To his intense annoyance he found his thoughts returning to Nick at the most inopportune times. Dancing with one of the reigning belles and gazing into her beautiful brown eyes, he discovered that he preferred Nick’s. Hers were deeper, more lustrous, and certainly livelier. Attending a soirée where he was introduced to the charming niece of his host, he decided that while her mouth was delightfully curved, Nick’s was softer and infinitely more kissable. Noticing at the opera one night a striking auburn-haired beauty, he thought her shining locks insipid and faded next to the memory of the burnished flame in Nick’s dark hair. It was vexing and disturbing to one of his nature to have these unsettling thoughts and he cursed his foolish preoccupation with a rebellious, topaz-eyed vixen. With a derisive snort, he walked back into his room.
When he awoke the next morning, wondering with disgust at his maudlin mood of the night before, he shoved all thoughts of the future away and threw himself into an orgy of activity. During the week that preceded Christmas he was seen at every party or soirée held in the elegant homes of New Orleans. Finding every minute filled with pleasurable commitment, he convinced himself that this was precisely what he wanted. This restless racketing to and fro might have continued indefinitely except for two incidents that occurred the night of the Governor’s Christmas Ball. Christopher, along with a few hundred prominent members of Louisiana society, attended the affair, and it was there, about halfway through the evening, that he encountered a surprising specter from his past.
She was a small birdlike woman of about sixty-five with bright blue eyes and fluffy white hair; she was neatly but plainly dressed, clearly a governess. He didn’t notice her at first, for who paid any attention to those drab individuals?
He was never sure why he noticed her. It may have been the way she held her head, or the quick movements of her body that struck a cord of memory. From across the crowded ballroom he found himself watching her, a frown of puzzlement creasing his brow.
He was sure that he must know the woman, and finally he inveigled an introduction to Miss Leala Dumas, who appeared to be her charge. He then learned the governess’s name—Mrs. Eggleston!
When he heard that name the years vanished, and he was twelve again and wheedling a sugar plum from the colonel’s lady. She had changed little in the intervening years, although the soft blue eyes were not as brimful with ready laughter, and her face, though smooth, had acquired a faintly harassed air.
He was stunned when, having heard his name, she looked into his face and said, “Why, Christopher, how very nice to see you after all this time.”
He gave her a rueful smile and murmured, “And you, madame. But tell me, how is it that you are here?”
She hesitated and he didn’t miss the uneasy glance sent her charge, the haughty Miss Dumas, whose expression clearly revealed her displeasure that the elusive Monsieur Saxon was paying more attention to her lowly governess than her own beautiful self. He wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Eggleston twittered nervously, “Oh, it is much too long a story to bore you with. Did you wish to ask Miss Dumas for the next country dance? I believe one is forming now.”
Gracefully Christopher followed her unspoken plea and led the now-beaming Miss Dumas out onto the ballroom floor. But he was not to be sidetracked, and he deftly extracted the information he wanted from his smug dancing partner.
Mrs. Eggleston was reduced to earning a meager living at the beck and call of whomever needed her services. Not content with what he gleaned from his partner, at the end of the dance he returned her to Mrs. Eggleston and waited in the vicinity until Miss Dumas was claimed for a dance by a handsome young Creole gentleman. Under the cover of polite conversation, he convinced Mrs. Eggleston to meet him privately in two days. She looked doubtful, but had not been able to resist his blandishments. His aim accomplished, he drifted off in the direction of the card room.
He was frowning as he entered the room. Mrs. Eggleston had always been a favorite of his, and he was revolted at the idea that she should be at the mercy of a creature as demanding and conceited as Miss Dumas appeared to be. Ordinarily he would not have given the matter another thought, but he had liked Mrs. Eggleston. She had been kind to him when he was a youngster, and he was astonished to find that he cherished certain almost-forgotten memories of enjoyable afternoons spent at her home. But then his habitual sardonic self took over and he dismissed her from his mind. If he wasn’t careful he’d find himself concerned about another person. That, he decided, smiling harshly, would never do.
