He had probably been right to discourage her, Simone thought grimly, but he had been so arrogant. Four years ago, she had been a naive child, certain she loved him. Well, she was no longer a child, and what she felt now was far from love. He would find that out on his return.
She reread the letter she held. It had arrived two weeks ago. Nicholas had known before the duel that Alain was coming home. Why hadn’t he told her? And why had he turned her future over to a man she hardly knew anymore?
She would not make Alain’s life easy by marrying someone she did not love. Since Tante Viviane had never been able to counter Nicholas’s influence enough to teach Simone the niceties a girl needed to “entertain a parlor,” she did not know whether or not she could find a husband on her own, or whether she even wanted to. Though she had no desire to be supported by a guardian, she did not want to be a poor relation either, living on charity from her aunt’s family. She must make her own way.
However, when she assessed her talents, Simone was forced to admit they were few. She knew how to run a household, but because of her youth, who would hire her as a housekeeper? Her chances of securing a position as a governess were also slight, for her formal schooling at the Ursuline convent had ceased when her father could no longer afford the tuition. Though the nuns would have allowed her to stay, the Devereaux had their pride, Nicholas had explained. Simone had not minded, preferring to read on her own. Before their library dwindled away, sold off book by book, she had managed a broad, if somewhat irregular, education.
What could she do? she wondered moodily. Neither of the skills Nicholas had taught her—rudimentary swordplay and how to handle cards—was particularly seemly or useful for a seventeen-year-old female.
A rap at the front door jarred Simone from her musing. Ducking to look in the mirror, which leaned against the wainscoting in readiness for the appraiser, she grimaced ruefully. In the ancient glass, her finely chiseled features looked drawn and her green eyes were shaded by sorrow. Although it was nearly evening, her hair was loose, flowing down her back to her waist. She had not had the energy to arrange it this morning.
Self-consciously, she raked her fingers through the thick brown mane and smoothed the skirt of the threadbare green house dress she wore in order to save her black mourning gown for public view. She was hardly dressed for company, she reflected as she went to answer the door, but her caller must take her as she was.
A gust of wind bearing the scent of rain swept over Simone as she turned the corner from the courtyard to the passageway toward the street. She nearly turned back when she saw Marcel Baudin at the other end, waiting outside the gate.
“There you are, Mademoiselle Devereaux,” the fair-haired Creole called when he saw her through the murky passage. Doffing his hat, he bowed elegantly. “Bonsoir.”
Marcel smiled appreciatively as she approached. One day Simone Devereaux would be among the most beautiful women in New Orleans. She was lovely even now in her worn, outdated frock. He allowed his gaze to skim over her trim body before he looked up into hate-filled green eyes glittering like emeralds.
“What do you want?” she asked flatly, stopping a distance from the gate.
“To extend my condolences on the death of your father,” he answered smoothly.
“How gracious, considering you’re the one who murdered him,” she retorted.
“It was a fair fight. Ask any of the witnesses.”
Simone glared at him. “You knew my father was not up to it. He was a sick man.”
“He was a drunkard,” Marcel corrected quietly, bowing to a passing gentleman who was hurrying to reach home before the storm. “And he was a gambler who lost everything—his inheritance, the family home, the bequest your mother left to you, even money he didn’t have,” he added, his pale eyes holding hers meaningfully.
“What are you talking about?”
The Creole assumed a winsome pout. “Must we discuss our business in the street, mam’selle, or will you invite me in?”
“I don’t think we have anything to say to each other,” she replied in clipped tones.
“Au contraire, chère, we have a great deal to talk about.” Marcel reached into his pocket and drew out a sheaf of papers. “I hold all your father’s gambling debts, you know. Every one of them.”
Simone looked down at the pages riffling in the wind. The writing on them was undeniably her father’s. Fighting to maintain her composure, she deliberated before opening the gate. It was not proper to receive the man without a chaperon, but she had to talk to him.
Leading Marcel to the parlor, she gestured to a chair. “Won’t you sit down? I must light the lamps. I hadn’t realized until you knocked that it was so dark.”
