“You can’t do that. The contracts have been signed.”
“Tante Lily,” Sonia tried again, reaching out to place her hand on her aunt’s arm.
“Not by my niece, they haven’t. And you will see what I can do when I send for the priest. I have yet to meet a good father of the church willing to marry a woman against her will, especially when the matter has been explained to him.”
Jean Pierre’s face turned purple and his eyes narrowed to slits. “She will marry me,” he said, “or Wallace will die.”
The sudden quiet in the room was stifling. Heat was growing outside as the day advanced, beating against the windows. From the street below came the clip-clop of hooves as a horseman passed, the song of a flower vendor and the cries of children. Sonia’s pent breath, as it left her lungs, was also perfectly audible.
“Kerr is alive?” she asked. “He’s here?”
“Your concern is touching,” Jean Pierre said, “though it might have been better if you had pretended indifference.”
“What have you done with him?”
“Oh, he’s quite comfortable at the moment. It occurred to me, given what he said, that he might be of more use to me aboveground than below it.”
She clenched her teeth to hold back the tumble of questions about Kerr’s injury, whether he was conscious or in pain. “You’ve spoken to him?”
“Indeed, and it was quite illuminating. Do you know, he swore to give up all notion of revenge and leave me unmolested if I would release you from our betrothal?”
Tightness invaded her throat. Kerr had offered to abandon the quest he had pursued so long, relinquish his vow to avenge the death of his brother, to gain her freedom? It was hard to believe. Even more difficult to accept was what might lie behind it. “He really said that?”
“Stupid of him, when he was no longer a threat.” Jean Pierre laughed. “One thing he didn’t say was that he intended to be your escort for the journey home. Do you think he has perhaps had enough of your charms? Or was it merely that he has no hope of escaping his chain.”
Chain. Kerr was shackled somewhere. The fan she held quivered with the trembling of her fingers. She closed it, dropped it on the dressing table and curled her hands into fists. “I would not be so sure of holding him. He is a most formidable man.”
“Your faith is touching, though I assure you he is quite powerless.”
She said nothing, but was grateful when Tante Lily came to her, placing an arm around her shoulders.
“The question of what to do with him now I have him is worrisome, of course,” her betrothed went on without visible sign of concern. “My thought, after what has just passed here between us, is for how you might remedy the matter.”
She raised her chin, wary of the satisfaction she saw burning in his pale eyes. “Yes?”
“Oh, yes. What I need from you is careful, very careful, thought about just what you may be willing to do to save your lover’s miserable life.”
Twenty-Five
Tante Lily’s hat pin, or more accurately the one she had bought to go with the new hat in Sonia’s armoire, seemed to have punctured Jean Pierre’s anger. He did not linger after throwing his malicious suggestion at her.
Sonia dropped down on the bed when he had gone. Absently she rubbed her arm where he had bruised the flesh. She was supremely weary of a sudden, aching in every joint and muscle from the hard effort of the past few days, the long ride during the night, and despair over winding up here in Jean Pierre’s power. She ached, too, at the thought of Kerr shut up somewhere nearby, injured and alone.
Her aunt came to sit beside her, touching her hand. “Don’t look so désolée, chère. There must be something that can be done.”
“Kerr may need help. Jean Pierre won’t see after him, will never send for a doctor. He would be just as happy if he were to die.”
“I fear you’re right.”
In her aunt’s face was the sadness of resignation, the inevitable bowing of women to things that couldn’t be changed. Sonia refused to accept it.
“I have to do something,” she exclaimed, beating a fist on her knee.
“But what? Forgive me, but you are virtually a prisoner yourself. Do you think Jean Pierre will allow you to see Monsieur Wallace, much less tend him? No, and no again. If you should ask, it may make matters worse.”
Her aunt was right. The last thing she wanted was to push Jean Pierre into disposing of the man he recognized as his enemy. It pleased him to have the upper hand over him at the moment, but how long would that last?
