His round cheeks flushed, Adams launched into a speech that all had heard before. "What will the common people of foreign countries, what will the soldiers and sailors say when asked to speak to George Washington, President of the United States? They will despise him. The title 'Mr. President' would put him on a level with the governor of Bermuda!"
Lion stifled a yawn, remembering that Adams wanted the President to be known as "His Most Benign Highness." It was a variation on the same conversation at the Shippens' dinner over a month ago and Lion was still amazed that the men with whom he had longed to fraternize could waste their time on such a trivial subject. Why, Hamilton, Madison, and Jay were the authors of The Federalist Papers!
For his own part, he had drunk too much brandy and sunk back into his abyss of indifferent bitterness. He had hoped that coming to New York and mingling with the people who had inspired him in the past would rekindle the fires of his ambition. How desperately he needed a reason to live, or as Dr. Franklin had said, a passion.
Lion pressed a hand against his forehead, wishing he could remember how to cry. Alexander Hamilton was speaking in a most persuasive tone, but the words blurred by the time they reached his ear.
I can't go to the Jays' tonight, he thought wearily. The last thing I need is an introduction to some paper-brained chit who is afraid to leave her room!
He could feel someone watching him. Turning his head, he looked past Hamilton in the direction of the doorway. There, in the brightly lit hall, stood Clarissa, a vision in silver brocade and diamonds.
***
Clarissa had brought her abigail to New York, hoping to pass her off as a chaperone if anyone were to question her conduct. She had to pay an exorbitant price to get a pair of rooms in Widow Bradford's Coffee House, but suddenly it was worth it.
Lion had made a shockingly brief apology to John Jay and none at all to Sally. He even failed to notice the gold tiger eyes that followed his every move. Within moments of first sighting Clarissa, he was walking with her out the front door of General Knox's house to the place where his post-chariot waited.
Clarissa was astonished. She wondered what could have happened to totally reverse her luck, but there Was little time to ponder this mystery, for as soon as they were inside the carriage Lion reached for her.
Being in his arms after so long released such a flood of sharp pleasure in Clarissa that she thought she would faint. Hungrily, she touched his hard shoulders, chest, neck, and face, stroked his gilded hair, inhaled his intoxicating scent, and met his lips with feverish ardor. So absorbed was she in her own need that she failed to notice Lion's response. He thrust her away at the same moment the post-chariot lurched to a stop before the coffee house which stood on the southeast corner of Wall and Water Streets.
By the time they entered her rooms, a vague fear had begun to take shape in Clarissa's breast. Lion had not met her eyes even once, though she watched him anxiously all the way upstairs. His handsome, arrogant face was as cold as a piece of sculpture, his eyes like splintered sapphires. He shut the door and reached out to catch her wrist, pulling her against him. Immediately, his mouth was on hers in a kiss as degrading as a stranger's rape while lean hands opened the priceless silver gown and found her breasts.
Lion's fingers had always been wickedly sensuous; the memory of their touch had haunted Clarissa's dreams for weeks. But now, he was taking her with deliberate cruelty. She pushed away just long enough to glimpse his face and was devastated by what she saw. There was no love, or even passion, in Lion's blue eyes—only contempt and raw pain.
Tears closed her throat. She began to tremble as the totality of all she had done assailed her, followed by the realization that she could never win Lion or his love.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Lion demanded harshly.
She stumbled to the bed, choking back sobs. Lion turned his back and looked for a bottle of brandy or wine. Some brandy stood on Clarissa's dressing table, along with two glasses, but he filled only one. Briefly, he glanced back at the bed, but she continued to moan.
Damn it all, I can't even indulge my despicable impulses anymore! Lion thought. Who could have guessed that the most ready and eager wench of all would go to pieces on me?
Deciding to leave, he drank deeply of the brandy. Her jewelry case was open on the table and Lion momentarily entertained thoughts of reclaiming all the gems he had given her. A long emerald necklace hung over the side of the box, but when he reached for it, desiring nothing more than a closer look, Clarissa gasped a protest.
