Now there, he conceded almost smugly, was a man. A man strong enough and devil enough to handle any woman—even Sabrina.
If Sabrina had not seen Brett Dangermond since she was seven years old, the same was not true of Alejandro. He had seen Brett several times during the ensuing years, in Natchez and New Orleans, and though the meetings had been far apart and fleeting, each time he had met Brett, he had been more impressed. But until this evening, he had never considered that unsuspecting rakehell in the light of a possible son-in-law.
A smile of pure devilment on his face, Alejandro rummaged around in the carved pine desk he was sitting behind and found some paper and his quill and inkpot. For several seconds he stared off into space, suddenly realizing that he had to have some reason for so unexpectedly inviting Brett to visit with them. He racked his brains for some plausible excuse, and then, remembering vaguely something about Brett winning a plantation in lower Louisiana on the throw of the dice, he began to write.
That had been two years ago, and Alejandro seemed to recall that when he and Brett had met by accident in New Orleans, Brett had made some mocking comment about perhaps turning his hand to being a planter like his father. The plantation Brett had just acquired had been devastated by the indigo crop failure back in 1792, but Brett, Alejandro remembered clearly now, had mentioned he'd like to try experimenting with sugar cane. As Alejandro recalled, Brett had known a surprising amount about the cultivation of this fairly new crop in Louisiana, and his smile widened. Of course. Sugar cane was the answer! He would write Brett, indicating that he was considering planting several hundred acres in sugar cane and would like Brett's advice. It was weak, but it was not unreasonable. Swiftly, before he had time to change his mind, he began to write. When he had finished, he sat back and grinned.
Thinking of Brett Dangermond had reminded him of how fond Sofia and Sabrina were of each other, and he was aware that he had suddenly solved several problems that Francisca's conversation tonight had raised: if something happened to him, under the current situation, Sofia Dangermond would be the only person he would want to have care for Sabrina, but in the meantime—his grin widened—in the meantime, who knew what would happen once Brett received his letter?
CHAPTER FOUR
When Alejandro's gracious invitation to visit the Rancho del Torres to discuss planting sugar cane finally arrived in Brett Dangermond's hands, it was a wet, stormy day in late November. Brett had returned to Riverview, where he was temporarily staying at his bachelor quarters situated some distance from the main house, after a day spent in the company of his friend Morgan Slade.
Cursing the damp weather, in the narrow entry hall of the small house that had been built for his exclusive use five years earlier, he tossed aside his dripping greatcoat. Walking through a doorway to his right, he entered a large pleasant room and strode rapidly across an elegant red Turkey rug to stand before the welcoming fire that blazed on the bricked hearth.
The room where he stood served as both a salon and a dining room. There were comfortable green leather chairs scattered indiscriminately about it, a heavy oak table and sideboard were situated at one end of the room, several Louis XV chairs covered in brown velvet were nearby, and soft gold drapes hung at the rain-splattered windows. From the haphazard mixture of furniture and the hunting prints on the walls, it was obviously a room that had never known a woman's touch—which suited Brett just fine.
Having warmed his hands, he turned to face the room, and it was then that he noticed the travel-stained letter reposing on a small inlaid marquetry table near his favorite chair. Curious and frowning slightly, he reached for it. Fingering the ripped edge of the packet that contained the letter, he glanced through the doorway where his butler-cum-valet, for want of a better designation, was grumpily hanging up the discarded greatcoat. Resignation lacing his deep voice, Brett asked, "When did this arrive? And who delivered it?"
"Arrived about two hours ago, guvnor. A peddler delivered it, said he got it from a Spanish soldier in New Orleans," Ollie Fram replied laconically, the cockney accent still obvious even after nine years in Brett's service.
Brett looked over the top of the letter at his servant. Dryly he commented, "And of course you just couldn't help opening and reading it."
A pained expression on his ugly monkey face, Ollie Fram replied indignantly, "It might 'ave been important, guvnor—I might 'ave 'ad to send for you."
