His discovery didn't prove anything, but it gave him food for thought. He picked up one of the suspect invoices and leafed through it. There were a lot of reasonable explanations for the differences in the quality of paper, including manufacturer defects, but he didn't think that was the answer. No. A pattern of outright thievery was revealing itself to him, and it was as simple as it was ingenious.
The possible scenario played itself in his brain. A shipment, he mused slowly, would arrive from Europe and follow the usual routine of unloading and storage in the warehouses... but at some point after that, the thief or thieves, would help themselves to what they wanted from the warehouse. The invoice which accompanied the shipment would be altered, not individual amounts, but an entire counterfeit page would be substituted for the original. Clever. And it smacked of the culprit or culprits being closely aligned with the company.
Galland, Lancaster and Dupree had been paying for goods which they had indeed received, but a portion of which simply disappeared and, with it, their profit. Hugh rubbed his chin. The only way he could prove it was either secretly to institute a system of double record keeping here in New Orleans and wait for the thief to strike, or write and privately request that an original copy of one of the suspicious invoices be sent directly to him. He grimaced. If he wrote that day and the letter sailed with the next ship, it would be three months or more before he received his requested copy from Europe. Three long months before he would be able to compare it with the one in the office. All of which, he admitted glumly, would only confirm the way the thievery was happening, not who.
He sighed. Well, he had plenty of time—he'd moved to New Orleans, hadn't he? And he couldn't say that he was displeased with what he had discovered. At least now, he had some idea how the profits were disappearing. All he had to do was to find the thief—or thieves.
A rude growl from his stomach reminded him that it was late afternoon and that he had not eaten since early morning. Gathering up the invoices which interested him, he locked them in the bottom drawer of his desk and, after shrugging into his dark blue coat and putting on his curly-brimmed beaver hat, left his office, locking it behind him.
Telling Brisson that he was leaving for the day, Hugh stepped out into the soft sunlight. Heading toward Jasper's house, he hoped that he would find his host at home; no doubt, he thought with a grin, resting between amusements.
Hugh had almost reached Dumaine Street when he spied a trim form that he recognized immediately. Micaela Dupree. But what, he wondered, was she doing in the city?
Deciding to find out, he stopped and waited for her to approach him. Micaela appeared to be alone, except for a young maid and a black male servant.
Micaela had spotted him coming toward her almost at the same instant, and if she hadn't been raised to be a proper young lady, she would have stamped her foot and spun around and walked in the opposite direction. But she had been raised to be gracious, even, she told herself fiercely, to Américain gentlemen with mocking eyes and arrogant smiles.
Forcing a polite, albeit cool, expression on her face, she acknowledged Hugh's broad presence on the wooden banquette in front of her. "Monsieur Lancaster. How... nice to see you. Are you enjoying this fine weather we have had the past few days?"
Sweeping aside his hat, he took her hand and dropped a kiss on the soft skin. "Indeed I am, mademoiselle. It gives one hope that the rainy season will truly end soon, does it not?"
To her annoyance, Micaela felt the touch of his warm lips on her hand all the way down to her toes. With more haste than grace, she jerked her hand from his light grasp. "Oui," she said stiffly, wishing she had taken another street.
The amusement lurking in his gray eyes did nothing to quell her annoyance, but before she could think of a polite way to end this meeting, Hugh said, "But what brings you to the city? I saw your uncle and brother this morning, and they did not mention that you were in the city. I assume that your mother came with you?"
Micaela gave a curt nod and began to edge away from him. "Oui, I accompanied Maman to the city. She was bored at the plantation and wanted to come in for a day or two to visit with some friends. We arrived last night with my uncle and plan to return to the plantation before the end of the week."
To her dismay, Hugh fell in step beside her.
He smiled down at her, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Which naturally made him all the more determined to attach himself to her side.
A thread of laughter in his voice, he asked, "And you? Were you bored in the country?"
