His face set and his footsteps deliberate, Renold walked from the main cabin, going in search of the station where the ladies’ attendant waited to be summoned.
Chapter Two
The Queen Kathleen was an aging steamer as such things went; the boat was nearly four years old in a trade where snags, sandbars, storms, incompetent pilots, and faulty machinery left few afloat beyond their third year. She was a favorite of Renold’s, however, mainly because she had been built especially for plying the lower Mississippi. He liked the captain, respected the pilot, and paid regular homage to the on-board chef, but his greatest appreciation was for the staterooms. Not only were they large enough to please passengers accustomed to expansive bedchambers, but were designed for cross ventilation in hot weather with both the normal inner door and also one opening to the outside deck.
He stood on the boiler deck near the outer door of Angelica Carew’s stateroom. Lamplight fell through the door’s closed jalousie, but little sound emerged beyond the soft, seductive rustle of silk skirts and an occasional sigh. Listening as he propped one shoulder against an ornate railing post, Renold was impatient but not at all impenitent.
The moon had come up, benign, resplendent, and shy, hiding its soft gold face behind trailing purple-gray cloud veils. The light that poured down in a shifting, shimmering track across the water had weight and substance. Renold felt it on his eyelids, his mouth. He resisted the impulse to reach out toward it, having long ago given up the struggle for the unobtainable.
Abruptly, a whistle shrilled from the Texas deck high above him. He came to instant attention, with every sense alert. Seeing the cause of the excitement, he braced his hands on the railing to watch.
There was another steamboat plowing the water behind them. It spouted twin horns of black smoke shot with orange sparks from its torch-shaped stacks, while silver-white gusts of escaped steam were blown back from the overflow pipes. Charging forward with water rolling away from the prow on either side, the City of Cincinnati blasted the night with its steam whistle as it made ready to pass.
The pilot of the Queen Kathleen, however, had already called for more steam. It was soon forthcoming. The engines picked up their hard drive and thump, the boat surged forward. Under Renold’s hand, the rail began to shudder with the faster, harder cadence. He frowned a little as he felt its unevenness.
His momentary concern vanished as there came the click of a latch behind him. Angelica Carew’s stateroom door swung open. She stepped out onto the deck.
Renold turned to face her, and his breath caught, swelling, in his chest. She had taken down her hair. Soft, lustrous, the color of raw silk, it swirled around her. It shimmered in the deep waves, was tipped with moonlight on the gently curling ends, clung to the folds of her shawl and mingled with the wrap’s silk fringe at a level almost reaching her knees. The palms of his hands itched to touch, to hold, and he closed them slowly into fists against his sides.
Stillness came into her face as she saw him, but she did not retreat. Her voice holding nothing more than anxious curiosity, she said, “What is it? What’s happening?”
“A race,” he answered.
“For heaven’s sake, why?”
“Because there’s a moon and visibility is good. Because the boat that reaches port first gets a full load of cargo while the next may not. Because river pilots have their pride, and then some.” Renold stopped, afraid of his own volubility in the face of her considering quiet.
Her smile was a brief acknowledgment of his reasoning, though she made no reply. She put her hand to the center of her waist, pressing as she breathed slowly in and out.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, the words carefully pitched to show politeness and consideration but no infringement.
The shake of her head made her hair dance over the silk bell of her skirt. She was still a moment before she said, “Have you, perhaps, seen the woman who acts as ladies’ attendant? I’ve rung for her several times, but she doesn’t come. I thought she might have stepped out on deck.”
“I saw her about an hour ago,” he answered with care. It was not a lie. He had seen the woman and given her a hefty bribe to find occupation elsewhere and ignore Angelica’s bell. As if in afterthought, he added, “I believe she was on her way to look after the babe-in-arms and another tot belonging to a lady who had taken ill.”
“Oh.”
Renold suppressed the compunction caused by the despair in Angelica’s voice. He knew the reason for it, of course, knew her dread of being confined in her clothing beyond the time she wished to be free. He had learned of it by sending his manservant to idle about the back door of the aunt’s residence, encouraging chatter about the household. Advance planning was an article of faith for Renold, one of the handful he found useful. Another was to take advantage of any exposed weakness.
“If it matters so much,” he said in soft reason, “I can only suppose you have need of a maid’s services, or at least those of a female. Might I go in search of someone else for you?”
“No, there’s no one. At least, I — can go myself in a few minutes.”
He realized whom she intended to solicit for help in her dilemma. It was not unexpected, however, and he moved at once to block this interference in his plans. “You are thinking, perhaps, of Madame Parnell, the lady I saw you talking with after dinner? She has retired for the evening. I’m sure you will not want to stand around outside her stateroom while she gets back into her wig and face paint, not in your present state of dishabille.”
His voice was offhand, but a warning of possible offended propriety sparked in its depths. Angelica said stiffly, “I will make myself presentable first, of course.”
“There is no need. The lady travels with her own maid, I think. I can send my manservant to ask that her woman attend you.”
