Gypsy Lady (11 page)

For a second Amanda looked
puzzled. Then she said, "Oh, you must mean Catherine, but I didn't know
she was visiting.
The little wretch.
I wonder why she
never came to see me."

"Catherine?"

"Why, yes. She is
Elizabeth's cousin."

"Oh," Jason said
slightly disappointed. His involvement with Elizabeth precluded any attempt on
his part to make the acquaintance of her cousin, and so regretfully he pushed
her from his mind. Certainly he paid little attention to Amanda's excited
recital of Catherine's history. Later there would come a time when he would
wish that he had listened with much more attention to Amanda. As it was, his
mind was already on other things, so what Amanda had to say passed over his
head.

Elizabeth had entered the
ballroom and, with narrowed eyes, Jason watched her make her way immediately to
Clive Pendleton. So, she
had
been probing for information.
Smiling mirthlessly, he wondered if she would report everything that had passed
between them.

Elizabeth had no intention
of telling Clive everything. Her relationship with Jason she meant to keep to
herself. If Clive had any inkling that she was trying to marry Savage, he would
find a way to put a stop to it. She was too valuable for him to lose to the
respectable state of marriage.

Clive looked up as
Elizabeth approached. Detaching himself from a companion, he took her arm and
walked a little way with her. "Well?" he asked under the cover of the
noise of the other guests. "Do you actually have something, or are you
merely postponing bad news?"

Glancing nervously over her
shoulder, she answered sullenly
,-
"He wouldn't
tell me anything. As soon as I mentioned King and his wretched uncle, he
accused me of spying on him!"

"Aren't you'
exaggerating slightly?" Clive asked irrit
ably, a spark of skepticism
burning in his cold gray eyes.

"Perhaps,
a little," she replied slowly. "I need more time though, before he'll
trust me. You can't expect the man to blurt out everything to a woman he barely
knows. He's not a fool."

"Then
I would recommend that you insinuate yourself into his affections promptly.
That is, if you wish me to continue reducing
your
more
pressing debts," he snapped harshly.

Her
lips thinning with anger, Elizabeth forced herself to answer civilly,
"I've every intention of becoming vital to Jason Savage, and. as soon as I
learn anything, I'll let you know."

"Very well.
But remember, my pet,
who
will be paying your bills once he's gone."

Silently
Elizabeth acknowledged the wisdom of his remark, and minutes later she drifted
off with an admirer. Clive, smiling cynically to
himself
,
watched her proceed to flirt outrageously with the besotted young man. Yes, if
anyone could discover the reason for Jason Savage's intimacy with the American
minister, as well as whether or not there was more than filial affection behind
his frequent visits to the duke of Roxbury, it would be Elizabeth. She was
very adept at worming information from her lovers.

Clive
was exceedingly thoughtful for the remainder of the evening. Elizabeth might
not have told him all that had transpired between her and Jason, but he was
clever at figuring out things himself. And having 'recognized from past
experience the blurred look of satiated desire in Elizabeth's eyes, he could
well imagine what had happened. That Jason had managed to mount her disturbed
him little, but that she had not reported it was something else again. So,
Elizabeth was playing games, was she? Olive's lips twisted into a nasty smile.
We'll see who plays games, he thought viciously—and that included Catherine.
His pride had still not quite recovered from her attack on it that afternoon.
He had meant what he'd told Elizabeth that afternoon coming back from Epsom
Downs —if he didn't marry Catherine, he'd see to it that no one else did; he'd
ruin her first!

Clive's
thoughts were still in that vein when he returned to his lodgings a short time
later. And relaxing in his sitting
room before a fire, he began to toy with various
plans to bring the little gypsy bitch and her fortune under his control. She
had in no uncertain terms spurned his suit, but if she were faced with ruin,
would she still do so? Clive thought not. It might, he decided, even be better
to ruin her first,
then
offer marriage as a means of
escape. Yes.
the
very thing!

Frowning in concentration,
he walked over to his safe, built into one wall. Opening it, he rifled through
the papers until he came to a letter written in Rachael's neat handwriting.
How fortunate that he had kept it!

