The Countess Misbehaves

by Nan Ryan

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Lord Enfield commanded sternly.

  The three men were seated at a square wooden table in the Smallwood brothers’ clapboard lean-to. It was after two in the morning. Lord Enfield had made his way to the swamp directly from the Rampart Street cottage. As soon as Dominique had satisfied his sexual hunger, he had dressed, slipped out into the dark night and ordered his driver to the Smallwoods’.

  The lord now looked from one of his hired henchmen to the other. “I was with Sumner and his niece earlier this evening,” he said. “We’ve got the old man scared to death. He’s seeing ghosts every-where he looks. Which is good. That’s what I wanted. Dominique’s been casting spells and having gris-gris left on his doorstep, which might have helped spook him, I don’t know. I do know that the two of you shadowing him have succeeded in terrorizing him and for that I congratulate you.”

  “Why, thanks, boss.” Barton grinned foolishly.

  “Quiet, Barton!” Desmond Chilton demanded sharply. “Sumner is extremely nervous, but unfortunately, his health has not been impaired as I had hoped. The old bastard apparently has a very strong heart.” He exhaled heavily and added, “Looks like we’re not going to be able to scare him to death.”

  “Too bad,” said Burton.

  “Yes, it is,” Desmond replied. “But I digress. He’s presently edgy and badly frightened. He’s expecting something to happen to him at any minute, so he’ll be on the lookout.”

  “Then it would be best to wait a while,” Burton commented.

  “I think so. I told Sumner and his niece that I will start spending my evenings with them at the town house. I could see the relief in the old man’s eyes when I suggested it. I’ll make him feel safe, put him at his ease.”

  “So we stay away from him until you give us the word,” said Burton.

  “Exactly. We want him lulled into a false sense of security. So we’ll wait. We’ll wait until he’s settled down, becomes complacent. I’ll see to it he begins to relax and lets down his guard.”

  “How long?” asked Burton.

  “About a month. On the last Saturday in February, I will be escorting my lovely fiancée to the opera. That is the night you two will take care of Sumner.”

  Barton Smallwood took another big drink of whiskey and asked worriedly, “What about that big bodyguard?”

  Lord Enfield smiled. “Montro will not be at home that evening. He will accompany us to the opera. Avalina, the housekeeper, will retire to her private quarters around nine. You will go to the mansion at precisely ten o’clock. Sumner will be there alone.”

  Burton nodded.

  Desmond reached inside his breast pocket and produced a key. He handed it to Burton. “Make sure no one sees you enter the town house. Quietly let yourself in. Slip up on Sumner, surprise him. Then quickly suffocate him. Make it look like his heart failed.”

  “That all?” asked Burton.

  “No, not quite,” said Desmond. “There’s a small round wall safe behind a picture of Lafayette than hangs in the old man’s study directly behind his desk. I won’t give it to you now, but hours before you are to kill Sumner, I will tell you the safe’s combination. You’re to open the safe and take Sumner’s last will and testament.” His voice took on a harder edge when he added, “Make damned sure you take the correct will from the safe. There are two. Look at both carefully and leave the provisional will. Shut the safe. Put the portrait back in place and get the hell out of there. Understood?”

  “Understood,” said Burton. Barton nodded as he poured himself another glass of whiskey.

  “One more thing,” Desmond added as his lips thinned. “Should you get caught, you do not know me! If you ever so much as mention my name to anyone, you know I’ll have you both killed.”

  “Why, we wouldn’t tell off on you, would we, big brother?” said the tipsy Barton.

  “Mum’s the word,” agreed an unsmiling Burton.

  Lord Enfield got to his feet. “All right, lads, that’s it. Lie low and I’ll be in touch.”

  “So you ain’t gonna marry that pale English countess with the red-gold hair?” asked Barton.

  “That is none of your concern,” said the lord, annoyed by the impertinent question.

