The Lady of Royale Street

by Thea de Salle

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  For Deb Wedding. Because DOOM.

  PROLOGUE

  DARLENE NORRIS DROVE along Rue Bourbon with a smile on her face. She had six active offers on the table and was feeling like Cinderella at the ball. Everyone wanted a piece of her and she loved it. She hadn’t considered taking a bribe until that New York paper called her and asked for a tip or two about the DuMont/Barrington wedding: a time. A place. The vendors. When she’d declined because it was “a terrible thing to do,” that’s when they’d thrown money at her—significant money, too—and her principles had flown right out the window. So the press would take some pictures, so what? Sol and Rain were used to being “It” people. What was one more day in the spotlight? Thank goodness she’d never signed that confidentiality agreement; the happy couple had been so eager to get everything done in a six-week window they’d forgotten all about insisting on one.

  That one simple oversight would equate to a new Range Rover in Darlene’s garage on her forty-fifth birthday.

  Sorry not sorry, y’all.

  Every major publication wanted the scoop, and Darlene had been there for all of it, from choosing the venue, the cake tastings, and selecting invitations to making a call to LA to book a special musical guest—an artist who had more Grammys than they had mantel space.

  Darlene had all the deets.

  Unfortunately, Carl Willis of the Crescent Times knew she had the deets, which was why he was blowing up her phone. Again. He had a beef with the Barrington-DuMont faction after Vaughan Barrington reshaped Carl’s nose in the early stages of Sol and Rain’s love affair. Running an exposé of their wedding would probably feel like a comeuppance.

  His problem: he couldn’t pay.

  Her problem: he wouldn’t go away.

  “Mr. Willis, the offers aren’t going down. They’re going up, and you couldn’t play when we were at four figures, never mind six,” she said, pulling her car into a spot between two ecofriendly shit machines parked in front of a tourist-trap trinket shop.

  Darlene climbed from the driver’s seat and glanced at her watch: 2:10. She had twenty minutes before she had to meet Bonnie the Bridezilla at Clyde’s. She darted across the street, juggling the phone into her other hand. Her gel-manicured fingers clutched an iced soy latte with extra skim, no sugar, and double ice. The wind stirred her blond bob, sending a sheaf of yellow across her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses.

  “What’s the amount at again?” Carl whined.

  “A lot. And it’s rising.”

  “Dang it. But, hear me out, Darlene . . .”

  She didn’t hear him out. She tuned him out, scurrying along the street toward her next appointment. Carl droned on as she mmm-hmmmed politely and sipped from her cuppa.

  “Carl,” she interrupted when he’d been at it for so long she wasn’t sure when he’d breathed last. “Carl. Mr. Willis. Carl!”

  He shut up. Darlene gritted her teeth and hopped across Iberville, a taxi beeping at her as it whizzed by close enough to ruffle the skirt of her sundress. “It’s not going to change, sugar! Pay up or shut up, you hear?”

  “The DuMonts owe me,” Carl insisted. “I need this coverage.”

  “No one owes you shit, darlin’. Includin’ me.”

  She didn’t wait for a response, ending the call just as a text message popped up notifying her that the DuMont place card settings were ready for pickup and could she be there by four? Bridezilla at 2:30 and over to the Garden District an hour later? Doable, but annoying, but everything about the DuMont/Barrington wedding was annoying. It shouldn’t have been a surprise with the names involved, but at a week until the big day, Darlene’s patience was at an end. Two bakers. Four caterers. Two calligraphers. Blown-glass swan party favors done by a local artisan. Antique chairs imported from a plantation in Baton Rouge. Custom-made silk tablecloths. A highly sought-after florist. A Parisian photographer. A Hollywood cameraman for a videographer.

  Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

  She should have commanded better rates. In her defense, she’d never taken on such a prestigious client before, so how was she to know she could have asked for twice as much as her requested fee? Thirty thousand wasn’t enough. They should have offered more—a lot more—for the work involved. Really, it was their fault she was taking a bribe this late in the game. If they’d played fair, she’d have played fair, too.

