Destiny's Daughter (20 page)

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L’Archange de Miséricorde.
The Archangel of Mercy. For nights the singular topic of conversation at Hannah Elliott’s House of Pleasure was the dramatic rescue of Belle Riviere and the suspected identity of the widow Robichaud’s benefactor. Everyone thought he knew the answer to the mystery.

"Someone from the mayor’s office," Edmond Lafourcade said in his most imperious tone. "He’s trying to buy the good will of the people in the event that I’m not declared the winner and a second election is called."

Annalisa stood beside him, smiling graciously, and wondered if he realized how silly he sounded. "That doesn’t seem like good politics to me." She took a sip of her lemonade. "Wouldn’t the mayor be wise to identify himself so the voters could thank him?"

"He will. In good time. Mark my words," Lafourcade said as he accepted a second glass of whiskey.

Approaching a group surrounding Jasper Willis, Annalisa heard him declare, "It was someone from a rival bank’s staff. I’m certain of it." Seeing their rapt attention, he added importantly, "They wanted to prevent us from foreclosing and holding an auction. This way, they can quietly come in and buy the land from a grateful widow."

"How can she be grateful to a banker if he doesn’t admit his role in this?" Annalisa asked.

Willis dismissed her question as that of a brainless female. "He’ll reveal himself when the time is right."

With a knowing smile, Annalisa moved on to another little cluster of men standing with Chase outside the door of the game parlor. Like the others, they could talk of nothing except the dramatic events surrounding Belle Riviere.

"... a consortium of businessmen who want to hold off foreclosures until they can come up with enough cash to buy all the land in New Orleans," the chief of police was saying.

"For what purpose?" The men accepted drinks from a maid’s tray and gathered closer.

"New Orleans is a great port city. In time, it will rival New York as the most important port in the United States."

Chase smothered a laugh. "When were you last in New York, Boulanger?"

The police chief shot him an angry look. "Before the war."

"Then you’d better take another trip east. Though I’m the first to admit that New Orleans is a great port city, I’m afraid it will never outshine New York."

"Then what is your theory about the Archangel of Mercy and the money he gave to the widow Robichaud?"

When the others turned to Chase, Annalisa found herself as curious as the rest.

"Maybe the lady has a secret admirer," Chase said with a smile.

Disappointed with that explanation, the men launched into a lively discussion of businessmen who would want to own New Orleans. As Annalisa turned away, Chase walked by her side.

"You don’t seem too pleased with my theory about the Archangel," he said.

"I have the feeling you’re not taking this very seriously." She paused and glanced at his mocking smile. "Does it amuse you that someone cared enough about those people to do something to help them?"

"It amuses me that everyone is so curious about this mysterious benefactor." He gestured with his hand. "Look around you. He’s the only topic of conversation in this room."

Her eyes flashed. "And why shouldn’t he be? For once, the crooks and villains haven’t crushed their poor hapless victim. Maybe this will start a tidal wave of rebellion against land-grabbing. These poor widows and orphans have a right to their land, Chase. More of a right than the bankers or the governor or the mayor. I think what the Archangel of Mercy did is wonderful, and noble, and ..." She saw the laughter in his eyes and stopped. "Why do I bother telling a rogue like you how I feel?"

He rubbed his knuckles over her flushed cheek and felt a sudden jolt. "Annalisa Montgomery, there’s a fire in you that is fascinating to see. Who would have ever believed such a delicate beauty could hide such fervor."

"Oh you." She pushed away from him, hating the way her pulse leaped at his slightest touch. "All you’re interested in is your silly cards."

He gave her a slight bow. "Correct. That’s why I’m so good at them. And now I must excuse myself. The game is about to begin."

As Chase walked away, she dismissed all thought of him and forced herself to think instead about Nate Blackwell. Would he visit soon? It would please him, she thought, to know that so many people were speculating about his identity.

*  *  *

It had been weeks since the widow Robichaud had been saved from foreclosure, and still Nate Blackwell hadn’t paid a visit to the house. For Annalisa, this only served to reinforce her belief that he was the one responsible for the anonymous gift of money. It would be like him to remain in the background while others were being given the credit for his good deed.

The summer days had grown steamy; the nights sultry. The women had begun wearing fewer petticoats. Some of them even rejected their boned corsets in favor of simple chemises and pantalettes beneath sheer voile gowns. Fans were no longer used simply for flirting, but now served to move the still, muggy air.

Annalisa, the prim little convert, had begun doing something she would have once found unthinkable. Beneath her dresses of organdy and silk she dared to wear nothing at all. The feeling of comfort, she decided, was quite worth the risk to her already tarnished reputation. Of course she was always the model of decorum. But on many hot summer days she walked about with a feeling of complete freedom.

Many of the men arrived without waistcoats or vests and opted instead for riding breeches and crisp shirts of lawn or cambric.

To survive the hottest part of the day, most people took to their beds for a late afternoon nap. By evening, they were refreshed and ready for entertainment. Because of the cool night air spilling through the open, curtainless windows of the parlor, the card games often were played until nearly dawn.

On this fine summer night Annalisa moved about the room, lighting a cigar, refilling a glass. Snapping open her fan, she waved it for a moment, then looked up to find Chase watching her. Often, she realized, he watched her as she worked. A tiny pulse fluttered in the pit of her stomach. She felt her cheeks coloring and nearly missed what Jasper Willis was saying.

"... will be selling Hampstead House tomorrow."

A businessman from the Vieux Carré looked annoyed. "Another plantation is being sacrificed to the carpetbaggers?"

Willis looked offended. "It has taken a long time to find a buyer willing to assume their debts. The Hampstead family has been in arrears for five years. How much longer should we be forced to carry them?"

"Until they can restore their outbuildings and bring in a decent crop," Chase said crisply as the hand was being dealt.