  As if he hadn’t spoken, Barton whistled through his teeth and said, “Dang, I’d like to get my hands on her just once. She’s got a pair of the prettiest breasts I ever…”

  The sentence was never finished. With a swiftness that caught Barton off guard, Desmond backhanded him with such force that bright-red blood spurted from the drunken man’s nose and split lip. Eyes round with shock and fear, Barton sat there in his chair, nervously lifting a hand to wipe the blood away. He didn’t dare say a word. Neither did his brother.

  Desmond Chilton reached out and angrily swept the whiskey bottle and half-full glass off the table. They crashed to the rough plank floor and broke, the liquor trickling over the splintered shards of glass.

  “Lay off the whiskey, Barton,” commanded Lord Enfield, glaring down at the frightened man. “Don’t make me have to warn you again.”

  Thirty

  February came to the Crescent City with a welcome warming of the weather and the rowdy, week-long celebration of Mardi Gras.

  Colfax Sumner had reluctantly agreed he would accompany his niece and her fiancé to the nightly rounds of spirited celebrations. Big Montro was to escort the trio to each of the galas and stand guard outside until they were ready to return home.

  Still, had Madeleine had her way, they would have attended none of the carnival’s activities. She was in no mood to celebrate. She was greatly troubled and knew that she would have to force herself to appear gay and happy. Concerned for her uncle’s safety, Madeleine felt it would have been wise for them all to have remained in the security of his home.

  And there was another reason she would have much preferred not to attend the Mardi Gras parties. She was sure that Armand would be among the merry celebrators and his presence always posed a threat. Thus far he had kept his word and had stayed away from her. But if they were present at the same party, how would he behave? How would she?

  She didn’t trust Armand or herself.

  So Madeleine was overly anxious when they arrived at the very first of the week’s many scheduled Mardi Gras soirees. The black-tie affair was at the mansion of Dr. Jean Paul Ledette and his genteel wife. The city’s monied elite had turned out in force to savor the elaborate buffet, drink chilled champagne and dance the night away.

  Throughout the evening, while the well-heeled guests laughed and danced and enjoyed themselves, Madeleine kept an eye on her uncle as she nervously searched the glittering crowd for the Creole.

  “I’m just so mad I could spit,” Melissa Ann Ledette, pretty in a fussy ball gown of pale lavender satin, confided to Madeleine midway through the evening.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Madeleine asked, glancing at her uncle, before turning her full attention to Melissa.

  “Armand de Chevalier sent his regrets. That’s why!”

  Madeleine hoped her smile was casual. “Perhaps Mr. de Chevalier had a prior engagement.”

  “How could that be?” Melissa said. “I invited him to this party ages ago, long before the official invitations went out. I think it’s very rude of him to renege, don’t you?”

  The Ledette soiree was not the only party Armand missed. As the week’s many festivities continued, Madeleine had yet to see him. She was both relieved and puzzled—she’d expected that the hedonistic Creole would be the first to arrive at every single Mardi Gras celebration.

  Fat Tuesday finally came and with it with colorful parades through the city, followed by a massive masked ball on Decatur Street directly in front of Jackson Square. The final affair of the season, Madeleine was more nervous about attending this ball than any of the others.

  Her uncle would surely be in peril at an outside gathering with large milling crowds of people, many of whom he did not know. And she would surely be
in peril since Armand would undoubtedly make an appearance, masked and handsome and dangerous.

  As it turned out both she and her uncle were quite safe at the open-air dance. Big Montro stayed near Uncle Colfax throughout the evening and Armand stayed away from the ball. Madeleine looked for him all evening, tensing every time she saw a tall, dark-haired man in a harlequin mask.

  None were Armand.

  He was not at the ball, yet she felt as if he were watching her, as if his dark, mysterious eyes were resting on her.

  And they were.

  Armand stood on the darkened balcony of his Pontalba apartment on St. Peter, silently observing the dancers below. In his hand was a shot glass of whiskey and in his heart was a hollow emptiness. Half-drunk, he broodingly watched the russet-haired woman, who should have been his, turn about in the arms of the vile Lord Enfield.