  Darlene snorted and turned the corner to the next block.

  “We expect the utmost discretion,” Sol DuMont had said upon hiring her. “Considering Miss Barrington’s family connections, our privacy is paramount. Talk to nobody but us. Especially not her mother. You understand?”

  She’d said she did because she’d say anything to a boy that pretty, but then the offers came rolling in. People. Star. The Enquirer. She’d understood all about DuMont discretion right up until cash dollars became her new reality.

  Sorry, you handsome thing. I gotta get mine.

  She killed the latte and tossed it into a garbage bin. Her phone rang again, this time that sweet Tony Cappillanno from that New York paper. They’d been her first offer and now, after dozens of other press calls, they were the highest bidder. She answered, her voice more sugary than a freshly powdered beignet.

  “Tony! How are you?”

  “I’m good, sweetheart. Got your files. I’ll go up another thirty for the passwords, but that’s all she wrote. The boss ain’t gonna give me another inch.”

  She went quiet a moment, toying with the idea of bouncing the offer off her other contacts, but she had so much to do with this stupid wedding and she liked Tony best. He’d been real sweet to her ever since she started singing his song. It’d be nice to get the whole thing done and over with so she could put Rain and Sol in her rearview mirror.

  “All right. Lemme text you the first one, sugar pie. As soon as I see the transfer I’ll give you the second, which has the location and the names of the wedding party.”

  “Done. I’ll get it sent over now.”

  She stood on the intersection of Iberville and Dauphine as she texted him the password for the first file. Vendor names, addresses, and phone numbers of her contacts—all of it was there for greedy eyes to behold. Three minutes later, her bank account balance quadrupled. She giggled as her nails clicked over the touch screen of her iPhone, texting Tony the second password with the real meat and potatoes about the year’s most secretive wedding.

  Tony texted back a half minute later.

  “You’re a doll. How you feeling now? Richer?”

  “Fine. Just fine,” she typed, stepping off the sidewalk and into the street.

  She pressed send a second and a half before the commuter bus barreled into her and sent her sailing sixty feet into oncoming traffic.

  ONE

  “IT’S RUINED!”

  The shrill wail was the first thing Alexander DuMont heard upon stepping into The Seaside after fighting his way through a roiling sea of paparazzi. He didn’t recognize the voice; Arianna Barrington was the likeliest culprit, but he couldn’t be sure, as he’d never met the woman.

  Sol’s cajoling lilt spilled down the hall and into the rece
ption area shortly thereafter, ending the mystery.

  “It’ll be fine, kitten. We’ll come up with something. I promise.”

  “I’m sorry the woman’s dead, but did she have to go and ruin my wedding first?”

  “Maybe she got hit by a bus because she ruined your wedding. God works in mysterious ways. Come here, kitten.”

  Sol, you dick.

  Alex’s finger grazed his temple, his eyes narrowing. Driving eight hours to New Orleans had seemed like a good idea at the time—his aversion to flying wasn’t quite phobic, but he got uncomfortable enough on planes that he avoided them at all costs. The Dallas rush-hour traffic, he could handle. The bad drive-through coffee, he could handle. The speeding ticket on the Louisiana border he could also handle, albeit not with a smile on his face. He hadn’t lost his cool until a half hour away from The Seaside, when his SUV blew a tire and damn near skidded off the road. According to the tow truck driver, Troy, the SUV’s axle may have also broken, but they’d call him and let him know how much it’d be to repair and at what point it’d be ready for pickup.

  At least Troy had been good enough to drop Alex off at The Seaside instead of abandoning him on the side of the highway.

  Why am I here again? Oh, right. Sol.

  His brother’s call for help had come in at suppertime the day before.

  “Can you come any sooner, Alex? Something’s happened,” Sol groused.

