Jason's heavy brows met in a frown over clear emerald eyes. "Wilkinson? I wonder what he was up to."
Morgan shrugged and, interjecting a lighter note, asked plaintively, "Are you going to invite me in, or must I stand forever out here in the hot sun?"
A shout of laughter greeted his words, and coming down the steps in a single lithe bound, Jason threw his arm about Morgan and said, "Ah, mon ami, it is good to see you! Your family, they are all well?"
As Morgan readily filled in Jason on the latest news from Natchez, the two men walked up the steps and entered the house.
It was cool inside the spacious, elegant interior, and leading Morgan to a masculine room at the rear of the house, Jason offered him refreshments. After these were served and both men were seated comfortably, he began to ask more about the governor's death and Morgan's trip to New Orleans.
The two young men were similar in several ways—both were tall, Jason perhaps an inch taller than Morgan; both had the blue-black hair associated with Creole parentage; both were dark-skinned, and each was attractive in his own way, though neither was classically handsome. Jason's nose was an arrogant blade in a hard face, while Morgan's chiseled features were too pronounced for perfect male beauty.
Their backgrounds were alike, both coming from wealthy plantation families with roots in New Orleans. Yet there were differences between them: Jason was the only child of his parents, and it was well-known that Guy Savage and his wife Antonia could barely abide the sight of one another and seldom did; Antonia lived in New Orleans, Guy on his estate, Greenwood, in Virginia. Jason also had relatives in England; his uncle was the Duke of Roxbury. The two young men had met at Harrow, and their friendship had lasted ever since.
Busy with their own affairs, their paths seldom crossed, but whenever they were in each other's neighborhood, it was understood the other must call and plan to stay... or else! There was an easy relationship between them and they shared many of the same pursuits—cards, liquor, horses, and women, although at twenty-six, Jason had so far escaped the trap of matrimony, saying with a crooked grin that with his parents as an example he rather thought he would forego the pleasure. It had been through Jason that Morgan had met Nolan, and as they conversed, it was inevitable that Nolan's name would arise.
"Have you heard anything from Nolan?" Morgan asked some time later.
Jason shook his dark head and said lightly, "No... but that doesn't mean anything. Philip is a secretive man, and believe me, as much as I admire him, he has secrets I would just as soon not know."
Morgan nodded. It was true, there was something about Philip Nolan that made one wary of being too close. Nevertheless Jason was an intimate friend of Nolan's and knowing how close Jason was to the man and the adventures they two had shared together, Morgan asked, "You went with him on one of his earlier trips... hunting for horses, I think... didn't you?"
A peculiar expression crossed Jason's handsome face. "Yes," he admitted slowly. "When I was seventeen. You remember, Blood Drinker?" And at Morgan's nod he continued, "Blood Drinker and I went with Nolan to trade for horses with the Comanches." His green eyes dancing, he said, "It was like nothing I've ever experienced, I can tell you that—and Blood Drinker still refuses to discuss it!"
Morgan smiled at Jason's reference to his Cherokee friend. He asked after Blood Drinker, and so the afternoon went, the two men eagerly and happily conversing the day away.
Armand, Jason's grandfather, wandered in at dusk, and after greeting Morgan with open affection, demanded to know if the two of them intended to remain cloistered in this room forever. Did they mean to ignore him entirely? Laughing, they denied the charge and the evening passed.
It was only when Morgan was undressing for bed that last night's affair with the tawny-haired whore returned to his mind. His frock coat had been thrown off, and he was just removing his waistcoat and checking his various pockets when his fingers encountered the gold chain and crucifix.
There was little chance of his being able to return it, in view of Gayoso's death, and yet he found himself strangely reluctant to get rid of it. A momento of a night of passion, he thought with a cynical smile. Perhaps. And not even certain why, he decided it would make an excellent charm. At any rate, every time he saw it he would remember that women were ever deceivers—even whores!
