Lady Vixen (50 page)

Her
eyes narrowing, Regina demanded, "You wonder what?"

Flustered,
Mrs. Eggleston admitted, "It's just that I can't help but feel
that..."

"That..."
Regina prompted impatiently.

"That
they have been
intimate!"
Mrs. Eggleston gasped in a rush, feeling
like a traitor to Nicole and Christopher. In growing trepidation she waited for
Regina to erupt in a deluge of disgust and shocked disapproval.

"Hmmm,
you think so?" she asked with interest.

"Yes.
Yes, I do," Mrs. Eggleston confessed and in bewilderment watched a pleased
smile curve Regina's mouth. Curiously she asked, "Aren't you
displeased?"

"Naturally
I am. It is very deplorable! But don't you see, you goose! If Nicole and
Christopher are already involved, we have nothing to fear from the likes of
Edward Markham. If Christopher
has
compromised her, it shouldn't be very
difficult to wring an offer from him. It is the gentlemanly thing to do."

"You
think so?" came doubtfully from Mrs. Eggleston. "I don't think,"
she added honestly, "that Christopher could be forced to do anything he
didn't want to—gentlemanly or not."

Smiling
kindly, Regina patted Mrs. Eggleston's hand. "Don't worry, my dear. Leave
it to me. Remember, Christopher has had, as it were, Nicole all to himself. But
now if he finds that there are other men interested in her, interested and
offering marriage, well," she said confidently, "well, I'm certain he
will be more than willing to declare himself. Jealousy," she added wisely,
"has prompted more than one proposal. And it is up to us to see that
Christopher becomes extremely jealous indeed!"

"Oh,
Regina, you are so clever," sighed Mrs. Eggleston admiringly.

"Yes,
of course I am, my dear."

The
older ladies needn't have worried about Nicole's reaction. Edward was indeed a
beautiful young man with winning manners, but Nicole had a very good memory.
Without the least strain she could tick off all the mean and spiteful tricks
Edward had played on her in their youth. No one changes
that
much, she
concluded thoughtfully.

She
remembered all too well the bleeding sides of her horse when Edward had
finished riding it; the sly jabs and the times he had deliberately created
trouble for her with his parents; and most of all, she could recall that sordid
little affair with the housemaid in the stables at Ashland. And Nicole was
astute enough to realize that it was wiser to let Edward play his little game
than to send him roughly about his business.

Impatiently,
she dismissed Edward from her thoughts her mind going irresistibly to yesterday's
disastrous meeting with Christopher.

What
is wrong with you, she thought with despair. The moment he touches you, shows
the least concern or kindness, you melt over him like some lovesick fool! She
caught her breath in pain, thinking of the wanton way she had given herself to
him. That he already thought her little better than a common slut of the
streets, she knew, and yesterday by her own actions she had proved him right.

Closing
her eyes in sudden anguish, she pleaded vehemently, ah, dear God, let this
thing between us be severed. Let me live my life without his shadow always at
my back.
Please!

Blindly
running to her bed and hurling herself face down on it, she beat the silken
coverlet with impotent fury, swinging from one painful emotion to another. She hated
Christopher for what he was doing to her . . . hated the power he seemed to
wield over her, she concluded fiercely. Hated him, she thought passionately,
for awakening her to the powerful emotion of love and then carelessly throwing
it back in her face . . . hated him for arousing the wanton side of her nature,
for being able to drive her to reckless and irresponsible depths.

But
Nicole was a strong-willed young woman; she was also not one to waste time
bemoaning those things that cannot be changed. Sighing, she sat up, her fury
gone as quickly as it had come. With an unsteady hand she straightened her
tumbled curls, thinking tiredly, I have wasted my last moment on Christopher
Saxon. He is not the only one who can be so infuriatingly indifferent. I, too,
shall be the same, and one day, one day, she vowed grimly, I will be whole and
immune to his spurious charm.
I will!

