by Jane Feather
“Elise is to be married in four weeks.”
“High time,” he said. “That hardly strikes me as a problem; quite the opposite. The sooner she’s tucked up in the Castilian’s bed, the less likely she is to invite dangerous attentions.”
A watery smile enlivened Genevieve’s somber countenance. “Yes, that is true. But the difficulty is that she is to be married from Trianon, and we are to remove to the plantation at the end of next week. It was to be in three days’ time, but I managed to persuade Papa to delay it. Only, I did not know if I would see you before then, in the ordinary way. If you understand me.”
“In the ordinary way, eh?” he mused, a gleam of humor now in the turquoise eyes. “Is it so very ordinary? I had not thought it so, myself. But then, perhaps I do not have as much experience of such matters as you.”
A tinge of pink crept into her cheeks. “It is not kind to tease me, monsieur; not when I am already at such a horrible disadvantage.”
“If you are at a disadvantage, sprite, it must be for the first time in our acquaintance,” he stated drily.
That was far from the truth, Genevieve reflected, and Dominic had to be well aware of it, but the remark was clearly intended to restore to her a modicum of dignity, so she made no attempt to disagree with him. “At all events, I only wanted to let you know that we would be moving to the plantation sooner than I had thought.”
He nodded. “I shall be taking Danseuse to the anchorage with the rest of the fleet for repairs and refitting before we make our next voyage. You shall act as spy in the enemy camp for me. Keep me informed of your father’s movements, of any possibility that someone might develop an inconvenient interest in the swamp.”
“When are you sailing again?”
“Soon,” said he, uninformatively.
“Where to?”
“That is no concern of yours,” he replied dismissively, then changed the subject. “You are not to be frightened of Angelique. Voodoo magic cannot harm you, and I will deal with her myself.”
Genevieve shuddered. “Hatred is a very powerful force. I know I should not believe in the magic, but they do. And if you believe strongly enough in something, you can make anything happen.”
“Now, you are talking nonsense,” he said firmly. “And to prove it to you, I want you to come to the house tomorrow night.”
Genevieve paled. “I don’t think I can, Dominic.”
“Yes, you can. Angelique will not be there, but you will see how silly it is to be afraid.”
“You said she would not be there before,” Genevieve reminded him. “But she was.”
Dominic looked rueful. “Yes, I know. It did not strike me as important enough to worry about, and it does not now. But I give you my word that she will not be there tomorrow.”
“Will you tell her what I saw and heard?” she asked hesitantly.
Dominic shook his head. “No, I will do you the favor of keeping that piece of interference between ourselves. It would hardly endear you further to Angelique, and on that score I am afraid she would have my support.”
“I do not think I wish to talk about it anymore,” Genevieve declared, getting up. “You have made your point quite clearly several times.”
“Very well, we will say no more about it. But if you ever do anything like that again, Genevieve, and I get to hear about it, you had better put a great deal of distance between you and me.”
“You made your point,” she repeated wearily, pressing her fingers to her now aching temples. “I must go home. Everyone will have woken after siesta, and I must try to slip in undetected.”
Dominic frowned. She looked so pale and wan, so drained of her usual energy and bubbling enthusiasm. “Stay here. I will fetch my carriage and convey you home myself. At least you will be spared the walk, and if I create a diversion at the front door, you will be able to slip in through the side.”
She smiled gratefully. He had never offered to help her in her deception before, and she knew that was because he believed that she was doing only what she wished to do, and therefore must arrange matters for herself and shoulder her own risks. It was the premise on which he based his own life after all and not one with which Genevieve would ordinarily argue. But the light kiss he dropped on her brow before leaving the office was most comforting, just as was her certainty that the harshness of his initial reaction to her tale had stemmed from concern rather than simple anger.
