by Nan Ryan
When finally she lowered his hand to the mattress, Madeleine drew the sheet back up over him and said, “Armand, you cannot leave me. I won’t let you. I love you, darling. I love you and I’ll never let you go.”
Long minutes passed with her continuing to gaze down at him, telling him she loved him. Dry-eyed now, she was leaning over Armand’s battered face when Dr. Ledette knocked on the door and came inside.
The doctor said, “Why don’t you let Montro take you home now, Lady Madeleine. There’s nothing you can do here and—”
“I am not leaving,” she said softly, but firmly, “until he wakes up.”
“But, child, that could be hours or even days.”
“I am staying with Armand.”
When Madeline had been at Armand’s bedside for twenty-four hours straight, Avalina, worried about her, begged her to come home and rest. But Madeleine refused to budge. She asked Avalina to bring fresh clothes to the hospital; she wasn’t leaving Armand.
Montro stayed as well.
He patiently stood guard outside Armand’s door and it wasn’t solely to protect Madeleine. He didn’t know who had beaten Armand, but he could tell from the seriousness of Armand’s injuries that whoever it was had meant to kill him. It was entirely possible that his attackers might come here and try to finish the job.
Avalina came and went several times each day, worried about all of them.
The warm days and warmer nights dragged slowly by with no change in Armand’s condition. Madeleine never gave up hope. She stayed at his bedside talking to him as if he could hear her. Repeatedly, she said she was sorry she had waited to tell him that she loved him. She’d been such a coward and she regretted it. She’d been afraid to admit how much she loved him, afraid she might get hurt and now she realized how selfish she had been.
“I do love you, Armand, more than you’ll ever know,” she said over and over to the unresponsive man. “I love you, my darling, I’ll love you forever.”
On the third endlessly long night, Madeleine, wide-awake, was alone at Armand’s bedside when the bell in the cathedral tolled the hour of 4:00 a.m. She was, as usual, sitting on his bed, facing him, watching him for any signs of movement or wakefulness. She had been sitting there for hours.
Exhausted, her back breaking, she finally laid her weary head on his chest, taking great care not to hurt him. Her cheek resting on the white bandages encircling his ribs, she whispered, “I will not let you go away, my love. Do you hear me? I love you and I won’t let you go.”
As she spoke, Armand’s dark eyelashes began to flutter as he valiantly tried to rouse himself from the depths of encompassing blackness. Faintly he could hear Madeleine’s voice saying the words he had longed to hear. I love you. He struggled to open his eyes; when finally he managed to, he saw her flaming hair spread out on his chest. It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen and tears quickly sprang to his still-swollen eyes.
He tried to speak, to say her name, but he couldn’t make a sound. He attempted to slide his hand across the sheet and reach for her, but even that effort was beyond him. He felt his hand drop back to the mattress, the weight of it too much to lift.
Through the concealing thickness of her tear-wet lashes, Madeleine glimpsed the shadowy movement of his dark hand falling. She reached out and clasped that hand. A low whimpering sound escaped her lips and she drew his limp hand up onto his chest.
She laid her cheek against it and said, “I love you, Armand. Can you hear me?” And, as if in response, she felt a slight movement in his hand. Her aching heart began to pound. She quickly raised her head and looked at him. His eyes were open and he was looking at her. “Oh, my precious love,” she cried, triumphant, “You’re awake. You’ve come back to me.” She saw the muscles in his throat slowly work as he tried to speak, to say her name. Her fresh tears falling on his face, she pressed a tender kiss to his battered lips, and said, “Shh, don’t try to speak. Just rest, my love.”
As his face became covered with her kisses and her tears, Armand’s swollen lips stretched painfully into a semblance of a smile and he croaked, “Chérie, have I died and gone to heaven or are you really here?”
“I’m here, Armand,” she assured him, laughing and crying at once.
Lord Enfield was finally beginning to relax and stop his constant worrying.
