by Jane Feather
Genevieve stabbed with her finger at a faint blue spot some miles inland from the lake and, judging by the surrounding area, it was well and truly isolated from the inhabited parts of the plantation. Dominic frowned. “How deep is it?”
She shrugged. “I do not know exactly, not having sounded it, but it will take a frigate’s draught. And the channel, too. I know it looks narrow and, indeed it is, but it will suffice, and is deep enough.”
“Now, how do you know that?” He looked at her with interest. She had used nautical terms with an ease that bespoke familiarity.
“One of the slaves who used to work in the shipyard way back in my grandfather’s time, told me. He’s retired now and likes to potter around the lake and the bayous. As a child, I used to love going to the yard when I could escape from the house, and old Sam sometimes took me out in his boat.” She smiled a little guiltily. “He still does, actually, but Hélène is so frightened of what will happen if Papa finds out that I very rarely go now. It is most irksome that putting up one’s hair and wearing long skirts should mean such tedious restrictions on one’s activities.”
Dominic chuckled. “I have seen no indications that you accept those restrictions, Mademoiselle Genevieve. Or, indeed, any restrictions. Have this channel and bayou ever been sailed by a vessel with a frigate’s draught?”
“Sam said that many years ago, when the Americans were trying to secure free navigation of the Mississippi from the Spanish, a few privateers sailed into Lake Borgne. The Spaniards pursued them, but they disappeared in the night. According to Sam, they hid in the bayou until the Spaniards had given up, then returned the way they had come.”
Dominic nodded thoughtfully. It seemed a plausible enough story and, if true, certainly indicated that the hiding place was secure.
“When shall we go and investigate it?” Genevieve asked, looking up from the map. “I have already told Hélène that I wish to spend some time with the Ursulines.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “Hélène tried very hard not to show how pleased she was, but her life is much more peaceful when I am not around.”
“Mmmm. I can certainly see her point,” Dominic concurred, absently but with absolute truth. Genevieve grimaced. It didn’t sound as if he were teasing her. “The sooner the better,” he went on with brisk decision. “I will take only Danseuse on this exploration and, if it will do, arrange for the rest of the fleet to remove there immediately. When you come to Rampart Street tomorrow afternoon, I will have made the necessary arrangements and will tell you how you should proceed.”
Genevieve wondered if she dared ask the question that had been nagging at her since leaving the house that morning. Then decided that she had little enough to lose. “Dominic, is there nowhere else that we can meet?”
“Why?” He shot her a puzzled look as he folded up the chart.
Genevieve sighed and said awkwardly, “Well … well it is Angelique’s house.”
“Goddammit! It is not Angelique’s house,” he exploded with restrained irritation. “It is my house. Why do you women persist in maintaining that it is not?”
So Angelique had also objected, and clearly to no avail. Genevieve wondered whether to tell him of that strange, unnerving visitation in the bedchamber, then decided against it. He would undoubtedly be angry with the girl, and it seemed hardly fair to add that to her problems. However, she was not ready to give up yet. “But I am uncomfortable there,” she said. “You must have another house, one where you live.”
Dominic’s face closed, and the azure gaze contained slivers of ice. “I do not allow anyone in my house,” he said with cold finality, making Genevieve feel as if her suggestion had been a social solecism of incredible magnitude. “If you are not prepared to come to Rampart Street, then that is your choice. There is no compulsion.”
Genevieve said nothing, but busied herself replacing the turban over the bright mass of hair. The desire to tell him that she would not come to Rampart Street warred violently with the knowledge that he would make no attempt to change her mind, would shrug the whole affair off as if it was and had been of no importance. She could bring herself to say neither that she would capitulate nor that she would not. Instead, she found herself walking to the door. Dominic moved to open it for her and then, as she passed, caught the back of her neck between finger and thumb.
“Angelique will not be there, sprite. I am not that insensitive.”