  A muscle spasmed in Armand’s lean jaw.

  He gritted his teeth and went back inside. He poured himself another glass of bourbon and drained it in one long swallow. He poured another. He was swaying on his feet now. He knew he was getting quite drunk, but he planned to get a lot drunker. He snagged the heavy liquor decanter and took it with him when he went back out onto the balcony.

  Stumbling slightly, he lowered himself onto a padded chaise longue. Hugging the decanter to his chest, Armand de Chevalier stayed there on the darkened balcony until everyone had left the dance and Decatur Street was silent.

  He was still there the next morning when a strong February sun turned the vast Mississippi the color of rose and shone down on Armand’s closed eyelids. Slowly, painfully, he cocked one eye open and moaned. His head ached dully. His stomach was sour. His left arm was asleep. His unshaven face was itching.

  He was downright miserable.

  He stayed where he was for several long minutes, not sure he could get up. Not sure he wanted to. Hell, he might just stay there forever and let the world pass him by.

  But his naturally sunny nature soon surfaced. Recalling his long, tortured night of drinking and feeling sorry for himself, Armand began to smile. And then to laugh at himself. To make fun of himself for behaving like a simple-minded, lovesick schoolboy.

  It wouldn’t, he vowed, happen again.

  The warm balmy days and mild nights of February passed by with no further threats to Colfax Sumner’s safety. Gradually he began to feel indomitable once more, confident that no one could harm him. It was as if the dark cloud that had hovered over him had finally blown away, leaving only the bright, warm Louisiana sunshine and a wonderful sense of well-being.

  Madeleine was delighted with her uncle’s elevated mood, but she did not fully share it. She was, of course, relieved and thankful that he seemed more like his old self, but she was not totally convinced he was out of danger. The possibility that he was letting down his guard too soon concerned her.

  She had also begun to question the wisdom of her decision to marry Lord Enfield. She was not in love with him. Never had been. And lately the prospect of spending the rest of her life married to the earl seemed like a long prison sentence stretching endlessly before her.

  Unsure, unhappy, she carefully hid her feelings and kept her own council. The problem was hers to solve and she needed to give it a great deal of thought. Plagued with indecision, she nonetheless went about her business as the blushing bride-tobe.

  Almost daily she and Big Montro ventured out to take care of the many tasks associated with planning a large church wedding. Each time they left the town house, Madeleine worried that they might run into Armand. And, on several occasions, they had.

  But he hadn’t behaved like the devilish Armand she had come to know. He had simply nodded politely and went on his way, complying with her wishes to be left alone, as if he were actually a considerate gentleman.

  Ironically, his indifference hurt.

  Made her heart ache dully.

  But she firmly reminded herself—once again—that to care for Armand would be courting disaster. There was, she felt sure, nothing admirable about him. He was, after all, a gambler, a disbarred attorney, a lazy libertine. She had little respect for him. He had no character or conscience. He hadn’t hesitated for a second to make love to another man’s fiancée. He lived only for the moment, taking his pleasure where he found it, never really giving of himself.

  These thoughts were running through Madeleine’s mind as she and Montro strolled along the banquette toward the engraver’s at Dumaine and Chartres. As they neared the little corner shop, Madeleine paused and asked, “What is all that noise? Where is it coming from?”

  Montro smiled and said, “The new children’s hospital being constructed over on Ursulines Street.”

  “Oh, yes, now I recall,” she said. “There was an article in last week’s Picayune about the hospital. A handful of generous donors put up the money with the strict proviso that their identities remain a secret. Most commendable.”

  “It sure is,” Montro agreed. “Want to walk over and have a look before you order the wedding invitations? It’s only a couple of blocks away.”

  “Well, we are early,” she said. “Yes, why don’t we?”

  They quickly walked the two short blocks to the corner of Chartres and Ursulines. A large, half-framed building took up an entire city block. Laborers, sweating in the warm February sunshine, were scrambling over the structure like industrious ants.

