Destiny's Magic

by Martha Hix

  Cinglure eased back.

  “Tate,” Burke said, intent on returning to the purpose of this meeting, “West killed Miss Harken because she spied for me. It all ties together.”

  “And I must tie ends together. From what I gather, West knows nothing of explosives. You do.” Sir Joshua squinted past another curl of smoke. “Dynamite, for instance.”

  Damn. “If you know about dynamite, then you know Newt Storey bought it.”

  “I know nothing of the sort. I’ve spoken with Mr. Beeton. In light of the honorable Horace Seymour’s absence, I’ve drawn a conclusion. Those at Seymour Pyrotechnics and Inventions cover for you.”

  “I’m privy neither to their minds nor their motives,” Burke said. “But I have reason to believe Beeton sold dynamite to Storey.”

  “I believe, sir, you have a vendetta against the elusive Mr. West. You would shift the blame from yourself to a hapless former employee.”

  Burke shook his head. “Not true.”

  Cinglure cleared his throat. “Rufus West is a far cry from hapless. He is a murderer.”

  The Englishman scoffed. “Be that as it may, Cinglure, homicide is your specialty. Fraud is mine. I’ve concluded several lies were concocted to spare Captain O’Brien.”

  “You’re wrong,” Burke objected.

  “So you claim.” Sir Joshua looked down his nose condescendingly. “The sunken O’Brien riverboats are not the only cases on the Lloyds books. I must return home forthwith. I’ve booked passage on for next week.

  “If you cannot find this Mr. West and his so-called accomplice by then, I shall have no choice but to report your vessels as wrecked under fraud. Lloyds of London will not pay your claims.”

  The death knell of the O’Brien Steamship Company began its chime.

  “What Cinglure chooses to do about you is up to him,” Sir Joshua was saying. “But Lloyds of London will petition that you pay to the full extent of American law.”

  The underwriters’ representative got to his feet. “Do give your lovely wife my regards, O’Brien. I must be off.”

  Sir Joshua marched away from 21 rue Royale.

  Remy Cinglure remained seated. Rearing back, he rested his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers beneath his mouth. “He’s serious, you know.”

  “I never thought he wasn’t.”

  Cinglure picked up his cup, looked into the bottom. “Too bad this isn’t tea. Even if it were, though, I couldn’t read the leaves.” His line of sight parked on Burke. “But I know when I’m not getting the full story. You do know something, O’Brien. What is it?”

  “Leave it be.”

  “Impossible, mon ami. I cannot sit idle while I watch that Englishman ruin your business, reputation, and life. Besides, an interesting broadside reached my desk yesterday. From the sheriff in Natchez, Mississippi. West is wanted for a murder up there. The victim’s name was Paget. When I tried to see you a few days past, I seem to recall your stepson saying his last name is Paget. I consider that too much of a coincidence.”

  Burke gripped his cup. Pippin and his remarks! “Leave it be, Cinglure. Give me a few more days, then we’ll talk.”

  At eight-thirty Burke and his wife stole into the night and made their way to the Absinthe Room’s upstairs chamber. It was the same room where Burke had rendezvoused with poor, doomed Velma.

  A clock chimed at nine.

  Half a minute later the summoned man climbed the staircase and pressed into the chamber. He was big. His description almost fit Throck. Or Storey. Jinnings had no hair, like Storey; gold teeth, like Throck. But this man’s skin told a tale of Arabic origin. And he wore a golden earring.

  He was the genie.

  New to New Orleans, Eugene Jinnings would never be recognized. The jinn’s sole voucher in Burke’s book.

  Jinnings was the instrument of 1864.

  Bile rose as Burke forced a smile. “Glad you could meet with us, Jinnings.”

  “Hello, sir.” Susan offered her fingers. “I am Susan O’Brien.”

  “Enchanted.” The genie kissed her knuckles. “Allah be praised, you are lovely. Excellent work mine, finding you.”

  Susan rushed to a topic never agreed to by her husband. “Sir, 1 know the magic lamp is no more. But you are still here, so that means something. Can you grant at least one wish?”

  “Susan!”

  Not to be distracted, she continued. “Can you, sir?”

