Paxton's War (27 page)

It didn't matter, nothing mattered, because Colleen was goddess of the, hunt, and hunt she would. There! There was the clown, the man who, despite all his mysteries, dominated her dreams, awake and asleep. As Colleen walked up to him, determined to give him another piece of her mind, he saw her coming and cruelly turned away. Still she pursued him, feeling more like Diana the huntress than Colleen, until she finally caught the sleeve of his comical blouse, only to have him withdraw his arm, as though her touch had repulsed him. The words he spoke, in a strangely contorted voice, cut through her heart like a sharpened surgical tool used by her father to slice human flesh: “Away, woman!” he barked. “Away!”

Allan Coleridge had fallen asleep. Hope's whiskey had put him under, and he was certain that the whisper in his ear was part of a dream. When he opened his eyes and saw a man wearing a gray mask with only small slits cut out for his eyes, mouth, and nose, he felt even more alarmed.

“Can you walk?” asked the man in a disguised voice. “If not, I'll carry you.”

“Where are we going?” Allan wanted to know.

“We're getting out of here.”

Outside his cell, Allan saw another three dozen prisoners assembled. What were they doing there? A half dozen guards had been knocked out or tied up. Windows and doors were wide open. Still groggy and slightly hung over, Allan joined the others in following the masked man in the gray cloak outside. Outside! Oh, the sweet smell of freedom! The deliciously cool night air! But no time to stop. The men climbed in the back of a large covered cart used for transporting farm animals, and suddenly they were off, their liberator driving a team of horses through the back alleys of Charleston.

“Did you see him, Allan?” asked Jack Spike, one of Coleridge's fellow prisoners, as they bounced up and down while the cart headed toward the countryside.

“I was sleeping,” Allan confessed.

“My God, man,” said Spike, one of the fiercest rebels in the colony, “I never seen nothin' like it before. He was lightnin', he was. The way he broke away the bars and snuck in through the side window just above my cell. I saw it all, I did. Like lookin' at one of those drama plays the fancy people pay to see. He comes in and takes two guards at once, bangin' their heads together so mightily that they're both out in a flash. Little noise, and then he's on the third guard, knockin' him out with a blow from his right fist, the likes of which would down a bear, I swear. Now he charges the fourth guard, with no time for the bloke to see what's a-comin'. Smack! He slams into his belly and knocks the breath from him, ties him up—the man's no killer, Coleridge, that's the strange part—but he's lightnin' on his feet, and when the last two limeys hear the clamor and come a-lookin', why, he's ready with rope. He catches them 'round the neck and has 'em gagged and helpless in less time than it takes a hound to mount a bitch and there we are, our bloody cages open, and the rest of the ignorant English blokes too far away in the Old Customs Exchange to hear a peep. Can you imagine it? One on six and the day is his. He's the one they call Will-o'-the-Wisp. I'd bet my dear dead mother's arse on it. It's him, all right, and he's sprung us free. My God, what a night!” Spike slapped Coleridge on the back as they continued bouncing through the countryside.

Behind the reins, the Wisp was all concentration, obsessed, transformed as he always was on his missions—no thoughts of goddesses or music—riding, riding, riding, running the team of strong horses through the woods and swamps, riding no less than eight miles north of the city until he reached a secret encampment of rebel forces.

“'Tis no friend of the Crown here!” he shouted, keeping the sentinels from shooting. “I'm carrying Patriot prisoners in need of medical aid and decent food. Will you help them now?”

A lusty cheer went up from among the rebel forces who had come out to inspect the cart. But by the time the men climbed down and embraced their comrades-in-arms, Will-o'-the-Wisp had mounted the great dun stallion he'd brought with him and ridden off like the night wind.

“Are you ready to leave now?” Buckley asked Colleen as at least half the guests had already gone.

“Yes, immediately,” she replied, deciding that she could no longer stay in the same room with Jason Paxton. The drink had brought her mood first up, then down, and, with a dozen different thoughts whirling in her head, all she really knew was that she wanted to escape this madcap party, and right away. The farther away from him, the better. She bothered to say good-night to no one, not even her aunt.

