by Beth Byers
“Better to face off with gators or panthers than men with guns.” Lisette patted Severine’s cheek lightly. “I like you, Severine. Not enough to die for you.”
Mr. Brand’s mouth dropped and Severine laughed at the look on his face. It wasn’t the words but the affectionate sarcasm that had him staring between them.
“I would never ask it,” Severine said seriously. “We’re disadvantaged because the fiend has started ahead of us. We are not, however, helpless. And, I’d like to believe that we’re cleverer than the drunk, spoiled Andre, who is leaning back on his superior blood and sex.”
“Andre?” Mr. Brand demanded.
“If he gets away with it, he gets everything,” Severine told him. “Clive and Erik would have a better chance pursuing me as they plan rather than murder.”
Lisette snorted. “Those cousins of yours have been roving the halls looking for you. Flower in the buttonhole, slicked back and sharp, too much cologne. Heavy handed in their pursuit and they haven’t even caught you yet.”
“I haven’t rejected Clive as I could have. I haven’t taken away his belief there is a chance. Why would he murder me for his allowance when he has a chance at the whole vault?”
“What about your grandmother?” Mr. Brand asked and then muttered, “I can’t believe I’m even saying that.”
“My grandmother would get her inheritance in full, right?”
Mr. Brand nodded.
“But that’s no more than she has now. She isn’t poor since she has her own funds, her own mansion in New Orleans, and status. But she enjoys playing mistress of this ridiculous house.”
“You can’t discount her, Severine,” Mr. Brand told her gently. “She doesn’t like you.”
Severine winced even though she knew it was true.
“She does, however, seem quite fond of Andre,” Mr. Brand continued.
“So for him she might?” Severine asked.
“For him,” Mr. Brand agreed as carefully and kindly as possible.
“It doesn’t matter who we think it is,” Lisette told them both. “What we need is proof, cher. And a way out of this house before that brother of yours kills us all. Or,” she said, brightening, “you send him away. It’s your house.” Then her expression fell. “Not likely to wade through the water, is he?”
“No. And I wouldn’t want to give him any warning that I’m on to him.”
“Still, we’re trapped in here with him. I don’t want to be killed in my sleep.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Brand added. “I’ll be damned if you’re murdered on my watch, Miss DuNoir. Your father trusted you in my care.”
Severine ignored him for Lisette, who met her gaze. She added, with her plain honesty, “If it were my family, my grandmother would know the whole time what was happening and pretend she didn’t. It’s also possible that your grandmother isn’t a fool and also isn’t helping.”
A message, Severine knew, for her to never trust Grandmère despite anything they found. Severine met Lisette’s gaze and nodded. She had received the message and found it wise. Sad, but wise.
Chapter Fourteen
“I don’t understand,” Severine said, frowning. “It’s obviously untouched.”
The little cabinet in the butler’s office was so covered in dust it was impossible it had been rifled through.
“Well that rules out one round of keys,” Lisette said.
The luncheon gong rang and Severine said, “I’ll be rifling through someone else’s drawers while you eat. Send my regrets. A headache or some such nonsense.”
“Reasonable, considering you were drugged only last night.”
Severine sniffed and passed by the kitchens. “Is my brother in the dining room?”
“Yes, miss,” one of staff answered.
She openly made herself a sandwich and found a bottle of aspirin. After taking two, she poured herself a cup of coffee from the ready supply. “I’ll be dealing with my headache in my room.”
“Miss,” Cook said, “no one has been tampering with your food.”
“Something you established with my grandmother, of course,” Severine countered.
The woman flushed and repeated, “No one has been doctoring your food in my kitchens, ma’am. You can trust what I make for you.”
“And yet what I ate last evening was doctored,” Severine replied firmly. “Perhaps it wasn’t you. Perhaps it was someone else.”
“We’ve been here a long time, miss. There isn’t some rogue in the servant’s hall.”
Severine’s head tilted and her gaze moved among those who were carefully not watching the interaction. They were black and white, old and young, and none of them were loyal to this family. There wasn’t a generational thing here, and Severine didn’t buy into the mythos of loyalty to an employer. Not in the south, not when grandparents had been born slaves.
She let her gaze rove around the kitchens, meeting the eyes of those who dared to meet hers. “I’m sure you’re hearing tales of a hysterical young woman who has read too many novels.”
There was dead silence, but it strengthened in fierceness and Severine would have bet that at least one of the servants had been told that tale and it had been spreading like wildfire.
“I suppose the truth will out in the end.” She took her plate and coffee and then hurried up the steps. She found Mr. Brand on the landing, and he led the way to her brother’s room. His room had never changed. He’d received one of the nicest rooms at the back of the house on the opposite wing from her parents. Severine’s own room had been on the same side of the house as her parents’.
She had objected at first, because it had been so far away, but then Father had walked her up to the room, shown her the view, and the bath he’d added all the way up there. It had been something that even Marie Antoinette wouldn’t have turned her nose up at. Severine had a sitting room with pretty couches that had been chosen for her—not her mother. They hadn’t been pale pink and watercolor flowers, but deep blues and simple lines.
