Touch the Sun (48 page)

Sally would not be turned aside so easily. "Captain Hampshire, I do hope you will forgive me for daring to interfere, but it breaks my heart to hear of your misfortune and to see you harden toward the rest of the world.

"It just so happens that we have a guest in our house whose circumstances are very similar to yours. She is a
lovely
girl. Perhaps you have heard John speak of Miss Sayers? The ordeal she has been through this winter has driven out all her natural gaiety. Even tonight—I had persuaded her to come along, but at the last minute, she couldn't face the crush."

Lion was afraid to reply, sensing what was ahead. "That does sound like a sad situation, Mrs. Jay," he murmured at last.

"Oh, Captain Hampshire, I know you will believe me an incorrigible meddler, but I cannot help thinking that you and Miss Sayers might be able to help each other! At least, it couldn't do any harm for you to meet—"

"Sally!" pleaded John.

"Well, it couldn't! Captain Hampshire, won't you agree to come home with us later tonight for a bit of brandy? If my friend could meet just one person, it might be the first step back into society for her."

Lion felt cornered. He was too charmed by Sally Jay to deliver the curt refusal any other woman would have received.

"Mrs. Jay, I am at your disposal."

As the clock struck ten, the white-wigged major domo intoned, "Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Reems!"

A radiant Priscilla moved beside her husband to meet Henry Knox, the convivial giant of a man who was called Washington's closest friend, and his wife, Lucy. They went on to greet a dozen other socially prominent couples. They had been in New York only a few hours, but Marcus had been determined to make an appearance at General Knox's.

The president-elect was due to arrive at any moment. Marcus stood in the large parlor, flawlessly attentive to his beautiful bride, but all the while looking for Lion. If he could have seen his brother through the walls, Marcus would have burned anew with frustrated rage.

Lion was in the library, in the middle of a group of the country's most influential men. Alexander Hamilton, graceful and courtly, stood to his left; John Adams, the plump and often pompous vice president-elect to his right. Also present were James Madison and John Jay.

They were involved in a heated discussion concerning the issue of the month: presidential etiquette. They argued back and forth, each with a different idea for General Washington's title. Hamilton commented that a Senate committee had voted for "His Highness the President of the United States of America and Protector of the Rights of the Same."

Madison wrinkled his nose and inquired reasonably, "As I have argued from the first, what is wrong with simply, 'President of the United States'?"

His round cheeks flushed, Adams launched into a speech that all had heard before. "What will the common people of foreign countries say when asked to speak to the President of the United States? They will despise him. The title 'Mr. President' would put him on a level with the governor of Bermuda!"

Lion stifled a yawn, remembering that Adams wanted the President to be known as "His Most Benign Highness." It was a variation on the same conversation at the Shippens' dinner over a month ago and Lion was still amazed that the men with whom he had longed to fraternize could waste their time on such a trivial subject. Why, Hamilton, Madison, and Jay were the authors of
The Federalist Papers!

For his own part, he had drunk too much brandy and sunk back into his abyss of indifferent bitterness. He had hoped that coming to New York and mingling with the people who had inspired him in the past would rekindle the fires of his ambition. How desperately he needed a reason to live, or as Dr. Franklin had said, a
passion.

Lion pressed a hand against his forehead, wishing he could remember how to cry. Alexander Hamilton was speaking in a most persuasive tone, but the words blurred by the time they reached his ear.

I can't go to the Jays' tonight, he thought wearily. The last thing I need is an introduction to some maiden who is afraid to leave her room!

He could feel someone watching him. Turning his head, he looked past Hamilton in the direction of the doorway. There, in the brightly lit hall, stood Clarissa, a vision in silver brocade and diamonds.

* * *

Clarissa had brought her abigail to New York, hoping to pass her off as a chaperone if anyone were to question her conduct. She had to pay an exorbitant price to get a pair of rooms in Widow Bradford's Coffee House, but suddenly it was worth it.

Lion had made a shockingly brief apology to John Jay and none at all to Sally. He even failed to notice the gold eyes that followed his every move. Within moments of first sighting Clarissa, he was walking with her out the front door of General Knox's house to the place where his post-chariot waited.

Clarissa was astonished. She wondered what could have happened to totally reverse her luck, but there was little time to ponder this mystery, for as soon as they were inside the carriage Lion reached for her.

Being in his arms after so long released such a flood of sharp pleasure in Clarissa that she thought she would faint. Hungrily, she touched his hard shoulders and jaw, stroked his hair, inhaled his intoxicating scent, and met his lips with feverish ardor. So absorbed was she in her own need that she failed to notice Lion's response. He thrust her away at the same moment the post-chariot lurched to a stop before the coffee house which stood on the southeast corner of Wall and Water Streets.

By the time they entered her rooms, a vague fear had begun to take shape in Clarissa's breast. Lion had not met her eyes even once, though she watched him anxiously all the way upstairs. His handsome, arrogant face was as cold as a piece of sculpture, his eyes like splintered sapphires. He shut the door and reached out to catch her wrist, pulling her against him. Immediately, his mouth was on hers in a kiss as degrading as a stranger's rape while lean hands opened the priceless silver gown and found her breasts.

Lion's fingers had always been wickedly sensuous; the memory of their touch had haunted Clarissa's dreams for weeks. But now, he was taking her with deliberate cruelty. She pushed away just long enough to glimpse his face and was devastated by what she saw. There was no love, or even passion, in Lion's blue eyes—only contempt and raw pain.

Tears closed her throat. She began to tremble as the totality of all she had done assailed her, followed by the realization that she could never win Lion or his love.

"What the devil is wrong with you?" Lion demanded harshly.

