Ordinarily Leonie would not have opened her grandfather's correspondence—she would have sent it along with one of the servants to the decaying townhouse in New Orleans. But there was something about this particular letter that drew her attention, something that pulled at her, as she stared at the fine, flowing script on the envelope. She hesitated, started to put it with the other items to be sent along to New Orleans, and then, not understanding why, she snatched the letter back and, taking a deep breath, opened it.
Upon learning that she had a half-sister who was soon to be orphaned and turned penniless upon the world, Leonie had not waited a moment. Consulting no one and taking no time to think of the consequences, which was typical of Leonie, she had commandeered two of the servants and within the hour she was riding along the river road that led to New Orleans.
New Orleans was only half a day's journey from the Chateau Saint-Andre, and by late afternoon Leonie was knocking impetuously on the door of the small, white cottage on the ramparts below the city where Yvette and her mother lived. Instinctively Leonie had not sought out her grandfather, having a fairly good idea of what he would do if he learned of her interference and rash actions.
Monique had waited until the very last moment of her life to appeal for help and she had died two days previously, the letter having left her hands barely an hour before she breathed her last. Consequently when Leonie arrived she was greeted by a bewildered, grief-stricken Yvette, unable to comprehend or believe that her mother was dead.
Before Yvette had realized it, she had found herself efficiently bundled up, all her meager belongings stuffed in one old leather valise, and on her way down river with a small, tawny-haired whirlwind—who forthrightly declared that she was her sister!
Yvette had been aware that her father had been Damien Saint-Andre, but she'd had no idea that her mother had written to the family asking for help. If she had known she certainly wouldn't have expected the daughter of the house to descend without warning and whisk her away in this breathtaking fashion, but from that moment on an unbreakable bond had been formed between the girls.
The two family servants who had accompanied their young, unpredictable mistress had been most disapproving of this new "companion" and back at the Chateau Saint-Andre, Mammy, the nearest thing that Leonie had to adult supervision, had been most suspicious. But Leonie determinedly brushed away every objection and question. Hands on her slender hips, a warning gleam in the golden-flecked green eyes, Leonie had faced the mountainous black woman and announced firmly, "Yvette is to be my companion. I chose her myself, and where she comes from is none of your business. I will tell you this... she is an orphan of good family and has lived in Louisiana all of her life—even you will admit that she is far more ladylike than I am!"
Mammy had rolled her big black eyes skyward and had snorted and muttered, "How's could she not be? You is a hell-born babe if I ever seen one!"
Leonie had flashed a limpid smile and murmured dulcetly, "Enfin! There you are! That's why I need an example to teach me proper manners. Yvette will be perfect."
Mammy had been forced to allow Leonie to have her own way, and beyond grumbling dire prophecies of Claude's reaction to this unexpected addition to the household, she had wandered off.
The confrontation with Monsieur Claude some two months later had not gone as smoothly, but by then Leonie was so filled with the sheer joy of having a friend her own age that nothing short of murder would have separated the two girls.
At first Claude had been pleasantly surprised, almost pleased that Leonie had found herself a young girl of obviously impeccable breeding to act as a companion—he should have thought of it himself! It had only been when he had inquired after Yvette's family, and wondered aloud about parents who would allow their daughter to leave their roof at such a tender age, that the truth came out.
Leonie had considered lying. Only she and Yvette knew the true circumstances and both had agreed that there was no reason to reveal them—it would have been most uncomfortable for Yvette, they had both decided, but only after Yvette had gently pointed out that fact to Leonie. But lying was not in Leonie's nature and she told her grandfather the truth.
He had been astounded and then positively horrified. "Ma petite, how could you? A bastard with the blood of slaves in her veins! Have you no modesty? No shame? You should not even know of such things, much less associate with such a creature!"
Leonie's young features had frozen. With glacial Saint-Andre arrogance she had asked, "I am to deny my own sister? You would have me do this? Bah! I think, grand-pere, that you are a fool!"
