His Dark Desires

by Jennifer St Giles

  Given Mr. Trevelyan’s habit of being where I least expected, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see his unmistakable form standing at the window. Oddly, he had a drinking glass held up to the moonlight and appeared to be staring at it. After a long moment, he slowly took a sip, swore harshly, then dumped the rest of the glass’s contents in a nearby potted plant.

  I winced that he’d found our spirits so unpalatable, even as the thought of pickled geraniums irked me. “I daresay Mama Louisa has already watered the flowers today.”

  He swung around and I smiled, pleased that I’d caught him off guard.

  “Did I wake you?” His voice grated harshly, as if he wrestled with things greater than the night.

  “I’m looking for a paper I’ve lost.”

  I moved to the nearest lamp and lit it, casting the shadows from the room, but not the intimacy of being alone at night with him. He turned from the light, moving to the mantel where he set his glass.

  “A telegram, perhaps?” he asked, with his back to me.

  “You found it?”

  He faced me then, his expression shadowed. “After dinner, on the floor of my room.”

  I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, my relief short lived. “I must have dropped it when showing you to your room.”

  “And I must have missed seeing it before dinner,” he said softly as he crossed the room. The look in his eyes told me he didn’t believe a word of what we’d just said. He stopped only inches away from me, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body as well as the heat of his raking gaze. The thin cotton of my nightdress and the silk of my robe were little protection from the force of his interest. I tugged the lacy edges of my robe closer together, and he smiled slowly, lifting his gaze back to mine. A dark desire smoldered in his eyes.

  “The telegram, monsieur?” I held out my hand.

  He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the telegram. Instead of putting it into my open hand, he brushed my cheek with the edge of the paper and trailed it down to the neck of my gown. My pulse pounded so loudly in my ears that I knew he had to have heard it, too. Bolts of heat shot through me, curling in my center, awakening sensations I’d never known before.

  My lips parted in surprise, and his gaze dipped lower for a long moment.

  “I suggest you be more careful,” he murmured. When he slid the paper a fraction below the neckline of my gown, I caught my breath and grabbed the telegram from him.

  “You have a way of making me forget things that I shouldn’t,” he said softly, then turned to leave. “Good night, Mrs. Boucheron.”

  He had a way of making us both forget things that we shouldn’t.

  Somehow, I gathered my thoughts enough to douse the parlor light and dash to my room, firmly shutting the door. I crawled into bed, unable to face what I knew had to be lingering in my own eyes—a yearning response to the desire in his eyes. I didn’t know him, he was a stranger, but he attracted me as no one had before—and that frightened me more than the warning telegram or the murder in town.

  Early the next morning, the sound of my son’s disgruntled muttering, punctuated by the thud of a heavy stick hitting the side of an iron cauldron, filtered through the kitchen window where Mignon and I worked preparing breakfast. I’d set Andre to washing his sheets first thing, and he wasn’t happy. The day had not started off well in other matters, either. Jean Claude’s letters weren’t in the blue box in which I had left them, or anywhere in the study that I could see. Neither Andre nor Mignon had seen them.

  Ginette entered the kitchen, her cheeks flushed. She grabbed an apron. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “You needed the extra rest, and by the looks of you, we were right,” I replied. “Mama Louisa’s tea must have helped.”

  “And from what I heard the boarders talking about in the parlor this morning, I was right: something was wrong last night. I asked you, and did you tell me the truth? No. A man murdered in broad daylight and you didn’t say a word.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry.” She nodded, but the irritation in her eyes remained. “What did the boarders say?” I asked.

  “Only that they had to be very careful about what they did, especially when in town.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Mr. Fitz did. Whatever is Andre doing outside?”

  “The laundry,” I said, wondering exactly what the boarders thought they had to be careful about.

  Ginette’s eyes widened with surprise. “By himself? No wonder he is unhappy.”

  “I feel as if this is my fault.” Mignon paced across the kitchen floor.

