“You said there were others?” Aston pressed.
“Yeah.” The man scratched his bristly chin. “One was a short, squat feller…dressed kinda fancy…and seemed to have a nervous twitch or somethin’….”
Ashton glanced at Judd. “Sounds strangely like Horace Titch.”
The black frowned thoughtfully. “Do yo reckon he got ’nuff gumption to be a party to dis?”
“With Marelda urging him,” Ashton replied derisively, “anything is possible.”
“Yo reckon dis was done fo’ revenge?”
“I don’t know why it was done, but I’m going to find out.” Ashton raised a questioning brow to the black man. “Are you with me?”
Judd grinned broadly. “Ain’t Ah always been?”
Willabelle crossed the room almost hesitantly and stood nervously smoothing her apron until her mistress glanced up. Lierin had never seen the woman so unsure of herself, and a prickling of apprehension warned her that she had not come on some simple errand.
“What is it, Willabelle?”
“Missus…” The housekeeper’s dark eyes conveyed her concern as she struggled to make the announcement: “Dat man what say he yo pa is downstairs askin’ to see yo.”
A coldness congealed around Lierin’s heart. The dull gray light of the storm-plagued morning had failed to cast its shadow over her memories of the bygone hours with Ashton, but now a sudden depression descended to strip away those feelings of contentment.
Almost hopefully Willabelle asked, “Can Ah tell him to come back later after de massa returns?”
Lierin rose from the small writing desk. Her limbs were trembling, and a lump had formed in her throat, but she managed a calm facade. “No, Willabelle, I’ll hear what he has to say. It’s the least I can do.”
The housekeeper rolled her eyes skyward. “Ah knowed dis was gonna be a bad day when Ah opened mah eyes dis mornin’,” she mumbled. “First de warehouses burnin’, an’ now dat man acomin’ when de massa ain’t home.”
“There’s no need to upset yourself, Willabelle,” Lierin comforted her. “Just tell him I’ll be down in a moment.”
“Yas’m,” the black woman replied glumly and waddled from the room. When she entered the parlor, she found the man had already helped himself to a glass of brandy and had lighted one of the master’s cigars. His audacity grated on the servant’s good humor, and she glared at him before he faced her. She conveyed the message stiltedly: “De massa, he ain’t home, but de missus say she be right down.”
“When do you expect Mr. Wingate to be returning?”
“Ah don’ know,” the woman muttered, “but de sooner de better.”
Robert Somerton arched a querying brow at the black. “Have you something against my seeing my daughter?”
“Miz Lierin, she done been mighty upset by all dis commotion ’bout her bein’ another man’s wife….”
“Her name is Lenore.” He flicked the ash from his cigar, casually aiming for the porcelain dish on the table and missing it by a wide margin. “Remember it if you can.”
A dark fire had started smoldering in Willabelle’s eyes even before she witnessed the carelessly tossed ash, but now flares of anger were beginning to ignite in their black depths. She went to the table where the tiny cinders had fallen and swept them off into her hand as she stated, “De massa, he say she Miz Lierin, an’ dat suits me jes’ fine.”
Robert laughed with rancor. “Then I’d say you are as blind and foolish as your master. He demanded proof, and we gave it to him, but he has ignored good common sense. Mark my word, he will not continue to use my daughter’s illness for his own ends. I’ll see to that! He took her sister and abused her, but now he will be stopped!”
“Ah gotta tend some chores,” Willabelle announced bluntly.
Robert swept his hand in a gesture of dismissal. He didn’t know why he had stooped to argue with a servant anyway, especially one so obstinate. “Then you’d better be about them before your master comes home and beats you.”
Willabelle puffed up like an enraged toad. “My massa, he ain’t never laid a hand on any of us!” she squawked in outrage. Lifting her nose imperiously, she stalked from the room, rattling the crystal insets in the china cabinet with her heavy strides as she crossed the dining hall. Her ire was sorely strained, and in that moment she could understand quite vividly why the master had remained reticent about his father-in-law. There was nothing good to be said about the man.
