Gypsy Lady (28 page)

Jason, his part over for the time being, expertly fended
Monroe's searching questions, admitting finally that he knew no more and that
now it was up to the American diplomats.
Realizing his unforeseen visitor would say no more, Monroe was forced to let
him .leave; before he did however, he extracted a wary promise that Jason would
return in a few days and that he would keep the American legation abreast of
his movements.

Walking
briskly away from the meeting with Monroe, Jason knew he had escaped easily
from the diplomat's probing questions, but the uncomfortable feeling persisted
that when next they met he would not have things all his own way as he had
today. Disgusted, he thought this whole question could be solved so easily if
only everyone would lay their cards on the table. Then he grinned. No, not
quite so easily after all—Spain, if she knew how effortlessly France was
selling the country out from underneath her, would be bound to object loudly!

His
mission to Monroe temporarily accomplished, his thoughts turned naturally to
Tamara and plans for the remainder of his stay in France. His promise to
Monroe meant discarding his original notion of hiring a house in the country,
but that was no hardship. He was certainly satisfied with the lodgings at the
Crillon.

On a
whim, he stopped at one of the many flower stalls that lined the streets and
purchased two enormous bouquets of red carnations. His arms filled with the
spicy blooms, he felt a bit ridiculous as he walked through the foyer of the
hotel. The quickly hid grin of the concierge did nothing to improve his
feeling, and he was certain within minutes the entire staff would know that
Monsieur and Madame Savage had either had a disagreement or must be madly in
love! To be the object of the hotel's gossip did not please him, and a slight
frown furrowed his forehead as he entered his own apartments.

The
enjoyment of the carnations somewhat abated, he dumped them down on the green
brocade sofa in his room and tossed his narrow-brimmed beaver hat on a small table
nearby. It was then he discovered that the giggles and voices he had carelessly
assumed were coming from one of the other rooms down the hall were in fact
originating from Tamara's apartments. Annoyed and not a little mystified, he
crossed the room with swift strides and flung open the door that divided their
suite of rooms.

Surprise
halted his impatient entry into the room, and be stared almost numbly at the
array of feminine garments, glorious materials, and fashion plates that were
strewn about the room. Silks, muslins, and brocades were draped over the sofa,
and every other available piece of furniture had some object of feminine
apparel upon it. Two young women—from their dress it was obvious they were
shop assistants—were busy unrolling lengths of even more exquisitely woven
materials. They looked up startled at his sudden entrance, and his black frown
wiped their happy smiles away. In a voice laced with steel, Jason thundered,
"Tamara! What the hell is going on?"

The
quiet murmurings coming from the other bedchamber ceased instantly, and. a
moment later Tamara, a vision in some gauzy material, drifted into the room
followed closely by a stout gray-haired woman and the wide-eyed Jeanne. A
provocatively innocent smile curving her lips, Catherine purred, "Why
darling, you're back early. I didn't expect you.
for
hours yet." Walking up to his frozen form, she stood on tiptoe and pressed
a brief kiss at the corner of his mouth. Before he could recover from his
shock, she pouted, "Darling, darling Jason, you left me alone all
afternoon, and I was so bored. You can't imagine how ghastly it was having no
money with me and knowing no one." Soulfully she looked up at him, and his
eyes narrowed with appreciation. But Catherine, not done with him, said sadly,
"It was positively unbearable until I spoke with the concierge, and he
directed me to Madame Elouise"—a languid wave indicated the gray- haired
woman—"and. after the concierge was so kind to write to her for me, she
came immediately. She's a very famous modiste, you know," Catherine added
innocently.

Jason,
having once paid for some gowns imported from France and made by the renowned
Madame Elouise for a little ladybird of his in New Orleans, groaned silently.
Si fait
, this was going to cost him a small fortune!

Unaware
of his precise thoughts but knowing he was displeased and glad that he was,
Catherine prattled on. "Wasn't it obliging of her to bring all these
wonderful things just for me to see? I've told her I intend to buy several
dresses and gowns. After all, you
did
promise me a new wardrobe." A glint of unholy mischief in her violet
eyes, Catherine leaned into him and mourned, "Just
think
how dreadful it would be if your wife had nothing to wear! You know we left
England so suddenly that I didn't have a chance to pack a
thing!"

