"Old harridan!" Lily Randolph muttered the words under her breath, but Adam heard them, and his dark brows lifted. Lily pouted, and throwing a sulky look in the general direction of her hostess, made to answer the question in Adam's eyes. "Who does she think she is? I swear she puts on more airs and graces than the queen of England. Someone should tell the old harridan that it isn't polite to stare. She hates me, and I can't think why."
Adam's eyes glinted with amusement. He understood the reason for Sarah's antipathy to his mistress. As much as he could be fond of any woman, Adam was fond of Sarah. She took a motherly interest in him, and like any mother, she was angling to see him settled with the right sort of girl. Sarah did not think that Adam could ever be happy with someone like Lily.
But that's where Sarah was wrong. Lily suited him admirably. She was a beautiful, sensuous woman, and wise in the ways of the world. If she was ever jealous of her rivals, and sometimes there were rivals, Lily never betrayed it. Nothing would have put Adam to flight faster than a display of jealousy, except, perhaps, the mention of marriage.
Women had their place in Adam's life, but it wasn't a very significant one. Sarah could never be persuaded of that truth.
"Why shouldn't Sarah stare at you?" began Adam, disguising his cynicism behind a false charm. "You are the most beautiful woman in the room. Sarah, in her day, could claim that distinction." His eyes drifted to Sarah. He considered Sarah Burke, even at something close to fifty, as one of the handsomest women of his acquaintance. Her figure was trim, almost girlish, and this in spite of being the mother of five grown-up daughters, all of whom took after their beautiful mother and had made brilliant matches. He did not think that the passage of time would deal as kindly with his companion as it had dealt with Sarah Burke.
Sensing that he was expected to say something more, Adam stifled a bored sigh and went on. "You're the envy of every woman present tonight. Your beauty is peerless."
The flattery smoothed Lily's ruffled feathers as Adam knew it would. God, women were so predictable! A few choice words (preferably "I love you"), and a few extravagant tributes (preferably of monetary value), and they became putty in a man's hands. A man would be a fool not to use every weapon in his arsenal in his dealings with women. And where women were concerned, Adam considered himself a sage.
Adam noted that people were beginning to idle their way toward the dining room where Sarah's French chef would have set out a sumptuous supper to tempt the most fastidious palate. Adam's appetite was whetted, but not for what was laid out in Sarah's grand dining room.
Lily, with her voluptuous, sultry beauty, was every man's fantasy. An octogenarian on his deathbed would have been unable to resist the pull on his senses. Adam wasn't an octogenarian, and he wasn't on his deathbed.
He whispered something in Lily's ear, then held her gaze with eyes full of sensual promise.
"You wouldn't dare," she breathed.
One eyebrow quirked. "Oh wouldn't I?" He bent to her, and whispered some more in the same vein.
A dazzling smile tilted the generous curve of her mouth. "No, Mr. Dillon. I have not yet had that pleasure." She giggled "The lavender room, you say?"
"It's worth a visit," said Adam, grinning roguishly. "It's upstairs and right next to the room reserved for the ladies' wraps. You take the main staircase and I'll take the back. No one will miss us."
"You are brazen," she whispered Already her eyelids were becoming heavy as desire stirred her.
"And you love me for it," he laughed softly, confident of his power to reduce her to a shivering, quivering passion without laying a finger on her.
The pleasant interlude took no more than a few minutes. Lily was on fire for him. Adam had scarcely locked the door to the lavender room when she launched herself at him. Her hands moved quickly to the waistband of his breeches, deftly releasing his hard shaft into her hand. Lily was no novice. She knew how to pleasure a man.
Adam was equally busy. With his mouth fastened to hers, he swept aside her skirts. Adam approved of the new fashions for ladies. There were no hoops, now, and fewer petticoats. Lily wasn't wearing drawers.
His hand slid between her soft thighs. When he found her damp woman's core, one finger easily slipped inside. Lily moaned and threw back her head. Her breasts were heaving. Her hips began to gyrate wildly. She was teetering on the edge.
