She clapped and the sound of her applause rang in the quiet parlor. “Well done. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”
“You don’t believe me?” He looked forlorn.
“My father rejected me and my mother when I was six years old. I can think of no circumstance which would lead him to my parlor. Good day.” She slid the pocket door.
“My wife died.”
She froze.
“Dorcas died a year ago. I’ve been searching for you ever since.”
The man in her drawing room shredded her heart with a few words. He’d searched for her? She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. “Why?”
“You’re my daughter.”
The daughter he’d rejected without a second thought.
“Trula.” He made her name a plea, a petition for forgiveness.
Trula turned and looked at him. He stood a few feet from her. His elegant fingers splayed in supplication. A vein near his temple stood out in relief. The lines fanning his turquoise eyes deepened. His mouth pursed in an expression she recognized from her own mirror. He wanted something. Desperately. His wants didn’t matter to her. Just as hers hadn’t mattered to him.
“Say that’s true, why would I have anything to do with you?” The sharpness of a headache lanced her temple and laced her voice.
“Did Antoinette tell you what happened? When Dorcas gave me an heir, I offered her a gift, anything she wanted. I was certain she’d ask for jewels, that’s what most wives want.”
Trula knew the story’s end.
“Dorcas asked for a promise. With my son in my arms, I told her I’d give her whatever she wanted. She made me promise to give up you and your mother.”
Tears formed in the corners of Trula’s eyes and her throat swelled. Speech was impossible, not that she had anything to say. His heir and maintaining the dukedom had meant more to him than his daughter. He’d ruined Trula’s belief in love on his wife’s whim.
“I destroyed one family for another.” His voice sounded choked. “I’ve come to ask your forgiveness.”
Trula opened her eyes. Edward St. John, the Duke of Aberdeen, was crying. Tears ran unchecked down the planes of his cheeks.
He was crying? Her breath caught in her chest, trapped by the weight of too many miserable memories. He didn’t know the pain and confusion of being told her father was gone. He hadn’t seen Antoinette become colder and harder with each passing day. He hadn’t been betrayed and abandoned. He hadn’t catered to the needs and desires of an old man. Trula’s voice shook. “I don’t know who you are.” Except she did. The man in front of her was her father. She straightened her shoulders. “Or why you’re here.” He couldn’t honestly expect her forgiveness. “But I want you to leave. Now.” She’d be able to breathe when he was gone.
“Trula, please let me explain.”
She shook her head, the pain from her headache nearly bringing her to her knees. “There’s nothing you could say.” She slid the door open.
Gumbo waited on the other side. Hattie must have sent him.
Trula straightened her shoulders. “Gumbo, see this man to the door.”
She stalked past Gumbo without so much as a glance for the Duke of Aberdeen. She kept her back ramrod straight. The man behind her would not see her falter.
“I don’t give up so easily, Trula. I want your forgiveness.” His voice chased after her.
Her steps caught and she stumbled. She didn’t turn.
“I’m your father. I’ll be back.”
“I don’t care who you are. You’re not welcome in this house.” Trula didn’t wait for his reply.
Her feet carried her toward the dining room. A burst of feminine laughter met her at the door. The last thing she wanted was the company of a passel of loud, nosy women. She’d find a cup of coffee in the kitchen, maybe lace it with brandy.
Mercifully, the kitchen was near empty. Only Diddy and Eulie Echo sat at the scarred pine table. Eulie lifted a spoonful of etouffeé to her mouth. “Knew you’d be along.”
“Hello, Eulie.” Trula didn’t have the energy to say more.
“Sit down, Miz Trula. I got sumpin’ to tell you.”
Trula sank into one of the ladder-back chairs. She rested her elbows on the table and resisted, barely, the urge to bury her head in her arms.
“You’re a brave woman, Trula Boudreaux. You’re fearless when it comes to lookin’ out for your girls. You stand up to men as leaves other madams shaking in their shoes. But you’re a coward when it comes to your own heart.”
