Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  Genevieve had just decided that she would have to rely upon her own wits when her nostrils caught the aromatic scent of tobacco that had departed with Dominic. He reappeared from around the corner of the house and strolled casually across to her.

  “Still here?” he murmured. “I was sure you would have solved your problem by now.”

  “It is insoluble,” she stated. “But clearly you enjoy turning the knife in the wound, Monsieur Delacroix. It is hardly chivalrous to refuse to help me, then to make mock of my predicament.”

  “No, it is not,” he agreed casually. “But then, you see, mademoiselle, I am not known for my chivalry.”

  “For some reason, monsieur, I do not find that statement at all a revelation,” she retorted, getting to her feet. “Please don’t let me keep you.” Her lips moved in the semblance of a polite smile.

  “Do you really think you could?” he inquired with a degree of interest.

  Genevieve bit her lip, unable to think of a dignified reply since neither “yes” nor “no” struck her as suitable.

  Her infuriating companion nodded his satisfaction. “It is always wise not to attempt to answer the unanswerable.” Then, with sudden decision, he tossed away his cigar and brushed his hands together. “It’s well past your bedtime. Up with you, now.”

  Genevieve’s jaw dropped, but he took her by the shoulders and spun her round before he bent, grasped her tightly around the knees and lifted her straight up to the window. Her fingers curled around the ledge, then she was hoisted higher. Her feet found his shoulders, and the next minute she was sitting on the windowsill, blinking down at him. It had all happened so fast, her body had been twisted, lifted, turned as if she were a doll that could be manipulated at will. But she was where she wanted to be, and objecting to the methods that had been employed to get her there was hardly appropriate, so she said, “Thank you, Monsieur Delacroix. To what do I owe the change of heart?”

  “I cannot imagine,” he drawled, dusting off his velvet-covered shoulders. “I expect I had too much champagne. I am sure I shall regret the chivalrous impulse.”

  Genevieve could not help smiling since, if she had anything to do with it, she rather suspected that he would indeed regret it. “Well, I am most grateful to you since you have saved me from certain banishment to the country,” she informed him.

  Dominic groaned. “I knew I should not have yielded. I have the unmistakable impression that this city would be a deal more peaceful if you were not in it, Genevieve Latour. If you wish to show your gratitude for my kindness, you will contrive to keep out of my way in the future.”

  “I do not think I can promise to do that,” she said quietly. “Not if you intend to make trouble for my sister.”

  His indrawn breath rasped sharply in the still air. “You have overlarge ears, Genevieve, and rather less sense than I credited you with, if you think to challenge me.”

  “Is that a threat, Monsieur Delacroix?” She had not meant to say anything about what she had overheard. Why had the words just tumbled out like that? Now, she had opened a veritable Pandora’s box, and for what purpose? He would be much harder to circumvent, if he was on his guard against her.

  Dominic stepped up to the wall, reached up and grasped her ankles that she had neglectfully left dangling. His fingers circled them easily, and the pressure he applied verged on the uncomfortable. For one moment, Genevieve thought he meant to pull her down off her perch. But instead, he asked a prosaic question in a voice that contained not a shred of emotion. “How old are you, Genevieve? Sixteen, seventeen?”

  “Neither,” she replied, making her voice respond in the same neutral tone that he had used. “I turned eighteen last month.”

  “Mmm. You look younger.”

  “It is because I am small,” she offered, forgetting for a moment the sinister fashion in which this discussion had started.

  His eyebrows lifted and the turquoise eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “That must be the reason.” That hint of mockery was there again. “Well, mademoiselle, I can give you twelve years, years that I have spent a long way from the schoolroom, in pursuits that, if you had a shred of maidenly modesty, which I doubt, would shock you. I do not need to issue threats, my child. I will simply repeat: You have less sense than I credited you for, if you think to challenge me.” With that, he released her ankles and walked off, whistling a cheerful, insouciant little tune.

  For some reason, the carelessly merry sound made Genevieve shiver with a tingle of apprehension. He had not attempted to deny her accusation, which, in itself, was most disconcerting, and she had been warned, as bluntly as it was possible to be, to keep out of his business. But it was not a warning she either could or should heed. She had always had a tendency toward the crusader, and once she had taken up a cause, she found it impossible to give it up. Dominic Delacroix was up to no good, and Elise, for some obscure reason, was designated victim. But not if Genevieve had anything to do with it.

  On this rousing thought, she swung her legs over the sill and dropped back into her prison. Her ankles still retained the warmth of his grip, she noted distractedly. In fact, for some reason, the entire surface of her skin tingled as if she had been touched all over by hands other than her own. She had certainly been “handled” this evening in the most unfamiliar—no, she amended ruefully, familiar fashion. If Elise had been touched like that—But then she wouldn’t have been. It was unthinkable that anyone would treat Elise in that cavalier, unconcerned fashion, as if she were no more than the child Dominic had called Genevieve. But then Elise would not have been clambering in and out of windows like a tomboy. She would never have put herself in the position of having to, Genevieve thought disconsolately, looking around the cabinet as a wash of weariness broke over her.

