His Dark Desires

by Jennifer St Giles

  The first page ended there, and though I knew I was utterly breaking the rules of propriety, I dived farther, reaching for the other paper. Under the bed to my waist, my chest flat on the floor, I caught the paper between my fingers.

  The bedroom door opened, closed, and booted footsteps came to a halt somewhere in the vicinity of my derriere. I might as well have been naked in a tub. My scalp tingled and my leg muscles twitched as my mind shouted at me to scoot and run, or to crawl completely under the bed.

  “Mrs. Boucheron?”

  “Oui,” I gulped, wondering if I should abandon his letter under the bed. Then at least he might wonder if I had read it, but I wouldn’t be caught with it in my hand.

  “You make a rather interesting and very distracting sight. Are you stuck?” His hand outrageously brushed my left hip, then lingered exactly where it shouldn’t.

  “Non,” I screeched, rearing up, banging my head against the wooden slats and biting my tongue.

  “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Having tea with the bed posts,” I said, gritting my teeth as I scooted back.

  I emerged to find myself face to face with him. He plucked the pages of his letter from my hand, his gaze unamused, his mouth grim.

  “You have a hat,” I cried.

  “So?” His brows angled down, deepening his frown.

  “The man last night wore a similar hat. I came to polish and found the hat!”

  “Are you asking if I am despicable enough to threaten a woman with a knife, Mrs. Boucheron?”

  He sounded so incensed that I felt utterly ridiculous for my suspicions. I exhaled. “Non. I don’t know. I just saw the hat when I came into your room, and I grabbed it. The papers underneath flew off then, and—”

  “And why don’t we pretend this never happened.”

  He stood, extending a helping hand. I had no choice but to follow his lead and set my hand in his. Once I stood, his gaze dropped to my mouth and he stepped so close that his chest brushed mine, sending waves of fire to chase after my doubt and embarrassment. Sandalwood and spice grabbed at my senses, forcing them to clamor for more. The atmosphere in the room went from decidedly cold to overwhelmingly hot. Perspiration beaded my brow. When I backed to the door, he followed.

  Reaching blindly, I found the doorknob and wrapped my hand around it. “Absolutely,” I said. “This never happened.”

  But instead of twisting the knob to escape, my gaze settled on his lips. He groaned.

  “And this didn’t happen either,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to mine. His lips brushed mine softly, as if savoring the exquisite feel of supple flesh, warm and welcoming. His tongue slid against my bottom lip and I opened to him, wanting to taste him and the dark pleasure he offered.

  Lightning and magic bolted through me as his kiss went from whisper soft to a hard demand in a flash and his body pressed against mine, trapping me against the door. A hard thigh slid between my legs as his tongue delved deep, mating with mine in a sensual dance that set me afire inside. I groaned, arching my back, pressing my breasts deeper against the hardness of his chest as I wrapped my arms around his neck. I threaded my hands through the black silk of his hair and kissed him as deeply as he kissed me.

  He moaned. His hands grabbed my hips, urging me closer to him until his arousal pushed intimately against my hip, then he slid his fingers up to brush the sides of my breasts, making every fiber of my being yearn for him. The overwhelming desire was almost more than I could resist.

  “Please,” I whispered as another searing kiss ended and he slid his hands closer to cupping my breasts. “I shouldn’t be here.” My breath came in quick, heavy gasps. My head spun, and my blood raced faster than my heart knew how to beat.

  He exhaled deeply, his body trembling as much as mine, giving evidence of how he fought to control the dark fire consuming us both. “This is the only threat you face from me. I want you more than I want to breathe.” He stepped slowly back.

  My entire body burned to feel the hard, supple planes of his. My hands itched to explore, and I longed to taste a thousand kisses more. I had to leave or I would throw myself at him.

  “This is far from over,” he said softly. “It’s just the beginning.”

  Twisting the knob, I bolted out of the room.

  I ran into Mr. Gallier. His monocle went flying.

  “What in the devil!”

  “Oh, Monsieur Gallier, pardon me!” I backed up, spouting the first excuse that came to mind. “I’ve bread in the oven about to burn.”

  He sniffed the air. “Beeswax?”

