Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) (17 page)

Or was it? She understood him enough to realize that, though she might have asked for kisses and been given them, confidences from him had not been encouraged. The question then was why. And what did it have to do with communication between brother and sister?

It was later, after the passage of a grindingly slow afternoon and a dinner notable for its interminable length, that Renold was cornered by Deborah in his study. There was no welcome in his face as he looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Tossing aside his silver-nubbed pen, he leaned back in his chair, laced his long fingers together over his waistcoat buttons, and waited.

“You remind me,” Deborah said as she closed the door behind herself and came forward to settle gracefully in a chair across from him, “of the hound we used to have when I was girl. Old Bellows, remember? Every time he ran down a deer for Papa, he would go off and take a rabbit for himself. Since this is conduct unappreciated and unbecoming in a deer hound, he hid his prizes in the most cunning places. Mother once found one, quite dead, behind the sofa cushions. She felt for old Bellows, but she was not pleased.”

“Angelica,” he said with some acerbity, “is not a rabbit, quick or dead.”

“But she is a prize, I believe. Don’t you think she has the right to know why you have taken her?”

“She will discover it in time; that’s inevitable.”

“When you’re ready, I would imagine. Do you want her to hate you?”

Not a muscle in his face changed. “That, too, may be inevitable.”

She studied him with her head tipped to one side, almost as if the weight of her hair was too heavy for her slender neck. “I can see why you’re doing this — at least, I suppose it’s to keep Bonheur in the family, so to speak, since a husband controls his wife’s property. But was there no honorable way to go about it, no way to woo and wed her that did not smack of deceit?”

“What, offer my heart, my hand, my name like some callow, beardless boy?” he said with bitter emphasis. “She would have thrown all three in my face.”

“Not all women are like Clotilde,” his sister said with heat. “Besides, you had saved your Angelica from death. Surely that would have weighed in the balance.”

“Are we speaking of a wooing before or after the explosion of the steamboat? Before, she was betrothed and had the protection of her father who would not, you can be certain, have entertained my suit. Afterward, she had the memory of attempted assault.” His gaze held self-incriminating revulsion that he made no effort to hide.

Deborah lifted a hand to her lips as they parted on a gasp. “When? On board the — you didn’t!”

“No, I didn’t, and I thank you for that much,” he said on a soundless sigh. “But I could have, easily; there are few things in my wild careering that I have wanted more. The plan, rather, was to be caught in a compromising position. I would then agree, with great reluctance, to do the honorable thing. An old friend, a Madame Parnell, was primed to walk in upon the sorry scene. The explosion of the boilers made hash of the plan.”

“That explosion. I’m so glad mother and I did not know you were on the
Queen Kathleen
.”

“If you had known, you would have been apprised of my survival,” he said evenly.

“Would we?” Deborah said, opening her eyes wide with amazed and entirely false surprise. “You are all consideration. But you might have ‘apprised’ us of the wedding before half New Orleans took up pen to twit us about it!”

He looked away toward where the candelabra shedding light on his desk sat stolidly supporting triple flames. “I thought to allow Angelica time to regain her strength. I thought to repair a little of the damage I had done. I also thought,” he added deliberately, “to consummate the marriage before celebrating it.”

“How very — interesting,” his sister said, her hazel gaze concentrating as she stared at him.

He said shortly, “I’m not without some consideration.”

“And at what cost,” she said with a spurious sympathy. “I understand now why you’re crabby as a bear with a sore head.”

“Do you indeed? Now how is that?” To admit she was right would not add to the conversation, and might increase his own awareness of his condition to something above its current bearable level.

Her smile was saucy. “Men talk, and aren’t always careful who might hear. I listen. It’s a useful trait.”

“A dangerous one, if you aren’t careful.”

“Dear Renold, don’t try to change the subject from your felonies to my misdemeanors. I want to know what you are going to do.”

He heard the censure as it seeped into her tone. It was intolerable, as was her interference. “I am going to have Bonheur again,” he said in quiet savagery, “with my dear wife’s will or without it.”

“Renold!” It was a cry of shock.

“It’s what you expected, isn’t it? What you came — or were sent here — to know. There must have been some doubt about my intentions, or you would have waited, busily preparing the wedding feast, for me to appear with my bride in tow.”

