by Rainbow
Meredith had been searching for her half sister for the last three years, ever since she had enough freedom to do so. But she kept running against stone walls. No one knew of a Lissa, a light-skinned Negro slave.
Meredith had mourned her childhood friend since the day Lissa was sold, and vowed to find her and somehow free her. As she had helped free others. As she planned to help free more.
But the mulatto in New Orleans turned out to be Daphne, not Lissa. Meredith had taken one look at the girl’s terrified face and purchased her. She hadn’t wanted to ask about the girl’s past. Daphne’s face told her more than she wanted to know.
Her companion had not approved, but then she approved of very little. But Meredith was twenty-four, and had her own funds, and “just loved visiting.” The best her brother could do was send his wife’s aunt with her, and hope his sister would not disgrace him and the family.
Robert’s most fervent wish, Meredith knew, was to see her married. Preferably to another plantation owner, preferably to Gilbert MacIntosh whose plantation adjoined their own.
To escape, Meredith simply went visiting frequently, claiming she was looking over likely husbands. It was as good a reason as any, and one Robert accepted easily enough in his eagerness to rid himself of her and her giggles and often odd behavior. And her painting. Her “damned monstrosities,” as Meredith had once heard him say to his wife. They were a terrible embarrassment, especially the way she pushed them off on friends and even acquaintances.
Robert had, Meredith knew, attributed her eccentricities to the fall she had had as a child. She’d been unconscious for two days and when she awoke she had never been the same. She had turned reclusive and silent, a quiet shadow who sat for hours with books and had little to say to anyone. Meredith had then been sent to a convent school in New Orleans where she had stayed for ten years. She had come home only twice during that time: for a disastrous visit over the Christmas holidays, and for her father’s funeral.
When she returned home at the age of eighteen, there were still secrets in the dark brown eyes, but to her family she was gayer, even fanciful. She giggled and chattered aimlessly, and if the smile never quite reached her eyes no one seemed to notice. And if she disappeared at times, no one noticed because no one really cared.
When Meredith was twenty-one, she became an heiress in her own right. She discovered then that her grandfather, long dead, had established a trust in her name at the time of her birth. But her funds were administered by the Devereux Bank in New Orleans. She was able to draw on it in reasonable amounts, but it was structured to keep the bulk of the money from any fortune hunter. Large withdrawals had to be approved by the president of the bank. Presently that man was Brett Devereux.
Although no one said so, Meredith suspected she had never been told of the trust until there was no avoiding it so she would marry their neighbor. Money of her own might have given her ideas. And it had. That money had armed Meredith with another weapon she needed. Guile was the first, and she had honed that to a fine art. Even she herself sometimes had difficulty knowing who she really was.
She traveled frequently, agreeing to a chaperon only to quiet suspicions, and the good Lord knew that her companion was as dense and unsuspecting as a hen headed for the dinner table. No one had ever connected Meredith with the spate of slaves that ran away soon after she left her hosts. Nor had they associated her occasional shopping trips to Cincinnati with the Underground Railroad. No one would ever suspect the giddy-headed Miss Seaton drugged her aunt and slipped out to meet Levi Coffin, one of the most active abolitionists in the North, or Underground Railroad contacts in New Orleans.
And Meredith could be very giddy-headed when she tried, and frightfully silly. She often declared that she didn’t marry because there were just “too many handsome men around, and they all just kept her little ol’ head aswimmin’.”
She sometimes tired of the role, hating the constant playacting and hiding her own intelligence, but so many lives depended on it. Including her own.
“Miss Meredith.”
Daphne’s soft tentative voice startled her. “Miss Meredith,” the girl repeated, “which dress you like to wear tonight?”
Which dress? Meredith wished she cared. They were all ugly. Purposely ugly. Purposely misleading.
“Which dress you like?” Daphne said again with a patience born of a lifetime of servitude.
None, Meredith wanted to scream. Dear God, I would like to be alone for a while.
