Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  “Bonheur welcomes you,” Margaret Delaup said, an odd, impersonal phrase conveying little enthusiasm. “I hope you will find your new home agreeable.”

  Angelica smiled, though it was no more than a mechanical movement of the lips. “You’re very kind,” she said with great politeness and no discernible inflection.

  Margaret lifted a brow. “I would turn over the keys to your domain to you at once, except I understand you have been unwell, and I am sure you are tired from your journey. I would not want you to be burdened with trouble and responsibility too quickly.”

  “You’re quite right,” Angelica said, her voice even. “I expect I will be better in a few days. Perhaps we can settle things then without too much fuss or ceremony.”

  Renold, listening to the ultra-polite exchange, felt the hair rise up on the back of his neck. As soon as he was able, he steered Angelica toward the suite of rooms, including bedchamber, dressing room, and sitting room, that they would occupy. Leaving her to direct the unpacking and settle in, he escaped to the stable for a tour of inspection.

  The air inside the long, low building was heavy with the smell of hay and horses, and acrid with ammonia. Standing in the open run, he made a mental note to speak to the stable boys about the consequences, general and personal, of the failure to muck out the stalls thoroughly and often, beginning today.

  The quiet fell gratefully on his mind. He could hear the crunch of a horse eating oats, the snuffling of another around a water bucket. However, the approach of one of the barnyard cats was noiseless.

  The cat stopped beside the open doorway where the sun cut across the floor with a wedge of golden light. It surveyed him with an unblinking gaze, then, unimpressed, sat down and lifted a leg to groom itself.

  Renold skirted the cat, walking along the row of stalls. He passed a hand over the low gates, feeling the wood where bored horses had chewed chunks from the planking, stopping now and then to pat an inquisitive head or scratch a twitching ear. Most of the horses seemed in fine condition, in spite of the dirty litter in the corners.

  He wondered if Angelica would permit him to choose a mount for her. If she preferred to do it herself, he would see to it that the range of animals was restricted and excellent, so that the final selection made no real difference.

  Manipulative, she had called him. He was that, and then some.

  A memory of the night before, of Angelica in his arms, drifted through his mind. He stopped abruptly. Turning to put his back against a heavy upright, he stood frowning at the dust turning in pale gold motes in the shafts of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the walls.

  Something in her response disturbed him. It wasn’t that she was unwilling or cool. She had moved into his arms with perfect naturalness each one of the three times during the evening and early morning that he had reached for her. Her innocence wasn’t a factor; he was charmed by it, and also by the assiduous way she dispensed with a little more of it each time they made love.

  No, it was something less obvious that was lacking. She was cooperation itself as she moved and turned under his hands, and yet she never made a sound. She did not evade a caress, but neither did she volunteer one. Her skin flushed, her heart throbbed under his hands, she held him at the peak of her pleasure with near desperation, but she never opened her eyes, never looked into his. Afterward, she lay close in his arms, staring into space while she fingered the burn scars along his ribs as if telling her rosary, but she did not try to hold him when at last he turned to sleep.

  Silent, always silent, that was a part of what troubled him. The sweet, beguiling prelude to love and its thunderous cataracts of joy were miracles she kept to herself. It was as if she held them close inside her because she could not afford to share them. Or else had no one to share them with, especially not him.

  His fault. It must be.

  She didn’t trust him.

  Possibly his scars repelled her, were reminders of things she shuddered away from in her mind.

  Or maybe it was only that he was expecting too much of a less than ideal marriage, and the problem was simply that she didn’t, couldn’t, love him.

  But she might have, if things had been different, if he had never embarked on his program of retribution and restitution. The first time they made love, she had been — loving.

  He had that memory. It was a part of his punishment, self-inflicted and obsessive, that he had that memory.

  That wasn’t all.

  Several times this morning, he had caught her watching him. The look in her eyes gave him the same wariness he felt when hearing footsteps behind him on a dark street, the same inclination to look to his weapons.

  Danger came in many forms, and he had learned to recognize most of them. Instinct told him this was a new one, though his brain had trouble accepting it.

  What was going on in her mind? Was she concocting a revenge of her own? Had she, just maybe, begun already?

  It was all too likely. She had not reacted to his confession of his misdeeds as he had expected. Tantrums, tears, even cold rejection: He had looked for these things, had decided how he would manage them.

  Instead, she had expressed her pain and scathing anger, given him her opinion of his tactics and his morals, then accepted the situation. She had made no threats to dissolve the marriage, never mentioned barring him from Bonheur, had made not the slightest attempt to deny him her bed. She had smiled and been polite and held her mouth for his kiss.

  If he was as arrogant as she seemed to think, he would consider the thing over and done, would expect matters to go along smoothly from here on out. He wasn’t. He didn’t.

  She had thrown up barriers to her heart and mind, locking him outside. Within that fastness, she was plotting in her diabolically quiet woman’s fashion. He knew it, he could feel it. Whatever she was up to, he would have to guard against it as best he could.

  But if she was in the mood for vengeance now, what would she be when she discovered that her father and Eddington were alive? He did not dare think of it.

