by Nan Ryan
“He must be very wealthy,” said Madeleine.
“No doubt, but then it’s relatively easy to amass great sums of money if one has no qualms about how it is made,” said Desmond.
“That’s true,” Madeleine replied, hearing the censure in his tone.
“De Chevalier not only likes to make money, he likes to spend it as well. Which is probably why he manages to attract an ever changing parade of exquisitely lovely women.”
“Are there many?”
Desmond nodded. “He’s rarely seen without a pale-skinned Creole beauty on his arm, but none mean anything to him. He treats them all like physical playthings, caring nothing for their tender feelings, callously exchanging them for a new one after he tires of them.”
“Sounds like he’s a heartless scoundrel,” Madeleine said, silently praying that Desmond would never, ever find out she had once—for one brief unforgettable hour—been the reckless Creole’s physical plaything.
“Yes, but then he’s not our problem, is he, my love?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Kiss me good-night. It’s late and I must go.”
Madeleine stood in the moonlight and watched as the lord’s carriage rolled through the porte cochere and turned into the street. Once again she reminded herself how fortunate she was that Lord Enfield was such a good, admirable, honest man who loved and respected her.
Nothing at all like the wicked Armand de Chevalier.
Twelve
November settled over New Orleans with a cold, raw dampness. The long, somnolent afternoons of summer were now gone and the sunny Louisiana skies changed from a dazzling azure blue to a depressing gunmetal gray. A chill, foggy mist often blanketed the River City.
Winds swept fallen leaves across dim winter courtyards and cobblestone banquettes. The bright yellow, green and peach-hued stucco houses of the French Quarter seemed to lose their cheerful colors in the cloudy autumn gloom.
The dramatic change in the weather did little to dampen the spirits of New Orleans native, Armand de Chevalier. The climate of the old River City suited him fine. The warm sunny days in the spring of the year were as near to perfect as could be found this side of paradise. And the long, lazy days of the hot summertime had a calming effect; a sweet lassitude went hand in hand with the muggy heat. And then, when finally the scorching, humid days grudgingly gave way to the coming chill of autumn, he felt pleasantly invigorated and optimistic.
On a nippy November evening, Armand de Chevalier stood naked, save for a white towel knotted at his waist, in the bathroom of his elegant second-floor apartment in the Pontalba Building on St. Peter Street. Armand, just out of his bath, was humming as he shaved, feeling good, looking forward to the evening.
When he had completed the task of shaving his dark, heavy beard, he picked up twin, soft-bristled, wooden-backed brushes, and ran them through his black hair several times at the temples. He tossed the brushes on the marble vanity and started to turn away from the mirror.
But he stopped.
And he grinned.
And he reached for the sun-faded, water-damaged blue satin garter that hung on one of the ornamental gold leaf flowers framing the heavy mirror. Armand lifted the garter away from the mirror frame as if it were fragile and might break into a million pieces. His black eyes flashed as he slipped the garter over his right hand and slid it up his arm and over his hard biceps.
Armand had, since the stormy August afternoon when he had taken the garter from the shapely leg of the beautiful Lady Madeleine, never been without it. He had continued to wear it throughout that long summer day and he’d been saved when it looked like all hope was lost. It had been nothing short of a maritime miracle. So from that fateful day he had thought of the garter as his good luck charm.
He never left his house without it.
At times he wore the garter around his upper arm, as tonight. Other times it encircled his lower calf, just above the ankle. When he didn’t wear it, he stuffed it in the inside breast pocket of his frock coat. Or he put it in his trouser pocket. Or a vest pocket. Each time he ventured from his home, Madeleine’s garter was somewhere on his person.
Looking in the mirror at a bare-chested man wearing a women’s garter on his arm, Armand laughed at himself for his foolishness. Then he turned away from the mirror and went into the bedroom to dress.
