Deceive Not My Heart (8 page)

Yvette's unexpected fit of temper did not distress Leonie—she was as aware as her half-sister of the danger involved in what she planned to do, and she didn't blame Yvette for being furious.
But it has to be done,
Leonie told herself resolutely.
We can afford no further debts!

She had changed her gown for one of dark brown cotton, deciding that if she was to be lurking in the shadows at the governor's residence she would be better off in darker clothes. Unfortunately, like so many of Leonie's gowns, this one too had been outgrown. Her firm young bosom rose above what had once been a demure neckline; it seemed if she took a deep breath her breasts would burst from the material. Her hair was still neatly coiled and pinned to the top of her head, but she had removed her slippers in anticipation of following her grandfather when he left the house.

It was a common practice for the ladies of New Orleans to walk barefooted through the muddy or dusty streets until they reached their destination. Once there, servants would wash and dry their feet, and then the ladies would put on their silken stockings and delicate satin slippers to dance the night away. Leonie had no intention of dancing, but she was definitely aware of the wisdom of going barefoot—there had been a thundershower earlier and the black loam of the streets would be like thick grease.

Leonie's estimation of her grandfather's reaction to their conversation earlier in the day had been entirely correct, and he had spent the remaining hours until he left for the governor's residence at Toulouse and Levee Streets, drinking and brooding in a small, shabbily furnished room at the rear of the house.

By the time Claude, nattily attired, as always left the house a few hours after sunset, he was in a dangerous frame of mind and full of the bravado found so easily in a bottle of fine French brandy. He owed money all over New Orleans—the tradesmen were beginning to object to more credit and even his devoted tailor had suggested recently that some payment be made on his bill. But Claude was confident tonight—soon their trials would be over! Leonie watched him go from her window on the second story of the house, the expression on her young face grim and determined.

Aware that his destination was the governor's residence just a short distance from their own house on Toulouse Street, Leonie did not immediately follow her grandfather but let several hours pass before she snatched up her old reticule and slipped out of the house. It was a little unnerving, even she would admit, to walk alone down the streets of New Orleans after dark; the only light, and frail light it was, came from an occasional oil lamp that had been hung from wooden posts at the order of Gayoso's predecessor, the Baron de Carondelet. Fortunately this was an area of fine houses and respectable people and she arrived at the Gayoso residence without incident.

Unlike Claude having reached her destination Leonie did not enter Gayoso's house from the front; instead, moving like a small shadow in the darkness of the warm, muggy night, she prowled around the back alley searching for an entrance to the rear of the building. She eventually found one through the governor's stables. Creeping silently and breathlessly between the rows of restive horses, and cautiously pushing open a door at one side of the stables, she found herself, to her immense satisfaction, in a small courtyard at the side of the house.

Having come this far without any unpleasantness and unchallenged, Leonie sighed with relief and leaned back gratefully against one of the cool walls of the courtyard, her heart thumping just a little at her brazen actions, one slim hand unconsciously clasping her mother's gold crucifix. If she were caught lurking like a criminal in Governor Gayoso's courtyard...
Mon Dieu,
it didn't bear thinking about! Impatiently Leonie pushed aside any thought of failure, and keeping herself in the shadows, she inched her way nearer to the house.

The governor's courtyard was not large, compared to the rambling courtyard at the Saint-Andre townhouse, but the house itself was easily three times the size of the Saint-Andre residence; and looking at its sheer size and the lights that streamed out into the darkness from the various windows, Leonie felt her heart sink. The one-story structure resembled a commodious inn more than a dwelling, and the narrow courtyard where Leonie stood ran along one side; against the other was a low gallery screened by latticework. How was she to find out in which room her grandfather was gaming—and what good would it do her?

Slightly daunted by these uncertainties, Leonie hesitated, actually considering going no farther. Should she continue... or go back to the townhouse and accept defeat?
Non!
she thought vehemently. She would not give up without having at least attempted to do
something! What
she was going to do was the problem.

Edging closer to the house, her dark brown gown blending easily into the shadows of the narrow courtyard, Leonie stopped when she reached the corner of the house, her eyes giving the silent courtyard a quick, uneasy assessment.
Bon!
All was well... so far.

Having come this far, there was nothing else to do
but
continue, she told herself sternly and approached the first window. Carefully she peered around the edge of it and was uncertain whether she was disappointed or cheered to see two women seated comfortably on a sofa busily plying their needles.

It was the third window that brought her at last to the room where the gentleman of the house and his guests were enjoying their cigarillos, whiskey, and cards. Leonie felt her heart leap in her breast when she peeked in and saw her grandfather facing her direction, as he sat at a round, mahogany table concentrating on the cards he held in his hand. Even though this was the room she had been looking for, it was a shock, and a small exclamation of surprise escaped her lips.

The window was open, and a tall, black-haired gentleman with his back to Leonie suddenly lifted his head and asked in a deep voice, "Did you hear something?"

All three of the other men, including Leonie's grandfather, glanced up from their cards, and after a long, agonizing moment for Leonie, Gayoso said lightly, "You are hearing things,
amigo.
Or do you think to distract us from our cards,
si?"

The tall man laughed, "Hardly! You are too clever for that ploy, I can assure you."

The gentlemen then went back to the game, and with a silent sigh of relief Leonie sank down to the ground outside the window. Now that she had found her grandfather, what was she to do—burst in and demand that Gayoso and his friends not continue to accept his company? she wondered half-hysterically.

Still, Leonie was feeling just a little pleased with herself at having succeeded so effortlessly in discovering her grandfather's whereabouts in the governor's residence. And now all that remained was for her to come up with some plan to accomplish—what? She bit her lip, and then squirmed around and took another peek, just as her grandfather pushed across a slip of paper to a smiling Gayoso.

