Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  “And later?”

  Angelica looked away from her. “Later, we were — married.”

  “I see. After this thing that did not happen, then, you accepted my son’s proposal and entered into matrimony with him with an easy mind and heart?”

  “The occasion was somewhat unusual,” Angelica began.

  “Which means that you did not. Were you asked?”

  The words, sharp-edged as razors, were irritating, and perhaps meant to be. “Being insensible at the time, there was a little difficulty there, also.”

  “Insensible? You mean he—” Renold’s mother drew a quick, uneven breath. “No. He would not do that. What do you mean?”

  “She means,” came a hard voice from the door, “that joyful as the event may have been, she has no memory of it.”

  His mother sat forward in her chair to face Renold. “But you do.”

  His smile as he came forward was sardonic, his bow a model of courtesy in spite of hair that was wet from the exertion of riding and clothes that reeked of horse. He said in answer to her question, “The occasion is chiseled on mind and heart.”

  “We can dispense with the melodrama, thank you. Unless the engraving is self-inflicted, a reminder of ill-considered plans.”

  “You suspect me of not knowing my own mind?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Rather, to borrow a phrase, of correcting in haste a mistake made at leisure.”

  He tipped his head, said softly, “There was no mistake.”

  “I have watched for years,” his mother said with grayness in her face, “while you broke the rules that annoyed you and rejected every canon of gentlemanly conduct that seemed likely to prove a barrier to fortune. No!” she said sharply as he opened his mouth, “permit me to finish. I never interfered because it seemed you had a code of your own more stringent in some areas than the one that you rejected. That code seems to have deteriorated. Let me inform you that depravity in the treatment of females is an inexcusable trait.”

  Renold’s eyes were steady and darkly green, but he did not look at his wife. He said, “Who accuses me?”

  “Not Angelica, though I would imagine she could.”

  “Her visitor then,” he said. “Who would have thought Madame Parnell, of all others, would live to tell about it?”

  He stood straight and a little pale, as if facing a tribunal. A slow bead of perspiration trickled from his hair and disappeared under his shirt collar. Angelica, watching him, felt her heart begin a hard, sickening beat

  “You admit it, then. You intended to ravish a young woman and have yourself discovered in the act in order to force her to the altar with you.”

  “The appearance is sometimes enough.” He let the words stand without amplification. He had lost his verbosity along with his color.

  “And sometimes the appearance precedes the deed,” his mother said, her voice inexorable. “Are you quite certain the explosion aboard the Queen Kathleen was not the only thing that prevented you from forcing yourself upon Angelica?”

  “Quite sure,” he drawled. “There was also her resistance.”

  Madame Delaup’s eyes dilated. It was a moment before she could speak, and then there was loathing in her voice. “Her resistance? It was necessary for her to fight you?”

  It seemed Renold might not answer. The fingers of his right hand closed tightly, then opened again to hang lax. He looked down at it, said softly, “Yes. Desperately.”

  “No!” Angelica said, rising to her feet so quickly her hoop skirt swung, bumping against the chair behind her. “He stopped of his own accord. He was about to apologize when the boiler exploded.”

  Madame Delaup rested her gaze on the face of her son, where all reaction had been wiped away as if with a damp cloth. To Angelica, she said, “You could not have known what he meant to do.”

  “I have had a great deal of time to remember every second of that night. More than that, I’ve come to know Renold and how he thinks.”

  “You absolve him, then? Charming, but unreliable since your future comfort depends on his temper.”

  It was a motive Angelica could not accept. “I also know that he would not have been in my stateroom at all that night if I had not — encouraged him.”

  “Not so,” Renold said with a sharp gesture of denial. “I had every intention of joining you there.”

  Angelica gave him a look of annoyance. “I could have gone inside and locked the door, and then where would you have been? I might have done just that if you had not been so—”

  “Persuasive? There were other methods in reserve if that failed.”

  “They were hardly needed, since I practically begged you to take off my clothes!” She gestured toward her corseted form in indignation.