Quickly, Adam lowered her to the bed. In one smooth movement, he entered her. He withdrew, then thrust deeply. Lily whimpered then cried out again as her release convulsed her. A moment later Adam quickly pulled himself from her body before he gave himself up to his own release.
He rolled from her immediately and began to adjust his clothes. Lily gave a sigh of repletion and reluctantly began to follow his example.
"You were right," she said, and smiled languorously.
"Mmm?"
"The wickedness of our situationit added a certain something. We must do this again sometime. I found it almost unbearably . . . exciting."
"Few women can match you in passion," said Adam absently.
Something flashed in her dark eyes then was quickly gone. She flounced off the bed. "I thought you loved me," she said.
Adam could barely tolerate the predictable ending which all women expected after such encounters. Without a ripple of conscience, he voiced the practiced words. In his time, he'd offered them to dozens of women. It was all part of the game.
"You know that I love you," he said, and adroitly changed the subject. "But I am also partial to Sarah's lobster mousse. If we delay, we'll miss it."
Abruptly, he shut his mouth when it occurred to him that he really had been thinking of Sarah's lobster mousse. His lips quirked. He had just made love to a beautiful, passionate woman and immediately afterwards all he could think of was filling his stomach. He must be more jaded than he knew.
Shaking his head, smiling, he said, "Give me a few minutes before you follow me down. It's probably more discreet if we avoid each other for the rest of the evening."
"Adam?"
He had one hand on the door. His thoughts had drifted.
"Mmm?"
"You'll visit me later?"
His hesitation was barely noticeable. "I shall do my best."
As it turned out, Adam did not pay a visit to his mistress's house that evening, nor did he taste one morsel of Sarah's delectable lobster mousse. He had barely descended to the foot of the staircase, when the door to John Burke's bookroom opened. John's tall frame filled the doorway. His expression was grave.
"Adam, would you be so kind as to spare me a moment of your time?"
"Of course." Adam entered the bookroom noting that several gentlemen were seated about the room. He recognized three of those gentlemen as recently arrived refugees from France. After the introductions were made, he accepted a chair.
It was John Burke who led off with the first question. "Adam," he said, "what do you know of Philippe Duhet, the former Comte de Blaise, and now one of Robespierre's right-hand men?"
Long after Sarah's guests had gone home to their beds, Adam and John Burke lingered in the book- room over a decanter of whiskey. Adam's ready smile and easy charm had long since given way to an intensely brooding look. For some time past, silence prevailed.
Adam's mind was sifting through the conversation which had taken place earlier. Much of what had been related to him, he already knew. There was an escape route for French refugees operating out of Rouen. It was financed by American money. Selected ships were the means of transporting this human cargo to sanctuary in the United States.
Adam and John Burke were only two of the many backers of this venture. Adam's ships, the Sheba and the Mariner, regularly plied a course to various Mediterranean ports. It was a dangerous business. Frequently, both English and French warships arbitrarily seized or boarded American vessels which crossed their paths. Many American merchant ships were, at that very moment, languishing in French ports. Adam's ships took more chances than most. They unfailingly ma
de a detour and anchored in the lee of a small island just off La Rochelle. When they made the return voyage to New York, they sometimes carried more than the silk, lace, and itine French furniture which packed their holds.
It seemed that the escape route was in jeopardy. In its wisdom, the Convention had instituted a new office with wide-ranging powersthe office of commissioner. One of those commissioners, a man who was notorious for his brutality, had been appointed to the City of Rouen. His name was Philippe Duhet.
John Burke cleared his throat. "If I thought, for one moment, that you had accepted this assignment out of some misguided sense of obligation to me, I should absolutely forbid it."
At these gruff words, Adam flashed one of his rare, natural grins. "No," he said. "Our friendship has nothing to do with my decision."
