His Dark Desires (7 page)

Mr. Trevelyan stood and drew a deep breath. "For me, it cost lives. People died." His voice rasped like jagged glass. "Don't make the mistake I did." He briefly touched Andre's shoulder as in comfort or warning and then left the courtyard, climbing the gallery stairs to his room and disappearing inside.

Nobody said a word. Nobody moved. We were all shocked, especially Andre. He stared at the door to Mr. Trevelyan's room for a long time. Then he began washing again, quietly.

Nothing I said seemed to reach my son, but in moments this stranger had gone right to Andre's heart. Mr. Trevelyan had entered my home, disturbing everything, and though his dangerous air grew darker, somehow he'd touched my heart as well.

Mr. Trevelyan didn't appear for breakfast or dinner, and his absence weighed more heavily than his presence. I couldn't stop thinking about him or his conversation with my son. Tensions that had taken root last night seemed to have grown during the day. Mr. Fitz and Mr. Gallier continued their discussion about plays, but on a less amiable note. I began to wonder if they were truly arguing over which play to perform or if the point was which of them would star opposite Miss Vengle, as both of them seemed to be vying for her attention.

After dinner, I decided to take a tray to Mr. Trevelyan's room and apologize. I stood before his door, gathering the courage to knock, which was ridiculous—never before had butterflies plagued me over so simple a task. I'd knocked on men's doors countless times without a thought to the intimacy that now filled my mind. Frustration made my rap on the door louder and more insistent than I meant.

Mr. Trevelyan opened his door quickly, appearing much the same way he had in the courtyard with Andre. Only this time his shirt was buttoned halfway up.

"You've missed the meals today. I thought you might be hungry."

He studied my face for an uncomfortable moment before taking the tray. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Are you ill?"

"No. Just... just writing."

"I disturbed you, then. I'll speak to you another time," I said, stepping back.

"No, now is fine. I need a respite." He moved and my gaze scanned the room, but I saw no evidence that he'd been busy writing. His desk was clear, no papers were about, and the only thing mussed was his bed. I snatched my gaze away only to meet his querying one.

"What did you want to speak to me about?" He'd set the tray on his desk, then crossed his arms and leaned back against his bedpost, comfortably watching me examine his room. His shirt gaped, revealing the hard planes of his chest and a glimpse of dark hair.

I swallowed hard. "About the telegram." I could hear Mr. Fitz and Miss Vengle coming up the stairs, and I didn't want to be caught in Mr. Trevelyan's doorway. Taking a step into his room, I pulled the door closed.

Mr. Trevelyan raised his brows, but didn't move from his stance by the bed, which almost seemed like a dark invitation. My mouth went dry.

"This is difficult to say, but last evening, just before you left your room for dinner, Andre said he saw a man in the corridor on the family's floor, eavesdropping on my conversation with Ginette. Rushing down the stairs to investigate, I met Mignon coming up the stairs. Then you exited your room. After you left with Mignon, I peeked in all of the boarders' rooms to see if anyone else was about. I found no one. But when I opened your door, I saw your suit lying rumpled. Though I shouldn't have, I moved inside to straighten it, then realized I was intruding and left. I must have dropped the telegram then."

Mr. Trevelyan walked toward me; his piercing gaze now sparked fire. "Did your son say he saw me?"

I backed up a step and hit the door, my palms damp, my pulse racing. His eyes widened when I did and he stopped, holding his hands up. "I didn't mean to frighten you, but I know without a doubt your son could not have seen me. I was in my room."

"The hall shadows were too dark. He couldn't identify who it was, but he thought the man had dark hair and wore a gray suit."

His hands fisted, and he stepped closer. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I don't have an answer. You wouldn't have had time to make it to your room, change suits, then meet Mignon and me on the landing. So I don't necessarily think it was you, but everyone else was downstairs."

"And nobody had on a gray suit. Could it have been someone else? Someone you didn't know was in your home?"

I shivered at the thought. "It's possible."

"Mrs. Boucheron, I suggest you make a habit of locking your doors."

"We do every night."

He caught my hand in his, his touch gentle but firm, and far too welcome. A hot tingle raced up my arm as the warmth and the strength of him seeped into me. "Not just at night. Lock them during the day as well. The telegram I read said you were in danger. What did it mean? Who was it from?"