  So intimate an enemy. It was the last thing he had expected.

  Let the battle be joined, then. The skirmishes should be remarkable, if he managed to live through them. And if he went down in defeat, well, he could think of no one to whom he would rather surrender.

  A stunning thing, that, to recognize at this late date.

  A shadow fell through the stable doorway, stretching toward where Renold stood. Michel followed his own dark image. He stood a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom, then, catching sight of Renold, walked toward him.

  “Hiding?” his friend inquired, his voice rich with amusement. “I can’t say I blame you.”

  “Rather, seeking a respite.”

  Michel’s smile faded. “Shall I go away again? I saw you come this way, and thought to speak to you in private, but I would not intrude.”

  Renold sighed and rubbed a hand over his hair, clasping the back of his neck. “You are always welcome, as you must know, since otherwise you would not be at Bonheur. What is it?”

  Unease was plain in the other man’s face. He swung away, moving to the empty stall nearby where he put his back against the gate and thrust his hands into his pockets. He studied the tips of his shoes for long seconds before he looked up in sudden decision.

  “I wanted—” He stopped, took a deep breath, and started again. “I would like your permission to pay my addresses to Deborah.”

  Renold had expected many things, from a homily on the duties of a husband to a decision to return to New Orleans on the next boat. This request he had not foreseen. Surprise and the instant leap of suspicion made his voice abrupt. “Why?”

  “I’ve known your sister since she was a child, have watched her grow up and turn into a lovely woman. I always had an affection for her, but thought I didn’t have a chance. Your family has always been a bit better off than mine. Then, I expected M’sieur Delaup to have her future planned and settled.”

  “H
e tried it,” Renold said with dry emphasis. “Deborah set him straight.”

  “She knows her mind,” Michel said with a smile. “It seemed she might consider the idle and lacking in ambition compared to her brother. I was fine for teaching her to waltz or as a harmless male to use for practicing her flirtation, but nothing more serious. Lately, I’ve come to think — that is, Angelica suggested that I might have a chance.”

  “Angelica.” The word was expressionless. To keep it so required startling effort.

  “She was kind enough to listen to my doubts and problems.”

  “I’m sure. She is nothing if not kind.”

  A frown gathered in the other man’s dark eyes. He dropped his head, then looked up again. “God, Renold, I don’t know you any more. I thought you would be happy to hear that I am entranced by your sister, regardless of whether you wanted me for a brother-in-law or not!”

  “I might at that,” he said softly, “if I didn’t have to worry that courting my sister might make an extremely useful excuse for staying close to my wife. Especially if she is going, to be your adviser in love.”

  Michel squared his shoulders. Dark color invaded his face, turning his olive skin to a gray hue. His mouth set in a straight line, he said, “That’s finally enough. You will oblige me by naming your seconds.”

  “No.” The word was as quiet as the request had been.

  “Friendship, I suppose, prevents it,” Michel said bitterly.

  “Rather, a disinclination for exertion at the moment. And the certain knowledge that a dueling injury would make you picturesque and appealing, while I would be cast once more in the role of villain.”

  “If you are the one injured, what then?” Michel said with justifiable irritation.

  Renold shook his head, his gaze level. “Then I would have gotten what I no doubt deserved — in the view of both ladies, of course, not to mention their defender.” He added, “I can’t win either way, therefore I refuse to fight.”

  “You are afraid you’ll kill me in your ridiculous jealousy,” Michel charged, lifting a clenched fist.

  “I am afraid I will be tempted, yes, and afraid I will try. I’m afraid that if I do try, simple fairness will require that I give you the privilege of retaliating in kind. And I greatly fear that you will not be able to resist the opportunity to make Angelica a widow.”

  “I can see you allowing it.” The words were stiff. Michel followed them with a different tone. “But it’s just talk, isn’t it? I have a feeling that the thing you fear most is that Angelica might be there to watch you kill again, as she did once before when you dispatched one of the thugs who attacked you in New Orleans. It’s my belief you would rather not test the tenderness of her heart.”

  “Can you be suggesting I am in love with my wife?” he said in mocking accents. “Calumny. Worse, it’s blasphemy. Possibly tragedy. Or is it a comedy? I think it must be the last, though I’m not laughing.”

  “Neither am I,” Michel said. “When you decide which it is, perhaps you will tell Angelica. She isn’t laughing, either.”

  Swinging around on his heel, Michel left the stable. Renold stood staring after him, while his mind turned over thoughts of death and dueling and honorable impulses. He contemplated the workings of revenge, and how easily one man could be set against another. In that context, he also considered the nature of women and their inclinations, some honorable, others murderous.

  Was it possible that Angelica, chafing at his hold upon her, had found a way out? Could she have set Michel against him with gentle encouragement, hoping that his friend would kill him? To do that, of course, she would have to understand her husband’s motives and feelings almost as well as he knew them himself. Or better.

  No. She was not that intuitive or that vengeful. Was she?

  She could not hate him that much. Could she?

