The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  Simone smiled wryly. Years ago les bonnes familles had rejected Nicholas Devereaux because he was a gambler, and now they gossiped because his daughter had married an American. Let them say what they wished, she thought exultantly. Tom was a wonderful husband and father. Tucking her arm into his, she smiled radiantly up at him.

  “What brings this on?” he asked, placing his hand over hers.

  “Happiness, mon cher, happiness.”

  “You’re not so happy here that you don’t want to go home before the hot weather sets in?” he asked with apparent concern. “We have got cane to plant.”

  “I’ll be ready to leave next week. We’ll follow the fashion,” she teased. “Summer in the country and la saison des visites in town, after harvest.”

  But harvest passed and summer came again before the Franklins returned to New Orleans.

  While the Bayou Queen was edging up to Franklin Steamboats’ dock that hot July day, a sailing ship tied up just a mile downriver in the Vieux Carré, and a man disembarked.

  The Louisiana sun beat down unmercifully, and heat shimmered from the tarred surface of the pier, but the big, broad-shouldered man seemed undisturbed by it as he hired a porter to see to his luggage. A quizzical frown on his bronzed, craggy face, he made his way through the crowd and halted on the levee. Somehow he had imagined New Orleans would have changed more in seven years; he should have known the city was timeless.

  Striding purposefully to the Canal Street Wharf, Alain de Vallière booked passage on a steamboat bound upriver, a steamboat fancifully named the Emerald Queen.

  “I don’t know what possessed us to stay in New Orleans in August,” Tom grumbled. Stepping from the tub, he began to dry himself sluggishly.

  “You promised Tante Viviane we would be here for her charity ball,” his wife reminded him as she donned her stockings.

  “Well, the heat is enough to stymie a lovesick boar hog.”

  “How do you come up with such colorful language?” Simone watched as he rambled around their bedroom, showing no inclination to put on the formal clothing she had laid out on the bed for him.

  “Colorful language is a natural talent,” Tom said modestly. “All Franklins are born with it.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” she retorted. “Rory called Tina a gol-derned dunderhead last week.”

  “She got her little mouth around that? I’m impressed.” Looking thrilled, the captain began to dress.

  When he finished, he went to fasten the tiny buttons on the back of Simone’s blue gown. As his task progressed, he planted feathery kisses along her spine, bringing chills to her bare arms.

  “Do we have to go to this ball?” he whispered against the smooth skin of her neck.

  “We told Tante . . .”

  “Couldn’t we change our minds?”

  “We promised.” Sighing, she turned to straighten his cravat. Then she looked him in the eyes and offered suggestively. “But we could come home early.”

  “You’re my kind of woman, Simone Franklin,” he murmured with a lecherous grin.

  “Simone, Tom, we had begun to think you weren’t coming,” Fabrice’s young wife greeted them when they arrived at the St. Louis Hotel.

  “We wouldn’t have missed it, Zaza.” Simone kissed her on the cheek. “Where is my aunt?”

  “Dancing with Fabrice. Oh, look, there is my sister. Will you pardon me while I speak to her?”

  “Of course. What’s going on over there?” Tom asked, nodding toward a group of chattering, excited Creoles clustered nearby.

  “I do not know exactly. Maman Viviane said that one of New Orleans’s finest citizens has returned—‘from the dead’ as she put it. He is older, so I don’t know him. But he is very handsome,” Zaza added ingenuously before departing.

  When she glanced curiously toward the crowd, Simone stiffened with shock. The blood drained from her face, and her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. Alain!

  Closing her eyes, she drew a steadying breath. It could not be. Alain de Vallière was dead, murdered seven years ago. Her eyes must be playing tricks on her.

  She opened them cautiously . . . only to discover that a pair of intense dark eyes watched her from across the room. As if scoffing at the doubts on her face, Alain nodded a silent acknowledgment, a contemptuous smile curling his lips.

  “Simone, what’s wrong?” Tom’s voice reached her only dimly.