Mrs. Eggleston receded from his thoughts and a second later he had joined a group of friends at one of the many tables scattered about the room. Many of the older men, happy to have escaped their wives’ watchful gazes, were enjoying a quiet rubber or two of whist. Most of the younger men were on the ballroom floor, but Christopher had little trouble finding three acquaintances who needed a fourth for a game in a secluded corner. It was only after he had played several hands that he became aware of a conversation taking place practically at his elbow.
Mention of Lafitte’s name caught his attention and idly his gaze shifted from the indifferent cards in his hand to the group of men at his left. Three of them he recognized vaguely, but he was much more familiar with the other two—Daniel Patterson and Jason Savage.
Patterson was in charge of the naval forces stationed in New Orleans, and it had been to him that he had anonymously sent the code books. Naturally Christopher had little to do with him, but because he was the master commandant, Christopher had considered it prudent to make his acquaintance. It never hurt to cultivate those who could harm one—and Patterson was an outspoken opponent of Jean Lafitte.
His knowledge of Jason Savage was not based upon any personal relationship. What he knew had been gleaned from gossip and drawing-room conversations, and he was well aware that Savage was not one to cross or ignore. He appeared to be deep in Governor Claiborne’s confidence and was highly thought of by both the American faction and the Creoles. Christopher had been introduced to Savage’s beautiful wife, Catherine, at a ball some years ago and agreed with those who said she was one of the loveliest women to grace New Orleans in years. But his beautiful wife aside, Christopher’s interest in Jason Savage had been prompted by the knowledge that Savage was a man around whom things revolved. Though he seemed aloof and detached from circumstances, he was rumored to have his hand firmly on the life-beat of the entire state of Louisiana. And so, Christopher took more than just polite interest in Savage’s dealings. But it was Patterson’s words that were arousing his interest.
“I tell you, I just don’t understand it. Neither how they got into my office, nor why one of Lafitte’s cutthroats would do such a thing.”
In his drawling manner Jason murmured, “Perhaps he thought to gain something by it—a reward, or maybe even a pardon. Who knows?” His voice implied, “Who cares?”
Patterson became ruffled at the cool words and burst out, “No, damnit, Jason, it wasn’t that! The books were spirited into my office. There was nothing with them—no letter, no identification, nothing! Just the books themselves. I’ve questioned my men closely and no one knows how they got there. If the person who left them were after money, surely there would have been some message with the damned books.”
“Are you certain that they’re genuine? It would be clever of the British to plant useless ones on you. They would, I’m certain, see to it that you received only those dispatches they wished you to know about.”
One of the other men offered a ribald suggestion that annoyed Patterson, and Christopher, eavesdropping shamelessly, smiled to himself. With a good degree of hauteur, Patterson snapped, “This is no funning matter—and yes, the books are genuine, we are not novices at our jobs.” The conversation shifted, and just about the time Christopher had become bored and was about to depart, Patterson again said something that captured his wandering interest.
“…attack on New Orleans.”
“Oh, come now, Daniel! The British aren’t about
to deploy more troops and naval ships for an assault on us. They’re much too busy along the Canadian border and in the Great Lakes region to bother New Orleans,” retorted one businessman.
Patterson said nothing, as if realizing he had been indiscreet, and shrugged his shoulders. It was Jason, though, who continued the subject. Lazily he drawled, “I wouldn’t say that, John. Attacking and capturing New Orleans would be a very strategic move on England’s part. She needs a victory to bolster her continuance of the war and possession of the city would give her an advantage at the peace talks in St. Petersburg. While I realize the British have refused the Czar’s offer to mediate, they have expressed a desire for direct negotiations. The reason they may not have pushed rather strongly on direct negotiations could be that they wanted a decisive victory to strengthen their power when they actually settle down to talking. I think it is simply as I said—they want a firm hand to sit at the peace table with. Don’t dismiss an attack on New Orleans so easily.” Jason’s green eyes left his discomfitted companion’s and swung to Patterson. “Is an attack on the city definitely planned? Have you proof—or are you just speculating?”
