his
path. And yet there was a constant driving urge within him to seek to allay the
boredom and emptiness that were his ever-present companions.
Before
he was twenty-five, with Ollie as his eager guide, he had toured the seamy
underside of London's danger-ridden slums, had drunk blue ruin until he was nearly
blind, had gambled and whored his way to Spain, to France, to England, to
America, and back again. There had been duels and madcap pranks along the
way—he had fought bulls in Madrid, killed a man in a duel over a woman in
Paris; on a drunken wager he had played the highwayman along Hampstead
Heath—returning the ill-gotten gains undetected to the rightful owners had been
the part of the wager Brett found the most exciting; he had smuggled
aristocrats meant for the guillotine out of a France gone mad; and for a year
he had thrown his lot in with an American privateer plying the waters off the
coast of Mexico. But the escapade, if it can be called such, that had given him
the most danger and satisfaction had been the three months he had spent
infiltrating a gang of smugglers in the New Orleans area almost three years
ago.
It
had been no prank, no drunken wager, that had driven him into their notorious
ranks, but rather a thirst for vengeance—above all else, Brett was fiercely,
savagely loyal to his friends. During the year he and Ollie had sailed with the
privateer, Samuel Brown, Brett had grown to like and respect the gruff old
captain. Sam Brown had been an honorable man in his rough fashion, and
returning from one of his lightning visits at Riverview, Brett had been both
grieved and furious to hear of his death at the hands of a renegade band of
smugglers. Deliberately Brett had coolly inveigled his way into their network
and just as coolly had brought about their ruin. With the help of the Spanish
magistrate in New Orleans, he had effectively destroyed the gang from within,
watching impassively as the death sentence for Sam Brown's murder was meted out
to the guilty party.
It
had been shortly after that incident that he had won the decayed indigo plantation
in Louisiana and had considered the possibility of a more sedate life. For
about a year he had thrown himself into the challenge of bringing back from the
brink of disaster the land he had won, and like everything he turned his hand
to, he had succeeded. But he had also grown bored with it. He had put a manager
in charge of the acreage and had again let his fancy wander where it would, his
curiosity aroused by the continuing war between France and England. However, he
had discovered to his dismay that danger simply for the sake of danger no
longer held the appeal it once had, and driven by a boredom he couldn't dispel,
he had returned to Natchez in the fall of 1799 to consider his future.
Danger
for danger's sake might have lost its allure for him, but one thing that had
not changed was his deep, abiding contempt and distrust for women. And,
unfortunately, in the intervening years there had been certain incidents that
had only hardened his beliefs. With all the arrogance of a handsome,
much-sought-after youth of twenty-one, he had thought himself immune to Cupid's
arrows, but such had not been the case. Returning to England from a turbulent,
revolution-torn France in the spring of 1792, he had met Miss Diana Pardee at
Almack's one evening. He and two friends, on a dare, had entered those sacred
portals to add a bottle or two of fine French wine to the innocuous punch that
was always served. They had succeeded in their plot and had settled back to
watch the results when Brett had been caught by a pair of wide blue eyes set in
the most beautiful face he had ever seen.
Curly
dark hair framed those wondrous features, and like a man in a daze, instantly
forgetting his fierce vow never to be trapped by a woman, he had found himself
fervently courting the beautiful Miss Pardee. He had fallen rapturously,
blindly in love, and deaf to the
path. And yet there was a constant driving urge within him to seek to allay the
boredom and emptiness that were his ever-present companions.
Before
he was twenty-five, with Ollie as his eager guide, he had toured the seamy
underside of London's danger-ridden slums, had drunk blue ruin until he was nearly
blind, had gambled and whored his way to Spain, to France, to England, to
America, and back again. There had been duels and madcap pranks along the
way—he had fought bulls in Madrid, killed a man in a duel over a woman in
Paris; on a drunken wager he had played the highwayman along Hampstead
Heath—returning the ill-gotten gains undetected to the rightful owners had been
the part of the wager Brett found the most exciting; he had smuggled
aristocrats meant for the guillotine out of a France gone mad; and for a year
he had thrown his lot in with an American privateer plying the waters off the
coast of Mexico. But the escapade, if it can be called such, that had given him
the most danger and satisfaction had been the three months he had spent
infiltrating a gang of smugglers in the New Orleans area almost three years
ago.
It
had been no prank, no drunken wager, that had driven him into their notorious
ranks, but rather a thirst for vengeance—above all else, Brett was fiercely,
savagely loyal to his friends. During the year he and Ollie had sailed with the
privateer, Samuel Brown, Brett had grown to like and respect the gruff old
captain. Sam Brown had been an honorable man in his rough fashion, and
returning from one of his lightning visits at Riverview, Brett had been both
grieved and furious to hear of his death at the hands of a renegade band of
smugglers. Deliberately Brett had coolly inveigled his way into their network
and just as coolly had brought about their ruin. With the help of the Spanish
magistrate in New Orleans, he had effectively destroyed the gang from within,
watching impassively as the death sentence for Sam Brown's murder was meted out
to the guilty party.
It
had been shortly after that incident that he had won the decayed indigo plantation
in Louisiana and had considered the possibility of a more sedate life. For
about a year he had thrown himself into the challenge of bringing back from the
brink of disaster the land he had won, and like everything he turned his hand
to, he had succeeded. But he had also grown bored with it. He had put a manager
in charge of the acreage and had again let his fancy wander where it would, his
curiosity aroused by the continuing war between France and England. However, he
had discovered to his dismay that danger simply for the sake of danger no
longer held the appeal it once had, and driven by a boredom he couldn't dispel,
he had returned to Natchez in the fall of 1799 to consider his future.
Danger
for danger's sake might have lost its allure for him, but one thing that had
not changed was his deep, abiding contempt and distrust for women. And,
unfortunately, in the intervening years there had been certain incidents that
had only hardened his beliefs. With all the arrogance of a handsome,
much-sought-after youth of twenty-one, he had thought himself immune to Cupid's
arrows, but such had not been the case. Returning to England from a turbulent,
revolution-torn France in the spring of 1792, he had met Miss Diana Pardee at
Almack's one evening. He and two friends, on a dare, had entered those sacred
portals to add a bottle or two of fine French wine to the innocuous punch that
was always served. They had succeeded in their plot and had settled back to
watch the results when Brett had been caught by a pair of wide blue eyes set in
the most beautiful face he had ever seen.
Curly
dark hair framed those wondrous features, and like a man in a daze, instantly
forgetting his fierce vow never to be trapped by a woman, he had found himself
fervently courting the beautiful Miss Pardee. He had fallen rapturously,
blindly in love, and deaf to the
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