Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) Read Online Free Page A

local riff-raff who, according to our briefing, sleep with a crucifix on one side of the bed, a rifle on the other and a stiletto beneath their pillow?” Drum reminded him. “She's probably got a man, some great hulking fellow who shall slit your gizzard in one of those noisome and narrow alleyways.”
           “I'll take my chances,” Jamison replied with a grin.
           “Don't you always, old chap?” Drum murmured.
     
    * * * *
     
           Beth Blackthorne sighed and tossed the letter down on the Dante chair. “How can they be so...so obtuse! So provincial!” She had come straight from the market, flushed with victory over Signore Begani, only to be laid low by this. She paced across the marble floor of the villa's portico, oblivious to the musical call of the fountain or the warm sunlight streaming down through the wisteria-covered pergola overhead.
           “Another missive from America, I take it,” Vittoria, Contessa di Remaldi, said with a smile. The contessa was a striking woman of middle years, voluptuous of body, with heavy black hair lightly threaded with silver. Her olive complexion was lined with the tiny crinkles that came from much laughter. “Who writes to scold you this time, your mother or one of your now reformed brothers?”
           “My father. He's heard the rumor about my posing for Signore Pignatelli.”
           “Oh, my—the whole rumor?” the contessa asked delicately.
           “Just because I posed au naturel for an artist with Pignatelli's gift—why, his nudes are considered the finest since Tintoretto—my provincial father demands to know how I could debase myself in such a manner!”
           Chuckling gently, the contessa asked, “And will you explain that such was the price of the master so that he would tutor you in portraiture?”
           “I might as well have sold myself in the Porta Capucina cribs. It would be no worse by my father's lights. How on earth did that tale travel all the way to Savannah?”
           “You have become quite the toast of the court, cara . An American female, single and living independently, studying painting...becoming successful at it.” There was a note of pride blended with concern in Vittoria's voice.
           “You are very kind, but you well know that without your sponsorship I would have had no entree to local artists' circles, not to mention all the wealthy patrons at court. I don't know how I should have survived without your friendship, Vittoria.”
           “Come here, child,” the contessa said, patting a cushion on the chaise beside her. When Beth walked over and took a seat, Vittoria said, “Mark my words, you shall always survive, with or without me. You crossed the wide Atlantic all alone, with nothing but a small inheritance and your dream of painting to sustain you. American courage has always been considered dauntless. Once I saw you standing on the quay, pale and nervous to be sure but with your back so straight, I knew you were going to be someone formidable.”
           “I was frightened as a hare surrounded by hounds that day—and my Italian was atrocious,” she added, chuckling as the memories of those harrowing days three years earlier came back to her.
           “Well, you speak like a native now, and barter like the lazzaroni on market days.”
           “And who taught me to enjoy the freedom of peasant garb and the fun of haggling with waterfront vendors?” Beth reminded her friend.
           “What fun it can be, although I must confess I never had the flair for it that you have exhibited. But now, enough of reminiscences and recriminations from across the Atlantic. I shall write your father assuring him that you are under the most proper chaperonage of the Contessa di Remaldi—tomorrow. Tonight is Queen Caroline's ball, and your gown has just been delivered by the dressmaker.”
           Beth made a face,