Her sense of pleasure evaporated and she felt a spurt of rage dart through her, as she noticed the pile of vowels in front of the governor and the unpalatable fact that her grandfather was very drunk indeed. The Governor's face was in profile to her, but Leonie decided there was something sinister about his smile and had a sudden urge to throw something at him.

She sank back down again, trembling with anger. It was robbery! All three of those men at the table with her grandfather knew he was in no condition to play cards for money and yet they allowed him to do so. It was criminal! She looked again and was further infuriated to see another vowel from her grandfather join the previous one. Covertly she eyed the pile of papers and money in front of the governor. How much of it was her grandfather's? And more importantly, how was she going to get it back?

Frowning she glared around the shadowy courtyard, as if an answer to her question were out there taunting her in the darkness. After several minutes of wild schemes and improbable plans she came to one desperate decision—
I shall steal the vouchers from the governor! He is stealing from
grand-pere and it is only fair that I steal them back! I shall do it!

Having come to a decision, she settled back against the wall of the house, aware that the party must disperse before she could even attempt her reckless plan. She would have to discover where the governor put the vowels and then at the first opportunity, nip into the house, steal them and depart—all undetected, she admitted glumly; not an easy task. But Leonie was determined and so she sat like a still little shadow and waited impatiently for the gentlemen to end their evening. Occasionally she would risk a glance through the open window, and it seemed, at least to her, that every time she did, her grandfather was pushing another vowel across the table to the blandly smiling Gayoso.
Zut! Do they never tire of this silliness?
she asked herself disgustedly, as the hour drew near to midnight and still they showed no signs of growing weary of cards and liquor.

As the hours slowly passed, her lids grew heavy and she had to suppress a mighty yawn more than once. Sleepy and just a little bored, her thoughts drifted from the coming theft of the vowels and she wondered if her grandfather had indeed spoken to Monsieur Slade. Was he one of the men in the room? She took another glance inside the room, deciding that the florid, bluff, heavyset man across from Gayoso could not possibly be Monsieur Slade—he was too old, at least forty... and fat! But the man with his back to her, was he possibly Monsieur Slade?

He was tall and his shoulders were broad. His hair was black, his head well-shaped—what Leonie could see of it—and his voice was deep and pleasant. She chewed at her lip a while and then decided against him.
Non,
he was not Monsieur Slade. And her reasoning? Last night Monsieur Slade had stopped the party when it became obvious her grandfather was too drunk to continue, but tonight, when her grandfather was just as obviously too drunk to continue, this man did not.

Leonie's reasoning was drastically wrong, because the dark-haired man with his back to her was, indeed, Monsieur Slade. And his reasons for not stopping the gaming were simple—upon closer association it was easily discernible that Claude Saint-Andre was clearly a habitual drunk, a compulsive gambler, and a man who did not take kindly to the interference of strange young men, if his sometimes belligerent attitude this evening was anything to go by.

Ordinarily, though, Morgan still might have made some effort to see that Saint-Andre was not taken advantage of by Gayoso, but his mind was on other things. More specifically his thoughts were dwelling on the bluff, heavyset man that Leonie had so unflatteringly dismissed only moments before—General James Wilkinson of the United States Army.

Wilkinson's inclusion in the evening's entertainment had been a decidedly unpleasant surprise for Morgan. He had not been aware that the general was in New Orleans, and if he had known he certainly would not have accepted Gayoso's invitation, knowing full well that eventually it would result in a social meeting with Wilkinson—a meeting Morgan would have done much to avoid. He might have a certain wariness in dealing with Gayoso, but so far as Wilkinson was concerned, Morgan trusted the man no further than an inch; in fact he cordially disliked the general for a number of reasons. If some of Gayoso's dealings didn't bear close scrutiny, there wasn't one of Wilkinson's schemes and double-dealing that didn't eventually produce a noxious odor.

Wilkinson's appearance at the Spanish governor's residence here in New Orleans and the obvious air of intimacy between the two men—in view of Gayoso's outspoken hostility towards Phillip Nolan, Wilkinson's reputed protégé—only increased Morgan's suspicions that Wilkinson was up to no good. Or was it Gayoso who was up to no good? Morgan couldn't quite decide, but behind the deceptively lazy gaze of those vivid blue eyes his keen brain was effectively weighing up the situation, trapping every movement, every look, every nuance of the conversation for later consideration.

Gayoso had given the distinct impression that Wilkinson's arrival at his home this evening had been entirely unexpected, and yet Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that the meeting between the two men had been prearranged. And if it had been, why were the two of them acting as if it hadn't?

Despite the general's presence, the evening was passing pleasantly for Morgan. Wilkinson
did
have an easy manner about him, Gayoso was always good company, and even drunk and occasionally surly Claude Saint-Andre proved to be enjoyable company. But as midnight came and went, if Morgan could have politely ended the evening, he would have. All three of his companions were several years his senior and he had little, if anything, in common with them.

Ruefully, Morgan admitted that it would have been wiser to have called upon his friend Jason Savage first, rather than the governor. Jason's brand of entertainment was far more to his liking. There was hardly a year's difference in ages between Jason and himself, and they had attended school together at Harrow; consequently Morgan would have been much more at ease in Jason's company. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would diplomatically thank the governor for his hospitality and then efficiently remove himself to the Beauvais Plantation to stay with Jason, as he had originally planned.

The conversation among the four men playing cards was light and inconsequential, the sort of polite, aimless discourse that takes place between people who are not well-acquainted, and Morgan discreetly swallowed a yawn as the tall clock of marquetry in the corner of the room struck the hour of two. Claude Saint-Andre, by now almost too drunk to function, was nodding over his cards, and Morgan felt pity stir within himself.