Gypsy Lady (13 page)

Smiling to himself after
she had stormed from the room, he shook his head. It had been an enjoyable
interlude, but he'd be damned if he was going to apologize to her or any woman
for taking what was offered. Elizabeth took herself too seriously by half!

Barrymore indirectly echoed
much the same thought that evening as he, Jason, and Harris relaxed after
dinner in Jason's rooms. Barrymore, his blue eyes dancing with merriment, had
breezed into Jason's rooms unannounced a few hours after Elizabeth had left, to
report that he had innocently asked Elizabeth if she had seen Jason that
morning and had had his head snapped off for his efforts. He had teased Jason
for his supposedly clumsy handling of her. Jason took Barrymore's lively quips
in good stead, returning noncommittal answers, and after a few minutes deftly
turned the conversation to the horses they were to see at the gypsy camp.

Instantly
diverted, Freddy plunged into a colorful account of his activities on Jason's
behalf.
He had made arrangements for them to ride, out to the gypsy camp the following
morning.

Before more was said,
Harris arrived and Jason viewed his two boon companions with amused affection.
And, Jason mused, as they settled themselves down for a long evening of cards
and drink, he couldn't have found two more loyal and companionable men if he
had searched all of England. He only wished Barrymore would stop twitting him
on Elizabeth Markham.

But Freddy couldn't resist
and blinking owlishly over the rim of his wine glass, he warned again,
"You'd better watch yourself with the widow. If you're not careful, you'll
find yourself returning home leg-shackled to that fancy piece! She means to
have you."

Freddy was nearer to the
mark than he realized. Elizabeth, after some hard thinking, had indeed decided
that Jason Savage would be a perfect husband for
herself
.
He was handsome, the possessor of a large fortune—a definite factor in
Elizabeth's cold-blooded appraisal—and in spite of his peculiar habit of
teasing at inopportune moments, an exciting lover. Mentally, she reviewed the
possible competition, and smugly observing her own bountiful charms in the mirror,
dismissed all other young ladies as negligible. And this morning had proven he
wasn't indifferent to her charms. Consequently, Elizabeth was pleased and
expectant as she drifted down the stairs that evening to join the other guests.
But a discontented pout curved her mouth as the evening progressed and she
discovered Jason had chosen not to attend the entertainment planned by
Brownleigh. She had worn a shockingly low-cut gown of green silk in which she
had planned to dazzle him.

Clive didn't help matters
when he murmured, "I see your quarry has deserted you this evening. And, I
offer a word of advice, my dear: be careful not to rush your fences; Savage may
find more pleasure in hunting than being hunted!"

She shot him an angry
glance and said coolly, "Are you telling me how to seduce a man? I think
that in order to set your fears at rest. I should tell you we spent the morning
in his rooms, and he couldn't keep his hands off me! There's not a woman here
who can say that!"

"True, but then most
of them wouldn't spread their legs so eagerly, either!" returned Clive
cruelly. He watched with satisfaction the flush of rage that crossed her face.
Then, smiling sweetly, he wandered out of the room.

A few minutes later, he was
frowning as he thought about Elizabeth. She was becoming too sure of herself
since Savage's arrival, and he wasn't certain she could be trusted any longer.
As long as she was desperate for money, she would do as he commanded. But if
Savage was willing to set her up as his mistress, he doubted she would look in
the future to the time when Savage was no longer in England. And, he reflected
grimly, she was stupid enough to think Jason would offer marriage to one of her
kind. But then, one thing about Elizabeth that had always fascinated him was
her colossal conceit. Still, she might be able to glean something about Jason's
connection with the duke of Roxbury and his visit to Rufus King, although it
appeared that for the moment his curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied—so
far, Elizabeth had come up with nothing but excuses.

Dismissing for a time
Jason's possible political involvement, Clive turned his mind to the more
profitable direction of the mysterious map that Davalos desired.

Not trusting Elizabeth, he
had refrained from acquainting her with the details of his meeting with the
gentleman from Louisiana. His bargain with Davalos would remain a secret. He
frowned for a second, recalling with displeasure the failure of the other
night's attempt to search Savage's rooms. Damn the man for returning so soon.
And he wondered grimly how Savage had disposed of the intruder.

