Busbee, Shirlee

by Lady Vixen

  Gallatin sent Christopher a wry look. "Our Congress does live in a dream world." Then as there seemed little more to add, he said, "I appreciate your calling on me and letting me know your opinion—you have had more opportunity to observe the state of things than I have, and I'll admit that it is comforting to know that I am not alone in what I suspect. I only hope I can convince Monroe and Madison."

  "I, too, express the same hope." Rising to his feet, Christopher added, "Sir, if I can be of service to you, please do not hesitate to let me know. I would be happy to do anything within my power to serve you." It was a sincere offer, for Christopher instinctively respected and admired Gallatin.

  Rising to his feet also, he extended his hand. "I shall certainly call upon you if the need arises. And don't you waste a second in coming to me, if I can be of some help to you. We Americans must stick together, you know."

  Christopher smiled. "Especially when we are in a country that is at war with our own!"

  With a laugh Gallatin agreed, "Especially, then!"

  It was a pleasant ending to the meeting, and Christopher went away feeling more confident and assured that he was not on a foolish quest. There was going to be an invasion. But when? And most importantly, where?

  Understandably, Simon was somewhat angry at Christopher's desertion on his first day in Cavendish Square, and when Christopher appeared only moments before dinner, Simon barked, "Well, now, it's kind of you to join us this evening. Couldn't think of anything else that you had to do?"

  Christopher only grinned at him, which made Simon scowl all the blacker at him. The ladies arrived a moment later, and the other object of Simon's displeasure came under scrutiny. Glaring at his sister, he snapped, "What's this nonsense I hear of a grand ball next month? Damnit, Gina, I warn you, I won't have my house turned topsy-turvy by your machinations! You're here as my guest, don't you forget it!"

  "Oh, pooh! This was once my home too! And how," she inquired reasonably, "are we to present Nicole, if not with a grand ball? Anything else would be paltry. Even Letitia agrees with me!"

  "Oh, yes, Simon, it is most necessary," Mrs. Eggleston broke in. "You don't really mind do you?" she begged, her blue eyes very big and fixed painfully on Simon's face.

  Something that perilously resembled a blush crossed Simon's lean features, and in stupefaction Nicole and Christopher stared, as Simon melted beneath Mrs. Eggleston's appealing look. Drowning in anxious blue pools he muttered, "Ahem... ah... I don't suppose one ball would be too much of an ordeal." Then frowning fiercely, he tore his eyes from Mrs. Eggleston's and growled at Regina, "But remember, I don't want this house draped in pink silk or some other such nonsense!"

  Regina merely smiled angelically, pleased with the outcome. But then she had never doubted its conclusion for a moment—Simon had always been a fool where Letitia had been concerned and Regina had quite shamelessly made use of the fact.

  Not a little startled at Lord Saxon's abrupt turnabout-face, Nicole glanced at Christopher as if he could solve the mystery, and Christopher, guessing her perplexity, mouthed, "Later."

  It wasn't until much later in the week, though, that he had a chance for private conversation with Nicole. This particular evening, his grandfather had dined at his club with several of his cronies, and after dinner in Cavendish Square, Mrs. Eggleston and Lady Darby had closeted themselves in the blue sitting room, busy with plans for the ball.

  Nicole, time heavy on her hands, had been listlessly practicing on the pianoforte in the music room when Christopher, on his way out for the evening, entered, expecting to find all three ladies present.

  Seeing Nicole was alone, he hesitated, but as the relationship between them had been almost amicable of late, he judged that there was no cause to leave abruptly. Shutting the door behind him, he walked across the room to where she sat behind the highly polished rosewood instrument.

  "Are you planning on a musical career?" he asked, teasingly.

  Nicole grimaced. "Hardly! It is just that your great-aunt and Mrs. Eggleston have banished me from their schemes after I asked why it was so important to invite Princess Esterhazy and the Countess Lieven."

  "Why is it so important?" Christopher inquired interestedly.