He drew on freshly laundered white underwear, then shoved his long arms into the sleeves of a crisp white shirt with a fancy pleated yoke. His cravat was of shimmering black silk and his stick pin and cuff links were black onyx trimmed in gold. Next came stockings and a pair of gleaming patent-leather shoes. Then he stepped into snug-fitting black trousers, sharply creased, and drew on the matching coat that flared at just the proper angle.
Armand de Chevalier was ready for an evening at The Beaufort.
Extending his arms so that an inch of white cuff would show beneath the coat sleeve’s edge, he went into the drawing room. The double doors to the gallery were open despite the pervasive chill of the gathering dusk. Armand poured himself a shot of Kentucky bourbon and went out onto the iron lace gallery.
He squinted in the foggy twilight. Cold mist kissed his freshly shaven face, but it felt good. In the dense fog he could barely make out the huge statue of Andrew Jackson astride a rearing steed, which his landlady, the Baroness Micaela de Pontalba, had recently had erected at the center of the Vieux Carré parade ground. The plaza had been renamed Jackson Square to honor the hero of the 1815 Battle of New Orleans. But to Armand, it would always be the Place D’Armes.
A bell tolled and Armand shifted his gaze to the twin-towered St. Louis Cathedral that dominated the plaza’s north side. It was there that his parents had been married. Now both lay buried in the old St. Louis cemetery, having died within hours of each other in the yellow fever epidemic of ’43. Armand shook his dark head. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been inside the old church or to the cemetery.
His squint-eyed gaze moved on to the left of the Cathedral to the old Cabildo government building. Next to the Cabildo was the Presbytère, which served as a courthouse. Armand had spent a great deal of time in both buildings when he was a practicing attorney. Now he rarely entered either.
He shifted his attention, directly across the square. But could only make out the hazy outline of the Pontalba apartments on St. Ann, which matched those where he stood. Lastly, he turned and looked toward the riverfront bordering the south side of the square.
A few people walked beneath the street lamps along the banquette near the river. But the mist was so thick, he couldn’t see the many vessels lining the wharf. He could, however, hear the frogs croaking at water’s edge and an occasional shout from a flatboatman.
Armand drew a deep breath of the chill, wet air and smiled. How he loved this old city. He had traveled extensively, both in America and on the Continent, but there was no place on earth he would rather be than right here in New Orleans.
He stood on the gallery for another minute or two before spotting his chauffeur-driven carriage pull in at the banquette directly below. He waved to the driver, turned, grabbed his dark evening cloak from the coat tree, and hurried downstairs.
It was a short ride from his Pontalba apartment to his Carondelet Street gambling palace. In minutes he was stepping down from the carriage and climbing the stone steps to the heavy front doors of The Beaufort, an opulent, three-story gambling club.
In the huge marble foyer, Armand handed his cloak to a smiling employee whose sole job it was to check the wraps of the club’s patrons.
Nodding and smiling, the man took Armand’s cloak and said, “Good evening, boss.”
“Evening, Sam. We doing any business tonight?”
“A little early yet,” said Sam.
“That’s true. It’ll pick up around nine or so.”
“You bet,” Sam said as Armand turned away.
Straightening his cravat and smoothing his hair, Armand paused on the jutting lip of
the raised foyer. He stood at the edge of the curved, elevated entrance, below which was the main gaming salon. Wide marble steps led down into the vast, plushly carpeted room. Crystal chandeliers, suspended from the twenty-foot ceiling, cast prisms of light on elaborate marble statuary, white marble fireplaces, heavy damask curtains, burgundy velvet carpets, and green baize tables where nimble-fingered dealers stood ready for the night’s action.
The Beaufort was the only gambling establishment in the city, and perhaps America, where the croupiers and dealers were required to wear evening dress. Armand thought it gave the place a touch of class. So did the patrons. The richness of appointments, the elegance of the club drew the city’s elite to try their luck at games of chance.
New Orleans’ young, rich, good-looking blades and their beautiful Creole sweethearts, garbed in gorgeous evening gowns, frequented The Beaufort. Not all the lovely ladies who visited the club came in the company of a gentleman. Some of the bolder, more adventurous belles showed up without escorts. It was common knowledge that the brazen beauties were hoping to catch the eye of the club’s darkly handsome owner.
