by Violet
He glanced toward the cottage where Tamsyn and Josefa were involved in a lively exchange with the senhora, involving much hand waving and shrugging.
Gabriel followed his gaze. “Women’ll be settling everything right and tight, I shouldn’t wonder,” he stated. “Well, I’d best be getting this stuff unloaded. Don’t like it standing here in the street. Be seein’ you, Colonel.” He turned to unload the first pack mule, hefting an ironbound chest onto one massive shoulder.
Julian contemplated offering his assistance, then decided against it. His orders, unconventional though they were, didn’t include sweating like a farm hand. He strode off to headquarters.
Tamsyn watched him go, frowning. He was very anxious to get away from her. She didn’t care to be so lightly dismissed.
Leaving Josefa and the senhora examining the limited accommodations in the cottage, she walked back to the gate, dodging to one side as Gabriel plodded up the path with another chest.
“Hey, lad!” she hailed a small boy who was kicking a stone down the street. “Do you see that colonel?” She indicated Julian’s broad retreating back. The lad nodded. “Follow him and let me know where he spends the evening. He may go back to the camp, or he may stay at headquarters. Come back and tell me, and there’ll be a cruzado for you.”
The lad grinned and ran off, stationing himself outside headquarters when his quarry disappeared inside.
Unaware of his young follower, Julian entered Wellington’s apartment. The commander in chief was with his staff and greeted the colonel crisply.
“St. Simon, you’ll join us for dinner. We’re putting our heads together over what exactly you should ask Westminster for. Should we ask for the maximum and bargain down? Or make reasonable demands that won’t alarm the ministry?”
Julian put thoughts of Tamsyn, treasure, and the unpredictable Gabriel aside and took a chair. Little though he relished this diplomatic mission, he understood its importance.
The lad waited until dark. The colonel didn’t reappear, but a procession of servants entered the building from the kitchen in the next-door cottage, bearing trays and salvers of food, and the chink of china and glass drifted through the open window with the rich aromas of dinner and the voices of the diners.
The lad ran back to the widow’s cottage, knocking on the kitchen door that stood ajar, letting in the soft spring air. He stuck his head into the candlelit kitchen where Tamsyn sat with Gabriel, Josefa, and Senhora Braganza eating a dinner much less elegant than that served to the duke and his staff. Not that such a comparison would have troubled any of the participants at this board.
“Ah, good lad.” Tamsyn pushed back her chair. “Where is the colonel?”
“Eating at headquarters, senhorita. He went there and hasn’t come out since. Didn’t take my eyes off the door for a minute.”
“Good.” Tamsyn nodded. “Gabriel, do you have a cruzado?”
Gabriel reached into his pocket and tossed the silver coin to the boy at the door. “Now what are you up to, little girl?”
Tamsyn smiled and popped an olive into her mouth. “Just a notion I had. In about half an hour will you go to headquarters and tell the colonel I need to speak with him on a matter of the utmost urgency?”
Gabriel tore a drumstick off the chicken in front of him. “If that’s what you want.” He bit into the meat.
Tamsyn nodded, removed the olive pit from her mouth, and tossed it into the garden. “I have some preparations to make. In half an hour, mind. They should be circulating the port by then.”
She disappeared upstairs, leaving the others to finish their meal. No one seemed to find anything in the least strange in her instructions or her disappearance, and the three of them continued eating with stolid application.
Half an hour later at headquarters, Gabriel ascended the stairs to the landing and greeted the brigade-major with a curt nod. “Colonel St. Simon in there?” He gestured to the door behind the lieutenant.
“Yes, but he’s at dinner,” Sanderson said haughtily, staring at the massive, ruffianly figure of his visitor, clad in leather britches and jerkin, with a rough homespun shirt, a none-too-clean bandanna at his neck, gray hair caught in a queue at its nape. “And just who might you be?”
“None of your business, laddie,” Gabriel said amiably. “I’ll fetch out the colonel.”
“No!” Sanderson leaped to his feet as the visitor moved to the door. “You can’t go in there.”
