Patricia Rice (16 page)

She nodded and started down the hall, but before she could reach the stairs, Nicholas called after her, making her turn. Putting his hands on the stair rail behind her, he pinned her against the newel post.

"Before you start putting on airs in Jeannette's name, you better know that my father was a drunkard and a gambler. He was shot for cheating at the table, and there are those who thought he should have been shot for cheating in other ways before then. I have a half brother that I know of by an octoroon down in the quarters, and I suspect two half sisters by prominent women you may have met in these last few weeks. My mother carefully warned me away from them without giving any reason. To my credit, I didn't instantly pursue them. It was only later that I began to understand why their mothers whisked them out of my reach. Now you know why I have little care for my family name."

"Your father ruined his own name, not yours. And not Jeannette's. She is a Saint-Just to society, but she will be a beautiful woman of her own when she grows up. You can help her achieve that, or hurt her. That is your decision to make." Eavin fought against the panic of his closeness. She had nowhere to put her hands but on him, and that she would not do. She clenched her fingers behind her and waited for Nicholas to move.

"You are an innocent fool if that is all you think of society, but I will not disillusion you. You will learn on your own soon enough. In the meantime, I will do what I think is best for Jeannette's sake, and I wish to hear no criticism from you. Is that understood?"

"Of course. Did you hear me say anything else?" With a lifted eyebrow, Eavin indicated her displeasure.

Nicholas gave her a mocking look and stepped back. "Somehow I think our minds are much alike, Irish. You will do whatever is necessary for Jeannette's sake also, won't you?"

She didn't like the way he said that. There was nothing in his look but cool admiration, and nothing in his tone but more of the same. But he was right. Their minds were much alike, and she didn't like what hers was thinking.

"I suppose we'll see, won't we?" she inquired sweetly, stepping away from his encroaching arms. And before he could stop her, she lifted her skirts and hurried up the stairs.

His mocking laughter followed her up, and horribly, it sent a shiver of anticipation through her middle and added fuel to the fire that his kiss had already set alight.

Chapter 14

"He is a most handsome man, is he not?" a husky voice behind Eavin inquired.

Watching Nicholas walk away, Eavin cursed her foolishness in not bringing a maid with her. She would never grow accustomed to thinking of herself as a lady who needed the chaperonage of a maid, and obviously, neither would Nicholas. He had abandoned her here in front of the dressmaker's to go off on business of his own, leaving her an open target for forward strangers.

She swung around to confront the speaker, startled to discover a woman of color and not a gossip-prone man. She bit her tongue as she recognized the lovely features beneath the brilliant blue and silver of the
tignon
.

"I have met more handsome," Eavin replied stiffly.

"Yet none so exciting,
mais oui
?"

The woman was studying her with curiosity, in the same way that Eavin surreptitiously returned the gaze. "I have errands to do. Was there some reason you wished to speak with me?"

The woman smiled with a trace of mockery. "I think we have the same interests and thought it wise to make your acquaintance."

Propriety seemed to be eluding her. Eavin felt the stares of strangers around them, but curiosity was ever stronger than her decorum. "If you mean Nicholas's support, I suppose I must agree that our interests coincide, but I'm not certain why that makes it necessary to meet."

Dancing laughter leapt to chocolate eyes as the woman raised her parasol and prepared to leave. "Because we both wish to protect what we love most. My name is Labelle Saint-Just. If you ever have need of me, you need only tell one of his servants. They will know where to find me."

She swept away before any could question her right to converse with a white woman in the center of town. Eavin stared after her in confusion. Saint-Just? Surely Nicholas could not have married her. What was it he had said of his father's peccadilloes? There had been mention of a quadroon son and several daughters, but she had been under the impression that the daughters were white. Damn, but this city and its inhabitants were growing more complicated by the day.

What was that the woman had said about love? Did this Labelle person have a child she loved as much as Eavin loved Jeannette?

Not wanting to contemplate any more complications, Eavin retreated into the dressmaker's shop, where only the profusion of goods could confuse her. It didn't help her day any to note the Valenciennes lace prominently displayed in the first case that she studied.

* * *

Entering the
petite salle,
Nicholas was the picture of indolent elegance. His gray long-tailed frock coat rested in impeccable folds against a lean frame more long than broad. A maid whisked away his tall hat, and he murmured French flattery that made her giggle.

Not until Nicholas was certain there was no one in the salon other than family did he allow any hint of his anger to show. "Where the hell were you? You were supposed to be at the dressmaker's! I've been scouring the damned town."

Nicholas's mother looked up in shock at these tones, but Eavin merely held her embroidery up to the waning afternoon light to examine it.

"I was admiring the quantity of goods in your local stores," she said calmly, as if he had said nothing and she were just giving a description of her day. Satisfied with her stitching, she lowered the needlework to her lap and jabbed the needle in again. "It is quite fascinating to note how many carry that exquisite lace now. And did you know that there are French perfumes and silk stockings available? At quite reasonable prices, lower I think, than in Baltimore before the war. And the market! Why, I saw the oddest men carrying in barrel after barrel of what I'm certain must be fine brandy. The people of New Orleans certainly do know how to live. I'm quite staggered by all these luxuries at a time of war."

Still obviously fuming, Nicholas strode into the room and poured himself some sherry, the strongest drink his mother allowed in the house. "You wandered down to the market by yourself, without an escort. How clever of you."

"Oh, no, by all means, no." Still seething after her afternoon encounters, Eavin was dying to mention the woman Labelle, but she didn't think it appropriate in front of Madame Saint-Just. Instead she allowed her ire to escape in sarcasm. "I went to have a little chat with your newspaper friend, Mr. Fletcher, the red-haired man, remember?" She kept her smile to herself as Nicholas nodded impatiently, obviously gritting his teeth. "He escorted me around quite nicely, thank you."