Doubt crossed Angelica’s clear features. “You don’t think Madame Parnell will mind my borrowing her services?”
“I’m certain she would prefer it to the effort required to come herself.”
She hesitated, then said, “I don’t know. I prefer not to disturb my father since he has been ill, but perhaps my fiancé—”
“Young Eddington? I’ve met him. Unwise.” The words were firm.
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, then gave a reluctant nod. “I’m afraid I must accept your kind offer, then.”
“It’s no kindness, but a pleasure,” Renold said before he could stop himself. Turning immediately, he moved along the railing to his own stateroom and stepped inside.
Tit Jean, his manservant of many years, looked up with a grave expression as he entered. Renold met his dark, liquid gaze, his own impassive. Neither spoke, for there was no need. Madame Parnell already had her instructions, which did not include sending her maid to Angelica.
In keeping with most body servants, Tit Jean knew exactly what Renold was doing and why. He disapproved, but confined his expression to a single solemn glance. This Renold could ignore.
Standing with his back against the wall, Renold closed his eyes. Pensive as a defrocked priest contemplating sin, he thought of what he intended to do. It was wrong without doubt, possibly even criminal. It was also justified. If he had ever doubted it, he had only to remember his stepfather with tears standing like warm mercury in the lines etched in his face, hear again the defeated, despairing agony in his voice.
Standing there, it came to Renold abruptly that forcing Angelica Carew to marry him for a stake in Bonheur was not the worst he could do. If he could convince her of her father’s guilt and influence her to repudiate the man, it would be a punishing defeat for Edmund Carew. If she could be brought to love her husband more than her father, it would, finally, be a just revenge.
The gambler would know the desolation of lost self-respect, lost purpose for living that Gerald Delaup had known. And the knowledge would destroy him just as completely.
Was it plausible that the gambler’s daughter might grow to love him, Renold wondered,
or was it only a wayward inclination dictated by conscience and attraction? He could not tell. Whichever it might be, it must wait for later, after they were married.
Angelica Carew still stood at the railing where he had left her. Facing away from him as if she had been following the race, she breathed in audible gasps, plucking at the whalebone constriction at her waist. She really was in distress. He had not quite realized.
She turned, lowering her hand, forcing a valiant smile as she heard his approach. Still there was anxiety in her low voice as she said, “Is it all right?”
“I’m sorry, but there seems to be a rash of illness and accidents. Madame Parnell’s maid tripped while moving a trunk a short time ago. She cut her knee, and she and her mistress are in the midst of the bandaging.”
Angelica’s gaze darkened, though she expressed suitable sympathy. Hesitating a moment, she said, “I suppose it will have to be my father then, after all.”
“I thought you said he was unwell.”
“I wish it weren’t necessary, but I see no other choice.”
Renold’s face was calm but his voice less than even as he said, “I’ve given the matter some thought while I was gone. If you would accept my services, I have a certain dexterity with buttons. I can even find them without having to look — when the occasion demands it.”
Her chest rose and fell as if she had been running hard. “You mean — you are offering to—”
“To act in the place of the ladies’ attendant, yes. There is no one around to see, and it would only take a moment. You may depend to the fullest on my discretion. And on my honor.”
Her gaze did not falter, though her pale skin darkened with the rush of color. He thought it was caused by outrage, until he saw, in the moonlight across her eyes, the reflective gaze of consideration.
The wind of their passage stirred her skirts and carried a whiff of her scent compounded of roses and warm female into his face. It caught her hair, lifting a skein of it, turning it into silver-gold netting in the moonlight. She reached distractedly to catch the fine strands. Finally, she said in quiet demand, “Why would you suggest such a thing?”
“Concern and a willingness to please. Is it so surprising?”
“You don’t know me, nor do I know you.”
“An introduction is all that is lacking then?” he said, and knew, even as he gave his name and added a mocking half-bow, that the tone was wrong and probably the words. She had surprised him, however, and he was not used to surprises.
“Are you known to my father?”
“I don’t claim a close acquaintance.” He had, mercifully, recaptured the need for care.
“I believe I saw you playing cards just now. Is that your profession?”
He tipped his head, intrigued by a shading he heard in her voice. “Would that make me more acceptable, or less?”
“All I require,” she said with some astringency, “is a direct answer.”
She was wary but not frightened, he saw, so could not have any great knowledge of men. It fit what he had gathered about her life with the dragon of an aunt. At the same time, he was disturbed that he was the one who must teach her distrust. He said, “I play at many things, from cotton bales and sugar to ships and land in foreign climes.”
“You aren’t a gambler then?”
“Not by profession, not anymore.”
“But possibly by nature?”
A faint smile curled his mouth as he said, “Most men are, but not most women.”
“Are you testing my inclinations?” she queried thoughtfully. “How should I tell, since I’ve never been invited to play . . . “ Her voice, even until the last, suddenly stopped.
“Except that now you have,” he agreed. “To put your trust in another person is always a gamble.”