But he wasted little
thought on past events.

He had found a way to
combine his business with Davalos with his desire to have—or ruin—Catherine.
The need to find this map, that Davalos was willing to pay a very high price
for, coupled with the old letter of Rachael's, would give him the opportunity
to make Catherine dance to the tune of his piping.

Catherine would do anything
for Rachael—even, if compelled, search a stranger's room for a mysterious map.
She wouldn't know that Rachael's old letter was relatively harmless—he would
make certain Catherine believed that Rachael was in great danger from possible
exposure. Besides, he thought with malicious enjoyment, there would be
considerable gratification gained in bending Catherine to his will, in forcing
her to do his thieving. It was time, he decided, an unpleasant smile on his
lips, to have an intimate conversation with Catherine. She was about to learn
that it was not wise to spurn him—that one way or another he always got what he
wanted.

It was early the next morning when Clive sought out
the gypsy camp. The camp was situated a few miles from Melton Mowbray, and he
found the motley collection of gaudily painted caravans and tattered tents
with little difficulty. Surrounded by encroaching woods, the dwellings nestled
in a small hollow. A horse, one of many tethered at the far end of the hollow,
snorted and stamped in the cold morning air, and the sound floated, muffled and
indistinct, to Clive's ears as he reined in his own mount.
       
,

At first glance, it
appeared all the inhabitants were still asleep, for the area had a forlorn and
forgotten appearance; even the mongrels that infested the camp were curled and
sleeping underneath the wagons. Then an old woman, her black hair streaked with
gray, walked out of one of the tents and threw some small sticks of wood on one
of the smoldering campfires. Her clothes were faded and worn but still bore
traces of a once bright green and yellow design; gold hoops hung from her ears,
and a scarlet shawl covered her bony shoulders. Watching her, Clive wondered
with ill-concealed disgust what possessed Catherine to seek out these people.

He must have made some
sound, for suddenly the old woman whirled to stare in his direction, and her
black eyes widened as he came forward. He recognized Reina at the same moment
she recognized him, and the welcoming smile that had begun to curve her mouth
froze. Her lustrous black eyes narrowed, and rudely she spat in the direction
of the fire. Annoyance sharpened his voice and wasting no time, he snapped,
"Where is Catherine or, as you insist on calling her, Tamara?"

"Tamara is still
sleeping, my fine buck. You'll have to amuse yourself until she arises and is
ready to see you." She stopped and added slyly, "You should enjoy
visiting with Manuel while you wait. He stays in the wagon over there."
She gave a jerk of her head indicating the direction and then deliberately
turned her back on him.

Clive's teeth clamped
together fiercely at her tone and actions, and watching her coldly, he said to
himself, "Insolent old bitch! I should have slit her throat long
ago." Seeing Reina was not going to tell him anything else, he turned
angrily on his heel and strode over to the wagon indicated.

The wagon was actually a
house on wheels, as were all of the gypsy caravans. Manuel's was larger than
most, as befitted his position as leader of the tribe, and it was painted a
bright red and gold. Just as Clive reached the caravan, the gay red door was
thrown open, and Manuel descended.

Manuel's skin was swarthy,
and his eyes bright black, like two sparkling jewels gleaming in his merry
face. He had been smiling as he came from the wagon, his teeth very white
against his brown face, but the smile disappeared, and an unwelcoming frown
replaced it as he saw Clive. "What do
you
want?" he growled.

Clive gave a pained grimace
and shrugged. "The welcome you and your mother give me never fails to
astound one."

Manuel ignored this sally
and continued to stare with hostility at Clive. Clive, impatient and disliking
every moment he had to spend among the gypsies, said in a voice cold with
scorn, "Where's Catherine?" Manuel made no move or any sign that he
recognized the name, and Clive angrily said, "Oh, very well, damn
it—Tamara, as you insist upon calling her. Where is she? I know she's here, so
find her for me—immediately!"

"I'm right behind you,
Clive, and I would appreciate it, in the future, when speaking to people on my
land, that you use a little common courtesy-—if you're capable of it."
Catherine's tone was very dry with a hint of sarcasm in it and Clive, turning
slowly to face her, almost didn't realize that the slim girl in front of him
was actually Catherine.

