The Tiger Lily (6 page)

Puzzled,
Sabrina answered readily enough, "Of course I like my cousin—we've grown
up together."

"But
have you considered marrying him?"

A
look of complete bewilderment on her lovely face, Sabrina glanced at the
crystal snifter of brandy that sat just inches from her father's hand.
Alejandro laughed out loud at that glance, instantly feeling happier. Lightly
he said, "No, I have not overindulged myself, pigeon. It is just that your
Tia Francisca would like to see you married to Carlos, and I wondered how you
might react."

Sabrina
wrinkled her slightly tilted nose with displeasure. "Tia Francisca
interests herself in matters that are not her concern. I do not wish to marry
yet, and," her features suddenly dreamy, she added, "when I do, I
want to love as you and Madre did—nothing less will do."

Relieved
and pleased at the same time, Alejandro raised his brandy snifter and said
solemnly, "Nothing less than love for us."

Despite
the reassurance of his own beliefs about Sabrina, after she had gone to bed
that night, Alejandro found himself thinking seriously of her future—and
possible marriage. There was, he knew, no man of any age in the area who had
caught her fancy. Or, he admitted ruefully, one that she would not lead around
like a bull with a brass ring through its nose! But yet, even as that thought
crossed his mind, he remembered a young man with a dark, lean face and hard
jade-green eyes . . . his nephew-in-law, Brett Dangermond.

Now
there, he conceded almost smugly, was a man. A man strong enough and devil
enough to handle any woman—even Sabrina.

If
Sabrina had not seen Brett Dangermond since she was seven years old, the same
was not true of Alejandro. He had seen Brett several times during the ensuing
years, in Natchez and New Orleans, and though the meetings had been far apart
and fleeting, each time he had met Brett, he had been more impressed. But until
this evening, he had never considered that unsuspecting rakehell in the light
of a possible son-in-law.

A
smile of pure devilment on his face, Alejandro rummaged around in the carved
pine desk he was sitting behind and found some paper and his quill and inkpot.
For several seconds he stared off into space, suddenly realizing that he had to
have some reason for so unexpectedly inviting Brett to visit with them. He
racked his brains for some plausible excuse, and then, remembering vaguely
something about Brett winning a plantation in lower Louisiana on the throw of
the dice, he began to write.

That
had been two years ago, and Alejandro seemed to recall that when he and Brett
had met by accident in New Orleans, Brett had made some mocking comment about
perhaps turning his hand to being a planter like his father. The plantation
Brett had just acquired had been devastated by the indigo crop failure back in
1792, but Brett, Alejandro remembered clearly now, had mentioned he'd like to
try experimenting with sugar cane. As Alejandro recalled, Brett had known a
surprising amount about the cultivation of this fairly new crop in Louisiana,
and his smile widened. Of course. Sugar cane was the answer! He would write
Brett, indicating that he was considering planting several hundred acres in
sugar cane and would like Brett's advice. It was weak, but it was not unreasonable.
Swiftly, before he had time to change his mind, he began to write. When he had
finished, he sat back and grinned.

Thinking
of Brett Dangermond had reminded him of how fond Sofia and Sabrina were of each
other, and he was aware that he had suddenly solved several problems that
Francisca's conversation tonight had raised: if something happened to him,
under the current situation, Sofia Dangermond would be the only person he would
want to have care for Sabrina, but in the meantime—his grin widened—in the
meantime, who knew what would happen once Brett received his letter?

CHAPTER
FOUR

When
Alejandro's gracious invitation to visit the Rancho del Torres to discuss
planting sugar cane finally arrived in Brett Dangermond's hands, it was a wet,
stormy day in late November. Brett had returned to Riverview, where he was
temporarily staying at his bachelor quarters situated some distance from the
main house, after a day spent in the company of his friend Morgan Slade.

Cursing
the damp weather, in the narrow entry hall of the small house that had been
built for his exclusive use five years earlier, he tossed aside his dripping
greatcoat. Walking through a doorway to his right, he entered a large pleasant
room and strode rapidly across an elegant red Turkey rug to stand before the
welcoming fire that blazed on the bricked hearth.

The
room where he stood served as both a salon and a dining room. There were
comfortable green leather chairs scattered indiscriminately about it, a heavy
oak table and sideboard were situated at one end of the room, several Louis XV
chairs covered in brown velvet were nearby, and soft gold drapes hung at the
rain-splattered windows. From the haphazard mixture of furniture and the hunting
prints on the walls, it was obviously a room that had never known a woman's
touch—which suited Brett just fine.

Having
warmed his hands, he turned to face the room, and it was then that he noticed
the travel-stained letter reposing on a small inlaid marquetry table near his
favorite chair. Curious and frowning slightly, he reached for it. Fingering the
ripped edge of the packet that contained the letter, he glanced through the
doorway where his butler-cum-valet, for want of a better designation, was
grumpily hanging up the discarded greatcoat. Resignation lacing his deep voice,
Brett asked, "When did this arrive? And who delivered it?"

