by Nan Ryan
“Nor do I,” said Montro. “But to get to you, Lady Madeleine, Chilton will have to come through me. And that’s not going to happen.”
“No, it’s not,” Armand agreed, turning to Madeleine. “Now, since I’m sure you’ll be as safe as a babe in her crib, I better be going.”
“I’ll see you to the door,” Madeleine offered.
“Good night Avalina, Montro,” Armand said, smiling warmly.
Both beamed at him. He winked at them as if they shared a delicious secret.
At the front door Armand said, “Don’t worry, Maddie. Together we’ll find the will.”
“I hope so.” She sighed. “Can we start tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow it is,” he replied. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “I wish I could kiss you.”
“Well, you can’t,” she scolded, glancing nervously toward the drawing room.
“Can I kiss you tomorrow?”
She smiled. “Tomorrow it is.”
As soon as Armand left, an emotionally drained Madeleine bade good night to Avalina and Montro and went upstairs to bed. When the door closed behind her, Montro and Avalina looked at each other and began to smile broadly. They shook hands, silently congratulating each other. And both offered thanks to the Almighty that their most fervent prayers had been answered.
Lady Madeleine would not be marrying Lord Enfield.
The next morning a huge garland of red roses arrived for Lady Madeleine. The card read, “Dearest, I must see you. Allow me to straighten out this foolish misunderstanding between us.”
An hour after the roses arrived, Lord Enfield showed up at the town house. “I must see my fiancée,” he announced regally when Big Montro appeared just inside the locked iron gates.
“Lady Madeleine does not wish to see you, Lord Enfield.”
Instantly furious, Desmond carefully hid his wrath. “She’s upset, I know, but if I can just talk to her for a few minutes, I can explain everything.” He laughed as if the whole thing were much ado over nothing. “You know how women are, Montro. They get upset for no reason and we men have to pet and pamper them out of their sour mood.”
“Lady Madeleine does not wish to see you,” Montro repeated.
Desmond exhaled with frustration. He said, “Did she get the roses?” Montro nodded. “Good.” Desmond gave Montro a weak smile and said, “Please tell her I was here and that I love her more than life itself.”
“Good day, Chilton,” Montro said, dismissing him.
For a long moment Lord Enfield continued to stand there in the morning sun outside the locked gates. Finally he turned and walked away, stopping to glance up at Madeleine’s window. He was worried as he’d never been worried in his life. He had to get her back. He had to convince her to be his wife in case the final will turned up.
As the warm, rainy month of March rushed too quickly by, Madeleine and Armand were together almost daily, racing the clock in an attempt to save her inheritance. In the beginning Armand was fully optimistic. He reasoned that Madeleine’s uncle had written a will giving her his entire fortune. Apparently several people had seen it and heard him acknowledge it; therefore, they could testify to it.
But, no, Madeleine informed him, that would not be possible. All of the gentlemen who knew of the will and its contents were now deceased. There was no one who could come forward and attest to its existence. No one, that is, except Lord Enfield.
Armand and Madeleine went to court and conferred privately with the honorable Judge Baxter, a knowledgeable, levelheaded gentleman Armand had known since finishing law school.
“We need your help, Judge,” Armand said to the balding man.
“What do you mean, my boy?” Baxter’s bushy eyebrows knitted.
“Colfax Sumner’s will has disappeared.”
“Oh? I was informed that the will was found.”
“But not the latest will,” Armand told him. “When Sumner’s safe was opened, only an old provisional will was there.”
The judge rubbed his forehead. “Contact some of the witnesses to the…”
“All are deceased.”
The judge shook his head sorrowfully. “Then we must hope that Colfax left a copy of the will someplace. Without it…what can I say? The law is the law.”
The pair returned to court the next day with a petition saying that Madeleine had firm reason to believe that a second will had been made. Armand explained that, frequently, though the law did not require it, family notaries kept duplicates of such documents. Armand, on Madeleine’s behalf, demanded that every notary in New Orleans be called in.
