Creole Fires (32 page)

“That would be lovely,” she replied, anxious to put off that confrontation for as long as possible.

No matter what had happened last night, she didn’t intend to make things easy for him. Holding him off would be difficult if not impossible, but sooner or later he was bound to grow weary of the effort it took to bed her. Maybe then his attentions would focus on someone less difficult, and he would let her go.

Nicki swallowed hard. Just the thought of him making love to somebody else turned the blood in her veins to ice.

“Where shall we go?” she asked, pretending equal nonchalance.

“I need to spend a moment with my factor—my estate manager—Louis Mouton. Afterward, we’ll just see what catches our fancy.”

Alex gave Ram the rest of the day and evening off, and he and Nicki went out front, where the carriage he kept in the city, a shiny black calèche pulled by a pair of sleek bay horses, stood waiting. The factor’s office was down on Decatur Street, across from the wharf.

Threading a path through the bustling city traffic, the carriage arrived at their destination a short time later. Certain Alex would want few people to know he kept a mistress, Nicki’s eyes widened in surprise when he rounded the calèche to help her down, then led her to the door, apparently unconcerned about the impropriety. From the street, the brick building looked old and in need of paint. Inside, Louis Mouton’s office, the enclosed front portion of a warehouse, was a showplace.

The receiving area, where his assistant worked, had the subdued yet elegant look of a finely furnished inn. In his private office, original oil paintings, many by artists of renown, lined the walls, and the floors
were covered by plush Oriental carpets. Moutons desk was Louis Quatorze and exquisite beyond compare.

“Alexandre,” Louis Mouton said, smiling warmly and shaking Alex’s hand. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Louis, this is Mademoiselle St. Claire.”

“Enchanté.
“Mouton kissed her white-gloved hand. He was a man of medium build, attractive in a slightly arrogant way, with a straight, aristocratic nose, fine teeth, and light-brown hair just beginning to recede from his forehead.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” Nicki said. The men discussed the coming harvest, how many hogshead of sugar would go to each of several shipping destinations, and how much each shipment should bring.

Mouton glanced pointedly at Nicki. “There is another subject we need to discuss, Alexandre. May I speak freely, or would you prefer we talk later?”

“Whatever you have to say you may say.”

Nicki felt a rush of warmth at the trust Alex’s words implied.

“After a careful examination of your accounts,” Mouton told him, “I don’t believe you will have the amount necessary to repay your debt in full to M’sieur Fortier.”

“I’m very well aware of that, Louis. In fact, that’s the reason I’ve come here today. I wanted to assure you the money will be made available for payment well before the mortgage is due.”

Mouton seemed surprised. “You were able to borrow such a sum?”

“It’s more a matter of acquiring additional collateral.
Elmtree will soon become a part of Belle Chêne.”

Nicki’s stomach tightened.

“I see.” Mouton smiled. The tension seemed to drain from his body. “I must say, I am relieved to hear it.”

Alex smiled too. “You’ve nothing to fear, Louis. As long as I’m master of Belle Chêne, you’ve a job for the next fifty years.”

Fifty years
, Nicki thought. Where will I be then? Certainly not growing old with Alex, as Clarissa would be.

The three of them walked to the door.

“By the way, Alexandre, did you bring your personal set of ledgers? The year is coining to a close. It’s time we set things in order.”

“I’ve been so damned busy—” Alex pulled open the door. “I’ll see that you get them by the end of the month if I have to tie myself to the desk to get them done.”

“Fine,” Mouton said.

Alex and Nicki stepped out into the street.

“He seems quite efficient,” Nicki said as they climbed into the carriage.

“He’s been with our family for years.”

“My father worked with a man named Arcenenaux. It’s amazing how much we came to rely on him. He took care of all our finances, even advanced money to us if the crops fell short or something else went wrong.”

“Yes, Louis has been a tremendous help.”

The carriage rolled along the crowded streets of the
Vieux Carré
and turned up Esplanade, one of the most beautiful streets in the Quarter. Uniformed
soldiers marched in precision on the grassy parade ground, to the delight of both children and adults who watched from beneath nearby magnolia trees.

They rolled past the United States Mint, a big brick building stuccoed and trimmed with granite that was built in the Greek Revival style.

“In my father’s day,” Alex said, “Fort St. Charles stood on that spot.”

“I remember my father talking about it too. He said Andrew Jackson personally reviewed the troops there before the Battle of New Orleans.”

At the corner of Rampart Street, the carriage turned again, traveling a ways, then passed Congo Square, where black people, both slave and free, gathered on Sunday afternoons to dance and play music, much of it with a wild African beat.

“My father brought me here once,” Nicki said a bit wistfully. “We watched the Negroes dancing to the
Bamboula
and the
Danse Calinda.
It was wild and primitive and pagan. And so beautiful I never forgot it.”

Alex chuckled softly. “I believe some of their inspiration may have rubbed off on you—at least in bed.”

Nicki flushed crimson and glanced away, wishing she hadn’t spoken such intimate thoughts. Alex turned her heated face with his hand.

“That was a compliment,
chérie.
A passionate woman is a treasure.”

Nicki felt the warmth of his fingers and desire curled softly in the pit of her stomach.
Then I must be worth a king’s ransom
, she thought, but forced the notion away.

A few blocks later, at the end of St. Peter Street, Alex instructed the driver to stop. He climbed to the
ground and helped Nicki alight. The Place d’Armes was crowded with elegantly dressed men and women who strolled the grassy square just as Alex intended they should.

Seeing the elite of New Orlean’s society, Nicki hesitantly accepted his arm. “Are you sure about this, Alex? What happens if someone sees us? What will people say?”

Alex covered her suddenly cold fingers with his strong hand. “I’ve told you before, many men many for reasons other than their personal happiness. It’s not uncommon for them to spend time with someone else who fulfills that need.”

