“What a blackguard I must be,” her brother said pleasantly.
Deborah pursed her lips. “I wonder. I didn’t believe half of it, but felt compelled to come and see so as to set mother’s mind at ease. Now that I am here—”
“Yes? Now that you are here?” There was an edge to Renold’s voice that had not been there before.
His sister’s eyes softened. “I think perhaps you had your reasons, whatever you may have done, and I congratulate you most sincerely.”
“Thank you.” The words were sardonic.
“Oh, that’s quite all right. Only, I want very much to be there when you explain yourself to mother.”
“Which I am expected to do with all haste?”
“Absolutely. She asks that you bring your bride to — to be presented to her.” Deborah glanced quickly at Angelica, then away again as she stumbled over her words.
“Ever the autocrat,” her half-brother said, smoothly filling the tiny gap. “You will tell her, when you write your report, that I live to obey?”
“With pleasure, though she won’t believe it.”
It was disturbing to Angelica, looking at Michel, to find compassion in his gaze. It was more disturbing to listen to intimations of unspoken understanding in the voices of Renold and his half-sister.
There had never been a time in Angelica’s life when she had been able to communicate with another person in that fashion. How many shared confidences and kept secrets did it take, how many hours of casual rambling from subject to subject? She longed for such closeness, but despaired of achieving it. Especially with her husband. He had his sister, or half-sister, for understanding; a wife was scarcely necessary. Certainly not one he had failed to inform that he had a sister, and a mother.
Yes, but then she had not asked, Angelica realized. She had assumed, like an idiot, that Renold had been whelped in some ditch and left to make his own way in the world. Her aunt’s influence, of course. Or perhaps that was only an excuse. It might be closer to the truth to say that she had been so wrapped up in her own fears and griefs that she had given little consideration to the manner in which Renold lived. She had accepted what he told her and what she heard from others, and not looked beyond it. It was her fault if she did not have his confidences.
Or was it? She understood him enough to realize that, though she might have asked for kisses and been given them, confidences from him had not been encouraged. The question then was why. And what did it have to do with communication between brother and sister?
It was later, after the passage of a grindingly slow afternoon and a dinner notable for its interminable length, that Renold was cornered by Deborah in his study. There was no welcome in his face as he looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Tossing aside his silver-nubbed pen, he leaned back in his chair, laced his long fingers together over his waistcoat buttons, and waited.
“You remind me,” Deborah said as she closed the door behind herself and came forward to settle gracefully in a chair across from him, “of the hound we used to have when I was girl. Old Bellows, remember? Every time he ran down a deer for Papa, he would go off and take a rabbit for himself. Since this is conduct unappreciated and unbecoming in a deer hound, he hid his prizes in the most cunning places. Mother once found one, quite dead, behind the sofa cushions. She felt for old Bellows, but she was not pleased.”
“Angelica,” he said with some acerbity, “is not a rabbit, quick or dead.”
“But she is a prize, I believe. Don’t you think she has the right to know why you have taken her?”
“She will discover it in time; that’s inevitable.”
“When you’re ready, I would imagine. Do you want her to hate you?”
Not a muscle in his face changed. “That, too, may be inevitable.”
She studied him with her head tipped to one side, almost as if the weight of her hair was too heavy for her slender neck. “I can see why you’re doing this — at least, I suppose it’s to keep Bonheur in the family, so to speak, since a husband controls his wife’s property. But was there no honorable way to go about it, no way to woo and wed her that did not smack of deceit?”
“What, offer my heart, my hand, my name like some callow, beardless boy?” he said with bitter emphasis. “She would have thrown all three in my face.”
“Not all women are like Clotilde,” his sister said with heat. “Besides, you had saved your Angelica from death. Surely that would have weighed in the balance.”
“Are we speaking of a wooing before or after the explosion of the steamboat? Before, she was betrothed and had the protection of her father who would not, you can be certain, have entertained my suit. Afterward, she had the memory of attempted assault.” His gaze held self-incriminating revulsion that he made no effort to hide.
Deborah lifted a hand to her lips as they parted on a gasp. “When? On board the — you didn’t!”
“No, I didn’t, and I thank you for that much,” he said on a soundless sigh. “But I could have, easily; there are few things in my wild careering that I have wanted more. The plan, rather, was to be caught in a compromising position. I would then agree, with great reluctance, to do the honorable thing. An old friend, a Madame Parnell, was primed to walk in upon the sorry scene. The explosion of the boilers made hash of the plan.”
“That explosion. I’m so glad mother and I did not know you were on the Queen Kathleen.”
“If you had known, you would have been apprised of my survival,” he said evenly.
“Would we?” Deborah said, opening her eyes wide with amazed and entirely false surprise. “You are all consideration. But you might have ‘apprised’ us of the wedding before half New Orleans took up pen to twit us about it!”