It took several weeks before all had finally appeared. Colfax had gone to none of them.
Meanwhile the pair searched a couple of other safes in which Colfax had kept possessions. They spent a full day at the plantation upriver, going through the safe and all the many drawers in the huge mansion.
They found nothing.
April came to the Crescent City with a profusion of fresh flowers filling courtyards and sweetening the heavy air. The balmy days and warm nights were as near perfection as could be found on earth. New Orleanians, delighted that the penetrating cold and dampness of the winter was behind them and that the heat and mugginess of summer had not yet arrived, eagerly filled the streets and the riverfront. Laughter frequently rang out as good friends gathered outdoors to visit and gossip and bask in the glorious joys of springtime.
While the city’s social set were taking full advantage of the warm, beautiful weather, Madeleine and Armand were totally preoccupied.
They visited numerous banks in which Sumner had safe deposit boxes. The boxes were filled with various documents and deeds to land purchased over the years. Both Armand and Madeleine were shocked at the enormity of the estate. Colfax Sumner had been a very good businessman. He had bought up land left and right, in New Orleans and beyond, along the river and bayous.
It appeared that half of the city belonged to Colfax Sumner.
Determined to continue their fight to the bitter end, the pair visited the Spanish structure next to St. Louis Cathedral, the old Cabildo. Once inside the huge room, Armand sought out the clerk of the probate court.
An assistant listened as Armand asked for the succession of Colfax Sumner.
“What is your interest in this information?” he asked.
“May I remind you that these are public records,” was Armand’s reply.
The clerk pursed his lips, turned and walked away. In minutes he returned with an armload of records.
Armand and Madeleine pored over the old, dusty records. His anger showing in a white circle around his mouth, Armand pointed out that Lord Enfield was already attempting to sell a small downtown parcel of Sumner’s land.
“Good God, this is unbelievable,” he growled. “Chilton is trying to sell Sumner’s property without legal authority of any kind!” Madeleine started to say something, but Armand raged on. “Even if he had the authority to sell the land—which he does not—the law says sales must be held at public auction after full advertisement.”
“Does he actually think he can get away with selling the property?”
Armand raised his hands, rubbed his temples. “He must, or he wouldn’t be trying. Who knows? Perhaps he has an accomplice inside the law. New Orleans has always been ruled by corrupt and powerful men.”
“So I hear,” Madeleine said. “That’s the reason you were disbarred, isn’t it?”
Armand’s dark head snapped up and he looked at her in surprise. “How did you know about that?”
“Montro told me. He said you defended a young black man in a rape case and that the woman’s family brought false charges against you in an effort to have you tossed out.”
Armand shrugged. “The poor devil was innocent.”
“I know.” Madeleine began to smile. “I know something else about you, Creole.” Armand frowned. She said, “You are helping build the new childrens’ hospital. I saw you working on the roof.”
“I�
�m a good carpenter.” He was nonchalant.
“You’re a good man.”
Armand colored visibly beneath his olive complexion and murmured, “Let’s see, now, where were we?” He picked up one of the big books.
Madeleine’s smile fled. She sighed and shook her head wearily. “It looks as though I’m going to lose everything.”
“No, sweetheart.” Armand closed the huge book and turned to her. “But we’ve done enough for the day. Let’s go to my apartment and have dinner sent over from Antonies.”
“They’ll do that?”
“For us they will.”
Thirty-Six
As dusk blanketed the city, Madeleine and Armand sat on the floor in the spacious drawing room of Armand’s Pontalba Building apartment. The tall French doors were thrown open to the coming coolness of the night and a fire crackled brightly in the marble fireplace.
A large white linen cloth was spread on the plush carpet directly in front of the fireplace and upon it was a sumptuous supper catered from Armand’s favorite restaurant, Antonies. Rich, highly seasoned bouillabaisse was followed with excellent filet de sole bonne femme. Madeleine was starting on the rich dessert, blackberries in thick cream, when Armand, rising to his feet, excused himself for a moment.