Claude's dark face had flushed with fury and the brown eyes had been glittering with anger under the gray, bristling brows. "Sacre bleu! You dare to speak to me like this? I should beat you!"
Leonie had lifted her chin defiantly and in a soft, dangerous voice had warned, "I would not, grand-pere, if I were you."
Claude had eyed the stiff, angry young figure speculatively. That Leonie! And because Claude was basically a weak man, one who preferred peace at any price, he had shrugged and said, "Do as you will. But do not ask me to acknowledge the creature. I shall tolerate her presence and that is all, do you understand?"
A brief smile had flitted across Leonie's face. "Oui, grand-pere!" Then surprising them both she had flown into his arms and pressed a rare warm kiss on his lined cheek. "Merci beaucoup, grand-pere," she had said softly, and Claude felt something catch painfully at his heart. Aware that he was a poor excuse for a mentor and guardian and awash with a sudden feeling of regret, one blue-veined hand had reached out and gently tweaked a tawny curl. "You are a minx, ma petite, and I am a reprobate—perhaps we are a good pair, oui?"
Leonie had grinned and nodded vigorously. During the remainder of that visit there were no clashes between them. Leonie was pleased that grand-pere had proved reasonable for once, and Claude was conscious for the first time that he must begin to think of Leonie's future. But then the old lure of the gaming tables and drink had called to him, and once again he had put aside his responsibilities and disappeared down the river to New Orleans, leaving Leonie to run the plantation.
* * *
On this morning the outlook for the future was very black, Leonie decided as she sought out her grandfather in his bedchamber. There was, she thought glumly, nothing to do but sell off some of their land—and that, she felt unhappily, would be the death of the Chateau Saint-Andre.
Claude himself, sitting in regal splendor in the middle of a huge bed hung with faded crimson, brocaded night curtains, was thinking much the same. With a pile of snowy white pillows at his back, he was tranquilly sipping a cup of very strong, very black coffee as he contemplated the future—or rather Leonie's future—but his thoughts were anything but tranquil.
His days were numbered, the sands of time had run out for him; the doctor had told him so this last trip to New Orleans. With death facing him from a heart that no longer beat as it should, Claude realized that the tomorrows when he would assure himself of Leonie's future were suddenly upon him.
He had returned to the Chateau the previous night, and after feeling his carriage shake and rattle from the ruts and dips in the long drive that led to the house, he had admitted to himself that his own selfish foolishness had brought his estate to ruin. The tattered elegance of the furnishings of the house had made it even more evident, and this morning, while staring at the worn Turkish carpet on the floor, and the old satin curtains at the French doors, he wondered how he could salvage something for Leonie.
Marriage was the only answer. Having come to that decision, Claude wasted little time in brooding over the past and what he should have done, or would do if he had a chance to live it all again. Instead he turned his mind to the selection of a suitable husband for Leonie. None of the sons of their immediate neighbors would do. Not that he wouldn't have welcomed such a match, but everyone knew that the Saint-Andres were ruined. No, it would have to be a stranger, a wealthy stranger—and yet one with a s
ense of honor who would not mistreat or abuse Leonie once he discovered the true state of affairs concerning her wealth, or rather lack of wealth.
Claude didn't mean to cheat a prospective husband. As a matter of fact, without Leonie's knowledge, he had managed to retain a very large sum in Spanish gold which had always been intended to be part of her dowry. He had hoped it would be larger and that a profitable, productive Chateau Saint-Andre would go with it, but that had not occurred and he accepted the blame. Yet, on that hot morning in June, he decided the money could be used as bait. Once the marriage had taken place... well, Leonie should be able to convince the bridegroom that it wasn't such a bad bargain.
It might work, he mused slowly, as he set down his cup and saucer and picked up a warm, flaky croissant. Leonie was sixteen and it was time she married. She came of good blood and did not require a great deal. For a moment a frown crossed the dissipated dark face and a look of sadness entered the brown eyes—ah, if only he had done things differently. But then he shrugged his slight shoulders for there was no undoing the past, and Claude wasn't so certain he would live his life in a different manner if he had it to do over again.