Glad of the presence of her maid and manservant following discreetly behind them, Micaela replied honestly, "Oh, non!" An impish smile suddenly lit her taking features, that elusive and utterly charming dimple of hers coming into view. "I adore the country. If I had my way, I would stay there year-round."
Hugh's brow flew up. "Indeed?" he said, surprised. "I would have thought you more, er, at ease, in the city."
Reminding herself that she did not like him, Micaela's smile faded, and she said coolly, "But then you do not know me very well, do you, monsieur?"
"You have me there... but that fact can be easily remedied," he replied in a low tone. With rapt interest, he watched the delightful flush which stained her cheeks and the wary look which entered the wide dark eyes. "Perhaps," he went on softly, "if you knew me better, you would not be so willing to let your uncle use your fortune to try to buy a controlling interest in the firm from me, hmm?"
"H-h-he told you?"
Placing her hand on his arm, Hugh smiled down at her. "Yes, he did. Just one of the things he mentioned during his visit to me this morning."
Micaela bit her lip, not certain what to say. It was clear that he was waiting for an answer. But she couldn't very well tell him that the reason she had agreed to let Jean and François use her fortune from her grandfather had been because of a guilty conscience—a fact which had nothing to do with him. Both her uncle and brother were unhappy with her because of her continued determination not to marry Alain Husson. Knowing, too, how Hugh's interference galled them, in desperation, she had offered them her own tidy little fortune to use to buy out the Américain, thinking that if they were able to buy enough shares to give them a majority, they might be happier—and less inclined to berate her for her selfishness in refusing to marry Husson. She hadn't thought that either Jean or François would mention that it was her money which had enabled them to make the offer.
Taking the bold approach, she demanded, "And did you sell him what he wanted?"
"No, and I do not intend to. Unless, he wishes to buy all my shares."
Micaela's eyes opened very wide. "A-a-all your shares? You would do this?"
They stopped walking and inexplicably, oblivious to the servants behind them and the horses and carriages driving by only a few feet away, they stared intently into each other's faces. Hugh was lost in the deep, mysterious pools of her liquid black eyes, and he was aware of his heart thumping wildly in his chest, of his blood quickening, his body suddenly hard and aching. Micaela was conscious of nothing but the tall, dark-haired man looming before her, his icy gray eyes, not icy at all, but gleaming with a sudden heat that made her feel giddy and not at all like herself.
"Yes," he said dazedly, as if an astounding idea had just occurred to him. "Yes, I might be very willing indeed... if the price were right...." Almost against his will, he reached up and caressed her silken cheek. "If the price were right, I would be willing to do just about anything."
Micaela's throat felt tight and she was unbearably aware of how close he was standing to her, painfully aware of a shimmer of excitement racing through her. "And what p-p-price would that be, monsieur?"
Hugh smiled enigmatically, and, bending over, he lifted her hand once more to his lips. His eyes on her soft mouth, he pressed a warm, lingering kiss into her sensitive palm, and murmured. "Oh, I think you could guess, sweetheart. I think you could guess exactly what I wo
uld demand."
It took several moments after Hugh had departed for Micaela's heart to stop pounding so fiercely. A thrill, a curious mixture of elation and shock, had coursed through her at his words, and, despite telling herself sternly that he couldn't have meant what she thought he had meant, she couldn't forget the look in his eyes or the seductive quality of his voice. Ah bah! she thought disgustedly. She was acting no better than that silly goose Cecile! The American had been toying with her, teasing her like one would a naive child.
Satisfied that she had explained his behavior, Micaela continued on her errands—buying some thread for Maman, some tooth powder for herself; going to see if the modiste whom they patronized had received any new pattern books from France. It was nearly an hour later when she returned home, two newly arrived pattern books tucked securely under her arm. She and her mother could spend a cozy evening perusing the books, and they could place an order for any garment which caught their fancy before they left for Riverbend at the end of the week.
There was no sign of Jean or François at dinner that night, and the evening progressed just as Micaela had foreseen. The pattern books were full of sketches, of tempting gowns with high waists which Josephine, Napoleon's wife and soon-to-be-Empress, had brought into style. They were very flattering, and normally Micaela would have been excited at the prospect of a new gown. But as she slowly turned the pages later that evening, she found her thoughts straying back to the disturbing meeting with Hugh Lancaster.
