Lady Vixen (39 page)

"You
may be assured on that point, but it is a damnable situation that I can do
little to change. At least your American commission has been appointed for the
peace talks." A grim smile on his mouth, he added, "Now if only we
British will do the same and finally settle upon a place for the talks."

Looking
startled, Christopher said, "I beg pardon! I thought the site of the talks
was to be in Gothenburg, Sweden."

Baring
shook his head. "No, not any longer. At first this was true, but now there
is a movement, God knows why, to move the talks to Ghent in East
Flanders."

"I
see," Christopher mused slowly. "And this change of site will no
doubt delay the start of the talks a few months, or at least several
weeks?"

"I'm
afraid so. But bear this in mind—Britain
does
desire peace."

Christopher
agreed politely, unwilling to share his very different views with Baring.
Baring was, after all, a member of the British Parliament and as such, while
perhaps wishing for peace, was naturally watching over his own country's
interest. Christopher said little more and took his leave shortly thereafter. He
returned to his rooms at Grillions and spent some minutes pacing the floor of
his elegant parlor.

Britain
might wish for peace, he thought sardonically, but not before she had one more
brilliant victory in America. A master stroke that would show those brazen
colonials who was the actual power. The fact that the peace talks site was in
question pointed to delay. Also, although Monroe and Castlereagh had finally
agreed on direction negotiations and the Americans had appointed their
delegates, it appeared Britain had done nothing, thereby creating a further
delay. A delay that would perhaps enable them to capture New Orleans.
Christopher snorted derisively. Though it was up to him to find proof, he
cursed the fact that there was little he could do at present except allow
himself to be absorbed into English society and hope eventually to stumble upon
something or someone that could provide the information he wanted.

He
joined the ladies in the drawing room of their suite for tea. It was Mrs.
Eggleston who raised the question of his family. "And when do we call upon
your family, Christopher? We have been in London over a week now, and I feel it
is very rude of us not to have apprised some member of your family of our
arrival before now."

Christopher
regarded her with something like consternation. He had avoided his family
simply because he wasn't certain he was prepared to be plunged into the
possible recriminations and ugly repercussions that might result. How was his
grandfather going to react to his return? And Robert . . . dear, kind Uncle
Robert . . . planning some new underhanded plot? His family was a complication
he didn't really need at this time, he thought with frustration.

Unfortunately
Mrs. Eggleston was not going to give him much choice! "Well, Christopher?"
she asked as he continued to remain silent.

Stifling
a curse in his throat about interfering old women and yet knowing she was
right, he said reluctantly, "I suppose, I could call at Cavendish Square
this evening and at least leave my card if no one is at home."

Mrs.
Eggleston gave him a searching look. But before she could pursue the subject,
Nicole asked the question that she, too, like Christopher, would have preferred
not to have answered. "Do my aunt and uncle know that I am returned? Have
you written to them or am I to do it?"

Nicole,
too, had been content to drift, but Mrs. Eggleston's very proper question made
it impossible for her to avoid her own uncertain situation.

Christopher
swore silently to himself at Nicole's unexpected query. His deliberate
avoidance of informing the Markhams of their niece's return had its roots in a
perplexing problem: he was simply unable to deal with the idea that Nicole
would no longer be under his protection! He told himself grimly that this
feeling would pass soon enough, that the reason for it was their many years
together, the shared adventures on the sea, and because he had seen her grow,
helped her grow, he admitted cynically, from an impetuous Nick into the
extremely desirable young lady seated across from him.

And
like most males confronted by two determined women asking questions he would
rather not answer, he was feeling harassed and slightly exasperated. "No, I
haven't informed them, damnit! I didn't realize you were so eager to return to
their bosom!" It was unfair, and Christopher regretted it the moment the
provoking words left his mouth.

Nicole's
eyes darkened with sudden anger, and Mrs. Eggleston instantly thrust herself
into the role of peacemaker as she murmured soothingly, "I'm certain dear
Nicole meant nothing of the kind, and really, Christopher, you should not use
such language in front of ladies."

Choking
back his unaccountably rising temper with an effort, he said tightly, "I
apologize. And since you ladies are dissatisfied with my arrangements, I shall
immediately see to your expressed wishes!" He gave them both a stiff bow
and departed.

"Well!"
Mrs. Eggleston exclaimed, considerably startled at the uncalled-for display of
bad temper. "Whatever was wrong with Christopher? I have never known him
to behave so."

You
don't know the half of it, Nicole thought angrily. She set her teacup down with
a clatter, showing her own temper.

But
the smile she bestowed upon Mrs. Eggleston a second later was all that could be
wished for in a well-bred young lady. With a pretty shrug of her shoulders she
said lightly, "Perhaps he is not feeling well, or it could be that his
visit to Mr. Baring this morning was not to his liking. There's no
telling."

Doubtfully,
Mrs. Eggleston concurred. "Yeees, I suppose that could be true. I feel,
though, that there is something more behind his unseemly display of temper than
a morning gone wrong!"

Of
course Mrs. Eggleston was correct. Christopher, to his dismay, was finding
himself compelled to do several things he didn't want to do. Leaving the
ladies, he cursed his bad luck for ever having set eyes on Nicole Ashford, her
mother—that damned and bewitching Annabelle!—his Uncle Robert, and Jason
Savage.

In
his rooms over the following hours he composed many letters to the Markhams but
ended up screwing them into knots and throwing them on the empty hearth. He had
no excuses or reasons for not having notified them of Nicole's return before
now. And as he was aware, the longer he postponed informing them, the more
suspicion would be cast on their tale. He reached once again for a clean sheet
of paper and then with a curse crumpled it and tossed it aside.

Grimly,
he finally acknowledged to himself that he was not going to write to her
relatives—not now, and his reason for not doing so was his own business! And
damn anyone who questioned him—Nicole included!

