A strange tingling pricked my scalp, making my mouth go dry. “Mon Dieu. Who?”
“A gent visiting on business, I was told.” Mr. Davis shook his head. “Imagine, dying like that in a strange city.”
My mouth dried as I pictured such a fate.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Boucheron, I quite forgot myself. What can I do for you?”
“Monsieur Maison asked to see me. I told him I’d stop by before my suffrage meeting this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have you on the schedule; otherwise I would have sent you a note. Mr. Maison left for Washington early yesterday to attend to a sudden problem. He will not be back until the end of the month. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“I haven’t a clue why he wanted to see me.” I drew a breath and gathered my thoughts, deciding not to speak about my husband and my inheritance. “If you would, please tell Monsieur Maison that I stopped by.”
“Certainly.”
“Merci.” Shifting my parasol, I turned to leave, then swung back. “Will you be in correspondence with Monsieur Maison during his absence?” The idea of waiting a month knotted my stomach.
“I expect to be, as soon as he is settled.”
“Then I will check with you later,” I said, moving to the door.
“Wait, Mrs. Boucheron, a woman alone, after yesterday’s murder…” He shivered. “You must allow me to escort you to your meeting.” He moved toward me, worry creasing his brow.
The knot inside me tightened. “It’s only a few blocks over to Chartres.”
“Nevertheless, it may not be safe and I’d never forgive myself if something happened.”
I swallowed my refusal. “If you wish. But I must warn you, the heat is grueling.”
“Like the devil has made himself at home.”
His words so aptly described the feeling settling around me that I studied him more closely as he slid on his brown frock coat and square-crowned bowler. He didn’t give the impression of being extraordinarily perceptive behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, and he didn’t act as if he’d said anything of note.
Yet it seemed to me as if something sinister had entered my life. “You are in danger, trust no one.”
“Accompanying you will be a pleasure. You and your sisters are too alone in the world.” He opened the door and followed me out, locking the door behind him. “It shakes me up, thinking of that man being stabbed in broad daylight.”
The recesses of the old buildings seemed deeper, the shadows darker, as if the place I had lived all of my life had changed. “The man was here to see Monsieur Maison, then?”
“I cannot say for sure. I did not know anything had happened until I heard people shouting for help. The man was begging to be taken to a doctor and for someone to find his friend. As badly as he was bleeding, I hope that friend was not far.”
“Then he was alive after being attacked? Why didn’t you go with him to the doctor?” Mon Dieu, were a man to be attacked on my doorstep, I wouldn’t leave his side.
Mr. Davis slowed his step and blushed. “The sight of blood has an adverse effect upon my nerves; I’d have only been a detriment. The merchant next door accompanied him instead. I learned later the man lived for a bit, but passed on before the doctor could save him. Forgive me, I should not be burdening your sensibilities with this.”
“I assure you, I am not so delicate, nor are most women that I know. The war left little room for such nonsense.”
“Yes, I quite admire your and your sisters’ fortitude. And I have been meaning to speak to you about Mignon. She is such a lovely and amenable young woman.”
I barely kept from frowning. Surely he wasn’t about to ask for Mignon’s hand so soon?
The Carr House, where the National Woman Suffrage Association held their meetings, was just ahead, and I smiled. “Merci for the company, monsieur. I am already running late for my meeting, so we’ll have to speak of Mignon later. Perhaps you can come for dinner soon?”
“Could I possibly come ton—”
“Friday? With our duties to our boarders, weekends are best for social calls. Shall I tell Mignon to expect you Friday evening then?”
He looked flustered. “Yes, but Friday there will be a carnival in Jackson Square and I would like to bring—”
“What fun! We would love to come. Shall we meet you there at seven in front of the cathedral?”
“I guess—”
“Wonderful. We’ll see you then. Bon jour, Monsieur Davis.” I walked away waving, feeling as if I’d just stepped all over the man; but wanting to take my sister out for an evening, even chaperoned, was a much more serious step toward courting her than calling at our house. A step I was fairly certain Mignon wouldn’t want to take but could easily be led into just to keep Mr. Davis from being lonely. And heavens…lovely and amenable? I’d learned during my brief years of marriage that being lovely and amenable was woefully impractical.
