To Surrender to a Rogue (8 page)

"He has renounced radicalism, and greatly regrets that his speeches might have sparked violence among those who favor an independent Italy," said Orrichetti. "For the past year, he has led a quiet life, devoting himself to teaching and writing about the politics of ancient Rome." The conte paused as a footman approached to hand him Alessandra's cloak.

She drew up the velvet hood, hoping to mask her misgivings. Maybe Frederico
had
changed.

But she wouldn't bet her life on it

Orrichetti stayed close, making a show of helping her descend the townhouse steps. "However, several months ago, Frederico was warned that the Austrians were on his trail. He decided that it would be safer to leave the country until the hunt died down." The conte blew out his breath. "So when I was asked to take over as head Of the delegation at the last moment, I decided to grant his request to be added to the group. For old times' sake."

For old times' sake.

"I see." Alessandra kept her voice neutral.

The conte cocked his head. "I was under the impression that you and he were good friends, yet you do not seem overly pleased by his presence."

Thank God that Orrichetti did not know the full extent of her relationship with Frederico.

"You must excuse me, Ketro—I am tired and have a beastly headache, so it is hard to appear enthusiastic about anything."

He inclined a sympathetic nod. "Then don't let me keep you a moment longer. Feel better, my dear. We shall have plenty of time for reminiscences in the coming weeks."

Alessandra lost no time in climbing into her carriage.

Oh, if only her horses could sprout wings and fly her to the moon.
There seemed to be no place on earth where she could hide from her past.

Leaning back against the squabs, she pressed her palms to her brow. The clatter of the iron wheels on the cobblestones seemed to echo her own harsh question over and over again.

How had she made such a dreadful mistake as to turn to Frederico after the death of her husband?

She drew in a deep breath. Perhaps part of the problem lay in her family history. Both her parents possessed a certain rebellious streak. Their love match had pleased neither family, but the pair had defied all objections and followed their hearts. Everyone said that Alessandra had inherited her mother's stunning good looks and her father's intellectual brilliance. The trouble was, an impetuous nature had also been passed on.

Happily, her marriage to one of her father's acquaintances, a Tuscan nobleman admired throughout the Continent for his erudite political essays, provided a welcome measure of stability. Twenty years her senior, Stefano had been both a wise and kind companion. With his encouragement, she had enjoyed an intellectual freedom unknown to most females. And after the birth of Isabella, life had seemed...idyllic. However, all that changed on the sudden death of the marchese from a heart ailment

Alone and emotionally vulnerable, she had put her trust in the fiery words of her radical intellectual friends.

Only to be badly burned.

Alessandra uncovered her eyes, and watched the play of moonlight on the pale, polished stone of the Royal Crescent. She could not pretend to be blind to her own stupidity. Her own egregious error in judgment

A chill snaked down her spine. Frederico was a protege' of her husband and a gifted orator who was oh-so clever with his words—and his kisses.
The gilded angel with the heavenly voice and celestial smile.
She had been seduced by his eloquent speeches promising liberty and equality, if only people would have the courage to fight for their principles.

But his promises had soon turned to lies.

Alessandra bit her lip. Even now, she was ashamed to think of how easily she had been duped. At first, the things he asked of her seemed harmless—a few small smoke devices to make a symbolic statement Even after hearing rumors of the group's escalating violence, she had allowed Frederico to explain away her misgivings. It was only when he had asked for an incendiary device to place in a building used by the occupying Austrian army that she had come to her senses and refused to make any more things for him in her laboratory.

He had asked her for just one more favor...

No.
She would not relive the pain of the past.

Alessandra shifted in her seat. She had come to England to make a new life for herself and for Isabella. No longer a naive girl, she had learned her lesson about trusting a handsome face. Never again would she make
that
mistake.

Turning away to the shadows, Alessandra wished yet again that her cousin Marco were not on his way to Scotland. She had ignored all his earlier advice on how to deal with her past Now, however, his counsel would be most welcome...

"No
Madre"
she whispered. Marco might be family, but he was still a man. And look at where putting blind trust in a member of the opposite sex had gotten her.

No, this time around, she would not count on any man to make decisions for her. She had only herself to blame for the past. Now it was up to her—and her alone—to deal with the present

Frederico's presence in Bath might be an innocent coincidence. After all, what harm could he do her in England, save to remind her of what a fool she had been?

Alessandra didn't have the answer, but one thing was certain. She must be more on guard than ever.

"How do you like Bath so far, Herr Lutz?" asked Jack as he carefully cleaned his paintbrushes.

"The color of the buildings is quite interesting when the sun is shining," answered the drawing master. "As for the famous water, I am curious to see if the mineral content affects the lighter washes."

"Perhaps just a shade." Jack handed over his sketchbook. "You may see for yourself, though I haven't had time to do more than a few quick sketches of the Bath Abbey and Sidney Gardens."

"Sehr gut,
Lord James," said the drawing master as he thumbed through the pages. "Your brushwork is improving nicely, but I still think you need some work on the art of creating perspective." He set the book aside and reached for a large leather portfolio. "I have brought a few examples to show you. Please have a look while I prepare a palette of colors."

