Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  “General Jackson is calling for all able-bodied men,” Elise moaned. “It is said that he is unwell …”

  “Man is suffering from an acute attack of dysentery,” Latour exploded. “It’s the devil’s own timing.”

  “I do not imagine he could help it, Papa,” Genevieve said, forgetting, in the heat of the moment, the need to avoid drawing her father’s attention.

  But Nicolas, with rare tact, jumped into the breach, diverting Victor the instant before the deep breath he inhaled could be exhaled on a bellow. “We should go at once.” Nicolas pointedly checked the buckle of his sword belt. “We do not want to be the last to appear.”

  “No, indeed not.” The idea that a Latour, by birth or extension, could be found backward in coming forward at such a moment was enough to send Victor to the door without a second thought. Lorenzo patted a tearful Elise on the shoulder and told her she would be quite safe with her stepmother, and when Elise wailed that it was not her own safety that concerned her, he patted her again and left hastily. Nicolas looked at Genevieve, seemed about to say something, then turned and followed the others. Elise and Hélène allowed their tears to flow unchecked, and Genevieve contemplated the irony of it all. She could not cry because she was not supposed to have anyone for whose safety she feared. Not that she felt in the least like crying for Dominic. She just wished she could be on the quarterdeck of Danseuse, listening to that cool, clear, decisive voice directing the operation of the dainty frigate with such absolute confidence; wished she had a part in those operations instead of sitting here with weeping women, twiddling her thumbs!

  “Elise, it cannot be good for the baby for you to become so very upset,” she said, accepting the only role she was going to be permitted to play in this final battle of the war. It was not an unimportant role, the soothing and calming of her hysterical female relatives, even if it was not an exciting one.

  On the night of December 23rd, General Jackson launched a night attack against the British forces, checking their advance. It was a strange Christmas within the city, reprieved for the moment yet uncertain for how long. The church of St. Louis was filled for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, the celebration muted with the anxious prayers both for the safety of loved ones and the security of an accustomed life threatened by the prospect of occupation.

  On New Year’s Day, General Sir Edward Pakenham, to his eternal amazement, fought what he assumed would be the final battle against this ill-prepared, ill-manned motley army and found his troops outgunned by the enemy artillery. It appeared that expert marksmen from Kentucky and Tennessee were more than a match for the ritual bound, over-drilled British. Pakenham waited for reinforcements and, supremely confident, on January 8th launched his main force against the enemy crouching behind a hastily thrown-up earthwork defense.

  Dominic and his crews, their ships securely anchored in the Mississippi, half a mile away from the battlefield at Chalmette, proffered their own expertise with small arms and cannon, and like their fellow soldiers in this hastily assembled army, watched incredulously as the red-coated ranks came on, straight at the enemy guns that cut through them like a scythe in a cornfield. But as each rank fell, there was another to take its place. It was as if they were so hidebound by the rigorous training and belief in the rules pertaining to a war between gentlemen that imagination had deserted them, and with it, the knowledge and acceptance of the facts. The outnumbered enemy were not going to come out from behind their barricades and fight eye to eye. They were not so stupid! It was such a tragic, pitiful waste of so much young life that Dominic could have wept. And so it went on for a blood-soaked half an hour of attrition, leaving over two thousand British troops dead or wounded and only thirteen casualties on the American side.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For the next few days, the city of New Orleans rejoiced, one soirée de gala following another as eager hostesses vied to honor the brave defenders and celebrate the end of the war that, ironically, had officially ended two weeks before the Battle of New Orleans. Had the news of the signing of the peace treaty in Europe reached General Pakenham in time, that dreadful, wasteful bloodletting would have been avoided.

  Dominic Delacroix was a frequent guest at the celebrations, but he was to be found, for the most part, closeted with his male hosts and other interested parties, making plans for the voyage to Europe and the liberation of Napoleon from his exile on the island of Elba. It was a grand, if not grandiose, plan, entirely in keeping with the personalities of its designers, and the privateer was amused, although he concealed his amusement behind a mask of polite interest. The scope and daring of the plan was what held his interest, more so, indeed, than the financial rewards to be gained from lending his services, considerable though they were.