"Arrived
about two hours ago, guvnor. A peddler delivered it, said he got it from a
Spanish soldier in New Orleans," Ollie Fram replied laconically, the
cockney accent still obvious even after nine years in Brett's service.

Brett
looked over the top of the letter at his servant. Dryly he commented, "And
of course you just couldn't help opening and reading it."

A
pained expression on his ugly monkey face, Ollie Fram replied indignantly,
"It might 'ave been important, guvnor—I might 'ave 'ad to send for
you."

Brett
snorted and settling himself comfortably in the chair nearest the fire, quickly
read the letter.

A
thoughtful cast to his features, Brett stared moodily into the fire for several
seconds. It was only when Ollie placed a mug of mulled wine at his elbow that
he stirred. Glancing at the small, dark youth who was so completely the
opposite of what a proper butler, or valet for that matter, should look like,
he asked, "Well? Shall we accept Don Alejandro's invitation?"

"Don't
see why not. You've been getting more and more restless since we came 'ome from
England in October. Seems to me it's time we were moving on again. Besides, we
ain't never been west of the Sabine River," Ollie answered promptly.

If
it seemed odd for a gentleman to seek his servant's opinion about anything
other than his cravats and boots, it was an even odder occurrence that Ollie
Fram was Brett's servant at all. By rights, as Brett had told him often enough,
Ollie should have been hanged on Tyburn Hill years ago—and if the pocket that
young scamp had tried to pick that day at Bartholomew Fair had been anybody
else's but nineteen-year-old Brett Dangermond's, that might have been Ollie's
fate. But while the fates had been unkind to Ollie most of his life, leaving
him an orphan in the notorious slums of London at age six, they did not desert
him completely: until he was ten, he had managed by methods best not described
to survive in the cesspool of Whitefriars. Certainly the fates had smiled upon
him the day he had attempted to pocket Brett's watch.

Feeling
his gold watch sliding ever so slowly from his waistcoat pocket as he wandered
carelessly through Bartholomew Fair, Brett had violently rounded on the
culprit. Finding himself face to face with a small, incredibly ugly boy dressed
in rags, whose mouth spat the most shocking filth imaginable, Brett had been
nonplussed. To have the boy brought before a magistrate would practically have
been the child's death warrant, and so, moved by a compassion he couldn't
explain (insanity, he said in later months), he had brought the ungrateful
ragamuffin into his household in London. It had been difficult for everyone,
for Ollie had not been at all thankful for his escape from possible death if it
meant bathing and learning some manners as well as to read and speak the King's
English. But over the years the rough edges had been shaved off, and not
surprisingly, Ollie had come to the belated conclusion that Brett was nothing
less than a god.

Brett
was never quite certain how it came about, but Ollie gradually took the places
of his butler and valet. He filled their departed shoes admirably, if
peculiarly, and Brett was satisfied. Ollie was always a bit of a shock at first
meeting, his small, wiry stature making him appear at nineteen much younger
than he was—until one noticed the cynical wisdom in his brown eyes. And then,
unfortunately, there was his occasional lapse from grace, when a particularly
exquisite stickpin or watch sported by one of Brett's acquaintances would
inexplicably find its way into Ollie's clever hands. Despite his obvious
failings, Ollie was quick and intelligent, and to someone as ripe and ready for
mischief and danger as Brett was, he was the perfect servant. No questions from
Ollie about some of the strange goings on in which Brett had taken part; no
arguments from him when Brett was leaping blindly into some harum-scarum
escapade. Instead, Ollie was likely to join in the madness. Of course, Brett
had been very young in those days. He had come alone to England to claim a
handsome fortune left to him by a great-aunt, and the results had been entirely
predictable. He had been let loose on Europe with too much money, too much time
on his hands, and few restraints, so it was only natural that his high spirits
would lead him along dangerous paths, paths that soon earned him the nickname
"Devil" Dangermond.

There
was a rapping at the outer door just then, and Ollie disappeared to answer it.
He reappeared a second later, saying laconically, "Guvnor, your father
would like you to go up to the house. A General Wilkinson is staying the night,
and your father would like you to join them for a brandy after dinner."

Brett
grimaced, realizing that his father's invitation was actually a plea to save
him from having to endure an entire evening alone with the unctuous Wilkinson.
Reluctantly he said, "Very well, send word that I shall be up later."

He
found his father and the General by the fire in a small, cozy room at the rear
of the house when he finally arrived. After greeting both men politely, he
poured himself a brandy and said lightly, "A filthy evening to be
visiting. General, isn't it?"

Wilkinson
gave a hearty laugh. He was only a few years over forty, but his
once-attractive features were bland and heavyset. "Indeed it is!" he
replied jovially. "But I was in the area and decided that I would beg a
roof over my head from your father rather than spend it in some drafty
inn." He smiled slyly. "Besides, your father keeps the best brandy in
Natchez."

Hugh
Dangermond smiled and murmured, "That may be the case now, but there was a
time when it was not true. When Manuel Gayoso was our governor under the Spanish,
he had the best brandy."