"To do that, they would have to borrow even more money." The banker picked up his cards and began rearranging them. "I think I’ve been more than fair with those people."

Chase bit down on his cigar and studied his cards.

Annalisa watched the scowling men discard and call for cards. Not one of them, she thought, had the courage to stand up to the banker. Not one man in this room had the courage of his convictions.

Feeling as if she were choking, she fled the parlor. She couldn’t bear to spend another minute with such shallow people. Closing the door, she was stunned to see Nate Blackwell pacing in the hallway.

"Nate." She moved closer and offered her hand. "It’s been too long. I’ve missed you."

He smiled before kissing her hand, and she realized once again how handsome he was. "I missed you too, Annalisa. How good it is to see your lovely face."

"Will you have a glass of sherry?" she asked, motioning for a maid.

"If you’ll join me."

She allowed him to continue holding her hand as they moved toward a small settee. If only his touch could move her the way Chase’s did. Why did she feel no thrill, no fire, as his hand gripped hers?

"Have you been busy with your plantation?"

He accepted two glasses from the maid and handed one to Annalisa. "Not as busy as I’d like to be."

She sipped the sweet liquid and leaned back, content to be with such a fine man. What did it matter if she felt no passion? She admired the work he was doing. They had something more beautiful than love; they had mutual respect. She had found her soulmate. Out of that common ground, love, if not passion, would grow with time. "What slows your work?"

"I sometimes have a difficult time concentrating," he said softly. "I suffer from bouts of melancholy."

Annalisa thought of his tragic story and wondered how he could even find the courage to go on living. Touching his arm, she murmured, "You shouldn’t be alone, Nate. You need to be around people, to hear music and laughter."

"I know." Draining his glass, he refilled it, then leaned back, closing his eyes for long moments. "But when I’m like that, I need to be alone, to work my way through the sadness. Then, when it passes, I realize that I must find ways to fill my life again."

"And you will. You already have," she added, thinking about the Robichaud family.

He opened his eyes and studied her for so long she felt her cheeks redden. It wasn’t prudent to let him know that she was aware that he was the Archangel of Mercy and what kindness he’d done. That was something Nate himself would have to reveal. She would wait until he was ready to take her into his confidence.

"What brought you here tonight?" she asked.

"I realized I’d been away too long. I needed to see people again." He laid his hand over hers. "I wanted to hear your voice, to laugh with you. You’re so easy to be with. You make no demands."

"Oh Nate." She set her glass down and placed her other hand atop his. "Don’t stay away so long."

Seeing his gaze arrested by a movement across the room, she looked up to find Chase standing quietly, watching them. There was no expression on his face. But, she noted, the humor was gone from his eyes.

Nate released her hands and sat up stiffly beside her. Annalisa met Chase’s cold look with one equally cool. Why did her heart flutter at the mere sight of him? He wasn’t worthy of such feelings. "Did you wish to see me?"

"Hattie Lee has finished checking tonight’s delivery. I have the bill of lading."

Standing, Annalisa murmured, "Excuse me, Nate. I have some business to attend to. Will you wait?"

He stood. "I’m afraid I can’t. But I’ll see you again soon." Nodding slightly toward Chase, he went in search of a maid to fetch his hat.

Annalisa led the way along the dim hall toward her office. Opening the door, she crossed to her desk. "I’m surprised you’d interrupt your poker game for business. You must have been losing."

His tone was low, angry. "It seems I’ve interrupted your—business, too. Sorry about that." Reaching into his breast pocket, he handed her a paper. While she scanned the contents, he lit a cigar, then sat back in his chair, stretching his long legs. He inhaled the delicate rose fragrance that was so uniquely hers and resented the way his blood heated.

"What are these?" Pointing, she read, "Sharps breech-loading rifles and carbines—four. Winchester, model 1866—three." Looking up at his watchful expression, she arched an eyebrow. "Rifles? Carbines? I don’t recall ordering anything that even remotely sounds like this."

"They’re weapons." He took a long drag on his cigar and watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

"I know they’re weapons." Her voice chilled. "I’m not entirely stupid, Chase. I’ve heard of Governor Winchester and his rifle. But why have you included them in my order?"

"For the same reason you’ve been persuaded to carry a gun. For the protection of yourself and all the women in this house."

She sat back and regarded him for long moments. "Do you think we’re in any danger?"

Chase watched the way the candlelight turned the ends of her hair to flame. An artist would never be able to do her justice. Her energy, her many moods, her elusive beauty would be impossible to capture on canvas. "I think," he said, weighing his words carefully, "that these are dangerous, chaotic times. You should be prepared for every kind of danger. If it should never come, you can count yourself among the fortunate."

She felt a tiny shiver of apprehension, then dismissed it. She’d been battling her nerves ever since that terrible attack. The best way to deal with it was to go on with her life as normally as possible.

"I hate guns."

Chase smiled then. "I’m not overly fond of them myself. But I find they come in very handy sometimes."

"Have you ever killed a man, Chase?"

He stubbed his cigar in the ash tray and stood. "I’d like my money now, so we can conclude this piece of business."

From the look in his eyes she knew that she had once again crossed over the line of propriety. There would no be more conversation tonight. Why did she have to be so impetuous? Hadn’t Sister Marie Therese often accused her of saying too much? With a sigh she walked to a small cabinet against the far wall and withdrew the money box. Counting out the bills, she handed them to him.

Folding the money, he stuffed it into his pocket and started toward the door.

"Who’s going to teach us how to shoot those things?" Her voice was still deep with anger.

He turned. His tone was equally cold. "Ask Luther. Unless, of course, you’d rather have Nate Blackwell teach you."

"Chase . . ."

"Good night, Miss Montgomery." Without another word, he left.