  “More requests are out of the question, milady. I am but part of a whole.”

  “How are you at grave tending?” Burke asked, having heard enough of magic. “We need you at the St. Louis Cemetery. All day tomorrow, perhaps into the night. Act as if you’re pulling weeds, or raking, or whatever. Watch for a ruddy fellow, thin. Wears glasses. Or anyone who might happen on the Harken crypt.”

  “Ah, you look for Mr. West.”

  How did Jinnings know?

  Susan supplied the answer. “I told your grandfather everything,” she said to Burke.

  Fine. It saved details. “Jinnings, will you go to the graveyard tomorrow?”

  The genie crossed his arms and scratched a cheekbone. “What if I see a suspicious person?”

  “Help me and my serving man corner him. We’ll go in armed. But if it is the Eel who shows up and there’s any rough stuff, know something. He’s mine to take down. He is my prey.”

  Jinnings pursed his lips before studying the ceiling. After a moment of contemplation, he sent his arms akimbo. The earring flashed in lamplight. “If I do this, will you accept me as part of Milady Tessa’s family? Will you once again behave as you should? Will you honor Milady as a good nephew should?”

  “Aye.”

  “Will you forgive me for Miss Lawrence?”

  Burke tensed. “I forgive you,” he lied.

  Jinnings bowed low. “Sir, I am at your service.”

  Marid of North Africa, alias Eugene Jinnings, quit the Absinthe Room and lumbered onto Bourbon Street. A minstrel band played next door. Sots weaved by, and three painted ladies inquired as to his needs as he tramped toward the St. Charles Hotel.

  Uninterested in any woman save for the plump morsel Tessa, who accepted that his male equipment had turned to dust in the African sun, Jinnings paid no mind to rouged ladies. He’d come to this land a vassal, a means to bring good luck.

  But he’d won his lady’s heart.

  Into the bargain he’d acquired a family.

  Jinnings had the admiration of the elder O’Brien, for he had been like a son to him, even found out where to find a black-sheep grandson. Jinnings had the love of Fitz’s plump daughter, and respect from the skinny one. Then there were Connor and India, plus their little ones. The genie grinned, thinking of Pays and Winnie. Fine ones to bounce on a knee, those. And since Burke—who had hated Jinnings all these years—had forgiven his power, Eugene foresaw a future where he’d be allowed into 21 rue Royale to bounce more little ones.

  Fine life he had, a refugee from his homeland.

  And he had the best part of it all.

  He needn’t lift but a finger or two. Every lazy man’s dream.

  Yet toil had called him back in July. He’d intercepted the telegram from Phoebe, the one where she’d informed Tessa the magic lamp had been lost. There had been no time to waste. Jinnings rushed to Louisiana. Had found part of the lamp washed up on the riverbank. The magic was intact.

  But he’d long tired of the exertion involved in finding ladies for Tessa’s nephews. Jon Marc and his bride could sweat problems on their own, which didn’t mean Eugene Jinnings wouldn’t be at the St. Louis Cemetery on the morrow, slaving over a leaf rake. He would.

  And was.

  Twenty-seven

  “Momma, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Susan lied to the precious boy standing at the doorway of her darkened bedroom. Earlier today the extortion money should have changed hands. Rufus West had sent an insect to collect it. But Remy Cinglure scared Angela Paget away.

  Susan
expected the detective at any moment to pound on the front door of 21 rue Royale and tear her boy away from the only home he’d ever known. Burke had gone back on his word, while he still claimed innocence. If he were faultless, how had Cinglure known to be at the cemetery?

  Pippin cocked his head. “Why are you crying?”

  “A cinder in my eye,” she further lied, and reached for a lucifer to light the candelabrum at bedside. She wanted a good look at him in case she’d need to commit his features to memory. “Come here, dumpling of mine.”

  He scrambled into her lap, all freckles and cowlick and big blue-gray eyes. But when she tried to kiss his forehead, a protest met her. “I don’t want no kiss from a lady with red eyes and a runny nose. Kinda makes me sick to think about it.”

  “Oh, you.” She had to chuckle. But there was nothing else to chuckle about.

