Gypsy Lady (5 page)

"Come now," Guy
said irritably, "you're as American as
myself
.
Don't forget that you were born right here in Virginia. And even if you prefer
your mother's family to mine and choose to live in
Louisiana,
that
does not make you less of an American."

Jason grinned, his emerald
eyes gleaming with mocking laughter. "It annoys you, does it not, that I
am more French than American. But you have only yourself to blame—you should
not have married a Creole."

"You don't have to
tell
me
that. I should never have married your
mother," Guy muttered. "It was a mistake from start to the present. I
do not mean to offend you, but that woman would try the patience of a saint—and
heavens knows
that I am not!"

Jason nodded, his eyes
holding sudden amused affection for his father, and at that moment he looked
very like his father. Seen together, as they were now, it was apparent that
there was a great but not marked physical similarity between them. Both were
possessed of the same black curly hair except that Guy's was beginning to show
traces of silver at the temples. Jason's face was harder, the bones more
clearly defined, and there was
a ruthlessness
to the
slant of his mouth that Guy's lacked. Yet both had the same heavy, hawklike
brows, and even if the color of their eyes was different the shape was the
same. Jason was taller than his father, standing over six feet tall. He had the
wide powerful shoulders, the lean hips and the long, steel-muscled legs of the
natural athlete. For a large man, he moved with the quick almost lethal grace
of a panther—as more than one unsuspecting culprit had discovered to his
dismay. Despite Jason's deceptive air of indolence and the lazy amusement seen
gleaming frequently in his emerald eyes, there was an aura of carefully leashed
power about him that made him definitely a man who people noticed—especially
women. His crisp black hair, worn carelessly long, just brushing the collar of his
coat, and his dark, hard, uncompromising features coupled with those green
eyes that so often shimmered with slumberous passion had caused more than one
woman, who should have known better, to go weak at the knees. At twenty-nine
there wasn't a great deal that he had not seen or done except, his father
thought waspishly, marry and provide him with a grandson. But Guy hastily
pushed the thought from his mind. Now was not the time to speak of such things.

Guy waited until after
dinner to bring up the subject, and it was one near to his heart.
Unfortunately, whenever he had brought it up in the past, it had invariably led
to a quarrel.

Jason was sprawled in a
large chair before the roaring fire, once again in Guy's den. His long legs
were stretched towards the warmth, and one lean hand held a goblet of strong
rum punch. He was staring absentmindedly at the swirling amber liquid, his mind
on this afternoon's meeting with Jefferson, when Guy broke into his thoughts.

"I hesitate to disrupt
your mood, but I think it's time we have a serious talk."

Jason gave his father a
lazy smile and answered lightly, "I've had one serious conversation today.
Is another necessary?"

"Jason, I feel very
strongly that this one is. We've discussed it several times in the past, and
you usually manage to avoid answering me.
This time, though,
I'm determined that you listen to me and consider what I'm saying.
I
want you to look for a wife while you're in England."

"Oh,
my God, not
that
again!"
Jason said angrily. The last time the subject
had arisen he had made it clear— he had no intention of marrying. With his
parents as examples of the wedded state, he had no desire to saddle himself
with a wife—not now, not ever.

Guy firmly ignored his
son's less than encouraging outburst. "Don't you think it's time that you
married?" he continued. "I'm approaching fifty, and in less than a
year's time you'll be thirty. Between us we've large holdings and don't
forget—you are Armand's only heir also. I certainly would like to be assured
that all I've acquired will remain in the Savage name at least for one more
generation."

A bleak silence greeted his
words, and his son's face wore a cold, stony expression. Almost despairingly
Guy cried, "It's your damned duty to marry and breed me grandsons! Good
heavens, boy. You'll not find it hard if you'll just put aside the fancy pieces
you keep and settle down with a nice young gentlewoman."

A grimace of distaste on
his face, Jason asked sarcastically, "Do you expect me to study your
marriage as an example of what to look forward to?"

Guy had the grace to look
uncomfortable. "I've admitted my own particular marriage was a mistake but
that doesn't mean that yours would be. I needed a nice quiet Englishwoman and
what did I do but marry a hot- tempered Creole termagant!"

"So?"

"So, this trip of
yours is a godsend. Find yourself a well-bred English miss and make her your
bride. At least for my sake consider it. It would please me no end if you
brought home an English bride."