  An impish twinkle in the topaz eyes, Nicole said demurely, "Well, you see, they are both patronesses at Almack's, and Lady Darby says I simply must be granted vouchers! There is a list made up for the invitations each week and if my name is not on it, if I am denied, I will be ruined socially!"

  At Christopher's expression of scornful disbelief, Nicole said earnestly, "It's true! Lady Darby even quoted a little verse about it. Let me see if I can remember it." Frowning a moment, Nicole concentrated, and then her face lightening, she said triumphantly, "I have it!"

  "All on that magic list depends;

  Fame, fortune, fashion, lovers, friends:

  'Tis that which gratifies or vexes,

  All ranks, all ages, and both sexes.

  If once to Almack's you belong,

  Like monarchs, you can do no wrong;

  But banished thence on Wednesday night,

  By Jove, you can do nothing right!"

  Christopher smiled in cynical amusement; Mr. Henry Luttrell's little ditty certainly seemed to have made a lasting impression on Nicole. Dryly he asked, "And your entire success depends totally on that list and those two ladies?"

  "Yes, as far as the list is concerned, but there are more patronesses. Lady Darby mentioned a Lady Jersey, who she said is very flighty, and a Lady Cowper. Lady Cowper is supposed to be extremely nice. There are others too, I believe, but those are the only names I can remember right now. Lady Darby says there should be no trouble, but if Princess Esterhazy or Countess Lieven prove awkward, because of my aunt and uncle and this unorthodox situation, then she'll have to approach Lady Jersey." A wry smile curving her lips, Nicole finished, "Apparently, Lady Jersey likes to cause a stir and she might like to patronize me, if for no other reason than to disturb the others. And your great-aunt is very certain that if all else fails, Lady Jersey will do just that."

  "Hmm. It appears my great-aunt has events well in reins." An expression of mocking dismay on his face, Christopher mourned, "I sincerely hope she doesn't decide to take me in hand!"

  Nicole giggled, feeling completely at ease with him for the first time in years. "I know. She is the most managing woman ever—but so delightful about it that one cannot help but agree with her plans. Even your grandfather, I noticed, does not deny her."

  "Now, there you are wrong!" Christopher retorted derisively. "It was Mrs. Eggleston who arranged for him to give his consent for the grand ball, as you well know! You were there!"

  Dropping her gaze from the laughing eyes, almost deferentially, she asked, "Was there something between them? I don't mean to pry, but your grandfather so obviously agreed to the ball because of Mrs. Eggleston that I couldn't help but wonder."

  Christopher, standing carelessly beside the pianoforte, staring upon Nicole's downbent head, was suddenly aware of the charming, artfully tangled mass of curls and the view of the soft white neck afforded him. He had an almost irresistible impulse to lean over and kiss that appealing little spot where her neck joined the silky shoulders, and with an effort he restrained himself. In this demure, nearly shy mood that had overtaken her, Christopher found himself enchanted. So enchanted he caught himself staring at her as infatuatedly as Simon had stared at Mrs. Eggleston, until Nicole, uncomfortable as the silence continued, glanced up, and he instantly recovered himself. Cursing inwardly at his own stupidity, he said coolly, "Yes, there was something between them. It seems that in their youth they were engaged. Due to some argument or other, it was broken off by Mrs. Eggleston and they each married someone else."

  "I see," Nicole said slowly, not really seeing at all. It was rather difficult to imagine Mrs. Eggleston having an argument with anyone, and especially an argument that led to a broken engagement. An engagement was not to be taken lightly, even in this day it was
almost as binding as marriage, and almost fifty years ago it would have been more so. But a long-ago engagement couldn't have made Lord Saxon so visibly Mrs. Eggleston's slave, Nicole thought quickly, and in surprise she blurted out, "He's still in love with her, isn't he?"

  Christopher's mouth twisted in a satirical smile. "So it would appear. Incredible, don't you think? A Saxon loving anyone and for any length of time?"

  "Don't!" Nicole cried, inexplicably angry at his disparaging remarks. "Why do you have to say things like that?" she demanded passionately, her eyes stormy. "I think you enjoy creating disturbances, making cynical statements like that!"