  “How can it possibly be your fault, Nonnie? You have too soft a heart.” I finished kneading the biscuit dough, then leveled a look at her.

  “Well,” she said, frowning. “Maybe I shouldn’t have demanded that he bathe before helping me. I know how he hates to do that.”

  “So you would rather have had muddy streaks on the boarders’ bed sheets and cost us all another day’s hard work instead? Andre must learn. At twelve, he is old enough that his very future could be at stake.” I winced as a particularly loud bang sounded from the courtyard. His resentment at having to do “women’s chores” could probably be heard at the state line.

  “It sounds as if he is upset with more than just doing his chores,” Ginette said.

  I told them about the camp. “I think he needs to know more about Jean Claude. Which reminds me, do you have Jean Claude’s letters, Ginette?”

  She crinkled her brow. “Why ever would I have them? Aren’t they on the shelf in the study?”

  “They’re missing,” I said, shaking my head. “The box is there, but no letters.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “You think there will be any cotton left on those sheets by the time you finish?” Mr. Trevelyan’s unmistakable voice interrupted the clanging outside, and I froze with a half-shaped biscuit in my hand.

  “Who’s that?” Ginette whispered.

  “Our new boarder,” Mignon answered, moving to the window.

  “Dudn’t matter,” grumbled Andre. “It will serve her right for making me do laundry. All the boys would laugh at me if they saw me. I bet you have never had to do a maid’s work, either.”

  “He’s a pirate prince,” Mignon whispered.

  “Dieu, Juliet. You neglected to tell me how…handsome our new boarder is,” Ginette added, fanning her face.

  Unable to resist, I joined my sisters at the window, trying to decide if I had a punishment stern enough for my son. Andre had stepped over the line by speaking so. Serve me right for making him do laundry! Thoughts of punishment flew as my gaze settled on Mr. Trevelyan. His black hair, still damp from a bath, glistened in the morning sun. Dressed in form-fitting black pants, an unbuttoned linen shirt, and no shoes, he reminded me of a musketeer I’d seen illustrated in Alexandre Dumas’s adventurous story. Hot embarrassment crept up my cheeks at the thought of facing him today. Ever since lying to him last night, I knew I had to apologize and explain why I’d been in his room.

  “I have been in your shoes a few times,” Mr. Trevelyan said. “It’s not a fun place to be.”

  “You’ve done laundry?”

  “No, but I’ve been angry and resentful enough that I didn’t care if what I did was right or wrong,” Mr. Trevelyan replied. “Your feelings are more important than anything else, right?”

  Andre stopped beating the cauldron. “I didn’t say that.”

  Mr. Trevelyan squatted down to be eye level with Andre. He didn’t sound irritated as he spoke. “You didn’t have to say the words, because your muttering and banging are saying them for you. But it’s all right to feel that way.”

  I saw Andre’s mouth drop open. It was about the same moment that my teeth clenched. Whatever did the man think he was about?”

  “Bon, monsieur? But that’s…”

  “Not right?” Mr. Trevelyan said. “Does that stop you from feeling angry? Is it going to stop you from feelin
g embarrassed or resentful?”

  Andre shook his head.

  Mr. Trevelyan shrugged. “It didn’t stop me from feeling those things and worse. Everyone has a dark side and feels things that aren’t exactly right, but most people are afraid to admit it. What is important is what you do with those feelings. That’s what determines if you are a man or a boy.”

  “What do you mean, monsieur?”

  “A man does what is right regardless of how he feels, even if he thinks others will laugh, even if it doesn’t make him happy. Even if it causes him pain or embarrassment. A boy just does what he wants when he wants, and doesn’t care if he hurts others who count on him. It seems that your mother and aunts work very hard and could use a man’s help around the house. My advice is for you to figure if you are strong enough to be a man now. If you wait until you’re all grown up to do it, it’s not only much harder, but bad things can happen.”

  There was a long silence. Andre stared at his sheets in the pot, his shoulders tense as he weighed Mr. Trevelyan’s words. “Like what bad things…monsieur?”