The pads of Trula’s fingers pressed tiny circles against her temples. Her head couldn’t hurt more if Eulie whacked it with her cane. Hattie must have been telling tales, or perhaps last night’s antics had been the source of conversation at the table. She shot Diddy a quick glare. Had he told Eulie about Zeke Barnes’ attempt to save her? Everyone had their noses in her love life. Well, not so much love life as addled attraction. Either way, they should mind their own damned business. She swallowed a sigh. If she’d picked the dining room, the girls wouldn’t have had the courage to bring up Zeke Barnes. The last thing she needed now was a lecture about the Yankee.
Eulie’s chin jutted forward. “That man upstairs is your daddy and you just threw him out of your house. You was raised better than to treat family like that.”
How had the news traveled to the kitchen faster than she had?
Eulie cackled as she followed Trula’s thoughts.
The sound hit Trula’s aching brain and she squeezed her eyes closed. When would she accept that the blind woman knew things? Trula’s fingers closed around the lip of the table, jarring it. Eulie’s notorious cane crashed to the floor with a skull-splitting crash.
Despite her sightless eyes, Eulie was adept at whacking that cane against the ankles and knees of those whom she disapproved. No fancy-man who mistreated his girls was safe from her on the banquette. Men who spent the night sleeping off too much rye in the gutter fared just as poorly, the stick connected unerringly with their backs or heads. No one complained. They preferred a thunk and a few bruises to one of Eulie’s hexes.
Trula bent and picked Eulie’s stick off the floor, resting it against the table within the blind woman’s reach. “What would you have done?”
“Look who’s asking ole Eulie Echo for advice. You’re getting smarter every day, Miz Trula.”
Trula grimaced. She didn’t feel smart. Numb? Yes. Stupid? Definitely. “That’s not an answer.”
“I reckon I’d done the same. That man caused you a world of hurt. Just you remember, losin’ you and your momma hurt him, too.”
He’d been hurt? He’d sent them away. Antoinette transformed from a gentle, loving mother into a grasping, brittle woman. She’d become the kind of woman who abandoned her daughter to the care of her own vitriolic mother as soon as a rich Italian count showed an interest. He’d been hurt? Perhaps. But money, position, and his son mitigated the Duke’s pain. Trula’s head throbbed.
“Hurt is hurt.” Eulie tapped her spoon on the edge of her bowl. “He’ll be back.”
Eulie was probably right on both counts. It was impossible to weigh one person’s pain against another’s. But when he came back, she wouldn’t let him in. She couldn’t. His careless promise to his jealous wife had destroyed her childhood and shaped her life. Trula wiped her damp eyes. “May I ask you something?”
“You’re feeding me supper. Don’t reckon as I could stop you.” Another spoonful of etouffée disappeared into Eulie’s mouth.
“Will you tell me about spirits?”
Eulie smacked her lips and raised her spoon again. “Earleen sure can cook.”
“I’ll tell her you said so.” Trula sipped the creamy coffee that Diddy put on the table in front of her. She didn’t push Eulie for an answer, and repeating the question wouldn’t make a whit of difference.
The old woman brought a glass of cold milk to her lips and drank. Her sightless eyes roamed around the ki
tchen. “Send the boy away.”
“Diddy, please go help Hattie in the dining room.”
Diddy gave her the “look,” the one that told he was old enough to hear anything Eulie Echo had to say, and he didn’t appreciate being exiled when the conversation got interesting. Trula winced with each resounding stomp of his feet down the corridor.
Eulie set her empty glass down on the table. “There are good spirits called rada and evil spirits called petro. Ain’t no good without evil. Ain’t no evil without good.”
“What kind of spirit killed the men in the district?”
“I done told you Baron Samedi be walkin’ the streets. There’s times he’s a friend and there’s times ain’t no one wants to see him comin’. Ain’t him killin’ those men.” She scraped her spoon across the bottom of her bowl. “A spirit who wanted revenge killed those men.”
“For what? Because they were white men who visited colored women?”
Eulie licked the last bit of etouffée off her spoon. “If that was all it took to get a man killed, I reckon most of the white men in Louisiana would be dead.”