“That wasn’t it at all,” his half-sister protested. Her face was turning from pink to pale at something she saw in his eyes.

“What then? To save me from myself? I don’t require it, just as I don’t require supervision. Or advice on the care and handling of a wife. You will oblige me by returning to Bonheur as soon as possible, before you do more damage than you have already.”

Deborah sank back in her chair, considering him with wide, steady eyes. Finally she said, “It isn’t like you, Renold, to be so abrupt or so brutal. There is something you are afraid of. What is it?”

“I am casting a hazard at the future. A man who treats that lightly is a fool.”

“Yes,” she said in tentative agreement, “but that isn’t all, is it? Estelle tells me you were badly burned in your escape from the steamboat, worse than need be had you not paused to rescue Angelica. More, in your single-minded determination to make her well again and bring her around to your purpose, you have not been sleeping.”

As his face tightened, she lifted her chin. “No, you will not scold Estelle. I badgered her into talking of the past few days. Besides, she spoke only because she was troubled. As I am. I love Bonheur as much or more than you; I was born there, it’s my home. But it’s only a house and a piece of land. It isn’t worth destroying another person over. Or yourself.”

“Melodramatic and presumptuous,” he said in acid condemnation. “My marriage is a union based on practical considerations, with no place in it for such heart-burnings.”

Her piquant features were serious, her tone remained reflective. “Is it? Then why didn’t you tell Angelica of your connection with Bonheur? She is tied to you by bonds both civil and religious, bonds it is almost impossible to sever. What reason can there be to keep her in ignorance, then? Unless you want the additional guarantee of ties of affection? And you are doubtful these can be implanted if she learns of your — what did you call it? — your perfidy?”

“This is my supposed fear, that she will not love me?” he said, voicing the words she did not quite dare say. “I will agree that a modicum of affection would be convenient, will even admit it could be pleasant. But it isn’t necessary for my ends and I am unlikely to fade into a decline without it.”

“It isn’t your aim?” she said, as if in clarification.

“Should it be?”

She gave him a dour look. “You always did enjoy answering a question with a question, a trait that shows a lamentable lack of forthrightness. Very well. Assuming you mean what you say, I expect you would still object if Angelica formed an attachment elsewhere?”

“Now I am to be tested for jealousy, I suppose. You might remember, while you are taking my character apart, that I am a possessive man. I would certainly object if this attachment was a threat to our union, therefore to Bonheur.”

“How very reasoned. Then why in the name of common sense do you allow Michel Farness to visit your wife while you are from home?”

“Michel has been warned,” he said succinctly.

She was momentarily dazed, but recovered. “I don’t imagine he was impressed. It’s easy to see he is captivated.”

Renold smiled without warmth. “Concern heaped upon concern; what a thing it is to be a sister. But are you certain it’s all for me? If you want Michel’s attentions turned in a different direction, perhaps you should undertake the task yourself.”

“I don’t want — !” She stopped, drawing a hard-pressed breath, before she said, “I had almost forgotten how devious you can be. You won’t involve me that easily, however. I am not going to distract your friend for you.”

“A talent for deviousness runs in the family,” he said, “through the distaff.”

“You must tell mother that, when you see her. She will no doubt be delighted.”

“Or you can report it, with the rest, on your return.”

Her gaze as she met his across the highly polished desk was clear and candid. “Oh, I’ve decided to stay awhile in New Orleans. The season may be over, but the shopping is still marvelous.”

Renold absorbed the challenge in her eyes. Behind it was audacity and determination, and the memory of a hundred such encounters wending down the years. He had won, more often than not, by exerting superior authority and will and even, on occasion, strength. He said in soft threat, “I could see you off in the morning.”

“Yes, you could. Perhaps I should go and have a little discussion of a family nature with Angelica tonight.”

He laughed, though with no great amusement. “Do. If you want to be sent home with your pretty neck rung like a pullet’s and a rosary in your hands.”

“Murderous as well as lecherous, anxious, and seething with husbandly vigilance. I believe you need me near to keep you from doing, or being forced to do, something you may regret.”