“Don’t bother,” he answered softly. “I don’t plan to stay long... tonight.”
“I assure you. Monsieur Baudin, I intend to pay my father’s debts, but it will take time,” Simone blurted out anxiously, missing his comment. “I must ask you to be patient.”
“Let your other creditors be patient. I demand some payment now,” he murmured huskily, stepping nearer.
Simone retreated, straining to see his face in the dimness. “But I have no money.”
Smiling down at her, Marcel placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “You have something I desire far more than money.”
His meaning was unmistakable. Simone’s eyes narrowed in fury, and she tried to jerk from his grasp. “How dare you?” she said.
His hands tightened on her shoulders, and he yanked her toward him. “Because you owe me, chère Simone. Though I shall soon demand payment in full, I take this on account.”
She tasted blood as his mouth claimed hers roughly, his teeth cutting into her lips. His wet kiss, hot and demanding, smothered her protest, and when she stiffened in resistance, his arms closed around her, pinning her arms and molding her against his body. Through her clothing, she felt, with a shock, the heated evidence of his need, and she knew his intention.
Doubling her knee, she tried to aim a blow at Marcel’s groin. Guessing her plan, he loosened his hold and stepped back to avoid the attack. Able to free her hands, Simone placed them against his chest and shoved him away with all her might.
“Get out! Get out and never come back!’” she panted, pointing toward the door.
“Why do you resist me?” Marcel asked tauntingly, catching a lock of her flowing hair. Twisting his hand in it, he pulled her toward him and whispered in her ear, “If you continue to fight me, I might have second thoughts about my generosity.”
“Generosity?” She tried to jerk away, wincing as he held fast to the silken rope of her hair wrapped around his clenched fist.
“Oui. I offer you the same arrangement I offered your father. When you become my mistress, all debts will be cancelled.”
She yanked her hair from his grip, unmindful of the burning pain, and retreated to a position behind a chair. “You offered this arrangement to my father? So that’s why he challenged you!”
“And why he died.” Marcel walked slowly toward her, smiling tolerantly when she edged away, keeping the chair between them. “You have few choices now, Simone. Consider my offer carefully. A rich man won’t marry you, and a poor man dare not approach a Devereaux, although the family isn’t what it once was. Becoming my mistress is the best you can hope for.”
“I’ll never become your mistress!”
“Never is a long time to rot in debtors’ prison,” he said persuasively, continuing to advance.
“A cot in the Cabildo would be better than sharing your bed,” she retorted hotly.
“You little bitch,” he snarled, his handsome face suddenly transformed into a malevolent mask. He leapt forward and seized the front of Simone’s dress. The thin material ripped easily, revealing round white breasts heaving in anger. Simone’s startled gaze met his for an instant before she dodged to the side and snatched her father’s sword from its resting place on the mantel.
“Stay back! I warn you.” She
brandished the sword with one hand, clutching the bodice of her dress closed with the other.
Marcel stayed where he was, an indistinct figure in the darkness. “You are magnifique, ma belle, and your protests admirable, but why do you delay the inevitable?” he coaxed.
As the storm’s heavy threat finally broke over the city, Simone imagined she could see the smirk on the Creole’s face while he let her play for time, certain he would soon convince her to drop her guard.
“I will have you,” he assured her. “I’ve wanted you for two months, since I noticed you at the market, the sunlight glistening in your beautiful brown hair. You looked like a dark angel . . . a perfect match for me. Oh, I’d seen Devereaux’s waif of a daughter before, but suddenly you were a woman and you were lovely. I knew I had to have you, no matter what it took to get you.”
“You must be mad.” Simone watched him intently through the gloom.
“Don’t say that, chèrie.” Marcel’s tone was almost pleading. “Put down the sword. Let me love you. I swear you’ll have all a woman could ever want. I’ll take care of you, dress you in silks, shower you with jewels. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
In the silence, the patter of rain on the flagstones of the courtyard was all that could be heard.
