They circled him like
wolves, his size giving them pause. And because it was his way, Jason struck
first. Whipping off his cloak, he threw it accurately over the man in front of
him. Then closing swiftly, he brought his hand down in a chopping motion that
nearly broke the man's neck. At the same time his knee came up and gouged deep
into the man's groin. Leaving the one attacker doubled up on the cobblestone
street, Jason spun like a panther, intercepting with his cane the upraised
cudgel of the other man. The cane splintered, but it gave Jason a moment in
which to snatch up his fallen adversary's cudgel, and then he faced the other
man, armed and ready. But the other attacker had no stomach for continuing the
fight and, after taking one astonished look at Jason, bolted down the street.
Turning, Jason was not surprised to find that the other man too had fled,
scuttling down the street like a wounded crab. For a minute he stood there
breathing heavily, and then the feeling stole over him that he was not alone,
that someone was still in the shadows of the alley. For several seconds he hesitated
and then, after a piercing stare into the darkness, decided not to pursue
matters. He was not
that
much of a fool! Picking up his cloak and
keeping a steely hand wrapped around the cudgel, he continued his walk to his
rooms.
Reaching his rooms, he
entered and with a careless flick of his hand, dismissed Pierre for the night.
Walking into his bedchamber, he stripped off his clothes and, leaving them in
a heap for Pierre, threw himself down on the bed. Sleep did not come, nor did
he expect it to.
He could discount the
searching of his rooms earlier as merely the work of a snooping servant. This
evening's incident, for that matter, could also be dismissed as one of the
risks one ran in London at night—except that for some reason he doubted that
both events could have been coincidences. Had Pendleton been behind it? That
Pendleton was interested in his movements was fairly certain.
But to attack him—for what?
And therein lay the crux. Why
tonight's attack?
Except for the obvious reason— thieves
after an easy catch.
Perhaps.
Jason did not sleep well at
all and woke the next morning in a surly mood. His temper was not improved by
the arrival of his uncle before he had barely finished dressing. And as it was
unusual for Roxbury to call on him, he eyed him across the breakfast table
somewhat warily.
The duke was attired in a
suit of fine blue broadcloth that fit his broad shoulders like a glove. His
cravat was spotlessly white and tied in a rather intricate manner. All in all,
he represented the picture of a gentleman of leisure.
As the duke made no effort
to speak, but merely looked about in an interested way, Jason was forced to
ask, "Is there some reason why you have come to call so early?"
"Why
no, my dear boy.
I was just in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by. How have you been,
lately?"
"Fine."
"Oh?
Nothing more than that?
Tell me, now. How have you been
entertaining yourself?" the duke
asked,
his gray
eyes very wide and innocent.
Thoughtfully Jason regarded
him. Did Roxbury know of last night? And if he did, how the devil had he
learned of it so soon?
Sipping a cup of coffee that Pierre
had just finished pouring, Jason said flatly, "I have been entertaining
myself just fine.
Barrymore and Harris have kindly introduced me to
every haunt of vice in London, and I have managed to discover a few they had
never heard of. Last night, I must admit, though, was rather tame. I played
cards at Barrymore's with him, Harris, and Clive Pendleton till early this
morning. Is that what you wanted to know?"
The duke frowned.
"Jason, is Pendleton an intimate of yours?"
Leaning back in his chair,
Jason admitted, "No. I wouldn't say that. I would say that he and
Elizabeth Markham seem to turn up when I least expect them. Clive appears to
want to become an intimate—for what reason I cannot understand."
Roxbury hesitated. Then as
if coming to a decision, he said, "At this point, I think it's important
that you have a complete understanding of Clive Pendleton. He's more than just
a society hanger-on who feeds on juicy scandals. He was a captain in the army
until two years ago when he sold out or, should I say, was asked to sell out.
It was during his time in the service that we first took an interest in him.
The army was utilizing a unique ability of his; he can scan a document, or
whatever, in seconds and then days or months later repeat it verbatim! He
proved invaluable behind Napoleon's lines until, unfortunately, he began to
sell the information he gathered to the highest bidder.
Very
unpatriotic.
Nothing was ever proven, but he was asked to sell his
commission and return to civilian life, which he did; but it hasn't stopped
his other activities. So far, we, like the army, haven't been able to catch him.
He's very wily, and you can't arrest a man merely because he's seen in the
company of known French agents."