There was little
resemblance between the young woman who confronted him now and the demure miss
he had seen recently in London. Now, her hair, released from its confining
braids, was a curling, wavy mass of black silk that hung nearly to the small
waist, and it changed the whole character of her face, making her features take
on a wild, sultry cast that hadn't been apparent before. She was no longer
fashionably dressed, but wore the garb of a gypsy wench—a simple skirt of
bright scarlet and a thin yellow muslin blouse. And at the moment, her violet
eyes wary and unfriendly, she reminded Clive of a small cat uncertain whether
to scamper away and hide or spring and claw.

Forcing his features into a
semblance of a smile, Clive said, "I apologize. But I have to see you on a
matter of some urgency, and Manuel was being rather—er—obstructive."

At his words, Catherine's
face took on an expression of concern. Fear apparent in her voice, she asked
quickly, "What about?
My mother?
Has something
happened to Rachael?"

For Clive, Catherine's
reactions couldn't have been better, and smoothly he murmured, "No,
nothing has happened to Rachael—yet!"

"What do you
mean—yet?"

"Well, it all depends
on you, m'dear. Come, let us talk privately. This is a personal matter, not one
to be bandied about a gypsy camp."

Frowning, she gazed at him,
distrust written on her face. Manuel moved to her side speaking angrily in the
Romany tongue.

The camp had gradually
awakened and there could be heard the clank of the cooking pots; the smell of
wood smoke and of frying bacon drifted in the air. From somewhere behind the
wagons, the low voices of the men could be heard as they moved about feeding
the livestock. But as far as the three by the red caravan were concerned, they
could have been miles away. And abruptly, Catherine silenced Manuel with a
sharp movement of her hand and replied apparently resignedly in Romany. Manuel
must have been satisfied with her reply, for, after throwing Clive a look
filled with dislike, he walked away.

Catherine eyed Clive a minute,
obviously distrusting him, yet compelled by the threatening quality of his
words into agreeing to his request. "Very well," she said. "We
will move farther away where we cannot be overheard."

"Why not go to your
caravan? I understand that the earl had one built especially for you."

Catherine glanced at him
and said quietly, "Is it likely that I would go anywhere with you that
Manuel or the others couldn't see what you were doing? I haven't forgotten
what happened the last time you found me alone. Besides," she added
coolly, "I promised Manuel that I wouldn't. That's the only reason he
agreed to leave us."

Clive lost some of his
pleased air, and his eyes grew icy; but his thoughts were hidden as Catherine
led the way to a small clearing just beyond the camp. Most of the trees were
still bare, but there was a degree of privacy even though they were in sight of
the camp.

Stopping in the center of
the clearing, Catherine turned and asked sharply, "Now, what about my
mother?"

"Actually," he
began smoothly, "Rachael plays a very small part, and if you do as I ask,
she will not be harmed at all. What I want is for you to extract a document for
me from an American gentleman who is staying at The Fox."

Extremely puzzled,
Catherine asked, "Why should I run such a risk, and why would I want to
steal for you? I don't understand you. How is my mother involved?"

Clive drew a piece of paper
from an inside pocket of his vest, a cold look in his eyes and an unpleasant
smile curving his lips. "I'll let you read this if you like, but it'll be
more to the point if I tell you that it's a copy of a letter Rachael wrote to a
cousin in France during the war with Napoleon. Most of the letter is filled
with feminine chatter, but at the end of it Rachael mentioned a Lieutenant Starmer
who had been visiting with some friends near here."

He paused; Catherine was
watching him intently, her slim eyebrows knitting into a frown of
concentration. His unpleasant smile growing, he continued, "Rachael was unwise
enough to mention the place of departure of Lieutenant Starmer and the name of
his ship. Unfortunately, the ship was sunk by enemy fire a short way out from
port."

A feeling of dismay growing
inside her, Catherine asked with apparent indifference, "So?"

"So my dear Catherine,
someone
could
say that Rachael was spying for Napoleon and
telling the French about troop movements. We both know otherwise and that it
was just a tragic coincidence—but I wonder if my friend Major White who is
attached to the Horse Guards would view it in the same light?"