  "And you don't?" he shot back tightly, for some reason just as angry. "I should think that you have more disturbances than I ever have!"

  "That's unfair! Oh!" Tears unaccountably glittering in her eyes, she spat, "Oh, I hate you Christopher Saxon! I hate you!"

  With a muscle jumping along his jaw, Christopher stared at her one long moment, and then forgetting all his good resolutions, he dragged her into his arms and muttered thickly, "Well, here's something else to add to your hatred!" His mouth hard and merciless captured hers in an angry kiss that held no passion, no gentleness, but as Nicole struggled violently against him, that searing bittersweet flame of desire that seemed to always leap between their bodies flared into being.

  To her shame Nicole felt herself instantly pressing ardently against the muscled length of him, and she took a perverse joy in the pain of his angry embrace. But then, just as his kiss deepened and warmed, Christopher abruptly thrust her ruthlessly from him as if she were something vile and ugly. His eyes blazing with contempt and something like hatred, he spun on his heels and flung out of the room without another word, leaving a stunned Nicole staring after him.

  Shaken as much by the kiss as the unexpected ending of it, she sank slowly down on the stool behind the pianoforte. They'd been so easy with one another, she thought numbly, so comfortable for once, without any undertones, any treacherous currents, and then without warning it had all exploded into something dark and violent and unpleasant. Would she ever be able to remain unmoved by his nearness? she wondered bleakly. She caught her breath in anguish, realizing that she hated him almost as much as she loved him. Why, she thought unhappily, does it have to be him? Why do we have to have all those ugly memories to destroy us?

  Christopher, striding furiously in the direction of his club, was wishing that things were different. But he believed that no matter what, he would still have distrusted Miss Nicole Ashford on sight, still have wondered how much like her mother she really was beneath the innocent and tantalizing exterior. He knew, he told himself angrily, from his own observation that she resembled a chameleon, changing so rapidly before his eyes from Nick to Nicole Ashford that he marveled at her duplicity.

  But tonight, try as he might, he could find no blame in her actions. It had been he who had destroyed the fragile peace between them. There had been no cause to say what he had, and having said it, no reason to goad her further on to fury. If only she weren't so damned desirable, he thought jerkily, and he weren't so bloody eager to have her again. That look of contempt and hatred he had thrown at Nicole had been as much for himself as her—contempt that he could not keep his hands off her, that she could still move him; and hatred that any woman could shake him from his icy indifference.

  Scowling blackly and in an ugly temper, he joined some new acquaintances at a faro table in one of the gaming rooms at Boodle's. Christopher had not been idle these past few days. Under his grandfather's auspicious recommendations he had been granted membership not only at Boodle's, but at White's and Brook's as well.

  Simon had also naturally introduced his grandson to the sons and nephews of his friends, and as a consequence Christopher was now fairly well-known to the members of the ton. But intent upon finding the proof of the invasion that he needed, he had quietly gravitated toward the military element. And because he disliked intensely the thought of using Simon's friends, he placed those he met on two distinct levels. There were those gay blades about town, who were concerned with the cut of their coats, horses, and gambling, whom Christopher joined for the sheer enjoyment of their antics. With the military set he fixed his sights on those he suspected would have access to the information he needed and possessed an indiscreet or corrupt nature.

  More a man of action than of guile, his present situation left him feeling hamstrung and helpless—a circumstance that tended to keep his temper barely below the simmering stage. But despite everything he was making some progress. He had managed to scrape up a meeting with an Army captain presently stationed with the Horse Guards, and then there was the young lieutenant in the Navy, home on leave, recovering, from a wound received at Orthes.

  Captain Buckley, Christopher surmised, was inclined to be indiscreet, and he hoped that Lieutenant Kettlescope would prove to be corruptible.

  His mind wandered from the faro table as he thought of the days ahead, of the nights to be spent drinking and gaming, listening for any bit of information, any casual gossip that might turn into solid fact. He groaned inwardly, cursing Jason. Then he grinned, for he knew that once the idea had been presented, nothing could have prevented him from demanding his part in it all.