A few moments later Lierin entered the parlor, her manner subdued and almost fearful. She tolerated the man’s kiss of greeting upon her cheek and allowed him to lead her to the settee, then listened in the manner of a dutiful daughter as he related stories of their past life in England. He showed her a painted miniature of twin girls, and she had to concede she bore a striking resemblance to both of them, but it was not until he brought out a sketch of a Tudor-style manor home drawn on a hill beyond a body of water that she began to sense a familiarity with the things he showed her.
“You drew this yourself,” he said, gesturing with his replenished drink to the etching. “’Tis our home in England.”
Lierin carefully studied the drawing and, in that moment, could almost imagine herself skipping through the mansion’s long galleries. She could envision walls lined with portraits, lances, and shields, and long tables placed between tall, majestic chairs.
“I think I’ve been there before,” she acknowledged. “The place seems familiar to me.”
“Aha!” Robert cried in jubilant victory. “Now we’re getting somewhere! Perhaps you’ll even concede that I might be your father….”
Her shoulders lifted in a small noncommittal shrug. She was reluctant to go that far, for doing so would give him and Malcolm Sinclair the advantage over Ashton, and she knew with whom her loyalty abided. “Whether I am Lenore or Lierin, you could still be my father, but how can I really claim you are when I don’t even remember you?”
Robert was thoughtful for a space of time, and when he began to speak, he chose his words carefully. “I honestly think you need time and a quiet place to consider this without any interference from either Malcolm or Ashton. Why don’t you let me take you to Biloxi? We have a place there on the beach. You have your own clothes there and everything else you need.”
She frowned, distressed at the thought of leaving Belle Chêne…and Ashton. “I’m happy here….”
“But you won’t be if you start remembering what Ashton Wingate did to your sister. She’s dead because of him, and you vowed one day to have your revenge on him. In fact, I don’t understand how you can hate this man so much and still think of him as your husband.”
“I don’t hate him,” she protested. “I…”
He peered at her closely, waiting for her to continue, but his curiosity was left wanting. “You know of course that Malcolm is planning on calling him out in a duel.”
Her heart stopped in sudden fear, and she stared at him with eyes wide and searching.
“Malcolm is very good at firearms,” Robert stated. “It’s doubtful that Ashton will escape.”
“You’ve got to stop them,” she urged.
“How am I going to stop them?” he inquired in amazement. “You’re the only one who can do that.”
She moaned and wrung her hands, feeling the trap closing in on her. “If I stay with Ashton, Malcolm will insist upon a duel. If I go with Malcolm, Ashton will come after us and demand the same thing. I know him. He’s already said he won’t give me up. And I don’t want anyone killed.”
“That’s why I say your only safe option is to do what I suggested…go with me back to Biloxi. It’s not likely they’ll call me out in a duel.”
Wearily Lierin slumped on the settee, hardly relishing his proposal, yet accepting the merits of it as reasonable. It offered her what was perhaps the only possible escape from her predicament. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“You don’t have much time, my dear,” he advised. “Malcolm is making a
rrangements to come out here and challenge Ashton very soon. If you delay, it could mean death for him.” He shrugged. “Of course, I wouldn’t mourn his passing, considering he took Lierin from us.”
“Can a father mistake his own daughter?” she asked in a tiny voice, and lifted her gaze to his bemused countenance. “Are you sure that I am Lenore?”
He flung up his hand in an impatient gesture. “What’s a father to do when his own daughter won’t believe him? How can I make you understand? The mistake is not mine but Ashton’s! Or rather some ploy of his. It’s got to be a trick he’s playing on us all. He knows Lierin drowned.”
Slowly Lierin pushed herself to her feet and passed a shaking hand across her brow. “Aunt Jennifer and Amanda are resting upstairs. It’s probably better if I leave now without them being aware of it. If you’ll wait in your carriage, I’ll just go upstairs for a moment and write a note to Ashton.”
“You won’t tell him where we’re going….”