Jason tossed down the
remainder of his rum in one quick movement and snapped, "Very well, I'll
look. And if there is one who is rich, beautiful
and
willing to overlook my—er—fancy pieces, I believe you called them, well
then—who knows?"

"I wish you would take
this seriously. You know, Jason, it's possible that you might fall in
love," Guy commented quietly.

"As you did?" his
son returned insolently.

Guy hesitated and for a
moment, his thoughts went slipping down forbidden and painful avenues of
memory.
Her
features, Rae's laughing face, danced in front of
his eyes, and for a second all the aching pain of their parting came flooding
back—not the least of it the knowledge that she was to have borne him a child
and that he would be unable to even give it his name. He had done the next best
thing though—while the child might not be entitled to the Savage name there was
nothing to prevent him from bestowing on it his mother's name, St. Clair. His
thoughts bleak and unhappy he admitted softly, "Once there was a woman I
loved dearly. I would have given up everything for her—but it was not to
be."

"Mon Dieu!"
Jason said ungraciously.
"Spare me! I've said I'll look. More I cannot promise." With that
Jason slammed out of the room and, intent upon cooling his hot temper, left the
house and stalked to the stables. At the moment he preferred the company of
dumb animals.

Chewing on a wisp of straw,
Jason decided reflectively that it was as well he only saw his father once
every few years; if they saw one another often, the tenuous thread of filial
affection might very well snap.

Jesus!
he
thought with disgust—the very last thing he wanted from London was a damned
simpering miss of a bride.

Jason
Savage, his valet
Pierre,
and his head groom Jacques,
having survived the fury of the winter storms that swept across the Atlantic
Ocean, stepped thankfully ashore some six weeks later at London, England. The
trip had been cold and uncomfortable, and Jason vowed grimly that never again
would he attempt a winter crossing.
Nothing
could be worth the discomfort and inconvenience that he had suffered.

He
arrived at his uncle's Berkeley Square residence that afternoon to find the
duke eagerly awaiting his appearance.

Roxbury—his
full name was Garret Ainsley Savage, Lord Satterliegh, Viscount Norwood, duke
of Roxbury— had been a widower for well over twenty years and his sons fully
grown when Jason, a scruffy schoolboy, had come to England to finish his
schooling at Harrow. The duke was a tall slender man of sixty-five, as
impressive looking as his string of titles, with seemingly sleepy gray eyes
that were deep set beneath heavy black brows. In his youth, he had possessed as
black and curly a head of hair as his nephew's. Although the years had silvered
his hair, his manner and bearing were such that his presence still caused a
flutter among the ladies. Viewing the world with a weary cynicism, he was
seldom moved by the emotions that motivated other men—and this made his pride
and affection for his only nephew all the more puzzling.

Jason,
himself, was at a loss to explain the affection that was between them, but he
was also wise enough to realize that the duke placed England and her
sovereignty over mere mortals and that if it was necessary to use or
sacrifice an individual in
order to maintain that sovereignty, Roxbury would do so without too much
searching of his conscience. And as Jason felt exactly the same way about the
Louisiana Territory and the United States, there was, in spite of the affection
that existed, a certain not unnatural wariness in their meetings with one
another.

But for this, his first
evening in England since a short and hurried trip some five years ago, they put
aside politics and spoke mainly of the past, Jason's father, and Jason's
plans. It was only as they were preparing to seek out their separate
bedchambers that the duke mentioned anyone outside their family circle.

Standing at the foot of the
stairs, his gray eyes warm with amusement, he said, "I suppose you know
that those two raffish friends of yours, Barrymore and Harris, have been
bombarding me for news of your arrival. They started asking after you in
December, and I have had no letup since then, even while in the country. When
last I spoke to Barrymore, I explained, rather patiently for me, that I did not
expect you until after the New Year and certainly not before the fifteenth of
January. I am thankful that you have not made a liar out of me and have so
kindly managed to arrive on that precise date. Rest assured that those two
will be at my door as soon as it is decently possible tomorrow morning. I wish
you joy of them."

Jason grinned. "At
least this time we won't be letting a monkey loose at the headmaster's farewell
dinner."

The duke shuddered.
"Please do not remind me. How could you have done such a thing? No, don't
tell me. Let that memory die peacefully along with several more that I would
prefer to forget. Good night, Jason, I shall see you in the morning."

