The Tiger Lily

by Shirlee Busbee

  Brett looked at him, the dark green eyes suddenly hard, the chiseled mouth with a ruthless slant to it. "That, too," he admitted harshly.

  Picking his words with care, Morgan said dryly, "Be careful of revenge, my friend. It can harm you as well as pleasure you."

  A mirthless laugh came from Brett. "Sabrina may have caught me once in her lovely claws, but never again—I know her for the greedy jade that she is!"

  Morgan looked at him a long time. "Brett," he began slowly, "I'm not going to argue which one of us has suffered the most at the hands of a woman, nor am I about to suggest that you forget the past. However, I am going to say that not all women are vipers . . . and things are not always what they seem. Look at Leonie and me, for God's sake! I was certain she was a scheming little hussy, and she was equally certain that I was a blackguard out to steal her dowry . . . and we were both so very wrong about the other."

  Brett sent him a level glance. "And love makes fools of all of us—especially reformed misogynists!"

  Morgan smiled wryly. "Perhaps." Deciding it was futile to argue further with his friend, he changed the subject. His voice taking on a more serious note, he said, "This letter you received from Eaton really troubles me, Brett." And frowning suddenly, Morgan reached across Brett's desk and picked up the letter in question.

  Again he read its contents and then turned to Brett. "How well do you know him?" Brett started to reply, but Morgan held up his hand. "I already know that 'General' Eaton, as he is styled, has been made much of in powerful circles in Washington; I know that he has served our government well in the war with the Barbary priates; but I also know that some consider him a drunkard and a braggart. So, aware of all that, can what he writes in this letter about Aaron Burr, our ex-Vice-President, be trusted?"

  Thoughtfully Brett regarded the tip of his polished boot. "I can't deny that Eaton has his detractors, or claim that they are completely mistaken in what they say about him; I do know, however, that I trusted him enough last spring to join his ragtag crew near Arab's Tower in Egypt and that I willingly followed him across the Desert of Barca for the attack on Derna on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea." Brett sent Morgan a hard look. "It wasn't a pleasant journey, and the battle for Derna won't figure as one of my favorite memories—but we took Derna in spite of the odds against it and probably would have captured Tripoli if hostilities hadn't ended so abruptly. Eaton got us out of Derna alive when we learned that there was not going to be any naval support."

  Momentarily diverted, Morgan asked exasperatedly, "What in the hell were you doing in Egypt anyway? And why go traipsing across the desert with a band of cutthroat Arabs and Greeks to fight in a war that meant little or nothing to you?"

  "Boredom?" Brett offered hopefully, an imp of mischief flickering in the jade-green eyes.

  Morgan snorted, but he desisted his probings. He knew too well from past experience that seemingly guileless expression on his friend's face—Brett obviously didn't want to talk about his adventures in northern Africa, and it was apparent that any further questioning would bring forth only glib, mocking replies.

  His eyes strayed again to the letter under discussion. "This is a wild tale," Morgan said slowly. "A tale one would tend to put down as the mad ravings of a lunatic."

  Dryly Brett said, "Eaton is not a lunatic—peculiar and given to exaggeration—but not a madman. And if Eaton writes that Burr plans to raise a force of men and invade Washington, kill President Jefferson, and seize ships to sail to New Orleans, I would believe that there is some substance to it."

  "The entire thing is sheer lunacy! You met Burr last summer at Stephen Minor's ball for him in Natchez and again here—did he strike you as a maniac? An assassin?"

  There was silence as Brett stared blindly at his boots, his thoughts running backward to his meeting with Aaron Burr last summer in Natchez. On the surface Burr certainly didn't resemble the sort of man to be associated with the wild schemes that Eaton wrote of—Burr was charming and agreeable, perhaps a little too charming and agreeable. And he could be quite persuasive when he wanted to be, Brett mused with a slight smile, thinking of the conversation he'd had with the former Vice-President at Minor's house.