* * *
Leonie missed her mother's crucifix almost as soon as she reached home. Slipping breathlessly in the side door that Yvette had left unlocked for her, she had instinctively reached up to touch the cross in thankfulness for having at last returned to the safety of the house, and with a soft cry of distress, she had discovered its loss.
In view of what had transpired this terrible evening, to lose her one tangible link with her mother seemed the final, punishing blow, and whether she cried for her lost virginity or the loss of her treasured crucifix, she was never quite certain. Unaware of the tears trickling down her cheeks, she slowly, painfully made her way to her bedroom, wondering if the damned vowels had been worth what she had suffered.
Throwing herself down on the bed, she decided that they hadn't been—grand-pere would just go out again tomorrow and sign away more. Her spirits lower than they had ever been in her young life, for the first time Leonie allowed herself to be swamped by the thought of the dismal future. Grand-pere was going to cause them ruin; he was going to force her to marry a man she had never met... and everything she had done would have been for nothing!
Her entire body ached, her mouth throbbed from the stranger's ravenous kisses; beneath her eyes were purple smudges of exhaustion and between her legs there was a dull pain that would not go away. Tiredly she removed her brown dress, and the sight of a blood-streaked petticoat brought an anguished moan from her. She was ruined! And for what? she thought with a sudden violent spurt of temper. Grand-pere's gaming debts! With a flash of hatred, she glared across the room to where she had flung the old reticule that contained the vowels. I must have been mad to think of such a scheme, she decided with a burst of returning spirit.
Leonie was a strong, resilient young woman, and while the rape she had suffered tonight would scar deeply, she was fast recovering her usual fire. The taking of her virginity had been neither brutal nor cruel, and Leonie admitted reluctantly that the stranger had not known what he was doing. It didn't make it any easier for her to accept and she found herself growing even more furious as she thought of it, but she was an honest enough young woman to admit that she had been partially at fault for what had happened. If she had never gone to the governor's, and if she had not been slinking like a criminal through the house, she never would have met the man in the darkened room, and he would never have mistaken her for the whore Gayoso had apparently meant to send to his room.
Her face twisted in the darkness of her own room. Did women truly offer their bodies to men that way? To a complete stranger, she had never met and would never meet again? Thinking of confronting, in the revealing light of day, the man who had possessed her body this night, Leonie shuddered.
She never wanted to meet that particular man face to face. Intrepid as she was, her cheeks flamed at the idea of standing in front of the man who had so intimately explored her body. Mon Dieu! I would die of shame or claw his eyes out!
A faint scratching at the door brought her up with a jerk; she crossed the room and opened the door to find Yvette in a long cotton nightdress, her face white with anxiety.
"Oh, Leonie, you are home at last!" she cried in a low tone. "I have been so worried."
Leonie shushed her, and sending a wary glance down the hall where her grandfather's room was located, she pulled her half-sister into the room. "I just arrived not many minutes ago," she admitted.
"I know—I have been checking your rooms every little bit," Yvette confessed. "I meant to wait up for you, but when your grand-pere came home, he ordered me to bed. I was afraid for him to catch me by the door, so I contented myself with sneaking down here every now and then to see if you had return
ed." Almost hesitantly she asked, "Did you get the vowels?"
With an airiness she didn't feel, Leonie replied, "Mais oui! And it was as simple as I told you it would be."
Leonie didn't even stumble over the whopping lie, but there was a hard glitter in the sea-green eyes and a suggestion of strain about the young face. Peering at her closely in the gloomy pre-dawn light, Yvette ventured, "You seem strange.... Are you positive you are all right?"
Leonie snorted. "Bah! You worry overmuch. I am fine, and at least we have the satisfaction of knowing that tonight will not plunge us deeper in debt."
"But how long do you think you can do what you did tonight?" Yvette asked reasonably. "You cannot follow your grand-pere out every night. Nor will you always know who he owes. I think you were very lucky tonight, but... well, you might not be so lucky another time."
