Praise for The Mistress of Trevelyan,
by Jennifer St. Giles
Winner of the Daphne Du Maurier Award
“Full of spooky suspense…. [St. Giles’s] story ripples with tension. This tension and the author’s skill at creating the book’s brooding atmosphere make this an engrossing read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[An] intriguing, well-crafted romance.”
—Library Journal
“[An] excellent debut novel. St. Giles does a masterful job of evoking a Gothic atmosphere, and updates it nicely with smoldering sexual tension…. The story is compellingly told.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Jennifer St. Giles must definitely be a descendant of the famous Brontë sisters. The story is enthralling, and the characters are captivating. The Mistress of Trevelyan is destined to become a classic romance novel, one readers will reach for again and again.”
—ARomanceReview.com
“This is an engaging gothic romance with all the classic elements…. The story line will touch readers.”
—Harriet Klausner
Also by Jennifer St. Giles
The Mistress of Trevelyan
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 2005 by Jenni Leigh Grizzle
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 1-4165-1638-7
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
I dedicate this book to The Music of the Night
and to all those who fill my life with
love, laughter, and inspiration.
Acknowledgments
As I fill this page, I again find myself with so much to say. There are many people who help make my books reality, and many people who add to my life, helping me make my dreams come true. Every year that goes by, more unique and wonderful people enter my life. So if I inadvertently leave a name out, forgive me and know that you are cherished.
To my agent, Deidre Knight, my eternal thanks for always being there, and for your tireless work, brilliance, and unfailing kindness and support no matter what chips fall or how the wind blows. To my editor, Micki Nuding, thank you for your honesty, your keen eye, and your belief in me. To Maggie Crawford, for your publishing vision and great success.
To Jacquie D’Alessandro and Wendy Etherington, thank you forever for the loving friendship, the brains, the Godivas, and the champagne. To Sandra Chastain, Wendy Wax, Karen White, Rita Herron, Pam Mantovani, and Debby Giusti, thanks for your invaluable feedback and encouragment with this book and my career.
To Georgia Romance Writers, Romance Writers of America, and KOD and all the pubbed and prepubbed members and sister chapters. Never give up on your dreams.
To the ladies and gentlemen at the University of Tulane’s main library, the Howard-Tilton Memorial Library, for their help and research in my many questions about New Orleans after the Civil War. And to the many other area libraries and librarians who were so helpful in my quest for answers via the phone and Internet.
To Katherine Falk, the Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine, its warrior volunteers, and the whole network of authors, readers, reviewers, booksellers, and cover models who make gathering together and networking so much fun! To Rosemary from Down Under, to Annette, Jax, Kathy, Sophia, and the RT party animals. And to the RT Lance, for loving The Mistress of Trevelyan. Thanks for a tremendous conference.
To my very much-loved family, thank you for filling my heart and for making every book that is written possible. My husband, Charles; daughter, Ashleigh; sons, Jake and Shane; my parents, Ron and Diane; my grandparents, Maggie, Len, and Jan; my sister and fam, Tracy, Jeff, Tye, Shannon and Kacie (and Tracy’s writing pal, Jennifer); my brother and fam, Ron, Susan, and Tory. And the many other aunts, uncles, and cousins who are the best cheering section any writer could want.
To the many friends whose support is so very much appreciated: Colleen, Luke, Alec and Jordan. Nila, Eric, Emily, Aiden, Pam and J.B., Nancy, Ruth, Lindy, Rolland, Chantel, Josh, Amanda, Lee, Minna, Yari, and Katie at OD who is a promo whiz, and Jennifer, her helper.
To the Tarts and Fans and Filippino Tarts who adore Gerard Butler: Believe, achieve, imagine, and inspire forever!
And finally, to the many fans and reviewers who went the extra mile to tell me how much they loved The Mistress of Trevelyan. You do me a very great honor.
Thank you.
My soul is full of whispered song;
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are all alive with light.
—Alice Cary
1
New Orleans, Louisiana
June 1874
As a child, whenever winter came to our grand home, La Belle du Temps, I’d slip away to the attic and stare at the black water of the Mississippi, just visible through the ghostly Spanish moss and live oaks. I’d huddle in the cold, watching the river rise, sure its greedy swells would some day steal all that I held dear. It was a childish fear, but one that set a precedent for shadows in my life.
Shadows that would never recede, I thought as I curled my hand around the warning telegram in my pocket, sent to me by Mr. Goodson, the investigator from Baton Rouge I’d secretly hired. “Mrs. Boucheron, You are in danger. Trust no one.”
Though the river had never touched my family home, other ills had flooded my life, and La Belle had stood strong through them all. She gave breath to my fondest memories and held my deepest sorrows with gentle arms. She’d been the one constant in my life, stalwart during the occupation of Federal troops, solid throughout the war; and now she was the means by which I, my son, Andre, and my sisters Ginette and Mignon survived.
I could not lose her and I would never sell her—something Mr. Latour had yet to understand.