Brett snorted and settling himself comfortably in the chair nearest the fire, quickly read the letter.
A thoughtful cast to his features, Brett stared moodily into the fire for several seconds. It was only when Ollie placed a mug of mulled wine at his elbow that he stirred. Glancing at the small, dark youth who was so completely the opposite of what a proper butler, or valet for that matter, should look like, he asked, "Well? Shall we accept Don Alejandro's invitation?"
"Don't see why not. You've been getting more and more restless since we came 'ome from England in October. Seems to me it's time we were moving on again. Besides, we ain't never been west of the Sabine River," Ollie answered promptly.
If it seemed odd for a gentleman to seek his servant's opinion about anything other than his cravats and boots, it was an even odder occurrence that Ollie Fram was Brett's servant at all. By rights, as Brett had told him often enough, Ollie should have been hanged on Tyburn Hill years ago—and if the pocket that young scamp had tried to pick that day at Bartholomew Fair had been anybody else's but nineteen-year-old Brett Dangermond's, that might have been Ollie's fate. But while the fates had been unkind to Ollie most of his life, leaving him an orphan in the notorious slums of London at age six, they did not desert him completely: until he was ten, he had managed by methods best not described to survive in the cesspool of Whitefriars. Certainly the fates had smiled upon him the day he had attempted to pocket Brett's watch.
Feeling his gold watch sliding ever so slowly from his waistcoat pocket as he wandered carelessly through Bartholomew Fair, Brett had violently rounded on the culprit. Finding himself face to face with a small, incredibly ugly boy dressed in rags, whose mouth spat the most shocking filth imaginable, Brett had been nonplussed. To have the boy brought before a magistrate would practically have been the child's death warrant, and so, moved by a compassion he couldn't explain (insanity, he said in later months), he had brought the ungrateful ragamuffin into his household in London. It had been difficult for everyone, for Ollie had not been at all thankful for his escape from possible death if it meant bathing and learning some manners as well as to read and speak the King's English. But over the years the rough edges had been shaved off, and not surprisingly, Ollie had come to the belated conclusion that Brett was nothing less than a god.
Brett was never quite certain how it came about, but Ollie gradually took the places of his butler and valet. He filled their departed shoes admirably, if peculiarly, and Brett was satisfied. Ollie was always a bit of a shock at first meeting, his small, wiry stature making him appear at nineteen much younger than he was—until one noticed the cynical wisdom in his brown eyes. And then, unfortunately, there was his occasional lapse from grace, when a particularly exquisite stickpin or watch sported by one of Brett's acquaintances would inexplicably find its way into Ollie's clever hands. Despite his obvious failings, Ollie was quick and intelligent, and to someone as ripe and ready for mischief and danger as Brett was, he was the perfect servant. No questions from Ollie about some of the strange goings on in which Brett had taken part; no arguments from him when Brett was leaping blindly into some harum-scarum escapade. Instead, Ollie was likely to join in the madness. Of course, Brett had been very young in those days. He had come alone to England to claim a handsome fortune left to him by a great-aunt, and the results had been entirely predictable. He had been let loose on Europe with too much money, too much time on his hands, and few restraints, so it was only natural that his high spirits would lead him along dangerous paths, paths that soon earned him the nickname "Devil" Dangermond.
> There was a rapping at the outer door just then, and Ollie disappeared to answer it. He reappeared a second later, saying laconically, "Guvnor, your father would like you to go up to the house. A General Wilkinson is staying the night, and your father would like you to join them for a brandy after dinner."
Brett grimaced, realizing that his father's invitation was actually a plea to save him from having to endure an entire evening alone with the unctuous Wilkinson. Reluctantly he said, "Very well, send word that I shall be up later."
He found his father and the General by the fire in a small, cozy room at the rear of the house when he finally arrived. After greeting both men politely, he poured himself a brandy and said lightly, "A filthy evening to be visiting. General, isn't it?"
