Trying to look contrite, Nicole dipped her chin in his direction. “I apologize for ruining your fun, John. I can only imagine what I missed by rushing out on my own. How grand was this flourish supposed to be?”
The coachman strode forward as if to move past her into the house without reply, then stopped when he reached her side. “I believe there were to be rose petals flung upon the ground, a trumpet anthem, and dancing horses, miss.” His impassive voice recited the fanciful list as if he were ordering groceries at the mercantile.
Nicole choked on a giggle. “Dancing horses?”
The man’s bored expression never wavered. “Been training the beasts for weeks. And all for naught.” He gave a sad shake of his head and continued into the house.
Nicole met her mother’s disbelieving glance, and the two immediately dissolved into laughter.
Her mother wiped at the moisture leaking from her eyes and smiled. “Oh, it feels good to laugh. There’s been too little reason for merriment of late.”
Nicole sobered. “How is Father? Has there been any improvement since your last letter?”
Her mother wrapped an arm around her shoulders and ushered her inside. “The doctors are offering little hope for recovery. They’ve discovered a . . . growth . . . in his abdomen.”
Nicole gripped her mother’s hand when she would have turned away to close the door. “What does that mean?”
“It’s hard to know. He isn’t in a lot of pain yet—thank the Lord—but he barely eats, has no energy, and is just . . . wasting away.”
She sighed. And for the first time Nicole noticed the lines of fatigue marring her mother’s usually flawless skin. “The doctor is loathe to operate. Says it would be too dangerous. But if the tumor continues to grow, there’s a chance your father’s condition will worsen and eventually end his life.”
Nicole tightened her grip on her mother’s hand. “But there’s also a chance it won’t grow. Right?”
Her mother cupped Nicole’s cheek in her hand, a sad smile curving her lips. “Yes, there is a chance, ma petite. We will continue to pray and hope that God will give us the answer we desire. But we must also prepare to say good-bye. For your father’s sake as well as our own. Your papa, he’s just stubborn enough to refuse to die if he thinks his girls will not be all right without him. And I won’t have him suffering pain needlessly.”
A fierce light sparked in her eyes. Her maman could be just as stubborn as her father. “We will love him, we will nurse him, and we will give him peace so that he may leave when the Lord calls him home. Are we agreed?”
The challenge resonated in Nicole’s breast. The child in her wanted to cling to her papa, to hold him fast and never let him go. Yet her woman’s heart recognized the wisdom in her mother’s words, the love that drove the sacrifice of letting go.
“Agreed.”
Her mother squeezed her hand, smiled, and turned back to close the door.
“Pauline?” A deep voice rasped from behind them. “Thought I heard the carriage. Is our Nicki home?”
Nicole spun around, eager to greet her father, but as her beloved papa shuffled into the hall, a cry lodged in her throat. The man who had always been larger than life in her eyes emerged from the parlor a man so thin his clothes hung from his frame as if his shoulders were nothing more substantial than a pair of hooks in a wardrobe.
Determined to hide her distress, she pasted on a bright grin and strode forward. “I’m home, Papa. I’m home.” Embracing him with a gentleness that broke her heart for its necessity, she kissed his cheek and then stepped back.
“Missed you, my girl. The place isn’t the same without you.” He patted the wall as he spoke, then left his hand braced there. Nicole didn’t miss the way his body sagged as he let the house take on a portion of his weight. What little there was of it. “Your mother told me you took another first in mathematics last term.”
His eyes sparkled, and Nicole relaxed. He was still there, inside that emaciated body. Her papa was still the same proud, stubborn, loving man she’d always adored.
“My mathematics instructor, Miss Brownstead, even managed to acquire a copy of the examination they administered at Harvard last year and let me take it after hours. She said my score would have placed me in the top quarter of the first-year gentlemen.”
“Ha!” her father boomed, a hint of what she’d always thought of as his captain’s voice returning. “That’s my girl. Always knew you had it in you. The crewmen down at the docks still talk about how they could throw cargo numbers at you from the manifest and your totals would match the accounting every time.”