The
rooms Higgins had examined while Christopher was having his confrontation with
William Markham had met first with his approval and then Christopher's. By the
time another week had passed, Christopher was no longer living in the Saxon
home, and he was particularly pleased that it removed him from Nicole's orbit.

The
abandon with which he had reacted to her in the conservatory had rattled
Christopher, and he wanted desperately to become indifferent to the
inexplicable emotion that raged between them. That desire had partially
prompted his original plan to find his own lodgings, and Christopher was
determined to place as much distance as possible between himself and Nicole.

He
could visit with Simon at one of their clubs or accompany the old gentleman as
he attended his various amusements. It required little effort to discover when
the ladies were not at home, and he could then call at Cavendish Square with no
fear of coming face to face with Nicole. If they met occasionally in passing,
he was able to act with equanimity, offering a few words of meaningless
conversation before departing.

Regina,
unaware of what had happened, as was everyone, was furious with the situation;
Christopher was proving as elusive as the will-o'-the-wisp. To add to her
feeling of frustration, it seemed that whenever Nicole was absent from the
house, at a fitting at the dressmaker's or perhaps riding with either Robert or
Edward in attendance in Hyde Park, Christopher would appear and laze away hours
with his grandfather or pass the time of day with herself and Mrs. Eggleston,
only to disappear minutes before Nicole returned. No matter how often she
attempted to throw them together, to halt his departure, to demand his escort,
or to discover when next he would call, Christopher always outwitted her, and
not unnaturally she was vastly put out with him.

If
Christopher guessed that his great-aunt was set upon making a match between
himself and Nicole, he gave no sign. Even when Regina, driven against the wall,
began to sing Edward Markham's praises, insinuating slyly that Nicole seemed
much taken with him, Christopher balked her further by murmuring
disinterestedly, "Really?"

Denied
satisfaction from one source, she proceeded to dangle Robert, whom she
privately detested, as a possible suitor to Nicole's hand, simpering over his
charming attributes until she thought she would gag. All to no avail.
Christopher remained unmoved, and it appeared he was singularly indifferent to
Nicole and her suitors.

In
reality Christopher called no more than was strictly necessary at Cavendish
Square. Living in a very satisfactory suite of rooms on Ryder Street, with his
own widening circle of friends, Christopher lived the life of many a young
aristocratic gentleman in town, and visiting with relatives was not a desired
pursuit.

And
so the weeks and months began to pass, as Nicole took her place in London
society, striving desperately to forget Christopher. Christopher spent his days
and nights cultivating the military set, listening intently for any scrap of
gossip that would give him a direction in which to search for proof of the
British plans for the invasion of New Orleans.

In
May Nicole's coming-out ball was held, and it was praised as the social event
of the year. Even the prince regent attended, his corset creaking alarmingly
around his girth as he bent over Nicole's hand. Nicole was her most
scintillating; her gown of white satin spangled with threads of gold, pearls
gleamed at her throat, her dark-fire hair was dressed high; she became
instantly the most admired and wooed young lady to grace a season in years.

Christopher
was there, naturally, but he was not part of her court that night, or any other
for that matter, and only stood up with her for one dance, a lively country
reel, before departing discreetly into the card rooms.

The
vouchers for Almack's were obtained without a murmur from Countess Lieven, and
Nicole's success was a foregone conclusion.

On
the political front, in May Wellington rode into Paris as the British
ambassador, and at last Albert Gallatin's official credentials as a member of
the peace delegation arrived.

Gallatin
and Bayard, sponsored by Alexander Baring, had been well received in private
circles and were doing their best to open unofficial channels of communication,
hoping to get the peace talks at Ghent started. Finally, after weeks of
inactivity, the British appointed their commission—three men of such
distressing mediocrity that even Gallatin was dismayed. The British negotiation
panel consisted of an obscure lawyer, William Adams; Henry Coulburn, an
undistinguished under secretary for war; and Vice Admiral Lord Gambier, the
leader of the mission, a competent, if uninspired, sailor. And perhaps most
discouraging of all, Anthony St. John Baker, already loathed in Washington, was
appointed secretary.

