Crimson Rapture (47 page)

What
he wondered and what made no sense to him was that he, too, ran one of the most
successful smuggling operations in the country. Did this man know of Mr.
Phillips's smuggling but not his own?

"Over
four hundred American ships seized," Mr. Petiers continued, unable to read
Mr. Lowell's response so far. "And only one of them Mr. Phillips's. The
one in which he was captured and somehow—no doubt owing to English
incompetence—escaped from. Mr. Phillips sees the Embargo Act only as yet
another ripe opportunity to make a fortune. And we have already gathered the
arresting information that he will be working this time with his own uncle—or
father, as some say—Lord Winston Phillips. What we want you to do is to find
out where and when Mr. Phillips's ships will receive the stolen goods and where
and when his father will receive them in England. The shipping plans."

Mr.
Lowell stoically concealed his incredulity. He was not stupid; no one reached
his lofty position of wealth and power on idle brains. Presently, his mind
clicked into action and quickly reached a series of startling conclusions.

"So,
you want me to, ah, spy? On Mr. Phillips. And is there a reason I should do
this? I mean— besides the obvious service, turning traitors in to our young
republic?"

"Besides
the obvious service to your country," he now lowered his bait, "we
will in turn leave your own prosperous smuggling activities uninhibited.
Neither the navy nor the militia will interfere with your ships."

So
he did know. "Let me get this straight now." He stopped himself from
laughing in this man's face outright. "You will let one smuggler go in
order to catch another?"

"The
lesser of two evils."

"I
see. And can you guarantee that my ships will be ah, 'uninhibited'."

"Well,
there are no guarantees in this world, but—"

"Just
as I thought," Mr. Lowell interrupted. He leaned back, folded his hands
across his stomach where he stroked a shiny gold chain. "I beg to
disagree. There are a few guarantees. One is that you are not a government
agent, at least American agent. I know my fellow countrymen and I know,"
he said with the innocent self-righteousness shared by nearly all Americans,
"we do not do business by back-stabbing each other. I'll wager you're
French. Yes," he said to himself, "you must be. Secondly, I'll
guarantee that if you do not leave this office in two minutes, you will
certainly wish you had." He then rose and calmly moved to the doors.
"Good day, Mr. Petiers."

Jean
Petiers's face had reddened in stages and he too quickly rose. "Not so
fast, Mr. Lowell," he cautioned. "I wouldn't turn down our offer so
quickly—"

"Oh?
Let me guess—now you're going to blackmail me? Perhaps you've discovered my
mistresses—something of that sort?"

That
was exactly where he was headed.

"Well,
when you tell my wife, do me the favor and also inform her I'll be late for
supper tonight, will you?"

Mr.
Petiers stiffly, though quickly, walked out the door into the outer office
where his men followed him out. He had not expected such formidable
difficulties with Mr. Lowell. No indeed. The failure would force him to take
the next, more extreme measures. While he did not normally like to involve
women in any spy activities, he was probably left no choice now. He would first
try a house servant and in the event that failed—and he thought it might—he would
have to involve Phillips's young wife.

Before
he resumed the meeting with his captains, Mr. Lowell called his secretary into
his office. "Ferguson, send a message to Justin Phillips. No, wait—he's
not in town right now. Get me that captain of his then—Jacob Robbins. Tell him
it's important that I see him. Right away."

"Yes,
sir."

* * * * *

An
invitation to the Phillips ball was a highly sought-after card by Boston's
society. The ladies anxiously awaited meeting the beautiful young lady who
managed to capture the notorious, infamous, and ever so wealthy Mr. Justin
Phillips. And then, too, who could resist an evening of dancing and music, fine
food, and new finery? The men had other reasons for looking forward to the
ball. They wanted the chance to discuss Jefferson's latest outrage at length,
and this with the collective wisdom of everybody who was anybody. They also
wanted the chance to ascertain the truth of the rumor that Mr. Phillips planned
to run the embargo. Fortunately, just about everyone who wanted a card had
received one, for the ball was unquestionably the largest affair of the season.

Richard's
visit successfully distracted from Christina's growing nervousness until the
actual day. Justin had employed a dozen more servants for the preparation, as
well as the event itself, and, unbelievably, she had almost naught to do to
help. She could hardly sit still for the bath, or Aggie's elaborate
hairstyling.

She
tried over and over to tell herself that her fears were unfounded and probably
irrational too. People would not measure her every move and judge her short.
They would not wonder how Justin ever came to marry a meek, socially inept
reverend's daughter. They would not sense his animosity toward her and then
search for reasons.

Still
every ounce of fear was etched on her face as— feeling every bit like her
maid's work of labored art— she finally stood in front of the looking glass.
Like staring into puddles, this always caused some small anguish and she
quickly reached an unkind judgment. So frightened by it, she could almost cry.

No
observer could possibly understand, much less predict her fears, for there were
absolutely no visible grounds for her insecurities. No one except Justin.

Justin
entered her bedroom and he silently motioned the maids out as he stepped
quietly behind Christina. He took in everything at a glance, her apprehensions,
the inability to see herself as beautiful, every insecurity written in her
wide, anxious eyes. And the sight of her standing before the glass like that
would remain forever etched in his mind.

"You're
beautiful, Christina."

It
was an understatement. The gown and hair both were fashioned from the French
Napoleonic court, currently in love with the ancient classic Greek style. The
empire dress was made of a pastel blue silk, with folds of a white
transparent-type material over that and all trimmed in a delicate lace. The
short puffy sleeves left her shoulders bare. Her hair was lifted into a pile of
loose swirls, with the tiniest of curls left to surround her face.

