Stronger Than Passion (14 page)

Of course, escaping was a daunting, dangerous prospect. However, thanks to the impetuous Antoinette Torrance and the snide Elizabeth Scott-Gould, Christina now had allies in the house should she wish to go out. Escape from Brett had hardly been possible up to now, although she’d never actually tried, either. Why couldn’t she have climbed out the hotel window in Havana? Or coerced Penny into assisting her, somehow? Now, she was weeks from getting home, even if she left today. And how far had the American troops penetrated into Mexico already?

Thinking and pacing the floor in her petticoat, Christine wondered how far she could twist Michael’s absurd lies in her favor. He had warned her before she had come upstairs, that if she went along with his story, he would guarantee to keep her out of a real prison. Why he didn’t want his aunt to know she was his prisoner was a mystery; unless he didn’t care to appear the brute to his family. Or perhaps Lowndes had said to keep quiet. At any rate, she didn’t care. She would play along with him for her own reasons: which included staying out of prison and in this house, particularly now, when she was considering ways and means of escape!

Dirty, fringed buckskin pants, boots that resembled moccasins with spurs, and long braided black hair set the man apart from the drinking crowd at the Swooping Gull Tavern - but barely. That this odorous person was in conversation with well-known, affluent Michael Brett caused the dark tavern’s squinting inhabitants to glance up from their ale.

Michael wasted little time in idle chatter. This was one of the seediest saloons in town, and the only place he’d been able to think of weeks earlier, when setting up the rendezvous with Julian for receiving his messages. Although, this particular messenger would never come again, his cousin was too careful to send the same man twice, in this town of political intrigue every drifter was scrutinized through self-interested eyes.

Johnnie Jumper handed over Julian’s letter, nicely stashed in the filthy, false medicine bag the renegade breed Indian wore tied around his neck; which was actually a good place to hide something, since it was well-known that most Indians wore the little deerskin bags.

Michael paid the man, careful to conceal the money from any interested gazes. He asked Jumper for any verbal messages - speaking a dialect of Comanche and Spanish that would confuse anyone listening. The only message turned out to be an apocryphal warning to “watch out for white woman from across big sea.”

Michael’s smile was twisted. Trust Julian, deep in the badlands of Texas or Mexico, to have heard of Antoinette’s arrival in Washington before he had a chance to even suspect. His cousin’s network of communication was as good as - or probably better than - the President’s. Unfortunately, Julian’s humorous warning had come a day too late!

Michael gave the Indian a return letter, watched as the man stuffed it into the medicine bag, which he again tucked beneath the collar of his shirt - and the Indian left. No goodbyes; he simply turned and melted away, out the door.

Michael went home to read the letter. “Home” was in a state of near chaos, as his few misfit, carefully picked servants - bullied by an over-bearing Hager - turned the house upside-down pending the permanent reappearance of his aunt and Elizabeth. He went up to his room, wondering why his reserved Señora seemed to be wearing out the carpet in her paces across the floor. He could hear her through the wall, including the earnest, frustrated sighs she emitted every few seconds. Now, there was trouble about to happen! Unfortunately he could spare no time for Christina at the moment.

He sat down to read. Julian’s terse, clear hand informed him of the current location of General Taylor’s troops . . . advancing toward the city of Monterey, which Julian predicted they would reach toward the middle or end of September and would probably take, since the Mexican Army - although strong - was still indecisive until Santa Anna could firmly take control. Julian also let him know the Mexican government had refused Polk’s earlier offer to treat for peace, and had sent out a dispatch (which Julian had probably read) to that effect. Due to the time lapse between the date of Julian’s letter (September 5th) and today’s date (September 22nd), Polk had probably already received the dispatch. Julian closed the message with his own observations on the condition of both armies . . . and stated that plans for his own guerilla campaign against Mexico were progressing well.