In his fashion Claude loved Leonie and in his way he was planning to do the only thing he could to insure her some sort of security once he had left this earth. He rather conveniently pushed aside the disagreeable thought that if he had taken more of an interest in her life sooner, he might not find himself in his current state of affairs.
Marriage, of course, was the answer, but it would be difficult to find the right man. Five thousand Spanish doubloons would attract many men, but Claude's Gallic pride balked at buying just any husband. One must remember that noble blood ran in their veins. Claude's father, who had emigrated to New Orleans when it had been a swampy huddle of huts on the banks of the Mississippi River, had been the youngest son of the Comte Saint-Andre. Even more to the point, after the revolution had swept France and the Comte Saint-Andre met his death on the guillotine, Claude became the Comte Saint-Andre. He was now the only living male member of a once proud and illustrious family.
There was no question of his returning to France, where that upstart Corsican General Napoleon ruled the army and might soon rule France herself; he was too old and too tired. But if Leonie had been a boy...
The object of his thoughts walked into the room and Claude smiled to himself. Leonie might be a mere girl, but in just about any contest of wills, he would put his money on his young lioness of a granddaughter.
They greeted each other warily, Claude conscious of the money he had wasted at cards at Governor Gayoso's and Leonie suspicious of her grandfather's reasons for wanting to see her. Neither one spoke of the lost money; they never did. Instead they acted out a pitiful and familiar charade. With no hint of recrimination in her voice Leonie asked politely, "Did you enjoy yourself, grand-pere? You were not gone as long this time."
He nodded, making some light reply, and watched with mixed emotions as she sat at the foot of his bed like an Indian with her legs folded underneath her. It was on the tip of his tongue to mention the bare feet and to inquire acidly if she ever intended to control that mane of tawny hair, but he held back the criticism. If she didn't mention the money, he wouldn't comment on her deplorable dress....
For a few moments they talked of this and that, but as Leonie seldom wasted time in drawing-room conversation, even with her grandfather, she asked bluntly, "Yvette said you wished to see me. Why?"
A pained expression crossed his aquiline features at the mention of Yvette. But then, being just as blunt as his granddaughter—to their mutual horror they shared many of the same traits—he stated baldly, "I have decided upon your future. I shall arrange a marriage for you."
Leonie stiffened and the green eyes narrowed. "To whom?" she demanded in a tone of voice that made Claude distinctly uneasy.
Airily waving one hand, Claude replied, with more confidence than he felt, "I have not yet decided, you understand. It is merely that I thought I should tell you first... that is, before I looked about for a suitable husband for you."
Leonie settled back on her haunches and gave her grandfather a long, assessing look. With studied indifference she replied, "I do not wish to marry, grand-pere." When Claude started to protest, she added flatly, "I will not marry. You cannot force me."
Claude was instantly infuriated. His lips thinned with rage and his voice shook with anger as he threatened, "You will either marry the gentleman of my choice, or that precious bastard of an octoroon whore you secretly dare to call sister, will find herself in the meanest brothel in New Orleans!"
Her great sea-green eyes glittered with golden flecks of sheer temper; the expression of mingled fear and fury that flickered across the triangular-shaped face caused Claude to wince. It had to be done, he reminded himself sadly; Leonie's future must be made secure whether she wanted it or not.
Leonie, leaping up in one furious bound and springing catlike to the floor, approached her grandfather and spat, "You would dare?"
Stonily he returned, "I would."
Her small bosom heaving with the force of the furious emotions that tore through her, she stared disbelievingly at him for a moment. She knew her grandfather well, they fought and made truces and then fought again, but this was one battle she was terrified he would win. She was wise enough to know that she could not protect Yvette at all times, as her grandfather was incredibly crafty when he chose to be. If he said Yvette would find herself in a brothel he wasn't making idle conversation. Realizing that for the present there was no escape, she stared at his fixed features and said in a tight, little voice, "Eh bien. I will do it."