He looked away toward where the candelabra shedding light on his desk sat stolidly supporting triple flames. “I thought to allow Angelica time to regain her strength. I thought to repair a little of the damage I had done. I also thought,” he added deliberately, “to consummate the marriage before celebrating it.”
“How very — interesting,” his sister said, her hazel gaze concentrating as she stared at him.
He said shortly, “I’m not without some consideration.”
“And at what cost,” she said with a spurious sympathy. “I understand now why you’re crabby as a bear with a sore head.”
“Do you indeed? Now how is that?” To admit she was right would not add to the conversation, and might increase his own awareness of his condition to something above its current bearable level.
Her smile was saucy. “Men talk, and aren’t always careful who might hear. I listen. It’s a useful trait.”
“A dangerous one, if you aren’t careful.”
“Dear Renold, don’t try to change the subject from your felonies to my misdemeanors. I want to know what you are going to do.”
He heard the censure as it seeped into her tone. It was intolerable, as was her interference. “I am going to have Bonheur again,” he said in quiet savagery, “with my dear wife’s will or without it.”
“Renold!” It was a cry of shock.
“It’s what you expected, isn’t it? What you came — or were sent here — to know. There must have been some doubt about my intentions, or you would have waited, busily preparing the wedding feast, for me to appear with my bride in tow.”
“That wasn’t it at all,” his half-sister protested. Her face was turning from pink to pale at something she saw in his eyes.
“What then? To save me from myself? I don’t require it, just as I don’t require supervision. Or advice on the care and handling of a wife. You will oblige me by returning to Bonheur as soon as possible, before you do more damage than you have already.”
Deborah sank back in her chair, considering him with wide, steady eyes. Finally she said, “It isn’t like you, Renold, to be so abrupt or so brutal. There is something you are afraid of. What is it?”
“I am casting a hazard at the future. A man who treats that lightly is a
fool.”
“Yes,” she said in tentative agreement, “but that isn’t all, is it? Estelle tells me you were badly burned in your escape from the steamboat, worse than need be had you not paused to rescue Angelica. More, in your single-minded determination to make her well again and bring her around to your purpose, you have not been sleeping.”
As his face tightened, she lifted her chin. “No, you will not scold Estelle. I badgered her into talking of the past few days. Besides, she spoke only because she was troubled. As I am. I love Bonheur as much or more than you; I was born there, it’s my home. But it’s only a house and a piece of land. It isn’t worth destroying another person over. Or yourself.”
“Melodramatic and presumptuous,” he said in acid condemnation. “My marriage is a union based on practical considerations, with no place in it for such heart-burnings.”
Her piquant features were serious, her tone remained reflective. “Is it? Then why didn’t you tell Angelica of your connection with Bonheur? She is tied to you by bonds both civil and religious, bonds it is almost impossible to sever. What reason can there be to keep her in ignorance, then? Unless you want the additional guarantee of ties of affection? And you are doubtful these can be implanted if she learns of your — what did you call it? — your perfidy?”
“This is my supposed fear, that she will not love me?” he said, voicing the words she did not quite dare say. “I will agree that a modicum of affection would be convenient, will even admit it could be pleasant. But it isn’t necessary for my ends and I am unlikely to fade into a decline without it.”
“It isn’t your aim?” she said, as if in clarification.
“Should it be?”
She gave him a dour look. “You always did enjoy answering a question with a question, a trait that shows a lamentable lack of forthrightness. Very well. Assuming you mean what you say, I expect you would still object if Angelica formed an attachment elsewhere?”
“Now I am to be tested for jealousy, I suppose. You might remember, while you are taking my character apart, that I am a possessive man. I would certainly object if this attachment was a threat to our union, therefore to Bonheur.”
“How very reasoned. Then why in the name of common sense do you allow Michel Farness to visit your wife while you are from home?”
“Michel has been warned,” he said succinctly.
She was momentarily dazed, but recovered. “I don’t imagine he was impressed. It’s easy to see he is captivated.”
Renold smiled without warmth. “Concern heaped upon concern; what a thing it is to be a sister. But are you certain it’s all for me? If you want Michel’s attentions turned in a different direction, perhaps you should undertake the task yourself.”
“I don’t want — !” She stopped, drawing a hard-pressed breath, before she said, “I had almost forgotten how devious you can be. You won’t involve me that easily, however. I am not going to distract your friend for you.”
“A talent for deviousness runs in the family,” he said, “through the distaff.”
“You must tell mother that, when you see her. She will no doubt be delighted.”
“Or you can report it, with the rest, on your return.”
Her gaze as she met his across the highly polished desk was clear and candid. “Oh, I’ve decided to stay awhile in New Orleans. The season may be over, but the shopping is still marvelous.”
Renold absorbed the challenge in her eyes. Behind it was audacity and determination, and the memory of a hundred such encounters wending down the years. He had won, more often than not, by exerting superior authority and will and even, on occasion, strength. He said in soft threat, “I could see you off in the morning.”
“Yes, you could. Perhaps I should go and have a little discussion of a family nature with Angelica tonight.”
