Authors: Jennifer St Giles
"Now, Mr. Gallier. The last time you saw Miss Vengle was at dinner last night?"
"Quite right," Mr. Gallier said. "She claimed she was worn out from her shopping excursion and retired early, as did my wife. Mr. Fitz and I spent several hours after dinner discussing details about our upcoming productions. Then we retired, as well. After that I did not leave my room."
"But—" Mrs. Gallier said. Mr. Gallier patted her hand and she dabbed harder at her eyes with a handkerchief, her face crinkling into a look of frustration. Could it be Mrs. Gallier knew something and was being forced to keep silent?
"But what?" The sheriff's gaze narrowed at the couple.
Mr. Gallier cleared his throat and acted as if he was being sorely put upon. "If you must know, occasionally I have difficulty at night. I have bilious attacks that require lengthy use of the water closet. Sometimes not even my Dover's powder helps. I had such an attack last night."
I wondered how many times the water closet ended up being Miss Vengle's room.
"When did you notice anything wrong?" the sheriff asked Mr. Gallier.
"This morning, about six. Mr. Fitz heard a woman cry out and knocked on our door, rousing my wife and me.
"Mr. Fitz, do you think you heard Miss Vengle? Was it a cry for help?"
My face burned and I had to fight to breathe normally.
Mr. Fitz ran his fingers over his mustache to make sure his handlebars weren't askew. "I couldn't say for sure what sort of cry it was. I was awake, heard the rain, and then the cry. I decided to investigate the source of the noise."
Sheriff Carr narrowed his eyes. "You said earlier that you went to Miss Vengle's door first. Therefore one can assume you thought she'd cried out."
Mr. Fitz's face flushed red. "I thought that it might have been."
"And when Miss Vengle didn't answer her door, what did you do?"
"I assumed she was still asleep. I then knocked on Mr. Gallier's door and Mr. Trevelyan's. When Mr. Trevelyan answered, he was already dressed . . ." Mr. Fitz looked at Stephen in shock. "By God, he was wet, too! As if he had been out in the rain."
I stood. "It was I who cried out."
"I can attest to that," Stephen said, giving up his relaxed position against the mantel and walking determinedly toward me. "I was out on the gallery, enjoying the first cool morning there has been since I arrived in New Orleans. Being from San Francisco, I rather welcomed the rain. I heard the cry from up above me, and I stepped out into the courtyard to view Mrs. Boucheron's balcony. Then I heard Mr. Fitz's knock and hurried back into my room. After speaking to Mr. Fitz, I immediately went upstairs and learned from Miss Mignon DePerri that Mrs. Boucheron had cried out during a nightmare, and that Miss Ginette DePerri had fallen seriously ill. I then left to get the doctor." Stephen didn't take his gaze off me, making it very clear that I was not to contradict him.
"Does this coincide with your recollections of what happened this morning, Mr. Fitz?"
Mr. Fitz frowned. "I suppose."
"Mrs. Boucheron?"
"Monsieur Trevelyan has been most helpful."
Sheriff Carr nodded. "And you say that Mr. Trevelyan was with you and your son last evening, returning well after midnight?"
"That is correct. The fog was so heavy, the carriage had to move at a crawl," I said, thankful to be truthful.
The sheriff paced across the room, and everyone sat silent, waiting for him to speak. "Then, given everyone's testimony, including yours, Mrs. Gallier, sometime between nine last night and six this morning Miss Vengle was murdered. And yet with a household of people, some awake late into the night, no one heard or saw anything usual. Does anyone have anything to add to that?"
"I do," Stephen said. "Considering the thickness of the fog, the menacing events surrounding Mrs. Boucheron and her family, and the fact that it appears Miss Vengle was wearing Mrs. Boucheron's shawl and resembled Mrs. Boucheron in size and hair color, I believe Mrs. Boucheron was the intended victim."
My heart went cold. Which of the people sitting in my parlor was a murderer? Which one knew about the gold?
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
"Juliet?"
I snapped my eyes open and sat up, surprised to find someone had draped a light coverlet over my shoulders. I'd fallen asleep in a chair at Ginette's bedside, her hand in mine. Her skin had lost its cold, clammy feel and I thought her color better. The new nurse sat attentively on my sister's other side. Turning to Stephen, I blinked. "What time is it?"