The meeting on women’s voting rights ran so long that by the time I left, evening shadows had erased the day. I spared a few coins on a carriage to take me to the telegraph office so I could send a message to Mr. Goodson in Baton Rouge before going home. It had been two days since his telegram had arrived, more than enough time for him to have contacted me with an explanation of the mysterious danger.
Through the carriage window on my return home I studied Blindman’s Curve, searching for an explanation to the chill and the shadow, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, the incident troubled me, made me restless, and I decided to walk the short distance to La Belle once we reached my street, to calm myself.
Rue Jardin and its grand park of aged, moss-strewn live oaks and blooming wisteria were as much home to me as La Belle. With tall columns across her four-storied front and a dozen dormers on her gabled roof, La Belle had been the toast of New Orleans during her prime, and traces of her glory still clung to her. In the evening shadows I could almost pretend her white paint had not faded and cracked, that disrepair did not sully her inner courtyard, and that rust did not mar the iron railings wrapping her galleries like overworn lacy garters.
A light breeze swayed through the trees and brushed a cooling hand to my cheeks as I paused to take in the sweet smell of jasmine mingled with the mouthwatering aroma of Mama Louisa’s creamy red beans, andouille, and fresh bread. Mama Louisa’s cooking could warm the soul of the devil.
“ ‘Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young.”’
“Mon Dieu!” Startled, I spun around to see who had spoken.
2
A tall man stood beneath the shadows of a twisted live oak just behind me. The deep voice was unfamiliar, cultured, and sensual. I backed away several steps, chastising myself for being so lost in my thoughts that I’d been unaware of his presence and the hint of tobacco in the air.
He tossed his cigar to the ground, extinguishing it with his heel, and courteously stepped further away from me into the fading light, easing my apprehension. “Forgive me for frightening you. But those words were made for you.”
“Monsieur, the evening shadows have misled you. There is no comparison between me and Lord Tennyson’s extraordinary verse,” I replied, drawing back another step, this time from his dark appeal. His hair cut a rakish line across his brow, with a few errant strands that beckoned for order. I clenched my hand and moved my gaze on, absorbing the sensual curve of his mouth, the determined angle of his jaw, and the raw power in the breadth of his shoulders. He held up his hands as if to show me he was unarmed, and I thought that were he a footpad, he’d need no weapon. His voice could lure gold from the fist of a miser.
“There isn’t?” He sounded amused.
“No.”
“Then might I suggest that beauty lies in the sight of the beholder?”
“And silver tongues belong to fools.” I laughed, momentarily forgetting myself and my worries, a dangerous thing. I nodded toward La Belle. “I am late in returning to my home, monsieur, so I bid
you adieu.”
He stepped closer. “You quite took me by surprise as well, you know. I was leaning upon the garden wall, enjoying the sultry beauty of a New Orleans summer night, wondering if any woman could match it. Then you appeared, as if fate or magic had sent you walking toward me.”
“Nothing magical, I assure you.” I wasn’t about to be wooed by his nonsense. “Now, monsieur, may I ask who you are and what is your business here?”
I thought he might be one of the actors from the Shakespearean troupe performing in town. Four of them were currently boarding with me and they’d had several visitors, but not him. I would have recalled seeing a man so tall and well turned out. His black frock coat neatly fit his trim waist and broad shoulders, and contrasted elegantly with his embroidered waistcoat and white shirt. I also would have remembered this man’s voice.
“I am Stephen Trevelyan, and might I assume you are Miss Juliet Boucheron? I was told in town that you own an excellent boarding establishment.”
He spoke my name as if each syllable were coated with sweet cream and warm honey.
“Mrs. Boucheron,” I corrected. Every inch of distance between us seemed essential. “You are seeking a room then, Mr. Trevelyan?”
