Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  Suddenly a voice cried, "Damn me if it's not Fitz!" A silk-clad arm thrust through the circle and its owner pumped vigorously at Sean's hand.

  Sean smiled politely. "Your Highness . . . hello, Buck."

  Brummell, who wore a captain's uniform of the prince's regiment, nodded as he appraised the Irishman's flawlessly cut dark blue clawhammer coat and fawn buckskin breeches, which molded cleanly to his long legs and fit without a ripple into darkly polished russet boots.

  Enderly was startled by the prince's recognition of the man whose manner and intense green eyes so aptly fit his foresters' description of the chief saboteur of Holden Woods, but his bland expression gave no hint of it.

  Prince George raffishly threw an arm about Sean's shoulders. "Gentlemen, whatever your various gilded titles and offices, prepare to salute the whoremaster of us all. My own lechery pales beside his black reputation. He got more than one bastard at Eton, one of them by my own mistress, Kitty Fells. A green-eyed brat she dropped, and had the cheek to say it was mine!"

  Sean's handsome face was a smiling mask. "Your second equerry had green eyes, as I recall, Your Highness."

  George's eyes widened. "By Jove, you're right. The devil! And she married Frank with my good wishes and two hundred pounds a year! Damn the baggage! She's a tub of a trollop today, so the rotter only got a side of pork with my blessing!" The prince threw back his head and laughed uproariously at his own joke.

  "If you will excuse me, Your Highness, gentlemen," Sean cut in quickly, weary of the conversation, "I have some unpacking to do."

  "You have no valet, Fitz?" sneered Brummell. "However do you dress properly?"

  "The same way I relieve myself." As Brummell reddened and the prince roared, Sean bowed to the bemused dukes. "Pick me up for dinner, will you, Terry?" he said affably to his friend, who was preparing to make his own excuses. The hint to stay behind was not lost on the young lord.

  Enderly's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Sean stroll from the room. "I'm delighted to encounter a nephew of the marquess. It had been my understanding that he had no living relatives." He sipped his claret. "Still, I suppose his relationship to Menton is unquestionable."

  The prince stared at him. "God's blood, man, I've known Fitz for years. He's a gentleman, whatever his bald remarks to Brummell here."

  Growing pink, Southwick sided with the prince. "I had apartments next to Fitz at Eton. He and I visited his uncle one summer at Menton. The marquess called Fitz his nephew, and he ought to know."

  Enderly apologized smoothly. "I offer no insult to your friend, my dear fellow. Clearly, my memory is mistaken. You must pardon my vanity for clinging to my first supposition, as my powers of recollection have served me excellently well in the past." He laughed ruefully, as if chagrined. "I must be getting old."

  "Not you, milord," said Artois smoothly in his silken, accented English. "You will be a serpent's tooth in the heel of England's enemies for many years yet."

  As Sean and Terry emerged from Sean's quarters to go to dinner, they encountered a stunning blonde in the hall. She turned with a whisper of silk and subtle wink of diamonds to watch the Irishman's tall form disappear around a corner.

  Terry nudged Sean as they trotted down the long staircase. "What did I tell you? The place is rotten with beautiful women. That was Helena Sutton, marchioness of Landsbury. Isn't she gorgeous?"

  "Gorgeous," agreed Sean, "and obviously married."

  "Pshaw. Her husband's an old India nabob thirty years her senior."

  "Duels with irate husbands can become monotonous."

  Terry laughed. "You ought to know, I suppose. You've fought enough of them . . ." His head swiveled as they entered a crowded salon adjacent to the dining room. "There's Lady Anne Trury," he commented. "She's the delectable dark-eyed creature peeping over her father's shoulder. Worth a fortune but well guarded." He rocked forward on his toes and craned his neck ever so slightly. "Ah, I see a challenge for you. Lady Elizabeth Dunaway. Fabulous horsewoman. Unattached and fond of breaking engagements. Leveled the prince's regiment. Seems unable to find a man to satisfy her. There! She sees us; or rather, you. She's a great believer in variety, and you're exotic fare."

  Southwick did not exaggerate. His friend's complexion, darkly contrasted by a cream silk shirt and stark black formal clothes, made his hard male beauty arresting, particularly so in a sophisticated gathering. As he roamed among the guests who circulated under the chandeliers, he looked like a predator among rich pickings. Women turned to stare at his lean, long, muscled body and rakehell face, forgetting to hide their interest in demure glances. Many a male noted his woman's absentminded lapse in conversation.