Uneasily, Patterson muttered, “There isn’t any positive knowledge, you should know that. There’s just been hints, and one of the dispatches captured recently mentioned a southern campaign.”
“Daniel, do you mean to tell me that the governor is aware of this, and is doing nothing to verify it?” cried one of the men.
Patterson squirmed, wishing that he had never introduced the subject. He said a few words that Christopher couldn’t hear, but the words seemed to put the other three men to rest, although one of them turned eagerly to Jason and said, “Your uncle is high in English government circles. Do you think that you could learn anything from him?”
Jason smiled sardonically, and in that moment his eyes met Christopher’s across the space between them. Their gazes held, and Christopher had the curious conviction that Jason knew very well that his was more than just an idle interest. For perhaps a full sixty seconds green eyes locked with gold and then as if having taken his measure, Jason’s glance moved slowly from Christopher. With a hint of boredom in his voice Jason answered. “Roxbury is old and his loyalty lies with England. If I were mad enough to travel to Britain in search of more definite proof, my uncle, a very astute man, would know the instant that I set foot on English soil why I was there. Not only would I be unable to learn anything of value, but mon oncle would see to it that my visit was exceedingly short and unpleasant. Find another fool to run after your fairy thoughts.” And suddenly Jason’s eyes flashed almost in challenge to Christopher’s. Again, Christopher was subjected to that emerald gaze, the bright eyes narrowed in speculation. With great effort Christopher ignored the compelling stare and gave no hint that he was aware of Jason’s look. But as he left the card room a short while later, he was sure that those green eyes followed him and that a few blunt and searching questions would be asked about him in the near future.
Actually, there was very little Jason Savage didn’t already know about Saxon. For several long seconds following Christopher’s departure, Jason stared thoughtfully after him, until a question repeated for the second time by Patterson recalled his wandering thoughts. With the appearance of being completely absorbed, he rejoined the conversation.
Presently Jason excused himself and strolled outside. To anyone watching it would appear he had escaped the noisy card room for a quiet breath of fresh air. Once outside and out of sight of any curious onlookers, his aimless pace quickened as he went past the governor’s spectacular garden, now gloomy and damp from thé persistent rain that had fallen for some days, and came to a lacy iron-work gate. Opening it he stepped gingerly across the quagmire that constituted a New Orleans street in winter and slipped quietly into a small carriage house.
“Jake?” he called softly.
“Over here,” came a voice gruffly from a pile of straw in one corner.
A grin replacing, the faint look of tenseness on his dark face, Jason relaxed as Jake, a small untidily dressed man with sandy ill-cut hair and a scraggly beard, rose from the straw. Jake could have been any age between thirty and fifty. A large plug of tobacco, and a stream of brown liquid, spat carelessly over his shoulder a moment later, confirmed the impression of a rough-mannered fellow.
Jason’s tall figure, elegant in evening dress of black velvet jacket and snowy white waistcoat, couldn’t have been more in contrast with the other man’s appearance.
“You see him?” Jake asked bluntly.
Jason nodded. “Just now. He is rather hard to overlook. You’re certain we can trust him? I’d hate for the British to know how worried Claiborne is about an attack on the city—or how undermanned New Orleans is.”
“For Chrissake, Jason! Ain’t I practically lived with the ruddy rakehell for the past four months?” Pausing only to shoot another stream of tobacco juice off to one side, Jake continued, “Saxon might be a bloody pirate, calling hisself Captain Saber, but he don’t hold no love for the British. I was there when he took those code books. If’n he wasn’t American to the bottom of his black heart, he’d never have sent Higgins with the books to Patterson. Besides, if you’re spying, you don’t attack your own kind. He sure don’t hold no love for the British!”