A soundless whistle escaped
from Jason, his green eyes suddenly alert. "So," he said slowly,
"you think that Pendleton is interested in me as a possible source of information
to sell?"
The duke nodded. "I
think it's extremely likely. And I would warn you to be careful. Pendleton is a
very nasty customer, indeed." He added, "There's not much that I
wouldn't do to catch him, either."
"I see. I shall take
your warning to heart, uncle, but I do not think he will learn anything from
me."
"I'm certain he
won't—if you have no secrets."
Jason smiled but would not
rise to the quizzical look in his uncle's gray eyes. They talked a few minutes
longer, and then the duke departed.
With Barrymore and Harris
gone to the country, Jason found that the week had a tendency to drag. And
while normally the thought of a ball did not fill him with joy, he found
himself looking forward to meeting Elizabeth again at her mother's party on
Friday. It would be amusing to watch her work her wiles on him, and he was
curious to see how Clive would attempt to glean information from him.
Friday morning came, and
Jason accompanied his uncle for a ride in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of
eleven o'clock. It was there that they met Clive Pendleton, but Pendleton was
acting very cool, and he merely tipped his hat and rode on. Jason exchanged a
glance with his uncle, and the duke shrugged his shoulders. "Did you beat
him badly the other night at Barrymore's?"
"No. I don't think
it's that. He's probably just changing his tactics—and leaving me to
Elizabeth's tender mercies. I wonder if that is where he was
going?
"
Jason mused.
Clive
was
on
his way to Elizabeth's. Despite their argument earlier in the week, they had
made plans to meet on the morning of her mother's ball, and Clive arrived at
the earl of Mount's home to find Elizabeth in a rage. She barely let him enter
the morning room and the
servant depart
before she
exploded, "That damned gypsy brat and her mother are here—they arrived
last night."
At that moment, Catherine
Tremayne, in a bedroom on the floor above the morning room, was staring
gloomily out of a narrow window that overlooked Grosvenor Square. Almost
resentfully she glared at the cobbled street below and the elegant town houses
that lined the square, thinking longingly of the quiet green meadows of
Leicestershire. In the respect that she still preferred country life to the
bustle of the city, she had not changed too much in the passing six years. Yet
there was a great deal of difference between this young lady wearing a
highwaisted gown of lavender muslin, her black unruly curls captured in a neat
coronet of braids, and the wild unkempt child she had been. The changes,
however, were mostly outwards—she dressed in the manner required of the
daughter of an old and noble house, she could, when escape was impossible,
converse intelligently and politely with a high-nosed dowager, and pour tea.
And there was nothing in her bearing, speech, or deportment that betrayed her
earlier history. But inside, Catherine was still very much the "gypsy
brat" who evoked Elizabeth's invectives.
Even the terms she had been
forced to spend at a very strict and proper school for young ladies had not
been able to subdue her headstrong nature and her longing for the careless
freedom she had known in those gypsy years. Thinking just now about Mrs.
Siddon's Seminary for Young Ladies, her soft mouth tightened, and a glint entered
the long, almond-shaped violet eyes. God, how she had hated it! For an instant
she felt again the rebellion that had surged through her body that shocking
morning when Reina had thrust them under the haughty nose of the earl—the earl,
her father. She experienced once again all the resentment and fury she had felt
at being torn from the cheerfully adventurous life of a gypsy and being plunged
immediately into the bosom of an aristocratic family. She and Adam had clung
and comforted one another, united against these strange people who demanded
they do the queerest things—that they wash, and wear shoes. Remembering all the
old hurts and confusion, Catherine shook her head sadly, wishing for the hundredth
time that she could have remained an unknown, unkempt gypsy brat. It was
frequently almost impossible not to fight against the chains that bound her to
the Tremaynes.
Thank goodness, she thought
suddenly with affection, that their real mother, Rachael, Lady Tremayne, was a
woman of great tact. Rachael had not done as her loving heart demanded and
showered the children with an overdose of motherly love. She let them, like
the wild forest creatures they resembled, make the first overtures of
friendship. Catherine had been deeply suspicious of this sweet-smelling,
youthful-looking woman who was now supposed to take Reina's place in her
affections, and she had resented bitterly any sign of love her mother attempted
to bestow upon her. But time had blunted her first aversions, and Catherine had
discovered with much surprise that she dearly loved her mother. One couldn't
help loving Rachael, Catherine thought with amusement; she was that kind of
person.