Chapter Eleven
Angelique read Dominic’s brief note with hopelessness and fury. She was to arrange to spend tonight elsewhere, leaving the house before nine-thirty. Tomorrow, he would do himself the honor of calling upon her at noon, since he felt it was time for a further discussion of their present arrangements. The black-inked words danced before her eyes. Further discussion could only mean one thing: termination of their agreement. And he was intending to spend the night here with that scrawny creature before delivering the blow to Angelique.
What did she have that Angelique lacked? The girl paced the parlor, little white teeth tearing at her fingernails with nervous violence. If only she could contrive to use the powder from the bocor. It was to be sprinkled in front of the intended victim who must walk upon it, disturbing the prearranged design. This would bring l’envoi d’un mort to plague the creature who would surely die within the month. But how was she to sprinkle the powder if she was not to be in the house when the creature came? She could scatter it by the bed, but then Dominic might walk upon it also, and it would defeat the purpose if harm were to befall him. Perhaps she could defy the edict, pretend that she had not received the message so she would still be here when they arrived. But Silas had delivered the paper himself. Dominic would never believe that she had failed to receive it.
How long would she need to be alone with the creature? Just a minute or two. If Dominic could somehow be delayed for half an hour, the girl would come first, as sometimes happened. She would go straight upstairs, walk through the bocor’s powder that Angelique would sprinkle just outside the bedroom doorway. Then Angelique could sweep it up, and no one would be any the wiser. She could leave the house before Dominic arrived, and tomorrow she would be sweet and understanding and agree to everything he said, and wait for the girl to be put out of the way by the sorcerer’s magic. Dominic would come back to her, then.
It was a pleasing plan, but how to delay Dominic? She could send him a message, imploring him to meet her at nine-thirty at the Absinthe House. If she sounded desperate enough, hinting vaguely at some dreadful trouble, he would not fail her. He would wait for perhaps half an hour, and then, when she did not make the appointment, he would come to Rampart Street. Angelique, in obedience to his orders would not be here, of course, and she would find an excuse to satisfy him about the broken appointment the next day.
With decision came exultation, and she sat down to compose her missive, smudging the ink with a little water from the flower vase to give the appearance of tearstains. She would not send it until early evening, so Dominic would not have the opportunity to seek her out before nine-thirty. Of course, if he was not dining at home, then he would not receive the message. But she could not make provision for every eventuality. She must trust to luck.
And luck was with Angelique. Dominic received the message, brought by the little maidservant, as he was dressing for dinner. The tumbled words seemed to shriek distress from the smudged paper, and there was no question of his not making the rendezvous. Genevieve would be quite comfortable in the house until he arrived, and since Angelique would be with him, she would not be bothering Genevieve. After dinner, he strolled to the Absinthe House on Bourbon Street. It was a favorite haunt for ladies of shadowy respectability and their protectors, and much frequented by young Creole bloods. Many an evening ended with the challenge that would lead to a dawn meeting in St. Anthony’s Garden, and the clash of steel upon steel.
On Rampart Street, Angelique tried to control her impatience, her eyes on the ormolu clock, one of the elaborate garnitu
res de cheminée gifted by Dominic in one of his more indulgent moods. It was fifteen minutes before ten o’clock, and the creature still had not arrived. The powder was sprinkled in the doorway of the bedchamber, but it must be removed before Dominic arrived. How long would he wait for her at the Absinthe House? Was he on foot or on horseback? If the latter, he would reach Rampart Street in ten minutes at the most. Oh, where was the creature?
Genevieve hurried up St. Philip Street. It had been impossible to get away from the salle de compagnie this evening. Victor had decided to spend the evening at home and had demanded his younger daughter’s opposition at the chess board. She was the only person he would play with, outside of his club cronies and, when he demanded a game, could not be denied. Hélène and Elise had been chattering ceaselessly about wedding matters, and Nicolas had sat moodily in an armchair before the empty grate, staring into his brandy goblet. When he had suggested that he would go out and visit some friends, his uncle had told him that they were spending a family evening together and, for once, he could spend time at home. Since Victor, himself, rarely indulged in the pleasures of his own hearth, Nicolas could hardly be blamed for sulking at this hypocritical edict, but his gloom had done little to lighten the heaviness of this family occasion. Genevieve, knowing that he would insist on the usual best-of-three games, had contrived to lose the first two. She was as good a player as her father, and the deception had not been easy. But several inadequately suppressed sighs, fingers pressed to her temples, the occasional weak smile, all led him to demand what the matter was. A faint, brave denial was followed by a mistake that only a tyro would make. He was glad to bring the game to a close, telling her that she needed an early night. All this gadding about during the saison des visites was clearly taking its toll, and the sooner they removed to the country the better.
