“I have no sweet tooth, at least not for pie and cake,” he had said in tones of grave consideration as he lay against his piled pillows. “In fact, there’s only one thing I can contemplate as a worthwhile exchange for swallowing your noxious draft.”
She eyed him with lively suspicion. “And that would be?”
“A taste of something sweeter than cake to chase away the bitter taste of it. Something close to the mead of the gods.”
His gaze had been on her lips; she would have to be stupid not to guess his intent.
“Oh, no,” she said, backing way from the bed.
“I think so, yes,” he answered, laughter in his voice as he caught a fold of her apron, holding fast.
“Release me.” She could have snatched free; she was almost certain of it. She might have caused him pain, however, and that was unacceptable. The devilish look in the velvet darkness of his eyes had nothing to do with her remaining near, nothing at all.
“I don’t believe I can. Laudanum is a strong elixir, but not half so powerful as your kiss.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She allowed herself to be drawn closer to the bed as he twisted her apron fabric around his fist.
“No, I swear it. You could make your fortune visiting the hospitals, though I don’t know what you would do with the besotted fools who must surely follow you home.”
“Nonsense.”
“Not at all. I am a good example, being the most besotted fool of all.”
For that outrageous claim she was allowed no answer. He drew her down until their mouths met. Wooing her with warm sweeps of his tongue, he set her on fire. As her lips opened, he took possession, engaging her tongue in a sinuous dance, drawing it into his mouth, allowing her to sample his in any way she chose.
She had been intoxicated by his humor and daring as well as his fervor. Somehow, in the rapture of the moment, he eased her hips onto the mattress and drew her carefully into his arms. Thrusting one hand under the soft knot at the nape of her neck, he smoothed over her waist and down her thigh with the other. At her knee, he gathered her skirts in his long fingers, seeking beneath them until she lay in immodest acquiescence, drowning in hot splendor. She wanted his hand between her thighs, inside the slitlike opening of her pantaloons.
Shock at the fervor of that desire brought her upright again. It was she who pushed away at last, she who gathered her wits, poured the dose of laudanum in water and held the glass out to him.
She had not been so lost to all sense that she forgot her purpose. It was some consolation.
No matter the means, she had prevailed. He had taken the laudanum. Now his breathing was deep and even, and all trace of pain had smoothed from his features. It seemed his headache had finally been routed.
She was doubtful he could be kept abed more than another day. Only some purpose of his own had held him there so long, she felt sure. She caught him watching her now and then with what seemed to be a question in his eyes. She might have explored it, but feared she had no answer.
They had spoken only briefly of the night he was shot. He’d given not the slightest hint his mission that evening had any bearing on what happened to him. It could be from loyalty to his fellow sword masters, those others who made up the ranks of the Brotherhood. It could also be self-protection, because he didn’t want anyone to know he had brought the threat of violence to the very gates of River’s Edge.
As he was so reticent on the subject, Reine had neglected to mention that she had followed him, had come close to seeing him shot, possibly frightened his attackers away before they could finish their job. Or she claimed that as an excuse. It was better than being exposed as the sort of jealous, meddling female who would trail after a man and spy on him in that fashion.
Hot shame moved over her in a wave from just thinking of it. To actually confess it would be unendurable. Nevertheless, she was easier in her mind knowing his purpose in New Orleans had been the business of the Brotherhood. It meant he was not visiting another woman.
She should have guessed he would not be that kind of man. Nothing in his manner or his history suggested it; it was only her past experience that caused her to suspect him.
A quiet knock sounded on the hall door. She looked up in relief at the distraction. It would be Alonzo, for no one else had his quiet touch with such courtesies.
“A caller for Monsieur Christien, madame,” the butler announced with his face set in lines of disapproval as he stepped into the bedchamber. “Shall I show the man up?”
The man, he had said, rather than the gentleman. It was a telling distinction. Reine glanced at Christien, sleeping so peacefully. She opened her mouth to declare him not well enough for visitors. Before she could speak, the new arrival stepped through the doorway behind Alonzo.
“Lucien Vinot, at your service,” he said in quiet introduction as he moved deeper into the room. “And you will be Madame Pingre, I expect. I’ve heard much about you.”
He was thin and tall, but ramrod straight with it, this Monsieur Vinot. His hair was steel-gray, a perfect match for his hooded eyes, and his clothing was an ensemble in stark black and white. Lines made deep grooves about his mouth so it appeared any attempt at a smile must break through untold layers of sorrow. He was pasty white, with a gray tinge to his skin not even the lingering light of sunset could relieve. It also picked out the faint quiver of his lips.
He did not look like a man Reine should know, yet it was necessary to put aside her sewing and deal with him. “Good evening, Monsieur Vinot,” she said, moving forward to give her hand to the guest, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Christien. “I am desolated to disappoint you, but my fiancé is sleeping, as you can see.”
“I will not stay, but would only look on him a moment, if I may, just to assure myself that all is well with him.”
