by Lady Vixen
Uneasily Simon eyed the young man before him. Twickham had warned him, but mere words could not convey Edward's good looks. Simon, like many of his generation, distrusted such blatant masculine beauty. He would have been more favorably impressed if Edward had some physical flaw to mar the perfection of his features. But Simon was fair-minded and the boy seemed sincere. And he was Nicole's cousin.
"She don't!" Simon finally said, grudgingly answering Edward's question. "But you can't hold her to account if she's not eager to meet you. Your father, I'm sorry to say, cut up mighty rough yesterday. No doubt you've heard what happened."
Exhibiting an ashamed countenance, Edward manfully bit his lip. "Of course. I understand. And you may tell her for me that I have convinced my parents to return to the country. They are, as I am, deeply distressed by what occurred."
"They should be!" Simon snorted. And as Christopher had not yet told anyone what had transpired between himself and William Markham, Simon was inclined to be well disposed toward the young man who had caused the elder Markhams to retreat from the field. He shot Edward another penetrating glance, and then having decided that Nicole might be pleased to meet this charming cousin of hers, he commanded, "Come with me then. Your cousin is in the morning room with Lady Darby, my sister, and Mrs. Eggleston."
When he was ushered into the morning room a moment later, Edward's charm was at its height. With apparent deep respect he bowed to Lady Darby and Mrs. Eggleston and said to the latter, "How fortunate for us that my cousin was in your safekeeping, madame. I can never thank you enough for returning her to England unharmed. I must add, too, that we missed you intolerably once you had left Beddington's Corner."
Mrs. Eggleston, while having a momentary qualm, remembering that he had not always been particularly pleasant to herself or Nicole as a boy, was inclined to be bedazzled, by his perfect manner and seemingly sincere smile. Regina, having nothing to go on but his parents' deplorable actions, was willing to be lulled by his delightful character. Only Nicole regarded him doubtfully, when at last he approached her.
She was standing near an open window that overlooked the town garden, and the bright sun, streaming in on her hair, had blazed a fiery glow in the depths of the dark curls. Wearing a gown of pale yellow muslin that gently clung to her breasts before falling in graceful folds to her feet, she appeared like a young goddess.
Not surprisingly, Edward was taken aback. Not only by the tall slimness, but by the almost haunting beauty of the delicately boned face. "Nicole?" he asked uncertainly.
His astonishment was obvious and Nicole dimpled in enjoyment, her straight white teeth flashing as she smiled. "Yes, cousin, it is I."
Edward, thinking suddenly that marriage with his cousin might not be as unpleasant as it had first appeared, grinned at her with delight. "I simply cannot believe it! It is, I know, ill-mannered of me to mention it, but, cuz, you have changed all out of recognition!" Edward said with an easy laugh.
"An improvement, I trust?"
"Oh, yes!" Edward breathed, for once sincere, though hardly besotted. He would freely admit Nicole was beautiful. He would also admit that many a man would be more than fortunate to wed her, money aside, but all she represented to him was a great deal of wealth. A wife wasn't high on the list of things Edward yearned for— even a beautiful one.
During the following hour he exerted his not inconsiderable charm to ingratiate himself not only with his cousin, but with Lord Saxon and Lady Darby as well. It proved a successful endeavor, and he was flushed with satisfaction when he departed an hour later with one of the gilt-edged invitations to Nicole's coming-out ball tucked in a pocket.
The elder ladies of Cavendish Square were most dismayed by Edward's appearance. "Really!" Regina cried vexedly the moment they were alone. "You would think Simon would have more sense than to bring about a meeting between Nicole and that gorgeous cousin of hers! Sometimes I wonder where his brains are!"
"Oh, dear! He is so very handsome," Mrs. Eggleston agreed sadly. Then brightening, she added, "But Christopher is so much more . . ." She groped hopelessly for a word.
"Virile? Masculine? Forceful? Potent? Sensual?" Regina asked dryly.
"All of those!" Mrs. Eggleston said with a blush.