  The only sounds from the house now were those of the servants clearing up after the party; everyone else was away to the comforts of feather mattresses and lawn sheets. And where was she supposed to sleep? There was barely sufficient free floor space to curl up on, even supposing the wooden boards were inviting. Victor Latour was a bad man to cross. But then his younger daughter had known that since she’d first become aware of the real world. She sank down in a corner, her back propped in the angle of the walls. Elise had obviously forgotten that fact if she was thinking of jeopardizing her marriage with Don Lorenzo Byaz.

  It was dawn before the sound of the key turning in the lock brought Genevieve out of the wretched half doze that was all her uncomfortable position would permit in the way of sleep. Hélène Latour stood in the doorway, holding her robe across her breasts, her hair disheveled. “He said I might,” she whispered. “I could not sleep properly, knowing you were in here.”

  Genevieve stood up, wincing as her crampled muscles protested momentarily. “Poor Hélène.” She put her arms around the other woman, knowing full well the night Hélène would have submitted to, in order to achieve this concession for her stepdaughter. It was not the sort of knowledge considered appropriate for a jeune fille de la maison, but Hélène was so close in age to her husband’s daughters, so much in need of friendship and support when she had emerged, six months before, petrified with shock, from the two-week honeymoon spent closeted with her new husband in the big nuptial bedchamber, that she had been unable to hold back from the sympathetic warmth offered to her.

  Now, she smiled wanly, and leaned for a minute against Genevieve, drawing from the girl’s strength, a strength seemingly undiminished by the hours of acute, lonely, physical discomfort. “My thanks, Hélène,” Genevieve said. “He will be going to his office soon, then you will be able to sleep.”

  Hélène nodded. “And you, also. But I do wish you would try not to anger him, Genevieve.”

  “I do not do it on purpose.” Genevieve smiled, although she knew the smile was not going to reassure Hélène. “Sometimes, it cannot be helped if I am to do the right thing.”

  “I wish you did not always feel that you have to do the right thing.” Hélène sighed. “Oh,
dear, that does not sound like something one should say, does it?”

  Genevieve chuckled. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Maman.” In spite of the chuckle, though, she found herself thinking that life would be a lot less hazardous at times, if she were to ignore her managing conscience. She had already this evening drawn herself an opponent as formidable as Victor Latour—more so, she thought, with that little shiver. She put the thought aside and returned Hélène’s embrace with equal warmth—a warmth not untinged by resignation to their shared fate and to their different methods of dealing with that fate.

  Genevieve climbed wearily up the stairs to her large, sunny bedchamber opening, like all the others, onto the second-floor balcony at the back of the house. The temptation to fall onto the bed fully clothed was hard to resist, but she was still wearing the afternoon gown of delicately flowered chintz that she had been wearing when they had met Dominic Delacroix outside Maspero’s Exchange all those days ago—Days? Well, it certainly felt like it, although common sense told her that it had only been about sixteen hours ago. It seemed a lifetime. Yawning, she kicked off her kid slippers and stepped out of the gown that was now much the worse for wear after the events of the evening, leaving it crumpled on the floor; similarly the single petticoat and her shift. Tabitha would deal with them with her usual soundless efficiency. She sat on the bed to roll down her silk stockings, contemplated the need to wash her face, brush her hair, was still contemplating it as she crawled naked beneath the coverlet, inhaling the lavender freshness of the embroidered pillowcase as she sank into oblivion.

  Chapter Four

  The sounds of the levée market below, drifted in through the open window: the calls of the vendors hawking their wares; the excited babble of shoppers haggling in all the tongues of the civilized world as seamen jostled amongst the stalls; the squawk of a parrot; the shriek of a monkey; the incessant gibbering of small-game birds. With the sounds came the smells of decaying produce and river mud, of spices and garlic, furs, and fresh, green, rainwashed vegetables, ripe cheeses, and fresh-caught, glistening fish. But the two men facing each other across the broad mahogany desk in Victor Latour’s private office were oblivious of the vibrant scene outside. It was one, after all, that had provided the backdrop for their lives in the city since either had memory.

  A vein throbbed in Victor’s temple as he struggled for sufficient control to articulate his outrage. The younger man opposite, with the fly-away eyebrows and the carved mouth and jaw, watched his struggles impassively and waited with a polite smile as his host gobbled and the perspiration stood out on his brow.

  “You have the temerity to imagine that I would agree to such a proposition?” Victor managed at last. “That I, Victor Latour, should go into partnership with a privateer … a rogue …”

  “You are not so nice in your notions, Monsieur Latour, when it is a matter of trading with a privateer,” Dominic interrupted gently, the calm reminder doing nothing for Latour’s temper. “You and all your so delicate friends take what I offer most eagerly. It is convenient, is it not, to forget how they were acquired? But if you will permit me to say so, your hands are dirtied, nevertheless, by handling the silks, the velvets, all those little items that are indispensable to a comfortable life; those items that were wrested by main force from some merchantman—stolen, if you will.” Dominic laughed, a low laugh of pure pleasure that rang incongruously in the fury-charged atmosphere of the sunny room.

