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.