  Mr. Trevelyan stood and drew a deep breath. “For me, it cost lives. People died.” His voice rasped like jagged glass. “Don’t make the mistake I did.” He briefly touched Andre’s shoulder as in comfort or warning and then left the courtyard, climbing the gallery stairs to his room and disappearing inside.

  Nobody said a word. Nobody moved. We were all shocked, especially Andre. He stared at the door to Mr. Trevelyan’s room for a long time. Then he began washing again, quietly.

  Nothing I said seemed to reach my son, but in moments this stranger had gone right to Andre’s heart. Mr. Trevelyan had entered my home, disturbing everything, and though his dangerous air grew darker, somehow he’d touched my heart as well.

  Mr. Trevelyan didn’t appear for breakfast or dinner, and his absence weighed more heavily than his presence. I couldn’t stop thinking about him or his conversation with my son. Tensions that had taken root last night seemed to have grown during the day. Mr. Fitz and Mr. Gallier continued their discussion about plays, but on a less amiable note. I began to wonder if they were truly arguing over which play to perform or if the point was which of them would star opposite Miss Vengle, as both of them seemed to be vying for her attention.

  After dinner, I decided to take a tray to Mr. Trevelyan’s room and apologize. I stood before his door, gathering the courage to knock, which was ridiculous—never before had butterflies plagued me over so simple a task. I’d knocked on men’s doors countless times without a thought to the intimacy that now filled my mind. Frustration made my rap on the door louder and more insistent than I meant.

  Mr. Trevelyan opened his door quickly, appearing much the same way he had in the courtyard with Andre. Only this time his shirt was buttoned halfway up.

  “You’ve missed the meals today. I thought you might be hungry.”

  He studied my face for an uncomfortable moment before taking the tray. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you ill?”

  “No. Just…just writing.”

  “I disturbed you, then. I’ll speak to you another time,” I said, stepping back.

  “No, now is fine. I need a respite.” He moved and my gaze scanned the room, but I saw no evidence that he’d been busy writing. His desk was clear, no papers were about, and the only thing mussed was his bed. I snatched my gaze away only to meet his querying one.

  “What did you want to speak to me about?” He’d set the tray on his desk, then crossed his arms and leaned back against his bedpost, comfortably watching me examine his room. His shirt gaped, revealing the hard planes of his chest and a glimpse of dark hair.

  I swallowed hard. “About the telegram.” I could hear Mr. Fitz and Miss Vengle coming up the stairs, and I didn’t want to be caught in Mr. Trevelyan’s doorway. Taking a step into his room, I pulled the door closed.

  Mr. Trevelyan raised his brows, but didn’t move from his stance by the bed, which almost seemed like a dark invitation. My mouth went dry.

  “This is difficult to say, but last evening, just before you left your room for dinner, Andre said he saw a man in the corridor on the family’s floor, eavesdropping on my conversation with Ginette. Rushing down the stairs to investigate, I met Mignon coming up the stairs. Then you exited your room. After you left with Mignon, I peeked in all of the boarders’ rooms to see if anyone else was about. I found no one. But when I opened your door, I saw your suit lying rumpled. Though I shouldn’t have, I moved inside to straighten it, then realized I was intruding and left. I must have dropped the telegram then.”

  Mr. Trevelyan walked toward me; his piercing gaze now sparked fire. “Did your son say he saw me?”

  I backed up a step and hit the door, my palms damp, my pulse racing. His eyes widened when I did and he stopped, holding his hands up. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but I know without a doubt your son could not have seen me. I was in my room.”

  “The hall shadows were too dark. He couldn’t identify who it was, but he thought the man had dark hair and wore a gray suit.”

  His hands fisted, and he stepped closer. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I don’t have an answer. You wouldn’t have had time to make it to your room, change suits, then meet Mignon and me on the landing. So I don’t necessarily think it was you, but everyone else was downstairs.”