  “The heat,” she muttered, too stunned for coherence, “I must sit down for a moment.” Solicitously, her husband guided her to a chair and rushed to fetch her a cool drink.

  Simone watched with dread as Alain detached himself from the crowd surrounding him and strode toward her.

  “Bonsoir, Madame,” he said calmly, bowing. “I trust you remember me. I am Alain de Vallière.”

  Acutely aware they were being watched, Simone responded graciously, though she looked around in vain for Tom. “I remember you very well, Monsieur de Vallière.”

  “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” he asked with studied politesse, acting as if their feelings for each other and the promises they had made never existed.

  “Alain, I--” Simone looked up at the tall Creole. His eyes were intense, challenging. He had not forgotten anything.

  “For old time’s sake?” he asked quietly.

  Still in shock, Simone rose and took his arm. As she allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, she told herself it was only because this dance might be her only opportunity to speak to him privately.

  Held decorously in Alain’s arms, she gazed up at him, but he stared expressionlessly over her head, moving silently, mechanically.

  “Are we not going to talk?” she ventured at last.

  “There is really nothing to talk about, Madame . . .Franklin,” he answered curtly. “That is your name now, is it not?”

  “Oui,” she murmured. “But--”

  “I merely wanted to see, after all this time, how it would feel to hold you in my arms again.”

  “How is it?” Simone whispered, hating herself for asking.

  “It is not as wonderful as the last time.” He smiled blandly when she stiffened, and went on, “But then, nothing remains the same after so long. Fortunes won and lost, friends and lovers—even enemies—gone. Who would have thought la belle New Orleans would ever be overrun by Kaintocks and Yankees? C’est la vie,” he said conversationally.

  His insinuations began to penetrate the fog of her emotions. “Alain, try to understand”—she tried to control her quaking voice--“you’ve been missing for seven years! I thought you dead.”

  “And you suffered so,” he taunted. “For a month or two. Did you find consolation living with Franklin on his boat?”

  “How dare you?” She strained to pull away from him, but his arms tightened around her. “You return—after seven years with no word—and sneer at me because I made a new life for myself?” She was trembling, now. “I do not have to answer to you, sir. In fact, you might explain to me where you have been all this time.”

  “I might,” he said carelessly, “but this is not the time or place. If you want to talk to me, ma petite, you can do it tomorrow. I’ve taken a suite here in the hotel. Everything has indeed changed—even my house. And all for the worse.”

  “Things have not changed so much that a woman can visit a man’s hotel room,” Simone responded icily.

  “As you please, chère. You know where to find me.”

  Smoothly he danced her to the corner where her husband waited, a crystal cup in his hand and a perplexed frown on his face.

  “There you are, darlin’,” Tom drawled mildly when they joined him, but his wife discerned the irritation and concern in his voice. “You made a mighty speedy recovery. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your partner?”

  “Of course.” Simone rapidly collected herself. “Tom, may I present Monsieur Alain de Vallière. Monsieur de Vallière, my husband, Capitaine Thomas Franklin.”

  “De Vallière . . .Alain de V
allière?” the Virginian asked enthusiastically. He pumped Alain’s hand with one hand and balanced Simone’s punch in the other. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir. I’ve heard your name in shipping circles recently, but I had no idea Simone knew you.”

  “Alain was my guardian, Tom,” his wife said quietly.

  “I thought you said your Alain was dead.” He looked at her in surprise, missing the sharp glance the other man threw her.

  “I thought he was,” Simone replied through bloodless lips.

  “You must have given her quite a start,” Tom said to the big Creole. “No wonder she was feeling faint.”

  “I’m afraid I did. I imagine she could use that punch.” Alain nodded toward the cup the other man held.

  “Of course. Here you go, sugar.” Handing it to his wife, he steered her toward a chair. “Sit for a minute and take it easy while I introduce Mr. de Vallière to some people. If you have a moment . . .” Tom regarded Alain questioningly.

  “Of course. And call me Alain.”