  “Mrs. Boucheron, you forgot your cleaning supplies.” Mr. Trevelyan held up my rag and the beeswax tin.

  “Thank you,” I said, snatching them and hurrying downstairs, painfully aware of the gazes that followed me. Reaching the center hall, I drew deep breaths and looked for anything to do to keep me from thinking. I saw several letters on the marble table from Mrs. Gallier, waiting to be posted, and remembered that I’d put my letter to Mr. Goodson there this morning. It wasn’t there now. Papa John was in the dining room, polishing the heavy wood mantel. “Did the post already go out today?”

  “I believe it did, Miz Julie. Miz Vengle was talking to the postman earlier. The way they were laughing made me think they were well acquainted.”

  “Merci. Can I help you with the polishing?” I desperately needed to do something mundane, to regrasp my staid life.

  “Not today. I’m feeling spry and the job is done. I’m heading to the attic now to see if I can’t find those letters you were looking for. I’m still not believing the way those trunks fell.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I said, to escape seeing anyone. I had no idea what I was going to say to Mr. Trevelyan when I saw him, and having Mr. Gallier witness my flight from Mr. Trevelyan’s room made my cheeks scorch.

  “Are you all right, Miz Julie? You look as if you have a fever.”

  I shook my head. “It’s just the heat.”

  “And the worst has yet to come,” Papa John said.

  I knew it down to the center of my soul.

  I followed Papa John up the stairs and we started working our way through the attic. I kept looking for signs of the ghost, testing the air with my fingers, peering around objects for Jean Claude’s letters. I found some blue boxes, but none of them held the letters. After searching through several trunks, I came to a gasping stop upon reaching a corner.

  On the far side of the attic, near a neat stack of old papers, a cigar sat in the middle of a crumpled page of the Picayune newspaper. The newspaper was partially burned and had charred the edges of the large stack of papers nearby. It wasn’t dusty or aged and was dated from two months earlier. Printed on it was an article about a radical political group.

  Someone had been up to the attic. Someone who smoked a cigar and started a fire.

  My stomach clenched, making me feel ill. The only boarder with cigars was Mr. Trevelyan. I told myself no, but doubt lingered. Then I forced my mind to Mr. Latour and his threat that he had other ways of getting what he wanted. A fire would have been one way to get me and my family out of La Belle. But why?

  Years ago, just after Jean Claude and the gold disappeared, my home had been searched from top to bottom. Mr. Latour had led the search and had at least declared me innocent of being involved with Jean Claude’s theft. I clung to the belief that Jean Claude wouldn’t have abandoned me and Andre.

  Slipping the cigar and what was left of the paper in my pocket, I felt as if I finally had a clue to help me discover who my enemy was.

  I didn’t have long to wait. An hour later, I noticed two men out on the street in front of the house. One man appeared to be photographing La Belle, his head tucked under a black cloth as he bent to look into the lens. The other man had a pad and alternated between writing on it and staring at La Belle.

  I marched out of the house. “Gentlemen, I demand to know what you are doing.”

  The camera man peeped from his shroud, sco
wling. “Madam, please move to the side. You’re disrupting the picture.”

  Moving quickly, I planted myself in front of the camera. “This is my home and there will be no photographs taken. Now state your business before I send for the authorities.”

  “There’s no need to be unpleasant,” the other gentleman said, dotting his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “We’re gathering the necessary information for the upcoming auction. We won’t be but a minute more.”

  My body went numb. “What did you say?”

  “The gentlemen have obviously made a mistake,” Mr. Trevelyan said forcefully, as he stepped from the shadows of a nearby live oak and joined me, giving the men a hard look.

  “Now, see here,” the camera man bristled. “We have it on good authority from Monsieur Latour that this property will be up for auction shortly. We don’t make mistakes.”

  “You have this time.” Mr. Trevelyan’s voice was deadly cold. “I suggest you leave immediately. Come back again and I’ll take it as license to shoot.”

  The men blustered and huffed, but packed up their equipment and went down the street. Mr. Trevelyan didn’t move a muscle until they were nearly out of sight.

