Seize the Fire (5 page)

Olympia smoothed her dress and then folded it around her finger again. "I think that is putting it too nicely."

"Really?" He looked amused. "Then let us say that your country would rather whore for Britain than be raped by France. That's not putting it too nicely, is it?"

She looked at him, startled, and then felt herself turning crimson. She moistened her lips anxiously; "Is that meant to be a jest? I don't wish to offend you by not laughing," she said hurriedly, "but I don't often understand jokes."

"That doesn't bother me. I consider it a virtue. And I still know almost nothing of your problem."

"Well, you see—it—it's always been so with my country," she stammered. "We are small, and in constant danger of losing sovereignty. In some ways Bonaparte's aggression helped us, as it has made the greater states take an active interest in the balance of European power."

"Ah, yes." He sighed. "The god-awful Balance of Power."

She frowned at him. "You sound as if you resent it."

"I rank it slightly below Original Sin in the hierarchy of human ideas. A clever turn of phrase, but bloody hell in actual practice. It nearly blew me to Hades at Navarino." He made her a little bow. "But pardon me. I am a cynic."

She cleared her throat, wishing for another cup of tea. But Sir Sheridan was watching her so intently that she feared to take the time to pour. Taking a breath, she went on. "I was saying that my grandfather has allied us with your country. But he is very old. I've never met him, but he's written to me saying he has named his heir."

After a silence, he prompted, "Who is—?"

She shifted a little in her seat. "My father was the oldest son."

"And?"

"Both my parents died when I was an infant. I have one uncle. Prince Claude Nicolas. There is a body of principle which would make him the heir."

"Salic law." He rested one boot on the fireplace fender, still leaning against the mantel. The fire set a red glow to his bare skin, illuminating the smooth curve of his chest. "Do go on. I'm fascinated."

"Claude Nicolas is…not a favorite with my grandfather. Or the populace. He has become a Roman Catholic, while most of the country, particularly our guilds and merchants, follows Presbyterian precepts. And he is a monarchist, fiercely so. With his detachment of palace guard, he prevents any open discussion of political topics. Forcibly. Also, he has made many friends among the Russian embassy, and my grandfather is very unhappy with him for that."

"No doubt your British allies are a bit put out, too."

She nodded, looking down at her lap. "So my grandfather has proclaimed that another kind of law will dictate the succession. I think it is Neopolitan law, but I'm not entirely certain. He didn't go into the precedents in his letter. But there are some. Enough. The courts and his councillors support him fully."

"In other words, he declares for you."

She lifted her face and nodded.

He locked his fists behind his back, gazing thoughtfully at the floor. Then he asked in a dry tone, "Is he aware that you're contemplating civil war?"

"I'm not!" she said in horror.

"There was the small matter of a revolution."

"Yes—but that is something else entirely. At least, it isn't what I need help with."

"You don't? Then I'm sure I needn't point out the rather glaring logical discrepancy in leading a revolution against yourself."

"Sir Sheridan," she said, with a touch of exasperation at his unaccountable slowness. "Obviously I wouldn't do so. I will never be on the throne, don't you see? If it were so simple as waiting for the succession and abdicating in favor of a constitutional democracy, I would do so gladly."

He drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece, then tilted his head and squinted at her. "You really are a radical."

"Yes!" She nodded vigorously. "But I can't delay until I'm handed the throne. My grandfather's declaration has done no good at all. My uncle is going to—"

She stopped. A blazing flush rose in her face. Sheridan gazed at her with interest as she turned pink over every bit of exposed skin. Her lower lip trembled for a fleeting instant, and then she caught it in her teeth and lowered her face.

"This is very hard," she said, with an obvious attempt to be resolute and a fetching little upward break in her husky voice.

Sheridan knew an opportunity when he saw one. The invitation was as clear as a lace handkerchief fluttering to the earth. Every immoral instinct urged him to go to her side, to rescue the hankie and offer solace—and reap the lush reward. But he stood where he was. It was uncomfortable, leaving his brain to adjust his body's automatic and enthusiastic response. But there she sat in straight-backed misery, with that metaphorical bit of lace on the floor crying out for comfort, and never even knew she'd dropped it.