“Say something, damn it!” he shouted, lunging without warning. “Don’t mock me with silence when I’ve told you I want you.”
Fencing etiquette was forgotten as Simone attempted to defend herself. Panicked, she lifted the heavy sword and swung it wildly, striking a glancing blow to her assailant’s forehead.
A jagged bolt of lightning illuminated the night, and by its stark light, Simone glimpsed dark blood streaming down the side of Marcel’s face. Muttering dire curses, he clutched at his eye and lurched toward her.
She thrust the sword away from her in horror and ran from the house. As she rounded the corner to the passageway, the wind drove rain into her face and lashed her skirt around her ankles, slowing her. She fought to reach the banquette, to find help, but no one was out on the storm-swept street.
In the passageway behind her, Marcel’s inarticulate bellow echoed as he staggered after her.
A blinding bolt of lightning split the sky, revealing the ominous clouds roiling overhead. Marcel’s horse, hitched outside the house, whinnied shrilly, frightened by the thunderclap that followed. Glancing fearfully over her shoulder, Simone murmured quiet reassurances and hurriedly untied the beast.
Just as she mounted, Marcel burst onto the street, spooking the horse. From the back of the rearing animal, Simone looked down into the man’s bloody face as his red-stained hands clawed at the reins.
“You’ll pay for this, Simone Devereaux!” he screamed. “I will have you, and I’ll make you pay!”
Struggling to stay in the saddle, she wheeled the horse sharply in the street and galloped away through the pounding rain.
CHAPTER TWO
Shafts of morning sun angled through glass-paned doors and washed over the foot of the bed. Simone opened her eyes and lay still, uncertain where she was. Propping herself on her elbows, she peered through the mosquito netting around the bed and recognized her guest room at LeFleur. The night’s events flooded back, and with a groan she flopped down and closed her eyes again.
She had wounded a man; perhaps he would even die. Then again, the blow had not seemed fatal, Simone told herself optimistically. Marcel had followed her into the street, after all, bellowing as she rode away. She groaned again. Nom de Dieu, she had stolen his horse—another crime to add to the list.
Pushing the filmy baire away, she sat on the edge of the bed and found herself face to face with the portrait of her mother. It had come to LeFleur with Viviane and Georges last week and was still propped against the wall, not yet hung. She stared at the likeness of the dark-eyed Creole woman she barely remembered. Captured in time as a new bride, Marthe had been about Simone’s age when she had posed demurely under a tree in front of the majestic pillared house at LaVictoire, the lost Devereaux plantation.
Simone contemplated the painting, wondering what the solemn Marthe would think now if she were alive to hear what her wayward daughter had done.
“Bonjour, ma chère.” Tante Viviane entered, carrying a tray bearing coffee and beignets. She paused beside the bed and regarded her niece appraisingly. “You look better this morning. How do you feel?”
“Better, merci,” Simone answered, stepping to the washstand to cleanse the sleep from her eyes.
“What a fright you gave me, arriving here drenched and nearly hysterical.”
“I’m sorry, Tante,” the girl apologized as she poured the tepid contents of the pitcher into the basin, “but I didn’t know where else to go... “
“You did the right thing, coming here, child. After all, LeFleur is your home now. I’m just relieved Georges and Fabrice were not here to see your dramatic arrival.”
“So am I,” Simone agreed wholeheartedly, especially glad her proud, protective cousin had spent the night in town. It would have been bad enough to face her uncle, but Fabrice would have insisted on settling her affairs himself.
While Simone washed her face, Tante Viviane pulled a folded newspaper from the pocket of her apron and perched on the edge of the bed. Spreading the paper over the disarranged covers, she fanned through the pages. “I see nothing in the Gazette of Marcel Baudin’s death, nor even of an injury,” she muttered.
“A Gazette? How did you get one so early?” Simone asked, groping for a towel.
Viviane handed it her. “Barnabas brought it from town. He returned Monsieur Baudin’s horse to the livery stable at dawn after he, er, found the poor beast wandering on the River Road.”