It was, in its way, an explanation. It was also a bargaining counter. He said, “You are agreeing to undertake distracting Michel after all?”

Her smile was pure sweetness. “It will be my sacrifice on the altar of family duty.”

Renold kept his satisfaction to himself. It was better that way.

The bedchamber, when he stepped inside it a short time later, was lit by a single candle guttering low in its own warm wax. The light gave a soft gold sheen to the blue silk above Angelica, and danced with molten gleams upon the thick wheaten braid that lay over her shoulder. It caught the pure angle of a cheekbone, the snowy, linen-covered crest of a globelike breast, the burnished satin length of her lashes sealed together where her eyelids met. Wavering, backing from his swift approach, the uneven flame made it difficult to tell if she was still breathing.

She was. More, the pulse that stroked his fingertips as he placed them against her neck was steady and even as a metronome.

The crystal glass that sat on the bedside table had a quarter inch of water flavored with laudanum in the bottom. He drank it, then stood holding the glass against his heart.

She had been troubled by one of her headaches earlier; he had seen the discarded cloth damp with rose water, the barely tasted tisane. Was that why she had sought oblivion? Or had it been the charged atmosphere of the first confrontation with Deborah in the salon?

It could also have been something else entirely, something she had read into what was said, something sensed without words or deeds. She was capable of it, he knew that too well. More, she might or might not feel the need to face him with discovered sins.

She was an enigma.

Most people were fairly easy to read: their simple joys and angers, their impulses of generosity, venality, humility, and causeless pride were there in their faces. A few were more difficult because their deeds were darker. There were not many who defied understanding.

Angelica was different. Her face was beautiful and clear and expressive, but her thoughts were at a level far deeper. She saw more than was on the surface, considered beyond the obvious, and what she discovered was filtered through a screen of intuition and experience to remove the dross.

If he was afraid of anything, it was her understanding. Not what she might learn, but what she would make of it once she knew. What she would make of him.

She could, he thought, given time, see through everything he was and had been, and look into his naked soul. He didn’t like it.

At the same time he was drawn to it. There was a terrible seductive power in being finally, completely, understood. Even if it meant being destroyed.

He had lied to his sister, barefaced and without compunction. Some things were absolutely necessary. Angelica’s affection was fast becoming one of them.

Reaching with a steady hand, he pinched out the light. He stripped off his clothes, tossed them aside, climbed into the bed. With careful strength, he drew Angelica to him until she lay with her gentle curves fitted against his every possible body surface, every heated inch of his skin. Then he was still, his breathing shallow while he stared into the darkness.

His arm, where he had pillowed her head, grew bloodless and numb. He did not move. And in time, by dint of will and concentrated purpose, his breathing grew even and his body lost its heat.

He dozed. But he could still feel the throb of her heartbeat under his palm.

Chapter Ten

There was the soft feel of spring on the morning air as Angelica and Deborah left the house. They were going marketing, or rather Tit Jean was going and they were joining him. The three of them strolled in the direction of the river, the two women abreast and the manservant following with a large rectangular basket on each arm.

The hour was early; a shopper who did not reach the market before nine o’clock was too late for the freshest meats and vegetables. It was the first time Angelica had been out of the house without Renold. It was also the first time she had been completely free of headache since the explosion.

The exertion of walking warmed her and brought a sparkle to her eyes. She felt free and lighthearted, and inclined to smile at all passersby. After a time, she allowed her shawl, a soft Indian cashmere in the inevitable black, to slip from her shoulders to the bends of her elbows. She had been doubtful about the lightweight muslin gown that Estelle had laid out for her, but it was proving a good choice after all.

A Lenten quiet hung in the streets. Gone were the maskers and the music, the loud laughter and shouts of drunken merriment. Instead, children played on the overhanging balconies; maids scrubbed steps with brick dust and a dog scratched fleas as he lay in the middle of the street. Now and then a gentleman passed with a polite lift of his hat, or a pair of nuns, with starched caps flying and crucifixes banging at their knees, hurried along on some errand. Just ahead of them a gentleman nearly as wide as he was tall, obviously a frequent visitor to the market, carried his own basket in the same direction they were heading.