The
outlook for the success of the peace talks was not good.

In
June along with what seemed half the population of England, Christopher watched
grimly at Dover as a procession of rulers, statesmen, and military commanders
of the Quadruple Alliance disembarked from the
HMS Impregnable.
The czar
of Russia in a form-fitting, bottle-green uniform lavishly laced with gold; the
king of Prussia, his white breeches straining across a massive rump; Prince von
Metternich, chancellor of the Austrian Empire; Field Marshal von Blücher,
chancellor of Prussia— they were all there, moving down the quay that was lined
in fine military splendor by the Scots Grey and three great light infantry
regiments, the 43rd, 52nd, and 95th, heroes of the victorious British Army. It
was a fine sight and the crowds shouted and cheered, but Christopher felt only
impatience and a nagging sense of inadequacy.

It
was in June, too, that Christopher received the first of the coded letters from
Jason Savage, and he opened it with surprise and pleasure. But as he scanned
the missive his pleasure turned sour, and with a low curse he read of Pierre
Lafitte's arrest in April by a platoon of dragoons. Bail had been denied, the
custom officials had seen to that! John Grymes, the district attorney, had
created a furor when he resigned and joined Edward Livingston to prepare a
defense. Christopher wondered how Jean had reacted to his brother's arrest. But
then he shrugged his shoulders—the news was months old and he was an ocean
away.

A
particularly persistent rumor of twenty-five thousand British troops sailing
for America sent him for one last meeting with Gallatin. The meeting was
gloomy, and on the basis of Christopher's information Gallatin wrote to Monroe
stating his own personal feelings that these troops would be used to attack
Washington, Baltimore, and New York. Gallatin and Christopher decided that it
was folly for the Americans to hold out for any extravagant concessions on the
part of the British once the peace talks got under way. The British were too
strong, and coming victorious out of the long war with Napoleon, they were
filled with a feeling of invincibility. Gallatin, finally realizing that there
was nothing further he could do in England, on July 6, 1814, joined his fellow
American commissioners in Ghent, leaving Christopher to do his best.

Nicole
continued to reign as the belle of the season; no fashionable gathering was
complete until she arrived. Edward's and Robert's rivalry for the hand of the
newest heiress had not gone unnoticed, and in the gentlemen's clubs bets were
being laid as to the eventual winner. The advent of the heir to a dukedom in
the circle of admirers surrounding Nicole increased the betting to a fevered
pitch as the month wore on. Even Christopher, a sardonic slant to his lips, had
placed his wager in the betting book at Waiter's—his money on the dukedom.

Weeks
passed without Nicole and Christopher meeting, and when they did it was only
for a brief moment. Each would nod politely or flash a meaningless smile as
they continued to fight their private battles.

At
last on August 8, 1814, the peace talks in Ghent began. Christopher felt
relieved, but his frustrations were growing with every second. He was more than
ever convinced that the British were planning an all-out attack on some major
city in America, but he was no longer even certain that New Orleans was the
target.

One
night when his spirits were at their lowest, one of his deliberately cultivated
Army friends, a Captain Buckley, his tongue loosened by brandy, began to needle
Christopher about his American ties. Buckley dropped hints of troop shipments
and went so far as to imply that a powerful offensive in the Great Lakes region
would be only a feint—the true battle was to be fought at New Orleans.
Christopher covered his excitement and mingled dismay and grinned carelessly,
"What do I care, my friend? I am here in England. Another drink?" But
reaching his room shortly thereafter, he sat down and penned the information to
Gallatin, hoping it could be of use in the negotiations.

The
late nights, drinking bottle after bottle of brandy, the smoke-filled gaming
rooms and rakish pursuits were beginning to tell on him. His face was leaner,
tighter, his temper shorter and more explosive with each passing day. Rumors,
gossip, and idle talk were fine, but he had nothing solid on which to build any
proof.