Wilkinson gave a hearty laugh. He was only a few years over forty, but his once-attractive features were bland and heavyset. "Indeed it is!" he replied jovially. "But I was in the area and decided that I would beg a roof over my head from your father rather than spend it in some drafty inn." He smiled slyly. "Besides, your father keeps the best brandy in Natchez."
Hugh Dangermond smiled and murmured, "That may be the case now, but there was a time when it was not true. When Manuel Gayoso was our governor under the Spanish, he had the best brandy."
Hugh's fifty odd years lay sedately across his handsome face and body. There was a liberal sprinkling of silver in the black hair, a fine network of laugh lines spreading out near his eyes, and just the slightest padding of weight around his waist to show that time had left its mark on him.
The comment about Gayoso brought a frown to Wilkinson's ruddy face. His hands folded complacently over a noticeably rotund stomach, and he said casually, "Such a shame about him. It seems impossible to think it was only this past summer that he died in New Orleans." The General shook his fair head. "I was there the night he died you know." He gave a long sigh. '^Couldn't believe it when they told me the next morning that he was dead. Such a shock! One of my dearest friends, dead in an instant!"
Brett said nothing. His opinion of the General had never been high, and there was something about Wilkinson's manner that bothered him. He sensed hypocrisy in the words about Gayoso's death . . . and he wondered how friendly the General had really been with the late Manuel Gayoso de Lemos.
Wilkinson's friendship with the Spanish was well-known, and there were many, Brett and Hugh among them, who viewed it with suspicion, privately thinking that for a high ranking officer in the United States Army, Wilkinson was a little too friendly with the Spanish. There had always been rumors about Wilkinson and the Spanish, but no one had ever proved anything. Unsavory rumors seemed to follow General James Wilkinson; rumors of bribes and crooked dealings trailed behind him like dark shadows.
As the three men talked politely for several minutes, Brett calculated how soon he could leave without deserting his father or offending the General. But then Wilkinson said something that caught his interest.
Placing his glass of brandy on a marble-topped table near his chair, Wilkinson murmured, ''I had hoped to see my young friend Philip Nolan before now, but it seems that he has not yet returned from Spanish Texas. I will wait here in Natchez a few days longer, but then I must be off." He smiled affably. "Official duties, you know."
Philip Nolan was Wilkinson's unofficial protege; he had been Wilkinson's agent before striking off on his own, disappearing for years at a time in the vast, untracked wilderness of the Spanish lands west of the Sabine River. Why would Wilkinson want to see Nolan as soon as he returned from his latest trip in those lands? Brett wondered to himself. Speculatively he eyed the General. What were those two planning? Certainly something that would line their pockets—Wilkinson was always notoriously short of ready money.
Hugh provided a clue, saying innocently, ''Strange how Gayoso turned against Nolan before he died. I remember when they were the best of friends. I believe Gayoso actually issued a warrant for Nolan's arrest. . . . We hear rumors up here about the Spanish in New Orleans. It's as if they believe Nolan has discovered some marvelous treasure out there in that wilderness." Hugh shook his head disgustedly. "The Spanish never seem to realize that there is no Cibola, no seven cities of gold. They probably think poor Nolan has found some hidden Aztec treasure."
The effect of Hugh's words on Wilkinson was electrifying. His entire body stiffened; a look of fury and fear flashed through his blue eyes, though he quickly hid it. Hugh had turned aside to pour himself another brandy, but Brett clearly saw Wilkinson's reaction. Incredulous, Brett stared at the pudgy features. Did the General believe such nonsense? Was that why he wanted to see Nolan? To find out first hand if Nolan had indeed found a treasure? And yet, paradoxically, there was also an air of smug satisfaction about the man, as if he already possessed some enlightening information, as if he knew something that others didn't. . . .
