Lady Vixen (68 page)

Beyond
rational action, Robert placed both hands on the desk and, thrusting his face near
Simon's, ranted, "It's not fair! He is the one you should treat so. He is
a pirate! Lieutenant Jennings-Smythe recognized him." Frantically
fabricating his story as he went on, Robert continued passionately, "It's
true! He told me! If you don't believe it, ask him! You'll see!"

For
a long minute Simon stared at him. Robert was so earnest that it gave him
pause. With startling insight he acknowledged that Robert's accusations didn't
really disturb him. Christopher could very well be a pirate—it made little
difference to Simon. Hadn't Sir Francis Drake been labeled such? Yet he felt as
one last concession to his son, he should face Christopher. Quietly he said.
"Very well, I will. But whether he is or not, does not change the
situation between us. Once I have spoken to him, you will leave this house and
spare me the distasteful pleasure of ever seeing you again." Rising from
his seat, Simon strode swiftly from the study, intent upon finishing this
painful affair as soon as possible.

Spitefully
elated, a satisfied smile curving his thin lips, Robert sank back into the
chair. Now let Christopher wiggle out of this one, he thought malevolently. I
may be shunned and banned, but Christopher will also share the same fate!

Simon,
refusing to have one of the servants find Christopher for him, shortly ran him
down in his room. When Simon burst into his room Christopher was comfortably
perched on the corner of a mahogany table, watching Higgins put a shine on a
pair of Hessians.

At
Simon's forceful entry Christopher straightened instantly, a wary look crossing
his face.

Simon
glared at Higgins and said with his usual sharpness, "You leave! I want a
word with my grandson."

Higgins
glanced at Christopher and at Christopher's slight nod bowed and left the room.

Idly,
Christopher asked, "Was it necessary to speak so rudely to him? I value
Higgins rather highly, you know."

"Bah!
Don't fob me off with such trivial conversation. What I have to say is
extremely private and personal, and I don't want anyone else to overhear us. If
you wish, I'll apologize to him later."

An
eyebrow cocked sardonically, Christopher echoed, "Apologize to him? Now
that I must see! You have never apologized to anyone."

"Damnit,
quit trying to turn me away! Robert is down below in the study, and he had made
a most damaging statement against you." Eyeing Christopher from beneath
scowling heavy brows, Simon said bluntly, "He says you are a pirate! A
Captain Saber and that there is a price on your head. Is it true?"

Their
eyes met, gold clashing against gold. "Well, are you really this—this
Captain Saber?"

His
gaze never wavered as Christopher nodded curtly, "Yes, I am." He
stated the words flatly, offering no explanations, no excuses. What was he to
do? Express hypocritical regret? Cry out it was not his fault, but
circumstances? Not bloodly likely, he thought fiercely.

The
admission, despite his earlier emotion of indifference, was a shattering blow
to Simon. He hadn't really believed it—hadn't wanted to believe it. The gold
eyes dimmed just a little, and slowly, like a worn-out old man, he sank down
into a nearby chair. Heavily he said, "I feared it was so."

Knowing
that some explanation would have to be offered, if not the entire truth,
Christopher had dreaded this moment. He had hoped he could leave England
without Simon's ever learning of Captain Saber. Certainly he had never meant to
tell him, had hoped with savage intensity that he would never be hurt by this
knowledge. No matter how many times he had rehearsed this scene in his mind,
the reality of Simon's weary, almost broken manner was far worse than anything
he could have imagined. His teeth clenched, a muscle jerked in the taut jaw; he
stared at his grandfather, groping for words that would lessen the blow.

Unable
to bear the sight of him so apparently devastated, without the usual thunder
and fire spilling from him, Christopher muttered thickly, "Grandfather, I
would have spared you this, if I could have. I cannot change what I am or what
I have been." Dropping to one knee, his strong brown hand tenderly
covering the blue-veined one that still clutched the ever-present ebony cane,
Christopher said harshly, "I cannot even ask forgiveness for what I have
done. But I did not do it to hurt you or to bring shame on you." With a
note of pleading in the deep voice, he went on, "Each of us must live as
he sees fit. I do not expect you to approve of what I have done, but for God's
sake don't condemn me for being myself, for being what I am—a privateer, an
American first by circumstance and then by choice."