  “Are you coming downstairs, Momma?” Pippin looked up at her. “Zinnia’s got dinner ready.”

  “I’m hungry only for hugs.” Susan pressed Pippin’s youthful body into her shivering arms and kissed his dark head. I wanted your happiness. Will you ever know it?

  Should they run for one last chance at freedom? How far would she and Pippin get with no money? She regretted sending that letter of credit back.

  “Damn,” she muttered.

  “Momma, I don’t like it when you’re crabby. And you never curse.” Pippin sat straight. “Zinnia says you’re touchy ’cause you got a baby growing.”

  Surely not! Was it true? Mama Loa, was it? Susan knew changes had roiled through her body, but those were pegged on the climate permeating this house. “There’s no baby.” Strangely, her barren state bothered her. Would she never hold Burke’s child in her arms? That thought was better ignored. “Have you or Zinnia mentioned a baby to Dad?”

  “No. Zinnia say y’all got ’nuff trouble as is.”

  “Don’t mention it. It’s not true. You are my baby.”

  “Okay. But I wish you’d kiss and make up with Dad. He ain’t lookin’ too good. I’m worried. I don’t wanna lose him!” His chin trembled. “I wanna grow up so’s he can be proud of me. When he gets old like Granddaddy, I wanna say ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n’ if he needs somebody to make things easy for him.”

  You may end up no telling where, reared with other orphans. Susan wouldn’t allow that. As it had been upon boarding the O’Brien flagship at the start of July, she would have her son at her side for always.

  Somehow.

  “Susan . . .”

  Burke. She lifted her head to see that he filled the doorway. So tall, so handsome, so devious. His wrist in a splint and held by a sling, his ribs in a tight bandage beneath his starched white shirt, he tried to mask pain. Candlelight showed a frown bracketing the mouth that ofttimes almost dimpled with grins; it gave him away. Her gaze went to the hands that had made love to her, had—Damn you, Burke O’Brien. Damn you!

  Pippin scrambled off her lap and flew to his betrayer. Burke allowed the comfort of his arms. How that must have stung his ribs and wrist. It also proved something. He’d thrown Pippin to the wolves, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sorry.

  Susan ached for him and the shipping line in peril. And for Pippin. And for herself. She knew in her heart she couldn’t leave Burke. He’d have to tell her to go, come the end of the year.

  But what about Pippin?

  Burke tried to hunker down to speak with the child, but his broken ribs wouldn’t allow it. He stroked the cowlick. “Go back downstairs, son. Someone brought a jar of licorice.”

  Susan had sent for it during his convalescence. She’d never given it to him. She’d never given him anything but trouble.

  “I’ve eaten half,” he was saying to Pippin. “You finish the rest. After you finish dinner.”

  “I don’t want nuttin’ but to be a steamboat cap’n, just like you, Dad.”

  “Then get downstairs so Dad can work on Momma. Close the door behind you.”

  Pippin scurried out of the bedroom, doing as he was told.

  “Susan . . .” Spelling agony, Burke’s voice hurtled to her chair. Green eyes found the brown of hers. “I didn’t know about Cinglure. Hand on my heart, I didn’t.”

  “How did he know to be there?”

  “Just as you jumped into suspecting Throck of murder and piracy, you don’t give me the benefit of a doubt. Have I been that cruel to you?”

  “I’d prefer you answer my question.”

  Suddenly she couldn’t look at Burke. Going to the door that led into the dressing room, she figured to freshen her face and make an effort to present a normal front downstairs.

  Her hand reached for the lever, but his arm snaked around her. He covered her knuckles with his palm and pressed her between the wall and doorjamb. She felt his disabled arm against her spine. Her scalp tingled from the touch of his lips.

  “Don’t do me this way,” she whispered.

  “I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do. The only way to get past your stubborn head is to play on your lust.”

  Did he truly think that was the extent of her feelings? Well, why shouldn’t he? Always, she’d acted as though he were at the end of her heart’s queue.

  He said, “I’m going to answer your question, if you’ll listen. Cinglure suspected a link between Pip and that dead bully up in Natchez. He figured I was holding something back. But, Susan, he can’t know the particulars.”