“Yes, I am a writer and may be here for quite some time.” He motioned to two black satchels behind him that I hadn’t noticed.
“I see.” At any other time I would be counting my blessings over the prospect of a long-term boarder, especially since my four current boarders would be leaving at the end of the summer. Yet, I hesitated about inviting this alluring stranger into my home until I heard from the investigator, Mr. Goodson.
“I have credentials,” he said, handing me a card. “Perhaps you have heard of my family’s shipping business, Trevelyan Trading Company?”
The card, still warm from his fingers, made my hand tingle. I’d definitely heard of Trevelyan Trading Company, and I wondered why such an affluent man would seek out my modest establishment. “You are a long way from home, Monsieur Trevelyan.”
“Longer than anyone can know.”
In his eyes, I saw a haunting sadness that matched his voice. It struck a note of kinship inside me. “I hope you weren’t misinformed about my boarding house. It does not possess the grandeur of the hotels in the Vieux Carré.”
“I value quiet and privacy more than ostentation, Mrs. Boucheron.”
I slipped his card into my pocket. “Then let us see about a room for you, oui?”
He fell into step beside me. “Thank you. On my journey down the Mississippi, I’d heard New Orleans is unlike any other place, and already I am intrigued by the city and its…people.” His voice deepened to a caress.
I kept my gaze on the path, refusing to respond to his flirtation. Surely the pace of our walk was what made me slightly breathless. “Oui, no other city has the history we do, monsieur, but I think we are different because we are more stubbornly set in our ways.”
“It’s more than your culture. There’s a forgiveness here that doesn’t exist other places.”
“Forgiveness?” It was an odd remark, coming from a stranger. Halting, I faced him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I sense an acceptance of man’s humanity here, rather than an abhorrence of it.”
I hadn’t experienced acceptance or forgiveness here, since the war; even my husband’s relatives blamed me for the loss of the Boucheron Plantation, and had broken all ties with me. “Don’t be fooled,” I told him. “New Orleans is famous for its masks. What you think you see here is not always real.”
Leaving the intimacy of the twilight behind, I hurried up the stairs to La Belle’s brightly lit entrance and winced at the uproar inside. My son’s screeching violin was loud enough to wake the dead, and Mama Louisa was shouting about devils from the North in the dining room. It was a wonder Mr. Trevelyan didn’t march right back out of the house.
“Welcome to my home, monsieur. If you’ll please set your luggage by the stairs, Papa John will take it up for you. I have a quiet room available at the far side of the house, but there are several matters requiring my immediate attention. If you wish, you may wait with the other boarders in the parlor, oui? You will find brandy, sherry, and other spirits available.”
He set down his bags, and I pointed him toward where the boarders were having a loud discussion. Tonight it sounded as if Mark Twain’s The Innocents Abroad was the focus of their criticism. Any author other than Shakespeare ranked low in their opinion.
I dashed into the dining room to handle Mama Louisa’s disaster before dealing with my son.
“That man is back, I tell you. Spoons Butler has stolen our silver ladle,” Mama Louisa cried.
“Shh,” I admonished gently. The hated Federal general had ransacked New Orleans, and it was only because we’d had the foresight to hide what little silver we had left that we had any now. Troops still occupied the city even though the war had ended nine years ago. “General Butler is in Washington, Mama Louisa.”
“Those Northern devils are still here though,” she said, shaking her head. “General Butler’s got men working for him. You mark Mama Louisa’s words, now. The shooting ain’t over. No, ma’am. And if he ain’t got men working for him, then he’s got ghosts. I heard them last night.”
I tapped my finger on my lips. “You will scare the boarders. The noise last night was only the heat making the rafters groan.”
Mama Louisa’s dark eyes widened. “I sure am sorry, Miss Julie. I don’t want to scare anybody, but that ladle just ain’t nowhere to be found and those noises weren’t groaning rafters. It’s gotta be a ghost.”