“She was there last night,” she couldn’t help saying, as she stood still under the warm pressure of his fingers.
“True enough, but then, if you remember, you were responsible for a change of plan that made her presence undesirable, and it was really too late to do anything about it.”
It was logical, reasonable even according to some lights, yet she could not like it. But what choice did she have, and he had, at least, given her a face-saving opportunity to capitulate.
“Very well,” she agreed in a low voice that conveyed her lack of enthusiasm. The fingers pinched her neck.
“Don’t come if you mean to sulk,” he warned softly.
Nettled, her head went back against his hold. “As it happens, Monsieur Privateer, I do not sulk! I accept the consequences of my actions.”
“Good,” he stated with calm approval. “I am glad to hear it.” He could feel her fury through the skin beneath his fingers and with a sudden movement pulled her back into the room, slamming the door again. “Obviously, you need further convincing.”
Genevieve struggled against this kiss, but he held her tight asserting the mastery of his greater strength, the dominion of shared desire, until she submitted to both. Only then did he release her, declaring with a degree of savage satisfaction, “I do not think you are going to be a restful lover, mademoiselle, but I accept the consequences of my actions also. Now, be off with you before I lose all willpower to deal with the day’s business.” He sent her through the door with an encouraging smack and no opportunity to say anything further of protest or agreement.
Somehow, she attained the banquette, breathless, yet through her turmoil, certain of the inevitability of her immediate future, although the ramifications of that future remained a mystery.
Chapter Eight
“I cannot imagine why you would want to spend three days locked up in a convent with those dusty nuns,” Elise said to Genevieve irreverently, looking up from her pattern book. “Do you not think this will be perfect for that cream satin, Hélène?”
Hélène examined intently the pattern that her stepdaughter had chosen for the privateer’s gift—not that Hélène was aware that the material had been a gift. “I am not sure about the flounce,” she said thoughtfully. “Genevieve, my dear, have you talked to your father about your retreat?”
“Not yet,” Genevieve said, wondering as always how the two women could find pattern books so inordinately fascinating. “I thought perhaps you might have mentioned it.”
“Oh, dear.” Hélène looked immediately guilty, as if she had been sadly remiss. “I did not think to do so. I am sorry, chère.”
“No matter.” Genevieve shrugged. “He will not object, at all events. I will ask him when he comes home at noon.”
“He does not approve of your studies,” Elise said unhelpfully. “You had best make sure he believes your reasons are purely pious.”
Her younger sister chuckled and declared in a fair imitation of Victor Latour, “An educated woman is the very devil!”
“Oh, Genevieve, hush. You must have more respect,” Hélène chided gently, even though laughter sparked in her eyes. “If we made the flounce deeper, Elise, I think it will look very pretty.”
Genevieve got up restlessly and went to the window. Rain poured down in an almost impenetrable wall, flooding the deep ditch running down the center of the street, sending the odorous debris of horse manure, offal, and garbage rushing in the torrent to the canals below the town, and from there into the river. After the recent heatwave, the rain was necessary and welcomed by most inhab
itants of the town. But not by Genevieve, who could not imagine how she was to make the rendezvous in Rampart Street this afternoon. It would be hard to leave the house unnoticed, with or without her disguise, since everyone was inside, all the doors and gates closed against the storm. And even if she could contrive her escape, she would arrive in Rampart Street like a rat drowned in a sewer. Dominic would know why she had failed, of course, but that didn’t help, somehow. She felt bereft, forlorn, and as frustratedly disappointed as a child denied a birthday party.
“I do not think Papa and Nicolas will return for lunch in this,” she said, pacing the room, idly straightening an ornament, flicking through the pages of a journal, and turning the music on the pianoforte.
“Have you nothing to do?” Elise exclaimed. “You are making me so nervous. Why can you not behave like a grown woman, instead of a cabinned child?”
“Probably because I feel like a cabinned child,” Genevieve retorted. “I have not been outside for almost twenty-four hours and I am ready to scream.”