“In other words,” Nicki said, lifting her chin, “nobody gives a damn.”

Alex chuckled again. “I give a damn,
ma chère.
That’s all that matters.”

“That’s all that matters to you,” Nicki corrected. Alex blanched, looked as if he wanted to deny it, but said nothing more.

They strolled along the square and stopped to watch a young French artist who sat in front of his easel painting the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral on Chartres Street. Nicki stood there, engrossed in the young man’s skill with palette and brush, until she felt Alex’s hand at her waist grow taut. Up ahead, she saw the reason. Valcour Fortier walked toward them. Nicki sucked in a breath as she recognized the woman on his arm.

Lisette!

Fortier grinned with satisfaction. “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle … St. Claire, wasn’t it? And Alexandre—I believe you know Lisette.”

Alex pinned the small French woman with his eyes.
“Excuse us a moment, won’t you?” he said to Valcour, taking a firm hold on Lisette’s arm and tugging her a few feet away. He turned her to face him, his eyes ablaze with anger. “What the hell is the matter with you? Surely you know his reputation? You know the way he treats his women.”

“I do not believe a word of it!” She tossed her pretty head, and with it her mane of thick black hair. “Besides, it is no longer your concern.”

“I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Valcour will take care of me. ‘E knows a good woman when ‘e finds one—not like you. You toss me over for that … that English bit of baggage.”

“She’s half French, and I didn’t toss you over. You have a perfectly lovely little house at the edge of the city, just as you wanted.”

‘Yes, well, soon I will not need it. I will be mistress of Feliciana.”

Alex cursed low in his throat. “You little fool. Valcour will never marry you.”

Lisette drew herself up in an angry pout. “‘e is not like you. Valcour loves me. It has been years since his wife disappeared. ‘E will take me as his bride, you will see.”

Turning away from him in a swirl of royal-blue silk faille skirts, Lisette left him swearing on the boardwalk behind her. Lisette and Valcour swept off down the banquette and around the corner before he reached Nicki’s side.

“I hope you’re not angry,” he said. “I had to speak to her, try to make her understand.”

Nicki didn’t answer. Watching Alex with Lisette had left her feeling sick inside and even more uncertain. It had been all she could do to concentrate on
Valcour’s words, which held their usual taunting innuendos.

“You were jealous,” she finally said, glancing up though she feared what she would see. “She must still mean a great deal to you.”

“Jealous?
Mon Dieu
, no.” Alex slid an arm around her waist. Heedless of the ladies and gentlemen who strolled by, he drew her into his arms. “I was worried. Lisette was once my responsibility. I don’t want to see her get hurt. Concern for her welfare is all I felt, just as I would for anyone else.”

“Then you aren’t sorry she’s gone?”

“No,
ma chère.
I’m only sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

Nicki tried to ignore the overwhelming relief she felt at his words. “Tell me about Valcour. Why do you hate him so much?”

“I don’t really hate him. Mostly, I feel sorry for him.” Alex looped her arm through his and they strolled along the square. “Valcour’s my age. We’ve known each other since childhood. His father and mine were rivals, both men competing to build their empires. Though each achieved success, it was never enough for Gibert, Valcour’s father. He drove himself and his son like a madman.”

“What of his mother?”

“His mother was the daughter of a Spanish don, a lovely, genteel woman, according to my father.”

“So you knew Valcour as a boy?”

“Off and on, since I spent much of my time in France. Unfortunately for Valcour, his youth was far different than mine. Gibert Fortier was a strict disciplinarian. He believed in ‘Spare the rod and spoil the
child.’ Valcour was his only son, and Gibert expected perfection.”

“But surely his mother protected him.”

“Valcour’s mother died when he was seven. After that his father’s demands grew worse, his punishments even more severe. I’m sure the beatings Valcour suffered had much to do with the way he is today.”

Nicki said nothing. Her insides had turned to ice. She knew what it felt like to be treated with the kind of cruelty Valcour had suffered. “And I suppose Gibert expected his son to compete with you, just as he competed with your father.”

“Exactly. Valcour always held his own, but”—Alex grinned—“if I may be immodest, he rarely bested me.”

Fighting a grin of her own, Nicki nudged him in the ribs. “Just stick to the story.”

Alex drew her beneath a huge magnolia, its scattered leaves crunching beneath their feet. “When Fortier was twenty-four, he met a Spanish girl named Feliciana and fell in love with her. She was beautiful. Dark, like Valcour, but soft and gentle like his mother. Valcour worshipped her.”

“What happened to her?” Nicki asked.

“No one really knows for sure. By the end of their first year of marriage, Valcour had become obsessed with her. At parties, he refused to let her dance with other men. He fought several duels because someone had insulted her—or so he believed. Feliciana withdrew. She stopped going out at all, which suited her husband just fine. Then one night, she disappeared. Valcour swears she had the fever and wandered into the bayous in delirium ….”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“It’s possible. But the whispered story, the one told by the servants, is that Valcour caught her talking to a peddler who had stopped by to ask directions. Apparently, the man was handsome and charming, and Feliciana was so lonely she invited him in. Nothing happened, but that night, Valcour tied her up and beat her. Afterward, he forced her to make love to him. The next night, Feliciana ran away.”

Nicki looked up at Alex. “He hurt the very thing he loved most.”

“Yes …” Alex agreed, his sudden change in tone hinting at thoughts she couldn’t discern. “The Fortier estate used to be named Terre Sauvage—the wild earth. After his wife left him, Valcour changed the name to Feliciana. I think he still believes she’ll return.”

Nicki shuddered involuntarily and Alex’s hold tightened. “You’re cold,” he said. “We’d better be getting back.”

Nicki nodded her agreement. But the chill she felt came from inside, not out.