Gypsy Lady (20 page)

In no hurry to return to
his empty rooms, he let his horse set an easy pace down the road. Occasionally
the moon hid behind fast-moving clouds, and the narrow way would be blanketed
in darkness. The trees grew close to the dirt lane and created long, black
shadows in the intermittent moonlight.

Tamara had thrown him off
stride and badly damaged his pride. Mulling it over, he was undecided which
made him the angrier—that she hadn't come willingly to his bed, or that she'd
seen fit to place a repulsive old crone there. Remembering pressing, his mouth
against those shrunken lips, his stomach gave a sickening lurch.
That little viper Tamara.
She'd stung him badly and how she
must be laughing at him. For the first time in his life, a woman had gotten
under his skin!

Suddenly Jason heard the
faint, stealthy rustle of dead leaves behind him and to his left. He had been
half conscious of furtive sounds for some time, but deep in thought, he hadn't
heeded them. Now, his invisible tracker must have grown careless, and Jason was
alerted to the hidden presence.

Swiftly, he scanned the
road before him and swore silently. Engrossed with his angry thoughts, he
hadn't noticed where his horse was traveling, and recognizing no familiar
guidepost, he knew he was lost.

His hand slid down to the
long-bladed knife that hung at his side, and as his fingers closed tightly over
its familiar hilt, he breathed an unconscious sigh of relief. If his unseen
companion moved in closer, he would wager his own skill with the blade against
any weapon yielded by the other. Briefly it occurred to him that the old gypsy
woman had roused the camp, but the gypsies would have given noisy chase, and
whoever was silently pacing him didn't want his presence known.

Pretending ignorance of the
hidden rider, he continued along the narrow lane. The hair on his neck
prickled, and his nerves were taut, alive for any overt move on the other's
part. And from the small sounds that drifted to his straining ears, he knew
there was only one rider. At least, he thought grimly, it's one against one. In
the mood he was in, he'd almost welcome a fight. With seeming indifference, he
kicked his mount into a slow canter. He didn't want to alarm his follower, but
neither did he care to dawdle along waiting for the other to make a move. It
was possible his shy friend was only curious, but remembering his uncle's
advice, he felt it was extremely unlikely.

Increasing his horse's
pace, he heard the other rider's animal continue to keep step with his as they
played a strange and menacing game beneath the stars. When Jason slowed his
mount, the other did the same; if he increased his speed, his unseen companion
stayed close behind him. The other rider was no longer making any attempt to
hide his presence, and Jason knew it was only a matter of minutes until the
other "man broke from the woods and showed himself. As his own horse broke
into a smooth gallop, he toyed with the idea of making a run for it but having
no idea of his whereabouts and not entirely convinced the other was dangerous,
dismissed it. Careening down dark, unexplored country lanes and fleeing from
shadows didn't appeal to him.

Bah!
he
thought disgustedly. This was a stupid, childish situation! Intent upon ending
it, he impatiently urged his big stallion to a faster pace. Then, as if he too
was tired of the game, the hidden rider suddenly burst from the trees. Swiftly
Jason glanced over his shoulder, but the moon was hidden behind clouds, and he
could just barely discern the shape of a bulky figure seated upon a fast-moving
horse.

The pursuer had left cover,
but was making no attempt to overtake him, and Jason was momentarily puzzled.
Then with a blinding flash of insight, he knew he was being deliberately driven
in this direction for a definite and lethal purpose. The moon suddenly appeared
from behind the clouds, and in that second Jason's searching eyes saw the brief
glint of metal as the silver moonlight struck the upraised pistol of a second
horseman, who suddenly appeared on the path riding towards him.

Instinctively, Jason tore
at his horse's reins, causing the stallion to rear on steel-sprung haunches and
scream with rage at the pain to his tender mouth. Fighting for control of his
horse, Jason forced the animal sideways in the narrow road, and in that moment
several things happened at once. There was the deadly crack of a shot, and he
felt a burning, searing pain tear across his shoulders. The first horseman,
desperately trying to avoid Jason's thrashing stallion, swerved to the edge of
the road, unable to prevent his horse from sliding into the stallion's flank.
The attacker in front, startled by Jason's sudden move, was powerless to stop
his own galloping mount from slamming broadside into the already entangled
horses. The powerful stallion nearly went down under the combined onslaught,
and the next few seconds were bedlam.