When the Smallwoods had told him that they hadn’t been able to finish de Chevalier off because some unexpected bystanders had interrupted, Desmond had been disappointed and furious.
“Damn you both to hell!” he had shouted angrily. “You’re telling me you left the interfering bastard alive?”
“He was still breathing,” said Burton, “but he won’t live through the night.”
“He better not!”
The next morning Lord Enfield had read the New Orleans Bee with special eagerness and interest. The story he sought was on the first page. Armand de Chevalier, native son and owner of The Beaufort Club, the text said, had been badly beaten in an alley by unknown assailants. De Chevalier had been found by a passing couple who heard his moans of agony. The young pair had taken him to New Orleans General where his condition was listed as critical.
“God in heaven! The son of a bitch is still alive this morning!” Desmond raged. “Dammit! Can’t the dull-witted Smallwoods do anything right!”
Through his contacts, Desmond kept close check on Armand. Several times each day he got reports. They were always the same. No change. Still unconscious.
Now, after three full days with no change in de Chevalier’s condition, Desmond felt there was little need to fret. With any luck, the Creole would never regain consciousness. And, even if he did, he couldn’t cause much trouble.
Desmond had heard that even with de Chevalier’s legal advice and assistance, Madeleine had been unable to find a copy of Sumner’s will. She wasn’t going to find one. It was, admittedly, puzzling that the will was missing. He couldn’t imagine who could have taken it, or why. But apparently whoever it was had no intention of producing it, bless them.
The June 1 deadline was drawing close. Only a couple more weeks. With de Chevalier near death and Madeleine constantly at his bedside, there would be no more frantic searching.
Desmond smiled with satisfaction. Life was sweet indeed. Soon he, the Earl of Enfield, would have total control over a fortune so vast he could pay off all his many debts at once. He could buy imposing mansions in New York and Paris and London. He could travel the globe in total luxury aboard his own private rail car and well-manned sea-going yacht. He could buy Dominique diamonds and furs and expensive gowns and move her out of that hovel where he’d kept her all these years.
Best of all, he, who despised labor of any kind, would never have to turn his hand for as long as he lived.
Thirty-Nine
Only six days after being brought into New Orleans General near death, Armand de Chevalier walked out of the hospital. Supported on one side by Big Montro and Madeleine on the other, the weak, pale Armand smiled sunnily as he thanked the frowning Dr. Ledette.
“Son, I really wish you’d stay in the hospital a few more days,” said the concerned doctor. “You’re far from being well.”
“I’ll take it easy, Doc,” promised Armand.
Dr. Ledette shook his graying head. “See that you do.”
Outside the strong May sunlight made Armand wince and blink, but Montro quickly got him into the carriage where the side curtains had been tightly drawn. Madeleine climbed in and wrapped protective arms around him. Montro closed the door, hopped up on the driver’s seat, and drove them straight to Armand’s Pontalba apartment.
They had discussed their destination before Armand was released from the hospital. Madeleine and Avalina had wanted him to recuperate at the Royal Street town house, but Armand and Montro warned that the entire city would know and tongues would most certainly wag. Madeleine finally agreed he could go to his own apartment, but said there would still be talk because she was going to spen
d all her time there with him.
As good as her word, she was at Armand’s apartment constantly.
Except at night.
At bedtime each evening, for propriety’s sake, she reluctantly left him and went home to sleep. But she was up early come the morning and back at his bedside.
Montro, unable to be in two places at once and worried that Armand might still be in danger, enlisted the help of The Beaufort Club’s muscular bouncer. The bouncer, glad to be of service to the likeable man he called boss, stood guard throughout each long May night at Armand’s apartment.
Dr. Ledette came by to check on his patient every morning without fail. On a couple of occasions, his daughter, Melissa, had joined him. Melissa had hugged Madeleine and whispered, “If I can’t have Armand myself, then I’m glad you’re the one who has him.”