Claude nodded and said coolly, "Bon! We will return to New Orleans shortly to find you a husband."
Leonie looked at him and with a surprisingly docile expression on her small face, she picked up the china coffee pot and asked sweetly, "More coffee, grand-pere?" Before Claude guessed her intent or could react, she swiftly proceeded to pour the entire pot of hot liquid right over her grandfather's very elegant, white linen nightshirt.
Spluttering with rage, Claude called down a string of curses on her head, but Leonie was gone, a mocking smile curving her mouth as she ran from the room.
Chapter 2
Even to the most casual observer it would be obvious that Bonheur, situated some distance from Natchez in the Mississippi Territory, was the estate of a wealthy gentleman. The tree-lined drive that led to the residence was indeed impressive. The branches of the old oaks nearly touched as they soared towards the brilliant blue sky ; the red dirt road was smooth and unrutted, revealing that time and money had been spent to make it so. In between the trunks of the massive oaks, with their gray-green beards of Spanish moss, neatly manicured stretches of green lawns could be glimpsed, the vast open expanses broken only by majestic oak and magnolia trees.
The drive ended in a sweeping circular carriageway; beyond the drive and the spreading magnolia trees rose the mansion itself. The house towered three stories in the air; tall stuccoed columns, topped by wooden colonnettes surrounded it on all four sides, and the extended roof line created wide, cool verandas. Soft green outer walls contrasted pleasingly with the dark green shutters that hung at the many long windows, and from the upper story, huge purple masses of wisteria cascaded to the ground near one corner of the house. Bonheur was all grace and elegance from the steeply pitched roof to the broad, white steps that stretched entirely across the front of the building.
Inside it was much the same; each room evidenced wealth and good taste. Axminster and Oriental carpets covered the floors; giltwood furniture upholstered in Gobelin's tapestry graced the main salon; an exceedingly fine mahogany set of dining room furniture dominated the spacious chamber. Yet Morgan Slade, the heir to all this wealth, paid it little heed—after all, he had been born at Bonheur and had lived here off and on for his entire twenty-seven years.
While finishing a last cup of coffee he was reading, on this particular sunny morning
in June of 1799, a letter from his uncle in England. The beginning of a frown marred his otherwise smooth forehead. Seated across from him, his younger brother Dominic noted the frown and inquired, "Trouble, Morgan? Is the war against France going badly for England?"
Morgan's lean face cleared, and sending Dominic a slight smile, he murmured, "No worse than can be expected. Admiral Nelson is beating them on the sea, but the land war is not going well. Napoleon certainly knows how to surprise the English! Uncle seems to hope, though, that it will not go too badly for England, and he writes that they no longer fear an immediate invasion from France."
"Then why are you frowning?"
Morgan sighed, knowing that until Dominic was entirely satisfied the questions wouldn't abate. Flicking aside the letter he said carelessly, "It seems our esteemed cousin Ashley is, as usual, causing his father a bit of trouble."
Robert, the brother some two years younger than Morgan, looked up quickly. He, as well as Morgan, had been educated at Harrow in England and knew from close experience exactly what kind of trouble Ashley naturally gravitated toward. In his quiet manner he asked, "Women, drink, money... or all three?"
Morgan laughed, his even white teeth flashing in a dark face and the vivid blue eyes dancing under heavy, black brows. "All three! And what is worse, it appears that dear cousin Ashley is not only not in England but upon our own fair shores."
"Good Lord! He's not coming here?" Robert asked with a startled expression, remembering uncomfortably the scandals and unpleasantness that followed Ashley wherever he went. His face disapproving, he said slowly, "I would have thought that the trouncing you gave him—after he forged your signature to his gambling vowels and impersonated you to seduce a tavern wench—would have given him the good sense to keep an ocean between you. I seem to recall that you threatened to blow his brains out if he crossed your path again. A prudent man would have heeded your warning."
Deceive Not My Heart Page 2