  “If you’ll call me Tom.” The Virginian offered one of his easy smiles when Alain nodded in agreement. “You’ll be all right, won’t you, darlin’?” he asked Simone. “We’ll only be a minute.”

  Simone’s head ached, and she longed to be alone to examine her wildly mixed emotions at Alain’s return. She had felt stunned—and weak with relief—to see him alive, but things were indeed different after seven years. Certainly she had changed, she thought. And, feeling his coldness toward her, she knew he had changed, too.

  Sipping punch to calm herself, she watched Tom introduce Alain to Hiram Anderson and Jeremy Nash. But her mind kept richocheting around Alain’s brazen invitation. How could he think she, a married woman would go alone to his hotel room? And he had seemed so confident that she would.

  “May I have this dance, Cousine?”

  Fabrice stood before her. She had not even seen him approach. “Of course.” Her lips curved in a smile that did not reach her green eyes.

  “I’m sorry I was dancing with maman when you came in,” Fabrice said as they joined the other dancers. “I wanted to warn you that de Vallière was here. Is it not amazing? After seven long years . . . ” he mused aloud.

  “It was something of a shock.” She attempted to keep her tone light.

  “Is it. . .is it true that you lived in his house unchaperoned for a time?” he asked unexpectedly.

  “Who told you that?” she asked with surprise.

  “Marcel. He wasn’t lying, was he?” Fabrice’s brown eyes rested on her shrewdly.

  “No, he wasn’t,” she replied, wishing her cousin did not look so hurt after all this time.

  “De Vallière could ruin your reputation. People have long memories in New Orleans. Do you want me to talk to him for you?”

  “Ah, Cousin,” she said with a sigh, “do you still want to take on my problems for me? Is it not enough to care for your lovely wife?”

  “I will do whatever I can for you, Simone. I’m learning to love Zaza, but I will never stop caring for you.”

  “I will fight my own fights,” she informed him, adding softly, “if I can figure out what I’m fighting.”

  “It appears Alain has not told your husband of your . . . connection, at least,” Fabrice said, glancing toward the men. “Tom seems to be his usual easygoing self.” He had tried not to like l’américain, but Tom’s effortless charm had worked as surely on him as it seemed to be working on Alain.

  “Oui.” Simone glared resentfully at Alain. Towering over the others, he laughed and chatted with Tom.

  When their dance was finished, Fabrice returned Simone to her corner. “Remember,” he murmured before he walked away, “I am here if you need me.”

  Grateful for his support, even if it sometimes made her impatient, she watched Tom and Alain saunter toward her.

  “Tom,” she greeted her husband, “I’m sure Alain will excuse us. I’d like to go home now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, darlin’.” He regarded her with concern. “You do look a mite peaked. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

  He turned to his companion. “Alain, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Simone and I would like you to come to the house for dinner one evening soon. I’m sure y’all have a lot to catch up on.”

  “We do,” Alain murmured meaningfully. Bowing, he kissed Simone’s hand, holding it overlong. “Bonne nuit, ma petite. I look forward to our next meeting.”

  When Tom went to order their carriage, Simone unclenched her fist and stared bleakly at the key Alain had slipped into her hand. The key to his suite.

  Despite her resolutions, Simone stood in the hallway outside the man’s room the next morning, key in hand as she debated whether to go or to stay. The decision was made for her when Alain, unshaven and clad only in a robe, opened the door to glare at her through bloodshot eyes.

  “Why don’t you dawdle there until everyone in the Vieux Carré has seen you?” he growled. Seizing her wrist, he pulled her inside.

  “How did you know I was there?” Simone yanked from his grip.

  “I saw you from the window.” He would not tell her he had watched for her all morning after a long, sleepless night.

  “Would you like a drink?” Standing at the liquor cabinet, the whiskey decanter in hand, he heard the rustle of her skirt behind him.

  “Isn’t it a little early?”

  “Not for hair of the dog.” He poured a healthy shot for himself, then turned and said, “I knew you would come.”

  “Then you knew more than I did,” she snapped. “I only decided this morning, out of respect for what was once between us.”

