Crimson Rapture (46 page)

A
carriage was drawing down the lane. Another in Justin's endless stream of
visitors and business associates. She wondered what other people did the day
after a wedding. She thought again of the warmth of his arms, the caress of his
lips, and her already red, swollen eyes filled again with the sting of yet more
tears...

No,
she wouldn't cry anymore.

The
carriage splashed through puddles as the two chestnut bays pulled it round the
circular drive and stopped. A man alighted with great difficulty and with no
help from the driver. His back was to the house and, wearing a traditional
travel cloak and top hat, he struggled to keep something or someone inside the
carriage.

How
odd!

The
man had the same build as Richard and not for the first time she wondered why
Richard had yet to answer any of her two dozen letters. Why didn't he send a
letter with the annulment papers? At least a simple note? How she missed him,
his friendship and intimacy, his easy laughter and quick smiles. How she needed
him now.

The
man cursed in Richard's exact manner. She slowly stood up and holding her
breath, watching for several seconds as the man, still with his back to her,
gave a colorful lashing to the dispassionate driver.

Then
he suddenly turned.

"Richard!"
she cried out loud.

* * * * *

Justin
sat at his desk, staring blankly at the pile of papers on top, unable to steer
his thoughts from the night past. Christina's footsteps were heard racing down
the stairs. A blur of pale cream muslin and red-gold hair raced past the open
doors of his study. The front door opened and shut. He stood up and went to the
window, where he confronted a scene that quite easily tore his heart in two.

Christina
ran into Richard's open arms. Richard lifted her off her feet for the embrace
and, laughing, he swung her round and round. She was laughing and crying in her
gladness. He finally set her to her feet but only to plant affectionate kisses
on her upturned and obviously overjoyed face.

Any
other man and Justin would have had his pistol out. But Richard was another
matter. What hurt, forcefully and quite suddenly, was seeing how happy another
man could make her.

He
watched as Christina jumped up and down, clapping her hands with excitement and
asking a hundred questions in a rush, gestures that all seemed so feminine and
girlish and just her. Like two young children, the two could not move a step,
the immediate things to say were so very pressing.

Was
any of what happened her fault? Had she asked for any of it? He had given her
no choice from the start. Under the convenient guise of saving her life, he had
first abducted her and then stolen her innocence. In a very real sense he
forced her to fall in love with him.

She
had never wanted to love him.

His
mind tore swiftly over the events of the island that had caused her so much
distress, culminating with Diego's death. He never had the chance to explain
that to her. Did she know? Would it have made a difference?

God
knows the hell she put him through had indeed been a cruel and severe
punishment. But he knew suddenly that his anger had risen from the pain of it,
the pain of losing her, the pain of facing the blatant fact that she had been
so desperate to escape him she had risked everything from the simplest security
to her own virtue, even her very life.

Christina's
rush of questions would not stop. Richard tried to answer each one however
briefly, until finally he held up his hand. "Please, Christina." He
laughed. "We will have all day to catch up, but right now," he
glanced back at the carriage, "there is someone dying to see you
again."

"Darrell!"
she guessed excitedly.

"No."
A moment of sadness sprang in Richard's eyes. "Darrell will have naught to
do with what he still refers to as 'colonial barbarians—traitors each',
though," he smiled, "I did manage to convince him of a long summer
visit before I left."

"Oh
good." She smiled. "But who then, if not Betty or Darrell?"

"Before
I let her out, I'll have you know that her very existence, the great effort and
labor it took to get her here—including many close partings with my much
treasured sanity—is, my dear," he kissed her, "but a small token of
my undying affection for you."

"Oh!
Who is it?" She laughed.

Richard
went to the door of the carriage and opened it. Beauty, whose paws had been on
the door, fell into a clumsy heap on the ground. Christina only stared, stared
as one shocked by a visitor from another world. The huge dog scrambled back to
her feet and, with pained yelps, she raced to her. Overwhelmed by Christina's
long-sought-for presence, Beauty first ran circles around her but finally, just
as Christina overcame her shock and bent to reach her hands to fur, Beauty
jumped up and knocked her to her back.

Justin
made a quick dash out, knowing what damage a dog at least sixty pounds plus her
weight could do, if even affectionately. He stopped mid-stride at the doorway.
Christina lay flat on her back, laughing and crying again as the dog stood
firmly over her, kissing her, its great tail wagging hard and fast enough to
shake the whole of its body. Obviously as in love as loved.

The
scene brought him in an instant to a resolution. He would have her love again.
If it took a year or five, he didn't care. He would have her love again.

Laughing,
Richard shook Justin's hand. "I assure you, I did not intend to put your
wife in such a... ah, precarious position."

"No
doubt," Justin said generously, still taken by the scene but seeing the
necessity of aiding Christina's effort to rise. He knelt down and called the
dog to him. Beauty responded to his voice and obeyed. She sniffed him out,
seemed suddenly agitated and excited by his scent, and immediately she began
looking for its source. Justin thanked the wisdom of nature for giving the
beasts such short memories.

Richard
had helped Christina to her feet, but Justin came to her side. "Are you
all right?"

Christina
failed to notice his concern, the other emotion plain in his eyes. She nodded
quickly as she called the dog back and then demanded an explanation from
Richard.

Richard
got the worst of the wet grass off her clothes as he explained. "The
beast's recovery is actually owing less to my surgical skill than to its clumsy
strength, all that fur. The bullet did a bit more than graze her chest but it
missed by inches its heart. It took some doing but I managed to patch her
up."

For
this, Richard received another long affectionate embrace from Christina. Justin
suddenly understood jealousy's irrational and violent nature, something he
never before had cause to know.