  Victor’s ears began to buzz, and he knew he must take hold of himself before his pounding heart burst. “Insolent cur,” he gasped. “You dare talk to me in that fashion. I will have satisfaction!”

  Dominic shook his head and rose to his feet in a leisurely fashion. “I regret, Monsieur Latour, that I could not, in good conscience, meet you. You are a great deal older than I, and I do not think your health would stand up to the strain.”

  Victor’s color changed dramatically, and the thickset frame began to shake. “You mistake me, Delacroix,” he hissed. “I would not meet you as a gentleman. I would take a horsewhip to you, rather.”

  It was Dominic’s turn to pale now. The turquoise eyes glittered and his body became very still. “I am very much afraid, Latour, that you will regret that insult.” He bowed, clicking his booted heels together, swung round, and left the shipbuilder’s office. His horse stood outside the frame building, tethered to the hitching post. The scruffy urchin who unfastened the reins, handing them to Dominic, cringed involuntarily at the sight of those polished eyes, the twist of the mouth, the power coiled in the broad shoulders. Cuffs came the lad’s way as often as coins, and he scooted backward as soon as he’d handed over the reins.

  “What the devil’s the matter with you, boy?” Dominic demanded, as the frightened movement penetrated his ice-locked reverie. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a coin, leaning down from his horse to hold it out toward the urchin. The boy took a tentative step forward, grabbed his payment, and jumped back against the wall.

  “Something’s angered monsieur,” he muttered.

  The darkness lifted on Dominic’s face. “Yes, indeed it has, but it is not your responsibility, child, and I’m not inclined to vent my anger on an innocent.”

  He rode off along the levée, skirting the hubbub of the market, down to the different turmoil of the quay where tall ships swung at anchor, ropes creaked, rigging slapped in the river breeze coming up from the Gulf. La Danseuse, true to her name, seemed to skip at her mooring. Delicate, white and gleaming, the frigate was Dominic’s pride and joy, and the sight of her was balm to his inflamed spirit. But it was also a painful reminder of his abortive meeting with Victor Latour. He must have Latour’s cooperation, and he would get it now in the one way left open to him: He would force it. Dominic smiled slightly as he dismounted, tossing the reins to another eager urchin. He would force it, and by the forcing would have his revenge for the insult. He would strike at Latour at the base of his identity—his pride.

  He strode up the gangway and onto the well-scrubbed deck. Two sailors, engaged in revarnishing the coaming, made movements as if to rise, but at the wave of his hand, resumed their work. The master of this ship was not one to expect ceremonial reverence, but he demanded implicit obedience, and there wasn’t a soul who sailed under him who would deny him that. If common sense failed to convince them of the wisdom, fear was a powerful inducement.

  “Morning, monsieur.” The bosun appeared from the quarterdeck, wiping his oily hands on a filthy scrap of rag tucked into his belt. “She’s ready to sail for the new anchorage, whenever you give the word.”

  Dominic nodded and mounted the ladder to the quarterdeck from where he could survey his little kingdom. Danseuse, on the surface, looked in perfect condition, but her master could see in his mind’s eye the patched gash on the waterline. He needed that secluded anchorage and the easy access to the shipyard and its facilities in order to make his repairs, not just to Danseuse but to the other ships of his fleet, most of them in need of overhaul before the next foray into the Gulf and the oceans beyond. Such repairs could not be made here, by the quayside. Too much was going on, and too many secrets would be revealed. He needed privacy to conceal his weaknesses. Spies abounded around the quays, Spanish and British sailors with sharp eyes and long tongues. If it hadn’t been for the sharp eyes and long tongue of Lucien Gros, he would not have been in this position now, forced out of the safe anchorage on Lake Salvador.

  But Lucien had paid the price and was now feeding the sharks, and Dominic would get little achieved by dwelling on his past errors. His plan to repair the damage caused by those errors was formulated, half put into practice, and now required only the finishing touches. How long would it take before the Latour peach dropped into his hand? Dominic frowned. A week, maybe, if he speeded up his approach, sacrificed the grace of subtlety in the interests of expediency. Not something he cared to do, but needs must when the devil drives. He shrugged.

  “I’m going below, bosun.”

  “O
ui, monsieur.” The sailor stepped aside. “Anything I can get you?”

  “Coffee,” Dominic said. “And brioche. I have not yet breakfasted.”

  In the master cabin, where the comfort of wood paneling and jewel-toned rugs belied the purpose of a stripped-for-action frigate, Dominic sat at the Chippendale desk, with its tooled leather top, reached for pressed paper and his quill, tapped the pen against his teeth for a thoughtful moment, then began to write. The note was calculated to flatter, to intrigue and, if those were not sufficient, it made the sort of offer no discerning young lady with an eye to her wardrobe could refuse. No discerning, but susceptible young lady, Dominic amended with a disdainful smile.

  The note required a nosegay as accompaniment and a messenger. A knock at the door heralded a young cabin boy in his first season, bearing the breakfast tray and regarding his captain with the wide eyes of one looking upon legend. He heard his instructions, received coin to purchase the flowers, and scampered off with the letter in the direction of the Latour house on Royal Street.