It
was impossible, he knew, to keep her in his bachelor household much longer,
even with Mrs. Eggleston's chaperonage. Legally and even morally, he should
have written the Markhams the instant they arrived in England, and legally,
once her guardians knew where Nicole was, he could do nothing to stop them from
whisking her away.

Christopher
had been playing for time with regard to both his family and Nicole's
guardians, but time was obviously running out. Thoughtfully he stared at the
gleaming shine of his top boots. Alone he could not hope to do anything for
Nicole. But his grandfather was a lord, the Baron, and if all Nicole had told
Allen was true, Lord Saxon
could
exert a great deal of influence on her
behalf. Influence enough, perhaps, to have the guardianship set aside?
Possibly. But the question remained—if the Markhams were to be stripped of
their authority over Nicole and her fortune, who would take their place?

Eventually
a husband would fall heir to those duties, Christopher mused aimlessly.
Realizing suddenly the train of his thoughts, he jerked up as if someone had
stabbed him. Husband? To Nicole?

Good
God,
no!
It was ridiculous! They disliked each other, except for the
strange chemistry that ignited between their bodies and that, Christopher
thought with a sneer,
that
would fade. No, he was not going to offer
marriage as a way out of her difficulties. He came to no solution as he sat
there in his room, but he did come to one decision—he would seek out his
grandfather immediately!

Ringing
for Higgins, he dressed for the coming interview with especial care. Breeches
of light drab, a pristine white single-breasted waistcoat, and a black velvet
jacket with flat gilt buttons completed his apparel. The thick dark hair, worn
at present longer than was fashionable, was brushed and gleamed like a
blackbird's wing in the sun. With his tall, lithe body, his hard, handsome
features, and his easy manner, he was a grandson that most men would be proud
to acknowledge . . . but would Lord Saxon?

Christopher
approached the tall, stately home in Cavendish Square with a variety of
emotions. He did not fear either his grandfather or Robert, but he was slightly
wary and uneasy. Simon was perfectly capable of having him ejected from the
house, and Robert, if he thought he could get away with it, would take delight
in identifying him as a deserter from the British Navy.

There
was, too, a certain typical, devil-may-care tilt to his head. If Simon didn't
want to acknowledge him, well—damn him! Yet underlying all his feelings was a desire
to make his peace with his grandfather.

His
firm rap upon the heavy oak door was received with polite disdain by a very
stiff butler. Without comment the man received Christopher's card. Feigning
indifference, Christopher said crisply, "I would like to see Lord Saxon
this moment... if he is at home. You may say that it is a personal
matter."

There
was for just a second the faintest flicker of interest in the pale eyes as the
butler read Christopher's name. "If you will wait here, sir, I will see if
Lord Saxon is available," he said. Then he disappeared down the long white
and gold hallway.

Now
that the moment was upon him, Christopher felt himself filled with impatience.
Restlessly, with short nervous steps, he paced the inlaid tile floor, oblivious
to the elegance of his surroundings.

Suddenly
he stiffened as a door banged open and a well-remembered voice roared,
"Where the blazes is he? You bettle-headed sapscull! Don't leave him
waiting like some ragtag Bartholomew baby—he's my own grandson come home!"

A
tall, gaunt figure, dressed in evening clothes much like Christopher's, his
eyes flashing like burnished gold, the swarthy skin lined and seamed with age,
and the thick dark hair at variance with the creases in his face, erupted into
the hallway. The similarity between them, Simon and Christopher, was
incredible—so Christopher would look in forty years' time; to Simon it was like
peering into the past, with his own face once again smooth and hard, staring
back at him.

An
abrupt silence fell. They surveyed each other without words. Christopher, his
pulse unaccountably jumping, bit back an eager smile, as a feeling of joy
replaced his earlier fears.

"Well,"
the old man said testily, "I see you're back— and high time too!"

This
time Christopher's lips did twist in a grin. "So I assumed! You look the
same, sir, if I may say so."

His
grin fading, his eyes searching the dear familiar features, Christopher said
slowly, "I expected from what I had heard to find you greatly changed. I'm
happy to see you in health, sir."

Regarding
him from under heavy brows, not quite able to hide completely the pleasure he
felt, Simon lashed out aggressively, "You young devil, what did you mean
disappearing like that? You were very nearly the death of me! And now you have
the impertinence to ask after my health! Bah! I've a good mind to send you
packing!"

The
words had hardly left his mouth when he whirled on the waiting butler and
barked, "And you, you chuckle-headed creature, what are you standing there
for? See that rooms are prepared for him!" His fiery glance swung to his
grandson and he demanded, "Where are your valises and baggage? Don't tell
me you travel that lightly!"

Not
a bit disturbed by the half-angry, half-conciliatory tone of voice, Christopher
replied coolly, "I'm presently staying at Grillions, and before you make
further plans I should warn you that I am not alone!"

"Married,
hey? Well, that's all to the good m'boy. Provided of course she's a good gel.
I'll not have any custom-house goods brought into the house—your wife or not!
But come! Come into my study!"

One
hand clutched Christopher's arm in a death grip, while the other pounded him
heartily on the shoulders as Simon led him into his study. "Damn me, boy,
but this is a most welcome surprise," he finally muttered as if the words
were torn from deep inside him.

Alone
they stared at each other again. Christopher realized with pain that his
grandfather had been totally unaware of his fate until this very moment, and he
found himself at a curious loss for words. What does one say after almost
fifteen years?

Simon,
too, was wondering much the same himself, but for the moment he had no need of
words. He was content to feast his eyes on those beloved features, which he had
feared he would never see again. And he was proud of what he saw. Thank God,
the boy was safe, he thought. Safe and come home to me.