A dreamy look in her eyes, Micaela stared blindly at a charming gown in apple green silk, Brussels lace at the low neckline and at the edges of the puffed sleeves. Had he meant what he had implied? Would he truly give up his shares in Galland, Lancaster and Dupree for her!
A queer feeling trembled deep within her as she considered the possibility that she had not mistaken his meaning at all. Had he meant marriage? Or had he been slyly insulting her, hinting at a less honorable situation? And if he had been, what difference did it make to her? she reminded herself sharply. Either would be equally unacceptable! Why, she'd be more likely to become his mistress than marry him—and becoming any man's kept woman was simply unthinkable. She was angry at herself for not being able to put his words out of her mind. Impatiently she flipped the page of the pattern book.
"Oh, did you not like that gown?" Lisette asked. She was sitting on the sofa beside Micaela, leafing through the other pattern book with the occasional glance over at her unusually quiet daughter. "I thought," she added, "it was particularly attractive and would look lovely on you, chérie."
Micaela started. Jerking her thoughts away from Hugh, she turned the page back. "It is a pretty gown," she admitted, really seeing it for the first time. Then she shrugged. "But I have an armoire full of gowns, I do not need another."
Lisette looked at her for a long moment. "I suppose that you are right," she said, a twinkle in her eyes, "but I thought that you might like something new to wear when we dine with Hugh Lancaster...."
"For him," Micaela muttered, "I shall wear the oldest, shabbiest garment I own!"
A little smile quivered at the corners of Lisette's mouth. "Ah, I see," she murmured.
"What do you mean by that?" Micaela demanded, a fierce look on her pretty face.
Innocently Lisette asked, "What, chérie?" Realizing that she was venting her own bad temper on her mother, Micaela glared at the apple green gown. "Never mind. It was not important." It was a lovely gown, however... and there was that dinner... Airily, she added, "But if you think I should have it made up, I shall be guided by your wishes."
Lisette smiled at her. She bent and kissed Micaela's cheek. "Do what you want, petite."
But that was the problem, Micaela thought unhappily. I do not know what I want! Not anymore....
Chapter 5
Feeling pleased with himself for having clearly left Micaela speechless, Hugh continued his stroll home. The stunned expression on her pretty face crossed his mind several times that afternoon and evening. As a matter of fact, thoughts of Micaela nearly cost him his life.
He had gone to a gaming establishment with Jasper that evening. The Dupree men were there as was Alain Husson and Hugh was not surprised that the three of them greeted him coolly. It was obvious that Alain had learned of his refusal to sell and was firmly in the Dupree camp.
Some hours later, increasingly restless, Hugh had finally left Jasper at the faro table to walk the several blocks to Jasper's house. Despite the light from the oil lamps which hung from chains at every street corner, there were deep pockets of blackness, and as he approached one of these danger struck. His thoughts dwelling pleasurably on the meeting with Micaela this afternoon, he was not aware of the peril which stalked him until, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the vicious movement of a cudgel.
Hugh whirled away, the cudgel barely missing his head as his hand went to the sword cane he carried at his side—as did most fashionable gentlemen in New Orleans. The small sword sang free and he swung to face his attacker.
There were three of them; each carried a cudgel, and as they fanned out around him in the shadowy darkness, like wolves circling their prey, Hugh's confidence wavered. One or two he could defeat, but three?
Despite their strength, they did not seem eager to join battle, contenting themselves with threatening gestures and the occasional, halfhearted feint. But as the seconds passed they grew bolder, pressing closer, staying just out of the range of his sword.
The middle one, apparently the leader, spat on the ground and muttered, "Allons, mes amis! We do not get paid unless we beat him soundly. At him!"
