Miles rang a bell, and another man walked toward them, meeting the butler halfway between the entrance and another set of black doors. After listening intently to the butler’s instructions, the man nodded and slipped through one of the doors. The sound of a gavel on wood crackled along with the dull roar of a crowd. What if the auctioneer had just sold the asson?
“Please, come this way,” Miles said, leading them to a sitting room off the main entrance. “I’ll inform you if Mr. Allemand is agreeable—”
Hatchet slammed his elbow into the back of the butler’s head, catching the man as his body slumped into a heap. They didn’t have time for formalities!
“What are you doing?” Hope cried.
He secured his hold under the man’s armpits while Victor grabbed his ankles, and they made quick work of depositing the body into the waiting room, out of sight of the front entrance.
Hope gawked at the prone form lying on the floor. “You’re insane!”
“Yes, yes, but the auction has already started,” Hatchet said, tugging his waistcoat and jacket back into place. He held her chin, forcing her to look at him. “We don’t have time to argue over my morally corrupt methods, unless you no longer care what happens to your asson?”
“Of course I care!” She smacked his hand away.
“What did you say to the butler?” Hatchet asked.
“Simply to inform Omère I’m here and need to speak with him urgently.”
“Omère?” The name came out more an accusation than a question. So they were on a first-name basis. She hadn’t let that fact slip earlier, but distress had a way of loosening the tongue.
“I’m an excellent customer and visit often,” she snapped, swirling away and stalking through the lobby.
And is Omère welcome at Le Havre? It was unfair, but the mere idea of another man alone in Hope’s company, alone with her upstairs . . .
Where was she going? Hatchet charged after her with Victor close on his heels. They caught up just as she swung the door to the auction room wide. All heads turned in their direction before Hatchet could shield her from view, and the thunderous shouts of bidders died down. Men craned their necks, and urgent whispers funneled through the room.
“Welcome, Madame Leblonc,” said an elegantly dressed man approaching with rapid footsteps, his voice booming through the room.
“Allemand?” Hatchet whispered to Hope as the man drew closer.
She nodded, pasting a gracious smile on her face. “Do not interfere. Trust me, I have this under control.”
The owner of Le Grande Maison commanded the attention of everyone assembled, with his confident swagger and hand-crafted suit. He took Hope’s hands in his and kissed the tops of both.
“You look as ravishing as ever,” he said aloud, catching the gazes of several nearby men and waggling his eyebrows. He leaned in closer and scolded under his breath, “You should’ve waited in the lobby. Women are strictly forbidden, mon chérie! Would you have me thrown in jail? The chief of police is in attendance tonight and will have my head. There is one way out of this debacle. Play along, or there will be hell to pay.”
If Hatchet hadn’t been glued to Hope’s backside, he would’ve missed the entire exchange. She might slap him again for the intrusion, but he refused to let her wander more than a centimeter away from his protection. He couldn’t help her if he didn’t know the stakes.
She nodded, and Omère’s oily gaze dipped to her décolletage, his grin widening. Hatchet folded his arms and gripped his biceps, gritting his teeth. When had Hope unfastened the gauzy wrap she wore, holding it demurely over her forearms so her bare shoulders were on display?
Though he was itching to plant a facer on their host’s smug face, this was their future on the line. He wouldn’t jeopardize her chances of gaining an invitation to the auction.
“Omère, please,” she murmured, not releasing his hands. “My friends need to attend the auction tonight. It’s imperative. Something I hold dear . . . ”
A rumbling in the crowd drowned out the last of her words, and a lanky man pushed his way through. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Allemand? I cannot allow this evening’s activities to proceed. You know the rules,” the man hissed.
Omère tilted his head, his lips twisting into a slow grin. “Of course, Chief Gilmor. But you misunderstand the reason for this lovely woman’s presence.” He faced the room at large, spreading his arms. “Gentlemen, listen up. Tonight, we have a rare offering as the last item on the docket: one night in the arms of the eternally beautiful Madame Leblonc!”