Her guest was right. White men had been taking colored girls to bed for most of the state’s history. “More etouffée?” Trula picked up Eulie’s empty bowl and went to the stove. She spooned plump shrimp, lumps of crab, onions, peppers, and celery in a dark brown roux over fluffy white rice. “Then why?”
“Can’t say.”
Frustration bubbled in Trula’s throat. She swallowed it. Was it too much to ask for one straight answer? She banged the steaming bowl in front of Eulie and reclaimed her chair. “Can’t or won’t?”
Eulie didn’t answer. Instead she spooned etouffée like an automaton. “I heard you had a peck of trouble last night.”
Trula rubbed the skin around her eyes. “I handled it.”
“I wish all the girls were as brave as you.” Eulie’s sightless eyes sought Trula’s.
“I wish they didn’t have to be.” Trula also wished she could curl up in a ball somewhere and hide. No murders. No father. No Zeke Barnes. Heaven. Neither of them was likely to get her wish.
Eulie’s head bobbed. “From your lips to God’s ear.” Her hand closed around the knob of her cane and she pushed away from the table. “You be sure and tell Earleen her etouffée is the best I ever tasted. I got to be movin’ on.” She shuffled toward the door. “Don’t you worry none about those men, Miz Trula. Even a spotted dog looks black at night.”
Trula’s head fell into her hands. Which men? What dog? Why did Eulie talk in riddles? And what had that one meant?
Chapter Thirteen
A younger version of her father strolled through Trula’s front door. Trula stared, slack-jawed, as did every girl in the foyer. They held their collective breath and exhaled as one. Then began the patting of curls, the fluttering of lashes, and the seductive sway of hips. She couldn’t blame them, his boyish good looks glowed almost golden. In her parents’ whole, sad, sordid story, he was the one person she never blamed. Her lips thinned. Just because he was blameless didn’t mean she wanted him in her house. Yet, here he was, grinning like a boy who’d been given carte blanche in a toy store.
She weaved through the crowd but Gilcie, always first to welcome a new man, beat her to him. The girl wet her finger against the tip of her pink tongue. That same finger traced the line of his jaw then fell to caress the exposed tip of her rouged nipple. His eyes, a familiar shade of turquoise, practically fell out of his head. Trula silently applauded Gilcie’s efforts but she couldn’t allow it. Not with her brother.
“Not tonight, Gilcie.” She sent the girl away with a look.
Gilcie shrugged, gave them both a good-natured smile, and melted back into the crowd of men in the pekoe room. He watched her walk away, his face a study in longing.
Trula cleared her throat and her half brother turned toward her. A devil-may-care smile lit his face. It warmed his eyes and made her want to smile back. She frowned. “I noticed you on the street. You followed me?”
He had the good manners to blush. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Father spent the past year tracking you down. Then it took him a week to work up the nerve to call on you. I was curious.”
She should be furious. He’d followed her, invaded her privacy. What would have happened if he’d gone into Bony’s shop? She shuddered to think. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to meet you,” he said.
“Why?” There was no reason to risk the scandal. His half-sister was a madam.
“You’re my sister.” The skin around his eyes crinkled with his smile.
He was acknowledging her? Her heart clenched. She had a brother.
She shook her head. The man was just another complication. A tall and blond complication whose face hadn’t quite hardened into adulthood. A complication who eagerly scanned the girls in her parlor like a bee deciding which flower had the sweetest nectar. She cleared her throat again, drawing his attention from May’s abundant charms.
“I should have you thrown out.” Despite his height, he didn’t look anything like a match for Gumbo. She could have him sitting on the curb in seconds.
His eyes twinkled. “But you won’t.” Like his father, he had the rich, mellow accent of the English aristocracy. Like his father, he spoke with unconscious assurance.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re as curious about me as I am about you.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her an awkward squeeze.
Trula’s throat swelled. An unexpected hug from a brother she didn’t even know and she softened to mush? Ridiculous. She straightened her shoulders and scowled—first at him then at the girls staring in open-mouthed amazement. “I don’t even know your name.”
