Midnight Flame (2 page)

Quietly she picked up her reticule and pulled the black webbed veil of her hat over her face. Then she crossed the room, not glancing in Auguste’s direction, and opened the door. Making certain that no one was in the courtyard, she stealthily made her way to the sidewalk.

The dusk-shrouded street was empty at this time of evening. The carriage Lavinia had borrowed from Laurel still waited on the other side of Jackson Square. Before she got into the vehicle, Jonas, Laurel’s driver, looked suspiciously at her. Lavinia shrugged as she settled herself onto the leather-upholstered seat. She knew Jonas would remain silent even if Laurel questioned him as to where she went every day. He didn’t know much of anything, so his opinion would be conjecture. Always a person who loved attracting attention and basking in admiring male glances, Lavinia was for the first time grateful that she had used discretion where Auguste was concerned. No one could fault her or question her about his death.

She smiled to herself and hoped she would arrive home in time to join her dear cousin at the opera. Softly chiding herself for neglecting Laurel, Lavinia decided she must make it all up to her by convincing Laurel to accompany her home to San Antonio. After all, that had been the main reason she had come to visit her cousin. But then she had met Auguste and realized he would marry her and give her the money to save her father’s ranch without question or reservation. Now that plan was ended, and she must bring Laurel home with her. Of course, Lavinia’s father would be less than overjoyed to see the daughter of his deceased brother since Arthur Delaney and Sylvester had never gotten along. But Laurel’s visit would change his mind about the past. Lavinia was certain of that.

Because of Laurel Delaney, the Little L would be saved.

~ ~ ~

The dark fire in the man’s eyes momentarily disconcerted Monsieur Henri Maurice, but he assured himself that his client’s anger wasn’t about his handling of the delicate matter they now discussed. He had been most circumspect in his questioning of the residents of the Esplanade Avenue apartment where Auguste St. Julian had died. In fact Henri was always amused by how eager people were to speak about crimes in general, to discourse on what they believe happened. However, St. Julian’s death wasn’t a murder or a crime … except to the dark-clad man who sat across the desk from him.

The man crumpled a piece of white paper in his hand, his eyes never leaving Henri’s face. “So you are telling me, Monsieur Maurice, that no one saw this woman on the day of my uncle’s death.”

Henri inclined his head. “But that is not to say she wasn’t at your uncle’s apartment. A resident across the courtyard did see a woman with your uncle one afternoon, coming out of the apartment. However, she was veiled.”

“So that is all you discovered? That a woman was with him? That’s not enough!”

The investigator involuntarily jumped. This nephew of St. Julian’s was a formidable man, a man who inspired fear at times. Taking a kerchief out of his pocket, he wiped his sweating palms on it, and noticed that even in the unseasonable February heat, his client didn’t perspire. He appeared cool, but Henri had dealt with enough people to realize this man boiled inside.

“Please, monsieur,” Henri cajoled. “Many of St. Julian’s neighbors are men like himself. Wealthy men from out of town who rent apartments, town houses, and entertain lady friends, keep mistresses. The personal matters of other men aren’t of interest to them. Anyway, no crime has been committed. Your uncle’s heart failed. The lady did not kill him.”

“Lady!” The man stood up and paced the small office. “Mademoiselle Lavinia Delaney doesn’t deserve such a title. She is a whore, a woman who was sequestered for over six months on her uncle’s plantation while she bore an illegitimate child.”

“Or so it is believed, monsieur. None of the servants would discuss Mademoiselle Delaney with me.”

“So then you are telling me that no one will speak about this woman.”

“Perhaps her cousin.”

“No,” Henri’s client said and shook his head. “She is family and no doubt protective of her. Your investigation disclosed that the cousin is a woman of refinement. I don’t wish to involve her in such an unseemly affair.” He grew silent, then held out his hand to Henri. “I thank you for your investigation.”

“I wish I could have done more for you, gotten you the information you wished.”

After St. Julian’s nephew departed Henri’s office and walked briskly down the street of Vermillionville to visit his Aunt Clotilde, he knew he did have all the information he needed on Lavinia Delaney.

A scowl deepened the grooved lines of his face. So, his Uncle Auguste had fancied himself in love with a whore. And what was worse, she was an American from Texas, not a Frenchwoman. In his hand he still held Auguste’s last letter to him, written two days before his death. The words were ingrained on his mind.

“
My nephew
,” it had begun.

“I am in love with a beautiful young woman named Lavinia Delaney. You have known that Clotilde and I haven’t been married in the true sense for some time. When I confided my marital state to you last year, you insisted I should take a mistress. I cannot love in that way, my boy. My heart must belong to one woman. So, I am going to ask your aunt for a divorce. Mon Dieu! The repercussions I dread to think about. However, I will marry Lavinia. Don’t worry. So far we have been discreet. Soon you shall receive a bill for items which I have purchased for her in your name, so no one can trace them to me. I shall reimburse you. I wish your blessing and please don’t think your uncle is a foolish old man. If you knew my Lavinia, you would love her, too.”

The letter had been signed in Auguste’s flowing penmanship. The bills for Lavinia Delaney’s extravagances began arriving three days after Auguste’s funeral. Bills his nephew intended to pay, a debt he also intended to be repaid by the woman in question.

When he arrived at the St. Julian plantation and saw the tears still streaming freely from his aunt’s eyes for her dead husband, he swore vengeance on the cold-hearted Delaney woman.

February 1858

“Lavinia, whatever is the matter?”