“Oh, yes, I can, laddie.” Gabriel caught the unfortunate lieutenant by the collar and lifted him onto his toes. “Let’s not argue about it, now. Do you want to run along in there and announce me, or shall I announce myself?”
Sanderson opened his mouth on a bellow for reinforcements, and Gabriel dropped him back into his chair, saying pleasantly, “I’ll announce myself, then.”
By the time two infantrymen appeared, breathless, on the stairs, Gabriel was inside the commander in chief’s sanctum.
The men around the table looked up in astonishment. Julian closed his eyes briefly with a resigned sigh. Sanderson and reinforcements stumbled into the room on the giant’s heels.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I couldn’t stop him.”
Wellington raised his eyeglass and examined the newcomer, saying caustically, “No, I can see that might be difficult. And just whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
Gabriel offered no introduction, merely saying, “Sorry to disturb your dinner, gentlemen. But I’ve come for Colonel St. Simon. The bairn wants him urgently.”
“He’s referring to La Violette,” Julian drawled, leaning back in his chair, toying idly with his port glass. “What does she want now, Gabriel?”
Gabriel shrugged. “Couldn’t say, Colonel. Just told me to fetch you.”
Julian drained his glass and pushed back his chair. “You’ll excuse me, gentlemen. Mustn’t keep a lady waiting.” His tone was sarcastic, and Gabriel frowned.
“You wouldn’t be insulting the bairn, now, would you, Colonel?”
“That creature you persist upon calling ‘little girl,’ Gabriel, is a devious little devil,” Julian declared roundly. “And if you want to pick a fight with me over that description, then I suggest we go outside.”
There was a tense moment of silence; then Gabriel’s laugh boomed through the room, setting the china shivering. “Och, I don’t think I’ll be quarreling with you, man. Shall we be off now?”
Julian nodded, sketched a bow to his dinner companions, and followed Gabriel out of the room, Sanderson and his cohorts falling in behind them.
“So has she explained this mad scheme to you as yet?” Julian asked as they strode through the lamplit streets of Elvas.
“Not yet,” Gabriel replied placidly. “She’ll tell me in her own sweet time.”
“And you’re not curious?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I go where she goes.”
They reached the cottage, and Julian hesitated in the tiny hall, hearing the chatter of the older women from the kitchen. “So where is she?”
“Upstairs, I believe,” Gabriel replied. “I’m off to smoke my pipe in the garden.” He disappeared through the kitchen door, closing it firmly behind him.
Julian swore softly. Tamsyn was up to her tricks again, he was sure of it. He looked up the narrow wooden staircase, then, with an impatient shake of his head, strode up, knocking sharply on the door at the top. A low voice bade him enter, and he pushed the door open.
He stopped on the threshold, stunned and disbelieving. Milky starlight fell from the small round window onto an Aladdin’s cave. Chests stood open on the floor, spilling their contents: glowing silks, rich velvets, the deep green of emeralds, the bright white of diamonds, the dark, luminous red of rubies, sea-green aquamarines, brilliant turquoises.
As he stood and stared incredulously, a low laugh came from the narrow cot. He swung his head slowly toward the bed and for a moment thought he was in the middle of some crazy dream worthy of a bedlamite.
&n
bsp; Gold covered the cot, but not just the cot. It covered the body of La Violette. Gold coins of every currency, glittering in the moonlight, shifting against her pale skin as she breathed.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he whispered. “What in the name of grace are you doing?”
“Choose something,” she said, without moving from the bed. “You’re entitled to compensation for the arduous task I’ve inflicted upon you.”
Anger flashed through him, a crimson surge. “You’re offering me payment?” he demanded, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“Compensation,” Tamsyn murmured. “Look around. See what takes your fancy.” Her body moved slightly, and the gold coins that clothed her chinked faintly.