His green eyes narrowed in concentration, Jason muttered, “I’ll have to take your word for it. As you’ve never failed me in the past five years, I suspect you know what you’re talking about.”
“Damn right! I ain’t called Jake the cat for nothing.”
Jason smiled and dipping into his waistcoat, he placed several gold coins in the dirty hand eagerly extended. “I think this will keep you awhile; I would suggest that you leave tonight for Terre du Coeur…just in case anyone has tumbled to you. I want you out of harm’s way.”
“I ain’t frightened,” Jake said belligerently.
His smile fading, Jason acknowledged, “I realize that. But, my petit friend, I didn’t rescue you from having your head bashed in by that enraged fiatboatman at ‘Natchez under the hill’ only to have you lose it now. Go to Terre du Cœur.”
Gruffly, Jake mumbled, “If’n I’d a known you was such a bloody, bossy bastard, I would a let my head be bashed in.”
“I’m sure you’re stubborn enough to have done so!” Jason retorted crisply as he started for the doorway. “Do as you wish,” he threw back over his shoulder.
“I’m leaving. I’m leaving,” came the resigned grumble.
Smiling to himself, Jason made his way back to the Governor’s Ball. He saw Christopher Saxon once more before the evening ended and observed the young man’s ease and grace as he moved throughout the ballroom. Yes, he thought, Christopher Saxon would fit the role planned for him very nicely.
Chapter 5
Following dinner the next evening, Christopher had adjourned to his study and was relaxing before the fire when his butler came into the room.
“Sir, a Mister Jason Savage is here to see you.”
A moment later, surprised and more than intrigued, Christopher rose as Jason Savage entered the room.
“How fortunate that you are in this evening,” Jason said as he shook Christopher’s hand. “I meant to call earlier in the day but circumstances conspired against it.”
Christopher smiled politely, extremely watchful. “That happens to one occasionally. May I offer you something to drink? Sherry, port, or perhaps some brandy?”
“Brandy will be fine.”
The refreshments taken care of, the two men settled in chairs before the fire.
Savage glanced around the elegant room with its green damask curtains, closed just now against the winter chill, the fine Brussels carpet, the impressive mahogany bookcases, and he commented, “I see you’ve changed little in this room since it was owned by the Thibodaux family.”
Wary now, Christopher raised an eyebrow and took a sip of brandy. “Is that why you’ve come to call,” he said dryly. “To see what renovations I have
made?”
Jason smiled. “No, and I’m certain you realize it.”
“Then why are you here? I do not mean to sound inhospitable, but I do not believe that you are here for polite conversation. Is there something I can do for you?”
His directness left Jason in a quandary. How was he going to approach the subject of his visit? He had hoped for more time, and he hadn’t been sure he would discuss it at his first meeting with Saxon. Unfortunately, Saxon didn’t appear to be in the mood for exchanging pleasantries, nor for being fobbed off with polite nonsense. As Jason preferred a direct manner himself, he said bluntly, “I’d like you to go to England for me.”
Christopher looked at him, astonished. “I beg your pardon. Have you gone insane? We’re at war with England.”
“Very true, but it is possible for someone such as yourself to go there.”
“And why the devil should I?”
Jason gave Christopher a considering stare before saying, “Because I want to know exactly how serious the British are about attacking New Orleans.”
Christopher, his gold eyes thoughtful, sank slowly back in his chair, his mind flying in a dozen directions. Whatever he had expected from Savage’s visit, it certainly hadn’t been this!
“Why me?” he asked after several seconds.
Jason studied the liquor in his glass. “Why not you?”
Christopher stood up and with his back to the fire he faced Jason. “One doesn’t go up to a stranger with the kind of proposition you’ve just laid before me. I’m not a fool! I would like to know what game you’re playing, Savage.”
The emerald eyes bright between the thick black lashes, Jason regarded the hostile man before him. Almost indifferently he admitted, “I’m playing no game. It has been in my mind for some months to send someone to England—the thought was there before any hint of a British attack on New Orleans.”
Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3) Page 5