Deborah chatted with ease and humor, keeping up a running commentary on the people who lived in the houses along the way and on the recent political improprieties in the city. She also complained, as she tripped over the uneven flagstones of the banquette, that most of the money for civic improvements was going uptown to the American section while the French Quarter was left to rack and ruin.

Angelica enjoyed listening to Renold’s half-sister and appreciated the information gleaned from her observations. She also laughed often at the dour but pithy comments Tit Jean interjected from time to time.

The French market was situated along the levee near the Place d’Armes. There were steps leading from the levee to the river for the use of the market boats that drew up there in the early hours every morning. The building had a low-pitched roof of red tiles and arcaded sides open to the movement of air and the coming and going of buyers. Inside, there were more than a hundred stalls along a length of some three hundred feet.

There were other markets in the city, according to Tit Jean; the Americans frequented one on Poydras Street. The French market, La Halle des Boucheries, was of course superior.

As a beginning, since Angelica had never been to the market before, they made a circuit of the stalls. Tit Jean consulted them about their preferences and took careful note of their responses, since a lady did not bargain or carry money for purchases. The manservant soon wended his way back to the meat stalls, however, since that was the commodity most likely to disappear early. The two women were forgotten as he greeted friends and butchers and haggled over the price of a fat goose and a huge slab of pork loin.

Angelica and Deborah wandered here and there, threading their way between sellers of cheeses and sausages, onions and cabbages, greens and strawberries, ground peppers and cinnamon, strings of garlic and bouquets of sweet peas, and a thousand other things. They eased past the lines of freewomen of color ready to hire themselves out as laundresses and scrubwomen. The next moment they were stepping over the feet of Indian women who sat weaving baskets, grinding sassafras leaves to the thickening powder known as file, and nursing, openly and unashamedly, babies with enormous black eyes.

Around them was a hubbub of voices speaking in Parisian French and also the French-based African-Indian patois used by servants; in Spanish, English, German, Gaelic, and a smattering of some half-dozen other languages from the seaports of the world. The noise rose in a dull roar under the market roof, disturbing the gray rags of spiderwebs and nesting sparrows clinging to the cross beams, and forcing the two women to lean close to hear each other speak.

It was exhilarating, fascinating; Angelica did not want to leave. Still, it would not do to let the fresh meat Tit Jean had bought spoil. After a short time, she and Deborah turned back to look for the tall black man with his huge baskets.

Angelica was glancing at a tray of dried figs as she moved past it when she felt a firm grip fasten on her arm. “Don’t look just yet,” Deborah said in low tones near her ear, “but I think that man is following us.”

“Which man?” Angelica pretended to study the figs.

The other woman barely tipped her head to the left behind them. “Over there.”

“I don’t see any—” Angelica began, then trailed off as she saw only too well. It was the small gray man she had seen at the townhouse. “Oh.”

Deborah lifted a brow. “Don’t tell me you know the creature?”

“I believe,” came the slow answer, “that he works for Renold in some fashion.”

Confusion followed rapidly by chagrin crossed Deborah’s face. “Mon Dieu, don’t tell Renold I pointed the man out to you.”

There was only one reason it could matter. “You think he sent him to watch us?”

The color in the other woman’s face deepened. “Something like that.”

What Renold’s sister apparently thought was that Renold had sent the man to watch his wife. Was it possible?

“Please don’t look like that,” Deborah said in a rush. “I’m sure Renold is only concerned for you. You are very important to him.”

Angelica gave her a fleeting glance before moving on again. “He told you so, I suppose.”

“If you are wondering if we discussed you behind your back, the answer is no. On the other hand, some things are obvious if you know how to look for them.”

“Which you do?”

“An acquired habit. Renold, you will have noticed, says a great many things but doesn’t give much of himself away.”

That was too true to be denied. Angelica thought, however, that it was merely an introduction to something more Renold’s sister wanted to say. Slipping past an elderly black woman with a tray of pecan confections on her lap, she gave Deborah a frown by way of discouragement.

Undaunted, Deborah said, “Renold has been solitary for so long that I despaired of his ever taking a wife. He keeps so much to himself that I felt — as did our mother — that he could never break free to love. You have no idea how intriguing it is to see him with you now. It’s as if years have fallen away, as if he never left home, never embarked on his quest for power and riches.”