  One matter that did concern him, however, was the absence of Genevieve Latour from the succession of parties. Her cousin was usually in attendance, looking more somber and paying less assiduous court to Mademoiselle Benoit than was his wont. Madame Latour was frequently to be seen, usually in the company of her elder stepdaughter, but the vibrant, diminutive figure of the younger Latour was conspicuously absent. Dominic had sent two messages to the house on Royal Street, delivered, as usual, to the silently helpful Amelie. Two afternoons, he had waited on Rampart Street, but she had not come, and there had been no return message and, more surprisingly, no sudden, unexpected visitation. He wondered if she were sulking, and then dismissed the idea as having no relevance to Genevieve. She had many annoying characteristics, but she was never sullen or sulky. Perhaps, she just needed time to accustom herself to her father’s plan and, wisely, had decided that illicit loving with the privateer would not help her accept the path she must tread. But Genevieve would have told him that.

  Finally, he decided to approach Nicolas. He picked an occasion graced by almost every member of Creole society, including Victor Latour, and strolled casually across to St. Denis who was standing by the buffet, a morose expression disfiguring the handsome countenance.

  “Good evening, Nicolas.” Dominic took a lobster canape from the table and popped it between his lips. Nicolas returned the greeting, but a wary look appeared in the pale eyes. “The world and his wife have turned out this evening,” Dominic observed casually. “But I do not see Mademoiselle Latour anywhere.” He allowed a question mark to drift into his voice, and the wary look in Nicolas’s eyes deepened. An unaccountable flush tinged his high cheekbones. Dominic’s lips tightened. Nicolas was so transparent! His fear of the privateer was palpable, and while Dominic would admit that Nicolas had been given sufficient cause in the past to be wary of further dealings with him, he could not help despising his inability to mask his alarm. Unlike his plucky little cousin who had faced the devil in Delacroix with grim resolution. “Indeed,” he continued smoothly, “I have not seen her since before Christmas. She is not unwell, I trust?”

  Nicolas muttered something about a severe cold and the need to remain within doors to avert possible inflammation of the lungs, and Dominic became quite convinced that something was going on in the Latour household that invited examination.

  “Genevieve is at home on Royal Street?” he asked, and there was no polite veneer to the question which was sharp and decisive.

  Nicolas, caught off guard, said, “Why, yes, of course. She is in her chamber.”

  “Then we will go and visit her,” Dominic said, taking the other’s arm at the elbow. Nicolas flinched, both at the hold and the tone of voice. But he tried for conventional indignation.

  “I do not understand what you can mean, Delacroix. You cannot pay a visit to a young girl who is sick and confined to her chamber.”

  “You would be surprised,” Dominic replied grimly. “My sick-bed manner is generally considered to be most beneficial for the patient.”

  “What is Genevieve to you?” Nicolas whispered, unable to resist the pressure urging him toward the door.

  “I am surprised you should ask that,” Dominic replied shortly. “You played
a significant part in our becoming acquainted, as I recall.”

  They had reached the street, and Nicolas made one last attempt to dig his heels in. “That was many months ago and the business is closed. You have no right to interfere in the private affairs of our family.”

  “So, there is more to this ‘private affair’ than a severe cold,” Dominic stated with harsh satisfaction. “What has Latour done to her?”

  Nicolas stared at his interlocutor. “Why should you think he has done anything?”

  “Oh, stop playing games, St. Denis. Surely it must be obvious to you, by now, that I know a great deal about Latour affairs! And I know that Genevieve has been resisting her father’s proposal that she should marry you.”

  “She told you that?”