Her greyhounds were pleased to see her. Their ready affection was something she welcomed, while Buckley paid them not the slightest attention.

Somerset's head was high in the starry sky. Never in his life had he felt more confident. He knew that nothing could deter his plans as he, Colleen, and the twin beasts stood inside the portico, waiting for his carriage to be brought around.

The fresh night air, in combination with the goodly quantity of alcohol she had consumed, startled and refreshed Colleen. Ten minutes later, riding in the carriage, she saw that they'd passed by her aunt's street without stopping. “Where are we going?” she asked Buckley in an alarmed voice.

“Trust me, my dear,” Somerset said, offering a sly smile.

“I want to know where we're going. I
demand
to know.”

“I'm taking you home with me.”

“Have your man turn the carriage around and take me back to my aunt's.”

“I'm afraid I can't. You see, your aunt's not expecting you.”

“Of course she's expecting me! What are you talking about?”

“I spoke with her at the ball and explained that you'll be spending the weekend with me.”

“That's out of the question. Aunt Rianne would never allow such a thing.”

“On the contrary, she seemed pleased at the prospect. I had the feeling she welcomed the opportunity of being alone with her Oriental friend.”

“This is impossible,” Colleen said.

“Perhaps you don't know your aunt as well as you think. No matter, we'll have a splendid time. You've not seen Marble Manor before, and you'll love the place.”

“I'm not the least interested in seeing Marble Manor.”

“It's but mid-road between here and Brandborough. Mother and Father are expecting us. I've some business to tend to there, but I assure you that nothing will interfere with our pleasure. We'll be there well before daybreak.”

“This is insane. I've no provisions, no clothes other than this foolish costume.”

“Your costume's delightful, and Mother has nothing but clothes. Your head will swim with choices.”

Colleen considered protesting further, considered striking Buckley or leaping from the carriage. If she gave the command, would her greyhounds attack him? Probably not. Nothing had gone right, and for all the heartache she'd suffered at the hands of a silly clown, Colleen was tired. Why had Jason deserted her? Why had her aunt allowed her to be whisked away? Too many unanswered questions, too little energy left to fight. She leaned back in the carriage and tried to convince herself that this was her fate, that fighting wouldn't help, that she had no choice but to remain in the company of this bold buccaneer.

Chapter 9

It was nearly two
A
.
M
. when Rianne told Billy Hollcork that enough was enough. Hollcork was an old friend of hers, a hulky, big-boned tanner who had been in love with the seamstress for years. Once in a great while she allowed herself the pleasure of his tireless passion. Tonight had been one such memorable occasion. She had dressed him in a Chinese warlord's outfit, taught him to mumble a couple of Oriental-sounding phrases, and taken him to the most aristocratic ball on the Charleston social calendar. The fact that her escort had been a tanner was a private joke of no small delight to Rianne as she introduced him to the refined ladies and gentlemen whose costumes she had created. Afterward, in the intimacy of his small living quarters behind his shop, she let the middle-aged Hollcork show his appreciation for having gained entrance to the splendid mansion. Unlettered but bright, Billy was a splendid physical creature—dark-haired, full-faced, barrel-chested, and long-legged—with a keen understanding and appreciation of the female anatomy. The fact that he and his surroundings carried the masculine fragrance of sharp-smelling leather did nothing to detract from his strapping appeal.

“You're a prince, Billy,” said Rianne after straightening her wig and gown. “There's not another man in these parts to match you.”

“Then when can I see you again, Rianne?”

“Whenever the fancy strikes you.”

“Then I'll be knocking at your door tomorrow.” He smiled with his almond-colored eyes.

“That'll be a tad too soon.”

“See there? It's going to be another six months before you grant me your favors. You're a cruel woman, Rianne McClagan, you are.”

She kissed him on his broad nose. “Take me home like the gentleman you are, Billy. We should both count ourselves lucky for this night. It's one I won't soon forget.”

Fifteen minutes later she found a note slipped under the front door of her house.

My dear Miss McClagan,

At your niece's request, she and I will be spending a few days at Marble Manor in the company of my mother and father. You can be assured that Miss Colleen will be treated with the utmost respect and propriety.