Nicole chuckled over the memory of the game she and the men had played when her father took her down to his office with him. “Except for that time when I came up with a different tonnage, and the men insisted Mr. Bailey check his figures.”
Papa nodded, his rich laugh filling the hall. “I remember. Gerald was in such a state. He insisted his numbers were correct and refused to recalculate, so I took the books from him and did it myself. When my answer matched yours, he was livid—until he checked the work himself and found his error. The men badgered him for weeks after that. Wouldn’t let him hear the end of it.” He shook his head. “He’s double-checked his numbers every shipment since, though, and we’ve never had another discrepancy.”
“You know I’ll always do whatever I can to help Renard Shipping, Papa.” Nicole smiled as she delivered the lighthearted statement, but the truth of it ran deep. Renard Shipping was in her blood. Now that her father was ailing, it was up to her to keep things running, and she aimed to do just that.
“Let’s get you back to your chair, Anton,” her mother said, coming forward to take his arm. “Nicole has had a long journey. I’m sure she would like time to rest a bit and change before dinner. Wouldn’t you, dear?”
A denial rose to Nicole’s lips. She wanted to stay with her father. To visit and reconnect after months away. But when she met her mother’s gaze, she bit back the words. Papa was the one who needed the rest. He tried to hide it, yet on closer inspection, Nicole realized her mother supported much of his weight as he stepped away from the wall.
“Yes.” Nicole let her shoulders slump a little. “I am weary. A short rest before dinner would be just the thing. Then I can tell you all about the coastal steamer I rode down from Boston. It had one of those new iron screw propeller systems, Papa.”
His eyes lit with interest, and his posture straightened. “The screw propeller, huh? Did it have a paddle wheel, too, or—”
“At dinner, Anton,” his wife scolded gently. “She’ll tell you all about it at dinner.” She pressed him into motion back toward the parlor. “Let the girl catch her breath. They’ll be plenty of time to quiz her later.”
And, of course, her mother was right. In fact, once she was closeted alone in her room, Nicole found that she truly was weary. The constant worry of the past weeks followed by the sad evidence of her father’s deteriorated condition had left her exhausted.
She put on a bright face again for dinner and eagerly regaled her papa with what knowledge she’d managed to glean from Captain Sanders during her time aboard the Starlight. When Cook brought out dessert, however, Nicole failed to contain the yawn that stretched her jaw downward into a thoroughly unladylike position.
“Darling, go on up to bed.” Her mother’s smile said so much more than her words. I love you. Take care of yourself. Don’t worry about what you can’t control. All of those sentiments communicated silently through the tender curve of lips and the radiating warmth of a pair of brown eyes.
Nicole returned the smile, hoping her maman would recognize her own messages in return. I love you, too. I’m here to help. Thank you for taking care of all of us. Then she rose from the table, kissed her mother’s cheek, and turned to face her father.
“Good night, Papa.” His skin felt paper-thin beneath her lips as she softly bussed his cheek.
“Good night, scamp. It’s good to have you hom
e.”
Nicole made her way upstairs and readied for bed, her yawns coming with increased frequency. When she finally stretched out upon her bed, sleep claimed her quickly.
Sometime later, a muffled crash belowstairs woke her. Disoriented at first, it took a moment to recognize her room as the one at home instead of her accommodations at the academy. Sitting up, she probed the silence for clues.
Another sound echoed from downstairs. A thud. Papa! Had he fallen?
Throwing back the blankets, Nicole rolled to her feet and grabbed her dressing gown from the end of her bed. Pushing her arms through the sleeves, she crossed the floor in urgent strides. She opened the door and sped down the hall to the stairway, her bare feet silent upon the floorboards.
Reverberations of angry voices stopped her descent. Male voices. Voices she didn’t recognize.
Someone had broken into her house.