Many had.
In the five years that Armand had owned The Beaufort, he had enjoyed numerous dalliances with young ladies—and some who were not so young—that he had met at his club. He told himself that the reason he hadn’t invited any of the ladies from the gaming tables to join him for dinner of late was because none had struck his fancy. And it was true. He kept involuntarily comparing every woman he saw with a fiery, russet-haired Countess and none measured up. The mere thought of Lady Madeleine sent a little tingle of pleasure down his spine.
Armand’s swank club was not only famous for the attire and demeanor of its croupiers, but for the sumptuous buffet suppers served free of charge each evening. He had employed a trio of talented chefs to cook up delicacies to tempt the most discriminating of palates. There were, Armand knew, people who came to The Beaufort and never went near a gaming table. After a few minutes of me andering around, acting as if they were trying to decide what game to play, which wheel to spin, they would gravitate to the heavily laden buffet table. Once there they would glance anxiously around, pick up one of the heavy china plates, and fill it to overflowing.
Armand didn’t care. Let them eat. There was always plenty. So much, he had the excess bounty taken, early each morning before dawn, to the Ursuline nuns. The sisters were happy to get it and each time any of them passed him on the street, they smiled, thanked him and told him they prayed for him.
By nine the club was beginning to hum. By ten the place was alive with handsomely dressed, champagne-sipping gamblers. The green baize tables were filled with players and a blue haze of smoke from dozens of lighted cigars hung heavily in the air.
Armand had been greeting patrons for two solid hours without a pause. Shaking hands and kissing cheeks and wishing everyone good luck and making sure the gamblers were enjoying themselves. When finally there was a lull he made his way through the noisy cavernous room, climbed the marble steps, crossed the wide foyer, and slipped out the heavy double doors.
There, under the scarlet canopy, he leaned a muscular shoulder against a lamppost and drew a long refreshing breath of the misty night air. He took a thin, black cigar from the inside pocket of his black frock coat, stuck it between his lips, and lit it with a Lucifer he struck with his thumbnail. He shook the match out, dropped it and drew on the cigar.
Standing there, enjoying the relative solitude and the cigar, he saw a distinctive carriage coming up Carondelet. There was an impressive gold crest on the black coach’s door. Lord Enfield’s carriage.
Armand shook his dark head.
It was just past ten o’clock and the nobleman had already bade good-night to his beloved. But, if Chilton was heading to his own home after an evening with his fiancée, he was going in the wrong direction.
Armand’s black eyes narrowed.
Desmond Chilton had no intention of going home. He was heading toward North Rampart street. Armand knew his destination.
Thirteen
Inside the roomy crested coach, a smug, smiling Lord Enfield was so lost in pleasant anticipation of what the next hour would bring, he never so much as glanced out the window. Pleasingly full after a lavish meal shared with Colfax and Madeleine, he was now eager to satisfy another, more insatiable appetite.
The lord was still smiling when his carriage rolled up before a small white house on North Rampart street. The house was identical to all the others lining both sides of the street. But inside the un-imposing structure was a unique and priceless treasure.
Lord Enfield looked warily about. He saw no one on the street. Warning his driver, as he always did, of the constant need to be discreet, he quickly alighted and the carriage immediately drove away.
Using his key, Desmond let himself in the front door of the white cottage, shrugged out of his great coat and tossed it aside. He hurried through the parlor and went directly to the bedroom at the back of the small house.
His heartbeat beginning to quicken with growing excitement, he stepped into the doorway of the shadowy room.
And his smile broadened.
A beautiful quadroon awaited him. Quadroons, the preferred mistresses of many New Orleans gentlemen, were the offspring of a white and a mulatto, a mulatto being the issue of a white and a black. His lovely nineteen-year-old quadroon was dressed as if she were going out for the evening in an elegant ball gown of shimmering rose satin. Her long, dark hair had been swept atop her head and the lustrous curls were embellished with a scattering of tiny rose satin bows that matched her gown. She wore long white satin gloves and at her throat was a cameo brooch on a velvet ribbon.