But then her aunt would worry. Meredith was usually eager to be the center of attention. Swallowing her distaste, she pointed to an overly fussy blue velvet with too much lace and too many bows.
She turned her back so Daphne could unhook her day dress when a knock came at her door.
“Yes?” she said.
A deep voice came from the other side. “Message from the capt’n, ma’am.”
Meredith opened the door, not waiting for Daphne to do it. She stared at the huge man outside who held a note gingerly.
“Miz Seaton?”
“Yes.”
“Wi’ the capt’n’s compliments, miz. He ask me to wait fo’ an answer.”
Meredith opened the note and read it carefully. She and her aunt were cordially invited to dine with Captain Quinlan Devereux tonight at eight o’clock.
She felt her spirits drop. It was the last thing she wanted. After three weeks of smiling brightly, of making silly observations and nonsensical chatter, she had hoped for a few days of relief. She looked at the note again. “Devereux.”
Quinlan Devereux! Her heart started thumping. She had fallen madly in love with him when she was eight, and he had been her knight in shining armor in dreams ever since. She had met him just before “the day,” the day her life had fallen apart. She could still see him. Tall, ever so tall, with laughing blue eyes and midnight-black hair that curled at the back of his neck. He asked teasingly what she wanted most in the world, and she had answered a swing. He had laughed, saying that was a most modest wish and one he could easily fulfill. And he had. A magnificent swing in the woods. He had pushed her, almost up to the clouds, his hands sure and firm. He had been the first man to pay generous attention to her, and she had held that brief time like a precious jewel in her memory.
Later, she had heard he had disappeared in Europe. And when he returned after ten years, everyone talked of Quinlan Devereux—the dissolute older brother of Brett Devereux. It was said he had, in some unknown way, disgraced his family. It was also said his father had disinherited him, and that he was a gambler and, worse, a coward. He had, several times, refused to race his riverboat, Lucky Lady, on the Mississippi, asserting only fools risked their lives on such ventures, although every other riverboat owner took pride in the races. It was also said he cheated at cards, although no one could ever prove it.
Meredith had listened, never quite believing. Such tales portrayed a rogue, so unlike the young man who had been so kind to her.
She looked at the man patiently awaiting an answer. Quinn Devereux. Her aunt Opal would be horrified. Meredith’s brown eyes suddenly twinkled with golden lights, and a flicker of a smile passed across her lips.
“Oh how very sweet of him,” she simpered. “Tell Captain Devereux we accept…with thanks,” she ordered the tall man. Briefly she wondered whether he was a slave or freeman. Although he appeared polite enough there was something in his bearing that didn’t quite fit. He must be a freeman, she finally decided. The riverboats plying the Mississippi favored free labor since it was easy for slaves to escape once they reached Ohio.
The man nodded with dignity and turned, walking away with a slight limp.
Now why in heaven’s name did I do that? The last thing she should do was spend the evening with a man who’d been on her mind for years. How could she possibly continue her masquerade as a spoiled ninny when her heart was pumping so abnormally? She remembered his eyes…as blue as the summer sky at dusk, she had thought then. Were they still that blue
? Had they ever been that blue? Or was it just a child’s dream? And if he was the rogue he was reputed to be…
Dear God, but she had enough problems already.
But he’s Brett’s brother, and it’s only good manners to accept the invitation, scoundrel or not.
And she needed a change from pomposity. She had suffered so much stuffiness during the past weeks of traveling, not the least of which at the hands of Brett Devereux. He was frustrated with her spending ways, and had tried to instruct her on the wisdom of thrift rather than indulgence.
Where did all the money go? He had asked the question with exasperation. Why did she need more?
She had shrugged her shoulders indifferently. “A lady must have clothes…”
“You should have enough for six women,” he said, sighing as he authorized another draft.
If he really knew…
It was difficult to imagine the very respectable Brett Devereux having a black-sheep brother. It should be immensely interesting, she told herself, and perhaps she could pick up some information of value. And maybe…he would remember her, remember that summer’s day.