The crowd erupted in cheers, and Hatchet lunged for the bastard with a growl ripping from his throat. But Victor blocked his path, pushing him back.
“Get ahold of yourself. This is her battle, not yours. You heard the lady. Don’t interfere.”
Hatchet threw off Victor’s hands and stepped back, heaving in a deep breath.
“Hope?”
Her face was ashen, but she swallowed hard and met his gaze. She leaned closer and whispered, “I’m all right. Omère will outbid everyone here. He won’t allow anyone else to have me.”
Hatchet grabbed her arms and squeezed. “I’ll outbid everyone here!”
“You can’t,” she said, her eyes bleak. “He runs an empire. Trust me, Hatchet. I know what he wants, and this is the easiest way to get what I want.”
Easy for whom? The fucking bastard was strong-arming her into his bed. She couldn’t want this! “Let him rot in jail. You don’t have to do this, Hope. Tell the police chief you aren’t an object to be auctioned to the highest bidder.”
“You are mistaken,” she said with cool disinterest. “Madame Leblonc of Le Havre, an exclusive brothel, is an object of desire. Whether I like it or not.”
Ignoring his pleas, she turned to Omère. “Before I agree, I want your assurance you won’t auction my asson. Instead, you’ll give it back to me at no cost.”
Omère’s brows lifted, as if in surprise. “I’m afraid that rare artifact was already sold in a private auction. If I had known the treasure belonged to you, I would’ve stopped the sale from occurring.”
Hope groaned and pulled her hands free. “Who bought it?” she demanded.
“My neck is on the line. Do we have a deal?” Omère asked. “If so, I’ll tell you afterward.”
Hatchet clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch the smug smile on the mongrel’s face without wanting to beat him to a pulp. And for what? This was Hope’s decision. God, he wanted her to walk away. Right this minute. He wanted her to take his hand and tell Omère to go to hell. She wouldn’t exchange her body for the knowledge of who held her family’s treasure.
Or had his thoughtless rejection—for one salacious night in a brothel—pushed her over an edge? Everyone within “good” society called her a whore—would she finally succumb and become one? His heart thundered; seconds ticked by.
Her eyes turned steely. “We have a deal.”
“Ensure she gets home safely,” Hatchet said to Victor before shoving through the exit, blocking out Hope’s plea for him to wait. He slammed through the door to the entrance and punched the brick wall of the building. “Dammit!”
A wave of pain throbbed in his fingers and up his arm, but it was nothing compared to the ache consuming his heart. His spiteful words had pushed her to this decision, and there was no way of going back, to undo the harm he’d inflicted.
Tension fizzled to the surface, his emotions a champagne bottle shaken and ready to explode.
Hope is mine!
Only she wasn’t. She might have belonged to him for one night. From dusk until dawn. Or, perhaps longer, until he sailed for England once more. But if she carried through with the auction tonight, if she embraced the life of a lady of the night, their journey was over. He could not bear to share her with other men now.
Perhaps it was better this way. Better to cut the ties before they were both in too deep. Before he fell . . .
Yes, it was
better this way. He would seek out another mambo or houngan to reverse his family’s curse.
Chapter Thirteen
Hundreds of men were crammed in the auditorium, crawling out of the woodwork, their bidding paddles flying in the air. Hope couldn’t keep pace with the auctioneer, nor did she recognize all of the men in the audience. So many men, so many paddles. Goodness, what if she was wrong about her value and Omère actually sold her to the highest bidder?
A bead of sweat trickled down the valley of her breasts, and she waved her fan harder, watching Omère’s cool countenance from the sidelines. He leaned his shoulder against the wall as he puffed on his cigar, occasionally raising paddle number one.
“Eight hundred dollars, do I hear eight hundred?” the auctioneer shouted.
Had these men lost their minds? That was a small fortune. She couldn’t breathe. Why had Hatchet abandoned her? His steely eyes and broad-shouldered stance would have calmed her nerves. No one would get past him if she screamed for help. He had wanted to bid on her. Oh, why hadn’t she let him?