Unreasonably
disappointed and angry, and not certain why, Jason was extremely conscious of
the soft, pliant body pressing into his. A glint of revenge flickering in his
eyes, he pulled her closer, and in full view of the four waiting women kissed
Catherine's unprepared mouth fully, deeply, and with intentional brutality.
Completely ignoring the slightly startled silence that greeted his actions, he
insolently caressed her slender hips, holding her prisoner against him as he
deliberately allowed his desire to build until Catherine felt him hard with
passion.

Chagrined
at how easily he turned the tables on her, she broke away from him and flashed
a furious glance in his direction. Shielding his very obvious state of emotion
with her own body, she turned with a flushed face to the silent women and
stammered, "Will—will you leave us for a few minutes? I believe Jeanne has
prepared some refreshments for you down the hall. We can continue the fittings
after you have renewed yourselves. Jeanne will show you the way."

A
thunderous silence filled the room after the openly curious women had left, and
angrily Catherine whirled on him. "How could you do such a thing? Have you
no decency?"

His
mouth tight with fury and the green eyes blazing with anger as hot
as her own,
he snapped. "You forget these are
my
rooms and I'll do as I please! Who the hell do you
think you are bringing these women here?" Not waiting for an answer he bit
out, "I was going to buy you more clothing. Couldn't you wait? Afraid I
might escape your greedy little claws before you could really milk me?"

Her
tone matching the scorn in his, her body almost rigid with rage, although
inwardly shrinking, Catherine gritted, "If you will remember, when you left
this afternoon you told me to amuse myself. Well, I have!" Defiantly she
glared up at him, silently daring him to disagree.

Controlling
his temper with an effort, Jason said levelly, "I can see that! And it's
just as well I have learned early in our association that you are exactly like
all of your kind," Casting her a look bordering on dislike, a sneering
smile on his face, he asked, "Considering what it is going
to
cost me before Madame Elouise is finished, do I take it that the next time I
seek out your bed I'll find you more accommodating than I have in the
past?"

Once Catherine would have
struck the sneer from his face, but she was learning painfully there were other
ways to fight. Very coolly she said, "You never paid me for my virginity.
Surely the cost of a wardrobe is little enough to pay for something that was
given unwillingly and was irreplaceable."

Jason stiffened as if she
had stung him, and this time the icy dislike was very obvious in his eyes and
voice. "Well, well," he drawled. "You may have been a novice at
your trade when first we met, but you certainly seem to be learning all the
tricks fast."

"But of course,"
she answered sweetly. "I have such an expert teacher."

A harsh laugh acknowledged
her retort, and after another sweeping glance at the room, he said more calmly,
"You may call your women back. I promised you a Parisian wardrobe, so buy
whatever you wish. Have madame see me before she leaves today."

"Why?"

"Don't raise your fur
up, my little cat. I won't countermand your orders, I merely wish to discuss
the more vulgar aspects of the transaction—for instance how much all this is
going to cost me." Looking at her with brooding intentness, he added,
"I had an idea you were going to cost me a great deal, but I never thought
I'd get so little enjoyment for my money!"

He waited expectantly, but
Catherine did not rise to the bait. She raised one slim brow in mocking
imitation of him and questioned innocently, "Isn't there a saying, a Latin
one, that
translates something to the effect, 'Let the
buyer beware'?"

The crashing smack of their
connecting door was her answer, for after throwing her a murderous look Jason
had turned and stormed out the door and into his own rooms.

A
queer, unhappy smile on her lips, Catherine sank weakly down onto the blue
sofa, her hands shaking. She had won this round with Jason, and only she knew
how much willpower it had taken—how much it had cost her to act as she had.
Curiously, instead of a happy feeling of elation, she was left feeling empty
and uneasy. The look in Jason's eyes had been so icy, so disdainful, that even
now she felt a quiver of remorse. He had stared at her as if she were something
loathsome that he had found in the gutter. Bolstering her flagging spirits, she
told herself he deserved what she did.