Now, Meredith thought, to convince Aunt Opal…
The saloon was one of the finest Meredith had ever seen. Gilded chandeliers sent glittering streams of light against the Brussels carpet and frescoes. The stained-glass skylights twisted the last colorful remnants of a setting sun against the silver and crystal set on snow-white linen tablecloths.
Meredith and her aunt were led to a large round table where six men were already seated. All stood immediately as they approached, but Meredith saw only the striking man who rose lazily. The movement was almost insolent in its slow deliberate manner, and the expression on his face was both amused and mocking.
“Why, how gallant of you all,” Meredith chirped. “Please do sit down,” she added as she settled herself awkwardly in a chair held out by one of the diners. She noticed her aunt wince at her clumsiness. She slid a sidelong glance to Quinn, who so completely dominated the table as he descended back into his seat like a sleek languorous leopard.
He was dressed in black, except for his white shirt and cravat and, strangely enough, gloves. She wondered about that briefly, but everything about him was so different, so striking, that what she might have considered an affectation on someone else seemed perfectly natural with him.
An inquisitive smile hung on his lips but his dark blue eyes were unfathomable…and cold. Nothing like she remembered. There was no smile in them, no warmth, no welcome. And perhaps cold didn’t actually describe them. It was as if they were not eyes at all, but a rich blue curtain. She had a slight chill as she suddenly sensed that much lay behind them, that he had a reason for protecting himself so thoroughly.
Noticing her interest, he inclined his head. “We are grateful that you could join us,” he said in a quiet, brandy-smooth voice that sent a current of warmth through her. “Let me introduce your dinner companions. I have the honor to be your host, Quinlan Devereux. On my right is Tal Simmons, a horseman from Tennessee. Next to him is Gerald Wright, a planter from Biloxi, and then George Brown, a businessman in Ohio. On my right are Ted and John Carroll from…Natchez, is it?”
The two roughly dressed men looked out of place at the table, and now they acknowledged the introduction awkwardly.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” one said, flattered by the arrival of a lady of quality as well as impressed at being seated at this table. He and his brother were usually considered outcasts.
Meredith noticed that Captain Devereux had not mentioned the two men’s occupations. She fluttered the fan she had brought with her. “Oh my, what a distinguished company,” she said. “Are you a businessman too?” she asked one of the brothers.
There was a moment of silence. “No, miss,” one said slowly. “We are…well, you might call us lawmen.”
Everything inside Meredith tensed. She should have known, should have sensed it immediately. Slave hunters. Indignation replaced sudden apprehension. Men of their stripe—though used widely by plantation owners—were regarded to be at the bottom of any social ladder, far below an overseer in fact. It was unthinkable they would be asked to dine with…with…
With whom?
She had to stifle a small laugh that was part tension, part irony, part something else, something that had infected her from the moment she sat down. If only Captain Devereux knew he had slave stealers and slave hunters at the same table.
She fluttered her fan. “How fascinating…Mr. Terrell, is it?” Beside her, she heard her aunt gasp with dismay at her choice of conversation partner.
“Carroll, miss,” the slave hunter said, emboldened by her interest. “John Carroll.”
“Have you caught any murderers lately?” Meredith asked, then felt her aunt jab her waist.
“Well, mostly we hunt fugitives.”
“How dangerous for you.” Meredith smiled sweetly. Everyone knew few fugitives ever fought back. “You must be very brave.”
John Carroll puffed up like a bloated fish. “Well, a man has to be, miss.”
The discussion ended as the waiter appeared, nodding his head politely at Devereux. “Brandy smash, gin sling, mint julep…” he recited in a monotone. “What is your pleasure?”
Captain Devereux, his lips still twitching at Meredith’s wide-eyed attention to the slave hunter, looked at his tablemates, his glance lingering on Meredith before moving to her chaperon. “Miss Frazier?”
“Nothing…nothing,” Opal stammered. She was horrified beyond speech at her fellow dinner guests.
His lips twitching even more obviously, the riverboat captain turned to Meredith. “Miss Seaton?” he said politely.