"Well, that's all well and good, but proper young women are not supposed to notice such things!" Regina snapped. "They are supposed to be wooed gently by polite phrases and beautiful manners, not swept off their feet by a man like my grandnephew!"
"I know, I know," Mrs. Eggleston muttered agitatedly. "But sometimes, Gina, I wonder..."
Her eyes narrowing, Regina demanded, "You wonder what?"
Flustered, Mrs. Eggleston admitted, "It's just that I can't help but feel that..."
"That..." Regina prompted impatiently.
"That they have been intimate!" Mrs. Eggleston gasped in a rush, feeling like a traitor to Nicole and Christopher. In growing trepidation she waited for Regina to erupt in a deluge of disgust and shocked disapproval.
"Hmmm, you think so?" she asked with interest.
"Yes. Yes, I do," Mrs. Eggleston confessed and in bewilderment watched a pleased smile curve Regina's mouth. Curiously she asked, "Aren't you displeased?"
"Naturally I am. It is very deplorable! But don't you see, you goose! If Nicole and Christopher are already involved, we have nothing to fear from the likes of Edward Markham. If Christopher has compromised her, it shouldn't be very difficult to wring an offer from him. It is the gentlemanly thing to do."
"You think so?" came doubtfully from Mrs. Eggleston. "I don't think," she added honestly, "that Christopher could be forced to do anything he didn't want to—gentlemanly or not."
Smiling kindly, Regina patted Mrs. Eggleston's hand. "Don't worry, my dear. Leave it to me. Remember, Christopher has had, as it were, Nicole all to himself. But now if he finds that there are other men interested in her, interested and offering marriage, well," she said confidently, "well, I'm certain he will be more than willing to declare himself. Jealousy," she added wisely, "has prompted more than one proposal. And it is up to us to see that Christopher becomes extremely jealous indeed!"
"Oh, Regina, you are so clever," sighed Mrs. Eggleston admiringly.
"Yes, of course I am, my dear."
The older ladies needn't have worried about Nicole's reaction. Edward was indeed a beautiful young man with winning manners, but Nicole had a very good memory. Without the least strain she could tick off all the mean and spiteful tricks Edward had played on her in their youth. No one changes that much, she concluded thoughtfully.
She remembered all too well the bleeding sides of her horse when Edward had finished riding it; the sly jabs and the times he had deliberately created trouble for her with his parents; and most of all, she could recall that sordid little affair with the housemaid in the stables at Ashland. And Nicole was astute enough to realize that it was wiser to let Edward play his little game than to send him roughly about his business.
Impatiently, she dismissed Edward from her thoughts her mind going irresistibly to yesterday's disastrous meeting with Christopher.
What is wrong with you, she thought with despair. The moment he touches you, shows the least concern or kindness, you melt over him like some lovesick fool! She caught her breath in pain, thinking of the wanton way she had given herself to him. That he already thought her little better than a common slut of the streets, she knew, and yesterday by her own actions she had proved him right.
Closing her eyes in sudden anguish, she pleaded vehemently, ah, dear God, let this thing between us be severed. Let me live my life without his shadow always at my back. Please!
Blindly running to her bed and hurling herself face down on it, she beat the silken coverlet with impotent fury, swinging from one painful emotion to another. She hated Christopher for what he was doing to her . . . hated the power he seemed to wield over her, she concluded fiercely. Hated him, she thought passionately, for awakening her to the powerful emotion of love and then carelessly
throwing it back in her face . . . hated him for arousing the wanton side of her nature, for being able to drive her to reckless and irresponsible depths.
But Nicole was a strong-willed young woman; she was also not one to waste time bemoaning those things that cannot be changed. Sighing, she sat up, her fury gone as quickly as it had come. With an unsteady hand she straightened her tumbled curls, thinking tiredly, I have wasted my last moment on Christopher Saxon. He is not the only one who can be so infuriatingly indifferent. I, too, shall be the same, and one day, one day, she vowed grimly, I will be whole and immune to his spurious charm. I will!
