by Jane Feather
“That would take time, and I do not think you have that luxury,” Nicolas said bluntly. “Dominic is in somewhat of a hurry, and he already has Elise where he wants her.”
Genevieve grimaced and failed to notice that Nicolas seemed to have excluded himself from responsibility for the planning. “Yes, and after this afternoon, she is piqued because the assignation did not go as she would have wished, so she will be more than ready to accept another invitation.” Her companion made no comment and, after a short silence, Genevieve seemed to come to a decision. “There is only one thing to be done. We must intercept the invitation. Then you must keep Elise out of the way, and I will take her place.”
Nicolas stared at her. “You! Have you the slightest idea what you would be walking into?”
Genevieve felt a little cold knot in the pit of her stomach. She could guess without too much difficulty. A thwarted Dominic Delacroix was a fearsome prospect. But what options did they have? She gave Nicolas a seemingly careless shrug. “I do not think he will murder me and throw my body into the Mississippi, do you?”
“I would not be so confident of that,” Nicolas said soberly. “His opponents get short shrift, and he is not known for his scruples. I cannot allow you to do it.”
“I would remind you, cousin, that you are not in a position to allow or disallow anything,” Genevieve snapped. “If you remember, this entire tangle is your doing. Anyway, why should Monsieur Delacroix worry about the substitution? I am quite happy to assist him in his plan to achieve Papa’s compliance. He will simply have a willing accomplice rather than a petrified victim. And I have a reputation that needs to be preserved, also, do I not? Papa will not care to see my name dragged through the mud.”
“Yes, of course, but you are not betrothed to Don Lorenzo Byaz. You know how much that match means to your father, how much he wants the alliance of the two families. He will do anything to ensure that it goes through, and he will not argue for one minute with Dominic’s terms.”
“But he might argue if it were me,” Genevieve agreed with a tiny smile. “Yes, you are probably right. He will try everything to wriggle out of it. But Monsieur Delacroix does not know that and, besides, I am considerably more resourceful than my sister. I may well contrive to achieve my own salvation.”
Nicolas looked doubtful, but decided to keep his doubts to himself. It seemed as if, so long as his crusading cousin only required his passive cooperation, he had chosen his side. Dominic could not really lay the blame for the substitution at his door and, if he achieved his goal by using the alternative tool offered to him, would probably not object in the slightest. If his plan failed through some deviousness of Genevieve’s, then that would lie between the privateer and the girl. Of course, Nicolas thought, he probably should feel the need to protect his cousin, but if he hadn’t felt the need too strongly with the so much more vulnerable Elise, why should he feel it with Genevieve, who was making all the decisions anyway. Nicolas St. Denis sometimes did not like himself very much, but he was under no illusions about his character and had learned to live with himself quite some time ago.
“I will engage to keep Elise out of the way if you wish to take her place,” he said. “But do not expect any help from me if your plan rebounds against you. I will have enough to do defending myself against Dominic if he discovers my part in the substitution. I am supposed to keep you out of the way, not actively encourage your further interference.”
The tiger’s eyes filled with contempt. “You have my promise, cousin. I will not put you in further jeopardy.”
Nicolas flushed a dull crimson, but could find no words of defense. “How will we know when Elise receives the invitation?” he mumbled instead.
Genevieve frowned, contemplating the problem in silence for a minute or two, then her face cleared, and the frown was replaced with a sunny smile. “Amelie,” she pronounced. “She will do it for me.”
“Do what?” Nicolas asked, still in the dark.
“Intercept messages that come for Elise. I will ask her to bring them to me before giving them to Elise. I will recognize Monsieur Delacroix’s handwriting since I saw it clearly on his last letter. All others, Amelie can return to my sister who will be none the wiser.”
Nicolas nodded slowly. It would work if Amelie’s cooperation could be guaranteed, and after the incident at Maspero’s Exchange, she would do anything for Genevieve without question.