Shaken and furious beyond
belief, Jason completely forgot himself; a blood-chilling snarl of rage escaped
his throat, and he became the attacker. Swiftly he disentangled his plunging
horse, only to charge back into the melee. This time, however, he was a
merciless, vicious nemesis, and his two would-be killers were caught by stunned
surprise. Still fighting to control their frightened horses, they were
unprepared for his sudden, violent attack.

The man who had fired the
shot never saw his killer —as a flashing blade leaped in front of his startled
eyes, and an unspoken cry of fear became a soft, surprised gurgle as the knife
sliced deeply into his throat. He fell dying from his horse, his head nearly
decapitated by the deadly slice of the blade.

Jason, the smell of blood in
his flaring nostrils, a frightening glitter in his eyes, and the blood-stained
knife clenched in his hand, spurred his horse in pursuit of the remaining
horseman. Rapidly he overtook the retreating figure and leaped with a chilling,
triumphant cry onto the back of the other's animal. The fleeing man felt the
iron- muscled arm close around his neck, nearly choking him, and felt the sharp
bite of the knife Jason pressed into his side. Terrified he twisted away, and
both men fell from the racing horse.

They fell rolling and
struggling onto the hard-packed earth. Jason, in no mood to prolong the fight,
quickly overpowered the smaller man, and with his knees crushing into his
assailant's arms, he stared down into his attacker's face. Nonplused, he
realized he had never seen the man before!

Placing the knife almost
gently against the man's exposed throat, he snarled,
"Mon ami,
you are a fool! And perhaps I will kill you for your foolishness!" With
hard green eyes, he studied the man trapped beneath him.

The man's clothes were made
of cheap materials and had been worn a long time, his brown coat showing
greatly frayed cuffs. An unclean smell drifted to Jason's nostrils, and he
viewed with distaste the bulging blue eyes and weak chin of his captive.
Deliberately he pricked him with the knife, and the man broke into a frightened
babble.

"
Gor,
let me go! We
was
only after a bit of the ready."

"And you thought I
looked like an easy mark?" Jason queried softly.

Eagerly the man nodded.
"That's the ticket! Man alone, lonely road, seemed a plum ripe for
picking."

"You
lie
, my stupid friend! My clothes are not those of a wealthy
man, and your late companion tried to shoot me. Who set you to watch me?"

"No
one!
I
swear upon me mother's breast!"

A cold, set look on his face,
Jason drew his knife lightly across the man's throat and watched the thin line
of blood that appeared. The man gave a convulsive leap under him, and Jason
smiled down into his frightened eyes.
"Again,
mon ami,
who set you to watch
me?"

"No
one!
It
was chance, I tell you!" the man cried.

Idly Jason flicked the
blade against the man's coat and coarse shirt and exposed his prisoner's upper
chest. Almost conversationally, he said, "I feel I should warn you that I
am not an Englishman. You have heard of the wild savages that live in the New
World? Well, my stubborn one, from them I have learned many ways to use my
knife. I could skin you like a rabbit and listen unmoved to your screams for
me to end your agony." Watching the sudden terror that flashed across the
man's face, he snarled, "Tell me who sent you, or you will feel my skill
with this blade!" And viciously he dug it into the hairy chest before him.

A scream broke from the
man, and words
came
tumbling from dry lips. "I
don't know. He was a stranger, never saw him before. Don't kill me! It's the
truth, I'm telling you."

"Bah! Do you expect me
to believe a complete stranger approached you to kill me? How did he know you
wouldn't immediately run to the squire and report what he said?"

Sullenly, the answer came.
"The innkeeper at The Fox knows we can be trusted. He's the one who sent
the men to us. Ask him!"

Thoughtfully, Jason stared
at the shifty face. It was possible the man had finally told the truth. The
innkeeper was in a position to know the men of the area who wouldn't be
adverse
to obliging a stranger's request— whatever the
request!
Especially if some gold pieces were pressed into
their outstretched palms.
Later, he'd have to have a private talk with
the innkeeper, but right now there was still this creature in front of him.
"What did he look like?" he snapped.

"I dunno. He didn't
see me." The man gave a jerk of his head in the direction of the dead man.
"Buckley, he made the deal. Five hundred pounds now and another five
hundred when you
was
dead."