  “I could have sent them packing,” I said, not ungrateful for his intervention, but feeling as if I were losing control of my life.

  “I know. Unfortunately, I find myself unable to stand idle while you’re being attacked on all sides. Do you know why someone would threaten your family and your home?”

  “Not really.” Yet I knew everything had to have some connection to Jean Claude.

  Mr. Trevelyan’s gaze turned cooler, and I missed the warmth of it. I had my doubts, and he could see that. I wanted to trust him, my heart cried out for me to, but there were too many dark shadows surrounding both of us.

  “Who is Mr. Latour?” he finally asked.

  “A former friend of my husband who has been trying to buy La Belle for the past two months. Since we won’t sell, he’s apparently trying to find a way to force the issue.”

  Mr. Trevelyan quirked his brow. “Mrs. Boucheron, do you have any friends?”

  As I shook my head, I realized how alone I really was.

  7

  For the next few days the household settled into an uneasy routine with no “ghostly” events or trouble of any other kind. After the attack on Mignon, I wanted everyone close to home and did what investigation I could on my own. I went through all of Jean Claude’s army papers that I kept in the study safe, looking for names or any information that might enlighten me to what danger Mr. Goodson found. And a discreet question or two slipped in at an unsuspecting moment to my boarders confirmed that neither Mr. Fitz or Mr. Gallier used cigars. Of course, that wasn’t to say someone wasn’t trying to frame Mr. Trevelyan by using one.

  Nothing unusual happened, except that Mr. Trevelyan was strangely absent. He’d gone to town immediately after kicking the auction assessors off my property, didn’t return until late, and had been gone from dawn to well into the night every day since. I found his behavior exceedingly frustrating. It was as if he’d kissed me and then I’d ceased to exist.

  My family, Mr. Davis, and the boarders had gathered in the parlor after another Trevelyan-less dinner. Ginette was about to play the harp and sing when Mr. Trevelyan entered the room. Devastatingly handsome in a dark blue suit and an elegant shirt, he stole my breath in a heartbeat.

  “Wherever have you been, Monsieur Trevelyan?” Mignon asked, getting up to greet him. “We’ve missed you.”

  Mr. Davis frowned at Mignon’s enthusiasm. He’d been to call on her every day since the attack. I could tell his feelings for her were growing, but though grateful, Mignon’s feelings for him hadn’t changed.

  “Attending to business.” Mr. Trevelyan slid his gaze to me, and I saw cool doubt shadowing his eyes instead of heated desire. My smile faltered. He looked at Andre and held up a book. “I have a present for you, Andre.”

  “Swiss Family Robinson?” Excitement brightened Andre’s face and he took the book reverently. “Merci.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mr. Trevelyan said, his smile and his eyes warming.

  “You’re back just in time to hear Ginette play the harp. Come sit next to Juliet.” Mignon led him to the empty seat beside me on the settee. Embarrassed, I shut my eyes and pulled the silver shawl he’d given me closer. Mignon’s matchmaking had to stop. But I couldn’t even begin to explain how welcome Mr. Trevelyan’s warmth and presence was.

  “You’re in for a treat, Mr. Trevelyan,” said Mr. Gallier. “We live to hear the blessing of Ginette’s voice.”

  “We should have her sing as entertainment prior to the play. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Mr. Gallier?” Mrs. Gallier added, beaming at her idea.

  “Not a good idea, darling.” Mr. Gallier shook his head. “Miss DePerri would so enthrall our audience that our performance would be anticlimactic. Besides, the stage only corrupts angels, and Miss DePerri’s purity should be preserved just as it is.”

  “The stage surely does not corrupt every woman, Mr. Gallier,” Miss Vengle said, a sharp edge to her voice.

  He smiled back at her. “There are exceptions to every rule, Miss Vengle, as you so often prove.”

  Mrs. Gallier stood, clearing her throat, peeved at Mr. Gallier. “I believe I will have to hear Miss DePerri play on another night. A headache is suddenly pressing upon me.”

  “Do you need me to come fix you a powder?” Mr. Gallier asked, apparently oblivious to his wife’s anger.

  “No, dear, I shall be fine. You stay and listen to Miss DePerri.” She left the room.