Avalina was there often, as well. She fussed over Armand almost as much as Madeleine. She came each day at noon, carrying a carefully cooked meal for the patient. At sunset she was back again, bringing a nutritious dinner.
Wise enough to know the lovers wanted to be alone, Montro never intruded, never came up to the apartment unless Madeleine summoned him. But he discreetly kept constant watch over the pair from his post across the street in Jackson Square.
The hours Madeleine and Armand spent together while he was recuperating were a golden interlude for them both. The long, warm afternoons belonged solely to them. Between the hours of one and six, they could count on total privacy and it was wonderful.
In cozy seclusion, they relished a relaxed sweet peace together. Madeleine was so happy that Armand had lived through his terrible ordeal, she put aside any lingering despair over her lost inheritance. She had the only thing that really mattered right there in her arms.
During those lazy afternoons the two lovers got to know each other. At his insistence, Madeleine gladly told Armand about her early life in England when she was a happy little girl. She told him that despite being an only child, she had never been lonely because she had the two most loving parents in the world. She had lost them both in the past few years and she still missed them terribly.
Twisting a long strand of russet hair around her finger, she spoke candidly of her marriage to a handsome commoner, an unwise union that had caused her nothing but grief and embarrassment. When she got around to talking about Lord Enfield, she admitted that she had never been in love with him. She had agreed to marry him because she had mistakenly admired him and believed him to be a good, kind man who would never treat her badly, as her first husband had.
“I was horrified,” she said thoughtfully, “when his mask of decency fell away and I saw, for the first time, that he was unappealing, unprincipled, unscrupulous. He cared nothing for me, he only wanted Uncle Colfax’s money. I will always believe that he is responsible for my uncle’s death. It makes my blood run cold to think that I almost married him.” She shivered.
Armand reached for her, drew her into his close embrace. “But you didn’t and now you’re safe here in my arms.”
“Yes,” she sighed, snuggling closer. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? The first time I saw you, I thought you were the one who’d be nothing but trouble.”
Armand laughed good-naturedly. “I know. You were scared to death of me.”
“I was not!” she defended herself. “I’m scared of nothing and no one.”
Armand knew better. He kissed her and said softly, “Please don’t be afraid to love me, sweetheart.”
She looked into beautiful, expressive eyes and answered, “I’m not. I’ve given you my heart, Armand. I trust you with it.”
“You’ll never regret it, chérie.”
“I know I won’t,” she said, confident of his love. She sighed with satisfaction, then continued, “I’ve done all the talking. What about your family? I’ve never heard you speak of them.”
Armand smiled and said, “My father was a brilliant outgoing man who was a respected district judge and my mother was a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty who loved parties and people. They adored each other, and they adored me, as well. Like you, I was an only child and, as you may have guessed, badly spoiled.” A wistful expression came into his dark eyes and he continued, “When I was seventeen, I lost them both in the yellow fever epidemic of ’43. They died within hours of each other. I don’t know why I didn’t contract the fever. I took care of them both, but never fell ill.”
“I’m so sorry, Armand,” she murmured.
“I wasn’t the only one who lost loved ones that summer,” he said. Then, quickly changing the subject, he told her, “I grew up fast, Maddie, and I was wild and willful. I have a multitude of faults and a somewhat shady reputation that is probably all too well-earned. I can’t deny that there’s been too many women in and out my life, but I swear to you that I never loved a one of them.” Her perfectly arched eyebrows raised skeptically at the statement. “I mean it. I’ve never been in love until I met you. I loved you from the first time I held you in my arms. I love you and I don’t want anyone else.” He paused for a second, and added, “I know I don’t deserve you and I’m sure you’re disgraced by the fact that I own a gaming palace. I’ll sell it, Maddie. I’ll get rid of it right away. I have plenty of other properties, including a plantation upriver. If you like, once we’re married we can move up there and—”
Madeleine put a finger to his lips to silence him. She said, “No, darling. I want to live right here in the heart of this romantic city with you and I have absolutely no objection to you owning The Beaufort.”