A surprised whistle escaped
from Jason's lips. Someone certainly didn't want him alive. That fat innkeeper
had better have a good memory, he decided grimly.

Curious, he asked,
"Did the man tell Buckley why I was to be killed?"

A shake of the head was his
answer. Then the man volunteered, "Said we
was
to
take care of you. Said he didn't care how, just so you
was
dead within the week."

The furious rage that had
consumed him earlier had died away, leaving only an icy controlled anger. He
was also in a quandary. What the hell was he to do with the man in front of
him? But then, as Jason hesitated, the man himself answered the question and
sealed his own fate. Grasping a handful of loose dirt, he threw it in Jason's
eyes, and as Jason, blinded and trying to clear his sight, stumbled away, the
man leaped for the knife, attempting to drive it deep into Jason's stomach.
They fought for possession of the weapon, Jason at a disadvantage, his sight
still unclear. Desperately trying to regain his vision, Jason rolled and
tumbled on the dirt lane, the other man still reaching for the knife. Blindly
Jason struck out, and luck was with him; the blade unerringly sliced into the
man's jugular vein.

Standing beside the corpse,
he absently wiped the knife on his buckskin-clad thigh. Unemotionally he stared
at his handiwork and was suddenly aware of the pain throbbing across his
shoulders. Grimacing, he walked to his waiting horse and swung up onto the
animal's back. Then he turned the horse in the direction from which he'd ridden
earlier and started back. It wouldn't take him too long to find his way—he
hoped!

The return to the inn was accomplished easily,
enough once Jason discovered where his horse had wandered from the more
heavily traveled road that led to The Fox onto the narrow lane that had nearly
taken him to his doom. Quelling Pierre's searching questions concerning the
nasty, bloodied furrow that angled across his shoulders and beginning to feel
the effects of delayed shock and loss of blood, Jason thankfully turned himself
over to the valet's skilled ministrations. This was not the first time Pierre
had patched and tended him.

The wound was ugly but not
serious, although it was painful, stabbing Jason into awareness of it every
time he moved unwisely. He ignored Pierre's renewed attempts to question him
about the injury and Pierre, from past experience, knew it was useless to
persist. So after binding the wound lightly, he retired to his room in tight-
lipped, disapproving silence.

Jason watched his valet's
stiff retreat from the room, and for a moment an amused smile chased the
serious look from his face. But then, the door was shut, and he was alone with
his unpleasant thoughts. Thoughts that didn't amuse him at all!

He wondered how deeply Jem
Noakes, the innkeeper, was involved. He'd like to question Noakes about the
stranger—if he was a stranger-—who must have asked some peculiar questions for
the innkeeper to direct him to those two would-be killers. But Noakes was
undoubtedly clever, and he might instantly leap to conclusions Jason would
find a trifle inconvenient. Especially once news of two men found with their
throats slashed filtered through the countryside. It was possible the innkeeper
would link him with the deaths, and he wanted no connection between himself
and those two bodies. For the present it appeared his curiosity would have to
be unsatisfied.

He spent the remainder of
the night lounging in a leather chair before the fire, too restless to seek his
bed. Broodingly, he stared at the orange and red flames while his mind seethed
with unanswered questions and endless speculation. Intent upon his own
thoughts, it was not until the early morning light gradually crept in through
the window that he tiredly ran a hand over his face and made for his bed.

It was perhaps three in the
afternoon when Jason was jerked from a deep sleep by the sudden feeling of icy
wetness on his face and his uncle's voice saying calmly, "I think it's
time you awoke. I have been awake and traveling since before sunrise, and I
find the sight of you slumbering like a babe offensive."

Still shocked by the sudden
wetness, Jason had a shrewd suspicion where the water had come from for Roxbury
was standing next to the bed, an empty goblet in his hand.

Slowly Jason sat up, his
black hair tousled from sleep, a lazy grin curving his mouth, but his green
eyes were alert as they surveyed the sartorial elegance of the duke's attire.
He was wearing a well-tailored suit of superfine, dove gray cloth, which spoke
of the very best tailor in London. It wasn't surprising he was again wearing
gray, for it was his favorite color and he wore it often.