He was gone for several minutes and Madeleine was growing curious. When he returned she laughed merrily and clapped her hands. He held large silver bowl and ladle in one hand and in the other, a matching silver tray on which several ingredients rested.
Winking at her, Armand again sat down on the floor, placed the empty silver bowl before him, the tray at his side. In the silver dish he put sugar, brandy, cloves, allspice, orange and lemon peel, and cinnamon sticks. He then grinned, rubbed his hands together, lighted a match and set the brandy and ingredients afire in the bowl. Slowly he poured in the coffee and then lifted the blazing silver bowl high into the air while Madeleine applauded.
“Your café brulot, my lady,” he said, handing her a cup of the hot, delicious brew.
As they sipped the exquisite mixture, the cares of the day faded away and were forgotten. They were alone together and they were content.
When Madeleine took the last sip of her cooling café brulot, Armand took the cup from her and set it aside. Without using his hands, he came agilely to his feet and reached for her.
When she stood facing him, he said, “I haven’t had a bath since early this morning, what about you?” She smiled shyly and shook her head. “Let’s take a bath together.”
Not waiting for her reply, Armand laced his fingers through hers. He led her out of the drawing room, directly through his bedroom and into the bath. The giant tub was miraculously filled with hot sudsy water and on a ledge at the tub’s foot was a lit candle in a hammered silver holder. A half dozen large white towels rested beside the steaming tub.
“Does a good fairy live with you?” she teased.
“I never give away my secrets,” he said, drawing her closer before he began undressing her.
In minutes both were totally naked.
Well, almost naked.
Madeleine laughed and, nodding to the faded blue garter encircling Armand’s upper arm, asked, “Do you bathe in that?”
He grinned, quickly slipped the garter down his arm and off. Tossing it atop a chest, he replied, “No, but sometimes I sleep in it. And I never leave the house without it.”
“You are crazy, Creole” she teased.
“Crazy about you, countess,” he replied.
For a few peaceful, pleasant moments the pair relaxed in the oversize tub, the mellow candlelight washing over them and causing shadows to dance on the walls. Eyes closed, Armand lazed against the tub’s high back with Madeleine between his legs, resting comfortably against him. Both had agreed that since they were so exhausted from their long day, they should really rest, not play. Leave each other alone. Just lie and let the warm, soothing water work its magic on their weary bodies.
Very quickly both realized that to lie naked together in a hot tub and not want to make love was utterly ridiculous. Without a word being spoken, Madeleine slid to one side of Armand’s wet, solid chest and turned her head to look up at him.
He kissed her and it was a kiss to end all kisses.
Madeleine had never made love while immersed in water, but she found to her surprised delight that it was highly enjoyable. Astride her slippery lover, she ground her hips and clung to Armand’s strong neck and looked into his flashing dark eyes. In moments both reached total ecstasy.
Madeleine’s burning passion for Armand grew more intense every time they touched, kissed, made love. She felt as if she could never get enough of him, as if the only thing she wanted was to be in his arms forever and ever.
But as they had worked together so tirelessly these past few weeks, the fierce attraction that had been there from the beginning was steadily growing into something much more, much deeper.
Madeleine had learned that this handsome Creole whom she had so foolishly assumed to be a rogue with no conscience, was at heart a good, principled man, deserving of her respect. And she did respect him.
But did that mean she could trust him entirely? Did he really care for her or was their relationship merely a product of their fiery sexual hunger for each other? When the hot, hot passion cooled, would he still want her? And only her?
Lord Enfield, after numerous failed attempts to see Madeleine, had finally given up. He couldn’t get past the big burly bodyguard who seemed never to sleep.
Madeleine, Desmond had learned the hard way, was never alone either at home or when she went out. The protective giant was always at her side. And, Desmond had noted with contempt, a regular destination to which Montro escorted his mistress was to the Pontalba apartments of one Armand de Chevalier.