Suddenly intensely curious, Brett began to question the General, but Wilkinson, as if realizing that he had betrayed himself, replied with bland answers, deftly turning the conversation away from Nolan and the Spanish. Reluctantly Brett allowed him to do so. But sometime, he thought slowly to himself as he rode the short distance to his house later that evening, it might prove interesting to do some quiet investigating—to discover how Gayoso had really died and why Wilkinson was so eager to see Nolan. . . .
Unusually restless that evening, Brett roamed about the snug little house like some caged predator. He tried sleeping, but finding sleep elusive he finally donned a black silk robe and wandered downstairs to the salon. Poking irritably at the smoldering fire, he was eventually rewarded by the flicker of flames. Staring at the dancing flames, he found himself remembering a child with hair the color of fire, and his fine mouth tightened.
When he had read Alejandro's letter, he had been aware of a reluctance to renew his acquaintance with the del Torres family, but he was also unbearably curious about the changes that were certain to have occurred in his stepcousin. I wonder what she looks like now, he mused, if she's grown into those incredible eyes and that impudent mouth. . . .
Certainly he had changed in the ten years since they had last met. Yet in the man of nearly twenty-eight there was still a definite resemblance to the youth he had been. Barefooted he stood four inches over six feet with a lean, steel-honed body that possessed the grace and leashed power of a hunting lion. As Sofia had predicted, his shoulders had broadened, his arms swelling with hard muscle now that hadn't been there ten years ago. A wide chest matched his shoulders, his waist and hips were lean and narrow, and his long, elegantly muscular legs showed to perfection in the tight pantaloons and breeches that were currently fashionable.
Perhaps the greatest change lay in his facial features; ten years of dangerous, devil-may-care living were clearly stamped on the harsh, dark face. His hair was just as black, the black eyebrows were just as forbidding, the jade-green eyes . . . The green eyes had acquired a deeply cynical, almost insolent gleam, and the full, mobile mouth frequently had a reckless slant to it, a derisive, faintly contemptuous twist that strangely enough intensified his charm. There was no doubt that Brett Dangermond had grown into an extremely handsome young man despite his unconscious arrogance and air of weary disdain.
He possessed everything—aristocratic breeding, fortune, and a devastating charm and manner that, when he wished, could annihilate any obstacle that lay in his path. And yet there was a constant driving urge within him to seek to allay the boredom and emptiness that were his ever-present companions.
Before he was twenty-five, with Ollie as his eager guide, he had toured the seamy underside of London's danger-ridden slums, had drunk blue ruin until he was nearly blind, had gambled and whored his way to Spain, to France, to England, to America, and back again. There had been duels and madcap pranks along the way—he had fought bulls in Madrid, killed a man in a duel over a woman in Paris; on a drunken wager he had played the highwayman along Hampstead Heath—returning the ill-gotten gains undetected to the rightful owners had been the part of
the wager Brett found the most exciting; he had smuggled aristocrats meant for the guillotine out of a France gone mad; and for a year he had thrown his lot in with an American privateer plying the waters off the coast of Mexico. But the escapade, if it can be called such, that had given him the most danger and satisfaction had been the three months he had spent infiltrating a gang of smugglers in the New Orleans area almost three years ago.
It had been no prank, no drunken wager, that had driven him into their notorious ranks, but rather a thirst for vengeance—above all else, Brett was fiercely, savagely loyal to his friends. During the year he and Ollie had sailed with the privateer, Samuel Brown, Brett had grown to like and respect the gruff old captain. Sam Brown had been an honorable man in his rough fashion, and returning from one of his lightning visits at Riverview, Brett had been both grieved and furious to hear of his death at the hands of a renegade band of smugglers. Deliberately Brett had coolly inveigled his way into their network and just as coolly had brought about their ruin. With the help of the Spanish magistrate in New Orleans, he had effectively destroyed the gang from within, watching impassively as the death sentence for Sam Brown's murder was meted out to the guilty party.
The Tiger Lily Page 5