“Tell me why you should be concerned about my problems, and perhaps I will give you an answer.”
It was the one thing he could not do. Or could he? He felt his heart throb against his breastbone as he said, “There are several reasons, beginning with the code of a gentleman and ending with personal interest that began the moment I saw you.”
“And in between?”
She was perceptive. He would have to remember that. But she was not, he thought, experienced enough to recognize perfidy when it was masked by truth. His voice as fretted as a wind-torn leaf, he said, “In between is desire.”
“And you warn me? That is very candid of you.”
“Isn’t it?” he said. “You were going to give me an answer.”
“I am my father’s daughter, therefore gambling is in my blood. More than that, my need to be released from the prison of my garments is too great to pretend otherwise. I would trust your promises if I could, only how am I to do that now?”
“That is, of course, the question.”
She did not reply, but watched him in careful consideration. It seemed an impasse, but one it would be best not to force.
Renold swung from her abruptly to gaze across the water at the other boat racing along with its lights and noise and trailing smoke. This was more difficult than he had imagined it would be, and more disturbing. He had not expected to care greatly what this woman thought of him, or what she felt or wanted.
Behind him, she hesitated, then moved to the rail some few feet from where he stood. Her gaze was turned toward their boiling wake behind the paddle wheel. She seemed to be watching the orange sparks that swirled backward from the Queen Kathleen’s smokestacks, drifting to wink out in blackness in the water.
After a moment, she said, “We are gaining.”
“We had a fair lead,” he agreed, accepting what seemed an obvious bid for time, but might not be. “At this rate, we’ll soon be in New Orleans.”
“Rather, we’ll soon need a wood yard,” he said dryly.
She laughed a little at that. Aboard the other boat, pipes whistled and more smoke boiled upward from the stacks. Deckhands began to appear at the main deck rail, yelling across the water at the hands on the lower deck of their own boat. After a moment, she said, “I suppose it’s just as well that I wasn’t able to go to bed. I would have missed the excitement.”
She had a point. The race in progress also increased the likelihood that their privacy would be interrupted as other passengers emerged from their rooms to watch. He must force the issue before that happened.
He said deliberately, “If it’s excitement you enjoy, perhaps I have been more the gentleman than was necessary. I could, if you prefer, trade my favor for your favors.”
She flinched a little as she swung in his direction, but did not swoon or strike out at him, either of which he half expected. In tones of asperity, she said, “That seems a high price for the manipulation of a few buttons and laces.”
“One you might find it pleasurable to pay.”
Her face took on the cool remoteness of white marble. “Possibly, if I were the kind of woman who could agree.”
“All women are that kind, for the right reason, at the right time, with the right man.”
She tilted her head, raising a hand to her throat. On an indrawn breath, she said, “Why? Why are you saying these things?”
“For purposes of seduction,” he said with a shading of desperation. “What else?”
“No.”
He watched her, his gaze measuring the troubled cast of her expression, and also the beginning of suspicion behind it. He said, “You don’t believe me, do you? Why not, I wonder?”
“I have difficulty regarding you as that kind of man,” she said. “Besides, I have it on the best authority that men intent on seduction are prone to seize a woman first and discuss it later.”
He stood slowly erect. “I suppose I should thank you for the compliment, misplaced as it might be. If you are so sure of my character and motive, perhaps you may be able to accept my services, after all?”
“I don’t think I’m quite that certain of my own judgment,” she said with a trace of wry apology in her tone.
She tried to smile and failed, perhaps because of something she read in his eyes. “I’m afraid it must be, I’ll just go to my father.”
Desire and violence, fueled by the urge for revenge, drummed across the surface of his mind. The most vivid emotion inside him, however, was regret. He said, “I can’t let you do that, you know.”
She saw her danger in that moment, and stepped away from him toward her stateroom. He surged after her, reaching to close his hand on her wrist. He heard her gasp, felt her resistance, but did not pause. With implacable will and relentless strength, he flung wide the jalousie door of her room and swept her inside.
She spun away from him in a silken whirl of skirts, coming up against the wall. Slamming the door shut, he swung to face her.
The stateroom was too confining, too crowded with trunks and bags and heavy, carved furniture to permit her to escape him. He could cover either the outer or inner door with a single long step. The bed was at his back, a lamp burning on the table beside it. He saw her note and accept these things before she raised her eyes to meet his hard stare.
Her heart was beating so hard it pulsed visibly in the long, smooth line of her neck and under the white curve of her breast at the neckline of her gown. She was braced, waiting for his next move while her chest rose and fell in a jerky and panicked motion against the merciless clinch of her corset. Yet, there was courage in her face and the race of swift calculation in her eyes.
He moved toward her. She swallowed, a convulsive movement. “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” His voice was deeper than he had expected, softer than he had planned.
“You don’t have the look of a man succumbing to temptation, much less unchecked passion.”
“You, on the other hand, appear as untried as any bride can be. So how would you know?”
“Call it instinct.” Her gaze slid away, then returned as if drawn.
Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) Page 3
