Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

  Devon lay back on the bed, pensive. "Sea travel has been too dangerous during these war years. She is French? I'll wager that she heard the news about Yorktown. People think that Cornwallis's surrender unofficially ended the war."

  Elsa sighed. "I do not like this."

  "What do you suppose she is up to? I can't believe she would try to win Andre a second time."

  "She has had six years to think of a new plan," Elsa muttered.

  "Well, it's all silly. I know Andre Raveneau very well, and he is not about to marry this Eugenie Richoux, plan or no plan. I may not win him, either, but I certainly have a better chance than she does!" Devon patted her abdomen for emphasis.

  The hall door had been left ajar, and now it moved, To Devon and Elsa's utter astonishment, a little girl appeared. "Hello!" Her accent was an odd mix of British and French. "My name is Louisa Richoux. Who are you?"

  Spellbound, Devon sat up on the edge of the bed and held out her arms in a gesture of welcome. Elsa stared, gaping, as the little girl walked happily to meet her new friend.

  "I am Devon Lindsay. It is a pleasure to meet you, Louisa." Smiling, she took the child's hand. "How old are you?"

  "Five."

  Elsa made a strangled noise, which Devon took to be a reminder of her presence. "Oh, dear. I've forgotten Elsa! Louisa, this is Elsa Kass, my dear friend."

  "I am her maid," Elsa clarified.

  Devon was looking at Louisa. The child was beautiful. Her head was covered with gleaming gingery curls that fell in cheerful profusion past, her shoulders. Warm, long-lashed brown eyes dominated a charming face that also boasted a turned-up nose and engaging dimples. Her smile was irresistible.

  "Where have you come from?" Devon asked.

  "England. Mama has wanted to visit this island for a long time, but it was too dangerous to come in a boat." She pronounced her words with matter-of-fact assurance. "Someone might have shooted a cannon at us."

  "You were wise indeed to wait. Have you always lived in England?"

  "Mmmmm." Louisa was looking admiringly around the luxurious room. "Sometimes we visit France. That's where my mama's grandmere lives. She's very old!"

  "Don't you have a father?"

  "I think so. Mama says I will have one soon."

  Devon's eyebrows went up. Meeting Elsa's narrowed gaze from across the room, she felt her smile become flimsy. Elsa held up a hand, its five fingers splayed, and nodded toward the child.

  "Do you know your father's name?" Devon asked weakly.

  "Papa, I suppose. He fights wars and kills people."

  "Oh." She nodded mechanically.

  Louisa leaned against Devon's knees and stroked the silk counterpane dreamily. "This is almost as soft as my cat," she murmured. "Do you have any little girls?"

  "No... not yet."

  "You're nice. I like you."

  "I like you, too. Very much."

  Another voice brought both their heads up. "Very cozy!" Eugenie Richoux's accent was trained to British precision; it held only a whisper of French to betray her origins. Sleek sable-black hair was piled in a fashionable mass atop her head, but a handful of long coils were left to trail down her back. Her face was a perfect ivory oval; gold-flecked hazel eyes slanted up slightly at the corners, emphasized by winged brows. Her nose was thin and her mouth tapered like a cupid's bow. She wore an elegant gown of bronze silk, and its severe lines served only to accentuate her perfect figure.

  Devon managed to swallow a groan, but before she could speak, Louisa broke the tension. "Mama, this is Devon Lindsay! She's wonderful!" Halfway across the rose and green carpet, she looked back. "This is my mother!"

  Bracing herself, Devon went forward and offered her hand. Eugenie barely touched it, her own fingers cool. "My name is Eugenie Richoux. Andre and I are very old and dear friends."

  She summoned a sweet smile. "In that case, I hope we shall be friends as well. He will be desolate to learn he has missed you. He will be at sea for several more months."

  A winged eyebrow lifted frostily. "I understood the figure to be three months. Possibly less."

  "Possibly." Devon smiled. "Probably more, knowing Andre."

  "We shall wait," Eugenie proclaimed.

  "Oh, lovely! Your husband won't be missing you?"

  "I am not married," was the icy reply.

  Devon decided not to press the issue. "Oh. Well... I am certain that you both must be exhausted. I'll let you go to your rooms." She dropped a warm smile on Louisa, who beamed in return. "You have a lovely child, Miss Richoux."