Now a faint moan came from
her mother, who was lying on the silk-draped bed behind her, and with soft,
quick steps Catherine crossed the room to her side. Gazing down with concerned
eyes at Rachael's swollen jaw, she asked quietly, "Is there anything that
I can do? Would you like me to bathe your forehead with some rose water? Do you
think that it would help?"
Rachael Tremayne was a slim
woman with bright blue eyes and an exceptionally sweet face. She looked more
like Catherine's sister than her mother, a circumstance due in part to her
youthfully dark brown curls, which betrayed no trace of silver. She was at the
moment recovering from the less than gentle effects of having had an infected
tooth drawn that morning.
Smiling wanly at her
daughter, she said, "No love, just let me lie here and presently, perhaps,
I'll be able to swal
low some of that excellent broth Mrs. Barrows has
prepared. You don't have to stay here by my side, you know. You should be out
taking advantage of our impromptu visit. Why don't you pay a call on Amanda
Harris? I'm sure she would be delighted to see you again."
Catherine
shrugged. "I'd rather not. Amanda might have other plans, and besides our
stay is going to be so short that I would just as soon not see anyone. After
all, we didn't come here to enjoy ourselves."
Smiling
ruefully, Rachael agreed with her.
"Certainly not!
But as we are here, we might as well make the best of it. Perhaps," she
added with a twinkle, "you would like to have tea with your aunt this
afternoon. At least
that
will get you out of this closed room."
A
decidedly unladylike snort greeted her words. "I'd far rather be here with
you than listening to my aunt prattle on about tonight's ball. Especially since
she'll manage, ever so cleverly, to convey to everyone how inconvenient our
arrival is! Does she think you planned to have that dreadful toothache?"
Catherine demanded indignantly.
Rachael
looked at Catherine's stormy countenance and gave a soft sigh of distress. Her
inflamed and throbbing tooth had necessitated this hurried trip to London, and,
although the relationship had been strained for some time, she had hoped that
Ceci, her sister-in-law, now the countess of Mount, would be willing to
overlook past differences. Unfortunately, they had arrived the day before
Ceci's first ball of the year. Submerged in the preparations, she had been
considerably displeased by their visit, despite the reason.
Over
the years, Rachael had tried very hard to keep things pleasant with Ceci, but
Ceci's nature, cold and selfish, made it
an impossibility
.
And when Ceci had discovered the fact that little beyond the title and
Mountacre had fallen to her husband, Edward, upon his succession to his
brother's estates, the relationship had become further strained. It had come
as a nasty shock to Ceci to find that the wealth she had long coveted was not
an automatic part of the inheritance. And Elizabeth, Ceci's eldest child, had
been furious!
The
reading of the will had been a thoroughly unpleasant affair, and when the
provision providing the gypsies with the right to camp in a large meadow near
Hunter's
Hill,
the Leicestershire estate, had been read aloud, Elizabeth, unable to hide her
chagrin any longer, had been bitterly outspoken. She had ignored her father's
angry, embarrassed attempts to hush her ridiculous rantings, until Catherine,
at first amazed by her cousin's reaction, had grown furious herself and told
her explicitly what a foolish creature she was. Ceci could not allow this to
pass and had angrily rebuked Catherine, while Clive, his gray eyes malicious,
had halfheartedly defended Catherine. Rachael and Edward had vainly attempted to
smooth over the whole miserable scene, but to no avail. It had been a
distasteful episode that was not soon forgotten.
Needless
to say, there now existed an uncomfortable relationship between them, and the
passing months had done nothing to lessen it. Edward, who was Catherine's
guardian, was genuinely fond of his niece, and saw her and her mother
occasionally. But for the most part there was little communication between the
families.
Fortunately,
Rachael and Catherine preferred to live in quiet seclusion at Hunter's Hill,
where the late earl had established a large stud farm. Some years before, when
Catherine had expressed an interest in the breeding of thoroughbreds, her
father had instantly forsaken Mount- acre, and they had made their home in the
graceful Tudor mansion at Hunter's Hill near Melton Mowbray. And after his
death in a riding accident less than a year ago, neither Rachael nor Catherine
had seen any reason not to continue living in the home they had grown to love.
They seldom left the area, having no desire to mingle with the fashionable
throng that was so important to Ceci and Elizabeth. And besides, it was
unthinkable for them to attend any frivolous entertainment until their year of
mourning was up. Lately though, it had occurred to Rachael that the time was
approaching when Catherine should be presented and enjoy her first season.