The letter, a few years
old, had been written by Rachael to a French cousin, Madame Poullin, when English
sympathies were at their height during the war with Napoleon. Clive, spying
behind French lines at the time, had found himself forced to hide at Madame
Poullin's until safe transportation could be arranged. And being Clive, he had
systematically searched madame's house for any bit of information that he
thought might be useful later. He had found the letter in madame's desk and had
carelessly shoved it into his coat. And until now he had had no reason to even
remember- its existence. Carefully he reread the letter. Yes. It just might be
used as a weapon against the fair Catherine. Exactly how, he wasn't sure, but
if he thought about it long enough, he was certain to hit upon a scheme.

He awoke the next morning
feeling quite pleased with
himself
. Catherine's comeuppance
was only a matter of time.

He had just finished
breakfast and was preparing to have his horse brought round, intending to take
a ride in Hyde Park, when his servant entered the room.

"There is a foreign
gentleman to see you. He wouldn't give his name, but said this would give him
entree."

This
was a large roll of money.
Extremely interested and curious, Clive agreed to see the gentleman.

The man who entered was
clearly a Spaniard, his black eyes and hair and dark complexion plainly
declaring his ancestry. A scar twisted one eyebrow, and when he spoke he had a
definite accent.

"Be seated,
Mister—?" Clive looked questioningly at the gentleman.

After a second's pause, the
man said slowly, "Senor Davalos."

"Ah,
yes, please be seated Senor Davalos and tell me what I can do for you."

Davalos
did so, taking a spindle-legged chair directly across from Clive, his black
eyes and hard, unblinking stare reminding Clive uncomfortably of a reptile.

Repeating
himself, Clive asked, "Now, what can I do for you?"

Again
Davalos seemed to hesitate as if weighing the wisdom of his actions. Finally he
said, "Your name has been given to me as a gentleman capable of supplying
me with something I want rather badly. Something I would prefer others not to
know of—you understand?"

Clive
understood very well. More than one gentleman had sat across from him thus,
wanting his services for activities they wouldn't wish to have
see
the light of day. Somewhat dryly he replied, "I
understand perfectly. You want no connection between us, but you would like certain
services from me, services that are best accomplished in secret
and
outside the law."

Davalos
nodded his head in agreement, a slight, thin smile crossing his features.

Briskly
Clive asked, "Now that we are in agreement, what is it you want of
me?"

But
Davalos answered with a question of his own. "You are acquainted with one
Jason Savage, currently visiting England for the supposed purpose of buying
horses?"

Clive
inclined his head in Davalos's direction, his eyes narrowing with interest.
"Yes, I've met Savage. Do you want him killed or merely discomforted? I
can arrange either."

Davalos
shrugged. "I care not his eventual fate. But before he is removed from
this earth, I would have in my possession a map he has. If you have to kill him
in order to get it—so be it."

"A map?
Of
what?"

Picking
his words with apparent caution, Davalos said carefully, "Let us say a map
to a treasure."

Sudden
avarice gleamed briefly in Clive's eyes but was quickly hidden. He only said
contemptuously, "Buried treasure?
Sunken treasure?"

"No, none of those.
I am
not," Davalos admitted grudgingly, "certain there is such a map as I
seek. It can be it is all in his head. I only know that Savage might have one.
And if his reasons for being in England are as
I
guess, he certainly must have some sort of proof to offer his investors."

"Investors?
In what?
Land?
Are you telling me that this map that may or may
not exist is part of some land-buying scheme?"

"No.
And I must warn you that it has no political overtones, either. If it exists,
it will be a map showing a trail into Spanish Territory in America. The area I
speak of has seldom been seen by white men, but assuredly it does hold a
treasure, of that I am sure." Davalos fixed his eyes unwaveringly on Clive's
intent face. "If it has occurred to you, I would warn you, it will do you
little good to double-cross me. The map is useless to but a very few men. I,
myself, am one of the few. I doubt if you could find another buyer for it. Do
we understand one another?"

Clive's
eyebrow rose at the underlying menace in the other's tone, and he felt a
trickle of unease slide down his spine. Hiding his reaction, he said in a bored
voice, "It is not my nature to go chasing off after pots of gold at the
end of rainbows. I buy and sell information. If you wish me to steal this map
for you—I will. But
don't
," Clive's voice
hardened, "threaten me, Senor Davalos."