  “And nobody had on a gray suit. Could it have been someone else? Someone you didn’t know was in your home?”

  I shivered at the thought. “It’s possible.”

  “Mrs. Boucheron, I suggest you make a habit of locking your doors.”

  “We do every night.”

  He caught my hand in his, his touch gentle but firm, and far too welcome. A hot tingle raced up my arm as the warmth and the strength of him seeped into me. “Not just at night. Lock them during the day as well. The telegram I read said you were in danger. What did it mean? Who was it from?”

  “I don’t know any details yet,” I said, pulling my fingers from his grasp. “But I do know it said to trust no one.” I opened the door to leave, but he planted his hand on it, closing it, trapping me. For a long moment, I stood looking into his eyes, my heart beating as if I were running.

  “You can trust me,” he said, his voice low, and as deeply hypnotic as his gaze.

  “You’re a stranger,” I whispered.

  “Am I? Somehow, since the moment we met that word hasn’t fit between us, Mrs. Boucheron. I think you feel the same attraction that I do.” He leaned in closer, and I drew an expectant breath.

  He smiled slowly, then surprisingly stepped away. “Thank you for the dinner and for the apology. They are both appreciated.”

  “You’re…welcome,” I said, managing to quit the room, though the very foundations of my life seemed to be shaken.

  Mr. Trevelyan was right. I didn’t think of him as a stranger. I should. I had to.

  5

  “Jean Claude’s letters have to be somewhere,” I told Mignon and Ginette as we opened the dormer windows. Sunshine streamed into the attic, revealing an entire floor filled with baggage, from useless antiquities taking up space to precious treasures, like the old six-legged rocking chair I’d placed by the window yesterday to sit in while searching through boxes.

  The Swedish-made chair had been my mother’s favorite, and my father had stored it up here after her death. Perhaps it was time to bring it back downstairs and let other memories fill the worn seat.

  I still had not heard from Mr. Goodson—no responding telegraph to my demand on Monday for more information about the danger I might be in, no letters in the post. Short of making a trip to Baton Rouge, there was little that I could do. At this point, I thought it prudent to stay close to home and keep a wary eye on my boarders.

  Four days had passed, and I felt as if I was still against the door in Mr. Trevelyan’s room with him leaning toward me, despite my careful maneuvering to avoid any intimate conversations or situations
with him. I kept trying to act as if he was a stranger, and he wasn’t cooperating. Whenever I turned around, I found him watching me, smiling with a knowing look in his eyes, as if he expected me to act on the attraction his gaze kept inflamed.

  “Are you sure the letters are in a blue box?” Ginette asked.

  “Positive, but just in case I’m wrong, we’ll check all of the boxes.”

  “All?” Ginette groaned as she turned in a circle. She seemed to grow more fatigued as the week passed. “Why, we haven’t cleaned up here since—”

  “It was over two years ago.” Mignon plopped a feathery hat on her head, then sneezed at the dust that showered down. “And I wore this hat the whole time. It was just before I turned fifteen, and I was sure we’d find a trunk full of forgotten treasure. All of our money woes would have been solved and I could then have the biggest birthday ball ever.”

  I bit my lip, wincing. “Nonnie, I wish that we could have—”

  “Oh, foo, Juliet. I have long since realized other things in life are more important to me. Enough about the past.” She pointed to a stack of trunks near the window. “However are we to search those?”

  I frowned. “I don’t remember the trunks being stacked like that yesterday. Has Papa John been up here cleaning?”

  Mignon shrugged.

  Ginette shook her head. “Well, before I become too tired, I say we get started and have Papa John move the trunks later. Where did you leave off, Juliet?”

  “I only had time to search through the boxes by the door here. Nonnie and I can do this if you need to go rest a little.”

  “I have already rested. I spent the morning in the sitting room. I only worked a few minutes on my embroidery before I set it aside and fell asleep. At the rate I am going with my tapestry, I will be eighty before I finish it,” Ginette said with a sigh.