Of course they were, Michael thought as he lit a candle with which to burn the letter. Julian had decided to wage a tight, guerilla war against Santa Anna; and considering Julian’s determination and thoroughness, his perfect knowledge of the territory, and the respect in which he was held by the local inhabitants, any guerilla action taken by his band should prove devastating. Michael had not yet informed the President of his adopted cousin’s undertaking. He and Julian might be allied with America in respect to the war, but they were fighting their own grudge fight, for revenge, against Santa Anna. As were many independent-minded Texans whose vast properties were so far removed from the heart of the United States, they might as well be a separate country . . . as until recently they had been.

There was no telling which stand the President might take on the idea of independent guerilla action by Julian Torrance, since Polk was a stickler for doing things his own way and was already concerned that General Zachary Taylor might be ignoring his orders in Mexico. Polk’s dislike for Taylor - and also General Winfield Scott, currently busy with plans to land a large force at Vera Cruz - was common knowledge. But the dislike was political, since both generals were capable men, but unfortunately, Whigs.

However, Michael liked and respected president Polk. He felt confident that Polk, now committed to war, would use the talents of the men at his disposal for the duration, and worry about politics later. In time, he might even approve of Julian’s guerilla action. Particularly if his cousin were successful! But for now, Michael preferred to keep Julian’s self-sufficient plans a loose secret.

Hearing a carriage pull up outside his front window, his attention shifted outside. Lady Elizabeth alighted, followed by his aunt and two maids. It seemed the townhouse he had purchased nearly three years ago was about to be full for the first time. So be it! Michael played a dangerous game with these ladies, no fools, any of them. If they all lasted together for a week without Christina’s real story getting out, he would be surprised. He intended to tell his aunt the truth, anyway, when it proved convenient. But not until then . . . and he preferred that Elizabeth never find out. That witch wanted to marry him because he happened to be his brother’s heir, and there was no way in hell he would oblige just so she could be called duchess the minute Robert’s miserable, pain-racked life finally ended. He didn’t intend to give any woman that pleasure. He knew Elizabeth would trap him into it if she could, gladly using Christina as fodder for her schemes. It would almost be amusing to set the two against each other, and then, of course, depart the city . . . maybe he would, in the end, when it was time to go.

The slender man touched his newly grown mustache with pleasure, thinking how clever he had been to grow it and to use the false French accent. No one would recognize him now, or suspect he was not a real displaced French Comte. Certainly not the woman seated across from him with her luscious bosom on display, casually prodding his foot with her own. She was a whore; and a Negro-Indian whore, to boot. But he could tell that she admired him.

The woman sipped her drink, straight tequila. “Si, Señor. I know the couple of whom you speak. They were here. The man, he wanted me, but I say no. Not in front of the woman, I say! But he is muy hombre, that one. He want us both. So I go away. I don’t like tricks with other women.”

The man’s dark eyes were glowing as desire for the whore vied with his anger at her story. Was it the truth? Was Michael Brett treating the beautiful Señora as a puta? In his imagination, he saw the Señora, breasts bare as the Zambo’s hands caressed them and the American watched, entranced. Dios, it was too much. He would spoil his pants!

He pulled out a few coins, dropping them on the table in front of the red-lipped Zambo’s greedy gaze. “You must tell me where they have gone, this couple. They left Havana for which country? Do you know?”

She warmed to the money and, as a consequence, the man. “I can find out easily. Tomorrow, if you wish. But for tonight . . .”

“For tonight, I wish to see the sights of Havana.”

“The best sight of all is right in front of you, amigo. We will go somewhere private so you can view it better. Eh?”

“Ma cherie, you must wear the neckline lower. Like this.” Antoinette suited action to words as she leaned over and jerked the bodice of the evening dress down, so that an inch more of Christina’s white skin showed.

“Perhaps it isn’t the custom in Mexico to dress so frivolously.” Elizabeth drawled, her eyes on herself in the full-length mirror as she held a length of pink satin against her face.

“It is in Spain, which is, after all, the Señora’s true home.” Antoinette spoke firmly becoming aggravated over Elizabeth’s constant use of the word “Mexico.” the couturier’s expression hinted at her thirst for gossip. Michael would not be pleased.

“I have been in mourning a long time, Madame, you understand. A dress like this . . .” Christina’s voice trailed off.