In this, he was not quite honest. The older man's friendship was something that Adam did not take lightly. For some reason that Adam was never able to fathom, John Burke had taken an instant liking to him from the moment they had come face-to-face outside Yorktown in a hastily dug trench which was under British fire.
In the intervening years, John had assumed the role of patron to the younger man. It was John's capital that had given Adam his start in the fur trade, and John's advice which had encouraged Adam to invest his profits from that venture in property in and around New York. One enterprise led to another. There was an iron foundry in Boston and a shipbuilding yard in Charleston, Adam was a rich man. He never forgot the debt of gratitude he owed to John Burke.
John shifted in his chair and glanced consideringly at the younger man. "This brother . . ."
"Half-brother," corrected Adam.
"This Philippe Duhet. . . I wonder if w e are deluding ourselves by thinking that it is possible for you to impersonate him?"
"It's entirely possible. You heard Millot. Philippe and I might easily be taken for twins."
"Even so, there's more to impersonating a man than simply showing his face to the world and donning his clothes."
"Millot will keep me right." Adam's expression turned speculative. "You sound as though you are having second thoughts. I understood that you endorsed Millot's scheme?"
John Burke took a long swallow from his glass before replying. "Naturally, in common with all right-thinking men, I am sickened by the recent turn of events in France. According to our sources, things are going to get worse. Can you believe that? The fate of Marie Antoinette is almost a forgone conclusion. In the next few months, we may expect a flood of refugees. The escape route must continue to operate. When we heard that Deputy Duhet had been appointed as commissioner to Rouen you can imagine our consternation."
"I can imagine." Adam's tone was dry. "But that was before someone remembered the uncanny resemblance between Philippe and myself."
"Not I!" exclaimed John, straightening in his chair. "To my knowledge, I have never set eyes on Duhet. And as for your connection . . . ," he shook his head, ". . . that took me completely by surprise."
Adam adroitly avoided this moot observation. "You still haven't answered my question. Are you having second thoughts, John?"
"I would not put it quite as strongly as that. Desperate situations call for desperate measures. But I would not be human if I did not entertain some reservations." Before Adam could interrupt, he went on, "Philippe Duhet is a powerful figure in the Convention. He is well known."
"But not in Rouen," cut in Adam. "And that is where the substitution will be made."
For the first time in a long while, a smile creased the older man's cheeks. "To hear you talk, Adam," he said, "anyone would think that it is you who is having second thoughts. When Millot put his plan before you not thirty minutes ago, you were as chary as . . . well. . . as a fly walking over a spider's web. And yet, you agreed to involve yourself in the affair. Do you mind telling me why?"
Adam gave his attention to the amber liquid swirling in his glass. His mind was searching for answers that would be acceptable to his friend.
The project was almost impossible to bring off, in his opinion, at least for any length of time. But there was something about it that pulled at him like a magnet with a compass. He had always sensed that there would come a day when his path and Philippe Duhet's would cross. But it had never entered his head that he would be the one to bring that day forward.
Looking up, he said in that easy way of his, "As you say, all right-thinking men must be sickened by events in France. Few of us are in a position to do anything about our convictions. This evening, it seems that Fate, or Providence, touched me on the shoulder." To his friend's patently disbelieving look, he laughed before answering. "All right, I'm a young man. I'm bored. I'm restless. Does that answer your question?"
John Burke was not quite sure that it did, but he knew from experience that Adam would satisfy his curiosity only when it suited him. Nevertheless, he had learned a thing or two about his young friend that evening which had staggered him. Adam Dillon the half-brother of the notorious Deputy Duhet? And it was very evident that there was no love lost between these offshoots of the Comte de Blaise.
The next little while was taken up with reminiscences about France. John Burke had visited the birthplace of his ancestors on a number of occasions. His people had been French Protestants, Huguenots, who had sought refuge from the religious persecutions of the seventeenth century, eventually settling in the New World. Bourque was John's surname, long since Anglicized to Burke. John Burke, a lawyer by profession, was one of the fathers of the Constitution. He was a member, for want of a better name, of the French-American aristocracy, those influential families of French descentthe Burkes, the Jays, the Delanceyswho had settled in and around New York in the latter part of the previous century.
