Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) Read Free

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 asked 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 discussed politics. Quintin Blackthorne was in one corner mediating an argument 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