  It had happened that he and Burr had strolled out for a moment of air, and as they walked amicably through the lantern-strung grounds next to the house, Burr had said casually, "You realize, of course, that I have deliberately manipulated this private talk between us."

  Brett had nodded his head. He had glanced down at his much shorter companion, noting the thin mouth, the almost voluptuous chin, and had wondered idly what it was that drew men to Burr. The ex-Vice-President had smiled at him just then, and for a second Brett had basked in his charm.

  "I need young men like you," Burr had murmured easily. "Young men willing to take desperate chances . . . young men ripe for great adventure ..."

  Brett's thick brow had arched. "Oh? And tell me how the innocent settling of the de Bastrop tract on the Washita River is going to do that?"

  Burr had waved an airy hand. "The de Bastrop tract is for those who wish to be settlers." He had eyed Brett speculatively, almost as if gauging how much he could say. "But you, my friend, would never want such a mundane thing ... I have heard of your adventures in Derna." When Brett had remained silent, Burr had gone on. "Throw your lot with me, and I can give you adventure and riches you never dreamed of—you could be part of a new and grand empire."

  Carefully Brett had asked, "An empire? Where?"

  Burr had smiled slyly and had shrugged negligently. "Who knows? Perhaps west of the Sabine River? Mexico even? If there were a war with Spain, many opportunities could await a clever man."

  Brett had allowed a flicker of interest to appear in his eyes, and seeing it. Burr had bent forward eagerly, the dark hazel eyes flashing with intensity. "I have a plan, a great plan, and already it is taking shape." He had glanced around as if making certain that no one was near. "On my way here, I met with General Wilkinson at Fort Massac on the Ohio River, and we talked of many things . . . things a young man seeking adventure would find interesting." That had been as far as Burr would reveal himself, and Brett had discovered that Burr was extremely adept at sizing up people and wooing them to his side with whatever tale he thought would appeal most. For some it had been the offer of the de Bastrop lands, for others the possibility of invading Mexico, but no one had heard the same tale—and now there was another tale—one of murder, betrayal, and treason. . . .

  Looking across at Morgan, Brett finally shrugged and said soberly, "An assassin? No, I don't think so, but then what does either of us really know about the man? He is a facile charmer, but there is also an unclean odor about him. For God's sake, look at how he almost took the Presidency from Jefferson in 1800! Look at that duel with Alexander Hamilton—there were indictments for murder out on him! Not a pretty character I would say."

  "All you say is true, but that doesn't mean that he plans to do anything as radical as murder the President of the United States!" Morgan said impatiently. He shot Brett a sharp look. "What is there about Burr that fascinates you so? Last summer when we met, you implied it was because of Burr that you were in the city, something about Burr and our good Commander of the Army, General James Wilkinson."

  "You don't find the way Wilkinson and Burr seemed to be connected interesting?" Brett inquired lightly.

  Morgan made a helpless gesture. "I don't know, Brett. I know Wilkinson is rumored to be in the pay of Spain, but that doesn't make a conspiracy of this magnitude. Everything seems to be conjecture; no one so far has been able to come up with anything tangible to use against either man. It's like trying to capture a handful of smoke."

  Standing up and placing his empty snifter on the corner of the desk, Brett prowled restlessly between the desk and the chairs. There was silence for a few minutes, then he suddenly stopped his perambulations and asked abruptly, "Are you aware of the habit President Jefferson has of employing certain civilians to do, strictly speaking, g
overnmental tasks for him? Using gentlemen of good family to carry private messages for him, to sometimes, in effect, spy for him?"

  Morgan went very still. Staring hard at Brett, he demanded, "Is that why you were in North Africa? And that's why you're so dogmatic about this Burr-Wilkinson affair—Jefferson's doing?"

  Reluctantly Brett nodded his head. "I'm not betraying any secrets by telling you this, but yes, that's why I ended up in Derna. Jefferson wanted a report of the situation on the Barbary Coast, but he didn't want it from a government official or military man. He wanted it from someone with no political ties, but someone he could trust, who would act as his private agent."