“You have been here for several days,” she said finally. “Have you seen the house? Do you have any idea where a prisoner might be kept?”
“I’ve only walked in the courtyard and gone from room to room along the galleries.” Tante Lily paused, frowning in concentration before shaking her head. “No, I don’t know. It’s a house like any other in a tropical climate, with the kitchen, laundry and servants’ rooms on the lower floor and family quarters on the upper for air. The main rooms are obviously ineligible as they have too many doors and windows to serve. My only thought is one of the storerooms near the kitchen. They are sometimes used in New Orleans to confine those who go mad or become violent, you know.”
Sonia nodded, hope rising inside her in spite of the difficulties that still lay ahead. “If he’s there, then the door will be bolted.”
“Without doubt, I should think. It may be guarded as well.”
“Does Jean Pierre have guests other than you and Monsieur Tremont?”
“You are thinking of our fellow passengers from the Lime Rock? No, we are all that are left in Vera Cruz now. Madame Pradat and her son, Reverend Smythe and the others went on their way as soon as arrangements could be made.”
“What of servants? Are there a great many?” It seemed a good idea to know when they were all accounted for if the need arose.
“A cook and her helpers, of course, also a valet for Jean Pierre, a pair of maids for general cleaning and a man and his helper whose job it is to keep the courtyard tidy—call it eight or nine, plus another half dozen of what Monsieur Rouillard is pleased to call his household guard. Many in Vera Cruz have such in these troubled times, it seems, particularly those who like to appear grand. Your fiancé has become more of a Spanish grandee, I believe, than those with a right to the title.”
Fourteen or so servants were a large number to avoid. At least it was unless she knew exactly where she was going and what she would do when she got there.
Shoving off the bed, Sonia paced the room, kicking her skirts from under her feet in irritation for their stiff fullness after only a few short days of being largely unfettered by them. Yes, and she was heartily sick of being unable to move for the restrictions imposed upon her by men. Her father, Kerr and now Jean Pierre—it was too much. No matter how benevolent the intention, the resulting loss of the freedom to direct her own life was galling beyond words.
Trapped. She was trapped.
Her prison was made up of walls and obligations, yes, but also of debts. Kerr had not left her behind after the sinking of the Lime Rock or during the long trek through the jungle when he could, she knew, have moved faster alone. Even if she could escape, how could she desert him now?
She would not submit. She would not stay here a moment longer than necessary, would never become Jean Pierre’s wife. But first she had to make certain Kerr didn’t suffer for her decision.
Somehow, she had to set him free.
The day wore on. Sonia spent it, in part, testing the limits of her confinement. No one objected when she left her bedchamber, nor did they seem to care if she explored the salon, the dining room or even the other bedchambers. She strolled the galleries at will, even descended to the courtyard to sit in the shade, dipping her fingers in the fountain, inhaling the fragrance of flowers.
The kitchen was not off-limits to her; in fact, she was encouraged by the cook to suggest dishes she might care to taste at dinner in midafternoon.
The kitchen’s long table seemed overcrowded with men with little apparent occupation. Rough men with long mustaches and knives in their belts, she recognized them as those who had stopped the diligence. None offered any sign they had seen her before, but she was appraised so thoroughly that she felt naked.
Jean Pierre was no longer in the house, so she discovered, but had left soon after the contretemps between them. Tremont had gone with him. Sonia was relieved beyond words. Anything that put off further discussion between her and her betrothed was to the good. She only wished he might stay away forever.
She begged a bread crust from the cook and sat for some time in the courtyard, shredding it to feed the birds that gathered around her. From her vantage point, she could see that the huge entrance gate was secured by an ornate padlock. Few came or went through it, though an elderly man who crouched beside it, snoozing in the shade cast by his enormous hat, seemed to be the gatekeeper.