Leonie bit back the hysterical choke of laughter that bubbled in her throat. Lucky! If Yvette only knew! But after a few more questions which Leonie answered easily enough, Yvette seemed satisfied with the account of the evening, and a moment later she slipped out the door and disappeared down the hall to her own room.
Thankful, Leonie climbed back into bed, exhausted both physically and mentally from what she had suffered this evening, and the moment her head touched the pillow she fell into a sound sleep. This night, and what had happened this night, would haunt her dreams for years, but for now the arms of Morpheus welcomed her eagerly.
It was well into the afternoon when she woke, and though one part of her was still devastated by what had happened the night before, some of her natural spirit and spunk had returned. Purposely she blocked out the time spent in the strange man's arms and stubbornly refused to think about it. It had happened and it was over, she decided grimly as she bundled the brown gown in a ball and methodically ripped the telltale petticoat to shreds. Stuffing them into a cloth bag, she hurried out a back door and tossed the bag into the pit where refuse from the house was disposed of. If only she could dispose of the memory of what had happened that easily, she thought with a fierce scowl as she walked back to the house.
She went in search of Yvette, her mind busy with the vowels still in her reticule. What should she do with them? Destroy them? She didn't know, but she'd have to make some sort of decision about them soon, she admitted to herself. Their possession, once the theft was discovered, could be dangerous.
As the day passed if Yvette noticed that Leonie seemed oddly silent, she kept the information to herself. But there was something different about her half-sister, that she could tell for certain. Some spark was missing and she wondered, not for the first time, if Leonie had told the truth about what had happened the night before. It was unusual for Leonie not to be flushed with triumph when she had accomplished a task she had set for herself, and Yvette had been frankly surprised that Leonie had not been crowing with elation about her escapade.
Claude had not noticed anything different about his granddaughter when he had spoken with her briefly after he had arisen, not long after Leonie had, but then, that was not unexpected. He had his usual headache and the pain in his head did not sharpen his wits one bit.
But by four o'clock that afternoon he was feeling much better, and, determined to speak with Monsieur Slade while he was sober and before they became involved in another night of gambling, he toddled off to the governor's house. He was stunned at the news of the governor's death, but it must be admitted that his greatest sorrow came when he asked after Monsieur Slade and was told that the young man had left that morning. No, the servant did not know where Monsieur Slade had gone. The only thing he could tell Claude was that a carriage had called to pick up his personal belongings and that Monsieur Slade had given his condolences and then departed.
Depressed, Claude walked aimlessly away from the governor's residence. Mon Dieu, what shall I do now? he thought. Monsieur Slade would have been so perfect! Shaking his head sadly, he began to walk toward his favorite cafe, the Cafe des Ameliorations at Rampart and Toulouse Streets, intending to drown his disappointment in brandy.
He never made it this particular afternoon. Claude had not gone two blocks, when he caught sight of a tall, dark-haired young man heading down Royal Street. Monsieur Slade! Increasing his stride, he turned off of Toulouse Street and went in hot pursuit, catching up with the young man just as he was about to enter one of the many popular coffee houses that abounded on Royal Street.
"Monsieur Slade! Morgan Slade! Attendez!" he called out.
The young man stopped and glanced over his shoulder, his face showing no sign of recognition. "Yes?" Ashley Slade asked politely, neglecting to inform Claude immediately that he was not his cousin Morgan. Blue eyes, identical to Morgan's, swiftly summed up the slim, aristocratic old man, guessing to within a penny the cost of the well-cut, striped jacket Claude wore. His voice warmer, he added, "How may I help you?"
Chapter 6
It never occurred to Claude that he was not speaking to Morgan Slade. Ashley could have passed for Morgan's twin, if one did not know either man well. Claude did not, having met Morgan only twice and having been under the influence of alcohol on each occasion. Ashley, of course, decided to hold back his identity until he knew what he might gain from a mistaken impression.
