Authors: Cynthia Wright

Spring Fires (34 page)

"Sorry. I'll go see to the tables now."

Her abrupt reply caused Lisette to glance up instantly. Hyla's wide hips were already disappearing into the public room, but she didn't care. Her eyes were riveted on Nicholai Beauvisage.

"Will you look who I found trying to sneak into the CoffeeHouse before it's properly open?" exclaimed Stringfellow with forced gaiety. He peered around Beauvisage's wide shoulders imploringly. It had torn him up to see Lisette come back all sad and brokenhearted, particularly since he had found love himself with the adoring new maid, Nancy.

"Hello, Mistress Hahn," Nicholai greeted her, the formality of his words warmed by amused affection. How ludicrous that they had allowed pride to throw up this wall between them!

"Good day, Mr. Beauvisage," she replied carefully. "You are looking very well."

"Thanks to you."

It was true; he did look splendid. One would never guess what his condition had been a fortnight ago. It was as if Nicholai had never been wounded at all... as if their time at the villa existed only in Lisette's yearning-filled dreams. Here he was, confronting her once again at the CoffeeHouse. As usual, she wore a plain high-necked long-sleeved cotton frock, most of which was concealed by a snowy apron fastened neatly around her slim waist. And, as usual, Nicholai wore handsomely tailored clothes that only accentuated his rouguish magnetism. He belonged in President Washington's drawing room—not in her flour-dusted keeping room. Lisette swallowed hard and returned her attention to the latest piecrust.

"I see that you have had your hair trimmed. It looks very nice."

"You are too kind," Nicholai murmured with a wry smile. He glanced over at a slightly panicky-looking Stringfellow and lowered his brows over eyes that threatened and implored at once.

"Mr. Beauvisage!" cried Stringfellow. "Please do be seated! Let me bring you a cold mug of ale."

"That's very generous of you," he replied. He took the stool opposite Lisette and tried, unsuccessfully, to catch her eye. "May I be of assistance?" he inquired at length.

"Oh, no, that's not necessary. I'm nearly finished—and I wouldn't want you to soil that handsome coat."

"Do you like it?" he teased gently, and was reassured to see Lisette's cheeks take on a dusky glow even though she kept her eyes averted. He longed to reach for her hand, to kiss each graceful piecrust-smudged finger.... "It's the first day I've worn a proper coat. Oliver has done his best to help with my shoulder, but his skills pale in comparison to yours." Gently, his dark hand touched her pale, delicate wrist. "I didn't want you to imagine, Lisette, that I am managing without you."

"Clearly, Oliver is doing an excellent job." She kept her eyes on the pie, even though the last crimp had been put in the crust. She knew that his keen gaze would be her undoing.

Nicholai was on the verge of asking what the devil was wrong when the door swung open to readmit James Stringfellow. With a flourish, he presented the frosty mug of ale.

"Here's my Nancy!" Stringfellow announced. He drew a shy young woman of perhaps twenty-five into the circle of his arm and grinned. "Perhaps you know her, Mr. Beauvisage! She comes from your parents' house."

"Well, of course. How nice to see you again, Nancy."

Seeming to smell the tension in the air, Stringfellow decided to try to alleviate it. After Nancy had smiled, blushed, and escaped back to her duties in the public room, the Englishman perched on the stool next to Beauvisge.

"Mmm, don't those pies look ruddy wonderful! I never knew a woman who could cook like our Lisette." Ignoring her embarrassed warning glare, he plunged cheerfully ahead. "Perhaps you weren't aware that the expression 'upper crust,' meanin' gentry, came about in England because they were the only ones who could afford that extra crust?"

"That's just fascinating," Lisette said without enthusiasm.

Nicholai heard Stringfellow asking if the prices had been higher at market that day, but then his attention wandered to Lisette. She was wearing a mobcap today. Her lustrous curls were pinned up beneath it on the sides, but cascaded down behind her shoulders. The frilly little cap took some getting used to, yet he thought that she looked adorable, peeking out beneath the ruffled edge.

"Honestly!" Lisette was saying, suddenly afire. "The prices have simply gotten out of hand. These turkeys cost over one dollar apiece! They are good sized, but that does not justify robbery. Flour is now four dollars a hundredweight!"

Nicholai was enchanted. Her curls, washed by sunbeams, whirled with each angry gesture; she had never looked more delectable. He longed to kiss the warm satiny skin concealed beneath her plain cotton dress.

"Why do you smile?" she challenged him. "Do you find the problems of the poor entertaining?"

"On the contrary, Mistress Hahn. You have my heartfelt sympathy." With an effort, he put on a serious expression.

"I don't want your sympathy." Turning, Lisette crossed the room to wash her hands in a bowl in the dry sink. The feeling of his eyes on her released a hundred confusing emotions that she hadn't the strength to deal with.

"Stringfellow, go and check your bar stock. Make certain that Chastity replenished the supplies of wine and lemonade as I requested."

"Yes'm." The little Englishman gave Nicholai an encouraging wink before hurrying through the door to the public room.

Nicholai looked at Lisette's back, wondering how to proceed. He wanted to catch her in his embrace, kissing her until the stiffness in her spine dissolved and her body melted against his own. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he wouldn't allow misunderstanding to damage their beautiful new relationship. The notion of beginning again, of wooing Lisette slowly, seemed too great a test for his patience.

At length, she turned toward him. Her expression was starchy, yet helplessly vulnerable. Nicholai's heart ached for her.

"It's nearly noon and there is a great deal to be done, so unless you have some specific business, I would appreciate it if—"

"But I do have specific business!" he interjected hastily. "I beg you not to turn me out. I have a letter to deliver to you."

"From whom?"