“Ahem. I don’t know how much clearer I can be, Mrs. Boucheron,” Mr. Latour said for the third time. “With the tax increase this year and maintenance costs on the rise, I do not think you realize how difficult things will be. Your hardships will be greatly reduced with a smaller property, and by moving closer into town, you would have a steadier income from boarders year round.”
The man’s pompous manner had a way of making La Belle’s double parlor, with its high ceilings and wide windows, seem as small as a hatbox. Though he was a former friend of my husband, I could listen no more. I’d been polite beyond the point of duty these past two months.
“I don’t know how I can be much clearer, Monsieur Latour. La Belle du Temps is not for sale.”
He glanced at my sisters for support.
“Juliet speaks for all of us,” Ginette assured him firmly.
“Pardon, monsieur, but we cannot sell our home. It would not be right.” Mignon’s expression implored the man to understand; she hated to disappoint anyone.
“You’re making a mistake, Mrs. Boucheron.” Mr. Latour’s spectacles magnified his displeasure. “This is the last offer Packert Investment Company will make. And I must say this new offer is very generous.”
“Exceedingly generous, which makes me wonder why.”
“Concern for your family.
The company does not wish to take advantage of your reduced circumstances.”
The bald lie irritated me even more than his persistence. His family, along with the Hayeses, had led New Orleans’s beau monde in shunning me and my sisters after my husband’s supposed crime. Their social and financial reprisals had been crushing. And since the war’s end, most businesses had had little regard for any family’s hardship. They’d been vultures circling a battlefield, raking the South with greedy talons.
My patience was at an end. “Whatever Packert Investment’s reasoning, it is of no consequence to us. Our answer is final, Monsieur Latour. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“What about Jean Claude?”
My spine stiffened. “What did you say?”
“Ahem. You give me no choice but to bring up this delicate matter. I’m sure you have heard the rumors that he is in Europe.”
“Those are old rumors. No one has ever seen him, and they won’t, because he is dead. He wouldn’t have abandoned his family.”
“A desperate man will do anything, and he was desperate. I am sure he took the gold and escaped. You need to realize that nothing can stop him from taking control of your boarding house enterprise, should he return.” He lowered his voice to a conspiring tone. “I can change that. Sell to me, and I’ll help you and your sisters buy a property to which Jean Claude has no legal claim.”
I dug my nails into the velvet upholstery and fought to keep a calm mask on my face. My husband, Mr. Latour, and the Hayeses had played a dangerous game during the war. Though New Orleans was occupied by Federal troops, they’d pooled gold and bought supplies for the Confederate Army. No one knew what had happened on their last venture, and the mystery haunted me. Officially I considered myself a widow, and in nine years no one in New Orleans had intimated otherwise. So why did Mr. Latour now insist that Jean Claude was alive? From Mignon and Ginette’s expressions, I could tell they were equally upset. “What exactly do you mean, monsieur?”
“Surely your father’s attorney explained this to you?”
“I can’t say that Monsieur Maison did. Why don’t you tell me what you mean?” Grief over my father’s death had blurred any business matters at that time.
“I suggest you see your attorney. Louisiana’s inheritance laws permit women to own property, but a husband has the right to oversee his wife’s property. She can only manage it if he allows it.”
“The courts could not be so unkind.” Mignon’s voice shook. She and Ginette sat on the rose brocade settee, their faces as pale as their faded damask gowns.
I squared my shoulders. “Even if what you say is true, Monsieur Latour, and Jean Claude should return alive after all this time, I am sure there are other options available besides selling La Belle.” I stood, and moved decisively to open the doors. “Monsieur, our answer is final.”
“My apologies for bringing up an unpleasant subject, but you really should let me direct you in these matters.”
“I am more than capable of deciding what I need to do,” I replied.
His cheeks reddened, and he cleared his throat again. “The offer to buy at this price will stand for two weeks.” He straightened his spectacles and hefted his ample girth from the brocade armchair. Then he stepped uncomfortably close to me and lowered his voice to a forceful whisper. “You won’t get a better offer, Mrs. Boucheron, so be careful whom you insult. There are other ways to get what I want.”
The threat sent a shiver of fear through my irritation. “Not here, I can assure you of that.”
“Is there a problem, Miz Julie?” Papa John, outfitted in his best “butlering” suit, appeared in the doorway and stepped imposingly next to me. Though gray-haired and worn with age, his tall stature could still make a man pause.
“Monsieur Latour was just leaving.”
Mr. Latour nodded tightly, plopped on his hat, and left.
“Good riddance,” I said, finally feeling as if I could breathe.
“It’s more like bad riddance iffen you ask me, Miz Julie,” Papa John replied. “Something about that man don’t sit right with me.”
“Next time he calls, please tell him we are indisposed.”
Mignon glanced anxiously at the door. “I fear we have already offended the gentleman.”
“With good reason, Nonnie.” Ginette patted Mignon’s shoulder. “He was not being very gentlemanly himself.” She met my gaze, reading the worry I’d unsuccessfully tried to hide. “What are we going to do, Juliet?”