“You mean he didn’t have those things from his stepfather?” Angelica asked.

“As if he would have taken them!” Deborah said with a quick shake of her head. “No. What he has, he earned himself, by methods conventional and unconventional, by buying and selling and taking chances.”

“On cotton bales and ships, sugar and land and cattle,” Angelica said, stirred by a memory.

“And warehouses and investment in the construction of railroads, not to mention a considerable interest in at least one house of chance.”

“Gambling,” Angelica said in laconic tones.

“You don’t approve? There is nothing illegal in it, and men will seek risk somewhere, whether it’s with their lives or their money, in a gaming house or out of it.”

“My father was a gamester,” she said. “It — took him from me.”

“Mine also,” Deborah said with a thick sound in her voice.

They had wound their way back to the vegetable stands where the aisles were wider and quieter and they could again walk side by side. Passing the new green peas, Angelica said in stifled tones, “Why do they risk so much? What can it give them that they can’t find elsewhere?”

“For many, I think, the feeling of being alive and of winning against the odds. For others, those who cannot afford to lose, it gives them the hope of something, anything, better.”

“You’ve thought about it.”

“I never said I approved of all Renold’s methods of gaining wealth. Anyway, he sold the gaming house just recently, you know.”

“So I was told.”

“I think he had never considered how destructive gambling can be, having few such weaknesses himself. The moment he realized it, he acted. But that is his way, to make amends for his mistakes without counting the cost.”

Angelica gave the other girl a close look, her attention snared by some shade of meaning in her tone. She was given no time to question her, however, for Deborah turned abruptly away to wave to Tit Jean, who was coming toward them.

“Ah, mamzelles, here you are,” the manservant exclaimed, looming up beside them with a full basket in each hand. “I thought you had lost yourselves.”

Deborah and Angelica exchanged a humorous glance. As they turned to accompany the manservant homeward, it occurred to Angelica that Tit Jean made a formidable guard. Why on earth, then, should Renold require another to keep an eye on her?

There was, of course, no answer.

The carriage that came hurtling in their direction when they were halfway home was handled with verve and dash and a reckless lack of control. An expensive equipage, it was pulled by a pair of glossy blacks and had a shining ebony body perched high on slender wheels. The interior was of burgundy leather with silver appointments. The driving costume of the woman on the seat matched to perfection, as did the tailored suit of the boy who sat at her side and the livery of the frightened groom who stood up behind her.

The carriage splashed muddy water from a pothole as it pulled up beside the banquette. Watching Angelica and Deborah brush the droplets from their skirts, Madame Petain gave them a cool smile, “My apologies, ladies,” she called down without noticeable remorse. “Deborah, how nice to see you; I heard you were in town. I left my card just now, as I was told you weren’t at home. This is much better.”

Renold’s sister made a polite answer as she surveyed the woman above her. She added, “How daring of you to drive yourself, Clotilde. Are you setting a fashion?”

“You know, I believe I am. It’s quite the thing in Paris. Soon all the ladies will be tooling their carriages as women did thirty years ago. Besides, it gives one a certain independence of movement.” She turned toward Angelica. “Perhaps, Madame Harden, you may be able to persuade Renold to indulge you.”

Angelica had been somewhat interested until she heard the suggestion. Suddenly, she conceived a preference for being driven. “Oh, I don’t think I shall bother. I wouldn’t want Renold to worry.”

“How considerate of you,” the other woman said sweetly. “Perhaps as you have his interests so much at heart, you will give him a message?”

“Yes, of course.” Manners required no less.

“Tell him, please, that Bernard is well and sturdy, and grows more like his father every day.”

“Bernard?” Angelica looked instinctively at the boy next to Clotilde. He was a handsome youth of perhaps ten years, slender and well made, with dark, curling hair and wide-spaced eyes of soft, indeterminate green.

Clotilde reached out to smooth the boy’s hair. As he flinched away from the gesture, scowling down at his hands on his knees, her lips tightened in irritation. Still, there was cool pleasure in the glance she gave Angelica as she said, “Bernard, yes. My son.”