"After midnight." His hair was damp, as if he'd just bathed. He wore a loose white shirt and dark breeches that were faded and soft looking. They appeared to have hugged the contours of his thigh muscles for a long time.
"Where is Dr. Marks?" I asked.
He'd arrived just before dinner and I had gladly made my excuses to the boarders. No one had said much of anything since Sheriff Carr's questioning. Before the sheriff left, I told him privately of the relationship between Mr. Gallier and Miss Vengle, and of Mr. Fitz's interest in Miss Vengle. To my surprise, he was already aware of the situation. He left, giving strict instructions that no one was to leave the city until the investigation into Miss Vengle's murder had been concluded.
"Dr. Marks went home and will return in the morning. I thought his news positive that Ginette is in a restorative sleep."
Rubbing my stiff neck, I moved toward Stephen. Dr. Marks had determined that the powder on Ginette's embroidery was most likely a botanically derived pesticide. Many such substances were for sale on New Orleans's darker streets, where a coin could buy a potion to cost a man his life. "It is late. You should not have let me sleep. There is still so much to do—"
"Everything has already been done. Andre and Mignon are in Mignon's room with the puppy. Papa John is watching the first floor, and Mr. Phelps is outside. The house is completely locked and everyone is under strict instructions not to unlock any doors or windows until morning. Now it is your turn for someone to take care of you. Come with me." He held out his hand, and I let him lead me into the corridor and down the hall.
I sighed. "If Mademoiselle Vengle hadn't worn my shawl, she would still be alive."
"You do not know that for sure. And there is no way you could have known that ahead of time. You should not blame yourself. I have learned the hard way that the only thing you can do in the face of tragic events is to determine not to waste a moment of your own life."
"Was not Monsieur Phelps guarding last night while we were gone?" I looked up at Stephen, realizing that having a guard had not secured Miss Vengle's safety.
"At my orders, Mr. Phelps kept watch inside the house in the corridor on the family's floor until we returned last night. So, if anyone is to blame for her death it is I," he said, bringing his voice to a whisper.
I whispered back, feeling odd at the necessity to do so in my own house. It was another reminder that my enemy might not be at the gate but in the very next room. "Then that would mean something happened to Mademoiselle Vengle before we arrived back at
La Belle
, which clears you completely as being a suspect. Why did you not tell Sheriff Carr?"
"As long as the murderer thinks that I am under heavy suspicion, he will be less on guard."
I shivered. "What if I was not the target, Stephen? What if Monsieur Gallier or Fitz strangled Mademoiselle Vengle? What if my shawl was thrown out there to make it appear that I was the intended victim?"
"I have considered that, but we would then have to rule out Mr. Fitz."
"Why?"
"Let me put this as delicately as I can. There is a distinct difference in the cry of a woman being pleasured and a woman being hurt. From Mr. Fitz's embarrassment during Sheriff Carr's questioning, I think it safe to assume that he suspected Miss Vengle and Mr. Gallier were together and that he wanted to interrupt them, perhaps even rouse Mrs. Gallier and expose the affair. That is why he went directly to the Gallier's room when Miss Vengle did not answer her door. If he honestly thought Miss Vengle had cried out in distress, needing help, he would have just opened her door. It was not locked."
My face burned like fire. Stephen leaned down and brushed his lips across mine.
"You need to rest. Go take a bath. Mignon has already placed your nightgown, robe, and slippers inside. I'll stay right here to make sure you are safe."
I opened the door to the bath to find a steamy tub, smelling heavenly of rose oil. Undressing, I slid into the water with a sigh. The languid heat eased into my body, chasing away tension and the dampness of the day's rain. Rather than growing sleepy though, my senses seemed to come alive, beginning at the tips of my toes and steadily climbing until my breasts ached with anticipation. I was acutely aware of Stephen waiting just outside the door.
When I finished, I slid on only my robe and slippers, leaving off my nightdress. I had never been so bold.
I found Stephen pacing in front of the door, looking a great deal more ragged than he had fifteen minutes before. Anticipation curled hotly inside me and grew as he wordlessly accompanied me down the corridor to my room, where I noted a chair just outside my door.