  “What? Are you all right?”

  “I don’t think so. Our wedding planner sold our wedding details to the press,” Sol said. “We’re getting crushed by paparazzi already, and kitten’s terrified they’re going to be like ants on a picnic the day of. I wish we had time to rebook everything, do it all over secretly, but we don’t. It’s prime wedding season. Every florist, photographer, and caterer between here and Metairie is accounted for, so we have to work with who we have, but we don’t know who any of them are. Did I mention that part? We’ve spent tens of thousands and have no clue who our vendors are?”

  “Why not?” Alex said. “Did your planner scam you?”

  “Oh no. No, she definitely booked things, according to her secretary. I just don’t know where or with whom. She kept horrible records, apparently.”

  “So go see her. Sit in her office until she gets back. Demand answers. You’re not shy.”

  “I can’t,” Sol said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Alex, right after she sold the details of the wedding to some asshole in New York, she was hit by a bus. You’d think if she was going to fuck me over, she’d have the decency to stay alive long enough for me to yell at her for it,” he said.

  Alex hadn’t expected that.

  “Hell. Okay, well, that’s . . . that’s rough. But remember, a woman’s dead. Don’t be glib.”

  “It’s all I have to offer right now, Alex. Arianna’s miserable, there are a billion florists in New Orleans, and I’m trying to call each of them to see if they’re ours, and I’m getting nowhere. Can you come help me sort this? You’re my best man. Come be best and manly?”

  Alex frowned. “Fine. I suppose.”

  “Oh thank God. Seriously, though, we’re fucked. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  The memory of Sol’s panicked laughter stabbed at Alex’s brain. It’s why he’d come early—to help. For all that Sol could and did to make him crazy with fair regularity, he was his brother, and Alex was his best man, and if that meant running around New Orleans like a lunatic so Sol could marry the woman of his dreams in an orderly fashion, so be it.

  Of course, Alex knew next to nothing about Arianna other than what he’d read on the Internet. She was pretty and roly-poly and fresh-faced in her pictures, and though there were some murmurings about a gardener and a sex tape, she was otherwise low key—for a Barrington, anyway. Her father was a notorious lobbyist jerk with a mountain of scandals behind him, but pinning that on the daughter wasn’t fair.

  “Checking in?” asked the statuesque blonde behind the counter. Alex eyed her. Tall, thin, green eyes, very large hair. She was new, Amanda’s replacement, and as Alex hadn’t been home to New Orleans in two years now? Three?—she wouldn’t know him as family.

  Time flies when you’re having fun.

  “I’m Alex DuMont.”

  If that was supposed to elicit some kind of friendly response, it didn’t. Somehow, the woman only looked surlier. “I’m Dora. Your brother’s in the back. I’ll call a bellhop to have your luggage put in your room.”

  “Thank you.”

  She didn’t answer, dismissing him with a curt jerk of her head toward the conference rooms. Alex eyeballed her as he passed the desk, wondering how anyone would want to stay in the hotel if the greeter at the desk was as pleasant as Cerberus, but that was a question for Sol on another day.

  “Kitten, don’t cry. We’ll figure it o— Alex!”

  Inside the first conference room, Sol had his wiry arms wrapped around a quivering pile of maybe-cute, but it was hard to tell with the red eyes, red nose, and torrent of snot pouring down her face. She was not a pretty crier, Arianna Barrington, which was an unkind thing to think, and really none of his business, but the unbidden thought planted itself before he could stop it.

  It reminded him that he needed to check the confession schedule at Saint Louis’s. He was due for some soul maintenance, a biweekly task that kept him honest with himself about his various shortcomings, which were many and certainly exacerbated by unexpected changes of plan.

  I’ve been a cranky jerk since he called me.

  I need to do better.

  “I . . . here.” Alex reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief. Sol snatched it and pressed it to the young woman’s face.