“The first thing we are going to do is to stay calm. Mr. Goodson is investigating the rumors about Jean Claude, and I’ll speak to Monsieur Maison about protecting our inheritance when I meet with him today.”
“You’ll be seeing Monsieur Davis, then,” Mignon said, biting her lip.
Mr. Davis was Mr. Maison’s new assistant and had recently been calling on Mignon.
“Most likely,” I said. “Why?”
“He mentioned last night that he is lonely, being so far from home and knowing so few people. I wondered if we should invite him to dinner.”
I winced at having to face his garrulous nature two evenings in a row. “Do you want to see him again so soon?”
No special smile lit her eyes as she spoke. “I just hate for anyone to be sad.”
“You cannot save the world from every scraped elbow,” I said gently.
She sighed. “I know.”
“Besides, we’ve enough problems of our own.” Ginette rubbed her temples as if another of her recent headaches plagued her. Her pale, heart-shaped face contrasted starkly with her shadowed eyes.
I set my chin at a determined angle. “My biggest question is, why now? Why, after all these years, is Monsieur Latour so insistent on buying La Belle?”
Mignon’s eyes danced. “Perhaps we have a pirate like Jean Laffite in our family, who left a map to buried treasure hidden here. Just think, if we find it, we could go abroad and see the DePerri castle and meet handsome princes and—”
“And fold the laundry,” I said, before Ginette could add more. The pair of them could spin a tale faster than the devil could lie. “We’ve no more time to waste today. One of you needs to help Mama Louisa in the kitchen and the other must get Andre to assist with the laundry.”
Both Ginette and Mignon groaned. Getting my son to help with domestic chores was the hardest task of all.
Papa John cleared his throat—not a sound I associated with good news.
“Please tell me Andre is still at his lessons?” I asked.
“That boy is as wily as a hunted fox,” Papa John said, shaking his salt and pepper head. “He must have high-tailed down the magnolia tree outside his window, because he ain’t nowhere to be found.”
“He knew he had chores. Ginette, I don’t suppose you would go look for Andre and—”
“I am sure Mama Louisa is awaiting me in the kitchen, non?” She ducked out of the room and ran.
“Mignon, could you—”
“The laundry, oui? I must hurry, for it is very late.” She dashed from the room.
I looked at Papa John. He shrugged. “A boy’s gotta run a little wildness out of him every now and then.”
Lately, it seemed there had been a whole lot of wildness that needed running off.
Usually I savored the long walk to town, enjoying the cool breath of air off the Mississippi, the languid warmth of the sun, and the bustle of life in New Orleans. But today not even the shade from the lush magnolia trees relieved the heat. As I reached Blindman’s Curve, a swampy area where the foliage grew so thick and the road turned so sharply that no one could see more than a dozen feet ahead, I realized something was wrong. The crickets, usually silent this time of day, suddenly throbbed with a deafening sound. I came to an abrupt stop and gripped my parasol, alarmed at the noise. A dark shadow fell over me, bringing a deep chill. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe, speak, or even move my feet, as if an unseen force pressed against me, keeping me from moving forward or crying for help.
T
hen, equally swiftly, the shadow and the cold disappeared and the crickets fell quiet. I stood there stunned and frightened for a moment, then I ran. It wasn’t until I reached the outskirts of the city and saw people going about their normal business that I slowed to a gasping halt. Bright sunshine filled the sky and whispers of clouds brushed the horizon.
At Rue Royale, in the heart of the Vieux Carré, I paused outside Madame Boussard’s Dress Shop to compose myself as I brushed the dust off my pleated skirts; disquiet clung to me as uncomfortably as the worn silk of my cinnamon dress stuck to my skin. The shop door opened and I turned with a start, finding myself face-to-face with a woman I had counted as my best friend until my husband’s disappearance.
“Letitia,” I said before thinking.
Letitia Hayes wasn’t alone. Two other ladies, dressed just as stylishly as Letitia, stood behind her. Letitia didn’t even look at me, but commented to the other ladies on how insolent the help was these days.
Though fire burned my cheeks, I held my shoulders straight and smiled. “Didn’t you wear that gown to my wedding? My, how the years have flown. Good day, ladies.”
Ignoring Letitia’s gasp, I marched down the street to Mr. Maison’s law office, opening the door more forcefully than I meant to.
“Good heavens, Mrs. Boucheron, you gave me a fright! I thought the door was locked,” Mr. Davis said.
“Bon jour,” I said, forcing a cheerful note. Mr. Davis stood on a ladder and appeared to be cleaning the upper shelf of a bookcase; stacks of gold-embossed books were pushed out of place. Setting the book he held on the shelf, he quickly climbed down, brushed off his shirtsleeves, and straightened his tie. Then he peered through his round spectacles. “Surely you are not alone?”
An odd question. “Is there a problem?”
“Did you not hear?” He looked nervously about, shut the door to the street, and lowered his voice. “A man was stabbed in the back right here on our doorstep in broad daylight yesterday. It was terrible.”
His Dark Desires Page 1