She had almost despaired of bringing him to heel until tonight when he had abruptly and almost bluntly asked her for an assignation.
Perhaps she should not have acceded so eagerly? Edmée’s fan fluttered vigorously, cooling her hot cheeks. There was something primitively male about him that made her shiver at the thought of having him make love to her. Those diamond-hard, silver-grey eyes that seemed to see right through her defenses, sensing her surrender before she had realized it herself. And that wicked-looking scar that added to the illusion of savagery barely held in check. She was almost frightened—but pleasurably so. She must remember to ask Talleyrand about him since the prince had introduced Monsieur Challenger as a friend.
Fortunately unaware of her aunt’s thoughts, Marisa was trying to compose her own emotions. She did not want to remember—anything! All those unpleasant events of the past had happened to someone else, not to her. Without quite realizing it, she kept her eyes on Philip. Had he seen her yet? Surely he must have! He looked awkward and ill at ease—in fact his face wore a strangely hard expression she had never seen on it before.
The plain young woman at Philip’s side kept fidgeting in her seat, fingers playing with her fan as she now and then cast shy, wondering glances at him. On his other side, the forbidding-looking dowager leaned over to say something—and to her he listened with every appearance of attentiveness.
Marisa found herself biting her lip. Oh, if only Philip had been sitting here, beside her! She would have liked to show Dominic Challenger that she had a young and handsome escort of her own. At least now that he knew she wasn’t the gypsy wench he’d thought her, and now that she was under the protection of the first consul himself, he would surely take pains to stay out of her way! ‘For all he knows, I could have told them everything—the way he treated me and then planned to sell me off to another man. Oh, but I would like to see him punished!’
Marisa’s cheeks were flushed, and her golden eyes held a brilliance they usually lacked, making them appear larger than ever in her small face. Had she but known it, she herself was the target for many admiring glances that evening. There were many questions asked. Who was she? Where did she appear from? And some of the glances shot her by other women were far from friendly. Her aunt’s gown, so daringly cut, gave her an appearance of sophistication. Tonight she was undeniably a woman, a very attractive woman.
Making his way to the American ambassador’s box, Dominic Challenger, his face a hard, cold mask that hid his fury and his feeling of being somehow made a fool of, heard comments that made his lips tighten.
“She’s probably Bonaparte’s latest flirt. Poor Josephine, no wonder she’s wearing a sad look of late. They say he forces her to keep his mistresses about her….”
What a transformation she had undergone! From gypsy pickpocket to drenched cabin boy, and now, in the space of the few weeks that had elapsed since she had run away without a word of explanation, Bonaparte’s mistress. Was she really the lovely Edmée’s niece?
Mr. Livingston, United States Ambassador to France, cast a quizzical glance at the scowling face of his fellow American, who lowered himself into his seat without a word. Captain Dominic Challenger was something of a mystery, and in spite of his preoccupation with other affairs, the American minister could not help but wonder, as he had done before, how many of the stories about this particular man were true. Less than a hundred years ago, he would have been labeled a pirate and would probably have been hanged for his crimes. Today he was a privateer—when it suited his inclinations, and when he needed the money. Livingston had heard the tale of how Captain Challenger had sailed into the port of Charleston in a captured English ship—renamed and flying the American flag. He’d stirred up a lot of old scandals since then, besides creating new ones of his own. Was it really true, for instance, that he had arrived uninvited at Monticello when Mr. Jefferson was entertaining certain prominent gentlemen from the state of Tennessee, to ascertain, he’d said quite bluntly, whether one of them happened to be his real father?
Challenger wasn’t his real name of course. His legal father had been an Englishman, a Tory whose estates had been confiscated after the Revolutionary War. But whoever or whatever he was, Captain Challenger had the advantage of friends and unofficial backers in high places. Hard faced and closemouthed, he had the look and manner of a born adventurer—not the kind of man that Robert Livingston would normally have cultivated, but in this case—
Livingston sighed to himself, recalling the subtle and not so subtle diplomatic negotiations that were taking place at that very time. They involved the question of the possible purchase from France of the port of New Orleans since it had been confirmed that Spain had indeed ceded the whole territory of Louisiana back to France. After the scandal of the X-Y-Z Affair and the ensuing strained relations between France and the United States of America, it seemed as if at last Bonaparte seemed willing to negotiate. Thank goodness the sole responsibility would no longer be his for he’d learned that the president was sending one of his most trusted advisors, Mr. Monroe, to help finalize matters.
Dominic Challenger had delivered certain secret dispatches from President Jefferson himself, along with others from Mr. Pinckney in Spain. Obviously, the president trusted him, and he also had contacts in the territory of Louisiana itself, not to mention New Spain, which made him knowledgeable enough to help in the negotiations that were going on. It was for this reason that Captain Challenger stayed on in France.
He’d managed to find himself certain sweet forms of consolation, however. The American minister let his hooded eyes wander from the stage to the first consul’s box, where the vivacious Countess Landrey sat leaning forward slightly, her full lips curved in an enigmatic smile. Was she the reason for the angry scowl that still darkened his companion’s features?
The drama that was being enacted on the brightly lighted stage went unremarked by far too many people although at its end there would be the usual storm of enthusiastic applause.
Marisa, trying to curb her disturbing thoughts, kept her eyes fixed on Philip Sinclair, willing him to look in her direction. She did not notice, as her aunt and godmother belatedly did, that Napoleon, who had returned to them in an angry mood, had begun to glance at her far too often, a thoughtful look on his face.
Philip Sinclair, for his part, made a conscious attempt to keep his eyes from straying towards a certain other box and its occupants. He realized that he still held his shoulders far too rigidly, but he could do nothing about it. The shock he had received upon recognizing a certain tall figure had made him go white, and even Lady Marlowe had remarked on it. Still stunned, almost disbelieving his own eyes, he had said more than he should, to be bombarded with eager questions from the old gossip.
God! He should have had more control over himself. But the sight of the last man in the world he had expected or wanted to see again, and here, of all places, had almost numbed his mind. Dominic—who should have been dead, or rotting away in a Spanish prison in Santo Domingo. Did his uncle know he was still alive, and not only that but on apparently good terms with the American ambassador in Paris as well? What was he up to? And—although he told himself grimly that he must not let the thought frighten him—had Dominic seem him? It was all he could do to remain seated, pretending that nothing was wrong and that his whole future and prospects hadn’t begun to crumble around him. A few more years—with his uncle’s legal heir presumed dead, he would have inherited everything. Damn those lazy, lethargic Spaniards anyhow! They had been paid enough, through obscure, secret sources, to make sure he died, working alongside their black slaves under the broiling Caribbean sun. And then, a few years later, when the proof was delivered—what had gone wrong?
Philip waited impatiently for the performance to be over; he wished he could have been seated in a less conspicuous place. He must see Whitworth, the British minister, and ask him to deliver a message to his father, who would know what to do. Thank God Whitworth was an old family friend! And