“Nine hundred, who’ll give me nine hundred?”
Nine hundred dollars! One night in her arms was not worth that much. Although Hatchet thought so. He’d have paid any price she named, but he was infinitely glad she’d turned him down. Because her gift of giving herself freely was priceless. That’s what he’d said. She wanted to catch a glimpse of his shiny head, see him raise a paddle, be the highest bidder.
No, no, this wasn’t his problem. She couldn’t allow him to bankrupt himself over her issues. Besides, he was gone. Stormed out after she made her decision. Impatient man! He should’ve let her explain. Omère wanted her more than any other man in this room, and he could afford to outbid every single one of them. They had a deal, and she knew what he really wanted!
It wasn’t one night in her bed.
The auctioneer slammed the hammer and shouted, “Sold! One night in the arms of Madame Leblonc goes to number 5-8-1—I repeat, number 5-8-1—for one thousand dollars.”
Stars wavered in Hope’s vision. Omère held paddle number one. Her knees gave way, and she locked on the arm of the assistant who’d come to walk her off the stage. Who was the winning bidder?
“Take her to my private quarters,” Omère said, instructing his assistant at the bottom of the stairs. She glared daggers, but he only smiled, rubbing her cheek. “All will be well, mon chérie. Trust me.”
The assistant led her through a back exit, and they walked down several corridors until they came to a stairwell. One, two, three flights of stairs they climbed before entering Omère’s suite within the warehouse. The room was enormous, with high ceilings and windows that covered one entire wall, overlooking the French Quarter.
“Please, sit, Madame Leblonc,” the gentleman said, escorting her to one of the plush couches. “Allow me to fetch you a glass of wine while you wait.”
She sank onto a chair instead and clamped her trembling hands in her lap just as the door behind her swung open.
“Thank God Hatchet left!” Victor said, storming into the room. “Poor chap would’ve died of a heart attack had he witnessed that debacle.”
He fell on a nearby couch and tossed a bidding paddle on her lap. Number 5-8-1.
Tears misted in her eyes as she stared at the gift. “You’re the winning bidder?”
“Hell no,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I’m sending Hatchet the bill.”
She laughed, wiping away the tears of joy that streamed down her cheeks. It wouldn’t come to that. Omère would forgive the debt in exchange for something more valuable to him than money. Trust me. She would trust her old friend with her life.
He entered a moment later. “Feeling better, Hope?” Omère strode to her side and accepted two glasses of wine from his assistant, handing one to her. The assistant handed a third glass to Victor before retreating to another room.
Tilting his wineglass in her direction, Omère shook his head. “You thought I reneged on our deal. Shame on you.”
“You did renege,” Victor declared, coming to his feet. He shoved a piece of paper in Omère’s face. “My signature is on this promissory note. Why did you sic your henchman after me?”
“Wait,” Hope said. This conversation made no sense. “What deal are we discussing?”
Victor pocketed the promissory note and folded his arms. “Your friend directed me to drive up the bid. How else would I have come by a bidding paddle? But the plan was for him to win.”
“Come, you must forgive me,” Omère said, settling into an armchair. He crossed his legs and sighed. “A host does not take the best prize for himself. And your performance was brilliant. Mon Dieu! But the men were animals tonight. One night in the arms of Madame Leblonc fetched one thousand dollars.”
He sipped his wine and closed his eyes, no doubt lamenting his lost proceeds.
Hope rolled her eyes and held out her hand to Victor. “Give me the note. He doesn’t want your money. Your signature merely serves as insurance for the true negotiations that are about to begin.”
“What does he want?” Victor asked, relinquishing the debt.
She ripped the note in half and then in half once again. “Blackmail.”
Omère waved his copy of the promissory note with Victor’s signature between his fingers. “Finally, I will get my hands on the information you’ve withheld from me for far too long.”