As one, the three surged toward Hugh; desperately he thrust with his sword. Dancing deftly backward from their approach, he slashed at first one and then another, hearing with fierce satisfaction the man on his left cry out with pain. But Hugh paid for it as one of the cudgels struck his shoulder with terrible power.
Hugh groaned, his sword arm feeling as if it were numb, but he recovered almost immediately, lunging violently after his attacker. He took another blow, a glancing one on the head, which left his ears ringing. Outnumbered, he retreated until he felt the wall of one of the buildings which lined the dark, narrow street against his back.
With labored breathing he faced his attackers, waiting for their next advance. Fortunately, it did not come.
There was the sound of footsteps on the wooden banquette and a second later, in the murky light, Hugh recognized Jasper. "A l'aider," Hugh shouted as he fended off a brutal blow from one of his tormentors. "Au secours!"
It took Jasper but an instant to read the situation, and his sword was immediately in view. There was a violent oath from one of the men and then, almost as one, they took to their heels, disappearing into the darkness.
Jasper hurried to Hugh's side. "Are you hurt, mon ami?" He took a deep breath. "Diantre! But those were bold robbers."
Hugh shook his head and winced. "Perhaps a trifle." His eyes met Jasper's. "But they were no robbers—they were hired to attack me."
"Mon Dieu! But this is beyond belief. Are you certain?"
Hugh nodded. "Yes. In rallying the others, one said as much."
The remainder of the journey to the house was made in grim silence by the two men. Only after he had assured himself that Hugh had not been badly injured did Jasper's tense features relax. Handing Hugh a glass of port as they made themselves comfortable in his study, Jasper observed, "You are very fortunate—it could have been much worse."
"I know—if you had not happened along..." Hugh smiled crookedly and raised his glass. "To you, my friend. You may have saved my life. Certainly you saved me from a vicious beating."
Jasper shrugged. "It was nothing—I am your friend—you would have done the same for me."
Hugh nodded. A dangerous gleam suddenly lit his gray eyes. "But," he said softly, "someone else is definitely not my friend. And I intend to find out who."
* * *
Hugh found himself tossing sleeplessly in his bed
that night, thoughts of Micaela drifting tantalizingly through his mind—when he was not considering the implications of the attack on him earlier this evening. Staring at the canopy over his head, he finally admitted that events were not following any path he had ever considered.
When he had left Natchez such a short time ago, he'd had his entire future mapped out. He would settle in New Orleans, resolve the trouble at Galland, Lancaster and Dupree and, after a suitable courtship, marry Alice Summerfield and set up his nursery. He would be a loving father and a kind husband, and he would settle sedately into the life he had chosen for himself. It was a future that he had looked forward to and had been confident would be his.
But after seeing Micaela this afternoon and realizing with the suddenness of a lightning bolt that he would gladly, no eagerly, give up a great deal to possess her, he felt badly shaken. And the knowledge that someone hated him or feared him enough to arrange what would have been a brutal beating infuriated him as much as it mystified him. Was it simply the Duprees venting their spleen at his refusal to sell out to them? Or something more sinister that he had not yet considered?
Sleep was impossible. Swearing in two languages, he got out of bed and yanked on a black-silk robe. Entering the adjoining sitting room, he walked over to the sideboard and from a crystal decanter of brandy poured a half snifter of the amber-colored liquor.
His features grim, he wandered about the dark sitting room, absently swirling his untasted brandy. Since he was in no mood just yet to dwell on the attack, he let his thoughts drift to Micaela—as if he could stop them.
Perhaps, he thought reluctantly, even if he forgot about the wild notion of trading his shares for her hand in marriage, marrying Micaela Dupree was not quite the insane idea it had first appeared. There would be, he admitted wryly, several advantages. He would have aligned himself with one of the most respected and aristocratic families in New Orleans. Jasper would certainly be ecstatic, he conceded ruefully. But looking at it pragmatically, it would keep the business totally within the control of the current partners... and allow him to have Micaela in his bed—a notion which crept with increasing frequency through his dreams of late.
Love Be Mine (The Louisiana Ladies Series, Book 3) Page 6