Three other doors appeared to be padlocked, all in the wall that stretched beyond the kitchen. They corresponded almost exactly to the storerooms in the houses of the Vieux Carré, which, after two great fires and years of Spanish governance in the previous century, owed more to Spanish design than to the original French. No one approached these heavy doors, however, and she heard no sound from them.
The silence was disturbing, even a little frightening. She had no idea if Kerr was actually in the house and scant prospect of anywhere else to look. What if he was lying alone and too injured to move? What if he had died or been killed after speaking with Jean Pierre?
She tore off more bread crumbs, dropping them around her feet. The vividly colored birds became only a blur as they swooped here and there to retrieve them. The flashes of the wings wavered in front of her eyes, their colors almost painful in the mirror-bright sunlight.
It was after sunset, as the gray-blue twilight descended into night, when Jean Pierre returned. The event was signaled by a great clatter of hooves and harness as his town carriage swept into the courtyard and wheeled to a stop.
Sonia watched from her bedchamber window as he alighted, looking as if he had enjoyed a day of surpassing pleasure. Tremont followed him. He had discarded his rough garb, appearing soigné once more in a double-breasted coat of the kind made popular by Britain’s Prince Albert, as he stepped down behind his host. She turned from the sight with her lips set in a flat line.
The request for her presence at the ten-o’clock supper came a short while later. Sonia sent her refusal by the same maid who had brought the invitation.
Let her aunt go and make her excuses, soothe Jean Pierre’s ego and keep bright conversation circling the table. Sonia wasn’t hungry and had no stomach for sitting in the same room as her fiancé and his traitorous friend. Moreover, she had better use for the darkness that had fallen.
She waited until she could hear the clink of silverware on china and the murmur of voices from the dining room farther down the gallery. Leaving her room then, she eased along the gallery in the opposite direction. Keeping to the shadows near the wall, she drifted as noiselessly as a ghost while keeping watch for movement in the courtyard below. Her mission was to find a weapon. She would prefer a pistol, but anything would do.
A set of French doors stood wide to let in night coolness. She listened outside for long moments. Hearing nothing, she slid inside.
She stood in a bedchamber of feminine appearance, with rose-colored silk on the walls and ruffled white bedcovers. Though large and airy, it had an unused air. No bits of feminine frippery were lying about; there was no brush and comb on the dressing table or water in the dainty pitcher and bowl on the washstand. Connected to it was another bedchamber, with only a great sweep of white curtain dividing the two for increased airflow, and she moved inside without hesitation. Given the self-conscious magnificence of this one, she suspected it belonged to Jean Pierre. She became certain as she stepped into the dressing room beyond it, for the frock coat draped over the back of a chair was the one he had worn earlier. Signs of a quick bath and change of clothing lay here and there as well, including shaving things still out on the washstand. She glanced quickly around, hoping to locate something more lethal than the razor noticed at first glance, but nothing was readily apparent.
Something, a familiar shape, drew her gaze back to the shaving things. Half hidden behind the soap cup was Kerr’s pocketknife. Anger moved over her at the thought of it being taken from him. Her fingers shook a little as she picked it up.
The smooth feel of the ivory handle, the memories of how he had used it, the knowledge that he had touched it, soothed her in some fashion. It seemed to retain some of his heat, as if it had been kept near him too long for it to quickly dissipate. She opened the blade, slid a finger carefully along the well-honed edge.
Footsteps sounded from the connecting room. It would be the valet, most likely, coming to turn down the bed for the night. His next task would be to put the dressing room to rights. There was no time to search deeper. With the knife held tightly in her fist, she tiptoed to the French window and stepped out onto the gallery once more.
The staircase to the courtyard lay at the end of the gallery. She moved toward it, halting at the top as a maidservant, with long black hair worn in a single braid down her back and large liquid eyes, came up from below. She carried a tray holding a silver water pitcher that sloshed as she stood aside. Sonia smiled and spoke a low-voiced greeting as she passed her. Descending the staircase, she trailed her free hand along the banister with a triste air, as if resigned to whatever befell her.