  Dominic sighed and increased his pace. “Let us make haste before Latour or his wife decides to return home. Believe it or not, Nicolas, I am on your side in this matter. You are not worthy of Genevieve, of course, but I expect you are aware of that,” he added conversationally. “However, she will be better off with you who know her than with some lumpen clod who might attempt to mold her into conventional form.”

  Nicolas could find no remedy for the contusions of this bruising bluntness, and they proceeded rapidly but in silence to Royal Street. “So, where is she?” Dominic demanded as they were admitted into the hall.

  “In her chamber,” Nicolas said. Never being one to fight against superior odds, he went toward Latour’s cabinet at the rear of the house. “He keeps the key in here.”

  “How the hell long has he kept her locked up?” Dominic felt the stillness of fury enter his soul as Nicolas took a brass key off a ring hanging on the wall by the desk.

  Nicolas sighed. “Since Christmas. Dominic, there is nothing anyone can do to prevent him. Hélène has tried, I have tried, but until she agrees—”

  “Oh, do not give me those platitudes.” Dominic snatched the key from him. “The man is a bully and if you stood up to him just once, he would crumble.”

  Nicolas shook his head. “You do not know him, Delacroix, if you believe that. Genevieve stands up to him all the time, but it has never done her any good.” He led the way up the stairs, pausing outside the closed door to his cousin’s bedchamber. Dominic inserted the key, turned it and swung the door open. The room was in semidarkness, only the glow of the veilleuse on the mantel offering any illumination. The small, night-gowned figure curled up on a chaise longue that faced the window onto the rear gallery turned her head listlessly toward the door.

  “Tabitha? What are you doing at this time of the day?” Then she saw that her visitor was not the only person she had seen since Christmas Day: Tabitha, who looked after her most basic needs. “Am I dreaming?” Genevieve said, getting off the chaise longue. “It is becoming remarkably hard to distinguish dreams from reality these days.”

  “Wait outside,” Dominic ordered Nicolas curtly and closed the door on him. Two long strides took him across the room to Genevieve. He drew her toward the light on the mantel, tilting her face for an intent scrutiny. “Has he hurt you?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “He is in no great hurry for my capitulation. I have not seen him since he locked the door.” The slender shoulders, even more fragile than usual, shrugged. “But what are you doing here? It is madness. Unless you have come to take me away.” For a second, a light glowed in the tawny eyes, then, as she read his face, it was extinguished. “But, of course, you have not.”

  “That is not the answer, sprite.” Cupping her face, he spoke with soft insistence. “You must cease this resistance. It is doing you no good. Surely you must see that exchanging the tyranny of your father for marriage to Nicolas has to be a worthwhile exchange.”

  “Why must I be faced with two unpalatable alternatives?” she asked. “It is not the case with men.”

  Dominic shook his head. “What about Nicolas? His alternatives are no more palatable.”

  “No, there you are wrong!” she exclaimed fiercely. “If that were the case, he would resist as I am doing. If we both refused to do Papa’s bidding, then he would not be able to impose his will.”

  Dominic could not deny this, but it did not alter his conviction that Genevieve must be brought to accept and embrace reality. “How long do you think you can continue like this?” he asked, gesturing around the room, which for all its comfort, was undeniably a prison, and a small one. “I cannot go away, knowing that you remain confined in this fashion.”

  “Go away? Where are you going?” Genevieve had the dreadful feeling that if Dominic Delacroix were not in the same city, if she could not picture him going about his customary activities, she would lose all strength to persist in her resistance.

  Dominic sighed. He had not intended to bring up the subject of his projected journey, but having once started, he could hardly withdraw. “To Europe,” he told her, without hesitation. “The city elders, in their wisdom, have decided to effect Napoleon’s escape from Elba. I have offered my services in the matter.”

  A change came over her. The listlessness evaporated and determination glimmered in her eyes, set hard on her features. “Then you must take me to Europe. It is the only answer. I cannot stay here without doing what Papa wants, and I will not do that. I hate this city. I have no place in this society—”

  “Genevieve,” he interrupted the flow desperately, hearing the low, but powerful intensity in her voice. “I cannot take you with me. What would you do?”