  "Please, do call me Eugenie. And thank you. I feel that Louisa is very special. Do you think Andre will agree?"

  * * *

  "I vow, Papa, I have never felt such frustration in my life!"

  Bernard Souchet put down the teapot and rushed to pat Eugenie's shoulder. "Shh, ma chere. You must keep your voice down—someone will hear! All this fretting will do you no good. You must stay calm."

  "Papa, I cannot help it. I have been here two weeks and have tried every trick I know to drive the slut away, but she only smiles. She sits in the bedchamber that should be mine, and I cannot pry Louisa away from her. How do you think that makes me look? My own child is a traitor! I have done everything except announce that Andre is Louisa's father, but she only smiles more as my hints grow more obvious."

  Souchet pressed the teacup into her gesturing hands. "She is worried. I know it, ma petite. It is only a matter of wearing her down. Every time she looks at Louisa, she must think that even our disreputable privateersman could not resist such a daughter. I'm sure the wench will leave before Andre returns—her pride won't let her stay to face his rejection."

  "I hope you are right, Papa," said Eugenie. "You had such confidence in this outrageous plan when I left six years ago. I hope for your sake that I have not wasted my time. I could have married a real duke if I hadn't been burdened with Louisa!"

  "Cherie! You must trust me, and you must have confidence in yourself. I have sensed a change in Raveneau; his heart is weakening."

  "For this red-haired bitch!" Eugenie spat, slamming down her cup and saucer.

  "Shh! Do you doubt your ability to persuade her to leave? We must find a way. There is plenty of time—two or three months, at least. And then Raveneau will return, find you and Louisa in her place, and the game will be over. You shall be mistress of this palace and we will be together, always."

  Eugenie tapped a lacquered nail against her teeth. "Papa, do you suppose there might be a rejected beau who would come here and woo her back? Or perhaps an anxious parent who could be persuaded to come after her?"

  Souchet's angular face lit up. "Ma chere, you may have the answer. Do you think you could get her to confide in you?"

  Wrinkling her nose, Eugenie sighed. "I would rather get the information by holding a knife to that German maid's throat, but that would no doubt be imprudent." She smiled archly at her father's expression. "A jest, Papa."

  She kissed Souchet's cheek with cool lips and left the library. It was late afternoon, almost dusk. A cold wind swept the island, left over from the morning's rain, and Eugenie knew that Devon would be upstairs.

  As she lifted her hand to knock, she saw that Devon's bedroom door was ajar; soft voices came from within. Eugenie gently pushed the door until she could see the bed on which Devon and Louisa reclined. Candles had been lit on either side, bathing the woman and child in a golden luster. Devon lay on the near side, her head turned toward Louisa, her arm cradling the little girl's head.

  Eugenie could not make out their whispered conversation. It seemed as if Devon were telling Louisa a story. Burnished-rose curls spread across the pillows; Eugenie could see the soft flush in Devon's cheeks and somehow understood what Raveneau saw in the girl. It was a quality she herself could never imitate. There was only one solution: he could not be allowed to compare them.

  As she started to move back into the hallway to knock, her eyes slid over Devon's plum velvet gown. Her heart seemed to free
ze. The line of the girl's abdomen could only mean one thing. How had she hidden it so long? Perhaps she was only gaining weight? Eugenie stepped back and put her head against the cool wall, trying to think. No, Devon had to be pregnant. She couldn't have become fat in her belly while staying so slender everywhere else. Damn! She was pregnant with Raveneau's bastard! Could he know? No. If he knew, why would she take such pains to conceal her condition? All those new high-waisted gowns!

  Flooded with resolve, Eugenie gritted her teeth and knocked at the door. "Excuse me—"

  "Mama!" Louisa cried. "Come in!" When Eugenie peeked in, the little girl exclaimed, "Devon has been telling me about America! She lived in a town where all the privateers stayed. When she was a little girl like me, she used to watch them unload things like diamonds and gold—"

  "Now, Louisa, I said wonderful cargoes, but as for diamonds..." Devon smiled uneasily as she sat up.

  "How interesting." Eugenie's eyes shifted to Devon, striving for a friendly look. "Where in America did you grow up?"