Christina's
gaze focused on his reflection standing next to hers in the glass and,
uncertainly, she lowered her lashes, then looked back at her own reflection.
She didn't expect a compliment from him and, worse, she couldn't believe it.

"This
dress," she whispered because she was close to losing what small voice she
had, "Richard said it was the prettiest and, and—"

"Christina,
sweetheart, look at me," he said quietly, turning her around to face him.
She lifted her eyes to him and with a desperate plea for help. "Are you
really this afraid?"

She
bit her lip and nodded.

Justin
took her hand and led her to a chair. Before Christina grasped his intent, he
lifted her on to his lap. "Close your eyes."

She
hesitated at first, not knowing why or what he was doing.

"You
remember, don't you?" he asked softly. She searched his face, remembering
only too well but hardly able to believe he did. His eyes were intense,
searching as well. She took the risk; she closed her eyes.

Justin
paused for long minutes as he felt her tension slowly drain from the moment she
shut her eyes. She was soon leaning against him, enfolded neatly in his arms,
like how many times before? He could feel the slender curves beneath the layers
of clothes and, teased by that lavender scent of hers, the same scent she had
worn the night of their wedding, his body's response was quick and predictable.
He found himself suddenly fighting for control.

"I
want you to remember," he whispered, "a time not so very long ago. A
time when you were very much in love." His voice, its rich male timbre and
gentle coaxing, the slow caress of his hand, the inexplicable warmth emanating
from him and the steady beat of his heart, all effortlessly transported her to
that time.

"Just
for tonight, we will remember that time— before anything happened. The time
when we were bound by our love forever, before even the birth of our son. Can
you remember, Christina?"

She
nodded.

"Any
time tonight you feel afraid, or you feel your shyness start to overwhelm you
again, or anything—if someone so much as asks you an impertinent question—I
want you to come stand by me. I'll be there for you, Christina," he
whispered with feeling. "And together I know you won't be afraid."

Christina
opened her eyes to him and he saw her unexpected hope. He could not resist; he
did not try. He sealed the bargain with a kiss. So gentle and sweet, the kiss
filled her with a sudden potent rush of her love, that she, too, could not
think to stop desire's call. The kiss deepened and before Justin could think to
warn her, he felt her arms slide around his neck.

He
stood up, bringing her with him, kissing still. It was worse. Her head tilted
back and she pressed her slender figure against him, arching her back, all of
which were signals he could hardly resist. He could not think to wonder at her
response, nor she his. The bargain effortlessly, quickly ignited something that
seemed just waiting to spring to life; a something that hardly cared that
people were already gathering downstairs, cared even less that it wasn't
supposed to be there under the present circumstances. Mindless and potent, that
something wanted only consummation and wanted it now.

Justin
finally pulled her arms from his neck and broke the kiss, startling her by his
laughter. "Christina, sweetheart, don't do that to me. Believe me, I'm a
man with little to no willpower when it comes to such things. And you have no
idea how quickly I could get your clothes off and lower you to the bed."

"I'
m... I'm, sorry,
I—"

"No."
He stopped her. "Tonight there will be no apologies, remember?"

A
smile suddenly lifted to her eyes. She would not question this bargain tonight.
She needed him tonight and for this one night he was hers again. That was all.
She would not even allow herself to hope that it was a new beginning, however
fragile.

"Shall
we greet our guests?"

She
nodded and, with a warm smile, he led her out. While she did not dare, he did.
Hope burned bright in his heart, a hope that could not be extinguished by his
many doubts.

It
was only three o'clock in high afternoon when the last of the first group of
guests finally arrived. This party was composed of five couples, plus two
unescorted gentlemen, and of course Richard. They would enjoy dinner before the
other guests arrived for the ball. Introductions went smoothly, though she knew
she could never keep the various names attached to each new face. Richard stood
alongside her in the receiving line and Justin too, true to his word, kept
firmly by her side.

Rosarn
and Aggie had both drilled her on the finer details of protocol and formalities
for the past long week. Her own education on these matters had not been
neglected but nothing in which either her father or Madelyne had prepared her
could cover an affair as large or formal as this. Any time she stumbled, or
suffered a moment's confusion, Justin was there to cover, startling her each
time by his natural ease in such a formal setting. It was as though his wit and
charm were suddenly set free to dazzle. And this was a man who was just as
comfortable, perhaps more so, among a group of hardened, ribald sailors. She
thought again of his great polarities of character and could only wonder.

By
four-thirty the party was comfortably seated in the dining room. Hope outdid
herself. After the initial brandy drabs and fine ports, after the traditional
first two courses, came among other tasty dishes, pot roasts and ham, stuffed
potatoes, creamed corn, mixed vegetables, fresh wheat rolls. The table was a
lovely sight too and Christina's heightened senses took in every detail. A fine
lace tablecloth covered the whole. Each matching piece of crystal, china, and
silverware seemed pieces of art themselves. A warm fire and elaborate
candelabra threw bright light into the darkening room. The gentlemen looked
handsome in their formal black coats and lace collars and their ladies pretty
in a smattering of pastel-colored gowns.

A
short speech by Justin convinced everyone present that Dr. Morrison was the
most gifted young surgeon the New World had ever chance to lure to her shores.
Richard did not argue the point. Mr. Campbell, dean of Harvard, seemed
particularly interested, and inquiries into Richard's background began.

Throughout
the dinner, Christina felt in a trance. She had no idea how thoroughly charming
others were finding her. Always far more interested in others, her natural
tendency was to defer questions back and she did so time and again. A person
would politely inquire into her background, then find themselves explaining
their own. This created an alluring, through somewhat incongruent, air of
mystery yet accessibility. The party became even more interested.