When the women returned,
Catherine found it tiring to take an interest in the proceedings that had given
her such joy a short while ago. She was almost relieved when the fitting was
over. After the women had departed, she walked into the bedroom and listlessly
threw herself on the bed. At the moment, she should be filled with glee. In the
morning Madame Elouise would be back and had promised that at least two of the
gowns would be ready by then. She had gotten even with Jason and soon would be
the possessor of a gorgeous and dazzling array of garments any young woman of
fashion would be overjoyed to own—so why did Jason's dark face, his eyes filled
with disillusionment and his mouth thinned with disgust, keep appearing before
her?

Gloomily, she decided it
must be that she was still tired and confused from the shocking events of the
past days. Tomorrow she would be able to take the proper enjoyment of her
victory. Briefly, she wondered at herself—at her concern that Jason not
think
vile thoughts of her—at her sudden interest in
feminine apparel. There had been a time, not too distant, when buying new
clothes had been a bore, but today the exquisite materials and drawings of
stylish gowns had excited and thrilled her—she who moaned and complained loudly
whenever Rachael had even suggested a trip to the dressmaker's!

Catherine was quiet and rather subdued during the
next few days and Jason's actions did nothing to restore her flagging
spirits—or even enrage her. Many evenings and afternoons he left her alone, and
she wondered where he went. He didn't appear to care one way or
another what
she did with her time, except that he saw that
she never had any money, and from the curious looks thrown her way
occasionally, she knew he kept alive the story of her apparent madness.

He seemed to want her and
yet not want her, treating her with careful politeness, never entering"
her apartments without knocking and when speaking to her always addressing a
spot somewhere above her bead. In public, he acted very much in the manner of a
loving husband showing a somewhat dimwitted little bride the sights, and
Catherine could have screamed with vexation. They toured the Tuileries gardens,
and they picnicked on several fine days in the Champ de Mars, a large and exceedingly
pleasant park.

If it was at all possible
to enjoy
herself
at those times, she did, for Jason
appeared to put aside their differences and showed her his most charming
manner. When he smiled at her kindly and exerted himself to please her, she knew
again the desire
to
confess her real identity. But once again, she
decided against it, clinging to the forlorn hope that somehow she would manage
to return to England without anyone ever guessing of this terrible escapade.
And as long as Jason made no attempt to reestablish an intimate relationship,
she was lulled by his appeasing, yet perplexing, attitude.

There were nights that he
returned to their rooms
barely before dawn, having left her alone
all evening, and sometimes she knew he was probably drunk because the faint
fumes of liquor drifted to her own rooms, but he did not force his attentions
upon her.

Jason
did return to the Crillon many nights in a deplorable condition, but he was
acting in a manner no different from any other young man of his birth and
breeding visiting Paris. With his cousin Michel, a willing and eager guide,
they explored nearly every den of sin in the city. It was in one of the more
popular whore houses that Jason met the Chevalier D'Arcy. Michel had been
forced to make the introduction, and instinctively Jason had not cared for
D'Arcy. He was a man with a squat body; his blue eyes were hard and bloodshot,
Later, Michel divulged that D'Arcy was barely tolerated by polite society due
to his suspected activities during the terrible years of the terror.

In
an undertone Michel had stated, "It was never proven, but there are many
who believe he was instrumental in the drownings at Nantes!" At Jason's
look of incomprehension, Michel had explained that the drownings had been grisly
events during which "enemies of the state"—men, women, and in some
cases children—had been locked below the decks of huge rafts and taken to the
middle of the river where the rafts were deliberately sunk with their live
cargo,

Jason
had a nasty taste in his mouth when Michel finished relating the despicable
details, and be had been hard pressed to remain civil to D'Arcy when, a few
days later, the man accosted him as he walked with Tamara and a few English
acquaintances at Bal Dourlons. Jason had introduced him to his group and Tamara
as his wife. Much to Jason's later fury, that one small incident was to have
far-reaching effects.