As his uncle had
anticipated, Barrymore and Harris arrived promptly at ten o'clock in the
morning requesting to see Jason. Jason had already spent a busy few hours,
making arrangements with his uncle's very efficient head groom for the
temporary stabling and care of the horses he intended to buy and ship to New
Orleans, as well as writing a note to be hand delivered within the hour to
Rufus King, the American minister in England requesting to see him at the
earliest possible moment. So he was quite ready to relax and enjoy himself. And
nowhere could he have found two companions more eager and willing to assist him
in this endeavor.

Frederick Barrymore, heir
to a barony, was almost as tall as Jason but built on deceptively willowy
lines, with blond wavy hair and bright blue eyes. Possessing an exuberant
personality, he was like a happy, restless butterfly. Tom Harris, with sad brown
eyes and the
freckles that usually went with hair as carrot
red as that which grew in abundance on his round head, was
on the short
side and inclined toward plumpness. Harris was quiet, amiably slow-witted, and
followed happily wherever the volatile Barrymore led.

It was Barrymore, his blue
eyes lighting with pleasure as he shook Jason's outthrust hand who
enthusiastically cried, "By God, Savage, it is good to see you again! And
except for that brief trip of yours here a few years back, it must be almost
ten years since our harum scarum days at Harrow."

Grinning, Jason
acknowledged that time did indeed have a way of slipping past one unnoticed.

Harrison, less articulate
than the restless Barrymore, merely beamed. Clasping Jason's hand he said
simply, "Pleasure!"

The three spent an
enjoyable few hours in Jason's room at his uncle's house renewing their
friendship and reminiscing. And when Jason disclosed that he was in England to
buy horses, Barrymore and Harris instantly demanded the privilege of escorting
him to Tattersalls, renowned for its horse sales. And of course, when business
was behind him, well then. . . .

Relaxing and smiling
ruefully to himself, Jason listened as his friends cheerfully filled every
moment of the duration of his stay. Feeling they were getting too far away
from his objective of buying horses, he skillfully brought the conversation
from the charms to be seen of certain opera dancers at the theaters near Covent
Garden back to Tattersalls.

Although Jason had arrived
too late for the early January sales in which the best of the yearling
thoroughbreds had been sold, he was not dismayed. He was after breeding stock,
not racing animals. And as he intended to remain in England some four or five
months, he was certain he would be able to find horses that would satisfy him.

Barrymore and Harris both
bemoaned the fact that he had not arrived earlier, but then dismissed it.
Feeling that enough time had been spent on business, Barrymore asked,
"Will you accompany us this afternoon to a cockfight at Bartholomew Fair?
There's a splendid red crossbreed that I predict will win every match. Come
with us. You will enjoy seeing the creature in action."

With his note to Rufus King
in mind, Jason demurred, much to Barrymore's disgust.

"Oh, come now, Jason,
don't fob us off with such a sorry excuse as you've just arrived! I know you
haven't seen your uncle in some time, but you're staying with him, ain't you?
He'll see enough of you before you leave to become sick of the sight of your
face."

Jason smiled and remarked,
"True,
mon ami,
but I do not intend to remain under my uncle's
roof for my entire stay. I shall only be at this address until I can find lodgings
of my own. And as I am his guest at the moment, I cannot, I fear, arrive one
night and then disappear the next day in the company of such rakish fellows as
yourselves
. Knowing you, after the cockfight we would adjourn
to Cribb's Parlor or some other low place and drink blue ruin till the early
hours." Shaking his head regretfully, Jason continued, "No, my
friends, I'm afraid that I really cannot come staggering up the steps of my
uncle's home my second night in London." A wicked glint in his green eyes,
he added, "Wait a week or two, until I have found my own rooms, and then I
shall be delighted to join you in your revels."

Barrymore grinned at
Jason's words, but it was Tom, recalling past escapades who said tellingly,
"Lead, not join!"

Jason laughingly
acknowledged his statement, and the three parted on that note. Jason escorted
the pair to the door and after closing it behind
them,
he turned and walked down the wide hall to his uncle's study.

The duke was on the point
of leaving to stroll down to take a look in at White's Club for Gentlemen.
Glancing over at Jason, he suggested, "Would you care to join me? If you
do, this would be as good a time as any to offer your name for
membership."