He laughed, though with no great amusement. “Do. If you want to be sent home with your pretty neck rung like a pullet’s and a rosary in your hands.”
“Murderous as well as lecherous, anxious, and seething with husbandly vigilance. I believe you need me near to keep you from doing, or being forced to do, something you may regret.”
It was, in its way, an explanation. It was also a bargaining counter. He said, “You are agreeing to undertake distracting Michel after all?”
Her smile was pure sweetness. “It will be my sacrifice on the altar of family duty.”
Renold kept his satisfaction to himself. It was better that way.
The bedchamber, when he stepped inside it a short time later, was lit by a single candle guttering low in its own warm wax. The light gave a soft gold sheen to the blue silk above Angelica, and danced with molten gleams upon the thick wheaten braid that lay over her shoulder. It caught the pure angle of a cheekbone, the snowy, linen-covered crest of a globelike breast, the burnished satin length of her lashes sealed together where her eyelids met. Wavering, backing from his swift approach, the uneven flame made it difficult to tell if she was still breathing.
She was. More, the pulse that stroked his fingertips as he placed them against her neck was steady and even as a metronome.
The crystal glass that sat on the bedside table had a quarter inch of water flavored with laudanum in the bottom. He drank it, then stood holding the glass against his heart.
She had been troubled by one of her headaches earlier; he had seen the discarded cloth damp with rose water, the barely tasted tisane. Was that why she had sought oblivion? Or had it been the charged atmosphere of the first confrontation with Deborah in the salon?
It could also have been something else entirely, something she had read into what was said, something sensed without words or deeds. She was capable of it, he knew that too well. More, she might or might not feel the need to face him with discovered sins.
She was an enigma.
Most people were fairly easy to read: their simple joys and angers, their impulses of generosity, venality, humility, and causeless pride were there in their faces. A few were more difficult because their deeds were darker. There were not many who defied understanding.
Angelica was different. Her face was beautiful and clear and expressive, but her thoughts were at a level far deeper. She saw more than was on the surface, considered beyond the obvious, and what she discovered was filtered through a screen of intuition and experience to remove the dross.
If he was afraid of anything, it was her understanding. Not what she might learn, but what she would make of it once she knew. What she would make of him.
She could, he thought, given time, see through everything he was and had been, and look into his naked soul. He didn’t like it.
At the same time he was drawn to it. There was a terrible seductive power in being finally, completely, understood. Even if it meant being destroyed.
He had lied to his sister, barefaced and without compunction. Some things were absolutely necessary. Angelica’s affection was fast becoming one of them.
Reaching with a steady hand, he pinched out the light. He stripped off his clothes, tossed them aside, climbed into the bed. With careful strength, he drew Angelica to him until she lay with her gentle curves fitted against his every possible body surface, every heated inch of his skin. Then he was still, his breathing shallow while he stared into the darkness.
His arm, where he had pillowed her head, grew bloodless and numb. He did not move. And in time, by dint of will and concentrated purpose, his breathing grew even and his body lost its heat.
He dozed. But he could still feel the throb of her heartbeat under his palm.
Chapter Ten
There was the soft feel of spring on the morning air as Angelica and Deborah left the house. They were going marketing, or rather Tit Jean was going and they were joining him. The three of them strolled in the direction of the river, the two women abreast and the manservant following with a large rectangular basket on each arm.
The hour was early; a shopper who did not reach the market before nine o’clock was too late for
the freshest meats and vegetables. It was the first time Angelica had been out of the house without Renold. It was also the first time she had been completely free of headache since the explosion.
The exertion of walking warmed her and brought a sparkle to her eyes. She felt free and lighthearted, and inclined to smile at all passersby. After a time, she allowed her shawl, a soft Indian cashmere in the inevitable black, to slip from her shoulders to the bends of her elbows. She had been doubtful about the lightweight muslin gown that Estelle had laid out for her, but it was proving a good choice after all.
A Lenten quiet hung in the streets. Gone were the maskers and the music, the loud laughter and shouts of drunken merriment. Instead, children played on the overhanging balconies; maids scrubbed steps with brick dust and a dog scratched fleas as he lay in the middle of the street. Now and then a gentleman passed with a polite lift of his hat, or a pair of nuns, with starched caps flying and crucifixes banging at their knees, hurried along on some errand. Just ahead of them a gentleman nearly as wide as he was tall, obviously a frequent visitor to the market, carried his own basket in the same direction they were heading.
Deborah chatted with ease and humor, keeping up a running commentary on the people who lived in the houses along the way and on the recent political improprieties in the city. She also complained, as she tripped over the uneven flagstones of the banquette, that most of the money for civic improvements was going uptown to the American section while the French Quarter was left to rack and ruin.
Angelica enjoyed listening to Renold’s half-sister and appreciated the information gleaned from her observations. She also laughed often at the dour but pithy comments Tit Jean interjected from time to time.
Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) Page 14