“No,” she sighed. “That would only be an open invitation for him to come after us. I’ll just ask him not to interfere.” She left the room and climbed the stairs, feeling as if her whole world had come to an end. With tears blurring her vision, she composed a brief letter, signed it “Lenore,” and brushed a kiss upon the wedding band and placed it on top of the missive. Taking only the clothes on her back, she retraced her steps to the lower level and slipped out the front door, glad that she had not had to confront Willis or Willabelle before her departure. Tears trailed down her cheeks as she gazed back at the house, and she wondered if she would ever return.
Ashton pushed open the tall, swinging doors of the Razorback Saloon and took two steps into the smoke-filled, crowded room before letting the panels rattle shut behind him. He had taken a leisured meal at the inn, and then had gone to the River Witch to wash and garb himself in fresh attire. Judd had joined him there to review the possible whereabouts of those who had torched the warehouse, and they had both decided that a visit to the Under-the-Hill tavern was worth the effort.
Rather than give the impression that he was seeking a fight, Ashton had come dressed much like a riverboat gambler in black coat, cravat, and trousers, with a crisp, white shirt setting off his silver-and-gray-brocaded vest. His tall, rakish figure drew the admiring stares of the harlots who serviced the place, and they greeted him with sultry smiles as he paused inside the door to consider his surroundings. The ceiling was low but the room was wide, with the space broken by large posts that supported the upper floor. A stout bar, pockmarked from a multitude of brawls, angled across one corner of the hall, while the open area was crammed with small tables and crude chairs. A good many of these were filled with patrons, and a pair of scruffy characters leaned against the bar. A more sensitive nose might have turned away from the stench of sweaty bodies, soured ale, tobacco, and mold, but Ashton was no pampered prig. He had seen both sides of the world around him, but it was times like these when he felt very fortunate for his own way of life.
Ashton strolled across the room and selected a dimly lighted table where he pulled out a chair facing the door. Almost before he settled into it, a gaudily dressed strumpet was at his side. Her cheeks were heavily rouged, and when she braced her arms on the table and leaned toward him with a smile, letting the bodice droop away from her breasts, she presented him with a full view of other areas where the red color had been applied.
“What’s yer favor, handsome man?”
“Tonight,” he responded, drawing a deck from his vest pocket, “only a game of cards and a drink.”
The trollop shrugged. “If ye’re only aftah a drink, mistah, I’ll send Sarah over here to serve ye. I can’t waste no time with a man who won’t buy, even if he is pretty. But if ye should change yer mind, me name’s Fern….”
Casually Ashton began to shuffle the cards while he slowly scanned the faces of the men who watched him. They were a disreputable lot, and one by one they turned away as his gaze touched them. The reputation of this man had preceded him, and they were not fooled by his unthreatening mien or his fancy coat and spit-polished boots. A fire had destroyed a warehouse that morning, and the word was already out that it had been set. They also knew whom it belonged to and could smell trouble brewing. No one bothered with Ashton Wingate’s property or possessions without meeting the man; it was like sending out an invitation.
Ashton felt a presence near his elbow and, leaning back in his chair, peered up into the bone-thin face of the woman who stood awaiting his attention. In the smoky haze it was hard to discern the color of the pale, lusterless eyes or the hue of the snarled hair that was drawn into a crude bun at her bony nape. Rags were tied around a badly worn pair of oversized shoes, securing them to her feet, and the coarse blue dress had obviously been made for one a good twenty pounds heavier. He made a rough guess as to her age, placing it somewhere near his own, but he had a feeling she looked much older than she actually was. When she spoke, her tone was flat and void of emotion.
“Fern said you were wanting a drink.”
“What’s the best one in this place?”
“Ale,” the serving maid returned promptly. “It’s the only thing that can’t be watered much.”
“Give me an ale, then…Sarah?” He looked at her inquiringly and received an answering nod. “And in a clean mug if you can find one.”
“You’d have better luck finding one at Belle Chêne,” she advised. “And you’d be a whole lot safer, too.”
Ashton’s brows lifted in surprise. “Do you know me?”