Davalos
relaxed slightly in his chair, his lips tightening in a semblance of a smile.
"Very well.
We each know how the other stands,
si?
Now, shall we discuss money?"

Clive
nodded, and they parted shortly thereafter having agreed upon a price. Clive
drove a steep bargain and demanded half the money to be paid immediately and
the rest upon completion of the task. Davalos was not happy. The price he had
agreed to pay was high, and telling another person about the map disturbed him.
Unfortunately his own two bungling attempts had led nowhere, and he was
becoming desperate. Damn Phillip Nolan for dying too soon! Who would have
thought such a strong bull of a man would have died so easily under torture?

Returning
to his own small room in a considerably less desirable area than that inhabited
by Jason or Clive, Davalos locked the door and seating himself in front of a
rough wooden table withdrew a carefully wrapped object from beneath his coat.
With almost reverent hands, he undid the wrappings and set it in the middle of
the table.

It
was beautiful. A barbaric golden armband studded with emeralds. For a long time
Davalos gazed at it, at-
most mesmerized by the
gleaming gold and glittering emeralds. Then his lips curled into a wolfish
smile. One day it would all be his, and one evening very soon Jason Savage was
in for a surprise. An unpleasant one, he hoped.

The
night before Jason was to-leave for Brownleigh's started out like many other
evenings he had spent since arriving in London. He and a friend enjoyed an
excellent dinner served in the room Jason had taken on St. James's Street;
afterwards, the two had strolled the short distance to White's Club for
Gentlemen and joined other friends in a game of cards.

Jason
had imbibed rather freely of the port served during the course of the evening
and so was slightly drunk when in the early hours of the morning he walked
home.

In a
pleasantly amiable frame of mind, a sleepy smile on his lips, Jason climbed the
carpeted, narrow staircase to his suite of rooms. But after he had unlocked the
door, a faint frown of-dissatisfaction marred his wide forehead and drove the
smile from his mouth. With distaste he surveyed the inky blackness that greeted
him. Damn Pierre! He could have sworn he had seen a light from beneath the
door. He had given that rascally valet the night off, but surely the fool had
enough sense to leave
a
candle
or two lit.

He
threaded his way through the darkness, cursing softly when he stumbled over a
chair. Dulled with drink, he was caught unprepared when someone cannoned into
him, the force of the propelled body driving him to the floor. He was
momentarily pinned under the weight of his attacker, his breath knocked from
his chest, his pleasant stupor vanished. But then with steel-boned fingers he
found the throat of the unknown person. A grunt of surprise came from the
intruder as Jason's fingers closed with killing force around his neck. With
desperate strength the man
tried frantically to break the deadly hold,
twisting and rolling in the blackness as they fought.

The grim struggle continued
in the darkness, their flailing bodies crashing into furniture, sending chairs
and tables flying, as gradually Jason increased the pressure of his hands, and
the intruder no longer fought only to escape but for his very life as well.
Jason's grip was merciless. Without compunction, with his bare hands, he
strangled the unknown assailant to death. Then, when the body under him was
still, he rose, breathing heavily, and with unerring steps crossed to the
sideboard against the wall and struck a flint to light the nearby candle.

Holding the light high over
the body, Jason viewed dispassionately his handiwork. The slain man was no one
he knew and from his dress appeared to be a member of the lower classes.
Probably a wharf rat, he thought as he noticed the rough seaman's jersey the
dead man wore.

He turned from his
searching appraisal of the body and bellowed for Pierre, but an ominous silence
met his call. Concern sharpening his features, he tore open the door to the
valet's room and breathed a silent sigh of thankfulness when the flickering
light revealed Pierre, bound and gagged, his black eyes flashing with apprehensive
anger. As he recognized his master, the anger and fear changed to overwhelming
relief.

Jason had barely removed
the gag when he was greeted by a stream of excited French as Pierre jabbered
and chattered volubly, his arms waving about wildly, while explaining in
graphic terms what had happened. It took Jason a few minutes to quiet him down
and put together the pieces.

Pierre had returned early
from a friendly meeting with Jacques, at a pub just a few blocks over on Jermyn
Street. He had just unlocked the door when suddenly he was attacked from
behind, overpowered, then bound and gagged. It was all done very easily, for
Pierre, in spite of having the heart of a lion, was slight and small.

