by Shirl Henke
She smiled and curtsied as her guardian performed introductions. Just then the orchestra struck up a sweeping waltz and Burton took her hand, drawing her onto the floor. He was a surprisingly graceful dancer in spite of his gangly appearance, but he held her closer than was appropriate and his breath reeked of whiskey when he leaned down to speak.
“You were born in France, Mademoiselle St. Etienne. Yet you have scarcely a trace of the accent.”
“My parents became émigrés as soon as the revolution began.” She omitted the small detail of their elopement and her mother’s disinheritance. “I grew up traveling from country to country. Much of my childhood was spent in various Italian states, then England. We came to America when I was fourteen, so you see, learning foreign languages has become second nature to me.”
He chuckled. “Quite an experienced traveler for one of such tender years. You spoke of parents yet Emory Wescott is your guardian.”
She suspected he was probing in the hope of gaining an admission about how much she owed her guardian. “My parents were killed when the carriage they were riding in overturned. I was left completely alone in the world but for my father’s friend Monsieur Wescott.”
“And you are most suitably grateful for his kindness, are you not?” he purred.
She stiffened and would have frozen in midstep but the music ended. “My feelings for Uncle Emory do not concern you, Monsieur Burton,” she said frostily, making a slight curtsy and spinning away in the press of the crowd.
The blackmailing old cur! She did not care if he were as rich as the Emperor Napoleon. He was manipulative and sly and his breath reeked. She would not be bought like some piece of merchandise to be an old man’s trophy. Surely there was someone young and handsome, filled with charm and laughter who could win her heart as Péré had won Maman’s. She vowed to begin her search in earnest tonight before her guardian forced the issue with someone as unpleasant as Royal Burton. If only I could trust my own judgment.
She had adored her frivolous, thrill-seeking parents and they in turn had quite outrageously indulged her. Olivia knew her mother had perhaps chosen unwisely in Julian St. Etienne. Indeed, when they arrived in New Orleans, her own brother Charles had turned them away, just as the rest of her family in France had done when they wed. Although Olivia’s father was a gambler and a wastrel, he was sunny and charming, utterly devoted to his two belles filles as he called them. Their life had been one of feast or famine, high living one week, sneaking out of a hotel’s back door the next when Péré’s luck at the gaming tables deserted him.
Olivia had loved the adventure. She would probably be smitten with someone just as unsuitable and reckless as her father. Perhaps that was why she had resisted the idea of marriage thus far. She looked around the room, quickly inventorying the young men who returned her perusal with favor. Olivia had never wanted for male attention since she turned fourteen. She smiled at a towheaded young naval officer who blushed furiously as he returned her gaze.
* * * *
Samuel Shelby was in a foul humor as he handed his cloak to the butler and strode across the foyer. He detested Rayburn Phelps almost as much as he loathed the endless rounds of glittering social events that every politically ambitious man in the capital had to attend. And every woman. Tish adored the whirl of parties. Tonight she was no doubt dancing and flirting at Senator Downey’s ball, escorted by her lapdog Richard.
Samuel was at the Phelps' gala to meet Don Luis de Onís y Gonzalez, the man the Spanish government in exile had appointed ambassador to the United States three years earlier. Onís had indicated to Shelby that his government might be amenable to financing a filibustering expedition in Louisiana Territory. Since the Spanish loyalists were decidedly short of cash at present, it was Samuel’s job to learn if British sterling stood behind the offer. Also to get the names of any agents who were engaged in subverting American territorial interests on the frontier.
His eyes searched the room, looking for the Spaniard’s slim imperious figure, always resplendent in satin cutaway coat and old-fashioned knee breeches and hose. Just as they alighted on Onís, they skimmed past a flash of brilliant fire red, a woman’s hair. Intrigued in spite of his preoccupation, Samuel found himself returning to study the lady in the exquisite gown of emerald silk.