He wondered irritably if he had a fever. It seemed likely he was sickening for something, what with this sudden attack of scruples.

He drew an aimless pattern in the dust on the mantel, waiting. After a few moments, she lifted her chin.

"My uncle thinks to marry me," she said, with a trace of defiance. "He has sent to the pope for a dispensation to do it."

She was absolutely scarlet now, whether from disgust at the idea of a closely consanguineous marriage or just at the idea of marriage in general, he couldn't tell.

"You will say I should refuse," she added in a rush. "Of course I should, and I will, but my grandfather is very weak, and my uncle has brought great pressure to bear on him by threatening to invite in Russian grenadiers to quell what he calls the 'disturbance' among the people. If my grandfather is made to agree, and the papal dispensation is granted, then I understand that—that in fact, my own consent is not very necessary."

Sheridan made a sympathetic noise in his throat and silently saluted Prince Claude Nicolas as a flash contender. The fellow had obvious style. From the chit's account, he'd nicely checkmated his father's move to bar him from the throne. Married to a figurehead queen, with both the Vatican and the Czar behind him, he'd be a formidable force in a two penny place like Oriens, as good as king any day and possibly better, since his wife would provide a convenient scapegoat for unpopular actions. Sheridan doubted he could have thought of a better plan himself—which made him highly reluctant to get on the wrong side of the man who had.

Besides, Oriens could do worse than have a ruthless, intelligent and astute politician at the reins. It could, for instance, have this pretty dumpling of a revolutionary nut for a ruler.

"Rome," he said. "You're going to appeal to the pope?"

She looked up at him, green eyes wide: ferocious and determined and about as intimidating as an oversized field mouse. "Yes. Perhaps, based only on my uncle's word, the pope can morally give a dispensation, but when I tell him how offensive it is to me to participate in a"—she began to turn red again—"a profanity of marriage, and that I will never convert to his faith, he'll understand that I'm being forced."

"An optimistic assumption."

"Am I not being reasonable?" she asked uncertainly.

He shrugged. If she couldn't predict that having Oriens added to the Roman Catholic fold would be a powerful antidote for any queasiness the Vatican felt about consanguinity, he saw no reason to argue the point with her. "And what is it you require from me in all this? Are you suggesting I accompany you?"

"No, no," she said—a rather feeble denial. "That would be asking far too much. I only hoped you could help me get started."

"Buy you a seat on the London coach, perhaps?"

"I thought—actually—that there would be more clandestine ways."

"There may well be. I can't say I know anything about them."

She fingered the diamond pendant. Sheridan wondered if that was meant to be a hint. Meeting her anxious eyes, he decided that, unfortunately, it probably wasn't.

"I was under the impression—" She looked embarrassed. "I supposed, from your reputation—Forgive me, but do you not have many contacts among the…ah…organizations?"

As the product of a hard school, Sheridan was wary of organizations. If they were clandestine and unmentionable, he didn't want anything to do with them at all. But she kept fingering that necklace, until he could just about feel his empty pockets burning.

He cleared his throat. "I'd like to help you," he said, as vaguely as possible. "But, uh—I've just arrived in the neighborhood." He paused, watching her and feeling his way. "I'm afraid any contacts of mine are far away." Non-existently far away, but what difference did that make when she kept reminding him of the crown jewels in that pointed way?

"But that's what I need most," she said, dropping her hand from her throat and interlocking her fingers. "I can't travel openly—you understand that. I suppose I can begin well enough; I believe I could reach London on my own, but beyond that, I'm at a loss."

He leaned both shoulders against the mantel, toying with the corner of the blanket and calculating madly. The last thing he'd do was hie off to Italy, of course—too damned many bandits and petty despots loose about the place for his taste—but there were other considerations. Money, for one. To be vulgarly blunt about it.