Nights
that he was not otherwise engaged, Jason and Catherine dined out in the most
expensive and exclusive clubs of the city. But for the pleasure she derived
from it, Catherine might as well have been marooned in the middle of some
hostile desert. She almost wished he would rape her again. At least then she
had had his attention, and she was beginning to think anything was better than
the cool, indifferent manner in which he treated her.

Gradually,
a raging feeling of injustice and resentment
began
to build inside her. She hadn't done anything wrong, quite the contrary, so why
should she feel guilty? He was the villain, and if her company displeased him
so, why did he keep her? She would gladly go back to England!

Pierre had arrived and with
him Jason's curricle and horses, so they no longer depended upon the hired
coaches with their sluggish horses. Prior to Pierre's arrival, though, Jason
had bought two excellent saddle horses for pleasure riding. He had chosen a
gleaming, Roman- nosed chestnut for himself and a sleek, long-legged gray mare
for Tamara. The servants and residents at the Crillon grew used to the sight of
Monsieur and Madame Savage leaving for their early morning ride.

Catherine truly enjoyed
those rides. She fell in love with the gray mare, and it was a delight to feel
the wind tearing through her hair and the fluid motion of a racing horse
beneath her once more. During their rides together, some of Jason's aloofness
fled, and more than once with an added thump to her heart she had caught his
glance lingering on her flushed cheeks and rosy lips.

As time progressed,
Catherine discovered to her horror that she was enjoying Jason's company a
great deal more than she should have. Jason, once he had set out to charm, was
almost irresistible, and she fought a losing battle against the powerful tug of
attraction between them, as well as the pull of Jason's forceful personality.

There were times—mostly at
night, as she lay alone unable to sleep—that all the hideous ramifications of
her predicament haunted and revolted her. In those moments, she hated Jason and
wished with all her young heart that she had never laid eyes on him or that she
had never returned to the gypsy camp that fateful night. But except for those
agonizing hours alone in the dark, she threw herself grimly into the charade
that she was forced to play.

There were other British
residents staying at the Crillon, for Paris since the Peace of Amiens and in
spite of the imminent threat of war, was filled with the English aristocracy.
Some came out of curiosity to view this new rabble government, others because
it was
le dernier cri
—the fashionable place to be—and
a few simply because there was no place like Paris in the spring. With the
continued influx of her fellow countrymen, Catherine
lived
in dread that sooner or later someone was bound to recognize her. For Jason,
without a qualm and with a good deal of sardonic amusement, coolly introduced
her as his wife to their fellow guests and whichever of his acquaintances they
met, although he took great pains to avoid Monroe when he had Tamara with him.

If it
was a foregone conclusion that the chaste state that existed between them could
not last—Jason was a demanding lover, and he certainly had not brought her
along merely to show her the sights—it was equally evident that their charade
would not go undetected for very long. Surprisingly, the first crack in the shell
of deceit that encompassed them would come from an unexpected quarter.

Jason
called again at the American legation as he had promised, and as he had
foreseen, he had to contend with both Livingston and Monroe. It proved to be an
excessively sensitive meeting. He delicately threaded his way between
willingness to divulge whatever was necessary to calm their fears without
revealing his source of information and outright refusal to answer their
questions.

Robert
Livingston was an older man, a large man with a receding hairline; unkind
gossip said he was stone deaf. But deafness does not make a man stupid, and
Jason felt decidedly wary when Livingston leveled a long assessing look in his
direction. The sharp gray eyes seemed to peer into his inner thoughts, and he
moved uneasily in the leather chair, wondering if Livingston guessed how
adroitly the Americans were being maneuvered.

Astonishingly,
in view of his dubious role in the proceedings, the Americans were oddly
willing to keep him informed of their progress. And that they were somewhat
confused was also apparent, for Monroe muttered angrily, "Damn it! What
does Barbe-Marbois mean they will not discuss the Floridas? I understand one of
the points we were to decide upon was our jurisdiction there! And now
Barbe-Marbois states flatly that the
only
thing the French government is willing to negotiate with us is the sale of the
entire Louisiana area! That and nothing else! I tell you I don't know if I'm on
my heels or my head!"