“You dare to offer me robber’s gold?” He strode to the bed, his eyes black with anger. “Of all the insulting—”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” she interrupted, smiling, her eyes as luminous as any of the jewels in the caskets. Only her face remained uncovered, and he found his eyes slowly traveling down her body, fascinated by the hillocks of gold shaped by her breasts, by the small rosy crowns peeping through their covering. Gold clustered in the concave hollow of her belly, an emerald peeped shyly from her navel, ducats lay in overlapping circles along her thighs, and each toenail carried a burnished doubloon.
“There’s more than one kind of treasure on offer,” she murmured. “Reject the gold and see what’s below it. Maybe something there will appeal.” Very delicately she moved her legs apart and the bright fire of a diamond flashed in the starlight, brilliant against the dull glister of gold.
“You … you …” There were no words. He gazed down into the dark, rich furrow of her body where diamonds beckoned in mischievous, wicked invitation.
Slowly, he dropped to his knees beside the bed and carefully brushed coins off her breasts with a delicate fingertip, revealing the soft, pale swell. He bent his head, flicking the erect nipples with his tongue, tasting the warm sweetness of her skin mingling with the faintly metallic residue of gold.
Tamsyn lay perfectly still as, in silence, he revealed her body with slow deliberation, coin by coin, arranging them in neat piles on the floor beside him. And as he bared each circle of skin, his lips branded the flesh.
Lying still became increasingly difficult. She’d expected him to sweep the coins from her body in a surge of passion, half-angry, half-desirous. But this exquisitely slow exposure set every nerve ending atingle, brought a soft flush to her skin in the wake of his burning kisses, sent the blood racing through her veins.
He left the emerald in her navel as he continued over her belly, his tongue trailing fire over her damp skin. Slowly, he revealed her thighs, her calves, bared her feet, taking each little pink toe into his mouth in turn, stroking the soles of her feet with his tongue until finally she wriggled with a soft moan of halfhearted protest at the tickling.
Julian looked along her length, holding her feet in both hands. The diamonds winked at him from the dark, moist cleft of her body.
“Sorceress,” he said softly. It was the first word that had been spoken in the small jewel-encrusted chamber for many minutes.
He rose from his knees, and she turned her head to watch him as he bent over one of the caskets, running gems through his fingers, selecting, discarding. He turned back to the bed with a handful of necklaces, bracelets, and single stones. Kneeling beside her again, he began to adorn her body, an intent expression in his eyes. He fastened bracelets at her wrists and ankles, an opalescent string of pearls around her neck. He slipped a gold chain studded with emeralds beneath her and fastened it around her waist, another to encircle her breasts.
Then he stood back and surveyed his handiwork, a tiny smile playing over his mouth. He looked down at the smooth diamond he held in his palm, and the smile spread to his eyes. “Turn over.” His voice was a rich sensual throb. “But be very careful.”
Tamsyn eased herself onto her stomach, and the belt of emeralds and gold pressed into the skin of her belly, cool and hard against her heated flesh.
Julian leaned over her prone form, and her skin rippled beneath the edge of the diamond as he drew it down her back, tracing the sharp lines of her shoulder blades, the delineation of her ribs, the bony column of her spine. Her toes curled into the mattress as the stone scribbled in the small of her back and then moved over her buttocks, slowly outlining their curves, before he parted the soft folds of flesh and planted the gem in the diamond garden between her thighs.
Tamsyn drew a swift, almost startled, breath, then smiled to herself. This was a lover who could meet and match any fantasy. But still she said nothing. As Julian straightened, she turned over again, careful not to disturb the garden, her eyes still rivaling the rich decorations of her body.
She watched hungrily while he undressed as if he had all the time in the world, as if he was not on fire for her as she was for him. When he stood naked, she gazed with unabashed greed at the power in his aroused body and raised her arms to him.
He leaned over her, taking her mouth with his, and there was a fierce assertion in this kiss, his tongue plundering the warm, sweet cavern of her mouth. She reached her arms around his neck, her lips parted for this driving possession, opening herself to him.
Finally he drew back, his eyes predatory, sharp-edged with needy desire. Slowly he drew his hands down her body, playing with the chains and the stones that encircled her. And finally, slowly, he drew her thighs apart, revealing the secret places of her body and the treasure they kept.