“Sharing my clients’ dirty secrets with you will destroy my reputation,” Hope muttered, “and well you know it! It’s you who should be ashamed.”
He waved away her concern with one hand. “But that is the beauty of my plan. You are lying in the arms of bidder number 5-8-1 tonight. Everyone knows I’m number one, and I never bid by proxy. Had I won tonight, people might be inclined to believe you shared your secrets to escape my bed.”
An indelicate snort escaped her, and she shook her head. “No one would’ve had reason to suspect the auction wasn’t authentic.”
“Your other guest almost pummeled me when I announced you were on the docket,” he said, taking another sip of wine. “And a late attendee found Miles in the waiting room, with a bump on his head. Trust me, rumors would fly tomorrow had I placed the winning bid.”
“Still, it isn’t well done of you,” Hope said, holding out her hand for his copy of the note. “You’re practically family. My late husband would be appalled.”
Omère kept possession of the note. “Donato would’ve applauded my cunning.” His eyes darkened, and he leaned forward. “And we are not family, mon chérie. I am his sister-in-law’s brother. In a moment of weakness, you might have found yourself in my bed tonight.”
She was not fooled by the desire pooling in his eyes. “You never have a moment of weakness when it comes to business. That was the beauty in my plan. Business always comes before pleasure with you. Which is why we would never suit. Tell me how much information you want in exchange for the note.”
His jaw worked for a moment. “A copy of your entire book.”
“Absolutely not!” Hope shouted, coming to her feet. “I’ll pay off the note myself.”
Victor stood and flanked her side. “Would you care to leave now, Hope?”
“Everyone sit and relax.” Omère offered his copy of the promissory note. “You can’t blame me for trying. I’ll never have another opportunity like this one. Give me insurance against the chief of police, the prosecuting attorney, and the chief judge of the federal court.”
Victor whistled long. “That’s a tall order.”
“One she can easily fulfill.”
She tore the note into tiny pieces, letting them fall to the floor. He was a scoundrel for putting her in this position. Crooking her finger, she led him to a private corner of the room, whispering the details he sought. Best the facts never find themselves on paper in her handwriting. His lips curved in a maniacal grin.
“Now tell me who bought my family’s asson from Isaac Moore,” she said, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders
.
His eyes widened. “Pardon?”
“I know Isaac Moore stole the piece from Captain Corbin. Who did he sell it to in a private auction?”
Omère took her hand, and sadness clouded his eyes. “I’m afraid you are terribly mistaken. Captain Corbin sold the antique in a private auction to Isaac Moore more than a week ago.”
Damn and blast the captain for lying to her face last week when she boarded The Angelica! He claimed a pirate ship seized his cargo at sea, when in truth, the bastard sold her treasure in a private auction. Enough was enough! No more playing games, no more being nice.
Come morning, she would have her family’s treasure in her possession, even if she must threaten her landlord with blackmail. She knew shameful details about his past, particulars he wouldn’t want plastered across the cover of The New Orleans Times. What good was a book of damning facts if she never used it? Time for her to start thinking more like a man. Ruthless.
Chapter Fourteen
“Don’t even dream of turning me away, Stevens!” Hope glowered at the stodgy butler. She pushed past him into the foyer and untied her bonnet. “Tell Mr. Moore I’m here on urgent business.”
The infuriating man only lifted his brow.
“Go fetch him immediately, or I’ll search for him myself,” she threatened, removing her gloves.
Stevens blanched but said in a calm manner, “Do you seek the master of the house, or his stepson, Charles?”
Her eyes widened, and she paused in her task. The question ought not to have taken her by surprise. Isaac had mentioned his eldest son was visiting after years away at sea. But she had no desire to meet Charles if he was as snobby as Isaac’s younger son, James. They’d met once, by mere chance, and she would as soon forget the dreadful encounter.
Besides, Stevens knew who she sought. His question was meant to annoy her, probably for her presumptuous behavior. No one barged into Magnolia House uninvited.
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