“Oh, pray do not squabble,” Hélène begged. “It is very irksome for Genevieve, Elise, to be kept idle in this way. She needs exercise.”
“Like a pony,” Elise declared. “It is not ladylike to need exercise.”
That made Genevieve laugh in spite of herself. “How right you are, sister dear. I am not at all ladylike, never have been and never will be.” She left the salle de compagnie and went upstairs. Her calico gown was stuffed at the back of the armoire and she pulled it out, shaking out the creases. It was so hideous that a little rainwater would probably only be an improvement. She glanced out at the rear gallery sheeted with rain. The courtyard was almost invisible below. No one was around, and if a maid was seen hurrying through the downpour, it would be assumed she was on some errand dictated by an unfriendly master. No one would imagine that anyone was voluntarily abroad on an afternoon like this. She would go, and to the devil with the rain!
The loud boom of the gong announcing luncheon brought her back to reality. If the gong was sounded, it meant the master of the house had decided to return. When the ladies ate alone, there was little ceremony. Genevieve tidied her hair and tried out a variety of expressions, looking for the one most expressive of daughterly docility. It was hard to achieve the correct result, she found. Her eyes were too sparkly, her spirit too infused with wicked excitement now that she had definitely made her plans for the afternoon. The idea of Victor Latour’s younger daughter preparing to spend an afternoon in the arms of the notorious Dominic Delacroix, while planning to rob her father of a piece of his property—admittedly a piece that was of no use to him, but, nevertheless, it belonged to him—was too delicious for sobriety. Perhaps, she had better forego the terrapin stew, which was a pity since it was one of her favorite dishes, and remain in her chamber during luncheon. Her presence would not be required, as it would be at dinner.
A knock at the door was followed almost immediately by Hélène. “Did you not hear the gong? Your father is here.”
“Yes, I thought so. I am not very hungry, Hélène. I think I will stay up here.”
“But there is terrapin stew,” Hélène protested. “And you intended to ask your father about your retreat.”
Genevieve gave in rapidly. The last thing she wished to do was to draw attention to herself. “Yes, I had forgotten the terrapin stew.” She grinned cheerfully. “Even without an appetite, I cannot deprive myself of the treat. Let us go downstairs before Papa starts to bellow.” Linking arms with her stepmother, she accompanied her down the wide staircase to the dining room where Victor and Nicolas already sat, and the heavy silver tureen steamed aromatically.
Angelique knew that disobedience was dangerous where Dominic was concerned, but after a careful weighing up of the consequences against the possible advantages, she decided that, in this instance, it was a risk worth taking. The rain would provide her with some excuse. Where could she go for the afternoon in weather like this? And she could always say in feigned innocence that she had assumed the rain would have prevented Dominic and his friend from meeting, and so did not think it necessary to leave the house. If she could get him to accept that, so that he would not be angry, then the rest of her plan should be easy to accomplish.
She dressed with great care in an afternoon gown of blue silk with a low neckline that left little of her magnificent bosom to the imagination. Dominic never made any secret of his appreciation of that endowment and, in general, preferred that it be inadequately covered. Her hair was curled in a mass of ringlets framing her face, a band of silver filigree—a gift of Dominic’s—around her brow. Judicious touches of powder and rouge completed the picture, and, with a little nod of satisfaction, Angelique went downstairs to the parlor where she arranged a tray of little cakes and a bottle of Dominic’s favorite Spanish wine. He would not refuse refreshment when he arrived, not on a day like this, and Angelique knew that he insisted upon an orderly presentation of hospitality.
