Lady Vixen (43 page)

Christopher,
standing carelessly beside the pianoforte, staring upon Nicole's downbent head,
was suddenly aware of the charming, artfully tangled mass of curls and the view
of the soft white neck afforded him. He had an almost irresistible impulse to
lean over and kiss that appealing little spot where her neck joined the silky
shoulders, and with an effort he restrained himself. In this demure, nearly shy
mood that had overtaken her, Christopher found himself enchanted. So enchanted
he caught himself staring at her as infatuatedly as Simon had stared at Mrs.
Eggleston, until Nicole, uncomfortable as the silence continued, glanced up,
and he instantly recovered himself. Cursing inwardly at his own stupidity, he
said coolly, "Yes, there was something between them. It seems that in
their youth they were engaged. Due to some argument or other, it was broken off
by Mrs. Eggleston and they each married someone else."

"I
see," Nicole said slowly, not really seeing at all. It was rather
difficult to imagine Mrs. Eggleston having an argument with anyone, and
especially an argument that led to a broken engagement. An engagement was not
to be taken lightly, even in this day it was almost as binding as marriage, and
almost fifty years ago it would have been more so. But a long-ago engagement
couldn't have made Lord Saxon so visibly Mrs. Eggleston's slave, Nicole thought
quickly, and in surprise she blurted out, "He's still in love with her,
isn't he?"

Christopher's
mouth twisted in a satirical smile. "So it would appear. Incredible, don't
you think? A Saxon loving anyone and for any length of time?"

"Don't!"
Nicole cried, inexplicably angry at his disparaging remarks. "Why do you
have to say things like that?" she demanded passionately, her eyes stormy.
"I think you enjoy creating disturbances, making cynical statements like
that!"

"And
you don't?" he shot back tightly, for some reason just as angry. "I
should think that you have more disturbances than I ever have!"

"That's
unfair! Oh!" Tears unaccountably glittering in her eyes, she spat,
"Oh, I hate you Christopher Saxon!
I hate you!"

With
a muscle jumping along his jaw, Christopher stared at her one long moment, and
then forgetting all his good resolutions, he dragged her into his arms and
muttered thickly, "Well, here's something else to add to your
hatred!" His mouth hard and merciless captured hers in an angry kiss that
held no passion, no gentleness, but as Nicole struggled violently against him,
that searing bittersweet flame of desire that seemed to always leap between
their bodies flared into being.

To
her shame Nicole felt herself instantly pressing ardently against the muscled
length of him, and she took a perverse joy in the pain of his angry embrace.
But then, just as his kiss deepened and warmed, Christopher abruptly thrust her
ruthlessly from him as if she were something vile and ugly. His eyes blazing
with contempt and something like hatred, he spun on his heels and flung out of
the room without another word, leaving a stunned Nicole staring after him.

Shaken
as much by the kiss as the unexpected ending of it, she sank slowly down on the
stool behind the pianoforte. They'd been so easy with one another, she thought
numbly, so comfortable for once, without any undertones, any treacherous
currents, and then without warning it had all exploded into something dark and
violent and unpleasant. Would she ever be able to remain unmoved by his
nearness? she wondered bleakly. She caught her breath in anguish, realizing
that she hated him almost as much as she loved him. Why, she thought unhappily,
does it have to be him? Why do we have to have all those ugly memories to
destroy us?

Christopher,
striding furiously in the direction of his club, was wishing that things were
different. But he believed that no matter what, he would still have distrusted
Miss Nicole Ashford on sight, still have wondered how much like her mother she
really was beneath the innocent and tantalizing exterior. He knew, he told
himself angrily, from his own observation that she resembled a chameleon,
changing so rapidly before his eyes from Nick to Nicole Ashford that he
marveled at her duplicity.

But
tonight, try as he might, he could find no blame in her actions. It had been he
who had destroyed the fragile peace between them. There had been no cause to
say what he had, and having said it, no reason to goad her further on to fury.
If only she weren't so damned desirable, he thought jerkily, and he weren't so
bloody eager to have her again. That look of contempt and hatred he had thrown
at Nicole had been as much for himself as her—contempt that he could not keep
his hands off her, that she could still move him; and hatred that
any
woman
could shake him from his icy indifference.

Scowling
blackly and in an ugly temper, he joined some new acquaintances at a faro table
in one of the gaming rooms at Boodle's. Christopher had not been idle these
past few days. Under his grandfather's auspicious recommendations he had been
granted membership not only at Boodle's, but at White's and Brook's as well.

Simon
had also naturally introduced his grandson to the sons and nephews of his
friends, and as a consequence Christopher was now fairly well-known to the
members of the
ton.
But intent upon finding the proof of the invasion
that he needed, he had quietly gravitated toward the military element. And
because he disliked intensely the thought of using Simon's friends, he placed
those he met on two distinct levels. There were those gay blades about town,
who were concerned with the cut of their coats, horses, and gambling, whom
Christopher joined for the sheer enjoyment of their antics. With the military
set he fixed his sights on those he suspected would have access to the
information he needed and possessed an indiscreet or corrupt nature.

More
a man of action than of guile, his present situation left him feeling hamstrung
and helpless—a circumstance that tended to keep his temper barely below the
simmering stage. But despite everything he was making some progress. He had
managed to scrape up a meeting with an Army captain presently stationed with the
Horse Guards, and then there was the young lieutenant in the Navy, home on
leave, recovering, from a wound received at Orthes.

Captain
Buckley, Christopher surmised, was inclined to be indiscreet, and he hoped that
Lieutenant Kettlescope would prove to be corruptible.