"I don't know any details yet" I said, pulling my fingers from his grasp. "But I do know it said to trust no one." I opened the door to leave, but he planted his hand on it, closing it, trapping me. For a long moment, I stood looking into his eyes, my heart beating as if I were running.

"You can trust me," he said, his voice low, and as deeply hypnotic as his gaze.

"You're a stranger," I whispered.

"Am I? Somehow, since the moment we met that word hasn't fit between us, Mrs. Boucheron. I think you feel the same attraction that I do." He leaned in closer, and I drew an expectant breath.

He smiled slowly, then surprisingly stepped away. "Thank you for the dinner and for the apology. They are both appreciated."

"You're...welcome," I said, managing to quit the room, though the very foundations of my life seemed to be shaken.

Mr. Trevelyan was right. I didn't think of him as a stranger. I should. I had to.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

"Jean Claude's letters have to be somewhere," I told Mignon and Ginette as we opened the dormer windows. Sunshine streamed into the attic, revealing an entire floor filled with baggage, from useless antiquities taking up space to precious treasures, like the old six-legged rocking chair I'd placed by the window yesterday to sit in while searching through boxes.

The Swedish-made chair had been my mother's favorite, and my father had stored it up here after her death. Perhaps it was time to bring it back downstairs and let other memories fill the worn seat.

I still had not heard from Mr. Goodson—no responding telegraph to my demand on Monday for more information about the danger I might be in, no letters in the post. Short of making a trip to Baton Rouge, there was little that I could do. At this point, I thought it prudent to stay close to home and keep a wary eye on my boarders.

Four days had passed, and I felt as if I was still against the door in Mr. Trevelyan's room with him leaning toward me, despite my careful maneuvering to avoid any intimate conversations or situations with him. I kept trying to act as if he was a stranger, and he wasn't cooperating. Whenever I turned around, I found him watching me, smiling with a knowing look in his eyes, as if he expected me to act on the attraction his gaze kept inflamed.

"Are you sure the letters are in a blue box?" Ginette asked

"Positive, but just in case I'm wrong, we'll check all of the boxes."

"All?" Ginette groaned as she turned in a circle. She seemed to grow more fatigued as the week passed. "Why, we haven't cleaned up here since—"

"It was over two years ago." Mignon plopped a feathery hat on her head, then sneezed at the dust that showered down. "And I wore this hat the whole time. It was just before I turned fifteen, and I was sure we'd find a trunk full of forgotten treasure. All of our money woes would have been solved and I could then have the biggest birthday ball ever."

I bit my lip, wincing. "Nonnie, I wish that we could have—"

"Oh, foo, Juliet. I have long since realized other things in life are more important to me. Enough about the past." She pointed to a stack of trunks near the window. "However are we to search those?"

I frowned. "I don't remember the trunks being stacked like that yesterday. Has Papa John been up here cleaning?"

Mignon shrugged.

Ginette shook her head. "Well, before I become too tired, I say we get started and have Papa John move the trunks later. Where did you leave off, Juliet?"

"I only had time to search through the boxes by the door here. Nonnie and I can do this if you need to go rest a little."

"I have already rested. I spent the morning in the sitting room. I only worked a few minutes on my embroidery before I set it aside and fell asleep. At the rate I am going with my tapestry, I will be eighty before I finish it," Ginette said with a sigh.

Mignon laughed. "Sometimes it seems as if we will all be eighty before we finish all of the chores that need doing."

"If we keep talking, we will still be cleaning this attic at eighty." I picked up a large box and carried it over to the rocking chair by the window, then I heard the sounds of music coming from the courtyard. Curious, I set the box in the chair and turned to the window. Andre and Mr. Trevelyan were sitting by the fountain, sunlight gleaming off their dark heads, which were bent close together. It appeared Mr. Trevelyan was showing Andre how to play the harmonica. A smile tugged at my lips.

"What is it?" Ginette came to the window.

"It looks as if Andre is learning a new instrument." I moved over, making room for Ginette, bumping the rocker when I did. Suddenly a deep chill stabbed through me and a force pressed me against the window. I grasped the windowsill.

"Watch out!" Mignon shouted.