She stumbled to the bed, choking back sobs. Lion turned his back and looked for a bottle of brandy or wine. Some brandy stood on Clarissa's dressing table, along with two glasses, but he filled only one. Briefly, he glanced back at the bed, but she continued to moan.

Damn it all, I can't even indulge my despicable impulses anymore! he thought. Who could have guessed that the most ready and eager wench of all would go to pieces on me?

Deciding to leave, he drank deeply of the brandy. Her jewelry case was open on the table and Lion momentarily entertained thoughts of reclaiming all the gems he had given her. A long emerald necklace hung over the side of the box, but when he reached for it, desiring nothing more than a closer look, Clarissa gasped a protest.

She looked absolutely panic-stricken, scrambling up to her feet. The silver gown was twisted and crumpled, her elaborate powdered coiffure disheveled, and her face was even paler than fashion dictated. Lion's brow furrowed as he looked back at the necklace with sudden interest.

When he lifted it from the case, the reason for Clarissa's agitation was clear. Under the chain of emeralds lay the gold and ruby ring he had given to Meagan before she left Philadelphia.

Chapter 41

Lion stared at the ring for a long minute. In his mind the truth came like a storm, beginning with one gray cloud and thundering into a full-fledged tornado. When he turned on Clarissa, she cringed fearfully, emitting low animal-like sounds from deep in her throat. She stumbled over the silver gown as she tried to flee, and he grabbed one soft arm, snapping her around with all his considerable strength.

"You did it, didn't you?" he demanded. The force of his rage and torment was terrifying to behold. His eyes burned; tendons stood out on his neck that seemed to run on through that splendid, dark face. Clarissa broke out in a panic-stricken sweat.

Lion gripped both her arms until she whimpered with pain. "Say it, damn you, you bitch! You killed her! Didn't you!"

He shook her until she began to scream "Yes!" hysterically. Lion was full of demons, past reason or conscience as his powerful hands went to her neck, encircling it like steel bands.

In that moment of unbearable pain and fury, the civilized man somehow gained control over the primitive beast. Slowly, his hands relaxed their grip on her slender, bruised neck, and she crumpled to the floor. Lion looked into her wild eyes for a moment, then headed for the door. An old woman stood in the hall, poised to knock, and when he brushed past, racing down the stairs, she followed to shout complaints about the commotion at his back.

Outside on Wall Street, the nearest street lamp had gone out again and the night was dark and cool. Lion took long, harsh breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists, until the fire in his blood dropped to a temperature he could bear. Tears, ages-old and strong as acid, scalded his eyelids.

Lion knew nothing about the penal system in New York. However, he had no intention of letting Clarissa go free after what she had done, and planning her arrest kept his mind occupied so that he would not have to think about Meagan. He fully intended to learn the complete truth of Meagan's disappearance and death... but at that moment, hearing about it would have driven him over the brink into an endless chasm of madness.

* * *

No. 58 Wall Street was the residence of Alexander Hamilton. From where Lion stood outside Bradford's Coffee House, he could see the lights burning in the downstairs windows and set off at a blind sprint, hoping against hope that the Hamiltons had returned early from General Knox's.

Alexander Hamilton was one person Lion felt he could take into his confidence. As a lawyer, he would be able to tell Lion where and how to go about getting Clarissa arrested. Just as important at this moment was the fact that both men shared the stigma of illegitimacy. Hamilton had worked with zealous precision to achieve his current position, being as passionately ambitious as Lion had been so recently. Lion was certain that Hamilton would understand how that chaos involving Meagan had evolved, particularly since he himself had taken great care to marry into a powerful and respectable family.

When a servant answered the door, Lion stood there looking like one of the wild animals that roamed in the nearby woods. Low voices came from the room which opened off the stair hall, and before the footman could close the door on him, he had pushed his way in.

Alexander and Betsey Hamilton both stood up at once, equally surprised. Hamilton, elegant as always in burgundy velvet, had loosened his cravat, and he and his wife both held glasses of wine.

"Why—it is Lion Hampshire, isn't it? Betsey, this is Captain Hampshire. He was with us in the library tonight—"

"How do you do, Mrs. Hamilton." Lion nodded briefly in her direction, then ran an agitated hand through his untidy hair. "Mr. Hamilton, I would not burst in like this except in the case of a true emergency. I am in desperate need of your help."

Betsey discreetly left them and Lion told his story to Hamilton quickly and candidly.

"You were right to come to me. You need an impartial third party." Hamilton stood up. "Let us return to Miss Claussen. I suggest that we take her to prison without delay."

It seemed that barely five minutes had passed since Lion left the coffee house, and if he knew Clarissa, she would still be swooning on the floor. The two men crossed Wall Street at an angle, entered the coffee house, and dashed up the stairs.

Clarissa's room was empty.

Lion glanced around wildly, and when he saw that the jewelry case was gone, cursed himself for leaving the ring behind.

The innkeeper had seen nothing; none of the celebrants they questioned in the taproom remembered any girl. Only the old woman Lion had encountered in the hall on his way out had any statement at all to make, but she quavered and rambled so much that Alexander Hamilton barely took the time to hear her out. She said something about having seen a black-haired man take a limp girl down the hall toward the back stairs.

"Probably some other lodger trying to sneak by with a prostitute," Hamilton told Lion in a matter-of-fact tone. "I don't like to crush your hopes, but right now it will be awfully easy for Miss Claussen to make her escape. The city is teeming with strangers; she will have no trouble hiding, or finding a way out. By tomorrow night, she could be on a ship bound for another country."

Lion nodded; however, the dark-haired man was not so easily dismissed from his thoughts.