He perused the diamond at her throat again, contemplating several alternatives for getting payment in advance and abandoning her on the docks at Blackwall. He could make it seem an accident—hire a couple of bullyboys to appear to overpower him in a dark alley—she couldn't demand her jewelry back if he'd made a reasonable effort to pop her off in the right direction, could she? Or better yet, he could lay information with her keepers—she was bound to have some; she was a princess, after all, or so she claimed, even if it was a pip-squeak country. She wouldn't have sneaked off to see him alone if she'd had someone official on her side.

His mouth flattened a little. The pay couldn't be much if she was in it all on her own. He wished he could get a closer view of the diamond. Three carats, at least.

If she had a few more of those tucked away, things might come right enough.

"I'd hoped to get a letter of introduction to the Carbonari," she said wistfully.

"The
Carbonari."

At his exclamation, she bit her lip and looked down. "Perhaps they would not wish to bother with me."

Sheridan sucked in a long breath. He saw what kind of clandestine organizations she was talking about now, the preposterous little piece. How the devil she came to think he'd be mixed up with a bunch of ravening Italian revolutionaries like the Carbonari, he couldn't conceive. God, the very thought of it made his palms sweat.

But he needn't ever go that far with the whole thing. And there was that diamond, winking at him, sending back prisms of color, a tiny concentration of all the hues in the stained-glass window behind her. He needed money; he needed it quite desperately, and he needed it now.

Máshallaah,
as Mustafa would say.
What God wills is good.

Good enough for gallant Sherry, at any rate.

"The Carbonari," he repeated thoughtfully. "Difficult…" He scratched his jaw for a long moment. Then finally, slowly, he nodded. "But I believe it could be done."

Her face took on that shine of silent joy again. She managed to look elated and terrified at the same time.

"It will be dangerous," he added. "You realize that."

She nodded, chewing at her lower lip in a nervous rhythm.

He allowed a long silence to pass before he finally straightened up with an air of decisiveness. "In point of fact," he said, "I think if you're determined to carry through with this, I'd best tag along myself."

Her lips stilled, parting a little.

He spread his hands in an imitation of self-conscious rue. "I doubt I'd sleep well, you see, knowing I'd sent you into the fray alone."

She came about and fell onto the proper tack like the sweetest ship in His Majesty's navy. "Sir Sheridan," she whispered, "you are a truly noble man."

A shrug and a faint smile were the only answer to that. "Line of duty, ma'am."

"No. It is not your duty." She looked at him for a moment and then dropped her eyes. "Your duty is to your own country—it is an act of generosity and kindness to trouble yourself on my account."

Considering that he didn't plan to go to much trouble at all, beyond peddling her stone to the highest bidder, it wasn't difficult to make light of the matter. Playing at hero wasn't always so easy; it required a fine hand to strike the right note between truth and fantasy, but Sheridan took a sinful delight in the game. He was his father's son after all, he reckoned—that it pleased him to make a fool of the world in general. And as far as he was concerned, there was nothing more blindly simpleminded than the world that had managed to find a hero in Sheridan Drake.

"Well," he said, shoving away briskly from the mantel, "we won't split hairs about duty when you and your country's freedom are at stake. After all, the brotherhood of liberty knows no national boundaries, does it?"

She made an incoherent exclamation of relief and concurrence, a sound that didn't have tears far behind it, if Sheridan was any judge of female feeling, which he modestly fancied that he was. He sat beside her again, pouring out a lukewarm cup of tea and shoving it in her hands to forestall a spate of maidenly sniveling.

"Steady on," he said. "We won't get far if you're going to indulge in waterworks already."

She took hold of herself, tossing her chin up with a quick sniff. "Of course not," she said.

In spite of himself he wanted to smile. It fleetingly occurred to him to plant a quick kiss on the tip of her quivering mouse-nose. But that was out of the question now. He might run a minor swindle on a princess, but he certainly wasn't going to compromise one. He had no desire to get himself on her uncle's hanging list. Instead he said bracingly, "Good girl. Now—we must make some plans. I'll take care of the traveling arrangements beyond London, of course, but as far as this end—I'm afraid I haven't been here long enough to learn the coaching schedule, far less know of a clever way to spirit you off."