With an excess of caution, she went to the window on tiptoe, although there was no one to hear, and looked out onto the rain-drenched street, peering from behind the gauzy curtain. There was no one in sight. Drawing a little pouch from the pocket of her gown, Angelique tiptoed over to the tray, glanced nervously toward the hall doorway, then shook some of the contents into one of the wine glasses. She filled the glass with wine and stirred with her little finger, then anxiously held the liquid up to the light from the window. The powder seemed to have dissolved completely. She sniffed, but, as the mambo had promised, there was no odor except the rich bouquet of the wine. Her hand shook a little as she slipped the pouch back into her pocket. It had to work. The mambo had assured her that it never failed.
The doorbell peeled imperatively and Angelique jumped, although she had been expecting it. Her heart pounded and she struggled to compose herself, knowing she would need all her wiles in the next few minutes.
She hurried into the hall just as the little maid opened the door. Dominic, shaking the water from a many-caped overcoat, stepped into the house followed by Silas, clad in sailor’s oilskins and bearing an umbrella. They were drenched just by taking the few short steps from the closed carriage that stood at the banquette to the front door. “Damnable weather!” Dominic exclaimed, shrugging out of his coat. Then his eye fell on Angelique, who stood smiling in the parlor doorway. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded, his eyes darkening ominously. “I told you I wanted the house to myself this afternoon.”
“Oh, pray do not be cross, Dominic,” Angelique wheedled, taking his coat and handing it to the maid. “Come into the parlor. You must be wretchedly cold and wet. I have wine for you.”
“Just answer the question, please.” Brushing off the hand that she laid on his arm, he stalked into the parlor.
“Oh, dear,” Angelique murmured tremulously. “Please do not be cross, Dominic. But I thought, since it was raining so hard, that you probably would not come. And, besides, I did not know where to go. I promise I will not be in the way. I will stay here in the parlor, or even in the kitchen if you would prefer.” She handed him the glass of wine, still chattering nervously. “This is your house, Dominic, and I would not dream of interfering with the business you have with the … the lady.”
Dominic frowned at her over the lip of the glass as he took a sip. It did seem a little unreasonable to turn her out of house and home on such a wretched day, and she was always very sensible about his business. He took another, larger sip. Then his frown deepened. “What’s the matter with this wine?” He picked up the bottle and examined the label. “It should be all right. This shipment of Rioja was a good one.”
“Is it bad?” Angelique asked anxiously. “Perhaps you just imagined it. Take another sip.”
Dominic did so, then held the glass up to the light. “It looks clear enough. But there’s something the matter with it. Don’t open any more bottles until I have had a chance to sample one or two.” He put his glass back on the tray. There was a
bout a third left, but he was clearly not going to finish it.
Next time, she would find some stronger-flavored liquid, Angelique decided. At least, his annoyance at her presence in the house had become dissipated in the discussion, and he had taken a fair amount of the potion. She went up to him, slipping her hand inside his coat, running her fingers over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fine lawn of his shirt.
“Can I fetch you something else before your guest arrives?” Her bosom lifted as she moved against him, and Dominic glanced down, seeing her face, pretty beneath the rouge and powder, the glossy lips open over pearly white teeth, the swell of her breasts uplifted by her gown so that the nipples were barely concealed. She would have darkened her nipples with rouge, he knew, in the mistaken impression that nature’s gifts required artifice for adornment. Of course, he had never bothered to tell her that it made no difference to him, one way or the other.
Without answering her, he moved away to look out of the window, thus missing the angry flash in the girl’s eyes, the sudden set of her mouth caused by this careless dismissal of her charms. Genevieve, he thought, would surely not attempt to come out in this monsoon. He had been racking his brains for a way to help her, had contemplated patrolling the streets in the carriage in the hope of catching sight of that calico-clad figure. But, even supposing she did decide to brave the torrent, she could have taken any number of routes from Royal Street to Rampart, and it seemed a pointless exercise. If he missed her, and then was not here when she arrived, it would add insult to injury. And, dammit! He found that he wanted to see her very badly this afternoon. It was most unusual for him to feel either such a pressing desire to spend time with a woman, or such irritated disappointment at the prospect of being denied her presence.
“Silas?”