  But underneath all his worries and concerns, ran a deep satisfaction at seeing his grandfather again. Great-aunt Regina he still had reservations about. But the one member of the family whom he had both looked for and yet almost dreaded meeting had not appeared, nor had Simon or Regina mentioned him. Where the hell was Robert?

  CHAPTER 23

  As Christopher played at faro, Robert Saxon was driving his team of chestnuts furiously toward London. His handsome features, marred by signs of dissipation, were further distorted by his black expression.

  Damn him! he thought viciously. Why didn't he die and Simon too, that old fool!

  In Robert's breast beat very little affection for anyone, except himself. He was a cold man who had hungered after only two things in his entire life. One had been denied him, simply because he had been born the second son, and the other because of an unkind trick of fate.

  But Robert was not a man to let such minor things as an older brother stand in his way, nor the fact that the woman he wanted had a husband! His brother had been by far the easiest to remove. When Gaylord and his wife had left on a pleasure trip to Cornwall many years ago, Robert had accompanied them—until they reached a particularly treacherous stretch of coast road. At the posting inn where they had stopped for a last change of horses, Robert had suggested he remain behind to wait for several friends who were joining them. Gaylord had been an easygoing handsome man, and he had readily agreed, never thinking that his younger brother might have had an ugly motive for his actions. And so waving carelessly, Gaylord and his wife had driven off, unaware that Robert had partially cut the traces to the coach. Two miles down the road the cut leather had severed, and the coach had plunged into the sea, leaving Gaylord's young son, Christopher, the only obstacle in Robert's path. But Robert was a patient man, and he was confident that he would hit upon a plan that would take care of his nephew.

  The accident that had claimed Gaylord's life had worked rather well for Robert, but neither he nor Annabelle had planned on her death in the apparent yachting accident that would claim her husband, leaving the beautiful young widow free to remarry. No one would ever know the bleak fury and searing anguish Robert had suffered when the news of Annabelle's death had reached him. That and suspicion—what the hell had really gone wrong that day? Why had the brat, Giles, been with them? Had Adrian discovered their plot too late to save himself and seen to it that Annabelle died with him? Or had Annabelle drowned as she tried to save her son? Those were questions that would never be answered, and like acid, they had for six long years eaten into his soul, corrupting whatever good had existed within him.

  With Annabelle gone, he had become a man driven by demons; his only real satisfaction was knowing that at least his remaining desire
was within his grasp—he would be the next Baron Saxon. But then five years ago Christopher had returned, Christopher whom he had hoped was dead at sea, and he had been forced to try again to rid himself of the one person who thwarted his ambitions. That time he had planned outright murder, but again Christopher escaped.

  Robert's eyes narrowed, and with a savage stroke of his whip he lashed the straining horses to greater speed. His mouth twisting in a cruel smile, he promised venomously, this time you won't escape, my dear little nephew! This time you won't—even if I have to do it with my own hands.

  Simon's note telling of Christopher's arrival had reached Robert while he was visiting friends in Kent, late in the afternoon. Making his excuses, he had left as soon after dinner as was decently possible, overriding their very reasonable objections against night travel. Robert had been adamant, though he knew he wouldn't make London tonight. He needed this swift flying ride through the night-darkened countryside to gather his forces for the confrontation with Christopher.

  He had no idea of what tale Christopher might have told Simon, and his father's note had been singularly unrevealing, stating only that Christopher was presently staying with him in Cavendish Square. Robert had paled as he had read those unwelcome lines. Christopher returned and alive! And it wasn't hard to read between those noncommital lines to guess that they had been reconciled. Cursing, Robert had thrown the note violently away.

  The relationship between Robert and his father was one of guarded indifference. Simon lived in Cavendish Square for part of the year, enjoyed the season at Brighton, and then when these amusements palled, retreated to the quiet and tranquillity of Surrey. Robert, too, lived in London; he had a very elegant and expensive suite of rooms on Stratton Street. But he and his father seldom encountered one another, usually only when Robert's bills became too pressing or a nasty scandal looked like it might ruin him. Otherwise their only meetings were at certain, notable affairs of the season in London or Brighton.