  "You?"

  Brett nodded his head again. "He'd heard from my father some months previously, late in 1804, that I was coming home after several months in India but that I would probably be off for God knew where within a short time." Brett smiled faintly. "After that it was a foregone conclusion that I would be Jefferson's man."

  "Does Jefferson suspect something definite of Burr?" Morgan asked abruptly.

  "I don't know that he actually knows of any specific plot ... I gather that the President is just mistrustful of Little Burr," Brett answered dryly. "When Jefferson learned, last summer, that I was going to cease my wanderings and settle here, he asked if I would mind keeping an eye out for any suspicious activities by Wilkinson or Burr in the Territory of Orleans. What could I say?"

  It was a rhetorical question, and Morgan made no reply, merely nodded his head in understanding of the position. Reflectively he said, "Well, at the moment I don't have anything to add to your information—this letter of yours from Eaton is the first I've heard of Burr in months."

  "Your friend Jason Savage has intimated nothing?"

  "Aha!" Morgan replied dramatically, a glint of laughter in the blue eyes. "I knew that there was some ulterior reason for you to write and request that I come by and see you on my next visit to town."

  Brett looked at Morgan with annoyed amusement.

  "That wasn't the only reason! But I did want your opinion of Eaton's letter, and I was curious whether Savage had written any news to you about Burr—or Wilkinson for that matter."

  "I've not heard from Jason since last fall when he and his family came to visit us at Chateau Saint-Andre. But I can write to him and tell him of Eaton's letter, and ask that if he has heard of anything he write you with the information."

  "I'd appreciate it," Brett said simply. After refilling his snifter, they drank in companionable silence for several moments, each man lost in his thoughts.

  Heavily Brett finally admitted, "I've done a lot of thinking about the situation, or lack of it, trying to figure out what would make a man desert and betray his country. And precisely what a man intent on doing that would need to accomplish his task." Holding up his lean hand, finger by finger, Brett ticked off the necessities. "It would take a desperate man, a man with nothing to lose. Yet, in order to convince others to follow him, this man would need to possess charm and persuasiveness. Burr seems to fit all of those requirements. But he needs more than just desperation and charm—he would need money, men, and arms . . .an army." Brett leaned forward, his harsh face somber. "He's had meetings with our good General Wilkinson, highly secret meetings, and what was discussed is at present something that can only be guessed. But whatever Burr plans, whether it is the invasion of Mexico as is rumored, or the establishment of a rival government in the lands west of the Allegheny Mountains, he is going to need a large force and arms." He stopped for a moment then added slowly, "I can't get the thought out of my head that Wilkinson, with his penchant for intrigue, is the more dangerous of the two. Being the Commander of the United States Army gives one all sorts of power—with Wilkinson's help, Burr could precipitate a war with Spain without having to wait until the situation came about naturally. And with Wilkinson's control of the Army, if Burr did intend to take New Orleans, he would have all the men and arms he needed to establish himself before anyone realized what they were about."

  "But why would Wilkinson do such a thing? He's the highest officer in the land—possibly receiving money from Spain. Why would he betray both?"

  Brett appeared faintly sheepish. "There you have me," he admitted ruefully. "My little plot hangs together rather well until I reach that point, but after that ..."

  Morgan snorted. "I think you spent too much time in the desert with Eaton!" he remarked with the brutal candor of long friendship.

  "Perhaps," Brett agreed readily. "I just wish I knew more of Wilkinson—I have reached the place in my musings where I feel that Wilkinson more than Burr is the man to watch. Burr may plot and plan, but Wilkinson is the one with the position and power to make things happen.

  Morgan left shortly thereafter, promising to write Jason Savage. He also reminded Brett to bring Sabrina to the Chateau Saint-Andre once Leonie had been delivered of their child. Brett looked sardonic, but he agreed.