"Keep the door ajar so that I can hear the least noise. You get some sleep now. Tomorrow I need to talk to you. There is something I need to explain." He brushed a kiss against my forehead, then held the door open for me. My moment to reach out to him was fading, and I could not let it slip through my fingers. Halfway to my bed, I turned to face him.
"Stephen," I said, emotion thickening my voice. "There is a problem."
He darted his gaze over my shoulder to search the lit room. I didn't hesitate. I slid loose the silk ribbons tying my robe and shrugged it from my shoulders.
"I need you tonight, Stephen. I want you."
My breath caught at the intensity in his blue eyes. He stepped into the room and kicked the door shut as he grabbed the hem of his shirt, stripping it over his head. The broad expanse of his chest and shoulders gleamed in the lamplight. He covered the distance between us and backed me up to the bed, setting his pistol within reach on the bedside table. Then he stripped off his pants and stood before me naked, a mixture of vulnerability, power, and desire.
I drank in the sight of his dark beauty, the roughly hewn angles of his jaw, his jutting arousal, and the passion glittering in his eyes. He took hold of my robe, sliding the silk from me as he raked his gaze over me.
"I do not deserve what you offer, but I die for you, Juliet," he rasped.
He pulled me into his arms, his mouth covering mine in a kiss so searing that it reached deeper than my soul, opening and exposing my every need with the brush of his lips and the stroke of his tongue.
I slid my hands along the hard velvet contours of his arms and back, up into the silk of his hair, delving into its thickness and warmth. I reveled in the seductive scent of sandalwood and spice enveloping me in a haze of desire.
"Tonight, I get to touch you and to feel you. To awaken your senses like you do mine," I said.
"They are fully awake. You only need to glance down to see that."
"There's more," I said, and slid my fingers lightly over his arousal. "Lie down and let me touch you, Stephen."
He drew a deep breath. "I don't know if I'll live through your sweet torture."
I smiled and nodded toward the bed. Reluctantly, he went and lay down. Propping his head up, he raked his gaze over me so hotly that I knew I wouldn't be able to resist his dark desire for long. Judging by his sensual smile, he knew it, too.
"Turn over and shut your eyes," I whispered.
His gaze widened with surprise, bringing a secret thrill to me. I could almost feel his body warring with his mind as he turned to his stomach. I went to the bed, standing over him a moment, drinking in the sight of his hard curves and supple muscle. Starting at his shoulders, I slid my hands over the broad expanse of his back, softly pressing my fingers into his warmth and strength, feeling the power of him. Then I followed my touch with soft kisses that made him groan. With each touch, with each sensation, my blood heated and hot desire pooled in my center, making my breasts ache for him. I moved lower, easing down his spine to the fascinating firmness of his bottom and the hard contours of his thighs. When I pressed kisses there, his body jerked taut.
"Juliet," he gasped, his breaths as ragged as mine.
"Turn over."
He moved in a flash and tried to reach for me, but I stepped away.
"Put your hands behind your head."
"What are you doing?" he demanded, complying but looking dangerously close to rebellion.
I wanted to love every inch of this man. I wanted to make his fantasies unwind. I ran my fingers up his leg to his arousal, wrapping my hand around him, feeling the throb of his pulse, and the burning heat of his desire.
"Developing a silver tongue," I said. Leaning forward, I put my mouth upon his erection, brushing my tongue over the hot velvet of his desire. His whole body arched. Four more kisses and he groaned, grabbing me.
"Heaven help me," Stephen cried as he pulled me down on top of him. He brought my knees to his sides, held my hips in place, and buried himself inside me in a single hot stroke. Then he reached for my breasts, teasing them mercilessly with his deft fingers, making their tips ache until my hips rocked with the need to ease my desire. I burned hotter with his every upward thrust, until he brought my world to a shattering pinnacle of pleasure and I shuddered with fulfillment. Then I watched as his body went taut, his breath came in a deep rasping moan, and his eyes lost focus in a shuddering release.
I collapsed on his chest and he pulled me close to his heart.
"I love you," I said softly.
"I have never been loved so well, nor have I ever loved so deeply." He kissed my forehead, then my lips, and wrapped his arms tightly around me. The tenderness, the warmth, and the love in his voice shook me, bringing tears to my eyes.