It was François who brought up the subject of Micaela's shares. His voice full of gloom, he muttered, "And to think that now instead of you, our friend, commanding those shares, it is the Américain. I tell you, I cannot bear it!"
"Do not be such a melodramatic young fool!" Jean said. "It is not so very bad, what has transpired." As both younger men turned disbelieving, furious eyes upon him, he said coolly, "I think you are forgetting that while he may be her husband, he does not actually own her shares. She does. Together they may own a larger share, but individually..."
"Are you trying to tell us that nothing has changed?" François demanded incredulously.
"Non," Alain said, "that is not what your uncle is saying." An ugly smile crossed his face. "Ah, I begin to see..." His eyes narrowed. "They own their shares individually, but they are joined, and if Monsieur Lancaster were to suffer an unfortunate accident, his shares would come to his young widow, oui! If fate is kind, sweet Micaela could end up owning the lion's share of the business."
"Mon Dieu!" Jean burst out, startled, "That is not what I meant at all. All I meant was that Micaela's loyalty would still be to us."
"But it is true, hein?" Alain asked softly. "That she would inherit his shares?"
"Well, yes, I suppose so," Jean admitted, his gaze moving thoughtfully from one young face to the other.
Alain smiled across at François. "You see, mon ami? It arranges itself, oui?"
* * *
Hugh was whistling to himself when he entered the offices of Galland, Lancaster and Dupree. Despite the difficulties in his marriage, he was feeling pleased about life in general. He was in his office not more than five minutes, however, before his good mood vanished. The report just given him by Monsieur Brisson was enough to ruin anybody's good mood..
Frowning, Hugh asked in a dangerous tone, "Do you mean to tell me that Le Lys Bleu arrived with a large shipment of goods for us three days ago and no one thought to tell me about it?"
Monsieur Brisson nearly wrung his hands in trepidation at the expression on Hugh's face. "But monsieur," he cried, greatly upset, "what could I do—you were just wedded!"
Hugh swore under his breath. "You could have," he ground out, "sent me a note, informing me of the fact."
"But you were just wed!" Monsieur Brisson burst out, aghast at such a notion.
"What the hell difference does that make? I told you that the moment a ship arrived I wanted to be notified."
Brushing past Monsieur Brisson, Hugh left his office. Striding to where Etienne Gras was seated at his desk, he demanded, "Do you have the original ship's inventory from Le Lys Bleu!"
A shuffle of papers on his desk brought it to light, and wordlessly Etienne handed the bulky document to Hugh. Hugh smothered a curse at the size of it. He had no doubt that this was the shipment he had been waiting for—and no doubt his thieves had been, too. It looked, he thought grimly, as he scanned the document, to have been an extensive shipment of goods—just the sort to tempt whoever was stealing from the company and that dolt Brisson had not notified him.
Spinning away, he strode back into his office and dismissed Brisson. Several minutes later, an expression, part disgust, part satisfaction upon his face, he sat back in his chair. Well, he had been right. Idly his fingers ran over the betraying pages of the invoice.
As with the other suspicious documents, concealed in the middle of the invoice were once again those pages of a subtly different quality. He stared at the invoice for several long moments, an unpleasant idea sliding through his mind.
The arrival dates of ships were never exact, but approximate dates were known from dispatches which were carried on ships that had sailed earlier and consequently arrived in New Orleans, days or even weeks ahead of the later-sailing ship. Information about the size and content of the expected cargo was usually included in the dispatch by their business associates. Hugh had been studying the various dispatches which had arrived over the weeks with an eye to spotting a shipment of the quantity carried by Le Lys Bleu. After the fact, he realized that nothing had crossed his desk which had even mentioned Le Lys Bleu, neither her expected arrival date, nor what she carried in her hold for Galland, Lancaster and Dupree. Interesting.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. So.
Had there been no dispatch sent? Or had it simply not arrived? Or had it arrived and not reached his hands?
