Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) Read Free

said.
           "He's only been knocked unconscious. With any luck at all the authorities will conclude he did in his companion and haul him off to Newgate."
           "Mr. Blackthorne is quite right. Papa," Joss chimed in, taking his arm. "We really should get out of here while it's safe to do so."
           As Alex ushered the reverend and his daughter from the alley, he asked, "Any idea why that crew of wharf rats stirred up a riot, then tried to murder you, Reverend Woodbridge?"
           The old man nodded gravely. "I fear so."
           "Papa has been preaching in support of my work."
           "Your work?" One thick golden eyebrow arched.
           If his eyes had not twinkled with amusement at her stiffening demeanor, Joss would have dismissed him as another condescending, stupid male, but how could she when he smiled that way? "My mission is among the city's poor and oppressed. I've organized a society to rescue climbing boys and a shelter for abused wives and reformed prostitutes."
           Alex stroked his jaw, considering the dichotomy between this prim starchy crusader and the fearless hoyden who had launched herself at two dangerous underworld denizens. One moment she was witty and warm, the next leading sinners from the hell of London's slums. A most formidable female indeed!
           Drat, she'd done it now. Joss could tell he was quite as put off by her work as all the other men of her acquaintance. Frantically she searched for some way to make him understand. "Life for the lower classes in a city of this size—"
           "I say, lad, you are the very image of your father. I could scarce overlook such a tall blond lout, even in this press," a lazy drawling voice interjected as the trio emerged from the alley. "Or should I say, tall blond Indian, eh?" he added, eyeing the still bloody knife Alex held in his left hand.
           Alex returned the regard of the whipcord lean Englishman in front of him. He was an aristocrat to his very fingertips, from his graying light brown hair cut in the Brutus mode to the sharply sculpted features and piercing pale blue eyes—eyes the exact same hue as Alex's own mother's. "Uncle Monty, I presume?" he inquired coolly.
           Montgomery Caruthers's elegantly-shaped mouth sketched the barest hint of a smile. "You may address me as Baron Rushcroft... or milord," he said, even though barons were not customarily called by their titles. His sister Barbara’s young savage would not know the distinction. Duplicating Alex's mannerism, he raised one eyebrow. "Might I inquire the reason for this barbaric display of cutlery?" he asked casually.
           "Back in that alley I left one man insensate, a second one quite dead," his nephew replied with relish.
           The baron pursed his lips consideringly. "On Albion's soil scarce an hour and already seeking scalps. My, my, I'm certain your sire must be quite delighted with you."
           "As a matter of fact, just the contrary. My backwoods escapades led my father to consign me to the bosom of the
    Caruthers family ... for civilizing," Alex replied with his own thinly veiled sarcasm.
           "Then I shall have my work cut out for me, shan't I?" Caruthers purred. "Please display what modicum of manners my sister was able to drum into you and introduce me to your companions."
           "Milord," Alex said with a sardonic flash, "may I present the Reverend Elijah Woodbridge and his daughter Miss Jo- celyn Woodbridge."
           Joss made her curtsy as her father bowed stiffly.
           "Woodbridge—you must be Suthington's brother, the nonconformist cleric," Monty replied, eyeing the reverend's tattered collar.
           "I am Methodist, milord, much to my brother the earl's displeasure."
           "Er, yes, regrettable, most regrettable, that," Monty replied.
           Joss was uncertain whether the baron regretted the rift in the