  "In New London—Connecticut."

  "Oh, yes. I have heard Andre speak of the place often." When she saw her rival's eyes narrow defensively, Eugenie decided not to mention his name again. "I hope the two of you don't mind this interruption."

  "No, no," Devon assured her.

  "Sit down, Mama!"

  Eugenie smiled, perching at the foot of the bed. "I am getting lonely. I long for someone to talk to, another woman who would understand my feelings. If you don't mind?"

  Devon searched her face, wanting to trust her. She hated the constant tension of the past two weeks. Could the other woman be weary of feuding as well? Perhaps she was willing to accept Devon's presence, to live and let live... "No, I don't mind," Devon said. "We are all isolated here. It would be wonderful if we could talk."

  "Ah! I agree. It is time that we behave like adults. Perhaps if we got to know each other better..."

  Devon's skin prickled with suspicion, but when the conversation continued innocently for another quarter hour with no mention of Raveneau, she began to relax. Eugenie had always longed to visit America, she said. She asked questions about Connecticut, and slowly, insidiously, the questions led up through Devon's early years to her first love. A childhood sweetheart! How sweet and romantic! Bursting with interest, Eugenie drew Devon out. But Devon grew hesitant when the narrative crept close to her time with Raveneau, and Eugenie made a hasty retreat.

  "No, no! Don't say anything that makes you uncomfortable. I suppose it must have ended sadly—young love so often does. I had a similar experience myself, but believe me, it's better that you found out you weren't suited when you did rather than rushing into a hasty marriage."

  "Yes, that's very true," Devon agreed.

  "But the poor boy's heart must have been broken. What do you suppose became of him? Has he found a nice girl to comfort him?"

  "I couldn't say," Devon replied carefully. "I imagine he must have gone home, unless he stayed with the army, which I doubt. His parents own a drug shop, and frankly, I think he belonged there all along."

  "I'm sure you are right. So all's well that ends well!" Eugenie leaned forward to pat Devon's hand solicitously. "My gracious! Look, it is nearly dark. I think, Louisa, that you and I should hurry to our chambers and freshen up before supper."

  Louisa kissed Devon's cheek, then scrambled off the bed to take her mother's outstretched hand.

  "Bon soir," Eugenie crooned. "I am so glad we had this little chat."

  "Yes. I am glad, too." Devon watched them leave the room, then stared at the closed door. Uneasily, she whispered, "I hope I won't regret it later!"

  * * *

  That evening Eugenie and Souchet retreated to a corner of the grand salon after supper, brandies in hand, sitting close together on a priceless tapestry chaise. In rapid French, she repeated all that Devon had told her about Morgan.

  "She walked into our trap as innocently as a rabbit!" Eugenie said, gleefully derisive. "She even told me that her sweetheart's parents own a drug shop in New London. How many can there be?"

  Souchet chuckled. "Who should we send?"

  "I have been considering this, and I think it should be someone who works here. Someone who has a great deal to lose should he betray us—preferably a man you know to be trustworthy and loyal."

  "Hermann Kass," Souchet replied. "He is quiet and obedient. His wife is the Lindsay girl's maid, but Hermann steers clear of her meddling ways. If I gave him a sealed letter and ordered him to deliver it unopened, he would do so without a question or a moment of curiosity."

  "Your trust is fine, Papa, but I think you should make him understand that his family will suffer should he betray us."

  "Yes. His wife and children are his life."

  "Lovely." Eugenie beamed. "Now, if our good fortune continues, dear, reliable Hermann will find Morgan without any problems and the wronged lover will fly to Devon's rescue—before Andre returns!"

  "Salut!" Souchet whispered with enthusiasm, and father and daughter touched glasses to toast their scheme.

  Chapter 23

  ***~~~***

  April, 1782

  Worried, Elsa watched her napping mistress. The winter had not been a happy one. For some reason, Souchet had joined forces with Eugenie in an effort to make Devon's life miserable. They both were either frosty or sarcastic, their rudeness increasing as Devon's condition became more and more evident.

  Elsa wished Hermann were here so that she could discuss the problem with him, but he had been away for two months and had refused to tell her what business separated them or where he was going.