His lips thinned. It would be unusual for the firms they did business with abroad not to have sent advance notice of a shipment, especially one of the size carried by Le Lys Bleu. It was possible, he admitted grimly, that the ship carrying the dispatch had been lost at sea—but he did not recall talk of any recent disappearances. The loss of a ship was not an uncommon occurrence, it was part of the cost of doing business, but news of such a disaster was normally common knowledge: he felt confident in dismissing that theory. He vaguely remembered that another ship from France had arrived the week before his marriage with a small shipment for the firm—but there had not been any dispatches. At least, he amended carefully, none that he had seen. But had there been one and had someone else gotten his hands on it?
Now, who in the firm would have been first to receive the newly arrived dispatch? Ah. Yes, of course. Etienne Gras normally handled that part of the business, just as young Etienne was usually the first one to inventory the newly arrived goods.
A few minutes later, in response to Hugh's request for his company, Etienne stood before Hugh's desk. His young face pale, he swallowed several times before he was finally able to answer Hugh's question.
"A d-d-dispatch, monsieur? I am afraid, I do not know what you are talking about. I received nothing mentioning the approximate arrival date of the Le Lys Bleu." He tried a smile. "It is unusual, but it does happen occasionally that we have no advance warning of a shipment's arrival."
Hugh nodded and dismissed him, but he stared a long time at the door Etienne had shut behind him as he had departed. Now, was that young man nervous because he had been called before his employer? Or had there been another reason, such as guilty knowledge?
Jasper wandered in an hour later. Having first stopped by the Dupree house and learning of Hugh's whereabouts, he had immediately strolled to the office. After greetings had been exchanged, Hugh asked abruptly, "What do you know of Etienne Gras?"
Seated in a chair in front of Hugh's desk, his elegantly clad legs stretched out in front of him, Jasper looked surprised. "Young Gras?" At Hugh's nod, his expression became thoughtful. "Do you suspect him?"
Hugh made a face. "Yes and no. I just want to know more about him. His family, friends, and habits will do nicely to start."
"You do not ask much, mon ami," Jasper replied with a grin. His face sobered almost immediately and he said slowly, "The family is well respected. Not wealthy, you understand, not of the crème de la crème. He is working for you, after all. But they are accepted everywhere, and most Creole papas would not be too displeased by a union with one of their daughters and a Gras son or vice versa." Jasper frowned. "As for his friends and habits, I am afraid I cannot help you there. François is more of an age with young Gras. Now that I think of it, I believe that I have seen them together about town now and then."
"Nothing else?"
Jasper leaned back in the chair, staring down at his glossy black boots, racking his brain for more information. "There is something else," he said eventually. His eyes met Hugh's. "A few years ago, I remember hearing talk that he owed Husson some money. A gaming debt."
A look of satisfaction crossed Hugh's face.
"Husson!" he said with relish. "Is it not strange how often his name intrudes into our discussions?"
"I would not be too pleased, mon ami." Jasper cautioned. "New Orleans is, after all, a close-knit community. Husson is a prominent member of Creole society. His gambling connections are not unknown, and if young Gras likes to gamble, which he does as I recall, it is not surprising that he has owed Husson money from time to time. Many people h
ave—you will end up chasing your tail if you suspect everyone who has ever owed Husson a gambling debt." He grinned. "Do not forget that even old Christophe Galland owed him, which is why we presently have Husson as a partner, oui?" Hugh grimaced, and Jasper laughed. "And do not forget, that I, too, won my shares from Christophe. Does that make you suspect me also?"
Hugh snorted. "If you were fleecing the firm, mon ami, you would have left no traces."
Jasper's eyes danced. "Merci beaucoup—I think."
"But I still like the connection between Husson and Gras. Could you do a little discreet snooping and see what reveals itself?"
"To please you, oui... but do not expect very much."
Business out of the way, Jasper cajoled Hugh into joining him in a visit to one of the coffeehouses—which had been the entire purpose of his visit. It was apparent, Hugh thought with amusement, that his friend was determined to woo him away from the nasty habit of actually working and was slyly trying to turn him into an indolent Creole gentleman of leisure. For today he would allow his friend to think he was succeeding.