She looked very young and quite prim and proper. And innocent. So sweet and innocent. It was a look that greatly excited her blond male visitor. Laughing girlishly and daintily lifting the hem of her satin skirts and crinoline petticoats, she crossed to him.
“Bonsoir, my lord,” she said, went up on tiptoe and brushed a quick kiss to his lips.
“My darling Dominique,” he murmured.
She smiled saucily and helped him get undressed.
When he was naked, the satin-gowned Dominique indicated a lyre-backed chair that had been placed at the room’s center.
“Sit down, my lord,” she softly commanded.
Desmond Chilton sat down. Once he was seated, the beautiful quadroon, standing a few short feet from him, began to seductively undress. She was deliberately slow in disrobing. She took an inordinate amount of time simply peeling the long satin gloves down her arms. Then, starting on the tiny satin-covered buttons going down the center of the gown’s bodice, she paused between each button. A good ten minutes had passed by the time she stepped out of the shimmering rose satin gown and carelessly tossed it to the floor.
Next came the crinoline petticoats and when she was free of them, the naked man watching her murmured approvingly, “Yes, oh yes.”
Now wearing only a camisole and pantalets, Dominique, smiling and pushing one of the camisole’s lace-trimmed straps off her shoulder, turned slowly about to give her admirer a good look at her shapely backside.
When she was again facing him, she flicked open the hooks of the camisole, laughed and flipped one side open, revealing her heavy left breast. Then she quickly covered it and exposed her right breast. Again she turned her back to him, took off the camisole and dropped it to her feet.
“Please, my sweet angel,” he begged, beseeching her to turn around.
Slowly she pivoted and his chest tightened and his mouth watered. The quadroon had huge, heavy breasts with large dark nipples. He could hardly wait to get his mouth on them. Knowing exactly what was going through his mind, the playful Dominique put her hands under the heavy breasts, lifted them and pushed them together. While she wet her lips with the tip of her pink tongue, she ran her thumbs over her jutting nipples, causing them to stiffen and stick straight out.
Excited, Lord Chilton started to come
up off his chair.
“No, my lord!” she ordered and he reluctantly sat back down, knowing that if he didn’t behave, she might tie him up and torture him for hours before allowing him to touch her.
Dominique yanked on the tape of her pantalets, then slowly, provocatively let the gauzy underwear slip down her belly. The pantalets caught low on her flaring hips and for a long moment she allowed them to stay like that, coyly concealing the part of her anatomy her lover most wanted to see.
Finally she eased the filmy undergarment on down and let it fall to the floor. She stepped out of the pantalets and kicked them aside. She wore no shoes, no stockings, so she was now as naked as he.
“Oh, God! Please, come here, Dom,” Desmond rasped, the blood pounding in his ears and in his erection.
But the woman who best knew how to excite the blond nobleman shook her head and did not go to him. Instead she took a crystal vial of sweetly scented oil from the table by the bed and began to languidly spread it over her bare golden-brown body while her tortured lover squirmed and breathed heavily.
Desmond watched, intrigued and aroused, as she expertly rubbed the oil on her throat and arms. Next came her full breasts and flat belly. He moaned in sweet agony as she smoothed the oil down a leg, bending from the waist, stroking her shapely left thigh until it glistened in the lamplight. She straightened, gave him a naughty look and turned her back to him.
She again bent from the waist to spread oil down her right leg, and in so doing, purposely turned up her bare, slippery bottom to him. He groaned aloud, swallowed hard, and then leaned forward to grip his spread knees.
Dominique laughed evilly, straightened and turned back to face him.
The muscles across Desmond’s naked belly contracted sharply when she poured a few drops of the oil into the palm of her hand, set the vial aside, put her hand between her legs and enticingly spread the oil all through the dark springy curls of her groin and over the wet pink flesh beneath.
The lord was now panting like a puppy.