  Renold glanced at his mother while a frown crept into his eyes. “She has a horror of being trapped in her undergarments, and I had sent away the ladies’ attendant who should have helped her out of them.”

  “I know,” his mother said without expression.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “Angelica had no intention of allowing me the slightest liberty. What I gained, I took by force and subterfuge, and do not regret.”

  “I don’t doubt it; you always accepted responsibility for your misdeeds even as a child. The question here does not concern your feelings, but rather what Angelica might or might not regret.”

  What did she feel? Angelica hardly knew. Then, noticing the intent, considering light in the eyes of Madame Delaup, she realized abruptly that it made no difference, after all.

  Renold’s mother had, perhaps, intended to make a point to her son. Her main purpose, however, had been to undo the damage brought about by the visit of Madame Parnell. Toward that end, she had forced a confrontation with Renold, castigating him in such terms that she had encouraged Angelica to play devil’s advocate. In that guise, Angelica had been persuaded to review in her mind the night on the Queen Kathleen. In the process, she had come to the conclusion that as reprehensible as Renold’s purpose might have been, his reason for it was unselfish. More, the method he had chosen to attain it, compromising her without physically possessing her, had been relatively humane.

  The only question in Angelica’s mind was at what point Renold had caught on to the trick.

  She said quietly, “I regret, Madame, that I did not recognize sooner where your son acquired his ruthless habits. What you just did was — what was the word? Oh, yes. Inexcusable.”

  Swinging from them, she moved toward the door. She had almost reached it when she heard a soft laugh and the sound of quiet, deliberate applause.

  “Bravo,” Renold’s mother said as she clapped her hands.

  Hard on the syllables, there came a cutting remark in her son’s voice. The words were too soft to be understood, but the tone was perfectly clear. It carried hot, consuming rage.

  Angelica had had enough. She ran, not from the angry confrontation taking place behind her, but from the things she herself had said, from the knowledge of how close she had come to exposing how she felt.

  She ran because she knew how perceptive Renold could be, and was afraid of what he might say or do if he should put his mind to understanding. She did not stop until she slammed the door of her bedchamber behind her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The faro game in the salon had been going on since just after dinner. It was fun at first, with Renold keeping the bank against Deborah, Michel, and Angelica. The four of them laughed and joked and placed their bets with careless disregard for winning or losing. The piles of chips in front of them shifted back and forth as fortune smiled on first one and then the other.

  Madame Delaup remained with them for a while, looking up with dry indulgence from where she sat working a Berlin stitch pattern in shades of rose and peacock blue silk on a chair seat. As the evening lengthened, however, she put her needlework in its bag, bid them good night, and went off to bed.

  With his mother’s departure, Renold tried to catch Angelica’s attentio
n. She pretended not to notice, since she had the distinct feeling he meant to convey his own readiness to call it a night. Being alone with him was something she had managed to avoid since the contretemps that morning. She hoped to use the late hour as an excuse for postponing any discussion still further when they finally did retire.

  It was perhaps a half-hour after Madame Delaup’s departure that the luck began to run exclusively in Renold’s favor. The easiness died out of their play. The atmosphere took on a sense of strain. Michel settled down and kept careful track of the cards laid out. Deborah sat frowning over the placement of her chips for much longer than Renold thought necessary. Angelica, who had never played anything more exciting than piquet with her aunt, felt her nerves mounting to a painful pitch.

  Faro, according to Michel, who had explained the rules, was a card game brought to Louisiana from France where it had been played since the time of Louis XIII. The name came from the original cards, which had featured the picture of an Egyptian pharaoh on the reverse side. A folding board marked with the different suites was laid out on the table, and players placed their chips on the cards they thought would turn up in the deal. Two cards were drawn from the dealing box each time, the first losing, the second winning. Play was made against the bank, which was held by the house when played away from home, but by any person good at numbers when in private company. Though the bank enjoyed a slight advantage, it was so small as to be unimportant — unless the banker was a cardsharp. Perhaps because of faro’s long history, there were more ways for the banker to cheat at the game than at almost any other.