Jason
sympathized with the American position, but as long as Napoleon's government
made no attempt to swindle them, he was unprepared to enlighten the diplomats
further. His role so far had been a minor one, and he intended to see that it
remained so!

He
also noticed that Livingston allowed Monroe to do all the talking, but he was
left with the feeling that of the two, Livingston was more likely to pull off
the coup of the century than the voluble Mr. Monroe. Not that he doubted
Monroe's abilities, but he sensed Livingston was coolly aware of the way they
were being led at a smooth gallop to the negotiating table and that once there,
the French would discover that Livingston was not as sleepy as he looked!

Jason
was on the point of leaving when Monroe stopped him by asking, "Will I see
you tonight at the reception? I hope you will not decline!"

Unable
to refuse without appearing churlish, Jason nodded his head affirmatively, and
after adding a few polite words regarding the evening, he took his leave. He
was not looking forward to the reception; because of Monroe's friendship with
Guy and because he suspected the Americans wanted him under their watchful
eyes, he found himself invited to most of the social gatherings hosted by the
Americans. He could not refuse every invitation, nor did he wish to, but
neither did he intend to o drawn deeper into the diplomatic circles than was
necessary.

And
Tamara presented a problem. He did not want to introduce her in diplomatic
circles as his wife—it was one thing to hoax chance-met acquaintances and
another to hoax people who knew one's family well—but he had been leaving her
alone too many evenings. His reason for this reluctance was not a feeling of
guilt at the thought of her dining alone in their apartments while he enjoyed
himself with the cream of Parisian society, but the uneasy worry that she
still might attempt to escape.

Exactly
why he was determined she stay in his possession was unclear even to himself.
It certainly wasn't because she warmed his empty bed, for he hadn't touched her
since they had been in France. Nor was it because of the enormous sum of money
she had cost him in clothing and the jewels he had lately showered upon her. If
she had displeased or bored him, he would have discarded her without
compunction! So, why did he keep her in his sole possession like a princess in
an ivory tower? Grudgingly, he admitted he still found her in
triguing—she fascinated him
like no other woman he had ever met. Not that he was blinded to the charms of
other women. Certainly not! Indeed, his spirits rose when he thought about the
lovely Clarissa, a small blond who had caught his eyes at the last two
functions he had attended at the American legation. She had made it clear she
looked favorably upon his amorous advances, and if she was at the party he
planned to arrange a rendezvous.

Clarissa represented the
type of woman who usually appealed to him, a bored society beauty married to a
much older husband, a woman who enjoyed flirting outrageously with the
younger, dashing blades—and if their flirtations led to an affair, who was the
wiser?

The soiree was being held
at Livingston's grand apartments overlooking the Seine River, and Jason felt
good about it, now that he viewed the evening as a necessary prelude to his
soon-to-be liaison with Clarissa. The fact that it would be carried on right
under her husband's nose added a touch of excitement to it. Before the evening
was half over, Jason had manipulated Clarissa into a darkened room, and her
ardent response to his embrace confirmed that she was more than willing for a
more private tête-à-tête. Between kisses that left Clarissa breathless, Jason
had extracted a promise that she would meet him near the Pont-Neuf the next
afternoon.

Distinctly pleased with his
success, Jason left her to discreetly follow him back into the main salon while
he nonchalantly strolled up to a small group of men talking near the wide
flung, dark-paneled doors that led to a large balcony overhanging the Seine
River. The group included Monroe, as well as Clarissa's paunchy husband who
acted as an assistant to Marbois. Two of the other gentlemen he was not
familiar with although hazily he remembered being introduced to them earlier in
the evening. The fifth man, though, needed no introduction. Jason's mouth
tightened as his eyes fell upon the heavy body of the Chevalier D'Arcy.

D'Arcy, because it was his
nature to do so, had noticed the flirtation between Jason and Clarissa, and
slyly he asked, "Monsieur Savage, where is your lovely wife tonight? I
have not seen her all evening. Surely, she is not ill! She looked so very
charming when we met the other day."

Monroe threw Jason an
astonished glance and exclaimed, "Wife? Jason you never said a thing! How
thoughtless of you not to have told me! I would have been extremely happy to
welcome your wife."