Most cordially yours,

Buckley Somerset

Rianne silently questioned the correspondence. Would Colleen have indeed asked to go home with Somerset? She seriously doubted it. Yet it was also true that her niece had acted quite peculiarly at the ball. Rianne had seen her quarreling with Jason Paxton. She knew her niece well enough to realize that she wasn't above using one man to spite another. In days past, Rianne herself had employed such tactics. Surely, though, the fact of Buckley's military appointment had infuriated Colleen. Rianne thought about the matter for a few minutes, the note still in hand. Between politics and romance, which was the stronger passion for a young woman in love? The answer was obvious. Politics had given Colleen the fright of her life, and, yes, it was possible, Rianne concluded, that her niece had decided to torment the musician by making it known that she was not only Buckley's companion for the evening, but for the next several days as well.

The following Monday, in a sun-soaked open fruit market still buzzing with talk of the Wisp's spectacular Saturday night break-in at the Old Customs Exchange, Rianne spotted Piero Sebastiano Ponti squeezing plums and pears. He was dressed in a breezy, blousy outfit of yellow and orange silk.

“Delicious evening, was it not, Rianne?” Piero asked.

“Absolutely scrumptious. The costumes fashioned by Robin had a wonderfully feminine touch.”

“What is your meaning?” Piero asked defensively.

“Only that your companion is a man of delicate talent.”

“Delicate would not be a word I'd apply to your mysterious companion last night. Might I be bold enough to ask his identity?”

“And ruin the mystery? Heaven forbid! You may guess, but I'm sworn to secrecy.”

“I'd swear that I detected the distinct odor of leather. The outline of the gentleman's massive physique brought to mind a certain tanner.”

Rianne suppressed a smile and said wryly, “You're a far greater connoisseur of the male physique than I.”

Piero didn't suppress his smile. “If we weren't friends, Rianne, I'd be a trifle concerned that we know one another far too well. We're two creatures with a decided predilection for pleasure,” he said, reaching into his snuff pouch for a quick pinch for each nostril.

“Private pleasures,” Rianne added, “are often the most attractive.”

“Speaking of attractiveness, where is your fair niece this fine afternoon?”

“She's spending a few days at Marble Manor,” Rianne was quick to say, knowing that the loquacious Piero would immediately report the news to Jason—which would be exactly what her niece would want. “Buckley Somerset and his parents were kind enough to invite her.”

“Oh, I see,” Piero said nonchalantly, hiding his excitement at learning so juicy a tidbit and already calculating the earliest possible moment to convey the information to his protégé.

Having arrived at Marble Manor close to dawn, Colleen spent nearly all day Sunday asleep. When she awoke, she barely remembered who and where she was. The bedroom, with its frescoed ceilings and pink-painted walls, was magnificent. A half dozen gowns her exact size hung in the splendid armoire. Undergarments in a variety of styles were neatly folded and placed in a drawer of a tall, baroquely sculpted bureau. Colleen chose a modest mauve gown and, at six o'clock, walked down the wide staircase, into the oblong dining room, where she saw that places had been set for two. She assumed that she and Buckley were to eat alone, and that, after dinner, she'd be faced with fighting off his advances. Sighing, she took a seat and resigned herself to her fate. She noted that the dining room, like the hallways, had Italian marble floors—gleaming, beautiful, and cold. In fact, the marble motif, giving the house an especially severe character, was visible everywhere—marble columns by the front door, marble fireplaces, carved marble mantelpieces. what else was one to expect at Marble Manor?

Several minutes later, she looked up to see Miranda Somerset walk through the door. Her jutting chin and fierce slate-gray eyes told Colleen that she had to be Buckley's mother. A diminutive woman with small hands, a thin neck, narrow mouth, petite nose, and excessively wrinkled skin, she wore a great deal of jewelry and makeup. Her wig was decorated with long light blue ribbons that unfortunately kept falling in her face. She walked with a black cane bejeweled with rows of large, fabulous turquoise stones. The cane seemed to be for effect, for she carried herself erectly, with no trace of a limp or any other physical impairment.