“I’m sorry you had to lie for me.”
“We do what we must to take care of our own,” her aunt said, adding guiltily, “and it was my fault, after all. I never should have convinced Georges to allow you to stay in town.”
“You didn’t know Marcel would try to rape me in my own home.”
“I still find it hard to believe a Creole gentleman would do such a thing,” Viviane sighed with a disturbed frown.
“You didn’t see that ‘gentleman’ when he followed me into the street last night.” Simone shuddered. “He was like a mad, wounded animal.”
“Surely he wouldn’t bother you here with...” The woman trailed off when she heard voices from outside. “That must be Georges. When he hears what happened, he will take care of everything.” With a reassuring smile, Viviane hurried from the room.
Simone recognized her uncle’s voice, rising from the allée below, but the other one, so strident—could it be?
She peeped out the window and saw Georges standing beside an open carriage. From the high bench seat, Marcel Baudin scowled down at him. The young Creole’s head was swathed in bandages that covered one eye, and he was shouting, “I know she is here, Chauvin! You might as well give her to me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The planter stared up at Marcel in puzzlement.
“I am talking about Simone. She attacked me with a sword,” Marcel yelled, the pale eye that was visible alight with fury.
“Preposterous!” Georges exclaimed. “Simone would not attack you. She’s headstrong and impetuous, yes, but she is not violent.”
“I tell you, she tried to murder me.”
“Why would she do such a thing?”
“Because I hold Nicholas Devereaux’s IOUs, and I demanded she work them off.”
“How much did my brother-in-law owe you?” Viviane stepped from the shadowy veranda to stand beside her husband.
Marcel’s look was crafty. “That is between Simone and me. She owes me, and I want her as a servant in my house. Give her to me or I will charge her with attempted murder.”
“Why didn’t you go to the constabulary to begin with?” Simone’s uncle asked angrily.
Marcel ignored the question. “Give the girl to me!” he shouted. “I will have justice!�
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Georges’s ruddy face flushed with anger, but he offered rationally, “If Simone owes you money, if she attacked you—tried to murder you, as you say—we will see justice done. But even if she were here, I wouldn’t hand her over to you. We should send for the sheriff at once.”
“Non, I want her now or I’ll take your house apart board by board until I find her.”
“You are mad,” Viviane whispered, truly afraid of the violence the young Creole could turn on her family.
“What!” Marcel stood in his carriage, towering over the couple on the ground. “Mad? I only want what is mine!”
“My niece is not yours,” she answered, recovering her voice.
“She will be,” he snarled. “And when I get her, I will take every picayune she owes me out of her hide.”
“Get off my property, Baudin!” Georges thundered.
“Not until--”
“Get off my property,” the planter repeated, holding his ground before Marcel, who was poised as if to leap upon him.
Marcel restrained himself with effort. Sitting down, he gathered the reins, turning slitted eyes on the older man. “I’ll be back,” he said through clenched teeth, “and I won’t be alone.”
“Make sure you bring the sheriff with you,” Georges responded evenly. Taking Viviane’s arm, he led her toward the house.
As she crept downstairs, Simone heard the couple enter the house. “Come into the library, Viviane,” her uncle bade his wife brusquely. “I want to talk to you.”
Simone waited until he had closed the door behind them before going unabashedly to eavesdrop. She had to know what was afoot.
“Is Simone here?” she heard Georges ask flatly.
“Oui.” Her aunt’s voice was scarcely audible.
“Do Baudin’s accusations have any basis in fact?”
“He tried to force himself on her.”
“So Simone did attack him.”
“She defended herself.”
“None of this would have happened if that girl had conducted herself properly in the first place,” Georges erupted. “Of all the outrageous behaviors, attending Nicholas’s funeral, insisting on going back to the house instead of coming home with us. This comes at the worst time, just as I am about to affiance Fabrice to Pellarin’s youngest daughter. I tell you, Viviane, someone should take Simone in hand.”
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 3