It was two days later, when Amelie knocked softly on Genevieve’s door in the heat of the afternoon. A messenger, a grimy lad from the docks, had just brought a letter for Mademoiselle Latour. One look at the bold black script, and Genevieve knew that she had what she had been waiting for. She thanked Amelie and dismissed her with a reassuring smile, then began to walk around the sun-barred chamber, tapping the missive in the palm of her hand. Opening letters addressed to others was definitely worse than eavesdropping, she decided ruefully. And if this message was quite innocent, how was she to explain to Elise why the seal was broken?
Well, she had made her decision a long time since, and this was no time to be overly scrupulous. The end must justify the means. With that comforting reflection, decisively, she broke the seal and unfolded the paper. The flowery words somehow struck her as not being in keeping with the hard strokes of the pen, and she had the unmistakable impression that Monsieur Delacroix was not, in general, one for pretty compliments and elegant turns of phrase.
The message, however, was perfectly simple. After an oblique reference to their inconveniently interrupted meeting in the courtyard of the mercer’s store, Monsieur Delacroix begged the favor of a few words in private with Mademoiselle Latour. There was a hint that he was a prey to all sorts of tormenting emotions, deeper than any he had previously experienced, and only the sight and sound of Mademoiselle Latour would grant him a measure of respite. Genevieve’s lip curled. He had struck exactly the right note. Elise would see the statements as her due; she had heard them often enough from lovesick swains not to doubt their authenticity in this instance. Only Elise was too blind to realize that Dominic Delacroix was no young Creole gentleman with idle hands and empty head, playing the game of dalliance. At the end of the message came the concrete suggestion. Could Mademoiselle Latour see her way to taking a short stroll alone in the side garden that evening? Her humble suitor would wait beside the side gate, near the street. He would wait all evening if necessary, in the desperate hope that she would honor him with a brief sight of her.
Clever, Genevieve thought, refolding the note. Elise would see only a slightly wicked adventure. She would not be leaving her father’s grounds, and all that was suggested was a few words, maybe a little handholding, while the sweet music of a lover’s torment filled her unattainable ears. But how was she then to be persuaded out of the garden, away from the safety of home, and into a situation where she could be held until Victor Latour capitulated?
Genevieve would find that out this evening. Apprehension fingered her spine, crept over her scalp. But it was mixed with another feeling, with what she could only identify as excitement. The life of a Creole maiden on the marriage mart most definitely lacked excitement, and Genevieve Latour sublimely indifferent to the consequences, had pursued that enlivening addition to her life since childhood.
Chapter Six
“You do not object, then, Victor, if I escort Elise and Genevieve to the bal de royauté this evening?” Hélène asked timidly, passing the platter of grillades to her husband.
Victor looked around the family dinner table where sat his two daughters in ball gowns, Nicolas in knee britches, all three of them studiously examining their plates, as if afraid to meet his eye and thus, by some ill chance, give him the opportunity to deny the chaperonage that the girls, at least, would need.
“I suppose I have no choice in the matter,” he grumbled, with disregard for the realities of life in the Latour household. “If you prefer your duties as stepmother to those of wife.”
“Papa, that is not just,” Gene
vieve protested, and a ripple, like breeze in a cornfield, ran round the table.
Victor regarded his younger daughter with a baleful eye. “You, mademoiselle, may stay at home and study your collect,” he pronounced. “It may remind you of your duty to your elders.”
“Yes, Papa,” Genevieve murmured, dropping her eyes submissively, hiding the gleam of satisfaction. She had been racking her brains for an excuse for not accompanying the others this evening. Fatigue, or the headache, would cause an unwelcome stir, since she never suffered from either. Anything more serious would be given the lie by her too healthy complexion and the brightness of her eyes. And it was quite inconceivable that she should simply choose to stay at home with a book, voluntarily eschewing the gaiety. Nothing could have been better than her father’s interdiction, and since he would certainly not spend the evening at home if his wife was out, Genevieve was assured of an empty house—no watchful eyes when she slipped out into the side garden.