Jack untied the strings and spread a series of Alpine sketches over the table. "Yes, I think I see what you mean," he murmured after studying them for a bit Looking up, he spotted a small paper folder tucked inside the main flaps.

No doubt it contained more examples.

He flipped it open, only to discover a set of charcoal sketches. His mouth quirked. They appeared to be of the lion at the Tower menagerie, and though clearly done by a child, the style had an eye-catching boldness and verve.

"These are actually quite good," he murmured.

"Thank you." Lutz did not look up. "The lake is the Silsersee, near Davos."

"No, I mean the lion." Jack chuckled. "Since when have you taken on children as pupils? I thought you told me that you didn't have the patience for dealing with tears and tantrums."

"I confess, I was loath to take on the assignment, but the mother was so earnest." He carefully added a pinch of Raw Sienna to the color he was mixing. "Not to speak of lovely. I found I could not say no."

"A pretty woman?" Jack grinned. "I am glad to hear you have blood flowing through your veins, and not paint"

Lutz flashed a rare smile. "Even dried pigment might develop a pulse around this particular lady." Dipping a sable-hair brush into ajar of water, he twirled it to a fine point "We are ready, sir. Kindly step over here and I shall show you a few tricks for drawing perspective."

Sensing the other man's reluctance to speak of personal matters, Jack did not pursue the subject His relationship with the stoic Swiss was cordial but a bit constrained. This was the first time they had ever exchanged a bit of banter.

"If you look closely at the landscape drawings of Rembrandt, you will see how he creates a feeling of depth through the use of line and tone." Lutz chose a wider brush for the newly mixed color. "He uses a light ochre wash—like so..." For the next quarter hour, the drawing master demonstrated a range of effects.

"Lud, if I could draw half so well as that, I should be a very happy man," murmured Jack. "How did you learn such skills—or do you just have a natural talent for art?"

"Some people may be fortunate enough to be gifted with talent, Lord James. But like most endeavors, art takes a great deal of study and hard work to master."

Jack straightened and sighed. "The next chance I get, I will look at art with a more discerning eye, rather than merely viewing it for pleasure."

"I have an acquaintance, an eccentric connoisseur of art, who lives nearby here. He has a great collection of Dutch landscape watercolors, as well as Italian architectural renderings, that you would find most interesting."

"Indeed?"

"In fact, he is the reason I have come to Bath. On occasion, I am called upon to serve as a consultant for prospective acquisitions. In addition to paintings, he has a treasure trove of rare books and prints from all over the world. If you can take an afternoon away from your archaeological duties, I may be able to arrange for you to accompany me on a visit"

"I should like that very much." Jack carefully collected the practice sketches to keep as reference. "It won't be a problem to request some time off."

"Then I will arrange it," replied Lutz. He began packing up his supplies. "I will be spending the next few days at the earl's estate. In the meantime, practice makes perfect, sir. Work on your washes for our next meeting. And use no other color but sepia."

"I will do that"

"Sehr gut."
Lutz rolled up his brushes.
"Guten tag,
Lord James."

"Good day," echoed Jack, disappointed that the lesson had passed so quickly. As the committee heads were still making a preliminary study of the site, the excavation would not begin for several days, and the lull after all the rushing around in London had left him a little restless.

It was, he mused, a bit like the feeling on the eve of battle—anticipation, anxiety. The resolve to prove oneself worthy of any challenge.

Not that he was about to face a dangerous enemy.
Just a fiery female scholar who did not think him deserving of the promotion in rank.

A glance out the window showed that the earlier mists had blown through, leaving the surrounding buildings bathed in a mellow golden light. Taking up his paint box and sketchbook, Jack decided to walk to the Abbey and spend an hour or two sketching the facade. The carved stone, with its pale color and intricate patterns, was a perfect subject to paint with a monochromatic palette.

He took a seat on a low wall, and quickly became engrossed in his work. After finishing several different views, he leaned back and studied the results.
Not bad.
He was getting better at simplifying his brushstrokes.

Satisfied with his day's efforts, Jack flexed his stiff shoulders and repacked his case. He was just about to turn for the far gate when he spotted a child with a watercolor box, her half-hidden face scrunched in concentration.

On impulse, he altered his course for a quick glance at what she was working on.

The girl looked up.

The imp of Satan

She didn't look any more pleased at the chance encounter than he was. Her small mouth pinched to a scowl. "It's not finished yet," she said defensively. "You aren't supposed to peek."

Jack had already caught a glimpse of the paper. "Why not?" he asked. "It's actually very good."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yes. Really." He craned his neck for a better view. "It is not easy to draw gargoyles, but you have caught their expression quite nicely." The fantastical creatures no doubt appealed to a youthful imagination. He smiled in spite of himself. "Indeed, your efforts are much better than mine."

She fixed him with a fishy stare.
"You
aren't an artist."

"No. Just a student, like yourself, Miss Isabella."

A giggle greeted his reply.

He knew he was asking for trouble. Still, he couldn't help but be curious. "What's so funny?"

Her gaze ran slowly from the tips of his boots to the top of his high crown beaver hat. "You look too big to be in the schoolroom. And too old."