“A small glass of sherry, thank you,” she replied sweetly. She needed it. Badly. She wished she could gulp a shot of whiskey.
Captain Devereux’s grin deepened, as if he’d guessed the direction of her thoughts, but his eyes remained remote, watchful.
She studied him as he pleasantly questioned his male guests. She could imagine no one more unlike the young banker in New Orleans.
Where Brett Devereux had dark brown hair and light blue eyes and pleasing features, his brother’s hair was as black as a raven’s wing, thick and curly and looking as if it resisted taming. There were streaks of white around the edges—premature, she guessed, since he couldn’t be much more than thirty-six. Instead of aging him, the white endowed him with an air of intrigue. His facial features indicated no softness, and hard lines around his eyes and mouth belied the smile that frequently touched his lips. The impassive dark blue eyes were set deep, framed by long black lashes and heavy dark brows. High cheekbones were divided by a strong straight nose. His chin was square, stubborn, and it would have been most daunting if there had not been a deep cleft in its center that gave him a rakish look. And his mouth…
Was what? Fascinating was one word. Frightening another. Not the shape, which was masculinely beautiful and revealed perfect white teeth beneath, but the motions it went through. Motions and curves that had, she knew instinctively, nothing to do with what he was really thinking. It was, she thought with instant clarity, only a tool he used. As she did.
But more overpowering than the near perfection of his face was the air of raw vitality and danger he exuded. As he sprawled lazily in the seat across from her, his gloved hands moving in fluid motion, she wondered if anyone else noticed the tension within him. Probably not. But then she had been trained to observe…trained by excellent teachers.
When Captain Devereux completed questioning his guests for drinks, his eyes returned to her. Meredith could feel all his attention, and it was like being struck by lightning, so great was the impact. She forced out a small nervous giggle.
“Does this big old boat really belong to you, Captain Devereux?” she asked with her best admiring gaze.
“I’m afraid so,” he replied, his mouth bending into the half-amused smile that she now expected. “The ill-gotten gains of a po
ker game.”
“This whole boat? In a poker game?”
The smile widened. “The whole boat, Miss Seaton.”
“And you run it all by yourself?”
“I have someone who does that for me,” he said. “I prefer gambling.”
“Oh,” she said, seemingly crestfallen. In her society, a successful businessman was fair game; a gambler was not, not if he were a professional one.
His eyes crinkled with the first real amusement she had seen, and Meredith felt a surge of elation that her role as husband hunter was so readily believed. Yet mingled with that elation was a curious disappointment too.
But why? And why did her stomach feel so strange and unsettled? She lowered her eyes. She should feel nothing for a man like Quinlan Devereux who gambled for a living, who had shocked New Orleans with his reckless behavior, and who, most damning of all, entertained slave hunters at dinner.
He must approve of their activities, possibly even helped them in return for a percentage of their rewards. How could he have changed so much? He didn’t even seem to remember her.
He laughed softly, almost silkily. “You see, Miss Seaton, I’m the black sheep of the family. I don’t particularly care to work for a living. Playing poker is much more amusin’.”
“But your brother…” she protested.
“My brother is a fool. Do you know him, Miss Seaton?” He already knew the answer but he was curious about her reaction. Why, he didn’t know. This overdressed woman with the simpering manner interested him on some level he didn’t entirely understand. Perhaps because she had been so different as a child, so open and unaffected. Apparently she didn’t even remember that visit. But then he had heard something about a fall she had had as a child. Perhaps it had affected her mind.
Cam and his brother were right. Dressed properly and stripped of that infernal giggle, she would be attractive enough if not beautiful. She was tall and slender, but the bows and frills on the heavy blue velvet gown made her seem awkward, and although her hair color was a rich burnished gold, it was dressed in an unbecoming style that did nothing for the fine bone structure of her face. The mouth pouted or simpered, ruining an otherwise striking countenance. Her eyes, if they had conveyed any vitality or intelligence, would be quite remarkable. Golden lights hovered in their rich dark brown depths. But they were so damned empty now, drained of any life or passion.