Genevieve had made her obedient way to her chamber, and soon after, had heard the front door close on Victor, off to his club, and then on an exuberant, released Nicolas. Hélène and Elise continued with their chat, and Genevieve made her escape down the gallery stairs and through the side gate.
The clock on the church of St. Louis was striking the hour as she rapped on the brass knocker of the Rampart Street house. The door was opened instantly by the little maidservant she had seen sometimes on her other visits. In general, she saw only Silas and Dominic, although the presence of others in the house was made manifest in the sounds of voices, footsteps, and doors opening and closing.
The child bobbed a curtsy as Genevieve went into the hall. “Monsieur is not here yet, mademoiselle.”
“Oh.” Genevieve looked around anxiously. Her skin was creeping as if centipedes were on the march up her spine. She did not want to be here at all, and most definitely not without Dominic. It didn’t matter that there was no sign of Angelique; that malevolence, the intensity of her loathing was still real in Genevieve’s mind and seemed to be embedded in the fabric of the house. She half turned back to the door that the maid had closed, intending to wait outside the house until Dominic came. But that was so silly. She could not allow her life to be ruled by superstition. Genevieve stalked up the stairs, her feet scuffing a line of white powder on the floor before the bedroom door, and went into the familiar, overly opulent chamber, lit only by the glow of the veilleuse.
She wandered over to the window, looking into the street for the comforting sight of Dominic, or even for Silas. She had absolute confidence in the monosyllabic Silas. If he was around, no possible harm would befall her. But the street remained empty. The bed was welcoming, though, and she pulled off the turban, shaking out her hair as it fell in a clean, fragrant cloud to her shoulders. The calico gown was tossed onto a chair, and she was about to remove her shift when a whispering sound from beyond the door set her scalp crawling. Her imagination, already brought to fever pitch by the gruesome events of the previous afternoon, now went berserk. She saw rats and slithery vipers mounting an evil guard at the door, conjured up by the venom of the mistress of the house. She saw robed and masked figures, knives in hand, the blood spurting from slashed throats while the drums beat and ashes made strange, circuitous patterns on the floor. A strange noise, half moan, half cry, escaped her lips as she flung wide the door in an unthinking need to confront whatever horror lay beyond.
“What are you doing?” She stared down at the kneeling figure of Angelique, a brush and pan in her hand. The enormous brown eyes gazed up at her, filled with that all-powerful hatred.
“You walked through it,” Angelique said in tones of quiet satisfaction. “The pattern was disturbed.”
“Through what?” The question seemed to stick in her throat as the slow certainty spread in her veins that she did not want to hear the answer.
“The bocor’s powder,” said Angelique, rising slowly to her feet, a triumphant glitter in her eyes. “L’envoie d’un mort will come to you.”
“Messenger from the dead?” Chills rippled across her skin, loosened her gut, and she took a step backward into the room.
Genevieve’s palpable fear emboldened Angelique. The quadroon followed her into the chamber. “He will bring you death,” she whispered, “and you will join him in the shadows.”
“No … no … You do not know what you are talking about.” Genevieve shook her head, one hand pressing against her breast bone. “There is no such thing. I do not believe in your magic.” But her voice shook even as she made her denial.
“You must believe,” Angelique said in the same low voice where intensity throbbed. “You will see, thieving slut, when the messenger brings you the knowledge that you cannot escape.”