Simon's
head snapped up at the words, the faded gold eyes boring into the deeper,
brighter golden ones fixed so earnestly and purposefully on his.

"An
American?" he barked testily.

Christopher
nodded tersely. Steadily, his gaze unwaveringly on Simon's face, he declared
vehemently, "New Orleans is my home now! My land, my fortune, my future
all lie in the United States. And yes, I have been a privateer, the Captain
Saber that Robert claims. Yes, I have attacked British ships, I have
even," he added deliberately, "sunk them. But whatever I have done, I
did not do it to cause you pain or distress." Bleakly he finished,
"There was a time I never thought to see you again, when I hated anything,
everything British. I've lived my life by my own rules, and I can't claim that
I'm sorry for it."

"Admirable,"
Simon remarked dryly.

Christopher
stiffened and stood up. Curtly he said, "I did not mean to bore you."

"Ha!
Never said I was bored, did I?" Simon snapped irascibly. "Now you
listen to me, coxcomb! American you may be, privateer you may have been, but
you're my grandson before all else and my heir, too, for that matter!"

Assessingly,
Christopher eyed him, partially encouraged by the irate note in his voice, but
still uncertain as to how deeply the confession had cut into him. Simon appeared
to be recovering somewhat, even though what he had just learned must have been
a terrible wound. Simon did not, however, give him the chance to say more.
Sitting bolt upright on the chair, his cane held firmly in one hand, he scowled
ferociously at his watchful grandson. "Now then," Simon began
aggressively, "I have a few things to say to you sapscull! First, you're
my grandson and don't you ever forget it! Second, I don't give a damn what
you've done—" He stopped abruptly, remembering Robert and what he had said
to him. Pursing his lips in concentration, he said slowly, "Provided
you've not deliberately harmed innocent people—and I don't mean those that
might have come to grief in the course of your privateering. That is war and
that I understand. Unless you have fought unfairly or been cowardly in your
attacks." He hesitated, shooting Christopher a gloomy glance. "I am
not saying I wouldn't rather you were not this Captain Saber or I don't wish
that your first loyalty lay with England. But since it don't I am not one to
repine over what I can't change. Point is, you are, as you said, what you are,
and I'd be all kinds of a silly fool if I denied you because we disagree
politically."

Christopher
grinned at him ruefully. "Do you think Robert is going to take that
enlightened view?"

Simon
snorted. "You leave him to me. That Canterbury tale of his is going no
further. I'll see to that!"

"I
don't think it will be that easy, sir. There is," he paused, then said
carefully, "a certain enmity between us, and I don't believe he will
simply shut up because you order him to." Christopher hesitated, uncertain
of his next move. He had not planned his denouement, but with the thought of
time slipping by and the knowledge that in a matter of hours he would be
meeting the American privateer, it seemed his only opportunity to tell Simon of
his impending departure. But he could not baldly divulge his plans—Simon would
guess instantly that this trip to England had been more than just a personal
visit, and it would cause him even more pain. Captain Saber he might be able to
forgive, but a spy? Christopher thought not. Inspiration saved Christopher as
he realized he could use Robert as his excuse for departure.

"I
think," he said slowly, "it would be best if I left for America.
Tonight. Before Robert has any chance to cause trouble. Once this war is
over"—he threw Simon a mocking smile—"this war you pay little heed
to, my privateering activities will cease to be a danger. Then I can return.
Until then, I'm afraid, sir, I can't risk staying."

At
Simon's balky look, Christopher said candidly, "Jennings-Smythe knows who
I am. He recognized me and can point me out as Captain Saber."

His
jaw thrust out stubbornly, not quite convinced, Simon asked, "How will you
leave? There are no ships sailing for America."

