Lady Vixen (62 page)

The
next two days fell into a pattern for Christopher. In the privacy of his
bedchamber he spent hour after hour practicing springing the various locks.
After dining early and wrapping himself in a dark cloak, he spent the night
observing the activities of the guardsmen in the vicinity of the War Office.
Long ago he had ascertained through careless conversation the various routines
of the changing of the guard, but now it was vital he be certain of their
procedures.

Finally
the night came when he knew he must strike.

Dismissing
Higgins somewhat curtly for the evening, he spent the intervening hours until
after two a.m. pacing the floor of his rooms, burning with a feverish
impatience. As the clock struck the hour, he moved quickly, almost viciously
stripping off his elegant garments and clothing himself in rough dark breeches
and a close-fitting shirt of coarse black cotton. Some burned cork disguised
and distorted his features. In his pocket he had some flint, a candle, and the
small expensive set of tools he had purchased at St. Giles's.

As
he approached the War Office, Christopher located the window that he would go
through. Entering with catlike stealth, he timed his deed to avoid the night
guardsmen. He was certain his entrance had been undetected, and after
obliterating all signs of his forced entry, he sped down the quiet corridors
and up the two flights of stairs that led to Major Black's office.

The
door was locked. But he had expected that and swiftly he knelt by the door.
Keeping one eye on the dim narrow hall, he worked quickly until the door
clicked open. Placing a wooden chair under the knob—that would give him a
moment's warning if nothing else—he crossed the room and glanced down at the
gas-lit street three stories below. A nasty jump, he thought tightly. Gently he
unlocked the window.

Having
cleared his escape path, he knelt before the massive iron safe. Gingerly he
lifted out the locksmith's tools and deftly lit a candle. Even after all his
hours of practice, Christopher was surprised and gratified at how smoothly the
safe opened.

Once
the safe was unlocked, he hesitated and then swung wide the heavy door. By the
light of his candle he saw that it was filled with dozens of sealed and
beribboned documents. He hoped desperately that the one he wanted was not
sealed! After months of spurning him, luck was on his side, for the memorandum
was the third document that he touched.

It
was only a single sheet of paper, but it held the future for Christopher. As he
skimmed it his mouth grew grim, and without wasting another second, he slid the
document in an inside pocket and, moving with speed and stealth, shut the safe,
relocked the window, and removed the chair from the door, placing it exactly
where it had been originally. Out in the hall he pulled the door shut behind
him and swiftly relocked it. Except for the memorandum burning like a brand
against his chest everything was precisely as it had been.

Making
no sound, keeping to the shadows in the gloomy building, he made his way
unobserved to the ground floor. He left the same way he had entered, merely
minutes before, and dropped silently to the cobbled street.

A
quick surge of elation swept through him as his feet touched the ground, but
savagely he tamped it down; when he handed the memorandum to Jason in New
Orleans,
then
he could enjoy his triumph. Even so, a delicious feeling
of satisfaction, of success stayed with him as he walked swiftly and
determinedly toward Ryder Street.

Once
in the safety of his rooms he laid the memorandum on the table and rather
absently wet a cloth from the pitcher of water on the marble washstand and
began to remove the traces of burned cork from his face. But the memorandum
proved irresistible, and with his face still half-blackened, he sat down to
reread it.

Major
General Sir Edward Pakenham was to lead the expedition, and as he swallowed
that, Christopher whistled. So it would be Pakenham, the great Wellington's
brother-in-law, after all. Pakenham who hoped that he had "escaped
America." He and his staff and additional troops and supplies would sail
from Spithead, sometime during the first week of November, ostensibly under
secret orders. Their immediate destination would be Jamaica, where at Negril
Bay they would meet Admiral Cochrane's fleet and troops that would be
assembling under Major General John Lambert. New Orleans and the surrounding
territory would be their ultimate objective. Further orders would be awaiting
them at Jamaica.

Thoughtfully
Christopher set the memo down. If he were favored by whatever gods watched over
such scamps as himself, he would reach New Orleans just about the time Pakenham
set sail for Jamaica, provided there were no last-minute changes in the present
plan. If all went well, New Orleans would have six weeks—and that just might be
enough time. Enough time to show the British what Americans could do when pressed.

The
slight click of his bedroom door as it swung open told him instantly that he
was no longer alone, and Christopher, shielding the memo on the table behind
his body, whipped around to confront a startled and astonished Higgins.

"Sir!"
Higgins cried, obviously confounded not only by Christopher's attire, but by
the black streaks on his face as well.

Now
we're for it! Christopher thought irritably. The time had come to bring Higgins
in on their reason for being in England, but Christopher was curiously loath to
involve the other man. But there was nothing else he could do—he needed
Higgins's skills.

For
several seconds the two old friends eyed each other, and then Higgins broke the
taut silence by saying calmly, "Did you find the memorandum?" Christopher's
eyes widened, but he speedily recovered himself. "How long have you
known?"

Looking
extremely pious, Higgins murmured, "Only since Captain Buckley's visit the
other night when I overheard him talking about a certain memorandum."
Almost gently Higgins continued, "I know you so very well, Christopher,
and I couldn't help but tell that you wanted that memorandum like nothing else
on this earth."

Exasperatedly
Christopher snapped, "Well I hope to God that no one else can read me as
well!"

"Oh,
no, sir! You have nothing to fear. It is only that, well"—Higgins
shrugged—"we have fought against the British too many times and been
together in too many tight quarters for me
not
to know."

A
quick affectionate grin flashed across Christopher's dark features. "That
we have, my friend, that we have."

The
awkward moment passed. Christopher brought Higgins up to date and then broached
the matter of Higgins's art in forgery.