It was cut in the latest fashion, high-waisted with a low, rounded neckline that revealed the slight swell of creamy breasts and gentle undulation of slim hips and long legs. The soft whispery sheerness of the fabric emphasized her slender figure to perfection. She was tall for a female, a bit out of fashion in an era that prized flamboyant voluptuousness—but the flaming glow of that heavy hair was flamboyant enough in itself. Again, not the fashionable thing. Dark hair like Dolley’s was all the rage now or his wife’s fair blondness. But that striking mane glowed beneath the chandeliers like living flame, wild and vibrant in contrast to the deep richness of her dark green dress. She drew admiring glances from men and envious glares from women around the room as her musical laughter floated on the warm air, soft as a serenade.
Samuel observed her from the side, wondering if she would turn around so that he might see her face more fully. In profile, it was intriguing. She had a piquant nose and high cheekbones. Arched dark red eyebrows rose above deep-set eyes with thick lashes. Her chin was pugnaciously stubborn. All in all, she was unconventionally enchanting. Just as he struggled to break contact and wend his way on to the Spanish ambassador, she looked up.
Olivia had spent the past hour dancing until her head whirled with dizziness and her feet ached in the pointy toed satin slippers. When she cried off any further exertions no less than half a dozen men brought her champagne from the refreshment tables. She bantered flirtatiously with them trying vainly to have fun and forget her guardian’s desire to marry her off to some stodgy older man. But her coterie of youthful admirers with their puppy dog adoration quickly grew tiresome just as it always had in the past. She felt bored and restless, needing—no expecting—something to happen, although she had not the slightest idea what.
Then it began, a prickling along the back of her neck, running up and down her spine. Someone was watching her from across the room. A man. It had to be a man—and not just any man. Why did she know that in her bones? Unable to register what was being said to her, Olivia took a sip from her champagne glass and looked in the direction where she felt his presence.
Bright green eyes collided with stormy blue ones. And held. It seemed like an eternity but could only have been seconds.
Samuel stared into a pair of slightly slanted, exotic cat eyes. That, combined with her cheekbones gave her face a wild gypsy look. She boldly returned his perusal. There was bemusement mixed with determination in her expression. She had a compelling face in spite of its youthfulness. He decided she must be no more than eighteen or twenty. God deliver me from missish young virgins! Have I not learned anything since I met Tish? Chastising himself for the uncharacteristic lapse into romantic fancy, he broke eye contact and strode angrily across the floor in the opposite direction to attend to business.
Olivia met the stranger’s dark blue eyes and felt the breath suddenly drain from her. She could have drowned in those hypnotic eyes, cold and restless like the storm tossed Atlantic. He was tall, over six feet, lean and hawkish looking with shoulder-length shaggy hair more often seen on the St. Louis riverfront than in polite Virginia society. Night black and gleaming like a raven’s wing, it was thick and coarse. Her fingers curled at her sides as if she could feel them combing through it.
One black eyebrow arched sardonically as he studied her with unabashed sexual speculation. His beautifully sculpted lips smiled, dissolving the cynical harshness from his perfect features. Never in her life had she seen a man so striking, so polished, yet so reckless, whose face seemed to combine boyish charm with potent danger. He wore the uniform of colonel in the American Army, but somehow she intuited it was not his normal mode of dress. How did she know that? Was this how Maman felt the f
irst time she laid eyes on Péré?
Before she could consider further, his smile slipped and his face once more took on a hard-edged remoteness. He turned from her and strode across the room. Heat tinged her cheeks red as her hair, yet she could not help but follow his lithe pantherish steps as he moved gracefully through the press of people. She should be angry. She had certainly been humiliated. After all, he had initiated the heated exchange, smiled lasciviously at her, then scowled and stalked rudely away as if she’d turned from a fairy into a troll before his eyes.
Yet Olivia was only puzzled and for some utterly inexplicable reason, hurt.
Chapter Two
Dolley Madison’s only son, Payne, was a grave disappointment to her. Perhaps that was why she had taken to mothering Samuel ever since he had begun working as a special agent for his father’s old friend Tom Jefferson. Jemmy Madison’s sparkling wife had been the official hostess at all presidential functions as well as social arbiter of the nation’s capital even before her husband assumed office.