She looked absolutely panic-stricken, scrambling up to her feet. The silver gown was twisted and crumpled, her elaborate powdered coiffure disheveled, and her face was even paler than fashion dictated. Lion's brow furrowed as he looked back at the necklace with sudden interest.
When he lifted it from the case, the reason for Clarissa's agitation was clear. Under the chain of emeralds lay the gold and ruby ring he had given to Meagan before she left Philadelphia.
Chapter Forty-one
Lion stared at the ring for a long minute. In his mind the truth came like a storm, beginning with one gray cloud and thundering into a full-fledged tornado. When he turned on Clarissa, she cringed fearfully, emitting low animal-like sounds from deep in her throat. She stumbled over the silver gown as she tried to flee, and he grabbed one soft arm, snapping her around with all his considerable strength.
"You did it, didn't you?" he demanded. The force of his rage and torment was like an erupting volcano. His eyes burned; tendons stood out on his neck that seemed to run on through that splendid, terrifying dark face. Clarissa broke out in a panic-stricken sweat.
Lion gripped both her arms until she whimpered with pain. "Say it, damn you, you rotten slut! You killed her! Didn't you!"
He shook her until she began to scream "Yes!" hysterically. Lion was full of demons, past reason or conscience as his powerful hands went to her neck, encircling it like steel bands.
In that moment of unbearable pain and fury, the civilized man somehow gained control over the primitive beast. Slowly, his hands relaxed their grip on her slender, bruised neck, and she crumpled to the floor. Lion looked into her wild eyes for a moment, then headed for the door. An old woman stood in the hall, poised to knock, and when he brushed past, racing down the stairs, she followed to shout complaints about the commotion at his back.
Outside on Wall Street, the nearest street lamp had gone out again, and the night was dark and cool. Lion took long, harsh breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists, until the fire in his blood dropped to a temperature he could bear. Tears, ages-old and strong as acid, scalded his eyelids.
Lion knew nothing about the penal system in New York City. However, he had no intention of letting Clarissa go free after what she had done, and planning her arrest kept his mind occupied so that he would not have to think about Meagan. He fully intended to learn the complete truth of Meagan's disappearance and death... but at that moment, hearing about it would have driven him over the brink into an endless chasm of madness.
***
No. 58 Wall Street was the residence of Alexander Hamilton. From where Lion stood outside Bradford's Coffee House, he could see the lights burning in the downstairs windows and set off at a blind sprint, hoping against hope that the Hamiltons had returned early from General Knox's.
Alexander Hamilton was one person Lion felt he could take into his confidence. As a lawyer, he would be able to tell Lion where and how to go about getting Clarissa arrested. Just as important at this moment was the fact that both men shared the stigma of illegitimacy. Hamilton had worked with zealous precision to achieve his current position, being as passionately ambitious as Lion had been so recently. Lion was certain that Hamilton would understand how that chaos involving Meagan had evolved, particularly since he himself had taken great care to marry into a powerful and respectable family.
When a servant answered the door Lion stood there looking like one of the wild animals that roamed in the near
by woods. Low voices came from the room which opened off the stair hall, and before the footman could close the door on him, he had pushed his way in.
Alexander and Betsey Hamilton both stood up at once, equally surprised. Hamilton, elegant as always in burgundy velvet, had loosened his cravat, and he and his wife both held glasses of wine.
"Why—it is Lion Hampshire, isn't it? Betsey, this is Mr. Hampshire. He was with us in the library tonight—"
"How do you do, Mrs. Hamilton." Lion nodded briefly in her direction, then ran an agitated hand through his untidy gold hair. "Mr. Hamilton, I would not burst in like this except in the case of a true emergency. I am in desperate need of your help."
Betsey seemed to disappear into thin air and Lion told his story to Hamilton quickly and candidly.
"You were right to come to me. You need an impartial third party." Hamilton stood up. "Let us return to Miss Claussen. I suggest that we take her to prison without delay."