  His dinner partner, a pretty blonde, giggled through innumerable tedious courses; he did not linger at her side when the over-rich menu was exhausted. Terry grinned at him as they met outside the dining room. "For shame, Fitz. You're so used to adoring women, you don't even bother to be polite. That little blonde wasn't half-bad, and God knows, she was willing."

  "Sheep are willing," replied the Irishman dryly, "and they rarely titter."

  As the string ensemble began a stilted minuet, Elizabeth Dunaway strolled up on the arm of a young Italian officer who stared at her miserably with large, liquid eyes while she boldly surveyed his potential successor. "Introduce your friend, Terry darling. I've been curious about that wicked black in the stall next to my Hussar's Red." She swept on, not waiting for Terry to speak. "You are his owner, my lord . . . ?"

  Sean bowed slightly. "Plain Robert Fitzhugh, Lady Dunaway; however, two such very similar blacks, as I recall, are entered in the race."

  "Umm." The leggy redhead tapped her fan lightly against her chin as she considered the breadth of his shoulders and ignored her imploring Italian. "But the one at the far end belongs to the little Enderly girl. She's away for the season, so her father took the opportunity to sneak the stallion into the race."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Lady Dunaway's eyes traveled downward, expertly assessing the Irishman's other attributes. An engaging dimple appeared in one cheek as she unhurriedly looked up into his eyes. "He's never been raced because she won't let anyone but herself and her crazy old Arab groom ride him. I hear the nag jumps well though Catherine refuses blind walls. Still, he may provide stiff competition, even for Hussar's Red." She gave him a siren smile. "But sifter seeing the stallion you present, I feel an even more challenging contest is imminent."

  "Indeed, my lady, I'm looking forward to it."

  The Italian, reading the lazy appraisal in Sean's eyes, gave a sigh of resignation.

  Just after dawn the next morning, Sean, dressed in a stocked shirt, black jacket, fawn breeches, and Spanish leather boots, walked toward the stables. Shortly, he was riding Mephisto along the outside" edge of the steeplechase course, a four-mile-long irregular triangle slashed with stone walls and wooden fences occasionally coupled with hedges, brush hazards, and watery ditches. The course would be grueling for both horse and rider. Side bets were made by the more sporting gentry as to just how many riders would be thrown at any particularly nasty jump, but the heavy money was on odds that either Hussar's Red or Numidian would take the purse. After more people got a look at Mephisto, his odds might drop, but Sean was certain a win by his literal "dark horse" would strain John Enderly's ready cash.

  That afternoon, Sean set in motion the second prong of his forked attack on John Enderly's finances. With the Englishman's London bank accounts in escrow and his income-producing forestry and smuggling operations broken, Enderly was close to financial ruin. Culhane's next move was designed to discredit the Englishman with his influential friends.

  For most of his career, Enderly had played one government against another to advantage, subtly warming to one side or another as it suited him. While he cultivated the Bourbons, he also dallied with Napoleon. Ironically, some munitions he sold the French army found their way through corrupt Directorate officials to Ireland and his enemies via Culhane ships and
those of other Irish smugglers.

  Although he had lost the syndicated ships, John Enderly maintained a vessel in his own name to import antiques from France and the Low Countries. While it was technically smuggling, the cargo evaded customs, virtually immune from the law because purchasers were usually either English aristocrats or French émigrés recovering family treasures. Many parvenu Directorate officials were prepared to offer cheaply acquired or confiscated property for resale. The cost of smuggling put a stiff fee on the merchandise, but the heavy English import tax was higher still. Special requests were frequently paid for in advance, and were often described in minute detail, sometimes with accompanying sketches, by someone trying to recover a family heirloom. Occasionally, unrequested rarities were offered at private auction.

  Now that the viscount was in serious financial difficulty, his French agent welcomed a handsome offer by an Irish concern. As Enderly's requests for private-auction cargo dwindled for lack of ready capital, a smooth-tongued Irishman named Kilpatrick even persuaded the French agent to provide copies of the viscount's orders. Those objets d'art now eluded Enderly and were quietly offered to the very clients who had ordered them. In addition, unknown to the viscount, the consignments he did obtain shared space with his Irish competitors in his own Calais warehouse. As the place was nearly empty, the sensible French manager saw no reason not to pick up private rents to line his pockets.