His
mind wandered from the faro table as he thought of the days ahead, of the
nights to be spent drinking and gaming, listening for any bit of information,
any casual gossip that might turn into solid fact. He groaned inwardly, cursing
Jason. Then he grinned, for he knew that once the idea had been presented,
nothing could have prevented him from demanding his part in it all.

But
underneath all his worries and concerns, ran a deep satisfaction at seeing his
grandfather again. Great-aunt Regina he still had reservations about. But the
one member of the family whom he had both looked for and yet almost dreaded
meeting had not appeared, nor had Simon or Regina mentioned him. Where the
hell
was Robert?

As
Christopher played at faro, Robert Saxon was driving his team of chestnuts
furiously toward London. His handsome features, marred by signs of dissipation,
were further distorted by his black expression.

Damn
him! he thought viciously. Why didn't he die and Simon too, that old fool!

In
Robert's breast beat very little affection for anyone, except himself. He was a
cold man who had hungered after only two things in his entire life. One had
been denied him, simply because he had been born the second son, and the other
because of an unkind trick of fate.

But
Robert was not a man to let such minor things as an older brother stand in his
way, nor the fact that the woman he wanted had a husband! His brother had been
by far the easiest to remove. When Gaylord and his wife had left on a pleasure
trip to Cornwall many years ago, Robert had accompanied them—until they reached
a particularly treacherous stretch of coast road. At the posting inn where they
had stopped for a last change of horses, Robert had suggested he remain behind
to wait for several friends who were joining them. Gaylord had been an
easygoing handsome man, and he had readily agreed, never thinking that his
younger brother might have had an ugly motive for his actions. And so waving
carelessly, Gaylord and his wife had driven off, unaware that Robert had
partially cut the traces to the coach. Two miles down the road the cut leather
had severed, and the coach had plunged into the sea, leaving Gaylord's young
son, Christopher, the only obstacle in Robert's path. But Robert was a patient
man, and he was confident that he would hit upon a plan that would take care of
his nephew.

The
accident that had claimed Gaylord's life had worked rather well for Robert, but
neither he nor Annabelle had planned on
her
death in the apparent
yachting accident that would claim her husband, leaving the beautiful young
widow free to remarry. No one would ever know the bleak fury and searing
anguish Robert had suffered when the news of Annabelle's death had reached him.
That and suspicion—what the hell had really gone wrong that day? Why had the
brat, Giles, been with them? Had Adrian discovered their plot too late to save
himself and seen to it that Annabelle died with him? Or had Annabelle drowned
as she tried to save her son? Those were questions that would never be
answered, and like acid, they had for six long years eaten into his soul,
corrupting whatever good had existed within him.

With
Annabelle gone, he had become a man driven by demons; his only real
satisfaction was knowing that at least his remaining desire was within his
grasp—
he
would be the next Baron Saxon. But then five years ago
Christopher had returned, Christopher whom he had hoped was dead at sea, and he
had been forced to try again to rid himself of the one person who thwarted his
ambitions. That time he had planned outright murder, but again Christopher
escaped.

Robert's
eyes narrowed, and with a savage stroke of his whip he lashed the straining
horses to greater speed. His mouth twisting in a cruel smile, he promised
venomously,
this
time you won't escape, my dear little nephew! This time
you
won't
—even if I have to do it with my own hands.

Simon's
note telling of Christopher's arrival had reached Robert while he was visiting
friends in Kent, late in the afternoon. Making his excuses, he had left as soon
after dinner as was decently possible, overriding their very reasonable
objections against night travel. Robert had been adamant, though he knew he
wouldn't make London tonight. He needed this swift flying ride through the
night-darkened countryside to gather his forces for the confrontation with
Christopher.

He
had no idea of what tale Christopher might have told Simon, and his father's
note had been singularly unrevealing, stating only that Christopher was
presently staying with him in Cavendish Square. Robert had paled as he had read
those unwelcome lines. Christopher returned and alive! And it wasn't hard to
read between those noncommital lines to guess that they had been reconciled.
Cursing, Robert had thrown the note violently away.

The
relationship between Robert and his father was one of guarded indifference.
Simon lived in Cavendish Square for part of the year, enjoyed the season at
Brighton, and then when these amusements palled, retreated to the quiet and
tranquillity of Surrey. Robert, too, lived in London; he had a very elegant and
expensive suite of rooms on Stratton Street. But he and his father seldom
encountered one another, usually only when Robert's bills became too pressing
or a nasty scandal looked like it might ruin him. Otherwise their only meetings
were at certain, notable affairs of the season in London or Brighton.

Robert's
wife, always sickly, had died seven years ago giving birth to a stillborn
child, and it was her death that had prompted the idea of Adrian's accidental
death to Robert as a way of at last freeing Annabelle. Robert had often thought
it bitterly ironic that it was his own plan that had caused him to lose the one
person who mattered to him.

His
surviving children, for there had been two offspring of his marriage, had no
more love and affection for him than he had for them. His daughter, Anne, was
happily married to a dashing young peer of the realm and was in York awaiting
the birth of her third child. His son was still at Eaton, and Robert fully
expected Simon to sponsor the boy and see to his allowance when the young man
left his school years behind and came to London.

If
Christopher had wondered aloud why Robert's name had not been mentioned, Regina
would have told him rather tartly it was because his uncle was such a cold,
unfeeling beast! Robert, while he possessed to a degree the Saxon charm and
could be extremely fascinating to the unwary, had not endeared himself to his
family. Simon loved his youngest son, but he was not blind to Robert's excesses
and faults—too often he'd had to rescue him from unsavory dealings. But no one
knew the true extent of those faults. Even Regina, seeing beyond Simon's father
love, never would have suspected her nephew of murder. But Robert did indeed
have murder in his heart this night, as his curricle thundered toward London.

Another
of Simon's notes had also aroused fury and consternation.