The duke's smooth-shaven
cheeks and precisely tied cravat made Jason aware of the stubble on his own
chin. The fact that he was naked except for the dressing Pierre had used to
bind the wound last night didn't add to his joy. Casting a dark glance at his
uncle, he asked ungraciously, "What brings you here? I thought you never
left London."

"Ah yes, true, but
occasionally it does one good to see the country, don't you think?"
Roxbury said languidly, settling himself comfortably in a large overstuffed
chair near the bed.

Jason shot him a frankly
disbelieving look, and twisting the bed sheet about his waist, he rose and
stalked to the marble-topped washstand to tidy himself.

"What have you done to
yourself?" the duke asked, gesturing at the linen bandage.

"I haven't done
anything to myself!" snapped Jason, never his best immediately upon
waking.

The duke raised his
quizzing glass, and after a slow unnerving appraisal of his nephew's surly
face, asked, "Are you in a bad mood, Jason?"

"Yes, I'm in a bad
mood! You come barging into my room, wake me, and you still haven't answered my
question. What are you doing in Leicestershire?"

"Perhaps after you've
bathed and eaten you'll be in a more amenable frame of mind. I took the liberty
of ordering us a meal, and Pierre is preparing your bath. Shall I wander
around this delightful inn for a while, or do you mind if I remain here while
you dress?"

"Please yourself—you
always do!" retorted Jason as Pierre entered, followed closely by four of
the inn servants carrying a huge brass tub.

Jason's bad mood had
evaporated by the time he and the duke had seated themselves at the table in
the dining room, and the meal passed in amiable silence. But once the table had
been cleared and the servants had left the room, the duke asked seriously,
"Do you mean to tell me how you came by that bullet wound? And don't deny
it is one! I watched Pierre change the dressing, and I know a bullet wound when
I see one!"

Briefly and precisely,
Jason relayed what had happened the evening before, leaving out only his
reasons for being in the area in the first place. Roxbury's face tightened
with displeasure as he listened, but surprisingly his only remark when Jason
finished was, "I suppose I should be thankful I don't have to remove those
two bodies from your premises!"

Ignoring his comment, Jason
asked impatiently, "Are you going to tell me why you're here, now? I'm
quite certain it isn't to revel in the sight of the countryside in
spring!"

"You wrong me! Come,
let us take a ride, and you may show me the trees in bloom." At Jason's
incredulous look the duke added, "And I'll not be nervous of being
overheard!"

They
left the inn shortly thereafter, Jason driving his curricle with practiced
skill as they swept down the road. For some minutes there was silence. Then the
duke broke it by saying, "I could have wished you were more forthright
with me the last time we spoke. It would have saved me the embarrassment of
discovering you are much more deeply involved in Livingston's mission in Paris
than you would have had me believe." He waited for Jason to make some
comment, but Jason, his face expressionless, appeared more intent upon his
horses than Roxbury's conversation. As the silence continued, the duke said
heavily, "Very well, I see I shall have to tell you that I know Livingston
received verbal word from another courier that if he was to reach an impasse
in negotiations for the use of the port of New Orleans, he was to contact you
immediately! You obviously have instructions from President Jefferson that
could be vital to Livingston. And I'm disappointed you gave me no hint when I
asked if there was another reason for the interest in your belongings. You'll
note," Roxbury added dryly, "I don't ask what message you are to
deliver."

"Only
because you probably have already discovered it!"
came
the sharp reply.

"Jason,"
the duke began earnestly, "we are on the same side! I say truthfully that
at this time England has no designs on the Louisiana area. We have a volcano in
the form of a small conceited Frenchman named Napoleon about to erupt on our
very doorstep. I can assure you that if Jefferson plans to let Andrew Jackson
invade New Orleans and forcibly take the port, we in England would be
delighted!
I might add, my government has been wondering why
yours hasn't done so before now."

His
face still expressionless, Jason turned his green gaze onto his uncle and said
levelly, "But you don't
know
that's
what Jefferson told me! Only I know what passed between us! And you still
haven't answered my question. You didn't tear yourself away from London merely
to tell me you had discovered I've been less than truthful in my dealings with
you."