It
troubled Lady Tremayne that Catherine had no interest in any of the pursuits
of a young lady of fashion. At eighteen she still preferred mucking out the stables,
working with her beloved horses, or roaming familiarly through the gypsy camp
to choosing new dresses and gowns. Even the possibility of a trip to London
aroused no animation. As for young men, she had met few and seemed perfectly
happy with things the way they were.
Recently,
Rachael had mentioned the idea of living in
London for a season, and in
tones of the blankest astonishment, Catherine had asked, "London?
Whatever for?"
Disconcerted and at a loss
for words, Rachael had been unable to proceed farther. But regardless of the
setback, she had determinedly resolved that Catherine should leave behind her
unladylike interests, take her place in polite society—and find a husband. She
couldn't stay buried in the country forever with stable boys and gypsies as her
only companions
.^
Thinking of the gypsies,
Rachael frowned. She had been as surprised as anyone that Robert had put in
that odd provision for the gypsies.
Especially since his
first reaction to Reina had been to have her thrown in the nearest dungeon.
And it had only been after pleas and tears and stony silences from Catherine
that he had relented. With a flash of insight, he had realized that by
punishing Reina and the gypsies he would be creating a further barrier between
himself and his only child. Grudgingly he had allowed there to be some visiting
between the two children and the gypsies. He certainly did not like it, but at
least his daughter did not glare at him as if he were her deadliest enemy! And
that, thought Rachael sadly, was probably exactly why he had assured that even
after his
death,
Catherine would not be torn from her
gypsies. He had been a cold, aloof man, unable to show his true affections, and
yet in many thoughtful acts he had attempted to show Catherine how much he adored
her. If only he had tried as much with her, Rachael thought unhappily, their
marriage would have been much more meaningful and loving.
Determinedly she shook off
her melancholy thoughts and watched her daughter pace restlessly about the
room. The girl was a vivid figure against the cream walls and soft green
carpet, and her ceaseless tread reminded Rachael of a caged lioness. Catherine
was a vibrant person, always busy with something, and prolonged inactivity
always seemed to affect her that way. Rachael wondered if, perhaps, it had been
unkind to subject her to the tender mercies of Mrs. Siddon's boarding school.
Such places were often like prisons, and for the first time she realized fully
what a traumatic experience Catherine must have gone through adjusting to a
society completely different from the one in which she had spent all of her
early years. But the girl had managed, she thought proudly, and
Rachael was struck anew by
the wonder that she, unexceptional and shy, should have produced such a self-
willed, lovely creature.
Catherine, slender and
finely boned, wasn't a conventional beauty. She was a study of contrasts that
caught the eye and held the attention. Blue black hair, almost shocking against
the gardenia whiteness of her skin, and a triangular-shaped face were first
impressions. Then, those intriguing, slanted violet eyes that frequently sparkled
with mischief impinged upon the senses, until her lips, full and curved with
innocent, provocative invitation, riveted the gaze.
Just now, there was a set
expression about Catherine's mouth that boded ill for the remainder of their
short stay. Staring at Catherine's determined countenance, Rachael wished
heartily that it was already tomorrow and they were on their way back to
Hunter's Hill. Soothingly she said, "Don't mind Ceci, my dear. She can't
help being the way she is. And I suppose it
is
terribly inconvenient for
us to be here now."
"I don't see
why," Catherine argued. "We are not going to attend her silly ball,
and heaven knows the house has enough unused rooms." A militant gleam in
her eyes, she added, "We don't upset her servants like she does
ours!"
A sympathetic smile on her
lips, Rachael murmured, "I know,
love, but Cat, please
promise
me you won't antagonize your aunt.
Promise?"
Catherine's promise was
given too promptly, and the glint in her violet eyes made Lady Tremayne view
her sudden meekness with suspicion. "Catherine, you're not up to anything,
are you?" she asked.
With a look of assumed
innocence on her face, Catherine purred dulcetly, "Why, of course not,
madame! Whatever makes you think otherwise? To please you, since you're not
feeling quite well, I promise not to annoy
Ceci!"
The faint stress on her
aunt's name warned Rachael, but before she could utter another word, there was
a soft tap on the door. At Rachael's command to enter, the door swung open, and
Clive Pendleton walked in, a polite, attractive smile on his lips.