Laurel’s worried question, spoken in a gentle tone of voice, seemed to cause Lavinia’s tears to flow freely. The two cousins sat on the sofa in the elegantly furnished parlor of the Delaney Garden District mansion. A warm breeze wafted through the tall windows that opened onto the veranda at the front of the white-columned house. Laurel noticed that Lavinia’s hands shook, her face as pale as the taffeta gown she wore.

“It’s Papa,” Lavinia choked, her tears trickling prettily down her cheeks. “A letter arrived from Seth this morning. Papa has been taken suddenly ill.”

“I’m so sorry. What does your stepbrother say is wrong with Uncle Arthur?”

Laurel’s brow puckered into a worried frown as she asked this question. She knew how devastating a sudden illness could be, how totally unprepared most people were for such news. She remembered how quickly her own parents had died and hoped Arthur Delaney’s illness wasn’t serious.

Lavinia’s large blue eyes lifted from the letter in her trembling hands to focus on Laurel’s face.

“The doctors aren’t certain. Seth believes I should return home, that Papa may not have—oh, I can’t bear to say it—much time.” Her voice broke again. “I admit I haven’t been the most dutiful daughter, but I love my father.”

Placing a slender arm around Lavinia’s shoulder, Laurel hugged her. “I’m sure your father knows you love him, Lavinia. Seth is right. Your place is by his side.”

Lavinia grabbed Laurel’s hand in her own. “Would you consider returning to Texas with me? Please? I know Papa would want to see you again.”

“Our fathers weren’t very friendly,” Laurel reminded her.

“I’m aware of that. However, I think papa would like to make peace with you since your father is gone. Believe me, Laurel, Papa suffered a great deal after the breakup of his partnership with Uncle Sylvester. More than once I heard him bemoan the fact that he never told your father how sorry he felt over the whole incident. By the time he married my stepmother, he had long since gotten over his infatuation with your own mother. But your father never forgave him for falling in love with his wife.”

Laurel pulled away from her. “If you’re saying that my mother loved Uncle Arthur and led him to believe that she would have left my father for—”

“No, no,” Lavinia broke her off. “Papa knew your parents loved one another and accepted that fact. It’s just that his pride forbade him to admit he had made a monumental fool of himself where your mother was concerned. I know he would have liked to have made amends, but your parents died before he extended the olive branch.” Lavinia’s blue eyes narrowed. “You see, that time I was in ill health and arrived here with Papa to ask Uncle Sylvester if I might stay at the plantation, Papa was quite concerned about me and never got around to apologizing for his past mistakes before he returned to Texas.”

“I see,” Laurel said and disentangled her hand from Lavinia’s. Standing up, she crossed the room to the window and gazed out at the tranquil street scene. White-pillared mansions, as large as her own, stood majestically on both sides of Chestnut Street. From the moment she had been born, she had lived in this house, except for the summers on the plantation that she had sold last year, and the Boston boarding school. In truth she knew no existence other than this and was totally happy here. Now Lavinia wanted her to go to San Antonio because she feared Arthur Delaney might die and wanted to make amends.

Laurel didn’t understand why Arthur should care at all about her. When her parents died, he hadn’t offered to provide a home for her, and Laurel would have welcomed the gesture, though an empty one at best. Any family, even one with unresolved problems, was better than living in a boarding school and depending upon the good will of friends to ask her home for the holidays. She had spent a total of four Christmases with Anne Tyler’s family in New York. At school, Anne had been her best and dearest friend, and for the rest of her life Laurel would be grateful to Anne’s parents for providing a warm holiday for an orphaned girl.

And now, after all these years, Arthur Delaney wished to make amends. Laurel had no inkling as to what had transpired between her parents and Arthur. She only knew that Arthur had been left a widower with an infant daughter and that her own mother, Emily Delaney, had recently married her father. Evidently Arthur had loved Emily before his wife’s death and had pursued her. This pursuit had caused the rift between the brothers and ended the partnership of the Little L Ranch before it had even started.

The afternoon sun spilled into the parlor and highlighted the auburn strands in Laurel’s dark hair, casting a golden hue across her porcelain complexion. Lavinia wiped her eyes with a kerchief, and Laurel wondered if her tears were real. Could Lavinia be using her for her own reasons? Emily had always proclaimed that Lavinia could be deceptive. Laurel, however, could think of no reason why Lavinia would lie to her about such a serious matter as Arthur’s health.

“Will you come with me?” Laurel heard Lavinia ask.

Laurel gave thought to this question as once again the familiar street scene outside caught her attention. She swung her gaze away from the window to her elegant parlor, which was also familiar. She could walk blindfolded through it and the house, and not bump into a single piece of furniture. Nothing had changed since her parents’ deaths. Last year Laurel had returned home to the stuffy parties and dull young men eager to marry an heiress. But Lavinia with her bold blue eyes and flaming hair lived in an untamed land where convention and decorum could be set aside for the most part. How she envied Lavinia her freedom.

Suddenly Laurel realized that she was of age, her own woman, and no longer needed John Anderson’s reluctant approval. She surmised that Anderson wanted her to marry his Philbert, but Laurel found nothing attractive about the young man with clammy hands.

A wild longing overcame her. Her blood surged through her veins. Perhaps she did possess some of Lavinia’s fire. Why shouldn’t she be reckless and not think of the consequences just once in her life? When she returned from Texas, the house would still be here, and the same dull young men would vie for her favor. And if Arthur Delaney were ill and wished to make up for all the years he had barely acknowledged her existence, then she would allow him to apologize to her.