  “Blow,” Sol instructed. She did, and there was a sound like a goose being murdered followed by a barrage of sniffles. Sol kissed her atop her head. “She’s devastated. The paparazzi are unrelenting. I should have known better. Brutus reminded me to ask for the confidentiality paperwork, but I forgot and . . . I’m so glad you could come early. Truly, Alex. You’re a lifesaver.”

  The smile on Sol’s face was beatific. The DuMont boys resembled one another in some ways—similar noses, similarly shaped faces—but there were marked differences, too. Where Sol—and by extension, Nash, because they were identical twins—was thin and graceful like their mother, Alex was a mountain, thick through the chest and shoulders, like their father had been. Sol was platinum blond and wore it long enough he could tie it at his neck, while Alex’s hair was golden and kept short. Sol topped off at six foot three; Alex was six feet exactly. They were both arresting men, but in different ways. Sol was leading-man-from-the-movies beautiful with high cheekbones and a lush mouth. Alex was . . . Sol’s ex, Maddy, had called him Thor once as a joke. He was too clean shaven to be a Norse god, but in another life? Plausible.

  “I bet you could twist me into a pretzel,” Maddy had said. “Just pull me apart like taffy with your bare hands. Wanna try it?”

  Alex was pretty sure she’d been offering sex, and while she was a glorious creature of bountiful charms, he’d passed. Alex was devout, and random fumblings were forbidden, never mind random fumblings with your former sister-in-law. Besides, since then she’d shacked up with his best friend, Darren, and they’d been playing house everywhere from New Orleans to Dallas.

  “Arianna. I’m so sorry to meet you under these conditions,” Alex said in opening. “I can’t imagine your strain.”

  “A-Alex. Call me Rain, please. Sol’s told me a lot about you. So glad you could come. I have no idea what we’re going to do. There will be people all over our venue and . . . I’m complaining. I’m sorry.” She pulled away from Sol’s chest to greet Alex, and much to his surprise, wrapped her arms around his middle to squeeze. He was used to the casual indifference of society women, their air kisses that never actually touched your cheeks because th
ey didn’t want to smear their lipstick, but this was earnest affection. She was warm and inviting and very real.

  In spite of the . . . oh God.

  “You have a . . . on your nose. At the end.” Alex motioned with his finger toward her nostril. If the presence of the offensive booger upset her, she didn’t let it show, simply snatching the handkerchief out of Sol’s hand and dabbing at her miniature green atrocity.

  “We probably have to cancel the reception hall. It was so beautiful, too. I just . . . Darlene is a turd stain. Wait. Aren’t you a deacon? I shouldn’t say turd stain in front of a deacon. I’m being awful.”

  She looked so twitterpated Alex couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not a deacon, but I suppose it’s a possibility if I can ever find a good night manager and a couple more hours in the day.” He squeezed her shoulder, albeit awkwardly, but she didn’t seem to mind. “And we all have our moments. Your planner was thoughtless. I understand the frustration. Why are you canceling the venue?”

  “It’s open air, so no place to hide from the press. I could hire extra security, I suppose,” Sol offered, sweeping his fiancée and her enormous pink diamond engagement ring off her feet. They collapsed together on an overstuffed love seat, Arianna nestled against his shoulder like Sol’s personal doll. “But that does nothing to ward off the helicopter photographers.”

  “Why not have it here? The ballroom’s big enough,” Alex said before making his way to the coffee station. Real New Orleans chicory brew was a dream come true to a tired man force-fed a steady diet of burned Starbucks.

  “It’s booked, and I won’t have another bride suffering like I am,” Rain replied. “Sol said we could cancel it, but I couldn’t live with myself. Plus lawsuits.”

  “You could postpone the wedding?”

  “I don’t want to,” Sol said. “Everyone’s flying in. Hell, you’re here already, and we’re waiting to hear back from Rain’s maid of honor. She’s coming in from South Africa, I think?”