She had loved it when she’d seen all the thought put into it. Why, however, not the colors her mother would have preferred? Severine hadn’t had time before her parents’ deaths to find an answer. She put it off because she wanted to believe someone had cared enough for her to choose colors she would enjoy.
And why had Father put her and her brother on the opposite sides of the house? It was almost impossible to find a farther room from Severine’s old bedroom than her brother’s. Had that been deliberate?
She remembered her mother’s murmurs about the idiocy of such rooms for Severine, a child.
“She should be in the nursery,” Mother had said and Father had just laughed, “Not for our girl.”
Severine set the sandwich and coffee down outside of her brother’s room and unlocked the door with the master key. She wasn’t even surprised to see he’d locked his room.
“He’s not very neat, is he?” Mr. Brand asked, taking a seat in front of her brother’s desk.
Severine, however, was focused on the picture of their mother over the fire. “Is that odd? I feel like…it’s odd.”
Mr. Brand looked up, cleared his throat, and then blushed as he said, “I keep the picture of my mother in my office.”
“Mmm.” Severine turned and examined the room. It was nice. Luxurious even, with thick carpets, heavy furniture, and wide windows, but it was also a standard guest room.
That, Severine felt certain, had been purposeful. Why had her father done such a thing? What had been happening in Andre’s life that Father treated him the same as Mr. Brand or other non-family members?
“What does your room look like, Mr. Brand?” Severine asked, crossing to the window and looking out. Her brother’s room looked down on the drive. There were no poor views from the house, but this was certainly the worst of them. She could see her auto from this place. Had he shot at them from here?
But…how had he been able to see them in the dark?
“Idiot,” she mutt
ered. The head lamps of the Rolls-Royce were how they were spotted.
Mr. Brand hadn’t heard her self-recriminations, so his answer was about the room. “Rather like this one. Though mine is at the back of the house. Has quite a nice view of the rose garden. Your father knew I liked roses. My mother keeps them. During the war, we talked about it once.”
“Very thoughtful,” Severine replied, disturbed by the disparity of how her father treated Andre versus Mr. Brand.
She returned to the room and crossed to her brother’s closet. It was stuffed full with suits and hats, sporting gear and shoes. She was surprised at the excess. “Where does Andre live when he’s not here?”
Mr. Brand glanced at her. “He doesn’t live anywhere else. Clive and Erik have rooms in the city. Your brother will stay in your grandmother’s home on the occasions when he returns to New Orleans, but he’s never fully absented himself from this house since your parents’ death.”
Severine hadn’t expected that answer. This show piece was far from anything that a young man would want. There were no speakeasies or night clubs near here. No places to go dancing or court women. There were a few families, but mostly it would be him, in the house, with the servants and family.
“He didn’t live here then, though,” Severine murmured. “I remember him coming with the guests.”
“Yes,” Mr. Brand agreed.
Severine opened hat boxes and went through her brother’s pockets, but there was nothing more than train stubs and loose change. She sighed and left his closet and found Mr. Brand frowning deeply.
“What is it?”
Mr. Brand harrumphed and then cleared his throat, “A letter from a lawyer about your father’s estate.”
Severine wasn’t surprised. “To clarify he would get the money if something happened to me.”
“And how to go about challenging me for guardianship of you.”
Severine turned again. “My father must have hated Andre.”
Mr. Brand glanced up in surprise and demanded, “How can you tell?”
“No free and clear money, no guardianship of me, even this room. I want to know why Father disliked Andre so.”
Mr. Brand avoided Severine’s gaze and again she asked, “Do you know why?”
“He was a pansy. He was irresponsible. He was a spendthrift. He dabbled in vices your father found disgusting. He was entitled and spoiled and too much like your mother.”
“Father didn’t love her.”
The statement was just thrown out there like a poison dart, to land where it may.
“He loved her, I think,” Mr. Brand countered gently. “He just also despised her at times. Their relationship wasn’t easy and was often made more difficult by her son.”
Severine took a deep breath in. “It’s the poison that spreads. The jealous son feeling his mother has been stolen away. The new man of the house unimpressed with the son. So much importance given to time and money and too little to being kind. Now here we are, so much later, and the hatred continues.”
Severine crossed to the window seat and opened it, finding a rifle. She wasn’t even surprised to see it there. The long sight on it. The shadow of herself against the car. Lukas’s brat coming to take his home away again.
“Mr. Brand,” Severine said, gesturing to the window seat. “He’s not even trying.”
Mr. Brand took the letters from her brother’s desk and folded them neatly into his billfold and then crossed to her. He took in the rifle, the view from the window, and cursed.
“It seems you were right.”
“Do you think he also killed Mama and Father?” Her throat was dry and thick with horror at the idea. Had he shot his mother? Their mother? Had he gunned down pretty Flora and then turned another gun, a different one, on Lukas?
Perhaps Father hadn’t thrown his body on Mama. Perhaps he’d just landed on her, and the accident of gravity had added to Severine’s nightmare?
“It is possible,” Mr. Brand replied, using that careful tone again. The one that seemed to see her as a twelve-year-old again.
