Busbee, Shirlee

by Lady Vixen

  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 deliberately dismissed her from his mind. If he wasn't careful he'd find himself actually being 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 now 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 a number of 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 at the moment.

  "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 appeared to annoy 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 a little indiscreet, and shrugged his shoulders. It was Jason, though, who continued the subject. Lazily he drawled, "I wouldn't say that, John. Attacking and conquering 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 a decided 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. And 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. Right now 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 uncomfortably, 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 all his loyalty lies with England. If I were to be 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 very 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 very 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 the 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 slightly 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. Jake, you're certain we can trust him? I'd hate like hell 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 finally commented, "Very well, I'll have to take your word for it. And 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 at the vehement words, and dipping into his waistcoat, he placed several gold coins in the slightly dirty hand eagerly extended. "I think this will keep you a while, and 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 just a little, Jason acknowledged, "I realize that! But, my petit friend, I didn't rescue you from having your head bashed in by that enraged flatboatman at 'Natchez under the hill' only to have you lose it now. Go to Terre du Coeur!"

  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 quickly 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 15

  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 a little 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? Certainly 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. And as Jason preferred a direct manner himself, he said bluntly, "I'd like you to go to England for me!"

  Christopher looked at him with astonishment. "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. Then softly he said, "Because I want to know exactly how serious the British are about attacking New Orleans!"

  Christopher, his gold eyes suddenly thoughtful, sank slowly back against 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 appeared to study the liquor in his glass. "Why not you?"

  Impatiently Christopher stood up, and with his back to the fire he faced Jason. "One doesn't go up to a complete 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."

  Still puzzled, Christopher demanded again, "Why me for such a task? I'm no diplomat, nor, might I add, have I ever displayed any tendency toward politics—and we're strangers. Good God!" he exploded at last. "I could very well be a spy for the British!"

  "Are you?" Jason asked mildly.

  Throwing him a look of dislike, Christopher snapped, "Of course not! But you don't know it, you only have my word that I'm not,"

  Jason smiled thinly. "But I do know, my friend. As I said a moment ago, I'm playing no game. And since the idea of sending someone to England occurred to me several months ago, I have been searching for a man I thought could handle the task." Smoothly he went on, "I didn't consider you at first—I'll admit it. But you aroused my curiosity, and for some months now I have had you closely watched." Jason stopped, then said deliberately, "Captain Saber!"

  Christopher stiffened but gave no other sign that Savage's words affected him. Exposure was a risk he had always run, but it was not a fatal risk. He would have preferred to keep his two lives separate, but there was no reason to panic because his secret had been discovered. It depended on what Savage intended to do with the knowledge. And somehow Christopher didn't think he meant to turn him over to the authorities. Shrugging his shoulders, he murmured, "So, I admit to you, I am Captain Saber—but I am no infamous pirate! Less honorable men than myself have taken to the high seas and called themselves privateers. What difference does it make?"

  Jason smiled with deep appreciation for Saxon's blatant arrogance. "Mon ami, you misunderstand me—I like a man of action. Your being Captain Saber interests me hardly at all. If I had discovered you were preying on American ships and were in fact a spy, as I first suspected, then this visit would never have occurred. May I be blunt?"

  A snort from Christopher preceded his exasperated, "Haven't you been?"

  "Perhaps. You asked why I have approached you, and I will be honest. There is no one else. I have your measure, thanks to a very adept spy of my own. I know you have played
at privateering, but that does not make me think less of you. I know also that you have no love of the British—despite the fact that you are British yourself."

  "Savage, I think we had better get one thing straight— I am not British and haven't been since I was press-ganged into the British Navy almost fifteen years ago. I am American by choice." Christopher spat the last words, almost ashamed of his ferocious pride.

  "Very well, then. We agree. If you are as American as you say, I believe you would want to do something for her." Jason paused, but seeing, he had Saxon's undivided attention, he continued briskly, "This war of Mr. Madison's is not going as was fondly foreseen, as you well know. If we are not careful, we shall end up being humiliatingly and very soundly beaten. The great conquest of Canada that started this damned business is a disaster. The United States will be lucky if she can hold her own borders, much less gain an inch of Canadian land. How Madison could have been swayed by such war hawks as Henry Clay and John Calhoun, I cannot conceive! And anyone who thinks this damned war is being fought over the impressment of our seamen into the British Navy needs his head examined! It makes for a nice emotional issue, but it isn't accomplishing a damned thing—it was an excuse to hide behind for the invasion of Canada. I wish to God—" Jason stopped in midsentence, aware that he had become unnecessarily impassioned. "Forgive me! I did not mean to treat you to my own personal views on this war. But what I have said is true and brings me to my point—this damnable action must be stopped as soon as possible! And I do not want to see New Orleans dragged into it."

  Christopher, frowning in concentration and with one arm resting casually on the mantel, asked, "Do you really believe the British will attack us? Granted they have a fairly effective fleet harassing us in the Gulf, but the bulk of their troops, ships, and men are in the north."