The diffident words underscored the palsied tremor Reine felt in the man’s hand. Her lack of welcome seemed suddenly petty and mean-spirited. “If I might offer you refreshment, perhaps you will be content to wait with me on the gallery until he wakes.”
Vinot opened his mouth but was prevented from answering as Christien spoke from behind Reine.
“I’m awake now, chère.”
She turned in surprise, in part for the term of affection but also because he had roused so easily from what she had thought to be drugged slumber. His eyes were clear and calm as they met hers, but carried a gleam in their depths that made her realize she had claimed him as her future husband.
Embarrassment assailed her. It was one thing to bow to the inevitable, but quite another to cooperate in it. She must take care or she would turn into one of those simpering, compliant females who doted on her bridegroom and invited all to congratulate her on attaching him.
That fear was wiped from her mind by another thought altogether. Suppose Christien had never been asleep? Was it possible? Could he have overcome the effects of the laudanum? She didn’t care at all for the thought that he might have been observing her even as she was watching him. He saw too much as it was, this half-breed sword master.
“How providential,” she said in polite response before turning back to their guest. “Well, then. Come, Monsieur Vinot, and take my chair. I will leave the two of you to talk while I see about wine and cakes.”
It was an excuse. She could have directed Alonzo to bring what was required. Her purpose was to allow Christien and his friend a modicum of privacy. She had no intention of interfering with his friendships, and thought it as well that he should realize it.
She had reached the bottom of the stairs, was rounding the newel post on her way out to the kitchen, when Paul burst through the front door. He halted as he saw her, his face so pale his freckles stood out as tan blotches against the skin.
“Have you seen Papa?” he demanded.
“Not since midday dinner,” she answered, as alarm brushed her. “What is it? What do you want with him?”
“Did you see that man, the one who just rode up?�
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“I left him with Christien. What of it?”
“It’s Vinot! I couldn’t believe it, would not if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. That he would dare come here is beyond anything.”
“What are you talking about?” Reine searched her brother’s face while wondering a little wildly if she should have left Christien alone with the man. Though recovering nicely, he was not at his full strength by any means. He had lost quantities of blood, so might be overpowered if this Vinot should have some connection to those who had shot him.
Paul pushed a hand through his hair, shoving the long strands away from his face. “You don’t know? I thought you must by now.”
“Tell me at once what you are mumbling about or I shall go into strong hysterics,” she said with precision.
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
The look her younger brother gave her was so like that of a gentleman bent on protecting fair womanhood from unpleasantness that it made her blood boil. “Now, Paul!”
“Oh, very well,” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “Vinot is the father of the girl who was Theodore’s little light of love. You understand what I’m saying?”
She had known there was someone though never the name. She gave a brief nod.
“He got her in the family way, then abandoned her, claimed she led him on. The thing is, she wasn’t some loose Gallatin Street chit. She was an innocent, barely fifteen.”
How very like Theodore, Reine thought in weary acceptance, to choose someone who knew less than he did of such liaisons. Meeting Paul’s worried gaze, she asked, “Who told you?”
“Papa, for one, though it’s common knowledge along the Passage de la Bourse. Vinot, you realize, is one of the oldest and most respected swordsmen to keep a salon on the street of fencing masters. He’s a legend—or was until he closed his atelier two years ago. No one could touch him on the piste. He instructed every swordsman in the Vieux Carré who is worthy of the name. The number of duels he fought is beyond counting. He’s truly formidable under the oaks. And this Vinot swore he would kill Theodore for what he did to his daughter.”
Comprehension came in an instant. “That’s what Theodore was running from when he fled town the night he was killed.”
“Exactly. He was scared spitless of the old man, especially after the girl died in childbirth. He was so terrified out of his wits that he thought to hide out here. It didn’t work.”
Reine had assumed some difficulty had driven Theodore from New Orleans to Bonne Espèrance that fatal night, and from there to River’s Edge. Gambling debts and duns from shopkeepers had been in her mind, however, no doubt because of her father’s habits. Never had she considered anything so dire as this.
“You think Monsieur Vinot may have killed Theodore?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? His wife died years ago and the daughter was his only child. She kept house for him in the apartment above his atelier. They say he was half-crazed by her death.”
“But to be avenged in such a way.” She winced from the thought of it.
“I agree it makes no sense. It should have been a clean, quick blooding from a sword instead of a cowardly attack. Yet Theodore refused to allow Vinot satisfaction on the dueling field.”
He would, Reine thought. Admitting his faults and facing the consequences had never been Theodore’s way. That he would desert a young girl in her need, refusing to acknowledge that he was the father of her child, seemed all too likely, as well.
How she wished she had known the facts two years ago. She might have grieved less for the life she had lost, that of a respected young matron of good family and impeccable repute, safe in her natural role of wife and mother.
“Vinot doesn’t appear so fearsome,” she said, continuing Paul’s thought.
“Neither does Christien, but I would not depend on it.”
“No,” she said, the memory of swift-moving shadows and the vicious clash of blades in St. Anthony’s Garden rising in her mind. She took a deep breath and released it again in an attempt at calm. “But if Vinot did away with Theodore, what of the attack on Christien? I had begun to think one might have led to the other.”
