The Tiger Lily (41 page)

Sabrina
did. It was very apparent to her that Morgan Slade adored his wife much the way
Alejandro had loved Elena, and she found that knowledge comforting. Her
expression teasing, she said, "I would like very much to meet this fierce
lady. Do you think I could?"

"I'm
certain nothing would give Leonie greater pleasure —except the healthy and
speedy arrival of our child," Morgan returned promptly. "But I would
suggest that we postpone that occasion until after the birth of the baby. She
is in her last weeks and is very uncomfortable at times."

"Oh,
of course!" Sabrina said quickly. "And I will look forward to the day
when we do finally meet."

The
conversation was desultory for several minutes, and when Sabrina next suggested
that she leave the gentlemen to finish their conversation, Brett agreed with
unflattering alacrity. His face unrevealing, he walked to a velvet rope pull in
one corner, and giving it a brief tug, he said coolly, "I'll have Andrew,
my butler, show you about the house. After all, it is going to be your home,
too."

There
was something about the way he said those seemingly innocuous words that gave
Sabrina an odd shiver down her spine. Delight or fear?

Andrew
turned out to be the servant who had first directed her to the library, and
with an obedience that dismayed her, Sabrina found herself meekly following
Brett's orders. A warm, polite smile curving her mouth, she bid Morgan good-bye
and then swiftly preceded Andrew from the room.

There
was a moment of silence after she had left, and then Morgan said thoughtfully,
"I wonder if you realize what you are doing?"

Brett
snorted. Walking over to the marble-topped table that Sabrina had glimpsed
behind the couch, which served as a liquor cabinet, Brett poured them both a
snifter of brandy. Turning back to face Morgan, he handed him one of the
snifters and muttered, "Where that particular little witch is concerned, I
never realize anything except that she drives me half-mad!"

"And
yet you accepted the guardianship?"

A
peculiar expression flitted across Brett's dark face. Not quite cruel and yet
not exactly unkind. He seated himself in the wing-backed chair before answering
Morgan's question. Staring at the amber liquid in his snifter, he said quietly,
"Yes, I did. And even I'm not certain of either the wisdom of having done
so or the reasons why I did. I know the most acceptable one is because I feel
compelled, in view of the respect and affection I bore Alejandro, to carry out
his final wishes, but the others . . ." His voice trailed off, that
strange expression once more crossing his features.

"Revenge?"
Morgan suggested softly, well aware of the bitter, disillusioned state Brett
had been in upon his return from visiting Spanish Texas six years ago.

Brett
looked at him, the dark green eyes suddenly hard, the chiseled mouth with a
ruthless slant to it. "That, too," he admitted harshly.

Picking
his words with care, Morgan said dryly, "Be careful of revenge, my friend.
It can harm you as well as pleasure you."

A
mirthless laugh came from Brett. "Sabrina may have caught me once in her
lovely claws, but never again—I know her for the greedy jade that she is!"

Morgan
looked at him a long time. "Brett," he began slowly, "I'm not
going to argue which one of us has suffered the most at the hands of a woman,
nor am I about to suggest that you forget the past. However, I am going to say
that not all women are vipers . . . and things are not always what they seem. Look
at Leonie and me, for God's sake! I was certain she was a scheming little
hussy, and she was equally certain that I was a blackguard out to steal her
dowry . . . and we were both so very wrong about the other."

Brett
sent him a level glance. "And love makes fools of all of us—especially
reformed misogynists!"

Morgan
smiled wryly. "Perhaps." Deciding it was futile to argue further with
his friend, he changed the subject. His voice taking on a more serious note, he
said, "This letter you received from Eaton really troubles me,
Brett." And frowning suddenly, Morgan reached across Brett's desk and
picked up the letter in question.

Again
he read its contents and then turned to Brett. "How well do you know
him?" Brett started to reply, but Morgan held up his hand. "I already
know that 'General' Eaton, as he is styled, has been made much of in powerful
circles in Washington; I know that he has served our government well in the war
with the Barbary priates; but I also know that some consider him a drunkard and
a braggart. So, aware of all that, can what he writes in this letter about
Aaron Burr, our ex-Vice-President, be trusted?"

Thoughtfully
Brett regarded the tip of his polished boot. "I can't deny that Eaton has
his detractors, or claim that they are completely mistaken in what they say
about him; I do know, however, that I trusted him enough last spring to join
his ragtag crew near Arab's Tower in Egypt and that I willingly followed him
across the Desert of Barca for the attack on Derna on the coast of the Mediterranean
Sea." Brett sent Morgan a hard look. "It wasn't a pleasant journey,
and the battle for Derna won't figure as one of my favorite memories—but we
took Derna in spite of the odds against it and probably would have captured
Tripoli if hostilities hadn't ended so abruptly. Eaton got us out of Derna
alive when we learned that there was not going to be any naval support."

Momentarily
diverted, Morgan asked exasperatedly, "What in the hell were you doing in
Egypt anyway? And why go traipsing across the desert with a band of cutthroat
Arabs and Greeks to fight in a war that meant little or nothing to you?"

"Boredom?"
Brett offered hopefully, an imp of mischief flickering in the jade-green eyes.

Morgan
snorted, but he desisted his probings. He knew too well from past experience
that seemingly guileless expression on his friend's face—Brett obviously didn't
want to talk about his adventures in northern Africa, and it was apparent that
any further questioning would bring forth only glib, mocking replies.