There is not a man from eighteen to eighty who is immune to her charms, Shelby thought ruefully as he watched her working her way determinedly toward him, graciously smiling and chatting with the guests at her famous Wednesday afternoon salon. Josephine Bonaparte herself had never presided over more brilliant gatherings, nor possessed more aplomb than the irrepressible Dolley.
“There you are at last, Samuel. I vow, I worry myself half to death every time you leave Washington on one of those dangerous assignments. A soldier’s life is so uncertain,” she said, giving him a fond hug, then holding him at arm’s length for a motherly inspection. At forty-three, the president’s lady was an imposingly handsome woman with dark hair as yet untouched by gray, clear blue eyes and a porcelain pale ivory complexion. Fashionably dressed in a fawn-colored muslin gown and matching turban with ostrich feathers sticking rakishly from its top, she was taller than her diminutive husband but still had to look up to meet Shelby’s eyes.
“As you can see, Dolley, I’m none the worse for my last duty, not even a scratch,” he replied with a slashing white smile.
“You certainly do look unscathed—not to mention indecently handsome. I vow all the unmarried young belles have been aflutter since your return to Washington—and not a few of the married ones as well,” she added with a wry chuckle.
“You must regale me with all the latest gossip,” he said, taking her arm and tucking it around his elbow with a courtly flourish.
“La, where shall I begin?” she replied gaily, leading him through the crowd toward a set of doors, chattering on about inconsequential social matters. As soon as they slipped undetected into a deserted sitting room, her expression instantly sobered. “I expect you have some news of last night?”
“Not much,” Samuel responded dryly. “Ambassador Onís was not quite his garrulous self, to say the least. His British friends in Canada have given him some sobering news. They expect an American declaration of war.”
Her Irish blue eyes flashed. “A self-fulfilling prophecy, I fear, although Jemmy still hopes to avert the conflict.”
“The War Hawks in Congress are pressing him hard, I know. That’s why I brought the filibuster from British Florida to talk with the president. Has the new secretary of state returned yet? He should hear what Allenworthy has to say. The whole southern border is a powder keg, not to mention what’s simmering on the Mississippi.”
“Mr. Monroe has just arrived and he will be at your rendezvous. Do you have the directions?” she asked.
Shelby took a slip of paper from his jacket and handed it to her. “Allenworthy refuses to come into Washington. He’ll be waiting at this location. I’m sorry for the inconvenience for the president and Secretary Monroe.”
Her eyes danced. “I rather think Jemmy enjoys the intrigue of it. Secret meetings and all.” Her expression sobered as she placed one pale, plump hand on his sleeve. “How is Tish, Samuel?”
Shelby smiled grimly recalling yesterday’s confrontation. Pulling his mind away from it, he answered Dolley. “Our marriage has become a hellish nightmare. The situation won’t ever change. I’ve finally admitted that to myself.”
Dolley Madison watched the proud and lonely young man as he walked across the small room in which they were sequestered to stare out the window. His back was stiff, his expression stern, revealing so little of the awful pain bottled inside him. He had been hurt so often by women it was small wonder he trusted so few. She counted herself fortunate to be one he genuinely respected. “This may sound scandalous, Samuel, but Tish was simply not the woman for you. Perhaps...”
A pair of slanted cat green eyes framed by a fiery halo of curls flashed into his mind but he dismissed it, shaking his head. “No, after this ill-fated ‘romantic’ venture, I’m not at all disposed to believe that there exists one special woman for me—unless of course you’d consider leaving the president and running away with me?” he teased, deliberately lightening the somber tone of their conversation.
“I’m old enough to be your mother, you young flatterer,” she admonished, then could have bitten her tongue. Samuel’s mother, a flighty spoiled Frenchwoman had deserted his father when Samuel was a boy, taking his beloved older sister with her back to Paris. Although sister and brother had finally been reunited, their father had died of a broken heart because of the defection. “Samuel, I didn’t mean—”
“Tut, Dolley, I only wish you could’ve been my mother.” He raised her hand for a kiss, eliciting a tremulous smile.