“And now, treasure trove,” he said quietly.
Chapter Eleven
LONDON
“THE KING’S INSANE, PRINNY’S AN ARROGANT DUNDERHEAD, and the rest of ’em are clods.”
This succinct, wholesale condemnation of the royal family was received in a gloomy, accepting silence. The speaker took a deep draft of his wine and glared around the table in the square chamber in the palace of Westminster as if challenging potential dissent. He was a man in his late sixties, black eyes hard and sharp as flint beneath bushy gray brows and a mane of iron-gray hair.
“And they’re demmed expensive into the bargain, Penhallan,” one of his three companions rumbled, leaning back in his chair, loosening a button on the striped waistcoat that strained over his ample belly. “Prinny’s monstrous fantasy pavilion in Brighton! I’ve never seen anything like it. All those domes and dragons.”
Cedric Penhallan snorted. “Hideous monstrosity. And Society nods and beams and congratulates the fool on his taste and imagination and Parliament foots the bill.”
“Quite so.” The agreement came from the prime minister, who sat up straight in his chair with an air of resolution, as if deciding it was time to take control of the meeting. “That is precisely the issue, gentlemen. We have Wellington demanding money on every mail ship from the Peninsula, the Admiralty needs more ships, and the palace grows greedier by the day. We cannot defeat Napoleon and indulge every bizarre whim of Prinny’s … not to mention the demands of his brothers on the civil list.”
Cedric Penhallan took an apple from a chased silver bowl on the table and carefully peeled it with a tiny dessert knife, frowning as he took the peel off in one perfect spiral. The conversation at this dinner with the prime minister and his few closest intimates had taken a familiar turn: how to balance the conflicting needs of a country at war, with the financial demands of an idle, autocratic regent who saw no reason why his demands shouldn’t be instantly gratified by a servile Parliament.
“The Stuarts learned their lesson the hard way,” he said with a cynical curl of his lip. “Maybe we should give the House of Hanover a taste of Stuart medicine.”
There was a moment of stunned silence; then an awkward laugh rippled around the table. Men who dined with Lord Penhallan learned to expect the sardonic harshness of his opinions and remedies, but to hear Penhallan recommend revolution and regicide, even ironically, was a little too much even for his intimates.
“You’ve a dangerou
s sense of humor, Penhallan,” the prime minister said, feeling a slight reproof was required.
“Was I jesting?” Lord Penhallan’s eyebrows lifted, and a disdainful amusement sparked in his eyes. “How long does the British government intend to pander to the vulgar extravagances of a German lout?” He pushed back his chair. “You must excuse me, gentlemen. My lord.” He nodded at the prime minister. “An excellent dinner. I look forward to your presence in Grosvenor Square next Thursday. I’ve a consignment of burgundy I’d like you to try.”
Having made his farewells, Cedric Penhallan left his companions still at the table and walked out into the chilly March evening. The conversation had irked him, but he’d made his irritation felt and hopefully sowed a little seed in the corridors of power that might bear fruit. At some point someone had to put a rein on the royal family’s profligacies. It was high time to remind the government that the king and his family were merely foolish mortals who could be controlled by Parliament.
He smiled to himself as he walked briskly through the streets, his step surprisingly light for such a big man. He’d enjoyed shocking them with that insouciant reference to Charles I’s execution. Of course, he’d never seriously advocate such a course, and they knew it … or at least they thought they knew it.
His smile broadened as he climbed the steps to his own front door. He worked his own political influence behind closed doors, more with whispers and innuendo than with direct statements. In the House of Lords he was rarely seen on his feet, but Lord Penhallan’s power was many-tentacled and had a long reach.
His front door swung open before he could put his hand on the knocker, and the butler bowed him into the hall.
“Good evening, my lord. You had a pleasant evening, I trust.”
Cedric didn’t respond. He stood frowning in the candlelit hall. A high-pitched squeal came from the library, followed by a burst of drunken male laughter. “My nephews are home for the evening,” he commented acidly. It was the butler’s turn not to respond.