It seemed that barely five minutes had passed since Lion left the coffee house, and if he knew Clarissa, she would still be swooning on the floor. The two men crossed Wall Street at an angle, entered the coffee house, and dashed up the stairs.
Clarissa's room was empty.
Lion glanced around wildly, and when he saw that the jewelry case was gone, cursed himself for leaving the ring behind.
The innkeeper had seen nothing; none of the celebrants they questioned in the taproom remembered any girl. Only the old woman Lion had encountered in the hall on his way out had any statement at all to make, but she quavered and rambled so much that Alexander Hamilton barely took the time to hear her out. She said something about having seen a black-haired man take a limp girl down the hall toward the back stairs.
"Probably some other lodger trying to sneak by with a prostitute," Hamilton told Lion in a matter-of-fact tone. "I don't like to crush your hopes, but right now it will be awfully easy for Miss Claussen to make her escape. The city is teeming with strangers; she will have no trouble hiding, or finding a way out. By tomorrow night, she could be on a ship bound for another country."
Lion nodded; however, the dark-haired man was not so easily dismissed from his thoughts.
***
On the eve of the inauguration, Fraunces Tavern was crowded with the best sort of men. Twilight veiled the city with pink and gray, and candles were being lit around the long room.
Lion sat at a round, polished table with four men who traded stories of their escapades during the last few days and talked over their plans for the morrow. General Washington would become President at two o'clock, and a second tide of visitors had begun today, swelling New York nearly to the point of bursting.
Sipping brandy, Lion wished that he could absorb some of the high spirits that charged the air. He wished that the inauguration were over and he were home. And then what? Gradually, he was forcing himself to think and attempt to feel again, for the intensity of his despair had begun to pull him down further and further. It had become a life battle, and now he was feeling the first stirring of infection by the challenge. The past could not be altered—but his response to it could be.
He still held out hope for overtaking Clarissa. Since giving up the search the night before, he had not slept or eaten. There was too much thinking to be done, and now he was finally beginning to feel as though it was straight in his mind. He felt hope for the future, and something new—patience. It would take time... Part of him wondered if he could ever stop hurting for Meagan.
Chairs scraped; two of the men got up to leave and someone else sat down.
"Well, well, what do you know. Lion Hampshire!"
Lion looked up and his ocean-blue eyes widened in genuine surprise. It was James Wade.
"This must be a case of déjà vu," Lion murmured, raising a brow ironically as he recalled the night they had met at Indian Head Tavern in Philadelphia and made the arrangement for him to marry Priscilla. "Or is it simply that you and I spend all our time in taprooms?"
James settled his corpulent body more snugly in the bow-back chair and grinned. Rather drunkenly, Lion thought, I am surprised to see you! Would have thought you'd be afraid to show your face after losing my sister to another man!
"I am happy that she found someone more compatible. I realize now that the whole plan—our marriage—was ridiculous."
James narrowed his green eyes, trying to focus on Lion. The man seemed as cool as ever, with that cynical, handsome face, and clothes that looked fresh no matter how sweaty the tavern air became.
"You're singing a different tune these days! What happened to your marriage of convenience?"
Lion almost didn't answer. He swirled the brandy around in his glass and for a moment he could almost see Meagan's face in it. "I met someone who made me aware of what I had missed in my relationships with women."
"Must be quite a girl! Or is she just adept in bed?" James asked cunningly between gulps of ale.
Lion stared at him, his body hard and taut under a suit of amber broadcloth.
"That is a slanderous lie. The girl was Meagan—"
"Meagan!" Wade spluttered, coming partway out of his chair. "Meagan! So that's where the chit got off to!"
"What are you babbling about? You sent her with us!"
"I? I couldn't have sent Meagan to the garden without having her put her tongue out at me. What makes you think that I had anything to do with it?"
Lion's golden brows met as he frowned. "Why shouldn't I think it? She was in your employ—"
In his surprise, James choked, showering ale all over Lion's white shirt. "In my employ? Oh, that's rich! Hoo! Just what did the wench tell you?"