Whirling around, I saw the stack of trunks falling toward Ginette and me. I pushed her to the side and jerked away from the window as a heavy trunk crashed down on top of the rocking chair, splintering its wooden arms and crushing the box I had set there.

"
Mon Dieu
" Ginette gasped.

My knees shaky, I stared at the chair, speechless, amazed by how narrowly I had escaped severe injury, if not death. I drew several deep breaths, forcing a calmness I did not feel to my voice. "Are you all right, Ginny?"

"
Oui
" she whispered, staring at the trunk.

The thunder of feet coming up the stairs shook me from my frozen state, and Mr. Trevelyan and Andre burst into the room.

"What is it? What happened?" Mr. Trevelyan demanded, slightly breathless from running up four stories.

"A trunk fell from the stack," Mignon said.

Mr. Trevelyan bent down and studied the broken chair. After a minute he lifted the trunk off, pushing back the stack it had tumbled from with his shoulder to keep the other trunks from falling, too.

"Who piled them so dangerously high and uneven to begin with?" Fury roughened his voice. He set the first trunk down with a thud and then separated the rest of the trunks, placing them around the room. Strength and anger poured from the tense set of his straining muscles and clenched jaw, showing me a deeper side to his dangerous edge. But this was a comforting side, as was his outrage for my safety. Still my heart pounded harder as he marched toward me, for the passion in his gaze tied a knot of anticipation in my stomach.

"Well?" he demanded. He stood inches from me, close enough for me to feel the heat of his body, a heat that seemed to double in seconds. "Who?" he asked again, grasping my shoulders. His hands heated my chilled skin and his concern warmed my heart, easing my shock.

"I don't know, I don't remember seeing the trunks stacked like that yesterday." I shivered. "I was about to sit in the chair. If I hadn't heard your harmonica, I would have been sitting there when the trunk fell."
And if something hadn't pushed me toward the window, my legs would have been hit.

His piercing gaze searched mine; then after a long and tense moment, he released me and turned away. "You need to be more careful," he said harshly. "I don't think this was an accident."

"What do you mean, Monsieur Trevelyan?" I bent down, examining the rocking chair.

"The back legs are splintered now, but look here and here." He pointed at two smooth cuts in the wood. "It was meant to collapse backward into the trunks, and they were piled to cause serious harm."

My blood turned cold, making me shiver.

"
Mère?
" Andre's voice called for reassurance.

"I am all right," I told him.

"I am
not
all right," Ginette declared, her dark eyes angry and her cheeks flushed. "There is something happening to our home, Juliet. I feel it. Something evil!"

"Ginette's right," Mignon said, her eyes tearing. "Just before the trunk fell, I saw the shadow of a man appear behind you, Juliet. I blinked, disbelieving it, and the shadow disappeared. Then the trunk fell." She backed up several steps. "It was a ghost; it had to be."

"We have a murderous ghost!" Andre turned white.

"No," Mr. Trevelyan said firmly. "Ghosts don't set traps."

"Monsieur Trevelyan is right. There are no ghosts."

"How can you be so sure?" Mignon asked, surprising me by her challenge.

I opened my mouth to assure her, but the words wouldn't come.
What about the incident at Blindman's Curve and the deep chill that had struck me?
For the first time in my life, I didn't have a practical answer.

*   *   *

The rest of the day resonated with tension, making me thankful for Mr. Davis's invitation to the carnival. During an early dinner, we learned everyone planned to attend the affair, and Andre, finally showing some enthusiasm, invited Mr. Trevelyan to ride with us. Everyone strained to put on a happy face, determined to leave what had happened in the attic behind and to enjoy the carnival.

One jostle of the carriage sank my week-long efforts to think of Mr. Trevelyan as a stranger. His hard thigh pressed against mine, and the warm muscles of his arm constantly brushed my shoulder, rendering my clothing and the presence of my family little protection against his seductive spell. Right or wrong, I wanted to lean into him more to feel the things he awakened inside me. His ungloved hands rested in his lap and were more interesting than the passing scenery of magnolia trees and sprawling homes along the river. Though large and capable, his hands bespoke a man who enjoyed touching. The edge of my skirt lay against his leg and his fingers absently brushed the dark blue silk as he conversed with Andre, telling him about a traveling adventure. I felt as if he were touching me, softly, secretly.