Ashley's foray into the New World had not been pleasant, and he had cursed a dozen times a day the whim that had brought him from England to the North American continent. Money was hard to come by, unless one was willing to work for it, and as Ashley abhorred such an idea, he had drifted from frontier town to frontier town around the Gulf of Mexico, charming credit and hospitality where he could, and gaming and cheating where he couldn't.
Thinking that by now his father would have gotten over the anger that had driven him from England, and determined to return home and to familiar haunts, Ashley had at last reached New Orleans. He hoped to raise the money for passage back to England and escape from what was becoming an increasingly dangerous situation.
He had avoided Natchez out of necessity—Morgan would be certain to stop any scheme he might originate to gain money; he also knew he would find no welcome with his uncle and his sons, so he had not traveled that far up the Mississippi. He had spent some months in the small city of Baton Rouge and it had been upon his arrival there that he had written his father, telling him that eventually he planned to be in New Orleans. Writing his father had been a calculated move—Asheley needed money and he wanted to return home. Casually letting his father know where he was situated would eventually bring relief of some sort.
Ashley might have remained indefinitely in Baton Rouge, for he had charmed his way into the affections of a wealthy widow who was happy to support him if he had not run afoul of her relatives. His liaison with the woman had become blatant, and concerned relatives had decided it must stop. In order to protect his comfortable income, Ashley had challenged one of the woman's nephews to a duel. He had killed the unfortunate young man, and not unnaturally, the remaining members of the family were out for his blood. Ashley had quickly departed Baton Rouge, but not before filching several pieces of jewelry from his onetime love.
The money from the stolen jewels had given him a bit of breathing room, but upon arriving in New Orleans a week ago, he had recognized that time was running out. The money wouldn't last him long, not the way Ashley spent it, and his whereabouts in the city would soon be discovered by relatives of the young man he had killed.
Ever ready to take advantage of any opportunity, when the old Frenchman approached him, calling him by his cousin's name, he swiftly decided to see if there was a way for him to profit from the error.
The two men adjourned to a private table in the coffee house and over strong coffee, liberally spiked with rum and brandy, they conversed cautiously for some minutes—Claude, thinking of a diplomatic way to bring up his most ardent desire, and Ashley, carefully concealing his true identity.
They spoke of the governor's sudden death, and through the conversation and a few clever questi
ons, Ashley was able to ascertain that Monsieur Saint-Andre had met his cousin only twice. Relaxing just a little, although the news that Morgan was in the city was most unwelcome, Ashley settled back to enjoy his role as Morgan, his penchant for intrigue thoroughly aroused.
After several minutes of polite conversation, Claude found himself with very little to say, except what was foremost on his mind, and so, taking a fortifying sip of the steaming coffee, he began bluntly, "Monsieur Slade, I did not accost you merely out of politeness.... I have a proposition to lay before you."
Ashley's interest intensified. If there was money in it, he was most interested! Languidly he said, "Yes, and what might that be?"
Claude hesitated. Ashley might look incredibly like Morgan but he was not Morgan, and Claude was having some reservations about this young man. On closer acquaintance and when liquor was not blurring his thoughts, Claude wasn't so certain that his first impression of Morgan Slade was correct. There was something about this man... his eyes were hard, even calculating, and there was a hint of self-indulgence about the full mouth that Claude didn't remember. Pulling himself together and sneering at his own thoughts, he stated baldly, "I have a young granddaughter whom I would like to see married. I would like you to be her husband."
Ashley could have sworn with fury. What good did marriage do him? Hell, he could have married any number of times in the past few years—even an heiress or two—so why should he consider it now?
Claude supplied him with the answer. His eyes fixed on the black coffee in his cup, Claude said, "She has a large dowry and when I die, which my physician has told me will not be too far in the future, she will inherit hundreds of acres of fertile land some miles up the river from here. I know you are a wealthy young man yourself, but I also know that most men prefer a wife who brings something besides herself to the marriage bed." Looking up, his old face suddenly very tired, he asked softly, "Would five thousand doubloons in Spanish gold be enough for you?"
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