Something was pressing on her foot. Nicolas, she realized, unable to resist letting her know that he appreciated her strategem. She took a sip of wine, allowing her gaze to skim over him, then returned to the pompano in lemon butter sauce.
“It is such a pity you must stay at home,” Hélène lamented, adjusting her lace mantilla as she and Elise stood on the verandah, half an hour later, preparing to descend to the waiting carriage. “It was not necessary to defend me, you know?” She smiled and lowered her voice. “I just do not hear him when he says things like that. He knows it is not true.”
Genevieve chuckled. “Your methods are more subtle than mine, Hélène. But I cannot help protesting his injustices, and I do not really regret it.”
“How can you not?” Elise gazed at her sister in amazement, the enormous blue eyes shining under the overhead lantern. “Everyone will be at the Gerard’s this evening. And they always have the best musicians.”
Genevieve just shrugged. Not quite everyone would be there. If Elise was expecting a privateer’s attention, she would be sadly disappointed. She stood on the verandah, waving them away, then turned back to the hall, just as Nicolas came down the curving staircase, drawing on his gloves, very much the elegant gallant on his way to charm the young ladies of the Creole aristocracy.
“I would say take care,” he whispered. “But I do not think it is advice you will heed.”
“It is a little late for that,” she replied drily. “Challenging the privateer is hardly a careful prospect.” An exciting and irresistible one, though. But that thought was hers alone, not to be divulged. “If I am not here in the morning, do what you can for Hélène and Elise when the storm breaks, as it surely will.”
“What can I do?” he asked with a helpless shrug.
“At least you can tell them the truth, so that when Papa rages they will be armed with foreknowledge,” she returned briskly. “Her narrow escape might encourage Elise to show some enthusiasm for an early marriage. I do not think Papa will quarrel with that, either.” Her lips twitched and Nicolas shook his head in astonishment. How could she treat such a subject with so much insouciance? Even if Dominic Delacroix accepted the substitution willingly, Victor Latour’s revenge on this daughter who had no fiancé’s sharp eyes as protection would be terrifying.
Genevieve ran upstairs to her chamber, leaving the door ajar so that she could hear the general commotion that would herald her father’s departure for his club. It came within the hour, his bellowed demand for his hat and cane, the scurrying feet of his attendants, the slam of the great front door, then the almost palpable breath of relief as the house settled into silence. It would be an evening of relaxation for the household. There would be music in the slave quarters, and the main house would be deserted since they all knew that Mademoiselle Genevieve would make no arbitrary demands. Already, she could hear the sounds of laughter, voices raised in song, the high-pitched tones of children playing in the courtyard that, for this evening, they could make their own domain.
She would have to leave by the front of the house, with all that activity in the rear, Genevieve decided. She had changed out of her ball gown into a simple dress of apple green cambric with a scalloped neckline and little cap sleeves.
Now, she slipped a dark, heavy cloak around her shoulders, tucking the silver-bright hair beneath the hood. It was a great shame that her stature in no way resembled her sister’s. But in the darkness, huddled in the cloak, if she played the shy, speechless coquette, maybe she could pass muster long enough for Dominic to commit himself to the abduction. Then, she would be in a position to talk business with the privateer. That now familiar little prickle ran down her spine again—part apprehension, part anticipation.
The garden was full of shadows, the empty house in semidarkness, candles extinguished in all but the main hall, only veilleuses providing a soft welcoming glow in the bedchambers that awaited the return of their occupants. Genevieve closed the great front door behind her, careful to make no more than the slightest click. She stole down the wide verandah steps to the street, hugged the stone wall that confined the side garden, raised the latch on the wrought-iron gate, and slipped inside.
Genevieve had not known what to expect when she made the rendezvous, had thought she was prepared for anything, but when the heavy blanket descended over her head, enclosing her in hot, stifling darkness, and her body was bundled up, her arms pinned to her sides, she fought against the darkness and the restraints with all the fury of a petrified animal. Her teeth sank into the iron arm holding her. Her legs kicked free of the blanket and made contact—a contact that brought a violent expletive from somewhere above her. A hand clamped over her mouth and nose, holding the blanket against her face, cutting off the air supply, and her lungs stretched agonizingly, panic rising in her chest, black spots dancing in the red mist behind her eyes. She stopped her struggles, and instantly the pressure was lifted and fresh, cold air rushed into her lungs. She lay still in the arms holding her, certain that a renewal of resistance would result in the cessation of that wonderful life-giving supply.