"Damn
it, Jason, the only message that would be of use to Livingston with that damn
little frog would be the threat of violence! And ever since the Spanish closed
the port last year, Andrew Jackson and his volunteer army of fellow Tennesseans
have been spoiling for an excuse
to invade the territory. So don't try to tell me
Jefferson gave you some other message!" the duke answered angrily. But as
his nephew continued to ignore his outburst, he said slowly, "I see. You
really don't trust me any longer."

And Jason, concentrating on
feathering a particularly sharp curve, didn't see the momentary flash of very
real pain in the gray eyes that scanned his face so closely. If fee had, his
voice might not have been
so
harsh as he ground out,
"Don't give me that! You have your government, and I have mine. You
wouldn't have told me what you have if it were of some further use to you. Now
for the last time—have done with this nonsense and tell me why the hell you are
here."

Angered by Jason's surly
treatment, Roxbury snapped, "I'm overjoyed you're so loyal to the United
States, as Livingston is negotiating for the entire Louisiana territory —not
just the use of the port of New Orleans and free navigation rights to the
Mississippi River!" And he had the satisfaction of watching the stupefied
look that spread over his nephew's face. As the full import of his words sunk
in, Jason pulled the horses over to the side of the road and halted the
vehicle. He turned to Roxbury and asked, "The
whole
Louisiana territory?"

"Yes,
all of it!
James Monroe is expected any day, and I have no doubt he and Livingston will,
together, push for the purchase of it al. Napoleon seems to be listening to
them—if the idea didn't originate with him! The land is useless to him, and he
needs money for his war with us. From my knowledge of him, Talleyrand would
probably prefer to colonize the area, but Bonaparte holds the power, and he
wants war!"

The possibility of that
enormous tract of virgin wilderness passing to the hands of the fledgling
United States had never occurred to Jason, and the idea left him stunned—not
that he objected to it, although if he had expressed any view at it would have
been for the territory to become a nation in its own right. It was the shock
of discovering that France might actually own the land—or else she was involved
in one of the greatest swindles of all time—and was willing to sell that
immense area with its great potential for growth and power, merely to finance a
destructive war in Europe!
Mon Dieu!
They must have a mistaken
assessment of the wealth in the

New World if they thought
the United States would be able to meet what must be a very high price. And
thinking of that, he asked, "How much do they propose to sell it for—or
don't you know?"

"We've had reports of
over seventeen million dollars."

"But that's more money
than is in the entire United States! They'd never be able to raise that
amount!" Jason said slowly,
then
twisted to view
his uncle's smug expression with suspicion. "How do you know what
Livingston is doing? No, don't tell me! Obviously, if you've learned of my part
and now you know this, you must have a spy on Livingston's staff."

The duke shrugged
noncommittally, and Jason had to grin. Nothing, but nothing ever shook the duke
from his air of cynical detachment. And knowing they would sit here apparently
enjoying the fading spring sunshine until his uncle was prepared to reveal his
reasons for being in Leicestershire, he leaned casually into the leather backrest,
folded his arms and propped one booted foot on the dash of the curricle. The
duke noting these signs asked, "Are you ready to listen and cease viewing
my every move as a possible hostile act?"

His eyes holding a mocking
gleam, Jason admitted, "I'll listen, but as for the other, I can't
promise!"

Satisfied if not pleased
with the answer, Roxbury asked briskly, "Are you acquainted personally
with either Livingston or Monroe?"

His eyebrow rose, but the
answer came easily enough. "I've never met Robert Livingston, but James
Monroe is a good friend of Guy's. I've met him several times. As a matter of
fact, he dined with us one night before I left for England and was present at
one of the meetings I had with Jefferson."

Roxbury nodded slowly, as
if confirming what he already knew, and fixing his gray eyes on the haughty
face so like his own, said, "So, if you were to carry a proposal to
Monroe, he would accept it as true and authentic?"

"Yes.
But
my
dearest, crafty uncle, if you wish me to play the courier for you, you must
convince me the message I carry is true and authentic!"

"Well, of
course," the duke said testily, "that goes without saying. And in
view of that, you'll have to return with me to London tonight and prepare
yourself to sail for France within the next few days."

"No," came the
flat answer, and Roxbury stared at Jason in surprise.

"What do you mean
no?"

"Simply that I'm not
returning to London tonight! And I can't cross the channel for France until
after I settle a disagreement with Clive Pendleton."