  Deborah, as she continued to lose, grew upset. Out of deference to her feelings, Renold relinquished the bank to Michel. Michel later gave it up to Angelica, but she was too distracted by her own play to do it justice. It was Deborah who was in charge when the cards began once more to run in the bank’s direction.

  The game had long ago ceased to be fun. Angelica searched her mind for some reason to stop the play that would not also bring the evening to an automatic end. A late supper might be acceptable.

  It was just as she opened her mouth to make the suggestion that Renold leaned back in his chair and flung his cards face down on the table. “If you are going to deal from the bottom, Deborah,” he said in exasperation, “at least wait until you are good at it.”

  A flush rose to Deborah’s face, though the look in her eyes was rueful. “I only wanted to see if I could do it without being caught.”

  “Now you know,” her half-brother said. “I would advise you not to try it away from home.”

  “I wouldn’t! Honestly, Renold!”

  “You should know Deborah better than that,” Michel said, coming to her defense. “It was just high spirits.”

  “The kind of spirits that can gain her a reputation for being fast and free with money, if not with a great deal more.” Renold’s gaze was hard as he met his friend’s across the table.

  “Of all the unkind things to say!” Deborah exclaimed in indignation.

  Michel, rising from his seat, said, “I think you owe your sister an apology. There is not the slightest reason to suggest such a thing.”

  “I was issuing a warning which she apparently needs,” Renold countered, his face implacable. “If she can’t accept that, then she has no business going out in company.”

  Bewilderment surfaced on Deborah’s face. Angelica could sympathize with it. At the same time, she felt the stir of suspicion. She herself had been at a similar loss when Madame Delaup attacked Renold earlier.

  Michel displayed no such ambivalence. His face set and eyes hot as he glared at Renold, he said, “You are setting yourself up as an authority on the proper conduct in company? That’s rather farcical, don’t you think?”

  “No, rather a matter of experience,” Renold returned. “It takes a thorough knowledge of improper behavior to recognize it when it occurs.”

  “And of improper women? Where does that leave Angelica? Or does your conduct with her not count?”

  “We will leave my wife out of this discussion.” The words were edged with raw steel.

  “By all means. It wasn’t her conduct that was in question.” Michel’s answer had a slicing edge of its own.

  “You don’t care for my behavior?” Renold said softly.

  “Renold! Michel! Please stop,” Deborah said with tears of dismay rising in her eyes.

  Her half-brother barely glanced at her. “I believe,” he said, “that my honor has been called into question.”

  “I would have said your common sense,” Michel returned instantly, “but you may take it however you like.”

  Renold’s smile was chilling. “I would advise you to take care. The fact that I have refused your challenge before doesn’t mean I will every time.”

  “That is, of course, your choice,” Michel said, his face flushed under his olive complexion.

  Renold considered his friend, then gave a slow nod. “So it is, and also my choice of weapons in that case. As you well know, I prefer the sword.”

  “No! You can’t!” Deborah cried.

  The two men paid no heed. Michel got slowly to his feet. His gaze on Renold’s face was steady, his bow stiff. “As you please.”

  “Exactly.”

  Angelica, watching them, made not a sound, though her heart felt too large for her chest. Farcical, that had been a good description of what was going forward. She could not believe that this sudden spurt of temper was actually going to end in bloodshed.

  “I’m sure,” Michel said, “that we can find seconds among the neighbors. If you will be good enough to send Tit Jean with a message now, it can be arranged for the dawn.”

  Renold pushed back his chair and rose to his feet with casual grace. “You think I intend to leave my wife’s loving arms at first light just to go dancing about in the dew? Imbecilic. Here and now will do.”

  Michel stared at him. “There are ladies present.”