"All I can tell you is that it is addressed to you. When Katya went back to the villa yesterday to retrieve a few things I left behind, she found this under the table by my bed."

Lisette accepted the envelope that Nicholai drew from his waistcoat pocket. "I've seen this before. Stringfellow conveyed it to me a day or two after the duel. I brought it upstairs, unopened, and apparently forgot all about it!"

"I wonder why?" Nicholai couldn't resist asking. A mischievous smile flickered over his hard mouth.

"I can't imagine, I'm sure." She stared at the letter tapping it against pretty fingertips as she waited for her cheeks to cool down. "Have you eaten? Perhaps you would like a dish of chicken stew while I read this."

"I would be delighted."

Lisette set down the letter and took a pewter dish over to the fire. She spooned in fragrant stewed chicken and spring vegetables, then gathered up cutlery and gestured for Nicholai to take one of the comb-back chairs before the hearth. Moments later, they were settled side by side, Lisette with her letter and "tea," and Nicholai with his dinner and ale.

"This is delicious!" he declared after one generous mouthful of chicken and vegetables. He could taste wonderful scallions and turnips, celery and small red potatoes, asparagus, savory and tarragon and sweet butter, and, of course, tender, succulent chicken, cooked until it fell in shreds from the bones....

Lisette couldn't repress a smile. "Thank you! I created that recipe last night."

"You are a woman of rare talents—and cooking is the least of them."

Pinned like a butterfly under his emerald gaze, Lisette blushed to the roots of her hair. She reached for her teacup and took a liberal shiver-provoking sip, then broke the seal on the letter. The parchment sheet crackled as she unfolded it, turning toward the firelight to illuminate the elaborately curled script.

"It is from the bank," Lisette said wonderingly, then fell silent as she read. "Oh my... Lord!" Her eyes widened in shock. "Thirty-one thousand dollars... from an anonymous donor!" The sheet of parchment floated down to the floor as Lisette sprang up to pace in front of Nicholai. "Why would anyone want to give
me
thirty-one thousand dollars? It says that the money was deposited in an account under my name on April twenty-seventh. Do you suppose that this could have anything to do with Marcus Reems?"

"Well, I don't see how. He was dead. And, after all, why on earth would he
give
that amount of money to you?"

"I don't know. Why would anyone do so?"

Nicholai stared at the fire for a long minute, savoring a bite of chicken, then replied, "I can't answer that, Lisette, but my guess is that someone who has known and liked you must have decided to make your life easier. Perhaps a gentleman who came to the CoffeeHouse for years and knew your father? It seems that you must have a guardian angel."

She cast a suspicious glance in his direction. "
You
wouldn't have anything to do with this...?"

Nicholai laughed, looking so splendid in the firelight that Lisette's heart jumped. "I wish I could claim the credit—and believe me, if I were responsible, I would let you know! Generosity of this magnitude could only aid my cause!"

"Which is?"

Resting his fork on the edge of the pewter dish, Nicholai reached for her hand and kissed the soft warmth of her palm. It smelled and tasted wonderful, blending a clean womanliness with delicious food scents. Their eyes met and he lost himself in Lisette's hopeful gaze.

"My cause is you, sweetheart," he whispered with a ragged sigh. "You know that."

Tears stung her eyes. "I—" What could she say? How could she possibly allow herself to trust him again?

Sensing her discomfort, Nicholai generously returned his attention to his dinner and changed the subject. "Do you have any idea what you will do with so much money?"

"Why... I will have to think about it, of course, but I suppose I will pay the remainder of Papa's debts, including the one I still owe to Senator Hampshire... and then I will be able to make repairs and improvements here in the CoffeeHouse. What is left I shall put away for that proverbial rainy day—which seems to arrive quite often around here!"

Lisette's exhilarated tone and winsome smile made his heart ache. He wished that they were back at the Hampshires' villa, that he had just been wounded and that she was holding him in the darkness. Not so long ago, he had been the center of her world... or so it seemed. Now, she slipped through his fingers like shimmering gold dust.

"I know what you mean, Lisette. There were many times in France when I wished for a windfall to alleviate my financial worries. More than once, our grape harvest did not meet our expectations or some unforeseen expense arose to drain my pockets at the worst possible moment. I can appreciate what it will mean to you to be free from financial pressures."

"Freedom does seem to be the perfect word."

"Now you are not only an independent business woman, but an independent woman of means. That's quite impressive!"

She was considering the implications of his statement when a formal knock sounded at the door to the garden court. "Come in!" called Lisette.

To Nicholai's surprise, it was Oliver who stepped across the threshold. Instantly, he rose and went to meet his butler. "Oliver! What has happened? Why are you here?"

"This letter came for you at the house—by messenger, sir. I was instructed that you must receive it immediately or I would never have disturbed you here, Mr. Beauvisage."

"I do hope that nothing is wrong!" exclaimed Lisette.

She stood just inches from his side, and Nicholai's instinct was to ignore both the letter and his butler and instead crush her against the length of his hungry body.

"I can't imagine that it is anything serious. If it had to do with my family, I'm certain that someone would have brought me the news in person. Was this messenger familiar, Oliver?" When the black man shook his head in the negative, Nicholai quirked a brow. "Perhaps this is just our day for letters, Lisette."

At that point, Oliver bowed and took his leave, but Lisette remained at Nicholai's side. She tried not to look as he casually broke the seal on the envelope and unfolded the creamy pages inside. The scent of gardenias teased the air. Nicholai was looking ahead to the signature on the third sheet, and Lisette's eyes helplessly joined the search. Registering the name scrawled near the bottom, she felt as though someone had hit her in the stomach; she heard herself gasp aloud.

"Nicky,
je t'adore... toujours
..." it read, followed by a single, boldly signed name:
"Gabrielle."

Chapter 30