"I
can leave tonight for France. From there I can catch a ship sailing for the
West Indies. Or Cuba. Whatever it doesn't matter; eventually I'll manage to
reach an American privateer sailing in those waters or a ship that is going to
run the blockade of the Gulf. Don't worry, I'll get back to New Orleans. It'll
just take time." Coolly and deliberately he stifled any remorse at these
lies— better his grandfather believed this than know of that American privateer.

Simon
didn't like it, but he saw the danger clearly. Still, not wanting to see him
go, he argued, "Why must it be tonight? Why not tomorrow or the next
day?" He knew the answers as soon as he spoke the words. Any delay, now
that Robert was speaking openly of Captain Saber, could be fatal. An icy fear
clutched his heart at the thought of Christopher in chains and on the gallows,
and Simon said almost inaudibly, "You're right. You must go tonight."

The
soft words tore at Christopher, knowing as he did how much the older man must
be dreading this parting —didn't he dread it as much?

"Grandfather,"
he coaxed persuasively, "it will not be like the last time. This time you
know where I am headed and you know that I will be back. Soon. I promise."

Without
haste Simon stood up. He could not say the words of farewell, not yet. They
would have another moment alone before this evening ended and Christopher left.
Then perhaps he could bid the boy adieu without this silly moisture in his
eyes.

Without
meeting Christopher's eyes, he muttered gruffly, "After dinner tonight,
I'll want another word with you in my study. After that you may slip away. In
the meantime I'll talk to Robert. Tell him I couldn't find you and that his
story is a Covent Garden farce. Tell him he'll have to say it to your face in
front of me before I'll believe it's not just a spiteful tale. That should keep
him quiet until tomorrow sometime. By that time you should have reached Dover. I
warn you, though, to waste no time. I will try to keep Robert at bay as long as
I can, but the very most I can fob him off will be a day or two."

Christopher
nodded. "And the ladies? What will you tell them?"

Simon
let out his breath in a rush. "Simply that you have been called away to
France on urgent business and they are not to talk of it. Anyone else that asks
after you will get the same answer. Sooner or later they'll stop asking."
Then regarding his boots, he muttered fiercely, "You just get yourself
back here safe as soon as you can."

Christopher
stared at his grandfather, not bothering to hide what he felt. With that
charming warm smile so few people ever saw on his lips and the usually hard
gold eyes soft with unhidden love, he said haltingly, "I'm sorry it has to
be like this. And I'm sorry you'll have to make excuses for me. Next time, I
promise you, there will be no need for such a hasty departure."

"By
God, there had better not be!" Simon barked irascibly. His eyes bright
with suppressed emotion, he stumped from the room growling, "I don't know
why I waste my time with you! Here's Robert waiting in my study for me, and now
thanks to you I have to go turn him up sweet to keep his mouth shut. And just
when I was warming up to a grand disinheritance scene too!"

For
a long time, a very long time, Christopher regarded the doorway through which
Simon had disappeared. There was a sadness within him, a dull ache in his
heart. Roughly he pulled himself back to the task at hand and rang impatiently
for Higgins to rejoin him. Jesus, he decided derisively, he was getting like a
maudlin milkmaid, and deliberately he switched his thoughts, wondering idly how
Robert was taking Simon's orders.

Unfortunately
when Simon reached his study, it was empty. A sharp inquiry of Twickham
elicited the puzzling information that Master Robert had departed with Nicole's
maid Galena.

"With
one of the maids?" Simon repeated. "What is he doing with one of the
maids?"

"I
really couldn't say, sir," Twickham replied politely. Catching the fire in
Simon's eye, he added quickly, "I did hear Miss Nicole's name mentioned
though, and Edward Markham's. It was something to do with Brighton Park.
Perhaps Miss Nicole sent Galena with a message for one of the coachmen to fetch
her and Mister Markham from the park and Master Robert decided to go
instead."

"Perhaps,"
Simon agreed noncommittally. It seemed unlikely, yet Robert
had
spoken
of seeing Nicole. Perhaps they had gone for a ride. At this hour? With Edward
Markham? Now that sounded odd. Very odd.