If Catherine had ever had
any doubts that she had treated Clive unfairly, they vanished in that instant.
"You devil!" she spat and leaped for the letter, but Clive stepped
nimbly out of her reach. Even as she leaped, reason overcame the blind fury
that had engulfed her, and she made no further attempt to gain the letter but
stood glaring at Clive, hating him for daring to threaten Rachael. And she had
to admit to a feeling of, if not fear, something approaching it. She had no
choice but to obey him—she couldn't run the risk that Clive would actually turn
that letter over to the military. Even if Rachael was proven innocent of any
crime, she would have to suffer the gossip and speculation that the letter
would bring. And Catherine felt sick at the thought of shy, quiet Rachael at
the mercy of some bristling army officer. Clive had guessed correctly that
Catherine would do anything to spare her mother—even if it meant putting
herself in danger.

Frustrated and furious,
Catherine glared at his smiling countenance. And Clive, staring at her
expressive little face, couldn't control the naked look of hunger that leaped
into his eyes. Sophisticated enough to recognize the undisguised lust that
burned in his gray eyes, Catherine was disgusted by him. Determinedly, she
stifled the feeling of nausea that rose in her throat and stared back at him.

"You sicken me! How
can you do this to us? I thought you were fond of Rachael. And do you think
this will make me like you any better?"

Clive shrugged. "If I
say I will throw away this bit of damaging paper, will you marry me?"

"Of
course not!"
Catherine cried, outraged. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man
on earth!"

"You see," Clive
said reasonably, "I have nothing to lose. I've never made it any secret
that I want you and would have you willingly or not. You will not come into my
arms, so I shall have to take my pleasure in making you do whatever I can—and
you will search that room for me."

Catherine knew she was
beaten—for the moment—and grimly she said, "Very well. You leave me no
choice."

Smiling, Clive thrust a
piece of paper into her hand.

"Here is a plan of the
floor of the inn where Jason Savage is staying. You can gain entrance from the
rose lattice near one of the windows." He pointed to the plan and
continued briskly, "His valet sleeps somewhere else so if you're careful
you'll be able to search his rooms without being discovered. A week from
tonight, Savage and the rest of Brownleigh's house party have been invited to
attend a ball at the count of Waterford's. As Waterford's home is some miles
away, it will be late before Savage returns, so you'll have all evening to gain
his rooms and search." Clive paused and added, "It isn't necessary
that you actually search his rooms.
If you would prefer that
Manuel do it—fine."

Catherine shot him a sharp
look. "I wouldn't want to put anyone else in danger. I'll do it myself.
What is it that you want stolen?"

"I have reason to
believe that somewhere within his
belongings,
Savage
has a map or a chart that might interest me. I want you to find that map and
bring it to me."

Sighing, Catherine asked,
"A map of what?"

Clive frowned and at first
seemed disinclined to answer her question, but then after a moment, he said
slowly, "I'm not certain. I'm not even positive that there is a map. But I
have good cause to believe there may be, and if it exists, I can sell it for a
nice tidy sum.

Thoughtfully, still not
completely committed to the plan, Catherine asked, "What's to stop me from
not doing it and saying I couldn't find your map? You've just told me that you
don't even know it exists for certain."

"You're not a fool, my
dear. If you lie to me; I'll know it! I have ways of finding out. And I promise
you that if you lie to me, then nothing would stop me from ruining your
mother—have no doubts that I can do it if I choose. I could, if it suited me,
compile a large amount of evidence against Rachael. I know so many clever
people —some even capable of forging additional letters that Rachael could have
written. You might think about that —and while you're doing it, perhaps you
won't find my suit so distasteful."

"You really are a
devil!" she said through gritted teeth.

"And I grow weary of
your childish name calling! If you persist in it, I may expose Rachael just to
teach you that it doesn't pay to annoy me."

Catherine's eyes blazed
with hate, but she bit back

the
angry words that nearly
came tumbling out. Clive was perfectly capable of doing exactly as he said, and
stealing a map from a stranger seemed a small price to pay if it kept him from
harming Rachael. But merciful heavens—it galled her!