  She listened to the honesty in her husband’s plea. She’d wronged him. While she’d done so, he’d lost out on capturing the woman who might have led him to Rufus West.

  The back of her head touched his shoulder. He deserved better than an accusatory voodooess. “I apologize for accusing you.”

  It was a strange tone that met her humility. “I’m sorry I put you in the position to doubt me. It’s been terrible for you, living here with me.” His voice wove raggedly. “Better luck with your . . . next husband.”

  The only husband who could have her heart stood behind her. Yet if he wished fortune on another man . . . “I pray you’ll have better luck with your next wife.”

  “I’m not finished with this one.” He turned her to him. His eyes bleak, his mouth tense, he disclosed, “If a husband ever needed his wife, you’re looking at him.”

  “Oh, Burke.” She touched his dear face, scanning it, filling her heart with it. “Forgive me for mistreating you. I did want to make you happy.”

  “It’s a shame this marriage has been your prison.”

  “We are a mess, aren’t we?”

  “Aye.”

  Tilting his head for a kiss, he drew her to him. His broken wrist lay between them. For a moment she luxuriated in his anise-flavored tongue as it slipped between her teeth. At that same instant his hips angled to her. To revel in their passion, oh, what a longing, but endless passion had no future. They had this moment, but . . . “We shouldn’t—your ribs.”

  “Put your arms around my neck.”

  She did, but protested. “How can we mate? We might puncture your lung.”

  “Have you never looked at the drawings in those books of erotica? There are ways.”

  Her face flamed, for she had snuck several peeks. Nevertheless, she subdued the urge to give in to wild desire for the sake of practicality. “Dinner . . . Zinnia will want you to eat. So do I. You need your strength.”

  His mouth moved to the curve of Susan’s throat. “I’ll get more good out of eating you.”

  “You are so wicked.” Yet his suggestion sent spirals of desire straight to the place he referred to. She grinned. “So lusciously wicked.”

  “Aye, I’m wicked. Needy.” He stilled. “And very much in love with you.”

  “Please don’t speak of love.” A sting in her heart yanked cruelly. “So much happens outside this bedroom.” And in your crowded heart.

  A scowl turned beseeching as he asked, “Is it possible you could forget everything but you and me? For this night?”

  Wanting him desperately, needing to think of not
hing but him, she answered, “Yes.”

  “Then let’s make the most of a unique moment. Will you give me your body without reserve?”

  “I’ll be anything you wish.”

  “Then grant me three wishes.” He blew gently in her ear, rousing a delicious quiver. “Will you be wild and wanton? Can we play as if we’re in love?”

  “I count but two requests.”

  “I’ll hold off on the last. Until I need it. Will you grant my pair of desires?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Somehow he got her braid loosened. Blond hair tumbled over her shoulders. It came as no surprise when his fingers slid over her breast, kneading and fondling. It caught her unawares when she flinched.

  “Do I hurt you?” he murmured.

  “No,” she lied, wanting nothing to stop.

  His fingers slipped into the blouse. “You’re hardening, just as I am. What have you done in our bed when I was in the library? Have you touched yourself here? Have you tried this?”

  His fingers dug into the simple skirt, finding her mound and cupping it. A slight friction arced at the node of her desire, and she caught her breath. Ravenous as a beggar, she found britches-clad male gems. She fancied having them in hand, guiding him into her. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since they had mated. Licentious abandon—nothing else would appease her, so frenzied was she.

  “This is the first time you’ve touched me there in way too long,” he murmured, eyes shuttered.

  “If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

  “Don’t you dare,” he growled.

  She voiced a question first formed in the still hours of a lonesome night. “When you were recuperating, did you ever look at those provocative books? Did you think of such as this?”

  “No books. But once the elixir wore off, I would’ve given five years of my life if you’d slipped into the cot.”

  “I should have. Eros might’ve eased both our . . . minds. What did you do to satisfy yourself, husband?”

  He chuckled. “The same thing man’s been doing since he first got snubbed. I played with my balls and imagined they were your fingers instead of mine.” He nipped her chin as she giggled. “This would be a lot simpler if we got undressed and made ourselves comfortable on that nice satin counterpane. . . .”