“But the gown is perfect for you!” cried the dressmaker. “That rich shade of amber sets off your eyes, your hair, and the simple styling is just right for your figure. You are not the type for yards of ruffles, but I think perhaps a touch - at the hem . . . .”

“No ruffles.” Antoinette stated firmly. “Cloth of gold. At the neckline, wrists, and as an underskirt to peep out at the hem. She will hold a gold fan, and I will give her my rubies to carry it all off.”

“I have pearls with me,” Christina said. How long it had been since she had considered a colorful evening ensemble!

“If they are imposing enough, they will do. The Ambassador’s Ball is an important affair.”

“You needn’t worry.” Christina smiled. “My pearls were once the property of the Princess of Zaragoza. I believe you will find that they quite compliment the gown.”

Elizabeth tossed away the pink satin in disgust. It was obvious to Antoinette that Christina’s casual reference to her noble ancestors irritated the English lady in the extreme. And not for the first time since she and Elizabeth had moved into Michael’s townhouse yesterday.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wear white?” Elizabeth asked curtly. “I feel positive that the virginal air would suit you well.”

“But I have no desire to appear a bride,” Christina parried. “However, if you would care to, I have no objection.”

Elizabeth’s gaze narrowed and her hands clenched in the folds of her blue dress. Antoinette suspected that Elizabeth hated the Señora, for no other reason than for the moment, at least, Christina held Michael’s attention. As though that were an amazing thing, considering the Spanish girl’s beauty! And a real relationship between Michael and Christina was by no means fully established.

There was some mystery to the Señora, a mystery that Antoinette had determined to unravel. How bored she had been in England! Life was always amusing when one had dealings with Michael, or Julian. And amusement was of desperate importance to Antoinette now. Amusement, and revenge.

Christina had removed the half-completed silk dress and tried on an emerald-green riding habit, seemingly oblivious to Elizabeth’s simmering anger. Antoinette silently applauded. Elizabeth hadn’t yet gotten the best of the Spanish girl, though not from a lack of trying. Elizabeth jabbed at her often, and the girl either awoke from her thoughts to deliver an ambiguous, stinging reply, or else ignored her. Elizabeth was infuriated, every time.

Antoinette liked Christina, and was feeling impatient with Elizabeth. Elizabeth could be charming company when she pleased; her wit at times was amusing and diverting. But Antoinette was now forty-eight years old and had learned wisdom the hard way, through tragedy. She was beginning to find Elizabeth a bit too transparent. She had known all along that Elizabeth had only accompanied her to America in order to see Michael, and she had obliged Elizabeth in the hope that it would lure Michael near. But it seemed Michael had no intention of even bedding Elizabeth, much less marrying her; and now Elizabeth was becoming an embarrassing shrew. Antoinette must either induce her to leave or marry her off to someone else.

Unaware of the calculating thoughts of her companions, Christina was discovering that these English-American fashions suited her far better than Mexican styles, fussy with lace and too much fabric. She loved the cut of this velvet-trimmed wool riding habit, simple and severe and easy to move in. It came with a small plumed bonnet. So different from the reboza she wore at home, and the evening gown, perfectly fitted to her body yet lightweight, shorn of lace or any other embroidery that would make it heavy and cumbersome, like the dresses the ladies favored in Mexico. The effect there was overstated and gaudy. Here, tastefulness was the key. Christina knew that in these clothes she would look her best.

“Cherie, you must order three more ball gowns and a dozen more day dresses to get you through the next month. I will not even mention the holiday parties that are soon to begin, because I know that you insist you won’t be here to attend. But you must humor me, cherie. I intend to take you everywhere while you are here.”

Christina smiled, as well she might; since she was thinking of Michael Brett’s reaction to the news that his aunt was “taking her every where,” beginning with the Ambassador’s Ball in two days. Let him get used to the idea of her parading all over town, practically on her own! He deserved any agony of mind he might endure over being forced to trust her; and when she did escape, it would be a much simpler matter if she were already out of the house. Would he call himself a fool for that very trust?