  “You need not worry about that,” she said coldly. “I will not be a burden on you. All I am asking for is passage on Danseuse. When you reach your destination, I will fend for myself.”

  “Doing what?” he asked, not attempting to hide his impatience with this fantasy. Her answer rocked him back on his heels.

  “What I am good at,” she informed him with a serene little smile. “I shall become a courtesan. I might have to borrow some money from you, initially, since I would need to set myself up with a house and clothes and things …” One hand waved in airy description of such necessities. “But I would repay you as soon as I was able. It is a lucrative way of earning a living, I understand, and perfectly pleasant if one take one’s lovers from the aristocracy. I can pass myself off as native French and can frequent the courts—”

  “That will do!” Dominic at last recovered his breath sufficiently to call a halt to this blithe plan whose main drawback, as far as he could see, was that it was perfectly feasible for someone with Genevieve’s talents and energies. “I have never heard such arrant nonsense in my life.”

  “And just how does it differ from the life you would have me lead here?” she demanded scornfully. “You recommend that I take as many lovers as I choose, so long as I am discreet. The only difference I can see is that one is hypocritical and the other is honest. If I must sell myself for my independence, I would prefer to do it without hypocrisy. At least, I might be able to choose who to sell myself to, instead of having to accept Papa’s choice.”

  Dominic looked at her in horrified fascination. The comparison she had drawn was appallingly accurate if one chose to look at this arranged marriage of convenience in those terms. “I will have no part of such a nonsensical idea,” he said, aware that he was blustering to conceal his knowledge of the truth of her words. “You are just being childish. There is nothing outlandish in your father’s proposal. It is a situation faced by almost every jeune fille bien élevée in this town, unless she forms some tendre for an eligible parti, which is rare, in my experience.”

  “You will not help me?”

  He shook his head and turned from the haunting plea, the desperation in the tawny eyes. “Not in that way. I would not be helping you, quite the opposite. I am not so irresponsible, my dear, for all that you may have thought otherwise.”

  He left her because there seemed no more to be said. Nicolas took one look at the privateer’s grim, set face and shivered, wondering what could have taken place to have provoked that daunting look. Dominic marche
d down the stairs and out of the house without a word to Nicolas, who was left to lock Genevieve’s door again and replace the key in Victor’s cabinet, his heart thumping at the thought of discovery.

  Genevieve found that her last hope seemed to have left her with Dominic’s departure. She had not realized how much she had counted on being able to persuade him to help her in some way. She had pinned all her hopes on the thought of being able to leave New Orleans, although she had not thought so far afield as Europe. Any large American city would have served her purpose if Dominic lent her sufficient funds to start out. But he had reacted to her proposal with all the shocked horror she would have expected from some elderly dowager, a social arbiter, instead of a notorious rogue who flouted those rules himself with gay abandon. And without help, it could not be done. She had no money but the pin money her father allowed her, no friends outside the city to offer her shelter, no means of travel, except on foot, and she could not get far in that manner.

  The next morning, Victor Latour drove the final nail into the coffin of her will to resist. He unlocked the door of his daughter’s bedchamber and marched in, banging the door shut behind him. The sound echoed through the house on which an apprehensive silence seemed to have settled as soon as the master had left the breakfast table and stalked with such purpose up the stairs. There was no one, from the youngest slave to Hélène Latour, who was unaware of the situation, although no public mention was ever made of the prisoner upstairs. Only Tabitha was permitted to enter her room, an edict that even Hélène had not dared to defy.

  Genevieve, having picked at her breakfast with the lack of appetite born of inactivity, was wondering whether to bother to get dressed when her father made his abrupt entrance. One look at his face, and her heart began to pound, but she forced herself to greet him with calm courtesy. “Good morning, Papa.”

  He ignored the greeting. “Have you come to your senses, yet?”

  “I will not marry Nicolas,” she replied in the monotone of an automaton.