Paul scowled at her. “In what way?”
“I’m not sure, but doesn’t it seem something beyond mere happenstance must be at work?”
“Particularly as Vinot is here now, I do see what you mean. What reason did he give?”
“Only that he is a friend of Christien’s. As I was leaving the room, he mentioned something about hearing he had been hurt.”
“Friend.” Her brother’s voice was shaded with doubt.
“They are both sword masters,” she said in an instinctive search for reason in an unreasonable situation.
“Something to remember.” He looked away from her. “Could be I should look in on them.”
“You were on your way to find Papa, were you not? I’ll go back up.”
“But what if—”
“Surely Monsieur Vinot doesn’t intend violence against me. I’ve done nothing to him, after all.”
The grim look did not leave Paul’s face, though he turned away from her toward the front door. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can, with or without Papa.”
Yes, but what would he say when he got there? Reine asked herself. What would he do? For that, there was no answer.
At the door of Christien’s bedchamber again a short time later, she didn’t bother to knock but swept inside. Behind her came Alonzo bearing a laden tray. She heard Christien’s voice raised in what sounded like anger.
“I am in no danger of forgetting that she is the key—”
He broke off the instant the door opened, but the echoes lingered. Reine pretended oblivion to everything except her duty as a hostess as she directed Alonzo in placing his tray, dispensing cakes and wine and making everyone comfortable. When all was settled, she embarked on the kind of meaningless chatter that filled the quiet without straining civility.
Yet all the while, the phrase she had overheard rang in her ears with the dissonance of a cracked bell. It was all she could do to speak pleasant nothings while her thoughts clashed in her head.
What did it mean, what could it mean, that the man she was to marry was a friend to the father of the girl her dead husband had wronged? As with the attacks upon Christien and Theodore, there had to be a connection. That she was concerned seemed clear, for who else could Christien have been speaking of if not her?
Yet what an elaborate scheme it would have to be to encompass so much, from the disappearance of Theodore’s body from the house to Christien’s presence outside the Théâtre d’Orléans on that fateful night. From her father’s gambling losses and the proposal that she marry the new owner of River’s Edge to a duel in a dark garden. Revenge, though a powerful aim, hardly seemed sufficient for such a charade.
Yes, and what did it mean for her? Was the marriage proposed between her and Christien a farce? Would it be retracted at the last minute, or carried to its ultimate end as some particularly intimate form of reprisal?
She could feel the strain in her smile. It went with the weight in her chest, the leaden ache in her heart. How blighting it was to realize just how much she had begun to look forward to being married to Christien. That was at an end now, for how could she be happy with a man who might well see their alliance as an act of vengeance?
Her father arrived, panting from haste and with a pillow wrinkle in his face, as if he had been snatched away from a nap in some corner. Paul was close behind him, looking flustered yet older than his years. More stilted conversation ensued while wine and cakes were consumed.
After a time, Reine turned to Vinot. “Are you summering in the neighborhood by chance, monsieur?” she asked rather desperately.
“No, no,” he replied with a small smile for the suggestion. “Though well aware that these open-crop lands are known to be less given to fever, I prefer it in town. If you are thinking of the ride along the riv
er road, it’s not so far for the sake of a friend.”
“You must come to the wedding, then.” She turned to Christien. “You did invite him?”
“It was in my mind to do so.”
The glance he gave her was quizzical. She looked away, unable to bear the intimacy and remembrance in it. “That’s settled, then. It will be pleasant for Christien to have someone present who is so well known to him.”
“Surely the others will be coming,” Vinot commented with a lifted brow. “The Conde de Lérida and his lovely condessa, O’Neill, Pasquale, Blackford, Wallace and their wives?”
“Wallace is in Kentucky just now,” Christien answered. “He and Madame Sonia may or may not return to New Orleans come winter. The others are scattered here and there, but I have hopes they will be present, along with their baggage train of children and servants.” He turned to Reine. “Marguerite should be entertained by the company. Speaking of which, where is she? It seems unlike her to miss the party here.”
It hurt that he should think with such naturalness of her daughter’s pleasure, Reine discovered. Also that he had considered those he would wish to be on hand for the wedding. He spoke so easily, it seemed impossible there should be anything sinister to the occasion.
Swallowing on an obstruction in her throat, she said, “Marguerite was in the kitchen just now, seeding raisins to be used as the eyes and coat buttons for the gingerbread men Cook is baking. Everyone will be expected to sample them in good time.”
“Not I, if you will forgive me,” Vinot said, getting stiffly to his feet. “It’s time I said my adieus. With such cowardly attacks in the vicinity as Christien has suffered, I would not be on the road after dark.”
The comment effectively ended the gathering. Though Reine’s father tried as a matter of courtesy to persuade Vinot to stay to supper, the effort was halfhearted. Bowing with great cordiality, that saturnine gentleman took his leave.
Her father followed after the guest to show him out and wave him down the road. Paul made some excuse and departed in their wake. Reine was left alone with Christien.
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