She knew that her captor was not Dominic Delacroix.
Apart from the fact that her body would have recognized his in this close proximity, if it had been the privateer, he would have guessed instantly that the light frame in his arms could not have belonged to the generously endowed Elise. She was being carried swiftly, but almost silently, the sound of feet on the banquette barely audible. Then she felt herself hitched up higher against his chest as her carrier climbed upward. Her position changed again, as, with a small grunt, he sat down, still holding her in the confining blackness of the blanket. A door closed, and they lurched forward with the steady clop of hooves. An experimental twist of her body brought that suffocating hand across her mouth and nose again, and Genevieve lay still immediately.
Not a word had been said. The only human sound she had heard had been that oath when she had kicked and bitten her captor. It was eerie and frightening, even though she knew what was happening to her and why. Elise, if subjected to such an experience, would have fainted dead away, and Genevieve felt her anger rise again, full and strong, surpassing her fear. How could he have planned this brutal treatment of a complete innocent? And how could Nicolas mutter comfortingly about how no one would be hurt? Genevieve hurt at this moment and had absolutely no confidence that the experience would improve.
The carriage jolted to a stop. The door opened. Hands wrapped her more tightly, like Cleopatra in her carpet, Genevieve thought with an unlooked for flash of wry humor. Then she felt herself being lifted again, carried down the steps, then up some more and, by the sudden change of atmosphere, she sensed that they were inside a house.
“Any trouble?” It was Dominic Delacroix’s voice, and Genevieve stiffened involuntarily.
“A bit,” a rough voice returned. “You didn’t warn me she was a fighter. Got teeth and claws like an alley cat.”
The privateer laughed, and Genevieve boiled with rage in her constraints. “My apologies, Silas
. It’s the last thing I would have expected of her. Now, had it been her sister …” That laugh came again. “Put her in the chamber above stairs.”
They ascended what seemed like a fairly long flight. Then there was the sound of a door opening, and Genevieve suddenly found herself, still wrapped in the blanket, rolled upon the floor. There was a decisive click as the door closed again. Then the sound of a key being turned, and she was at last free to fight clear of her wrappings.
Blinking bemusedly in the light of wax tapers set in a branched candelabra, Genevieve sat up, picking bits of fluff from her mouth with an annoyed grimace. Shaking off the blanket, she stood up, taking stock of herself. She felt bruised and a bit shaken, but apart from that, quite well. Her hair was an impossible mess, her gown creased and twisted, but they were insignificant ills that could be put to right to some extent. She was in a bedchamber, a very elaborate bedchamber of ruched silks and overstuffed pillows. On the dressing table were to be found combs, brushes, hand-mirrors. Genevieve made good use of them and regarded her surroundings with a little frown. It was impossible to imagine Dominic Delacroix, of the quiet elegance and discreet but definite power, inhabiting this vulgarly opulent, mirror-hung room. The bed was hung with crimson satin, the canopy lined in pale blue, the festoons of lace. The long windows were similarly draped. The furniture was ornately carved, the mirrors and picture frames gilded, decorated with cherubs and bunches of fruit. It was most definitely not the bedchamber of a lady, as Genevieve understood the term.
Crossing over to one window, she pulled aside the looped curtain with its fringed tassel and peered out into the dark street. It looked much like any other in the Quarter. The houses opposite had the usual intricate lace balconies and shuttered windows, but there was nothing within her visibility to identify it exactly, and the street was empty, perhaps not surprisingly, given the hour, which an ornate ormolu clock on the armoire told her was ten o’clock. It was too late for people to begin the evening’s visiting, and too early for their return.