Lion was almost reluctant to continue. If there was one thing he hated, it was the feeling that he'd been made a fool of. "Well... they said she was Priscilla's maid. Actually, that's about it."
"Maid? Maid? Har—har—har!" It seemed he might strangle in his fit of laughter.
Lion's face grew darker.
"Meagan a maid? Oh, that's rich! Really rich! Har—har! Wait till they hear this at home! So that's what the vixen did to get away!"
"Will you kindly tell me what the hell you are talking about?"
"Your little Meagan the maid is actually the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Virginia—he was to look at him, anyway. Russell William Sayers owned the plantation Pecan Grove, not far from West Hills, and Priscilla and Meagan have been friends—of a sort —since they were babies. Har—har! Wish you could see your face!" James wiped his oily, perspiring forehead with a scented handkerchief. "Her parents were killed in a shipwreck last autumn. You know how we Southern men overextend. General Washington had to borrow five hundred pounds to pay off his creditors before he left Virginia and a hundred more for traveling expenses to get here!"
"Will you get on with it?" Lion ground out.
"Don't get hot and bothered. Let's see now... as I recall, when Meagan disappeared, I didn't know what the situation was, but soon afterward, this man Bumpstock showed up. Her father's attorney. That's when we all learned that Pecan Grove was going to be sold off to pay the debts and Meagan had been scheduled to be shipped off to some spinster aunt of hers in Boston. Didn't surprise me a bit, then, that she'd flown the cage. Just her style."
Lion sat there looking like someone had dropped a ton of bricks on his head. Dazedly, he gulped brandy. "Is this your idea of a joke, Wade?"
"Joke! You're a fine one to suspect jokes at this late date! A maid! I'd love to have seen that!"
Lion flushed under his tan.
"By the way," James continued conversationally, "after the inauguration, I'll be looking Meagan up. She's got to go home and sign a lot of papers before Pecan Grove can change hands. Bumpstock, not to mention every one of Russell Sayers's creditors, have been looking all over for the minx. When General Washington told me how she'd—"
"Listen, Wade, haven't you heard that Meagan is dead?" Lion demanded hoarsely.
"Hoo! Hampshire, for a man in love, you ar
e certainly misinformed all around! I saw General Washington at luncheon yesterday and he told me he brought Meagan with him to New York last week! Something about finding her running about on the road outside Philadelphia! When I filled him in on the situation at Pecan Grove, he told me Meagan has been installed with the Jays for the time being."
Lion's heart was thundering in his ears. He clenched his hands to keep them from shaking, and when he closed his eyes, red and orange sparks danced behind his eyelids.
"What did you say her true surname is?" he asked hoarsely.
"Sayers." James gave him a benign smile, showing wine-stained teeth.
Lion's mind spun back to his introduction to Sally Jay the night before. "Miss Sayers" she had called the bashful house guest.
"I've got to go—get some air..."
He stood up and threaded his way out of the taproom, only to nearly collide with John Jay as he emerged on Pearl Street. Jay had just stepped out of his carriage and started toward the door of Fraunces Tavern, but at the sight of Lion's gleaming hair he stopped in pleased recognition.
The irony of all this is stretching credibility to new limits! thought Lion.
"Well, Mr. Jay," he said aloud, "what a coincidence! I was just talking about you!"
"Nothing too libelous, I trust?"
Suddenly Lion realized that he felt alive and vital for the first time since the night he walked home from City Tavern in Philadelphia.
John Jay was studying him, noticing the change in his eyes, gestures, smile, the tone of his voice.
"As a matter of fact, the subject was actually your house guest... Miss Sayers, wasn't it?"
"That's right. Who—"
"James Wade, a neighbor of hers in Virginia. I understand she is quite a girl."
"Lovely, yes, though sadly lacking these days in the spirit she is known for. I gather she has been through a great deal."
"No doubt," Lion agreed in a voice leaden with sarcasm.
"Would you be interested in meeting her after all?"
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