  Left alone in the library, Brett wandered aimlessly about, slowly sipping his brandy and speculating further about Wilkinson and Burr. There were a lot of things he knew about both men that he hadn't mentioned to Morgan, some of the information so nebulous and unconnected to the present as to make him wonder why he even considered it.

  A knock on the door and Andrew's information that the ladies were awaiting his presence in the blue salon prior to dining finally ended, for the present time, Brett's unprofitable speculation. Tossing down the remainder of his brandy, he set the snifter down on his desk and proceeded to join Sabrina and Senora de la Vega.

  Entering the elegant blue and gold room a few moments later, he was greeted by a frosty Senora de la Vega, who, observing his casual dress—he was still wearing the same clothes he'd worn when they arrived—sniffed and said disdainfully, "I see that while you have a home worthy of a gentleman, your manners do not match—only the lower classes do not change for dinner."

  Francisca was seated regally on a long, low sofa of pale blue velvet, her gown of black satin spreading out like an ink stain around her plump form. A black lace mantilla covered her dark hair, and several chains of gold rested on her prominent bosom.

  Sabrina was standing silently near an empty fireplace, one slim hand resting on the cream-colored mantel, and she bit her lip and turned away, uncertain whether to applaud her aunt's speech or cringe with embarrassment. But more importantly, she wondered how Brett was going to take her aunt's decidedly rude comment.

  Brett's eyes narrowed, and crossing to where Francisca sat, he stood before her and said levelly, "I think we had better get one thing straight, senora. You may be my guest, and as such I will give you hospitality and reasonable courtesy. I will not, however, be dictated to by you, nor will I change the manner in which I live to suit you. If you don't like it, you may leave. And continue in the vein in which you have begun, and you won't have a choice about leaving—I'll demand it! Now, if you will excuse me, I'll go change for dinner." He slanted her a sardonic look and added, "I was about to do so, but thought it only proper to first explain the reason for my absence." Turning on his heel, he strode from the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Dinner was not a pleasant affair, despite the fact that Brett played the polite host to perfection. Suitably attired in a pair of black satin breeches and a jacket of dark blue velvet, he looked very handsome and vital as he presided over the long, gleaming mahogany table in the commodious dining room. It was a very English room—the furniture was made by Sheraton, the carpet was a Savonnerie in pleasing shades of gray, the walls were hung with pale gray silk, and at the long windows that were at each end of the room hung drapes of burgundy velvet. A huge pair of silver candelabra graced the dining room table and a magnificent silver tea service was set on the mahogany sideboard. Their meal was served in crystal goblets and on delicate china.

  Francisca ignored Brett as best she was able, her chagrin after their exchange in the blue salon effectively silencing her. Sabrina had little to say, the thought of her comin
g interview with him making the expertly prepared food she was eating taste like dirt. But Brett seemed unperturbed by the uncommunicativeness of his two guests. With a mocking light in his eyes, he inquired after their comfort. Were their rooms adequate? Were their needs being met? Were his servants making themselves useful? Being met by monosyllables didn't deter him in the least, and by the end of the meal, Sabrina was positive that if he asked just one more question in that hateful, sardonic tone about her well-being, she was going to fling her goblet of wine at him.

  The amber-gold eyes flashing with resentment, she glared at him, wishing he didn't look quite so damnably attractive, the starched white cravat at his neck making his skin appear darker, the candlelight intensifying the blackness of his hair, creating hollows and angles in his features that made him seem at once more handsome than she remembered and yet infinitely more dangerous, too. As if aware of her gaze, he glanced at her, their eyes meeting. The expression in those jade-green depths suddenly made her throat feel dry, her breath freeze in her breast.

  Dios! she thought with furious bewilderment, how dare he look at me that way, as if he hated me, as if I were the one beneath contempt! She had guessed that he might harbor bitter feelings against her—after all, she had confounded his nefarious scheme to marry her for money—but that he would view her with such hostility and scorn had never occurred to her. And why scorn? she wondered uneasily, why that expression of undisguised contempt?