with the British agent he regularly dealt with and make certain that the man never came to Rancho Dolorosa again.
Cruz was careful not to be seen entering the upstairs hallway of Ferguson’s Hotel. He quickly found the room where he was to meet with his contact, who reported directly to the British minister to Mexico. Cruz knocked twice, waited a moment, and knocked once more.
“Who’s there?”
“The Hawk,” he murmured, giving the code name the British government had assigned to him.
The door opened, revealing a short, rotund Englishman dressed foppishly in bright-colored silks and satins. Sir Giles Chapman had purposely adopted the foolish clothes as a disguise. Together with his bloodshot eyes and florid jowls, they had kept many a man from discovering the shrewd brain that resided beneath his shiny bald pate. Sir Giles gestured with beringed fingers for Cruz to enter, then checked the hall one last time before he closed the door behind him.
“Do you have your report for the minister with you?” Sir Giles asked, his British accent crisp and authoritative.
“I have written everything down.”
Sir Giles nodded his head in distracted acknowledgment as he accepted the missive. He smiled as he finished reading the document. “So. President Houston is still leaning toward keeping Texas an independent nation rather than accepting the offer of annexation from the American government?”
“It appears that way from everything I have been able to learn.”
Sir Giles snickered. “Thank goodness Houston hasn’t changed his song over the summer. There were rumors . . . Well, it’s good to know that at least we don’t have to concern ourselves with trying to delay an offer of annexation from the United States.”
“I have not told you anything in this report that your own British chargé to Texas could not have found out for you,” Cruz pointed out.
“Yes, but the official version of Texas policy given to our chargé might not have agreed with the version you’ve given us. And that, my good man, is where your true value lies. I will expect another report next month, or sooner if the political climate changes. Do you understand?”
“But of course.”
“Is that all?”
“There is one thing more,” Cruz said.
The Englishman raised an inquiring brow.
“I am taking a wife. Since her political sympathies are not precisely in accord with mine, I must ask that you no longer attempt to reach me at my hacienda.”
The Englishman pursed his lips. “Can’t you control your own wife, sir?”
Cruz ignored the scarcely veiled sarcasm and said, “I have made my wishes known to you. I expect you to abide by them.”
“I make no promises,” the Englishman said. “In this business, you understand, we must all make allowances for necessity.”
“Then make sure it is never necessary to come again to my home,” Cruz said. He nodded curtly to the Englishman, turned on his heel, and left the room.
Chapter 3
“Y OU PROMISED YOUR FATHER YOU WOULD marry the Hidalgo girl, and now you tell me you cannot! Does the deathbed wish of a dying man mean so little to his eldest son?”
Cruz met his mother’s imperious stare with one of his own. “I promised my father only that she would be well wed. And she will be. I will find a husband who will take good care of her.”
“Bah! You are the husband for her. Refugia Adela Maria Tomasita Hidalgo carries the blood of kings in her veins, as you do, my son. She is a woman worthy of the Guerrero name.”
“I cannot marry Tomasita,” Cruz repeated quietly.
“You must get over this foolish notion that you are somehow responsible for Valeria’s death, and take another wife. Many women die in childbirth. It is the way of things.”
“That does not make it any less a tragedy, Mamá, as you must know.”
He did not disabuse her of the notion that it was the memory of Valeria’s death that kept him from marrying Tomasita Hidalgo. He had chosen not to tell his
Cruz was careful not to be seen entering the upstairs hallway of Ferguson’s Hotel. He quickly found the room where he was to meet with his contact, who reported directly to the British minister to Mexico. Cruz knocked twice, waited a moment, and knocked once more.
“Who’s there?”
“The Hawk,” he murmured, giving the code name the British government had assigned to him.
The door opened, revealing a short, rotund Englishman dressed foppishly in bright-colored silks and satins. Sir Giles Chapman had purposely adopted the foolish clothes as a disguise. Together with his bloodshot eyes and florid jowls, they had kept many a man from discovering the shrewd brain that resided beneath his shiny bald pate. Sir Giles gestured with beringed fingers for Cruz to enter, then checked the hall one last time before he closed the door behind him.
“Do you have your report for the minister with you?” Sir Giles asked, his British accent crisp and authoritative.
“I have written everything down.”
Sir Giles nodded his head in distracted acknowledgment as he accepted the missive. He smiled as he finished reading the document. “So. President Houston is still leaning toward keeping Texas an independent nation rather than accepting the offer of annexation from the American government?”
“It appears that way from everything I have been able to learn.”
Sir Giles snickered. “Thank goodness Houston hasn’t changed his song over the summer. There were rumors . . . Well, it’s good to know that at least we don’t have to concern ourselves with trying to delay an offer of annexation from the United States.”
“I have not told you anything in this report that your own British chargé to Texas could not have found out for you,” Cruz pointed out.
“Yes, but the official version of Texas policy given to our chargé might not have agreed with the version you’ve given us. And that, my good man, is where your true value lies. I will expect another report next month, or sooner if the political climate changes. Do you understand?”
“But of course.”
“Is that all?”
“There is one thing more,” Cruz said.
The Englishman raised an inquiring brow.
“I am taking a wife. Since her political sympathies are not precisely in accord with mine, I must ask that you no longer attempt to reach me at my hacienda.”
The Englishman pursed his lips. “Can’t you control your own wife, sir?”
Cruz ignored the scarcely veiled sarcasm and said, “I have made my wishes known to you. I expect you to abide by them.”
“I make no promises,” the Englishman said. “In this business, you understand, we must all make allowances for necessity.”
“Then make sure it is never necessary to come again to my home,” Cruz said. He nodded curtly to the Englishman, turned on his heel, and left the room.
Chapter 3
“Y OU PROMISED YOUR FATHER YOU WOULD marry the Hidalgo girl, and now you tell me you cannot! Does the deathbed wish of a dying man mean so little to his eldest son?”
Cruz met his mother’s imperious stare with one of his own. “I promised my father only that she would be well wed. And she will be. I will find a husband who will take good care of her.”
“Bah! You are the husband for her. Refugia Adela Maria Tomasita Hidalgo carries the blood of kings in her veins, as you do, my son. She is a woman worthy of the Guerrero name.”
“I cannot marry Tomasita,” Cruz repeated quietly.
“You must get over this foolish notion that you are somehow responsible for Valeria’s death, and take another wife. Many women die in childbirth. It is the way of things.”
“That does not make it any less a tragedy, Mamá, as you must know.”
He did not disabuse her of the notion that it was the memory of Valeria’s death that kept him from marrying Tomasita Hidalgo. He had chosen not to tell his
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