Chapter 2
Nicole gnawed on her lip as she pressed her back against the wall that sheltered the staircase from view. She had to find a way to get to her parents. They’d started sleeping in the room off the parlor when the stairs became too taxing for Papa, so they were directly in the path of the intruders.
John slept at the coach house. Unless the thieves had made a noise during their approach that awakened him, he’d still be sleeping soundly. Best not to expect any help from that quarter. Margie, the cook, was the only other servant who lived on the premises, and while she was handy with a knife when it came to butchering meat, live quarry was a bit beyond her experience. Besides, the woman’s sense of self-preservation was far too strong to put her anywhere other than behind a solidly locked door. They’d not see her until the trouble passed.
That left Nicole.
The knife and garter sheath her father had given her for her fifteenth birthday lay at the bottom of her trunk. Going back for it would waste precious time. Better to assess the situation first, then decide whether or not to retrieve it.
Nicole eased down the stairs, holding her breath when the wall shielding her gave way to open space, exposing her feet and the white of her sleeping gown. No shouts of discovery sounded, so she continued downward, praying the boards wouldn’t creak beneath her weight.
“Where is it, old man?” one of the intruders demanded. “Tell me, or I’ll start snapping the bones in your fingers and work my way up your arm.”
“Go ahead. I ain’t good for much these days anyhow.”
Papa! Stubborn, defiant man. He’d never give in to their threats. His body might be weak, but his will was as strong as ever. That’s what scared her.
“Oh yeah?” a second voice sneered. “What if we break your lovely wife’s fingers instead? Still want to play the hero? It’d be a shame if she couldn’t play the spinet for you anymore, don’t you think?”
“No!” Her father’s shout echoed Nicole’s mental cry. “Lay a hand on my wife, and I’ll kill you. I swear it.”
“Big words from a man who can barely stand. Now, where’s the dagger?”
The dagger? No. The situation was worse than she’d thought. Her father might swallow his pride enough to hand over money or other valuables to spare her mother, but the Lafitte Dagger? It was the Renard family legacy. He’d die before giving it up. She had to do something.
Glancing both ways down the hall to be sure a third man wasn’t lying in wait somewhere, Nicole left the stairs and padded toward her parents. Flattening herself against the wall, she darted a quick glance inside the room before yanking her head back out of view.
One of the men had a gun on her father in the back left corner. The other man stood near her mother. A lamp had fallen from the bedside table and the curtains were half pulled down, as if her father had put up a struggle. Unfortunately, in his weakened condition, he’d been no match for the much younger men.
Nicole gritted her teeth. A year ago, no one would have dared accost Anton Renard in his own home. Even six months ago her father would have bested them. The thieves had waited for his illness to do their work for them. Cowards.
Nicole scanned the hall for anything she could use as a weapon. She reached for a decorative porcelain vase perched on the small Chippendale pedestal table between her parents’ bedroom and the parlor. Seizing it against her chest, she drew in several fortifying breaths before inching back to the doorway.
“So, Renard,” the man taunted, “what’s it gonna be? The dagger or your wife’s hand?”
“Let her go!” Papa demanded at the same time her mother’s soft grunting announced her struggle to free herself.
Visions of her maman’s elegant fingers mangled and crooked spurred Nicole into action. Lifting the heavy vase above her head, she ran into the room and slammed it down on her mother’s captor’s skull.
Porcelain shattered. The man groaned, then crumpled to the floor. His companion shouted.
“He has a pistol in the waistband of his trousers.” Her mother pointed as she scrambled from beneath the fallen man.
Nicole dropped to her knees and grabbed the weapon just as the second man lunged forward, his gun targeting Nicole.
“You killed him!”
Nicole extended her arm, pointing her newly acquired pistol directly at Will Jenkins’s chest. His brother, Fletcher, must be the man on the floor. Which was a good thing. He’d always been the meaner of the two. The smarter one, as well. If she had to pick a Jenkins to face, she’d choose Will every time. “He’s still breathing,” she snapped. All those days of playing pirate with Tommy Ackerman were finally paying off. She’d managed to inject just the right amount of disdain into that statement, and her hand wasn’t even shaking. “Now, collect your brother and leave our house.”
