"Deville?" Bradford pursed his lips in a low whistle. "Are you sure?"
"Charles Deville, a Frenchman who lived in Tahiti for a short time and then came here. It must be he. Everything matches too closely with what we've uncovered for it to be anyone else."
"Did he fit the description?"
"Exactly."
"The wife and daughter?"
Jared nodded. "His English wife died a year after he came here, and he took a Polynesian woman as mistress. There's a daughter, Cassandra, but she never comes to Kamehameha's court."
"Does Deville?"
Jared nodded. "It seems Kamehameha has made something of a pet of him. Deville's done several paintings of the King and his wives. He's permitted to roam all over the island, painting and living off the land."
"Will the king let you take him?"
"He'll have no choice." He smiled with tigerlike ferocity. "If I find him, he's mine."
"I've no doubt he will be. I only hope that Kamehameha isn't too fond of him. I'd hate to have his warriors use one of those exceedingly ugly war clubs on you."
"I don't look forward to that prospect either. I'll have to take him unaware." He thought about it. "The king made a few hints about his desire for British guns. He might be persuaded to turn a blind eye to my taking Deville if he thinks there's a possibility he'll get what he wants."
"Still, it would be easier to kill Deville than try to take him hostage."
"But then I'd have no chance at getting Raoul Cambre. I want both of them dead."
Bradford shook his head. "I hope you get what you want, Jared. It's been a long time and the trail is very cold."
"That's why I have to leave Deville alive until I can squeeze information out of him. Deville was only the weapon-Cambre was the guiding hand."
"Does Deville have a house here on the island?"
"Yes, a cottage in the foothills, but I understand he's seldom there. It appears he has a passion for painting volcanoes. I think it's best to go to Lihua's village tomorrow morning and hire a guide who knows the mountains. We'll try the cottage first, but I want to be prepared."
"I suppose I should be the one avenging John's death. He was my brother, and everyone would say there is some sort of duty owing." Bradford smiled lopsidedly. "I've always had trouble with duty. It has a damnable habit of getting in the way of pleasure."
"I've never blamed you."
"No." Bradford paused. "I've always had trouble with hatred too. I've never hated anyone. I've often thought it was left out of my character. It's hard to kill someone when you feel no hatred for him." He shot Jared a wry glance. "However, you don't suffer from a lack of hate."
"No, I have an abundance of it. Enough for both of us."
"Yes." They had come to the longboat drawn up on the sand, and Bradford began to push it into the surf. "Which is why I left the matter in your hands."
And everything else, too, Jared thought without resentment. When Bradford had been saddled with a thirteen-year-old orphaned nephew to raise, he had resolved the issue by simply treating Jared as if he were a grown man instead of a boy. Jared had attended his first orgy shortly after arriving at his uncle's London lodgings and in the following years was never chastised for drunkenness or licentiousness. The one and only beating he'd received was when Bradford had thought he'd ridden one of his horses too hard. He suspected Bradford loved his horses far better than any human being.
But it was a passion they shared and one that had probably been Jared's salvation.
He didn't have Bradford's head for liquor and soon found he couldn't ride in a race while reeling in the saddle from drunkenness; therefore, it was only sensible to embrace moderation. He'd also learned that if you cuckolded too many husbands, you were in danger of becoming ousted from court, where all the interesting racing took place; therefore, liaisons were formed with carefully chosen demimondaines.
Until tonight.
He had been right not to pursue the lust he had felt at the moment the girl's hands had been on him. He had thought himself a jaded womanizer, but she had somehow managed to touch something soft in him. For an instant her loneliness and vulnerability had reminded him of the boy he had been, the boy who had come back from France and used every bit of recklessness and ferocity at his command to hide the pain and desolation. Now that he had found Deville, he could permit no hint of softness to hinder him.
Besides, virgins could be trouble even in this society, where an untouched state was looked upon only with friendly scorn and amazement. He should be content with the women who swam out to the Josephine and offered themselves. Tonight he would rid himself of this lust with Lihua or her sister and forget all about Kanoa.
And tomorrow he would seek out Deville.
Lani met Cassie in the stand of trees at the foot of the hill leading to the cottage. "Come quick," she said as she thrust Cassie's riding habit at her. "The old woman is pacing like a tiger."
Cassie jumped from Kapu's back, ripped off the sarong, and hurriedly dressed.
"What kept you so long?" Lani asked.
Cassie avoided Lani's glance. "Nothing."
Lani's shrewd gaze narrowed on Cassie's face. "I think your 'nothing' may be 'something,' but we have no time to talk now. The old woman has no idea you went to my village. I told her that you hiked up to the volcano to be with your father. She may spit venom but won't punish you, if you keep silent."
"I'll keep silent." Cassie pulled on her boots, trying to subdue her exasperation. Such a waste of effort to dress and undress for the benefit of one poisonous woman.
"You always say that you'll keep silent," Lani said, "but you seldom do."
"I lose my temper."
"And taste the old woman's sting." Lani frowned in concern. "Be careful tonight. With your father away I may not be able to save you."
Sometimes Lani could not save Cassie from punishment even when her father was at the cottage, but she always tried. Cassie felt a warm surge of affection as she looked at Lani in her starched blue gown and high-bound hair. Life was probably more difficult for Lani than for herself. After running free on the island until her sixteenth year, Lani had come to her father's bed and a household ruled by Clara Kidman. Cassie remembered well those first days of rage and conflict. Poor Lani-she had to fight not only Clara, but Cassie as well, who was as rebellious as an imp of Satan. In time a guarded peace was established, but Lani had been forced to make compromises. Charles Deville would seldom support either Lani or Cassie against Clara. After Cassie's mother's death Clara had become the housekeeper and had dominated everyone in the family. Deville's solution was wonderfully simple and comfortable: he was just not there. It was rare indeed when he was at the cottage for more than one week every month.
"Hurry," Lani urged. "Her anger will only grow as time passes."
Cassie pulled on her other boot, gathered her hair in a bun on top of her head, and rose to her feet. "Go back to the house. I have to take Kapu to the stable."
Lani shook her head. "Tie him to the tree. You were supposed to be on foot. I'll come back for him while you're talking to Clara and put him in his stall."
Cassie tethered Kapu and started up the path toward the cottage. "Wait!" Lani hurried after her, plucked the ginger flowers from her hair, and dropped them to the ground.
Cassie looked down at the flowers. She felt a pang of sadness as she remembered the feeling of freedom and happiness she had experienced when she had tucked those blooms into her hair earlier in the day. It should not be that way, she knew. Beauty should not be ground into the earth or hidden like something foul and forbidden. "This isn't right."
"No, but it's necessary."
"It shouldn't be necessary." She whirled on Lani. "Why do you stay? You'd be much happier back in your village. There's nothing for you here."