  “They can go or stay, it’s all one to me.” Stepping away from the table, Renold pulled the cord beside the mantle that would bring a servant.

  “You don’t mean this. We should at least move out onto the gallery.” Michel remained stiff and straight beside the table.

  “An excellent suggestion. My mother might have a few words to say if we damage the furniture.”

  A frown appeared between Michel’s eyes. “You are pleased to make light of this meeting. No doubt you have reason; I will grant you the greater degree of skill. But I assure you, there is nothing light about it in my eyes. I will defend myself as long as possible and draw your blood if I’m able.”

  “Spoken like a gentleman,” Renold said in dry approbation. Then, as Tit Jean appeared at the door, he turned to the manservant. “The dueling swords, if you please.”

  Tit Jean’s eyes widened an instant before his usual impassivity closed in again. He turned without a word and went away to do Renold’s bidding.

  Michel said in answer to Renold’s jibe, “I hope that I deserve the title of gentleman.”

  “So do I,” Renold said, “otherwise the effort will be wasted.”

  A frown appeared between Michel’s brows. “I am to learn a lesson, I suppose?”

  “The duel as a guard to ensure civility and courtesy. There is that, but no.”

  “What then?”

  “I prefer to call it a demonstration.”

  “Of what?” Michel inquired in rough tones.

  As Tit Jean returned soft-footed with a long case of polished wood in his hands, Renold turned away to open it and lift a slender sword from its velvet bed. This he presented hilt-first to Michel.

  “What is this gloom?” he said in sardonic humor. “Surely the purpose of a meeting is to settle a point of honor by might in the hope that truth and conviction will lend strength to a man’s arm? Honor is satisfied by a mere show of blood unless a man is vindictive or tempers get out of hand. Supposing, of course, that you have not joined the Americans in their insistence on death a
s the final outcome.”

  “Not so far.”

  Renold’s smile was affable. “What we have here, then, is mere sport. Why should we not enjoy it?”

  “Oh, by all means,” Michel said dryly.

  The eyes of the two men met for a long moment. Then they turned as one toward the door that opened onto the gallery.

  That long open space was swept by a pleasant night wind. It was also dark, but that was soon remedied as Tit Jean brought lamps and set them in the corners made by the railings and the house walls.

  Renold stripped off his coat and began to roll his sleeves to the elbow. Michel had just shrugged from his own coat when he looked up to see Angelica and Deborah emerging from the house. He stopped with his arms still confined. “No, ladies, really. I know what was said, but surely you can’t wish to watch such a sorry spectacle.”

  “What is it you don’t want them to see?” Renold inquired, his gaze satirical. “Your bestial nature, or only your manly physique?”

  “Neither,” Michel said with a snap in his voice, “but I would think even you would feel the distraction of their presence.”

  “Oh, assuredly, though there are compensations. I fight best before an audience.”

  “What if your audience goes into hysterics?”

  “Unlikely, since it would require an unconquerable fear over the outcome.” Renold looked toward Angelica, his smile twisted. “You won’t cause a disturbance, will you, my love?”

  “Not,” Angelica said, “if I can help it.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer before turning to his sister. “Deborah?”

  “I’m staying if Angelica is staying.”

  The words were not quite steady. Angelica glanced at the other girl. Deborah’s face was pale and her hands tightly clenched at her sides. Her brother appeared not to notice, but turned away with a lift of a brow in Michel’s direction.

  The other man’s lips tightened, but he made no further objection. Pulling off his coat, he loosened his cravat, then leaned to pick up his sword.

  The two men took up their positions, right sides facing, sword tips lowered to the floor. They watched each other there in the flickering light while grim concentration settled over their features. Their shirts were silvered with the lamp’s glow, which also cast oblique shadows across their eyes. The shifting brightness made a stage of the gallery and closed out the dark reaches of the night. Quiet descended, in which the lamp flames sputtered in their chimneys and the whisper of the wind in the trees on the drive was soft and impatient, like the far-off murmur of a crowd.