“You dare call me that!” Anger for a moment superseded her terror, and Genevieve slapped the lovely face that gloated down at her.
Angelique bellowed with fury and struck back, one hand twining in the ash-blond cascade pouring down her enemy’s back. And then they were both lost in a whirlwind of fury that transcended all sense of place, of decency, and of purpose. Genevieve knew only that she must not be defeated, because to be so would put her at the mercy of an evil that she could only just begin to grasp. Angelique could think only of bringing the creature to her knees, of driving her from the house. She forgot about Dominic as their hands grabbed, clawed and pulled until the tight, violent circle of hatred was shattered, and she found herself flung against the wall, her opponent torn from her grasp.
Dominic held Genevieve by the waist, her back to him so she could not see his face. But Angelique could, and what she saw brought a whimper of terror from her. “She hurt me,” she moaned, her terror making the moan absolutely convincing. “Attacked …”
“Lying bitch!” Genevieve, still beyond reason, and completely oblivious of Dominic’s hold, leaped for the cowering, hateful figure.
Dominic’s arm tightened around her waist, an iron band that felt as if it would cut her in two. “You make one more move toward her, say one more word, and so help me, you will rue it to your dying day!”
It was too much for Genevieve; that he should talk to her in that way, in front of that woman who had threatened to kill her! And he had broken his word. Twisting in his arm, she turned on him with updrawn hand, her outrage and horror blazing in the tawny eyes. Dominic caught her wrist in a numbing grip the instant before her nails made contact with his cheek. Jerking her arm backward, he bent it up behind her back, bringing her body up hard against his. Her breasts beneath the thin shift were flattened against his chest, and as she writhed in his hold, the muscles in her trapped arm and shoulder screeched in agonized protest.
“Do not force me to do something we shall both regret, Genevieve.” The words, intense and urgent, were murmured against the rosewater fragrance of her tumbled hair, and slowly, through the mists of unreason, came the realization that it had been more of a request than a threat. She could feel the stillness in the hard, male body pressed against her own, the stillness of control, and gradually she absorbed that stillness herself, and her body became quiescent, her breathing quiet. Then,
and only then, did his grip slacken. He put her from him, giving her a little push in the direction of the bed. “Sit down and don’t move.”
Angelique had watched the way Dominic had subdued the creature, and her eyes were wide with amazed gratification, her tongue running over her lips. Dominic had come to Angelique’s defense; he had told the creature to leave her alone. For one wonderful moment, Angelique had thought he was going to beat the usurper who had dared to attack her. Maybe he would if Angelique made much of her injuries. She whimpered again, rubbing her arms gingerly, touching her breasts with a careful, delicate finger, as if they were hurt. Then she saw his eyes—a cold azure fury—and she knew she was lost.
“Out!” Taking her arm, he pushed her through the door. “Don’t let me ever lay eyes on you again. Silas!”
“Monsieur?” Silas appeared from the shadows immediately. He had clearly not missed a minute of the scene just played out.
“Get rid of her.” Dominic almost hurled the petrified, weeping Angelique into the sailor’s arms. “I want her out of this house in the next five minutes. She can collect any possessions tomorrow afternoon, under your supervision.”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Silas stolidly, propelling his wailing, protesting charge down the stairs in front of him.
Dominic turned hack to the room where Genevieve still sat upon the bed. The door closed firmly behind him, and he came to stand, towering over her. “I have never in my life witnessed such a disgusting, disgraceful spectacle! And, believe me, I have seen some sights. How dared you behave like some alley cat, entering a physical battle with that whore! You are a Creole, a Latour, for godsake!”
Genevieve’s jaw dropped. Whatever she had been expecting it was not this—the conventional outrage of a Creole gentleman at a piece of scandalous behavior by a supposed lady of his own class.
“What did you expect me to do?” she said. “Why should I differentiate between myself and your mistress? We both do the same things with the same man in the same bed in the same house. At your wish, I might add. You do not appear to differentiate between us.”