His
eyes strayed again to the letter under discussion. "This is a wild
tale," Morgan said slowly. "A tale one would tend to put down as the
mad ravings of a lunatic."

Dryly
Brett said, "Eaton is not a lunatic—peculiar and given to exaggeration—but
not a madman. And if Eaton writes that Burr plans to raise a force of men and
invade Washington, kill President Jefferson, and seize ships to sail to New
Orleans, I would believe that there is some substance to it."

"The
entire thing is sheer lunacy! You met Burr last summer at Stephen Minor's ball
for him in Natchez and again here—did he strike you as a maniac? An
assassin?"

There
was silence as Brett stared blindly at his boots, his thoughts running backward
to his meeting with Aaron Burr last summer in Natchez. On the surface Burr
certainly didn't resemble the sort of man to be associated with the wild
schemes that Eaton wrote of—Burr was charming and agreeable, perhaps a little
too charming and agreeable. And he could be quite persuasive when he wanted to
be, Brett mused with a slight smile, thinking of the conversation he'd had with
the former Vice-President at Minor's house.

It
had happened that he and Burr had strolled out for a moment of air, and as they
walked amicably through the lantern-strung grounds next to the house, Burr had
said casually, "You realize, of course, that I have deliberately
manipulated this private talk between us."

Brett
had nodded his head. He had glanced down at his much shorter companion, noting
the thin mouth, the almost voluptuous chin, and had wondered idly what it was
that drew men to Burr. The ex-Vice-President had smiled at him just then, and
for a second Brett had basked in his charm.

"I
need young men like you," Burr had murmured easily. "Young men
willing to take desperate chances . . . young men ripe for great adventure
..."

Brett's
thick brow had arched. "Oh? And tell me how the innocent settling of the
de Bastrop tract on the Washita River is going to do that?"

Burr
had waved an airy hand. "The de Bastrop tract is for those who wish to be
settlers." He had eyed Brett speculatively, almost as if gauging how much
he could say. "But you, my friend, would never want such a mundane thing ...
I have heard of your adventures in Derna." When Brett had remained silent,
Burr had gone on. "Throw your lot with me, and I can give you adventure
and riches you never dreamed of—you could be part of a new and grand
empire."

Carefully
Brett had asked, "An empire? Where?"

Burr
had smiled slyly and had shrugged negligently. "Who knows? Perhaps west of
the Sabine River? Mexico even? If there were a war with Spain, many
opportunities could await a clever man."

Brett
had allowed a flicker of interest to appear in his eyes, and seeing it. Burr
had bent forward eagerly, the dark hazel eyes flashing with intensity. "I
have a plan, a great plan, and already it is taking shape." He had glanced
around as if making certain that no one was near. "On my way here, I met
with General Wilkinson at Fort Massac on the Ohio River, and we talked of many
things . . . things a young man seeking adventure would find interesting."
That had been as far as Burr would reveal himself, and Brett had discovered
that Burr was extremely adept at sizing up people and wooing them to his side
with whatever tale he thought would appeal most. For some it had been the offer
of the de Bastrop lands, for others the possibility of invading Mexico, but no
one had heard the same tale—and now there was another tale—one of murder,
betrayal, and treason. . . .

Looking
across at Morgan, Brett finally shrugged and said soberly, "An assassin?
No, I don't think so, but then what does either of us really know about the
man? He is a facile charmer, but there is also an unclean odor about him. For
God's sake, look at how he almost took the Presidency from Jefferson in 1800!
Look at that duel with Alexander Hamilton—there were indictments for murder out
on him! Not a pretty character I would say."

"All
you say is true, but that doesn't mean that he plans to do anything as radical
as murder the President of the United States!" Morgan said impatiently. He
shot Brett a sharp look. "What is there about Burr that fascinates you so?
Last summer when we met, you implied it was because of Burr that you were in
the city, something about Burr and our good Commander of the Army, General
James Wilkinson."

"You
don't find the way Wilkinson and Burr seemed to be connected interesting?"
Brett inquired lightly.

Morgan
made a helpless gesture. "I don't know, Brett. I know Wilkinson is rumored
to be in the pay of Spain, but that doesn't make a conspiracy of this
magnitude. Everything seems to be conjecture; no one so far has been able to
come up with anything tangible to use against either man. It's like trying to
capture a handful of smoke."

Standing
up and placing his empty snifter on the corner of the desk, Brett prowled
restlessly between the desk and the chairs. There was silence for a few
minutes, then he suddenly stopped his perambulations and asked abruptly, "Are
you aware of the habit President Jefferson has of employing certain civilians
to do, strictly speaking, governmental tasks for him? Using gentlemen of good
family to carry private messages for him, to sometimes, in effect, spy for
him?"

Morgan
went very still. Staring hard at Brett, he demanded, "Is that why you were
in North Africa? And that's why you're so dogmatic about this Burr-Wilkinson
affair—Jefferson's doing?"

Reluctantly
Brett nodded his head. "I'm not betraying any secrets by telling you this,
but yes, that's why I ended up in Derna. Jefferson wanted a report of the
situation on the Barbary Coast, but he didn't want it from a government
official or military man. He wanted it from someone with no political ties, but
someone he could trust, who would act as his private agent."

"You?"

Brett
nodded his head again. "He'd heard from my father some months previously,
late in 1804, that I was coming home after several months in India but that I
would probably be off for God knew where within a short time." Brett
smiled faintly. "After that it was a foregone conclusion that I would be
Jefferson's man."