Shaking his dark head Jason
replied, "I would appreciate it, but unfortunately I am waiting for an
answer to a note that I sent off this morning. Could we make it later this
week—say, Friday?"

The duke
shrugged,
his gray eyes thoughtful as they rested on his nephew. "So diligent, so
soon," he mused. "You've changed, m'boy. And I wonder if I like
it."

"Shall I do something
outrageous to allay your fears? If I set my mind on it, I could think of a way
to instantly set the cat among the pigeons," Jason offered promptly, his
emerald eyes gleaming with mocking laughter.

Roxbury gave him a
reproving look. "Please, do
not,
I beg you, exert
yourself in such a manner for my sake. I'm sure we can deal together famously
just as things are."

Left alone after his
uncle's departure, Jason roamed around the room, impatient to be busy. But as
things were, until he heard from the American minister he was not his own man. His
thoughts went to the dispatches currently resting snugly in a cunningly devised
leather pouch next to his skin. The sooner he was rid of them the better! And
for just a tiny segment of time, he allowed himself to think of the message
that he carried in his head. But those instructions had nothing to do with
England, and he dismissed them from his mind. He was not going to be dragged
into politics if he could help it. He was here to purchase horses and enjoy
himself—but not necessarily in that order, he thought with a grin.

The arrival of an answer to
his note to Rufus King interrupted Jason's thoughts, and taking the envelope
from the uniformed servant, he read the message quickly, pleased that King
would see him this afternoon at two o'clock.

Exactly at two
p.m.
Jason was ushered into
Rufus King's office. It could have been an awkward meeting. Jason was very much
aware of the fact that the plump and balding man before him was not a supporter
of Jefferson and was in actuality a firm friend of Alexander Hamilton, the
President's bitter and outspoken enemy. King, in turn, knew very little of the
tall, broad- shouldered young man seated across from him other than that he was
related to the duke of Roxbury, whose actual position, while powerful in
governmental circles, was not quite known, and that Guy Savage, Jason's father,
was deep in Jefferson's confidence. But Rufus King was an able diplomat, and
none of his reservations showed in his greeting.

"Well, I must say, it
is a pleasure to meet you at last. I have heard a great deal about you."

At Jason's look of
surprise, Rufus's heavily jowled face creased into a smile. He chuckled.
"I know your father slightly, and like all men he is eager to speak of his
son. But truth to tell, it is your uncle, the duke, who has spoken so highly of
you."

A sardonic grin twisting
his lips, Jason murmured, "I see that my fame has preceded me. Do
not,
I request you most earnestly, base your opinion of me
on what those two have said. They are, for reasons best known to
themselves
, prejudiced in my favor."

Rufus laughed politely.
"Yes, I'm afraid that is how it is with most relatives. But now, tell me.
What can I do for you?"

Glad not to have to waste
time in exchanging further banalities, Jason stood up, and before King's
astonished gaze began to remove his slim fitting coat of dark blue cloth.
Grinning at King's expression, Jason said, "Do not be alarmed, I am not
ready for Bedlam—yet! I have some dispatches for you from
Jefferson,
and nothing would do but the damned things be concealed under my clothing. I
beg you bear with me."

Rufus relaxed slightly in
his chair, although his brown eyes were definitely speculative as Jason handed
him the leather pouch. Shrugging back into his shirt and coat, Jason remarked,
"That
is the entire reason behind my visit to you. For myself, I'm devilishly happy
to be rid of it!"

A preoccupied grunt was his
answer. Rapidly, King scanned the large, scrawling script and finishing
it,
he lifted his head and stared with open curiosity at
Jason.

"Do you know what is
in this?" he asked finally.

Jason nodded.
"Some of it, but not all.
I did not feel it was
necessary for me to know anything beyond Jefferson's desire for a treaty
between England and the United States. His instructions to you concerning the
negotiations of such a treaty are beyond my interest or capabilities."
With a disarming smile he added, "Monsieur King, I am merely a messenger.
And the only reason I know something of Jefferson's desire is because I would
not blindly agree to his request without first knowing precisely what it
entailed." And that, Jason said to himself, is a bloody lie.

"I see," said
Rufus slowly. And partially he did. The president had his own system for
receiving information and delivering messages, and some of Jefferson's ways
were decidedly unorthodox—the present situation, a splendid example. Yet as
the young man had stated, he was merely a messenger. But was he?