Jason, his expression
thoughtful, slowly made his way back into the other room, Pierre at his heels,
still babbling. His string of rapid French came to an abrupt halt when he
spied the body lying on the floor. And at his questioning look, Jason gave a
curt nod in answer, pouring both himself and the now very silent Pierre, a
generous brandy.

Both men were quiet as they
sipped their drinks, until Jason, staring ruminatively at the corpse, said
regretfully, "Pierre, I feel perhaps my uncle is going to be extremely
unhappy with me."

"But
yes, monsieur!
These English, they are barbarians
except
,"
Pierre said, "your uncle.
He
will know what we should
do!"

"True, but there's
nothing to be done now, for I'm certain the duke would object strenuously to
being roused from his bed at this hour of the morning. He's going to be very
sour as it is, when he discovers why I want to see him. So for the present, we
might as well retire and get what sleep we can. I have the disquieting feeling
that tomorrow is going to be extremely wearing on my nerves!"

"But,
monsieur, this mess!
It must be cleared!" cried Pierre, his tidy soul revolted
by the condition of the room; and it was then that Jason noticed the ruthless
disarray, only some of which would have occurred during the fight.

The drawers of his desk had
been dragged open, papers scattered over the floor, and the books on the
shelves had been shoved aside, some joining the clutter from the desk on the
floor. Even the massive oak sideboard hadn't escaped, its doors gaping open,
the contents showing signs of having been impatiently thrust aside.

After gazing speculatively
for some minutes at the havoc Jason cast a faintly apologetic glance at the
dead man and remarked to no one in particular, "It seems I was wrong, and
murder wasn't what he had in mind."

He strode over to the body
and, kneeling, searched the corpse. He discovered nothing other than a few
oddments obviously belonging to the dead man, and a puzzled frown creased his
forehead. Rising in one lithe movement and after fastidiously wiping his hands,
he walked with long, easy strides to his bedchamber. As he expected, the same
relentless signs of a hurried search existed there.

His clothes were strewn
about, drawers were thrown on the floor, the pillows on his bed had been ripped
open, and from the slashed mattress, goose feathers drifted in little clouds
over the whole unsightly mess. Yet, the puzzling fact remained that the man
had ignored—beyond dumping them on the floor—a small fortune in rings,
stickpins, and jewels that winked in the candlelight.

Pierre's outraged gasp as
he entered the room broke into Jason's thoughts, but pursuing his own
investigation, he said quietly, almost to himself, "Why would a thief not
steal such a tempting pile of wealth?" He swung round and bending his bright
green gaze on Pierre's bewildered face asked, "What time did you
return?"

"Before
midnight, monsieur."

Pulling out his gold pocket
watch, Jason checked the time. "It's after four now, so I must have
entered a little after three. Why was that fool still here? He had plenty of
time to escape, and if he wasn't a thief, what the hell was he looking
for?"

Knowing Jason expected no
answer, Pierre paid him no heed, but began to pick up the pieces of clothing,
clucking to himself that anyone, even an Englishman, should treat such
exquisite garments so shamefully.

A sardonic smile twisting
his lips, Jason watched him while he sought a satisfactory solution to the
riddle. Nothing made sense! He had been prepared for a possible search when he
had first arrived two months ago.
But now?
Unless—unless, somehow, his other mission for Jefferson had been uncovered! No,
it couldn't be! Tonight's happening had to be only a case of sheer vandalism.
But the uncomfortable thought lingered.

"Bah!" he
suddenly said. "Who cares why the stupid fellow was here? He's dead, and
that's that!" Yet Jason had a shrewd idea the duke wasn't going to dismiss
it so easily, especially since he would have the unlovely task of disposing of
the body and would have to handle any awkward questions that might arise.

In answer to Jason's urgent
deliberately worded message, delivered by Pierre, the duke of Roxbury arrived
the next morning before noon, nattily attired in a suit of palest dove gray, a
Malacca cane swinging negligently from one long-fingered hand. As Jason had
suspected, he did not treat the news of the discovery of a corpse in his
nephew's rooms as a shocking, horrifying circumstance. It was merely
inconvenient!
But the duke, for all his worldly ways, was not quite so blasé about the
reality of violent death, and he was considerably put out to find his nephew
enjoying a hearty breakfast of rare roast beef and washing large mouthfuls of
the meat down with ale, while the body of the man he had slain the night before
lay just a few feet away.