A torch burned at the foot of the stairs. The only other light came from the open door of the kitchen and the glow of candles from the rooms on the second floor. Shadows lay deep under the lower galleries that surrounded the courtyard. The warm air was scented with flowers overlaid by the smells of roasted meat and seared vegetables. Somewhere a dove called. The center fountain made soft water music. A cat strolled from the kitchen and crouched to lap water from the paving where it spilled over the basin’s edge, but nothing else moved in the dimness.
Avoiding the kitchen, Sonia crossed to the lower gallery that extended beyond it. The line of doors she had noticed earlier loomed before her. They were solid, heavy behind their wrought-iron hasps and stout locks. Nothing moved inside that she could tell. These storerooms remained dark and hushed as she strolled past with her shadow slipping along before her.
Turning at the end of the building, she paused. Something about the last door seemed odd, she thought. Retracing her footsteps, she stopped before it. Unlike the others, it had a long iron bar as part of its hasp. She leaned closer, listening, but could hear nothing. She lifted her hand, about to tap with the backs of her knuckles.
“Inspecting your domain, chère? Perhaps I may be of service as a guide.”
Sonia swung in a swirl of petticoats. It was Jean Pierre who had spoken, his voice laden with irony. He stood on the landing of a service stair hidden away in this back corner. Descending as the words left his mouth, he came toward her. His footsteps were ponderous, deliberate, as if he expected to incite fear.
“You startled me. I didn’t see you there.” Using her wide skirts for cover, she hastily slipped the open pocketknife into the ornamental pocket that hung from her waist. She lifted her hand to her bodice then, trying to slow the hard, uneven beat of her heart.
“Otherwise, you would have returned upstairs at once.”
That much was certainly true. It seemed best to provide a distraction. “Is supper over already? I had thought I might join you for dessert.”
“We are between courses. I decided to see if you couldn’t be coerced into leaving your room. Naturally, I was concerned when you weren’t there.”
“I’m sure you were,” she murmured.
“To have you join us will be a delight. What sweet do you crave this evening?”
“Anything will do.”
“You have only to express a wish and I shall order it done. I can be indulgent whe
n I choose, though you will learn in due time that I am master in my house.”
His boast had a purpose, she was sure, something more than an attempt to demonstrate his power over her. What it might be eluded her. “I expect you think so.”
“You may mock me now, but you will learn to speak softly when we are married,” he said, his hand curling into a fist as he stepped closer. “And we will marry. You need not think your Kaintuck lover will interfere. I hold his life in the palm of my hand.”
From somewhere nearby came the quiet clink of metal against metal. Was it the rattle of a chain? Had it come from the room just behind her? “So you suggested before,” she answered, “but you have not produced him and that makes it doubtful.”
“You wish to see him? Perhaps you would like to touch him to make sure it isn’t his ghost?” He reached out to run his fingers along her arm.
“Don’t,” she said, backing swiftly away from him.
“Why not? Soon I will have the right to do much more. How I will enjoy that, having you naked and begging under me.” He followed after her, put his hand out to snag her waist and cover her breast with his hot, damp hand.
“Monsieur!” Beneath her exclamation, she distinctly heard a chain dragging over stone in the room behind her, not quite masking a soft curse.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” Jean Pierre said, his voice growing thick. “We both know you will be no virgin bride. I fail to see why I shouldn’t anticipate the wedding by a few days. What will it matter when all is said and done?”
The chain clanked, a hard, abrupt sound followed by the clatter and slide of what might have been broken plaster. It was Kerr in that dark storeroom, jerking against his bonds. The thought of him in chains sent a surge of black anger through her. For a brief, mad instant, she considered bargaining for his release, her acquiescence for the key to the storeroom and promise that he could leave unharmed.
Gallant Match Page 27