His gaze moved from her face to the gun, then back to her face, an annoyingly smug expression creeping across his features. “I don’t think so. You ain’t got the first notion how to shoot that thing. Can’t even find the trigger, can you.” He took a menacing step toward her.
Nicole raised her left brow. “You mean this trigger?” She cocked the hammer of the Colt Paterson revolver and released the folding trigger mechanism. Will stopped. “You forget, Will Jenkins—I’m a Renard. Daughter of Anton Renard and granddaughter to Henri Renard, privateer and compatriot of Jean Lafitte himself. I know a thing or two about weapons.”
Will swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as his attention locked on the gun once again. His own pistol wavered.
Nicole stepped closer to her mother, clearing a path for Will to get to Fletcher and the door without having to go through her. Now if he’d just take the hint. . . .
Fletcher moaned. Will glanced down at his brother. At the same time Nicole’s father, all but forgotten in the background, slid his hand around a cane that stood propped against the back wall and leapt forward. He brought the cane down on Will’s arm.
Will cried out. His pistol clattered to the floor. Papa kicked it under the bed.
“My daughter told you to leave. I suggest you do so. Now!” He roared the last. Will jumped to obey.
Latching on to his brother’s wrist, Will drew Fletcher’s arm over his shoulders while shoring him up on the other side with an arm about the waist. The still-reeling Fletcher offered little in the way of assistance. Nevertheless, Will managed to get him up and out the front door. Nicole followed them, the Colt aimed at their backs until they mounted and rode away.
Lowering the weapon, Nicole rubbed her upper arm, suddenly aware of the vicious ache in her muscles. It was amazing how heavy such a small revolver became when one found it necessary to hold it aloft for several minutes at a time. Being in Boston for most of the last two years hadn’t done her any favors in that regard. Not much opportunity for target practice in a fancy girls’ school. She’d gone soft.
But not so soft that she couldn’t run off Will and Fletcher Jenkins. Nicole’s mouth curved in a self-satisfied grin as she strolled back into the house and latched the door. All in all, not a bad night’s work.
; Nicole paused to arrange her dressing gown in a less haphazard manner and to properly tie her sash before reentering her parents’ room.
“Do you think they’ll be back?” Her mother’s voice drifted out to the hall.
“Of course they’ll be back. Now that they’ve seen for themselves how pitifully weak this cursed illness has left me, they’ll not stop until they have the dagger.”
“But Nicole is here now, surely they wouldn’t—”
“Nicole caught them by surprise. It was sheer luck that saved us this night. No matter how well-versed in weaponry she is, no slip of a girl will keep Carson Jenkins at bay. He has two strapping boys who’ve just proven they’ll do anything to help him secure their family’s future. What do I have? A daughter.”
The disdain-filled word crashed through Nicole’s chest and bludgeoned her heart like a carelessly flung carpenter’s mallet.
“Anton! That’s not fair.”
A heavy sigh echoed through the bedroom. “You’re right. Forgive me. I just wish . . . Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
But it does matter, Nicole thought. It always had. All her life she’d striven to please her father. To earn his praise, his respect. Yet the one thing he wanted above all else, she couldn’t be—a son.
“Nicole is the joy of my life—you know that,” her father said. “She’s twice as clever as either of Carson Jenkins’s boys and has more courage in that tiny body of hers than any man I’ve ever known. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s female. She poses no serious threat to Jenkins or his plans. If anything, her being here simply gives Jenkins one more weapon to use against me.”
“Then perhaps I should return to Boston.” Nicole stepped through the doorway and tossed the Colt onto the end of the bed, a few inches to the right of where her father sat.
“Nicki!” The color his anger had stirred in his cheeks drained away the instant his gaze met hers.
She gained no satisfaction from his distress. Despite everything, she loved her Papa and knew he loved her, too. He might have always wished he’d had a son, but he’d never once made her believe he regretted having her as a daughter.
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