“And I do wish you could’ve been my son,” she replied as their eyes met and held in understanding for a moment before he changed the subject.
“I’m going to sell the plantation, Dolley. I’ve never felt at home there since Father died.”
“Elkhanah would understand, Samuel,” she replied gently. “You’ve been rootless these past years in spite of owning it.”
“I plan to set down some new roots in the West. To start over again in St. Louis.”
“St. Louis? Isn’t that where your sister and her husband have established a trading house?”
“No detail escapes you. Yes, Santiago travels up from Santa Fe every year to trade with the Americans. Now that their youngest is old enough to travel, Liza has taken to coming with him. I haven’t seen them since my namesake’s baptism three years ago.”
“I can imagine how you look forward to being reunited with your sister, but, Samuel dear...” her voice trailed off worriedly as she asked, “What about your brother-in-law.”
He smiled. “Don’t fret, Dolley. We’ve made our peace. Santiago Quinn is a good man, and he makes Liza happy. Along the way he has become quite an entrepreneur. He’s making wagonloads of money but needs a partner he can trust. I’m going to buy a share of their business and help run their American warehouse.”
“Why, that is marvelous!” She clapped her hands together. “This will be a whole new beginning for you, even though Jemmy and I shall miss you terribly.”
“I’ll not be resigning my commission for some time, not with a war on the horizon.”
“Always duty before all else, Samuel,” she said gravely. “Jemmy shall be glad of it, but I don’t want you to sacrifice your happiness.”
A tap on the sitting room door interrupted before he could reply. “That will be Toby warning me that I’m missed in the salon,” she said, patting his hand affectionately. “I’ll give the directions to Jemmy as soon as the guests depart. He and Mr. Monroe should be able to meet you and your filibuster by midafternoon.”
“You’d best go first. I’ll slip back into the crowd in a bit. After all, we couldn’t have gossip about the president’s lady now, could we?”
“Flatterer,” she called out affectionately as she sailed from the room.
* * * *
Warm afternoon sunlight touched Samuel’s face as he rode back toward the city. The meeting with Jemmy Madison and his newly appointed secretary of state, James Monroe, had gone well. Fiercely ambiti
ous, Monroe was in many ways the opposite of the frail, scholarly and retiring little president, but like his chief, the secretary of state possessed a keen analytical mind.
They had questioned Allenworthy and gained enough information to substantiate their worst fears about impending trouble with Spanish and British officials along the republic’s borders. Land hungry American settlers were eagerly planning to expand those borders in all directions—not that America’s European rivals were themselves innocent of provocation. Samuel had shared with his superiors the contents of his sister’s letters.
Liza was still addicted to intrigue, no matter that she now presided over a brood of children. Long before he had become a presidential agent, his sister had worked secretly for Tom Jefferson. She had been his finest agent and was still a loyal American citizen, no matter that she resided most of each year in Spanish territory. Liza had a genius for ferreting out information. When rumors about British activity among the Osage reached St. Louis, she began making discreet inquiries.
Smiling grimly, Samuel could well imagine her arrogant Spanish husband’s reaction to her efforts. She had unearthed enough information to convince the president to investigate. War against Great Britain and her ally Spain seemed almost inevitable now. The external threat along the eastern seaboard and around the Gulf was bad enough without having America’s enemies inciting the various Indian tribes along the Mississippi Valley to attack from within. No nation could hope to win a two-fronted war. Colonel Shelby’s assignment was to see that the United States was not forced to fight one.
The air was redolent with a hint of spring. Samuel looked around the low marshy countryside, still sere and brown from winter’s cold. Tall patches of marsh grass grew in thick clumps off to the east side of the wide rutted road. Two gulls circled in the distance and the bare branches of a willow tree rustled softly in the brisk breeze.