  Mr. Davis stood. “I need to be going as well. Mignon, would you see me out?”

  “For just a moment. I can’t miss hearing Ginette.”

  Mr. Davis looked as if he would object, but Mignon didn’t give him a chance. He had no choice but to follow her quickly from the room.

  When Mignon returned, slightly flushed, Ginntte settled against her harp.

  From the first brush of her delicate fingers over the strings, a hush fell over everyone. I’d heard people tell of mesmerists—men who took over the minds of their patients and wrought miracles—but Ginette’s singing did more. She never failed to move her audience, making everyone yearn for love.

  When she finished, she rested her head against her harp, drained from pouring her heart into the song.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Trevelyan said softly. “It would be irreverent to clap, but I must add a heartfelt brava.”

  “That was exquisite, Miss DePerri,” Mr. Gallier said.

  Ginette looked up, her face pale, her features drawn. “The pleasure was mine.”

  “I think I am going to retire on that perfect note and check on Mrs. Gallier,” Mr. Gallier said. “Are you coming, Miss Vengle?”

  Mr. Fitz stretched. “I think I’ll retire, as well.”

  Miss Vengle waved her fingers at Mr. Gallier and Mr. Fitz. “Goodnight, gentlemen. I’ve a mind to hear more music.”

  “Oui,” Ginette said. “I would love to hear someone else play. Andre?”

  My son’s cheeks flushed red and he shook his head. Though he was an excellent violin player, he lacked the confidence to play publicly unless he was purposely making a discordant racket. Then he could play for thousands.

  “What about you, Monsieur Trevelyan? Do you play an instrument?” Ginette asked.

  “Nothing nearly as astounding as you, but I can play a few tunes on the piano.”

  “Then will you treat us to one or two?”

  “Certainly. I learned a number of fun sailing tunes on my trips abroad.”

  “Real sailor songs?” Andre asked, his eyes sparking with interest. “Can you teach them to me?”

  “Aye, aye, mate. There is even a pirate ditty or two.” Mr. Trevelyan moved to the piano, sat down, and ran his fingers over the keys. “The problem with these sailor songs is that they are not written down. The only way to learn them is by ear, and that is a very difficult thing to d
o.”

  “I can do that, monsieur. Let me show you.” Andre quickly collected his violin from the corner of the room and went to the piano, where Mr. Trevelyan sat. “Play something and I will repeat it.”

  “If you are sure,” Mr. Trevelyan replied.

  Andre nodded.

  A minute later, Mr. Trevelyan had my son copying a round of toe-tapping melodies without a care as to who listened. Mr. Trevelyan started out with a simple progression of notes that became more and more complicated, challenging Andre with each turn. I wondered what was it about Mr. Trevelyan that so easily bridged a gap I could not cross to my son.

  Soon Mignon joined them on the harpsichord, while Ginette added a few notes with her harp, and Miss Vengle sang heartily. The evening spoke volumes about Mr. Trevelyan’s enjoyment of life. I watched, relaxed, realizing that La Belle used to be filled with laughter and music all the time, but very little since the end of the war. I’d been too caught up in the tasks of the day, and over the years, had given little thought to the fun we all apparently craved.

  Midnight had passed, and I still lay awake, troubled by Mr. Trevelyan’s reserved behavior. Other than noting that I wore the shawl he’d purchased, he didn’t make another personal comment or advance the entire evening. Lost in thought, I almost missed the creaking on the stairs. I sat straight up in the bed, my heart pounding at the sound of footsteps. I’d purposely left my door ajar and had the iron frying pan and poker nearby, but I hadn’t truly expected there would be any intruder. For a moment I stayed frozen in fear, my gaze glued to the dark hallway outside my door. Another faint shuffle of steps bolted me into action.

  I pulled on a silk robe over my cambric nightdress, snatched up the frying pan and the poker, and stole from my room, walking blindly down the corridor until my eyes adjusted to the light. I remembered that I did have a number of people in my home and any one of them might be awake. Before leaving the third floor, I quietly peeked into Ginette’s, Mignon’s, and Andre’s rooms. They were all sleeping undisturbed.