Beauty
discovered the arresting part of Justin's scent as Beau came lumbering up the
hill. A fast friendship was established and the fun began.

"My
God, there are two of them!" Richard exclaimed with great shock. "I
am sorry now. Even this house is not big enough for two."

Christina
hit him and giggled and then begged him to stay at least until the ball.
Richard looked at Justin, who nodded.

"Good,"
Richard said, "and now, let me see our little fellow! I've missed him so!
He must be huge by now—"

"Oh,
wait till you see!" She rushed him toward the house, "He's almost
walking and he talks all the time..."

Justin
suffered a montage of conflicting emotion, witnessing the easy intimacy of the
two as they disappeared into the house. Irrational and violent for sure. He
would stifle it with a drink. A very large drink.

* * * * *

The
two secretaries sat at their desks in Mr. Lowell's outer office on the famed
State Street lane. Mr. Ferguson and his apprenticed son busily went about their
tasks, tasks comprised mostly of bookkeeping. Bookkeeping and more bookkeeping;
for no single fortune multiplied faster than Mr. Lowell's.

A
gentleman walked in unannounced, followed by two young men obviously acting as
some sort of foot soldiers. Mr. Ferguson's warning signal went up. The man's
brisk walk and determined stare fitted perfectly with his poorly tailored blue
coat and worn boots. He had closely cropped burnt red hair and he sported a
neat goatee, and this taken with the intensity of his cold blue eyes, reminded
him—for some reason—of a religious fanatic. But this was a government man, he
knew. He glanced at the appointment book. Empty till two. Mr. Lowell was in
conference with his captains. He would not want to be disturbed.

"Yes?"
Mr. Ferguson rose.

"I'm
here to see Mr. Lowell."

"Have
you an appointment?"

"No,
but I insist on seeing him anyway."

"I'm
afraid that's not possible. If you leave me your name and business, I'll set up
an appointment as Mr. Lowell sees fit."

"We'll
proceed my way," he said forcefully, knowing that this was only Mr.
Lowell's secretary. If he could not get through a secretary, what hope was
there of success with Mr. Lowell himself? A little intimidation should do the
trick. "Either you can announce me or I shall do the honor myself."

"I
see." Mr. Ferguson decided against calling the guards, not because he was
intimidated; he wasn't. Only he didn't know this man's business and it seemed
both pertinent and expedient to let Mr. Lowell decide for himself. "Your
name?"

"Jean
Petiers."

Mr.
Ferguson rose and entered Mr. Lowell's elegant and certainly ostentatious
office, interrupting the conference to announce Mr. Jean Petiers. "A
government man, I think," he explained.

"Hmmm,"
and Mr. Lowell decided in a pause, "Show him in. Just who I want to see—a
government man. Give him a piece of my mind!"

The
eight captains all laughed at this, for each was intimately familiar with their
employer's inclination for outspoken address, especially with anything having
to do with politics.

"Gentlemen,"
Mr. Lowell addressed the assembly of eight men, "Mr. Ferguson will show
you where we keep that French brandy. If you'll excuse me."

The
captain arose amidst much talk and stepped through the wide hand-carved double
doors into the outer office. Mr. Petiers, in turn, stepped inside. He ignored
the lavish display of artifacts from around the world, the fine tapestry
carpets, paintings, and drapes, the expensive French furnishings, the
impressive collection of books behind glass cabinets, and turned his attention directly
to Mr. Lowell.

For
the first time in Mr. Lowell's forty odd years, his wealth—so carefully
displayed—seemed at first unable to protect him. The man had not even spoken
yet and for some reason he felt he already lost the upper hand. An upper hand
he had always enjoyed. An upper hand he would get back before this man left the
room.

"Yes,
Mr. Petiers, is it?" Mr. Lowell said uncertainly, shifting his corpulent
weight uneasily as he ran jeweled fingers over his balding head, always wishing
for the time when wigs were in fashion. He then took to unconsciously fondling
a solid gold paperweight as he studied the man. "What can I do for
you?" He quickly changed his mind. "What is it you want?"

The
cold blue eyes did not waver. He went directly to the point. "We want Mr.
Justin Phillips and we want you to get him for us."

"You
what? Mr. Phillips? Whatever do you mean?" came all at once. Then,
"Who are you?"

"An
agent acting for the government." This was not entirely true. In truth he
was acting for the French government, but Mr. Lowell need never know this.
"You, of course, are, ah friends with the party in question?"

"Why
yes." Mr. Lowell heard the faintest hint of a French Canadian accent in
the man's voice. Plenty of French Canadians around, some probably even worked
for the government, but it bothered him for some reason. "Please, sir, you
must explain yourself."

"As
you know, the Embargo Act has outlawed all American shipping."

The
very words Embargo Act triggered his famed explosive response. "I damn
well do!" He slammed a closed fist to his desk. "And since you're a
government agent, you can tell our Mr. Jefferson what a foolhardy act it is!
I'm all for staying out of the war— any war—but to try and stop shipping! Well,
I'll tell you, the city is already swinging into a severe depression.
Unemployed sailors swarming the streets like packs of hungry rats, businesses
failing—"

"I
am not here to discuss the wisdom of the new law, though your sentiments, sir,
are noted," he calmly interrupted. "We all want to end the act and as
soon as possible," he said significantly. "Which leads me to the
point. The act will indeed force England and France to acknowledge American
rights to the seas but only if smuggling can be stopped. And we both know the
most successful venturer in this enterprise is—Mr. Phillips."

Mr.
Lowell did in fact know this and Justin's astounding abilities had not only
earned his respect and admiration but had often nourished many profitable deals
between himself and Mr. Phillips.