  With a low sound in his throat, he turned to the post behind him and struck it a hard, sharp blow. The post shuddered under the impact. Renold pressed his fist against the vibrating wood, then rested his forehead on it. He closed his eyes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Why are you moping out here, Mamzelle?”

  It was Estelle who put that question, standing in the garden path with her hands on her ample hips and a belligerent look overlaying the worry on her round face.

  Angelica sat up straighter in the teakwood chair placed under the rose arbor, and hastily retrieved the book turned down in her lap as it slipped. Summoning a smile, she said, “Just reading. What else is there?”

  “You know well what else. You could be talking to Cook about dinner tonight, consulting with the gardener about what vegetables you want planted; maybe checking the dairy to be sure they are making butter the way you want. You might be having the salon swept and dusted and the rugs put up in the attic for summer. There’s plenty — if you want to worry with it.”

  Angelica looked away to where a bee invaded a full-blown pink cabbage rose near her left shoulder. “But my mother-in-law sees to all that, and so well, too.”

  “Because you let her.”

  It was true, and Angelica knew it. It was almost a month since she had come to Bonheur. The weeks had come and gone, and still Madame Delaup had not given up the keys to the household.

  The keys were central, a symbol of power. So many things were kept locked away: the sharp knives in their polished wooden boxes; the tea in its special caddy; the spices in a many-drawered chest; sacks of coffee, barrels of sugar, flour, ground corn meal, and crocks of preserves and jellies in the pantry; the smoked meats hanging in the smokehouse. Each of these things had to be parceled out by the mistress of the house as needed. It was an onerous duty to many women, but a source of pride and responsibility to others.

  Madame Delaup appeared to be among the latter. Angelica had not, in the beginning, realized quite how attached Renold’s mother was to her position. She did now.

  If the situation had been more normal, Angelica might have forced a confrontation. With the passing days, however, she had come to see to what an extent she would be usurping the only place the other woman had, taking away the one thing that filled the emptiness of her life. So much had been stolen from Renold’s mother already that Angelica found it difficult to take the rest.

  Excuses were plentiful. Madame Delaup had a headache. It was wash day, and Madame was too occupied to show her daughter-in-law which key went to what. Madame had visitors, or was expecting visitors, or was just leaving to pay a charity call on a needy family of country people. It went on and on.

  At the same time, Angelica had grown increasingly irritated with her position. The house servants of Bonheur, not unnaturally, looked to their longtime mistress and to her son for their orders. No single request that Angelica made was answered instantly. If she asked for a cup of tea and a piece of toast between meals, Renold’s mother must be the one to send to the kitchen for it. If she wanted the sheets on her bed changed, Madame must approve. If she decided to ride, Renold must relay the order for her horse to be saddled. If she wanted the furniture in her bedchamber shifted, both Madame and her son must be consulted. Nothing was so trivial that achieving it could not be turned into a drawn-out procedure.

  Then there was the insolence. It was not overt, of course, nothing that could be seized upon as a cause for punishment. It materialized in a crooked smile, a glance from the corners of the eyes, the tone of a voice. Added together, it showed plainly that she was considered negligible, someone to be neither respected nor feared. In the manner of servants everywhere, the people of Bonheur had looked her over, noticed the attitude of their master and mistress toward her, tested her, and decided she was powerless.

  The exceptions were Estelle and Tit Jean. These two had become more partisan as the days slipped away. It was as if they felt she was being persecuted and were rallying to her defense. Angelica was grateful, since it meant at least a few of her needs were seen to without complications. More than that, it was good to have someone on h
er side.

  Her side. As if she and Renold’s mother were in some kind of tug of war.

  Part of the problem was that she could not blame Madame Delaup for resenting her, even hating her. If she was made to feel like an interloper, she could hardly complain, because that was precisely what she was.

  Still, the strain of it was beginning to wear on her patience. Twice in the past week she had snapped at Deborah. Only this morning, she had come very near to lashing out at Renold because he had suggested that his shirts were not ironed to his satisfaction and she might speak to the laundress about it.

  The worst of it was that the petty infighting was preventing her from coming closer to Renold. He had ridden out with her once in the first week, and seemed to take pride in showing her the acreage belonging to the plantation, the fields in cane and food crops, the lay of the lands along the river. Since then, she had barely seen him at all during daylight hours. He always had so much to do: talking with the overseer about new plantings; having land cleared, ditches cleaned, or rubbish burned; looking after repairs and even doing them himself so that he came home hot and tired and disinclined to talk.

  If these labors did not fill his time, then he went fishing on the river with Michel. Or he rode out to visit with local planters and talk sugar and cotton and land, along with more interesting tales of local misdoings. Coming home, he brought the news he had gleaned to discuss with Michel and Deborah and his mother. An occasional comment was directed to Angelica, but since she knew neither the places nor the people involved, she had little to contribute to any discussion.

  It was only at night that she saw him alone. Sometimes, he was too exhausted from his labors, perhaps purposely, to do anything else except sleep like the dead. Other nights, he reached for her the moment the lamp went out and made love to her with such desperate skill that all else was routed from her mind.

  She said to Estelle now, “It isn’t as easy as it may look.”