“Did you check in the pie safe for the ladle? I caught Andre dipping into the apple pie with it late last night.” I’d heard the noises, too, and had found nothing to explain them in my midnight search, but I wasn’t about to consider any reason but the most practical.
Mama Louisa pulled an apple-pie-crusted ladle from the pantry. “Well, I’ll be.”
Having solved that problem, I went to find my son. I had no doubt he’d be barefoot and muddy in the grand music room. Though Andre could play the violin like a master when he chose, he presently screeched his bow across the violin strings with discordant abandon, a tactic he used whenever he didn’t want to practice. His philosophy was the louder and less harmoniously he played, the sooner he’d be told to stop.
I nearly bumped into Mr. Trevelyan, who stood in the doorway. In the light, his eyes were like blue fire, burning and intense, and just as disruptive as his aroma of spice and sandalwood, which curled around me like warm silk. I wanted to lean closer and savor his scent.
“Goodness,” I murmured.
His brow angled. “Surely I did not frighten you.”
“No.” Frightening didn’t describe him. Dangerous did. There was an edge to him that sharpened my senses, as if something primal lay beneath the surface of his charm, something that drew me to him. “Was the parlor not to your liking?”
He shrugged. “You are much more interesting than a literary discussion.”
I didn’t know whether to smile or to call a halt to his flattery. Thankfully, Mignon dashed past us, her face crinkled with worry, her hair askew from its bun, and her arms heaped with fresh towels. She was partway up the stairs before she noticed me. “Oh, Juliet, you have returned. Ginette fainted. The kitchen and this heat were too much for her. Andre returned a mess and refused to help with the laundry because I told him he had to bathe first. Mama Louisa says the silver soup ladle is missing and—” Her gaze settled on Mr. Trevelyan and she blushed.
“Monsieur Trevelyan. Please meet my youngest sister, Mademoiselle Mignon DePerri. Mignon, Monsieur Trevelyan is a writer and will be staying with us.”
“Bienvenu to New Orleans and our home, monsieur.” Mignon smiled radiantly and curtsied slightly.
“Thank you for the warm welcome. I’m finding the South a rather remarkable place. Beauty and graciousness abound.”
“Much like your charm,
it would seem,” I replied dryly. Mr. Trevelyan’s smile had Mignon completely mesmerized. “Mignon, hurry and place the fresh towels in the rooms. I will speak to Andre and see to Ginette after I settle Monsieur Trevelyan into his quarters.”
Still looking dazed, she nodded and ran up the stairs.
Apparently having heard my voice, Andre changed the sound of his violin in midscreech to the melodious tones of Bach’s Invention in B flat. The music became progressively louder in the entry hall until he entered the room with an angelic expression on his face.
“You are back, Mère,” he said, feigning surprise as he lowered the violin from his chin. Mud splattered his bare feet, and dotted his clothes, and his dark hair hung in an unruly mess. Curbing my need to brush the locks from his face, I stared at him a moment, realizing where he might have gotten so muddy.
“Andre, have you been to the river?” The adventurous call of the Mississippi had lured many a boy to an early death.
“Non, Mère. We didn’t go in the river. We were just playing near it.”
I warred between irritation and the need to pull him into my arms and understand his recent penchant for trouble. “Where by the river, Andre?”
“Phillipe Doucet and I went with his cousin, Will Hayes, to a camp in the woods by Will’s house.”
Dieu. I wondered if Letitia knew her son was playing with mine.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the camp?” he demanded. “Will’s father used it to spy on the Federal Army during the war. He said that my grandfather and my father helped build it right under the Federal Army’s nose and stayed there often during the war before they were killed. Why did you never mention it?” He sounded hurt, as if I had withheld something vital from him on purpose.
“I did not know about the camp,” I said softly.
“A real camp, is it?” Mr. Trevelyan asked genially, as if trying to ease the tension that had been building between me and my son. “I have two nephews who would be green with envy. When I left, they were trying to convince their father to build them a fort in the woods, like one they’d recently read about.”
His Dark Desires Page 2