  For some months Culhane had been holding a copy of a most important order. The viscount had requests by the due d'Artois, several prominent Girondists, and the duke of Norfolk, which the French agent had gradually filled. There had been time, however, for Culhane to send descriptions and Liam's sketches of four items on the list to Halloran with orders to have them duplicated. Duplication had been hasty, for they could not delay the agent over-long. The viscount's cargo now awaited shipment in the warehouse, side by side with the reproductions. That afternoon at Ingram Culhane met Halloran at a whist game. When Sean "learned" the other Irishman would be leaving for Calais immediately, he asked him to post a letter. Its contents were cryptic: "Begin the exchange." The originals soon were shipped to England aboard the Mary D., while the reproductions, salted among Enderly's other cargo, set the trap for the viscount's undoing.

  Sean skipped dinner and the evening's entertainment, an enactment of Alexander Pope's "Rape of the Lock" by a troup of Drury Lane actors. Wearing his oldest clothes, he went to the stable. While Michael Shaunessy rubbed Mephisto down with liniment, Sean stripped the bandages off the black's legs and reworked salve into his briar scratches. After checking the stallion's shoes for signs of loosening, Sean shrugged into his jacket. "Michael, see that Tim gets the sailing time for the Mary D. Tell him not to overdose Numidian when he rides him in tomorrow's race. I don't want the horse broken."

  The boy nodded. "Aye, sor."

  Culhane drifted down a line of stalls filled with some of the world's finest racers. Large, soft eyes watched him as hooves pawed restlessly along corridors where grooms roamed like flitting owls. He paused at Numidian's stall, the one place in this alien throng that conjured up Catherine Enderly's presence. In front of it, as if he were a guardian of a temple, squatted the old Arab, his black eyes as alert and unwinking as a mongoose when it scents a cobra's presence. "May Allah be with you, old one."

  The old man nodded impassively. "And with you, Mr. Fitzhugh." The phrase was polite, but the sounding of Sean's adopted name had a faintly mocking ring.

  "Do you know me?"

  "You own the brother black," said the old man flatly.

  Sean squatted before the Arab like a devotee, ignoring the stares of the passing grooms. "I have heard Numidian's sire, Ethiop, is a magnificent stud. I would like very much to see him."

  The old man tilted his head as if to see Sean better. "He is dead with my lady."

  "Dead? Her father says she is abroad."

  "I refer to the Viscountess Elise. She was killed in a riding accident."

  Thinking of Catherine's fearless skill with his own huge stallion, Culhane ventured a probe. "I'm a bit surprised. I was led to believe the viscountess's horsemanship was remarkable."

  "When a field hayrake is left behind a high stone wall, skill is of no significance." The old man's voice was toneless, but Sean felt a tinge of nausea. He had seen death in many forms, but the countess's end must have been hideous; no wonder her daughter had nightmares. "I spoke in ignorance. I mean no slight to your mistress," he said quietly.

  For a long moment the Arab studied the young man's features, noting their subtle Saracen cast. As if he accepted Sean's concern as real, he nodded, then asked a question of his own with unnerving abruptness. "Ethiop covered many mares. Was yours called Antigone?"

  "I purchased the black from an Irish lord," Sean lied smoothly. "His papers record Andromeda as the dam and Belial as sire."

  "The Irish lord who owned Antigone would never sell a foal of my lady's stallion," the old man said softly. Their eyes locked.

  "Surely it is as you say," Sean murmured. "I bid you good evening. May Allah smile on Numidian's efforts tomorrow."

  "Allah smiles on all that is incorrupt." The Arab's thin lips curved like a scimitar's edge.

  That night Sean dropped instantly into dreamless sleep, but toward morning he began to stir uneasily. Thinking he heard a forlorn cry, he bolted upright. Only a faint coo of doves on the balustrade outside his windows broke the predawn stillness; the Irishman dropped back, realizing he was listening for Catherine. He lay awake until dawn, forcing himself to think of the race.

  By ten that morning, Culhane, mounted in the stable-yard, surveyed the other entries while Shaunessy adjusted his stirrups for jumping. "We've a bit o' trouble, sor," the Irish groom muttered as he shortened the straps. "The old Arab an't taken his beetle eyes off the nag for a minute. Tim may have to wait 'til the start of the race. That means the stuff'll work when Numidian's on the course."