Sarah cut her eyes toward a group of men who had gathered near the bar. “I heard them talking about you and how you took a madwoman into your house and claimed she was your wife. Those are some of the same ones who came out to your place looking for her. They’re saying they lost some good horses because of you.”
Ashton responded with a soft chuckle. “Then why don’t they come and make their complaints known to me?”
Her heavily lined brow puckered into deeper furrows as she pondered his question. “I guess they’re afraid of you, but I don’t understand why. There’s more of them.”
“Just find a place to hide if they manage to gather up their courage,” he suggested.
“You’d be wise to take your own advice. I haven’t been here very long, but I’ve seen what some of these ruffians can do. In fact, you’d be wise to leave now.”
“I came looking for a man, and I haven’t found him yet. He has two fingers missing from his left hand….”
“No one in this room fits that description,” she stated and moved away. Beneath the ragged hem of her gown, her loose slippers made a slight flip-flop sound on the sawdust floor. Her appearance seemed very much a part of this desolate life, and yet as he studied her, Ashton wondered if she might not have known a different way once. She carried herself with a subtle grace the harlots could not match. While they slumped and sauntered their way among the men, trying to provoke some business for the night, she moved with the delicate air of a queen, albeit a ragged one. Even the way she talked hinted of some tutoring.
Coming back to his table, Sarah set down a sparkling mug and a tin pitcher of lukewarm, foamy ale beside it, then stood back and folded her hands as she waited patiently for him to lay out the necessary payment. When he did, her eyes widened in astonishment at the shiny gold color of the coin.
“Oh, that’s far too much, sir, and I doubt if I can get the proper change from the barkeep. He’s sure to raise the price and keep as much of it as he can.”
Ashton reached into his pocket and placed the larger, duller coin on the table beside the gold piece. “This is for the barkeep; the gold is for you…for finding me a clean glass.”
She hesitated briefly, seeming bewildered by his generosity; then with tears in her eyes, she gathered the coins into her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Wingate. I won’t forget this.”
Ashton sampled the ale from the mug and then wrinkled his nose at the acrid taste of the brew. If this was the
best drink in the house, he mused with repugnance, he would certainly be hard-pressed to sample any other.
With unhurried aplomb he settled his black, low-crowned hat upon his head, disregarding the manners of a proper gentleman, and laid out the cards again, playing with the casual air of one ultimately bored. He continued in this vein for some time, and was just about to give up his watchful vigil when a group of four men pushed open the swinging doors. The leader was a thickset hulk of a man whose forehead sloped toward bushy brows and narrow, recessed eyes. A remarkably large, purple-veined nose jutted out and downward over thick, sneering lips. Just inside the door he halted and braced his left hand on a post while he surveyed the crowd. Ashton was quick to note the absence of two fingers from the meaty paw, and he felt a prickling on his neck when the piggish eyes settled on him.
The hulking brute straightened and squared his shoulders, straining the seams of his short jacket as he thrust out his barrel chest. He hitched up his trousers over his protruding belly and then raised both hands to settle his knit cap at a jaunty angle on his head. He strolled ponderously forward, swinging his heavily muscled legs wide with each step before planting his large feet firmly beneath him. Ashton stiffened as the ungraceful fellow approached, for the man seemed to be leading his cronies directly toward his table. His tension eased considerably when the miscreant settled at a table next to his, and he let out a slow breath of relief.
“’Pears we’ve got the hoity-toity folks from Upper Town acomin’ down to our digs these days.” The huge lout chortled as he jerked his thumb in Ashton’s direction.
Ashton surmised that it would not be long before the foursome found some excuse to set upon him, yet it was as if some perverse patience urged him to wait them out. Lazily bracing a booted foot on the rung of a chair, he continued his game of solitaire, but was no less primed for action.
The bear-sized giant banged a beefy fist on the rough planks of the table as his voice rose to an ear-numbing bellow. “Here now! Where’s a servin’ wench? Bring us some ale!” He lowered his voice and sneered aside to his companions: “H’it’s gettin’ so’s a man has to beg to get a drink ’round here.”
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