  “And what was that?” he inquired with a distant, wintry smile.

  “I . . . I loved you,” she answered in a strangled voice. She did not know what she had expected, but she had not foreseen the coldness of this stranger who stood so very near.

  “Ah, yes,” Alain said scornfully. “With all the passion your fickle heart could muster.”

  “I loved you so I thought my heart would break when you disappeared,” she replied, glaring up at him with seething intensity. “Everyone told me you were dead. I refused to believe it. But when you did not return, finally I had to.”

  “So you could marry your American.”

  “So I could go on with my life,” she amended, suddenly weary.

  Alain stared down at her in silence. He would not comfort her. He could not. Since learning Simone had married another, he had numbed himself. He did not want to feel tenderness, compassion, even friendship for her. If he allowed her to penetrate his bitterness, he knew the raw, aching pain he would feel. He knew it well. He had lived with it long enough.

  “What happened to you, Alain?” She broke the silence. “Why didn’t you let me know you were alive?”

  “Communication was hardly appropriate when I learned you had married. From what I hear, you eloped with your captain before I had even escaped from the West Indies. That’s where I was taken,” he answered her questioning gaze, “after I was kidnapped.”

  “But who? Why?”

  “Surely you did not think I had abandoned you,” he said. “I leave desertion to someone who has more stomach for it. You, for example.”

  “That is unfair,” she protested hotly.

  He scowled down at her before going to the window to rest his forehead against the cool glass and stare at the street below. “Was it fair that I was accosted by a band of ruffians as I rode to meet Marcel at the Dueling Oaks that morning? Or that I was knocked unconscious and stripped of my clothes? Was it fair that I awoke in irons, in the brig of a ship which was already well out to sea? Or when I was hauled to the captain’s cabin, where Comtesse Marguerite--”

  “Louis-Philippe’s cousin?” A long-forgotten conversation popped into Simone’s memory. “The woman whose husband you killed?”

  “I did not kill him.” He frowned. “How did you know about that, anyway?”

  “I . . .Jean-Paul heard ma
ny things,” she reminded him.

  “Well, Marguerite was a vindictive bitch,” Alain muttered more to himself than to Simone. “It seems the king thought a change of scenery would be good for her, so he ordered her to her plantation in the West Indies. She blamed me for her husband’s death, for the loss of her life at court, and for the lack of a lover to share her bed.

  “So I was given a choice. I could become her lover, or I could work in the fields of her plantation. Either way, I would be her slave. And one way or the other,” he recalled, grimacing in distaste at the memory, “I would make restitution.”

  Smiling mirthlessly, he glanced over his shoulder at Simone. “What a romantic fool I was. Do you know what my choice was? I labored in her fields for three long years, knowing somehow, someday, I would return to you, my love. That knowledge alone kept me going under the inhuman conditions of the foul compound where we were penned like animals.” For a moment he seemed lost in dire memories. But then he continued the grim tale.

  “One terrible and bloody night, the slaves revolted. Even then, I was less interested in rebellion than in returning to you. Always you. I escaped in a boat, and, after drifting several days, I was picked up by a passing ship headed for Charleston. It was a long way home, but I was on my way.” He paused.

  “This is where the story becomes comical . . . one mishap after another.” His voice was bitter. “The ship foundered in a storm, and I was rescued by a ship bound for France. Even though it was agony for me to realize how much longer it would take, I knew I would still get home. To you.” He laughed mirthlessly.

  “Who do you think I met in Le Havre before I sailed for home? Serge St. Michel. He lives in France now, you know. He was remarkably reticent when it came to you, but when pressed, he finally told me you had married your Kaintock. The soft-hearted maître even defended you,” Alain said softly. “We got gloriously drunk together and before he knew it, I had sworn him to secrecy, forcing him to agree that under the circumstances, it would be better if you didn’t know I lived.”

  “Then why have you come back?”

  “My brother Pascal is dead, and my father is ill.” He faced her, his expression stark.