The first time, the shocked earl couldn’t believe his eyes. It had happened on an April afternoon when he was crossing Jackson Square after a most disturbing meeting with his broker. He had looked up just in time to see the towering Montro greet a radiant Lady Madeleine outside de Chevalier’s apartment. The Creole was at her side, holding her hand as if he owned her, and the three of them were laughing.
His eyes narrowed, unable to abide what he was seeing, Desmond had witnessed Armand giving Madeleine a kiss on the cheek before she and Montro had turned and walked way. Stunned and livid, he’d had to sit down on a bench in the manicured square to collect himself.
That shameless harlot! That brazen bitch! Openly consorting with the likes of de Chevalier. Callously making him, Lord Enfield, a laughingstock among his friends. Everyone was whispering behind his back; he knew they were. There was no doubt in his mind that Madeleine had told everyone in town about breaking the engagement and they were all speculating about the cause.
Damn her to eternal hell!
Desmond’s frustration steadily grew. In the following weeks he saw Armand and Madeleine together several times and while he was half afraid of de Chevalier and wouldn’t dare challenge him in person, Desmond decided he wouldn’t let the Creole off scot-free. He had no doubt that de Chevalier was putting ideas in Madeleine’s head and telling her where to search for the missing will. The meddling bastard needed to be taught a lesson.
After much stewing and cursing and gnashing of teeth, Lord Enfield impulsively paid a late-night visit to his hired henchmens’ shanty at edge of the swamps.
“You want us to scare him or kill him?” asked Burton Smallwood.
“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that,” Desmond said, cocking his head to one side. “Yes, why not! Kill the sleazy bastard,” he decided, slamming a fist down on the table. He quickly added, “But make it look like a robbery. Wait until you can catch him out alone on the street at night. Then grab him, take any money or jewelry he has and beat him unmercifully. You think just you two, you and Barton, can handle it? I don’t want anybody else in on this.”
“Barton weighs twice as much as de Chevalier,” said Burton. “Sure we can handle it.”
&
nbsp; Smiling at the prospect, wishing he could be there to see the haughty Creole get what was coming to him, Desmond looked around the cluttered cabin. “Where’s your brother now? Where’s Barton?”
“Aw, Barton went into town for—”
“Son of a bitch!” thundered Desmond Chilton and shot to his feet. “You let that simpleminded fool go to town knowing damned well he’ll drink too much and talk too much!”
“No, no, boss, you got it all wrong,” Burton defended his baby brother. “See, Barton needed a woman. Bad. Hasn’t had one in weeks and he was about to jump out of his skin. I made him swear to me that he would go straight to a whorehouse and that he’d not take one single drink of whiskey.”
“And you believed him?” Desmond snorted.
“I did, because I put the fear of God in him. Made him promise he’d just spend an hour with a woman and then come right back here. I expect him home any minute.”
At that very minute, a drunken Barton Smallwood, grinning from ear to ear, haltingly climbed the front steps of a two-story Galletin Street brothel in search of a willing strumpet with whom he could frolic the evening away.
For a ten-dollar bill he got just what he was looking for. A big-bosomed, big-butted woman with pale skin, painted eyes, rouged lips and tinted hair. Gleefully watching the bounce of her ample bottom as she preceded him up the stairs, he asked, “What’s your name, sweetening?”
Over her shoulder, “Heaven,” she replied. “Miss Heaven Sublime.”
“You gonna’ take me to heaven, Heaven?” he said, laughing loudly.
“Why sure, big boy.”
Inside a small, garish room with walls of scarlet and one low burning lamp, the two of them hurriedly undressed and climbed into bed. Without preamble Barton Smallwood moved between Heaven’s plump, parted thighs, pumped a couple of times, heaved, and climaxed instantly.
Out of breath, he rolled off her, fell onto his back, and gasped thirstily, “Pour me a little drink of whiskey, will you, Heaven?”