"I see. And what did you and my red-haired friend have to discuss all this time while I was searching for your body in the river?"

Eavin couldn't keep from smiling at that. She looked up to find Madame Saint-Just staring at her, but she ignored the older woman's disapproval to smile sweetly at Nicholas. "Why, lots and lots of things. I'm certain you wouldn't be interested."

He really would have to strangle the blasted female. She sat there just as demure and innocent-looking as a milk-fed miss, but Nicholas knew damned good and well the wicked mind hiding behind those blinding green eyes. He wouldn't put it past her to know more about his business by now than he did himself. There wasn't a man in this town who had connected him with that American newspaper. Not even her cousin suspected. To Nicholas's surprise, his mother interrupted before he could find an appropriate response.

"I'm happy to know that you have enjoyed our city, Mrs. Dupré," Hélène said stiffly. "I was hoping to find some opportunity to ask you to stay with me when Nicholas returns to the plantation. It is lonesome here with no young people about."

Nicholas leaned his elbow against the mahogany secretary and watched his mother with something akin to amazement. She was lying through her teeth. In private she still referred to Jeannette as "the bastard," and her opinion of Eavin was not much higher, although he had noticed a certain grudging respect these last weeks. Still, the woman who had stood in the shadows holding her tongue while his father had beat the hell out of him wasn't a woman to stand up to any other adversary, either. What was she doing inviting one to stay in the house? Out of curiosity he waited for Eavin's reply.

After a brief, startled silence when she waited for him to make some retort, Eavin spoke for herself. "That is a generous offer and one I am certain I will love to take up when Jeannette is a little older. But I find I prefer the country and would like to take advantage of it while I can, if you do not mind."

 
Hélène glanced up to her son. "Would it help if I insist?"

Nicholas met her eyes coldly. "Not at all. She returns with me."

"It is unfair of you to keep Madame Dupré's only grandchild from her."

Not liking this direction any better, Nicholas twisted his lips cynically. "She and her cronies never came here until Jeannette arrived. Surely you cannot still covet the society that has always turned its back on you?"

"And why should I not? It is the society to which I was born—less than the society to which I was born. You forget your grandfathers were of the nobility. You are entitled to return to France and seek the return of the marquesate if you so desire. Why should I not travel in the highest circles?"

He was aware of Eavin's shocked stare and her silent departure, but the argument was an old one, and Nicholas crossed his arms in boredom. "Because those circles turned their backs on you when you needed them. Your only true friends have been among the Americans. Why do you not cultivate them instead of the Madame Duprés of the world?"

His mother drew her shoulders back proudly. "How can I discuss with them the finer things of life? Americans do not understand the opera. They do not know how to give a soiree. They know nothing of etiquette. All they understand is money. You are becoming desperately like them, Nicholas."

Growing impatient, he raised himself from the desk and started for the door. "Excellent. I admire their audacity and their ingenuity. They own this country now. The future is theirs. I will see my daughter grow with respect in their eyes."

"She is not your daughter!"

The words were almost a screech as Nicholas walked out of the room. He halted briefly, closed his eyes in an attempt to control his temper, then turned for one final word. Standing in the doorway, he said in a voice of exaggerated calm, "Jeannette is my daughter, Maman. You would be wise to remember that."

Turning back to the hallway, Nicholas met the gaze of the woman standing at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide with some emotion he did not care to investigate. With a nod, he retrieved his hat and stalked out.

As the wagons were loaded to return to the plantation the next day, his conversation with his mother prompted Nicholas to examine his life once again, and he didn't like what he was seeing. What little stability he had achieved by marriage to Francine was rapidly eroding. He was thirty-two years old, wealthy enough to have whatever he desired, and reluctant guardian of an infant he had sworn to protect. Yet he was still behaving as if he were two and twenty with no ties, no responsibilities, and no concerns beyond his own.

Soon he would have to consider marrying again. Francine had been the only woman he had ever come close to loving. He didn't expect to find that again. Perhaps he ought to choose an American wife this time. Watching the last sway of Eavin's skirt as she disappeared into the gallery overhead, Nicholas had to grin at how his thoughts had led him astray.
 

With the warm sun on his back, the scent of flowers in the air, and trailing plants swinging in the breeze, Nicholas felt the first stirrings of life since Francine's death, and his thoughts turned lustful. If he was to take his rightful place in society for Jeannette's sake, he couldn't do it by marrying an Irish maid, even if she could bear the children he wanted. No, there were better places for women like Eavin Dupré, and his best friend's bed wasn't one of them.

Whistling to himself, realizing that he was actually glad to be returning to the plantation he had designated as his retreat from the society he despised, Nicholas strode through the house to supervise the packing of the wagons. He was looking forward to planting season. It had been a long time since he had looked forward to anything.

Eavin was highly suspicious of Nicholas's mood as the small caravan wound through cypress forests and over streams still swollen from spring rains. He frequently rode his restive stallion on ahead to check low places in the road and the passability of fords, and she very much thought he was behaving as restlessly as his stallion.

She watched as Nicholas set the prancing horse to ride toward them with another report, and she couldn't help noticing how the wind flattened his shirt against his chest, emphasizing not only his breadth but the fact that muscles and no fat lay beneath the fabric. Eavin reminded herself that his shirt was the silk of a wealthy man, adorned with the ruffles of society, and had no relation to the unadorned cotton of her brother's. She didn't know why he was displaying his grandeur, but she would have no part of it.