“But Father had so many enemies.”
Mr. Brand gently touched her arm, but he was honest with her when he said, “Yes.”
“What do we do now?”
“I think you should move rooms,” Mr. Brand replied. “And share with Lisette. Keep your dog nearby. We’ll bring in the authorities when we can get out of the house. Until then, we’ll be careful.”
Severine nodded and glanced at her brother’s room again. In this monstrous house, with an excess of oversized and glorious suites, this beautiful room had been used as an insult.
Oh, Father, Severine thought. How much better things would have been if he’d been less interested in punishing and more interested in kindness.
Chapter Fifteen
When Severine returned to her bedroom after walking the dogs with Mr. Thorne, she found that every painting had been removed from the walls, set on the floor, and turned around. Her bed had been stripped and the mattress had been spread with something red. She suspected given the coppery smell, it was blood.
“He’s playing games now,” Severine told Grayson, who cursed.
She was trembling. This overt attack was worse than the earlier one. He wanted her to be afraid, and she admitted, he’d been successful. Her body wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. No escape for her to find. And did she always want to look over her shoulder, waiting for the man who hated her enough to do this? What had she done to him, she wanted to demand. No, she actually wanted to shout it at him.
What did I do to you? Why? Am I so awful? So worthy of hate?
“He’s going to find himself locked in the cellar.”
Severine crossed to her trunk, noticing the torn pages littering the floor. It was the books she’d brought with her. The year of sketches she’d drawn in the Austrian wood. He’d found the secret bottom in her trunk.
She slowly knelt. Her journal, her thoughts and dreams, ripped from the spine and torn to pieces. Her clothes. But no. No, this was worse. Not her clothes. Only her underthings. He’d taken a knife to them and left them in shreds.
She shuddered and realized she was crying. Her letters. Her letters from the nuns. Her goodbye tokens. The book from Sister Bernadette written by her own hand. The written recipes from Sister Sophie, so Severine could have the meals from home. The sketch of Severine near one of the graves from Sister Mary Chastity. The embroidered scarf from Sister Agnes.
Andre had bypassed everything that meant nothing and destroyed only the irreplaceable and disturbing. She found that a handkerchief had been pressed into her hand and she slowly pushed herself to her feet.
“Are you all right, Severine?”
She had to answer, but she found that she wasn’t capable of a lie.
“No.”
Grayson paused and then took her wrist, tugging her close and hugging her tightly. “It’ll be all right.”
She was shaking and the hug provided an anchor. She tried for the lie. “They’re only things.”
“No, they aren’t. Of course they aren’t.”
“It was locked,” Severine told Grayson. “The butler keys are in Mr. Brand’s care now, and he took the mistresses’ keys from Grandmother this morning. Andre couldn’t have known which room I would be placed in. They didn’t know I was bringing Lisette, and I gave her the first room. How did he get in here?”
Grayson shook his head, his frown deep. “You need a different bedroom.”
Severine nodded and then turned to the mess. She took what had been destroyed and carefully put the papers in a stack. There was perhaps hope of saving some. Her hands started to shake again when she found the sketch of her face. So much love had gone into that picture. So much hatred into the deeply jabbed X-mark over her face.
She tossed the remnants of her underthings in the trash and carefully packed up her items. When she was finished, she took the small trunk and Grayson took the large. Severine led the way to her one-ti
me bedroom in the tower. She wasn’t sure why she felt so strongly that it was where she was supposed to go, but she decided to have faith in the choice of her Father. He’d loved so little, but she was realizing he had loved her. She took a deep breath and opened the door to her room. Mr. Thorne and the dogs were with her, but she still felt as if she were stepping back into the past.
The windows had been closed and the wet mopped up. The carpets that had been under the windows had been taken away, and really, if the bedding were changed, this room would be fine. What had Grandmère intended by refusing Severine her old room?
Severine shook her head. In the corner of the room was a dollhouse that had been made to match the house. She only played with it a few times before she’d been sent away. Her old doll, Lottie, lay on a shelf, neglected and alone. Why hadn’t the doll come, Severine had wondered time and again, wishing for it. She’d sent a letter asking Grandmère to send Lottie along and been denied.
Severine opened a cupboard door and found the tiny tea set from Father. The train in the corner, he’d bought for her, ignoring mother’s objections. The tin soldiers lined up over the train tracks for when Father played with her. Her eyes burned and she turned to face Grayson. “I feel like a little girl again.”
“This was the room of a beloved child.”
She nodded, for once certain of her place in her father’s affections. Severine nibbled on her bottom lip and said, “Mr. Thorne—”
“Grayson. We’re allies now.”
“Allies, yes. My brother tried to kill me and he’s playing games with me.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “Though, perhaps, I wouldn’t use the word games.”
“Perhaps not,” Severine agreed. “I wonder if you will stand with me when the police are called. I believe he intends to make a claim that I either did an injury to myself if he succeeds in harming me or that I may do so if I avoid any attempt. Then he’ll have me declared mad and take over my guardianship.”
“You think he’s…” Grayson snapped his jaw shut and then ground out, “of course you do. I saw that room as well.”