Jason grinned at his
uncle's affronted look and waved him to a chair, offering him some refreshment
as he did so, but the duke, with a theatrical shudder, replied, "My dear
boy, I assure you I wouldn't be able to swallow a morsel!" Then, he cast
those deceivingly sleepy eyes, which missed not the smallest detail, around the
disordered room and remarked, "I presume this is the reason behind the
clever little note I received this morning?"

His expression was grave as
he listened to Jason's unemotional, succinct report of the night's happenings.
He offered no comment, but merely sat relaxed on one of the few chairs to
escape damage, his gray eyes never leaving his nephew's dark face until Jason
had finished. Then, he drawled, "You had a busy evening, young man. I'd
hoped that since your days at Harrow you'd outgrown such precipitate action,
but I see my hopes were groundless." He gave a languid sigh and added,
"And as you usually managed to extricate yourself from past indiscretions,
I'm aware that if I don't dispose of that distasteful object, you're quite
capable of doing so. I'm surprised you bothered with me at all—or could it be
that you've at last learned a certain amount of caution and take your duties as
courier seriously?"

Jason nodded without
smiling, his face hard and un- revealing, and Roxbury sighed again. Frequently,
his nephew reminded him vividly of the country that bred him; like America
itself, he was young, brash, brawling, and inclined to flex his muscles without
thought of the consequences. Slowly, Roxbury shook his head and looking over
at the covered body murmured, "Jason, Jason, you're so reckless and
imprudent! The poor fellow is obviously only a thief; was it necessary to kill
him?"

"At the time, I didn't
know
he
was a thief. I didn't know what he was. I was attacked in the dark, and when I
believe my life is threatened, I act first and analyze later whether my actions
were wise or not!" Jason snapped.

Roxbury, a pained look on
his face, said testily, "Now, don't come the ugly with me, nevy! That
scowling glare might give others pause, but I've known you since you were in
short coats!"

Instantly, Jason's
expression changed, a wide grin splitting his mouth, exposing even white
teeth. "I wonder if you'll ever let me forget it," he laughed ruefully.

"Not bloody
likely!" shot back the duke. "It's the only way to handle you wild
cubs. You need reminding occasionally that there are older and wiser heads
around."

"That may be, but in
this case, I think you're wrong to label him"—a jerk of Jason's head
indicated the corpse —"only a thief. I purposely didn't tell you
everything. Walk into my bedchamber and let me show you something."

Slightly mystified, Roxbury
followed him into the room, and gesturing towards the pile of jewels, Jason
said, "My first reaction was the same as yours, that I'd inadvertently
killed a thief; but, if that were true, why did he leave these lying on the
floor? Why didn't he stuff them in his pockets and leave?"

The duke stared at the
pile, absently running the fingers of one hand along his jaw. Abruptly, he
ceased gazing at the jewels and thoughtfully made a detailed inventory of the
room before saying slowly, "You might have surprised him in the act, you
know."

A negative shake from Jason
greeted his words. "The time element precluded that. He had adequate time
to find my valuables and depart, if it was only money he was after. I've a
hunch he was searching for something else."

Roxbury raised one black
brow. "I sincerely hope you're not suspecting him of having any interest
in the dispatches from Jefferson?"

"Oh, I agree, the poor
devil in the other room wasn't after the dispatches for
himself
,
but someone could have hired him. Figure it out yourself. He ignored money,
clothes, and jewels."

"There's more than
just
this
incident that makes you think that! And don't try
to tell me there's not!" remarked Roxbury, his gray eyes narrowed and
watchful.

Jason smiled grimly at his
uncle's words, his own eyes as intent as the other's. Used to conducting his
own affairs, he played his cards very close to his chest and didn't take
kindly to interference; but knowing the duke was up to every rig and row in
town and that very little slipped by those discerning eyes he said, "There
are two incidents I haven't mentioned before, because taken by themselves they
amount to nothing—and quite frankly, I didn't feel they were any of your
business."