  "That's too dangerous. I don't want the nag caving in on a jump."

  "It's too late to tell Tim, sor. I can't get near 'im now!"

  Frowning, Culhane twisted in the saddle to see Tim, already mounted, lean over Numidian's neck to feed the horse a carrot. Across the stableyard, the Arab saw the same thing; he closed quickly on horse and rider. Spurring Mephisto to reach Tim first, Culhane snatched the carrot from his accomplice's fingers, "You don't want to do that, lad," he advised briefly. "Any little thing gives 'em cramps in a race." As he trotted the course, the dark Irishman leaned down to hand Shaunessy the carrot on the way. "If the Arab looks like he wants an inspection, eat it."

  "Gor, sor!"

  Shaunessy stared at his master's retreating back, then at the carrot. A plug had been cut out of its center, coated with a powerful narcotic, and replugged, leaving only a faint incision. When he looked up, the Arab was advancing on him at a determined, bowlegged clip. With a sigh, Mike stuffed the carrot into his mouth in two large munches and stood grinding the faintly bitter vegetable as blandly as any rabbit while the Arab frowned up at him. The tobacco-colored little man gave a sardonic grunt, then seesawed off to watch the race.

  Southwick was among the riders, as was Elizabeth Dunaway. After greeting Sean cheerily, she began to warm up her mare on a path parallel to Mephisto's working area while the other riders paced up and down in the same manner. He grinned at her. "Would you care to wager a few pounds on whose posterior lands in the mire today, m'lady?"

  Dunaway twitched the mare's head away from Mephisto's nuzzling nose. "You are a yokel! My mode of wager is well known. I never bet a farthing on Hussar's chances. If I win, I accept only private wagers and the purse. If I lose, I bed the stalwart winner. So, you see, I never really lose."

  He chuckled at her imperturbable impudence. "What shall we wager? Say fifty pounds?"

  She nodded. "Done. I thought you'd never enter the stakes, you gorgeous dolt!"

  Sean touched his hat as he danced Mephisto away. "Not too doltish to collect my winnings. Be in my bed by f
ive sharp." Elizabeth gave an unladylike hoot.

  Observers lined both sides of the course. Dotting the rolling green meadow, those not afoot were in carriages or on horseback in order to move quickly from one part of the course to another. Parasols hovered like bright butterflies above the crowd. As the horsemen lined up, Sean took a position just left of center, Elizabeth Dunaway fell in near the end of the line, while Tim entered Numidian a few horses to Sean's right. Terry Southwick, next to Elizabeth, gave Sean a puckish grin and a hearty wave.

  Tension crackled through the crisp spring air as horses fretted and chafed at their starting positions. Then a warbling blast of a hunting horn sent twenty riders thundering down the turf; seventeen hit the first wall at the same time; fourteen cleared it. Culhane's right foot was crushed painfully as the horses jammed, but Mephisto, well trained, displayed no skittishness. He ran easily, eating up the greensward in great strides, taking the hurdles cleanly. Here and there, horses went down in melees of churning hooves and scrambling riders. The luckiest riders managed to lurch away with smudged clothing; others went headlong over their horses' necks in bone-jarring crashes to lie in mortal danger of being trampled. While Sean gave Mephisto his head at each hazard, he held him back slightly on the through way. He had gotten a length behind Tim at the second water hazard and had taken a splashing but had made up the distance by the next wall.

  Finally, only a handful of riders continued on the course: Elizabeth Dunaway and Tim among them. Terry had gone down. After passing a jump of felled trees, Sean let the stallion out. Mephisto lunged forward at a frightening pace, great hooves tearing the turf in spraying clots. Sean's thighs felt like liquid fire, but Elizabeth faded from his peripheral vision, then another rider and another, until Mephisto and Numidian drummed down the final stretch neck and neck, sweating like a pair of hell's couriers. A double jump, two singles, then a ditch and wall. Dumbfounded to see Numidian begin to pull away, Sean used his crop and yelled in Mephisto's ear, "Run, you black sonofabitch! The bastard's forgotten he's supposed to lose!" Mephisto roared with fiendish abandon across the last jumps and final brick-and-water hazard, leaving the less impressionable Numidian the loser by half a length.