  Montro, who had been at the site many times, showed Madeleine where the main entrance was to be, directly across the street from where they now stood. He told her the number of patients’ rooms the hospital would have and exactly how many sick children could be treated at once.

  As Montro continued to talk excitedly and to point out various features of the rising structure, Madeleine shaded her eyes, tilted her head back and looked up to where the rafters joined at the highest point above the building’s main entrance.

  She blinked and her lips fell open in disbelief.

  A shirtless laborer was high up on the steeply slanted rafters, hammering nails into the new, fragrant lumber. He was tall and lean and lithe. His raven hair shone blue-black in the sunlight. The slight expansion of his chest with each indrawn breath brought a rhythmic play of muscles across his smooth olive back, which in turn caused a rising and falling measure of pain in Madeleine’s heart.

  “What on God’s green earth is Armand de Chevalier doing up there on that roof beam?” she said.

  “Helping build the hospital,” said Montro, his tone matter-of-fact.

  Madeleine tore her eyes from Armand, looked at Montro, and said, “De Chevalier engaged in manual labor?” She smirked and added, “I’ll bet he doesn’t last an hour.”

  Montro grinned. “Perhaps you’ve misjudged him. Armand’s a talented carpenter and he’s not afraid of a little hard work. He works on this project every day.”

  Skeptical, Madeleine said, “Why? Why is he doing this?”

  Big Montro shrugged his massive shoulders. “Maybe because he cares about the city’s sick children.”

  “He cares about no one but himself,” Madeleine stated, more to herself than to him.

  “You’re wrong, Lady Madeleine. Armand is a fine man.”

  “A fine man?” Madeleine was incredulous. “I think you’re the one who has misjudged him. Are you aware that he was once an attorney and that the magistrate disbarred him for some loathsome misdeed?”

  For a long moment Montro stared at her. Quietly, he said, “I am aware that he was an attorney and that he was disbarred. And I know the reason it happened.” He paused, narrowed his eyes and asked, “Do you?”

  “Well, I don’t know the ugly details, but Desmond said that Armand did something so contemptible…”

  “Contemptible?” Montro interrupted, his eyes flashing now. “I’ll tell you exactly what Armand did to get disbarred. He represented—for free—a poor young black man who had been accused of rape by a prominent white woman and was being railroaded to the gallows. Armand firmly believed that t
he man was innocent and so he defended him in court. Armand proved that the woman was lying, that she had seduced the handsome black man, then quickly cried rape to save her own precious hide. Armand got the poor devil off. But in so doing, he lost his license to practice law in the state of Louisiana.”

  “But that can’t be,” Madeleine said, outraged. “Desmond led me to believe that—that—” She frowned. “If what you say is true, there were no grounds for disbarment.”

  “I know. They had no grounds so they made some up.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The rich white lady who lied in the case was from one of the South’s most politically powerful families. It was easy for them to get phony charges trumped up against Armand, which allowed them to strip away his law license.”

  Thirty-One

  On the last Saturday evening in February, Colfax firmly insisted that Montro escort Madeleine and Desmond to the opera, without him.

  At Madeleine’s worried look, he said, “Now, dear, I will be fine here. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened for weeks, you know that.” He smiled and added sheepishly, “Perhaps I was imagining the whole thing.”

  Reluctantly, Madeleine agreed, but the last thing she said before leaving was, “Lock the doors tight.”

  “Of course, child. Now, go and enjoy yourselves.”

  At shortly after nine-thirty, more than an hour after the couple had left the town house, Avalina entered the study and asked, “Can I get you anything, Colfax? Do anything for you?”

  “No, not a thing, thanks. I’m just going to read for a while before bedtime.”

  “Well, I’ll just sit here with you until you’re ready to got to bed.”

  He gazed at her and frowned. “You look very tired, Avalina,” he said, studying her drawn face. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  She smiled at him. “No. I’m not the least bit sleepy, so I’ll—”

  “You may not be sleepy, Avalina, but you are tired. Why don’t you go on out to bed? I’m not going to stay up long myself.”