* * *
The following week saw the removal of the newly-weds from the Dupree town house into their own home.
Overnight the Follet house had become the Lancaster house, but the changes went much deeper than merely a name change. The house had been newly repainted inside and out; new airy summer hangings now ornamented the windows; fresh grass matting covered the cypress floors; and several pieces of mahogany furniture had been added to complement the furniture left behind by Monsieur Follet. It took Hugh and Micaela several days to settle fully into their new home, but by the third week of June, they were each feeling optimistic about the future and the establishment of their own home.
But they were not going to have much time to enjoy the residence they now shared—the fever season was approaching and Hugh had informed Micaela that he was removing her to the country until October or November, when the danger had subsided. They had just finished their evening meal and were enjoying a final cup of coffee in the dining room, when Hugh had mentioned leaving.
"But where are we to stay? With Maman?" she asked, her fine eyes wide and puzzled.
Hugh shook his head and smiled. "No—although until a week or so ago, that was a possibility."
"Then?"
"An excellent property, some distance north of the city, was recently brought to my attention by Rene L'Aramy. We looked at it last Wednesday, and the owner and I finally struck a bargain today."
"I see," Micaela said slowly. "You did not think I would care to know of this before you bought it? Or that I might have preferred to live nearer Maman?"
Hugh frowned. He was used to arranging events to suit himself, with no one gainsaying his plans. To his credit, he had debated telling Micaela of the possible purchase, he had even considered taking her to view it. But the owner, a handsome Creole widow, Madame Justine, had vacillated on several points, all the while flirting outrageously with Rene, and Hugh had not been positive that the purchase would actually take place. His motives had been pure. He had not wanted his bride to be disappointed if the widow could not be brought to terms. In fact, he had planned the purchase as a surprise—he'd had no doubts, until this very moment, that Micaela would find the place as attractive and eminently suitable as he had. From the expression on her face, he realized uneasily, that he had definitely put a foot wrong. Marriage, he admitted wryly, was not quite the easy affair he had assumed it to be.
"You must forgive me," he said. "Having to consider another's sensibilities is new to me."
Micaela felt a mortifying blush sweep up her face. Her wretched, wretched tongue! Would she ever learn to control it? How shrewish she had been. How had she dared to question him? No self-respecting Creole wife would have done such a thing. Her gaze dropped, and she muttered, "It does not matter. I am sure that I shall be satisfied with the place."
Seeing her discomfort, never guessing its cause, Hugh got up from the table and stopped beside her. Gently lifting her chin with one finger, he stared down into her lovely face. "If you do not like the Justine property," he said quietly, "we shall sell it and buy another." Drowning in the dark beauty of her gaze, he was amazed to hear himself murmuring, "I want you to be happy, Micaela. We may have started out badly, but I intend to be a good husband to you, believe that, please."
Her throat constricted by the rush of emotion his simple words gave her, Micaela slowly nodded. He was a good husband, she thought fiercely. He was a handsome, exciting lover, as well as a generous, wealthy man who treated her with consideration and kindness. Many Creole wives would have envied her. And if there had been no love between them when they married, what did it matter? Few Creole marriages were based on love; fortune and social ascension were behind the majority. By those standards, her own marriage was hugely successful. So why did she wish so desperately that she could forget Alice Summerfield's confident assertion that Hugh loved her, why could she not forget the fact that, whatever the reasons behind it, they had been forced to marry? And why, since love had nothing to do with their marriage, did her heart ache with such painful intensity?
Chapter 11
With affairs at Galland, Lancaster and Dupree unresolved, Hugh was considering remaining in the city throughout the summer, despite its attendant dangers.