Hugh's
fifty odd years lay sedately across his handsome face and body. There was a
liberal sprinkling of silver in the black hair, a fine network of laugh lines
spreading out near his eyes, and just the slightest padding of weight around
his waist to show that time had left its mark on him.

The
comment about Gayoso brought a frown to Wilkinson's ruddy face. His hands
folded complacently over a noticeably rotund stomach, and he said casually,
"Such a shame about him. It seems impossible to think it was only this
past summer that he died in New Orleans." The General shook his fair head.
"I was there the night he died you know." He gave a long sigh.
'^Couldn't believe it when they told me the next morning that he was dead. Such
a shock! One of my dearest friends, dead in an instant!"

Brett
said nothing. His opinion of the General had never been high, and there was
something about Wilkinson's manner that bothered him. He sensed hypocrisy in
the words about Gayoso's death . . . and he wondered how friendly the General
had really been with the late Manuel Gayoso de Lemos.

Wilkinson's
friendship with the Spanish was well-known, and there were many, Brett and Hugh
among them, who viewed it with suspicion, privately thinking that for a high
ranking officer in the United States Army, Wilkinson was a little too friendly
with the Spanish. There had always been rumors about Wilkinson and the Spanish,
but no one had ever proved anything. Unsavory rumors seemed to follow General
James Wilkinson; rumors of bribes and crooked dealings trailed behind him like
dark shadows.

As
the three men talked politely for several minutes, Brett calculated how soon he
could leave without deserting his father or offending the General. But then
Wilkinson said something that caught his interest.

Placing
his glass of brandy on a marble-topped table near his chair, Wilkinson
murmured, ''I had hoped to see my young friend Philip Nolan before now, but it
seems that he has not yet returned from Spanish Texas. I will wait here in
Natchez a few days longer, but then I must be off." He smiled affably.
"Official duties, you know."

Philip
Nolan was Wilkinson's unofficial protege; he had been Wilkinson's agent before
striking off on his own, disappearing for years at a time in the vast,
untracked wilderness of the Spanish lands west of the Sabine River. Why would
Wilkinson want to see Nolan as soon as he returned from his latest trip in
those lands? Brett wondered to himself. Speculatively he eyed the General. What
were those two planning? Certainly something that would line their
pockets—Wilkinson was always notoriously short of ready money.

Hugh
provided a clue, saying innocently, ''Strange how Gayoso turned against Nolan
before he died. I remember when they were the best of friends. I believe Gayoso
actually issued a warrant for Nolan's arrest. . . . We hear rumors up here
about the Spanish in New Orleans. It's as if they believe Nolan has discovered
some marvelous treasure out there in that wilderness." Hugh shook his head
disgustedly. "The Spanish never seem to realize that there is no Cibola,
no seven cities of gold. They probably think poor Nolan has found some hidden
Aztec treasure."

The
effect of Hugh's words on Wilkinson was electrifying. His entire body stiffened;
a look of fury and fear flashed through his blue eyes, though he quickly hid
it. Hugh had turned aside to pour himself another brandy, but Brett clearly saw
Wilkinson's reaction. Incredulous, Brett stared at the pudgy features. Did the General
believe such nonsense? Was that why he wanted to see Nolan? To find out first
hand if Nolan had indeed found a treasure? And yet, paradoxically, there was
also an air of smug satisfaction about the man, as if he already possessed some
enlightening information, as if he knew something that others didn't. . . .

Suddenly
intensely curious, Brett began to question the General, but Wilkinson, as if
realizing that he had betrayed himself, replied with bland answers, deftly
turning the conversation away from Nolan and the Spanish. Reluctantly Brett
allowed him to do so. But sometime, he thought slowly to himself as he rode the
short distance to his house later that evening, it might prove interesting to
do some quiet investigating—to discover how Gayoso had really died and why
Wilkinson was so eager to see Nolan. . . .

Unusually
restless that evening, Brett roamed about the snug little house like some caged
predator. He tried sleeping, but finding sleep elusive he finally donned a
black silk robe and wandered downstairs to the salon. Poking irritably at the
smoldering fire, he was eventually rewarded by the flicker of flames. Staring
at the dancing flames, he found himself remembering a child with hair the color
of fire, and his fine mouth tightened.

When
he had read Alejandro's letter, he had been aware of a reluctance to renew his
acquaintance with the del Torres family, but he was also unbearably curious
about the changes that were certain to have occurred in his stepcousin. I
wonder what she looks like now, he mused, if she's grown into those incredible
eyes and that impudent mouth. . . .

Certainly
he had changed in the ten years since they had last met. Yet in the man of
nearly twenty-eight there was still a definite resemblance to the youth he had
been. Barefooted he stood four inches over six feet with a lean, steel-honed
body that possessed the grace and leashed power of a hunting lion. As Sofia had
predicted, his shoulders had broadened, his arms swelling with hard muscle now
that hadn't been there ten years ago. A wide chest matched his shoulders, his
waist and hips were lean and narrow, and his long, elegantly muscular legs
showed to perfection in the tight pantaloons and breeches that were currently
fashionable.