When
he had finished, Higgins nodded slowly. "I figured that was the lay, but I
wasn't quite certain. Did you really think that I would fail you?"

"No!
It is just that I dislike drawing you into something that could very well hang
us both!"

"Have
no fear of that, I'm too old a flash cove to be picked for a Tyburn blossom!
We'll come right, you'll see," Higgins said confidently. With a sly
twinkle of laughter brimming in the brown eyes he added, "I was one of the
cleverest in the business until Bow Street took undue interest in me."

Clapping
the other man on one narrow shoulder, Christopher asked, "Well, my friend,
do you think you are still the best?"

"Damn
right, I am! And I'll prove it to you when I finish with that memorandum. You
won't be able to tell one from the other."

Several
hours later when Christopher compared the two pieces of paper, he saw they were
identical, even down to the slight stain across the left hand corner. All that
remained was for the fake memorandum to be returned to Major Black's office.

The
two men had discussed that aspect minutely. It was risky, as risky as stealing
the memorandum in the first place, but it would remove the danger of imminent
discovery. Together they decided that rather than have Christopher press his
luck too far by attempting a repeat of tonight's feat, he would visit Major
Black's office tomorrow afternoon, and when the moment presented itself, and
surely it would, he would slip the forgery in amongst the paperwork on the
major's desk. His reason for calling again on the major gave them some
difficulty, but Christopher said he would think of something—even if it were
the flimsy excuse of needing Buckley's home address.

He
hoped the memorandum wouldn't be discovered or missed for a day or two, and by
then Christopher's visit would be, if fate were kind, long since forgotten. No
doubt speculation would arise, but as everyone knew how paperwork continually
went astray at Whitehall and the War Office, Christopher was laying odds that
careless filing would be blamed when the memorandum was found on the major's
desk instead of in the safe.

The
following day Christopher called on Major Black and inquired after Captain
Buckley's address in the country. He wasted as much time as he possibly could
without arousing suspicion, but no opportunity for replacing the memorandum
presented itself. He had actually said his good-byes and was thinking furiously
about another place to leave the memorandum, when he collided with the major's
aide-de-camp, who was just entering the room with an armful of files. The files
went flying, and in the ensuing apologies and hasty gathering of papers,
Christopher was able to slip the memorandum from his pocket in amongst the
clutter.

Christopher
offered his apologies again, but the aide-de-camp, a very nice young gentleman,
demurred. "It was my fault, sir. I was in such a hurry I wasn't watching
where I was going. It serves me right too! Now I shall have to spend hours
sorting out these reports, for there is no telling what goes where!"

Christopher
sympathized profusely, but as he walked away there was a lightness to his step
and a jaunty grin that kept tugging at his lips. The memorandum would be found,
and no one would be quite certain
where
it had been!

Now
all that lay before him was the interminable waiting. He and Higgins would not
leave London until the day before the rendezvous. They would travel down to
Brighton in the morning, and sometime after their arrival, but before the next
evening, he would have to face his grandfather. It was not a prospect he
relished, especially since he could offer no explanations, or even excuses for
that matter.

What
the hell was he to say? For a moment he considered merely writing a letter, but
he dismissed it instantly. No, he would not take the coward's way out— somehow
he must prepare Simon for his departure and yet avoid any hint that with the
information he now had, it was imperative he return to the United States.

He
refused to think of Nicole. She could move him unbearably, fill him with wild,
improbable yearnings, but he was adamant that he was not going to fall into the
silken trap that she spun so artlessly. But the thought of marriage with her
would not leave his mind; instead, like a tantalizing promise, it swirled round
and round, driving him nearly to lunacy. Appalled at the trend of his unruly
thoughts, he convinced himself that they were best apart, that when he sailed
for America, the last lingering tie would be severed. He could hardly ask her
to wait for him . . . could he? As if stung by a scorpion, Christopher jerked
away from what he was thinking. By God, no! It would never do, not in a thousand
years!

And
losing himself in the charms of yet another dainty blond opera dancer that
night, he was positive he had made the right decision. One woman was as good as
another, and time would destroy the odd flashes of something like pain that
washed over him whenever he viewed a future without a topaz-eyed vixen in his
arms.

The
wedding of Lord Saxon and Mrs. Eggleston was set for one o'clock, and it was
necessarily small, as Letitia and Simon had only two dozen guests. In fact,
Simon had advocated marrying in Judge White's chambers with Regina and
Christopher as the only witnesses, but Regina had quickly put a stop to that
nonsense!

Consequently
Simon and Letitia recited their vows in the most elegant and handsome parlor in
the house at Cavendish Square. The room had been lavishly decorated with great
silver tubs of flowers—early chrysanthemums with shaggy white and yellow heads,
pink wild bell heather, daisies, late-blooming blue cornflowers, deep red
roses, their heavy scent permeating the air, spicy dianthus, and tall stately
stalks of gladiolus. The glass doors had been thrown wide open to permit a
glimpse of the small formal garden beyond, and the adjacent flagstone terrace
was ringed with huge pottery urns simply filled with flowers of every
imaginable kind.

The
ceremony was brief. Nicole, observing the tender, almost reverent manner in
which Simon placed the ring upon Letitia's finger, felt a lump rise in her
throat and for one awful moment was afraid she was going to burst into noisy
tears just as Lady Darby had done.

However,
once the final words were spoken, Lady Darby had promptly recovered and was
again her forthright self, beaming and smiling upon the newlyweds.

The
bridal banquet that followed was a gay and merry affair; everyone relaxed and
drank numerous toasts to the bridal pair as the afternoon slid slowly into
evening.