He grinned. “Edward Arthur Winningham St. John, Marquess of Huntdale. Call me Ned.”
First her throat betrayed her, now her eyes. She swiped at perfidious wetness. His birth had changed her life. One innocent baby boy and she’d been set aside. She didn’t blame Ned. He hadn’t meant to steal her father.
“I couldn’t wait to meet you.”
“Really?” Her brother, heir to a dukedom, couldn’t wait to meet his sister, a notorious madam?
Should she laugh or cry? Every lady in the French Quarter and half the ladies in the Garden District claimed at least one member of the nobility in their family trees. A few might even be telling the truth. They’d all kill their sainted great-aunts to meet a duke, a marquess, or even a duke’s daughter. Unless that daughter was a madam in Storyville.
“I hated being an only child.”
Resentment flared in her chest. Ned, with his life-is-a-glorious-banquet smile, hated being an only child? She’d hated being cast aside, hated missing the man who’d treated her as if she were expendable. Ultimately, she’d come to hate the man. It was easier. Simpler. Less painful.
Hattie appeared. “Do you want to extend Holland Rayner credit?” It was a silly question. Hattie wanted a closer look at the man who’d hugged her.
“How much?”
“He paid the cover. He wants a couple bottles of Champagne sent upstairs.”
Trula raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“An’ two girls.” Not a silly question after all. Rayner would tie up, maybe even literally, two of her girls for the whole of an evening.
Ned politely pretended not to hear their exchange. He wasn’t fooling her. His ears turned as red as ripe tomatoes at the mention of two girls. Trula almost laughed. “Fine.”
No sooner had Hattie disappeared than Diddy appeared at her elbow. “Miz Trula, Mr. Robicheaux says you promised him a bottle of scotch on the house.”
“That’s true. Please take care of it for me.”
The boy took a moment to size up Ned then nodded and scampered back to the parlor.
Around her, girls stood too close, waiting for her to call one of them over to entertain the handsome new customer. Beulah took a bold step forward, the fol
ds of her gown promised long legs and a tiny waist. The low-cut bodice displayed a generous bosom. “May I give our new guest a tour of the house?”
“Not now.” With an irritated flick of her wrist, she sent Beulah scurrying. Her brother would not sport in her house.
Trula waited for the next interruption. She had one family member in the world who hadn’t betrayed her and it was impossible to have a conversation with him. Already Ginger sidled her way toward them. “This isn’t the best time for us to talk.”
He grinned. “I see that. Will you meet me for lunch? Please say yes. On Monday? The Hotel Grunewald?”
The girls pressed closer, curious and eager. Trula never spent this long talking to such a young man, especially one who wasn’t the scion of a fine New Orleans family.
“Tuesday?” If she was dining at the elegant Grunewald, she wanted her new hat. She’d go to Christine Lambert’s shop on Monday and pick it up. He nodded and she asked, “What time?”
“Noon?”
“Done.” She reached out and caught his elbow. “Ned?”
“What?” He tilted his head to the side.
“Just the two of us. I don’t want to see him.” No need to explain who she meant.
Her brother’s smile slipped. “He wants to make amends. He wants to see you.”
“If he’s there, I won’t be.” If Ned knew how their father’s betrayal tore at her heart, he wouldn’t even mention him.
Her brother’s hand closed on her elbow. “He’s lived with terrible guilt. When Mother died, he made it his mission to find you. He won’t leave New Orleans until he has your forgiveness.”
The duke felt guilty? He wanted her forgiveness? Good and never! Trula stared into Ned’s eyes. “Then he’d better buy a house. Staying at the Grunewald for the rest of his life will be expensive.”
“I know he hurt you but—”
She held up a hand, staunching the flow of his words. “No.”
Her brother’s forehead wrinkled. “You’re a hard woman.”
He was wrong. She was soft as butter on a hot day, but she couldn’t let anyone know that. Trula tightened her mouth. “You have no idea. Now, you’d best be on your way.”
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