Adam's thoughts had wandered. Abruptly, he became alert when he sensed a certain change in the timbre of his companion's voice. The words were coming more slowly, as if John were having difficulty in expressing himself. Where were they? Oh yes. John was describing his visit to France in the summer of '72. Sarah was pregnant with their fifth child and had chosen to remain behind in New York.
"Her name was Juliette Devereux," said John, then seemed to retreat into a place where he was alone with his thoughts. A moment later, he bolted his drink, and poured himself another. "There was a child, a girl, I was given to understand. She would be all of twenty today, if she is alive, that is. I have no way of knowing. The Devereux, as you may understand, have never forgiven me for what I did. Juliette died in childbed. And there was the duel, you see."
"Devereux?" said Adam, stunned. "The international banking family?"
"The same."
"And you . . . fathered a child on a daughter of the house when you were a married man. . . and Sarah. . ." Belatedly, Adam closed his mouth, annoyed with himself for having betrayed his shock.
"I wasn't in my right mindisn't that what every man says?" Again, that grim smile hovered on the older man's lips. By this time, Adam had recovered his equilibrium. He had the sense to remain silent.
"I never stopped loving Sarah. But I loved Juliette, too. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever known. She was innocent. She was spoiled. She was headstrong. In a weak moment, I took what she was offering. God, I must have been mad!"
Adam understood perfectly. In his time, he'd had his share of virgins, most of whom had been more than a little eager to rid themselves of their tiresome condition. Some men, Adam knew, scrupulously avoided virgins as if they had the pox. He thought that the girl who had seduced a man of John Burke's principles must be the veriest Jezebel.
Something of Adam's reflections showed in his face. "Adam, you don't understand. The girl was not yet twenty. I was fifteen years her senior. She was an innocent. I had a wife whom I dearly loved." Wearily passing a hand over his eyes, the older man shook his head "God, if Sarah were ever to discover that I had betrayed her . . ."
The silence lengthened. Adam replenished his own glass from the crystal decanter. He waited. Finally, John Burk
e raised his head, "Leon Devereux is Juliette's brother. He has a wife and young family. He hates me, and with good reason, as I have already explained. Twice since, I've been to Paris. He refused to see me. There are reports that the Devereux are out of favor with Robespierre and his clique. At any moment, they could find themselves under arrest and facing execution. As a favor to me, I ask you, no, I beg you, if it is ever in your power to offer assistance to any member of this familydo so! As for Juliette's daughter, you must know I would move heaven and earth to have her here safely with me."
"And Sarah?" asked Adam quietly.
John Burke turned troubled eyes upon his companion. Adam looked away. "Sarah will understand," said John. "At all events, Sarah would never vent her wrath on an innocent girl."
Adam returned to his rooms in Wall Street at four of the clock in the morning. He didn't bother with a candle, but deftly peeled out of his garments with only the light of the moon to guide him. His nerves, he decided, were taut with excitement. His heart was racing. Soon, very soon . . . He shook his head, not fully understanding the reason for the furor which raged within. Naked, he stretched full-length upon the bed, his hands laced loosely behind his neck. He did not believe in fate, he reminded himself. Those words he had spouted to John were for effect only, nothing more. A man made his own choices, forged his own destiny. Wasn't he proof of it?
Philippe. He had been appointed commissioner to Rouen. His powers would be wide-ranging. In the provinces, the commissioners were to stand in place of the Convention. They were the only law. It did not seem possible, in the political climate of modern day France, that a man of Philippe's aristocratic background should go so far. God! Was there anything more ironic than Philippe Duhet, blue blood among blue bloods, carving a career for himself out of the ashes of the ancien régime?
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