  Devon stirred and sat up, revealing the half-moon of her velvet-draped belly. She displayed it proudly now, walking through the house with her back straight and a peaceful smile on her face—until either Eugenie or Souchet would appear. Somehow their behavior seemed to attack her baby as well as herself, and this bothered her the most.

  Elsa saw the way Devon's nose pinched below her delicate brows and sighed. "Liebling, I implore you. For the baby's sake, you must be tranquil."

  "I know you are right. I do try to keep my mind on the baby, but it is difficult not to worry about the other circumstances of my life. The day will come when I must leave this island—"

  "Save your worry for that day."

  "Andre will return in a few weeks. Oh, how ill I feel whenever I think of it. I will be huge and ugly, and there will be beautiful Eugenie and another child for him to deal with—one who is already heartbreakingly lovable. I cannot imagine how he will react. I dread it."

  "You must not think—"

  "I know Eugenie has laid her plans as carefully as the siege at Yorktown. I have no strategy!"

  "Of course you don't! Have you considered the idea that Captain Raveneau may not care to be the object of her schemes? He is an intelligent man, after all."

  "I hope you are right, Elsa, but she can be quite convincing." Devon thought back with agitation to the heart-to-heart talk she had had with Eugenie at the end of January. That had been her last overture of friendship, and now Devon could only wonder what the woman had been up to.

  "I know that you are feeling helpless. But worrying won't help. You must be tranquil, for your baby," Elsa soothed.

  "I am tired of being 'tranquil' and allowing Eugenie and Souchet to walk all over me."

  "Fraulein, I wish that you wouldn't get angry—"

  "Well, Elsa, I am angry and I rather enjoy it. I feel like my old self! I am done cowering in my room, hiding from unpleasantness."

  With that, Devon stood up, squared her shoulders, and started for the door.

  "What are you going to do?" fretted Elsa.

  "I crave a chat with Souchet," she smiled. "Don't worry. Why don't you go and see to your children and meet me back here later."

  Purposefully, she strode down the hall, descended the staircase, and opened the library door without knocking. Bernard Souchet was a virtual fixture in this huge, book-filled room and
today was no exception. He stood beside the heavy, carved mahogany desk, apparently searching for a paper, and the look of surprise on his face almost made Devon laugh.

  "Good afternoon, M'sieur Souchet," she said. "I have come to choose a few books, but I do not mind if you remain."

  He blinked, but recovered rapidly. "What did you have in mind, mademoiselle? I will be pleased to advise you."

  She bristled at his condescending tone. "I assure you, I am perfectly capable of reading titles. Now, if you will excuse me... "

  Souchet fumed as he watched her examine the bookshelves. He couldn't just stand here like some sort of lackey! He edged his way across the room to where she stood and hovered like a suspicious shopkeeper. Devon glanced up once, slanting the coolest look she could muster in his direction. When Souchet saw the volume of Shakespeare's Sonnets she had chosen, he pounced like a desperate cat.

  "Mademoiselle, if you please." He tried to remove the book from her hands. "I cannot allow you to take this particular volume. Mademoiselle Richoux has requested that I save it for her. She will be along at any moment to fetch it."

  "That is a shame. M'sieur Souchet, do let go!" She forcibly yanked the book from him and left him standing empty-handed, his eyes burning with indignation. "In case you have forgotten, Captain Raveneau gave you clear instructions to treat me courteously, as you would a family member, and further told you that I was to have complete access to this house! I do not intend to be bullied for another moment by you or by anyone else!" Holding fast to Shakespeare's Sonnets, she strode to the door and turned to add, "You may tell Eugenie that she is welcome to this book just as soon as I am finished."

  Once in the hallway, Devon felt dizzy with anger and triumph, but she took several deep breaths and started up the stairs. Eugenie materialized at the top, her mouth open at a sharp angle, ready to speak, but Devon glanced at her coldly and brushed past.

  It was time for the story she read to Louisa each afternoon, and she found the little girl waiting impatiently on the edge of Devon's bed. Sitting down beside her, Devon put a hand out to stroke the child's ginger curls and suddenly felt a powerful yearning for Raveneau. She let the feeling soak in as she closed her eyes and saw his harsh, splendid face. If he were only here, holding her, kissing away her tears, whispering huskily against her ear...