"Education is for a lifetime," replied Jack. "If you recall, Lord Hadley was studying science with Lady Sheffield, and he is far more ancient than I am." The earl was, in truth, two months older.

The little girl's mouth pursed in thought.

"So you see, even old dogs can learn new tricks "

Isabella laughed again. "You aren't so horrid after all," she conceded. "Though not quite so much fun as Lord Hadley." She paused. "He is going to teach me and Perry how to box when he gets back from his wedding trip."

"Why do you want to learn fisticuffs?" asked Jack.

"So I can protect myself." Her chin rose a notch. "The next time a nasty villain tries to kidnap me, I will punch him in the nose."

It suddenly struck him how very frightening the recent experience must have been for the child. With a twinge of conscience, he realized that perhaps he had been a little harsh in his judgment of her. Looking down, he was aware of how very small and slender she was. And how very large and black he must appear.

And weren't all children afraid of the dark?

Jack cleared his throat "You need not worry—you aren't in any danger here in Bath, Miss Isabella." He looked around. "Though I am not sure that you ought to be out here alone."

"I'm not alone," she answered. "Mama just went to the fountain to fetch some fresh water for my paints."

"Ah." All the more reason to move on. Instead, he sat down next to her. "May I see the rest of your sketchbook?"

She hesitated a moment and then shyly passed it over.

The sketches showed a great deal of talent. "Do you study with a drawing master?" he asked after perusing the pages.

"Yes. He is very good," she answered. "But very strict"

"No bad words allowed, eh?" he murmured.

Isabella made a face. "There are an awful lot of rules here in England, especially for girls. It's not very fair. Perry can say far worse things than I do and not get a spanking.''

Jack chuckled. "Trust me, boys get their fair share of swats."

She blinked. "I bet no one ever tried to birch
your
bum."

"Oh, more times than I care to remember. I had four older brothers who found it very amusing to see that I took the blame for their mischief."

Her expression turned a little wistful. "I wouldn't mind having a brother or a sister. Even if they teased me."

Jack wasn't sure how to respond. As he had told the girl's mother, he had no idea how to act around children. Maybe he ought to be going...

A tug on his sleeve stopped him. "It's your turn to show me your sketchbook, sir."

"Very well." He passed it over.

After wiping her paint-smudged hands on her skirts, Isabella carefully opened the cover and began turning the pages.

As the silence stretched out, Jack began to feel absurdly nervous.

"You are very, very, good," she finally announced in a solemn voice.

"Thank you," he replied with equal gravity. "But my teacher says I have much to improve on—"

"Isabella!" Alessandra's agitated voice interrupted the exchange. "Please remember that you are not to converse with strangers—"

Jack looked around.

"Oh." The marchesa stopped in her tracks. "I didn't realize it was you, sir."

He unfolded his legs and rose. "Your daughter is a very talented artist, Lady Giamatti."

"Praise from your lips?" She quirked a tentative smile. "I may swoon from shock."

"You don't strike me as the sort of female who faints very often," he replied. "Though you did appear on the verge of it last night."

Alessandra paled for an instant before recovering her composure. "I was tired from traveling," she said curtly.

Jack had a feeling there was more to the story than that. However, he accepted the explanation with a polite nod. "I trust you are feeling more rested today."

"Yes. Thank you," she murmured, dropping her gaze and taking a seat on the ground cloth beside her daughter.

Jack sat down again, too, earning a slight frown.

"Mama, look at these drawings." Isabella held out his sketchbook before her mother could go on. "Lord James is a corking good artist, is he not?"

"You must not say 'corking,'
tesoro,"
said Alessandra. "It is not considered ladylike language."

"I don't like being a lady." Isabella snorted a sigh. "Ladies aren't allowed to have any fun."

Jack couldn't help but smile. "What would you rather be?" he asked.

The little girl thought for a moment "A pirate! Sailing the seas in search of buried treasure."

"So you like ships?"

"I—I am not sure," admitted Isabella. "I have only been on board one once, when we crossed from Calais to Dover."

He wasn't quite sure what prompted him to speak, save that the little girl seemed lonely. "My eldest brother keeps his yacht anchored at Bristol. If you would like to test the waters, so to speak, I would be happy to arrange for a day cruise. There are quite a number of interesting views of the coast to sketch."

"Oh, what a cork—that is, what a very nice offer, sir." She fixed her mother with a pleading look. "May we, Mama?"

"It is a generous offer, indeed," said Alessandra slowly.

Jack saw her take a cursory look at his book—but only because her daughter had angled the pages right under her nose.

"However, I cannot make any promises, Isa," she continued. "The excavation will require a great deal of work over the next few weeks. I will be very busy. And so will Lord James. I am not sure how much free time we will have for excursions."

The little girl's shoulders sagged but she said nothing as she carefully closed his sketchbook and placed it back in his lap.

Alessandra bit her lip. "It is nearly time for tea,
tesoro.
Shall we stop for strawberry ices on the way home?"

"I'm not very hungry," replied Isabella in a small voice.

Jack hadn't meant to make waves. But no doubt the lady thought that he had deliberately stirred up a squall.