The rooms Higgins had examined while Christopher was having his confrontation with William Markham had met first with his approval and then Christopher's. By the time another week had passed, Christopher was no longer living in the Saxon home, and he was particularly pleased that it removed him from Nicole's orbit.
The abandon with which he had reacted to her in the conservatory had rattled Christopher, and he wanted desperately to become indifferent to the inexplicable emotion that raged between them. That desire had partially prompted his original plan to find his own lodgings, and Christopher was determined to place as much distance as possible between himself and Nicole.
He could visit with Simon at one of their clubs or accompany the old gentleman as he attended his various amusements. It required little effort to discover when the ladies were not at home, and he could then call at Cavendish Square with no fear of coming face to face with Nicole. If they met occasionally in passing, he was able to act with equanimity, offering a few words of meaningless conversation before departing.
Regina, unaware of what had happened, as was everyone, was furious with the situation; Christopher was proving as elusive as the will-o'-the-wisp. To add to her feeling of frustration, it seemed that whenever Nicole was absent from the house, at a fitting at the dressmaker's or perhaps riding with either Robert or Edward in attendance in Hyde Park, Christopher would appear and laze away hours with his grandfather or pass the time of day with herself and Mrs. Eggleston, only to disappear minutes before Nicole returned. No matter how often she attempted to throw them together, to halt his departure, to demand his escort, or to discover when next he would call, Christopher always outwitted her, and not unnaturally she was vastly put out with him.
If Christopher guessed that his great-aunt was set upon making a match between himself and Nicole, he gave no sign. Even when Regina, driven against the wall, began to sing Edward Markham's praises, insinuating slyly that Nicole seemed much taken with him, Christopher balked her further by murmuring disinterestedly, "Really?"
Denied satisfaction from one source, she proceeded to dangle Robert, whom she privately detested, as a possible suitor to Nicole's hand, simpering over his charming attributes until she thought she would gag. All to no avail. Christopher remained unmoved, and it appeared he was singularly indifferent to Nicole and her suitors.
In reality Christopher called no more than was strictly necessary at Cavendish Square. Living in a very satisfactory suite of rooms on Ryder Street, with his own widening circle of friends, Christopher lived the life of many a young aristocratic gentleman in town, and visiting with relatives was not a desired pursuit.
And so the weeks and months began to pass, as Nicole took her place in London society, striving desperately to forget Christopher. Christopher spent his days and nights cultivating the military set, listening intently for any scrap of gossip that would give him a direction in which to search for proof of the British plans for the invasion of New Orleans.
In May Nicole's coming-out ball was held, and it was praised as the social event of the year. Even the prince regent attended, his corset creaking alarmingly around his girth as he bent over Nicole's hand. Nicole was her most scintillating; her gown of white satin spangled with threads of gold, pearls gleamed at her throat, her dark-fire hair was dressed high; she became instantly the most admired and wooed young lady to grace a season in years.
Christopher was there, naturally, but he was not part of her court that night, or any other for that matter, and only stood up with her for one dance, a lively country reel, before departing discreetly into the card rooms.
The vouchers for Almack's were obtained without a murmur from Countess Lieven, and Nicole's success was a foregone conclusion.
On the political front, in May Wellington rode into Paris as the British ambassador, and at last Albert Gallatin's official credentials as a member of the peace delegation arrived.
Gallatin and Bayard, sponsored by Alexander Baring, had been well received in private circles and were doing their best to open unofficial channels of communication, hoping to get the peace talks at Ghent started. Finally, after weeks of inactivity, the British appointed their commission—three men of such distressing mediocrity that even Gallatin was dismayed. The British negotiation panel consisted of an obscure lawyer, William Adams; Henry Coulburn, an undistinguished under secretary for war; and Vice Admiral Lord Gambier, the leader of the mission, a competent, if uninspired, sailor. And perhaps most discouraging of all, Anthony St. John Baker, already loathed in Washington, was appointed secretary.
The outlook for the success of the peace talks was not good.
