his position against the stones. The marchesa was definitely not a damsel in distress. With any luck, she would pass by without noticing his presence.

Alessandra bit her lip, determined to keep her churning emotions under control. She had shed enough tears in the past over Frederico's betrayal of her trust. This time around, instead of indulging in self-pity, she would—
she must
—take action.

Perhaps the most important lesson she had learned from her fellow 'Sinners' was that a female must not allow herself to be a passive victim of circumstances. Her friend Ciara had been brave enough to stand up to the vicious rumors concerning her first husband's sudden death. And as for Kate...

She smiled in spite of her troubles. Some of the stories that Kate told about her adventures while sailing around the world were enough to make a lady's hair stand on end. But then, Kate made no pretensions about being a real lady.

Throw caution to the wind.
It was one of Kate's favorite sayings, and not for the first time, Alessandra found herself wondering whether she should take it to heart Perhaps she should rush away to the coast and book passage on a ship to... to ports unknown. A place far, far from Frederico where she and Isabella could start a new life, free from the clouds of the past

Don't be a fool,
she chided. There was no spot on earth where the sun shone all the time.

Glancing up as the way grew steeper, she suddenly spotted Jack among the weathered boulders and rippling fescue. He was sitting in the shade, his coat off, his collar open, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows.

Alessandra knew she should avert her eyes and quicken her pace, pretending she didn't see him.

And yet her steps veered off the path, as if her body had a mind of its own.

Jack didn't look up from his sketchbook. He might as well have lettered "Go
Away"
on the paper.

She paused, her gaze stealing to the wash of colors and intricate brushstrokes.

"Oh, Lud, that is lovely." The words slipped out before she quite knew what she was saying.

Jack slowly raised his head.

"How do you create such a subtle gradation of tone?"

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "If you have stopped to express your low opinion of my skills, Lady Giamatti, I would prefer that you simply turn around and keep going. The day is far too pleasant to be spoiled by mockery, however subtle."

"I—I was not mocking you, sir," she said softly.

His expression relaxed ever so slightly. "No? If the heavens were not clear, I would think that you had been struck by a stray thunderbolt from Jupiter."

"Now who is mocking whom?"

Jack allowed a twitch of his lips. "We do seem to set off sparks whenever we come together. Forgive me."

"I shall, sir," replied Alessandra. "On the condition that you will consent to answer my question."

Rather than speak, Jack turned to a fresh page. "How much do you know about the art of painting in water-colors?"

"Not very much," she admitted.

Shifting his position, he motioned for her to sit down beside him. "Well, considering your scientific mind, let's begin with a brief technical explanation. The pigments used are finely ground minerals or other organic matter, which are mixed with gum arabic and oxgall, and then dried to form the cubes of color, like the ones you purchased at S and J Fuller's shop."

Dipping his brush in his palette, and then in water, he laid a faint wash of color over the textured paper. "The paint dissolves in water, allowing a brush to spread the particles across the paper As it dries, the gum arabic makes the color adhere to the surface. As you see, the pigments are translucent, so one achieves depth and texture by layering them. It's key to start out with a light tone." Mixing a darker tone, he sketched in the contours of the distant hills. "Depending on how damp the paper is, one can create subtle gradations like this."

Fascinated, Alessandra leaned in a little closer, watching the edges blur to a hazy edge. "Why, it has the feeling of looking at the scene through the morning mists."

He nodded. "Or, if one lets the paper dry completely, one can sketch in sharp detail." He demonstrated by sketching in a delicate tracing of tree branches at the corner of the page. "Of course, there is an infinite range of possibilities in between."

With a deft flick of his wrist, Jack added a stippling of meadow grasses. "To me that's the beauty of this medium. There is a spontaneity and luminosity that can't be duplicated in oil paints." A subtle dab of violet indicated the patch of wildflowers growing in the foreground. "You have only to look at the brilliant work of Mr. Turner."

Alessandra stared in amazement A few quick strokes, a few splashes of color, and somehow he had captured the essence of the moment. She could almost feel the sunlight dancing over the fields, and the breeze ruffling through the trees.