“You don’t?” he said and she saw the relief flood his features.
Laughing she said, “Of course not. I love you just as you are. You don’t have to change a thing for me.” She tilted her head to the side, and added, “Well, almost nothing. Let it be understood, here and now and forever more, that I will be the only woman in your life.”
“That I guarantee.”
Alone in the spacious apartment, the much-in-love pair spent hours lying in bed together, talking, dreaming, resting, napping. Armand, under Madeleine’s unflagging care, was improving remarkably quickly. His face was once again beginning to resemble the man she loved. He was now able to open his blackened, swollen eye a little and his split, swollen lips had healed enough for an occasional kiss if not too much pressure was applied. He was gaining strength daily and he credited Madeleine with his amazing progress.
Madeleine blossomed under his praise and felt very proud of herself. All her life others had waited on her. Now she was waiting on Armand and she was enjoying every minute of it.
So was he.
For Armand it was heaven to have Madeleine’s soft, small hands rub his aching back, his arms, his legs. It was pleasurable to have those same soft hands bathe his bruised flesh with gentle loving care and place fresh bandages where they were needed. It was self-indulgent fun to have her feed him as if he were a helpless infant. It was sweet agony to have her—in the sultry May afternoons—climb into bed with him, lower the mosquito baire around them, and lie close beside him, so close he could feel every beat of her heart.
It was all he’d ever dreamed of to hear her whisper in the tranquil stillness, “I love you, Armand. I love you and as soon as you’re well, I’ll show you how much.”
“Show me now,” he would coax, knowing it would be unwise for them to make love.
“No.” She was always adamant. “The doctor warned that you are not supposed to exert yourself.”
“I won’t,” he teased. “You can do all the exerting.”
“Soon, love, soon.”
“You’re a cruel woman, Countess.”
“Yes, but I’m your cruel woman, so you wouldn’t mind a little torment, would you?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“The tresses torture,” she said with a wicked smile, then got up on her hands and knees, flipped her long red-gold hair over her head, lowered her face close to his chest, and slowly, tantalizingly dragged her heavy, ticklish hair do
wn his responsive body.
He loved it and she knew it. The first time she’d done it had been at his request.
But she always stopped when he said hoarsely, “No, baby, I can’t stand it. If you want me to get well, you’d better get away from me.”
Only twenty-four hours remained until the deadline.
Lord Enfield, ensconced in Dominique’s Rampart Street cottage, was rubbing his hands together with glee. Victory was within his reach.
And he deserved it.
For three long, torturous months he had been holding his breath, terrified that the damning will would turn up and shatter all his dreams. But it hadn’t. And it wouldn’t.
This time tomorrow everything Colfax Sumner owned would be his to manage and dispose of at will—all the vast properties, the many houses, the securities, the gold—and he would be one of the richest men in America.
Happy as he’d never been in his life, he impulsively clapped his hands together in loud applause and gave a great shout of laughter.
Dominique turned from where she was seated at the vanity brushing her long dark hair.
“What is it?” she asked, her brows knitted.
“What is it?” he repeated, tears of laughter spilling down his cheeks as he lay on her bed kicking his feet in the air and pounding the mattress with his open hands. “What is it? I’ll tell you what it is, my pet. I, Desmond Chilton, fourth Earl of Enfield, am rich, rich, rich! I have more money than I could possibly spend in ten hedonistic lifetimes.” Punctuating the sentence with a sharp howl of laughter, he added, “But I shall certainly try! Ah, yes, for the rest of my life I can have everything I’ve ever dreamed of. I can go anywhere I please, do anything I please. I can buy anything—or anyone—I desire. I can…” He continued to laugh maniacally and to rant and rave about all the things he could do once he’d claimed his fortune tomorrow.
Staring at him, Dominique began to frown, suddenly displeased. His overly buoyant behavior was beginning to make her more than a trifle nervous. He was acting like a madman, making wild statements.