In June along with what seemed half the population of England, Christopher watched grimly at Dover as a procession of rulers, statesmen, and military commanders of the Quadruple Alliance disembarked from the HMS Impregnable. The czar of Russia in a form-fitting, bottle-green uniform lavishly laced with gold; the king of Prussia, his white breeches straining across a massive rump; Prince von Metternich, chancellor of the Austrian Empire; Field Marshal von Blücher, chancellor of Prussia— they were all there, moving down the quay that was lined in fine military splendor by the Scots Grey and three great light infantry regiments, the 43rd, 52nd, and 95th, heroes of the victorious British Army. It was a fine sight and the crowds shouted and cheered, but Christopher felt only impatience and a nagging sense of inadequacy.
It was in June, too, that Christopher received the first of the coded letters from Jason Savage, and he opened it with surprise and pleasure. But as he scanned the missive his pleasure turned sour, and with a low curse he read of Pierre Lafitte's arrest in April by a platoon of dragoons. Bail had been denied, the custom officials had seen to that! John Grymes, the district attorney, had created a furor when he resigned and joined Edward Livingston to prepare a defense. Christopher wondered how Jean had reacted to his brother's arrest. But then he shrugged his shoulders—the news was months old and he was an ocean away.
A particularly persistent rumor of twenty-five thousand British troops sailing for America sent him for one last meeting with Gallatin. The meeting was gloomy, and on the basis of Christopher's information Gallatin wrote to Monroe stating his own personal feelings that these troops would be used to attack Washington, Baltimore, and New York. Gallatin and Christopher decided that it was folly for the Americans to hold out for any extravagant concessions on the part of the British once the peace talks got under way. The British were too strong, and coming victorious out of the long war with Napoleon, they were filled with a feeling of invincibility. Gallatin, finally realizing that there was nothing further he could do in England, on July 6, 1814, joined his fellow American commissioners in Ghent, leaving Christopher to do his best.
Nicole continued to reign as the belle of the season; no fashionable gathering was complete until she arrived. Edward's and Robert's rivalry for the hand of the newest heiress had not gone unnoticed, and in the gentlemen's clubs bets were being laid as to the eventual winner. The advent of the heir to a dukedom in the circle of admirers surrounding Nicole increased the betting to a fevered pitch as the month wore on. Even Christopher, a sardonic slant to his lips, had placed his wager in the betting book at Waiter's—his money on the dukedom.
Weeks passed without Nicole and Christopher meeting, and when they did it was only for a brief moment. Each would nod politely or flash a meaningless smile as
they continued to fight their private battles.
At last on August 8, 1814, the peace talks in Ghent began. Christopher felt relieved, but his frustrations were growing with every second. He was more than ever convinced that the British were planning an all-out attack on some major city in America, but he was no longer even certain that New Orleans was the target.
One night when his spirits were at their lowest, one of his deliberately cultivated Army friends, a Captain Buckley, his tongue loosened by brandy, began to needle Christopher about his American ties. Buckley dropped hints of troop shipments and went so far as to imply that a powerful offensive in the Great Lakes region would be only a feint—the true battle was to be fought at New Orleans. Christopher covered his excitement and mingled dismay and grinned carelessly, "What do I care, my friend? I am here in England. Another drink?" But reaching his room shortly thereafter, he sat down and penned the information to Gallatin, hoping it could be of use in the negotiations.
The late nights, drinking bottle after bottle of brandy, the smoke-filled gaming rooms and rakish pursuits were beginning to tell on him. His face was leaner, tighter, his temper shorter and more explosive with each passing day. Rumors, gossip, and idle talk were fine, but he had nothing solid on which to build any proof.
In desperation he had taken to visiting at the War Office and the Horse Guards where he had become a familiar figure, but he hoped not suspiciously so. Idly he would scan the various offices, wondering if what he wanted was behind a particular door. It was frustrating work, and worse, his conscience had a way of stabbing at him unexpectedly.
Though Christopher had managed rather adroitly to keep his several and varied companions on two very distinct levels, now and then they overlapped. It was during those times that he felt the most uncomfortable, for it brought it home that he was in reality a spy, using all of them for his own ends.