It was midmorning the next day, and Hugh was seated behind his desk at the company offices. He had been moodily flipping the pages of the inventory from Le Lys Bleu, his mind more on his baffling, beguiling wife than the problem in front of him. He supposed that he had no room for any complaint. On the surface, his marriage was everything he had expected it to be; he had a charming chatelaine for his home, a delightful social companion, a beautiful creature to share his bed, and he had no doubt that when children arrived Micaela would prove to be a superb mother. After all, he had known from the beginning that she did not care a jot for him. Their marriage, he admitted bleakly, was little more than a business arrangement. And like any good business associate, Micaela was willing to do her part to ensure a successful union between them.
She was nearly always courteous; seldom out of sorts; she saw to it that his household ran smoothly and allowed him the use of her body. What more did he want? His frown deepened. Allowed him to make love to her—that was the rub, the ugly canker that was eating away at him. Despite his best efforts to change things between them, Micaela remained a sweetly passive participant in their lovemaking, and it was driving him wild. He could not complain that she denied him his conjugal rights, for she did not. Nor could he complain that she lay stiff and unyielding in his arms, because she did not—she was always soft and accommodating.
He pushed the inventory away from him with a muttered curse. What the hell did he want from her? It rankled, and he could not deny it, that he had been forced into this marriage. But he admitted that if he had not been willing to have Micaela for his wife, he would never have allowed himself to be coerced into marrying her.
From their first meeting he had found Micaela to be a tempting, tantalizing little baggage. He had enjoyed her barbs, the lively intelligence in those dark eyes of hers and that dazzling, flashing smile of hers. And as for the rest... He sighed. Oh, very well, he would admit it—he had wanted her as he had never wanted another woman in his life. Before their marriage there had been many nights that he had lain awake, his body hard as he had envisioned making love to her, kissing that cherry red mouth; stroking those soft, lush breasts; cupping those firm buttocks and losing himself in her tight warm silkiness. Reality had been beyond even his sweetest imaginings. She had been everything he dreamed of, but something was missing, some vital spark was absent when they came together.
Hugh scowled. In many respects the marriage he had with Micaela was the marriage he had envisioned with Alice Summerfield, and he was startled to discover how very much his marriage resembled the one his stepfather and mother had shared. He should have been happy. Ecstatically so. Aside from gaining an enchant
ing creature for his bride, he had also strengthened his hold on the company and elevated his position in the city—at least, he thought wryly, amongst the Creoles. His problem was that he was not finding his marriage as pleasurable as he had hoped. It wasn't enough to have a lovely bed mate and a competent, utterly charming housekeeper. He wanted more, much more, from Micaela than mere acceptance. He wanted...
As if he had been stung, he jerked upright, appalled at the direction his thoughts were taking. Surely, he did not want her to love him?
He laughed mirthlessly. The jest was certainly on him, and a bitter one it was at that, if wanting Micaela's love was at the bottom of his dissatisfaction with his marriage. He might as well bay at the moon and expect an answer as expect Micaela to love him. Besides, what did it matter? It was not as if he had been fool enough to go and fall in love with his own wife.
The marriage had been hasty. Perhaps, a brief separation, a time for reflection, would not come amiss. He could settle Micaela, along with her mother, if she wished, at the Justine property for the summer, and come the fall, when she returned to the city, they could begin anew. Of course, he would visit her often. A tight smile crossed his face. She might not be as responsive to his lovemaking as he would have wished, but she had him mesmerized, fascinated and the thought of not making love to her for several weeks, months... well, it just didn't bear considering.
A surprisingly tender smile, one that would have worried him a great deal if he had been aware of it, curved his lips. During the summer, he thought slowly, he could court his wife. Woo her. And by the time the fall came...
Feeling cheerful, he glanced at the troubling inventory. In the meantime, he had much to occupy him. Turning to the problem at hand, he decided that he could do nothing except watch and wait until the next large shipment arrived. Even getting his hands on a copy of one of the originals he had requested was not going to help him a great deal. It would only prove his theory correct. But it would not allow him to trap the thieves and he was positive that more than one person was involved. To spring a trap he needed some bait, bait which Le Lys Bleu would have provided, but was useless to him now.
Love Be Mine (The Louisiana Ladies Series, Book 3) Page 16
