His Dark Desires (10 page)

"Not necessarily tragic, but realistic," she said. From the shadows beneath her eyes, I could tell she'd slept as little as I did last night.

Just as breakfast finished, Mr. Davis arrived, upset and guilt-ridden by the attack on Mignon. He brought her a large bouquet of sweet-smelling pink tea roses, and actually spent his time listening to Mignon rather than talking about himself. After he left, I had a little time to investigate the boarders' rooms while they were out. Wielding a dust rag and beeswax for disguise, I went first to Mr. and Mrs. Gallier's room, polishing like a whirlwind, bringing a high shine to the armoire and desk. Then I peeked into the cabinet and drawers. Mrs. Gallier only had a few gowns, whereas Mr. Gallier had a multitude of suits—one of which was gray—but he had no western hat. I left incensed on Mrs. Gallier's behalf.

Continuing on to Mr. Fitz's room, I wondered if he lived in the room at all. There wasn't a crinkle in the bed coverings or any belongings in sight. The inside of the armoire was organized with military precision, every suit hung as neatly as if it had never been worn. A number of well-worn publications about the war filled one shelf, and that was it. No hat and nothing personal.

I stepped into Mr. Trevelyan's room, and dread filled me. Sitting on his desk was a western-style black leather hat. Could Mr. Trevelyan have disguised himself? Hunched down and worn a thick coat?

I dropped my rag and the tin of beeswax by the armoire, marched across the room, and snatched up the hat, outraged. When I did, papers under the hat went flying and slid beneath the bed.

Dieu!
Setting the hat on the bed, I knelt, reaching for the papers. I could only get my fingers on one. As I held it up, I read it quickly.

Dearest Stephen,

I know you too well to believe the lies you told us to placate our concerns for you before you left us bereft. I'll not tolerate anything but the truth between us, no matter how difficult to face. How many of those who love you do you hurt with the guilt you carry? The living must forge ahead and leave those who've died, even tragically....

The first page ended there, and though I knew I was utterly breaking the rules of propriety, I dived farther, reaching for the other paper. Under the bed to my waist, my chest flat on the floor, I caught the paper between my fingers.

The bedroom door opened, closed, and booted footsteps came to a halt somewhere in the vicinity of my derriere. I might as well have been naked in a tub. My scalp tingled and my leg muscles twitched as my mind shouted at me to scoot and run, or to crawl completely under the bed.

"Mrs. Boucheron?"

"
Oui
," I gulped, wondering if I should abandon his letter under the bed. Then at least he might wonder if I had read it, but I wouldn't be caught with it in my hand.

"You make a rather interesting and very distracting sight. Are you stuck?" His hand outrageously brushed my left hip, then lingered exactly where it shouldn't.

"
Non,
" I screeched, rearing up, banging my head against the wooden slats and biting my tongue.

"Whatever are you doing?"

"Having tea with the bed posts," I said, gritting my teeth as I scooted back.

I emerged to find myself face to face with him. He plucked the pages of his letter from my hand, his gaze unamused, his mouth grim.

"You have a hat," I cried.

"So?" His brows angled down, deepening his frown.

"The man last night wore a similar hat. I came to polish and found the hat!"

"Are you asking if I am despicable enough to threaten a woman with a knife, Mrs. Boucheron?"

He sounded so incensed that I felt utterly ridiculous for my suspicions. I exhaled. "
Non
. I don't know. I just saw the hat when I came into your room, and I grabbed it. The papers underneath flew off then, and—"

"And why don't we pretend this never happened."

He stood, extending a helping hand. I had no choice but to follow his lead and set my hand in his. Once I stood, his gaze dropped to my mouth and he stepped so close that his chest brushed mine, sending waves of fire to chase after my doubt and embarrassment. Sandalwood and spice grabbed at my senses, forcing them to clamor for more. The atmosphere in the room went from decidedly cold to overwhelmingly hot. Perspiration beaded my brow. When I backed to the door, he followed.

Reaching blindly, I found the doorknob and wrapped my hand around it. "Absolutely," I said. "This never happened."

But instead of twisting the knob to escape, my gaze settled on his lips. He groaned.

"And this didn't happen either," he whispered, lowering his mouth to mine. His lips brushed mine softly, as if savoring the exquisite feel of supple flesh, warm and welcoming. His tongue slid against my bottom lip and I opened to him, wanting to taste him and the dark pleasure he offered.

Lightning and magic bolted through me as his kiss went from whisper soft to a hard demand in a flash and his body pressed against mine, trapping me against the door. A hard thigh slid between my legs as his tongue delved deep, mating with mine in a sensual dance that set me afire inside. I groaned, arching my back, pressing my breasts deeper against the hardness of his chest as I wrapped my arms around his neck. I threaded my hands through the black silk of his hair and kissed him as deeply as he kissed me.

He moaned. His hands grabbed my hips, urging me closer to him until his arousal pushed intimately against my hip, then he slid his fingers up to brush the sides of my breasts, making every fiber of my being yearn for him. The overwhelming desire was almost more than I could resist.

"Please," I whispered as another searing kiss ended and he slid his hands closer to cupping my breasts. "I shouldn't be here." My breath came in quick, heavy gasps. My head spun, and my blood raced faster than my heart knew how to beat.

He exhaled deeply, his body trembling as much as mine, giving evidence of how he fought to control the dark fire consuming us both. "This is the only threat you face from me. I want you more than I want to breathe." He stepped slowly back.

My entire body burned to feel the hard, supple planes of his. My hands itched to explore, and I longed to taste a thousand kisses more. I had to leave or I would throw myself at him.

"This is far from over," he said softly. "It's just the beginning."

Twisting the knob, I bolted out of the room.

I ran into Mr. Gallier. His monocle went flying.

"What in the devil!"

"Oh, Monsieur Gallier, pardon me!" I backed up, spouting the first excuse that came to mind. "I've bread in the oven about to burn."

He sniffed the air. "Beeswax?"

"Mrs. Boucheron, you forgot your cleaning supplies." Mr. Trevelyan held up my rag and the beeswax tin.

"Thank you," I said, snatching them and hurrying downstairs, painfully aware of the gazes that followed me. Reaching the center hall, I drew deep breaths and looked for anything to do to keep me from thinking. I saw several letters on the marble table from Mrs. Gallier, waiting to be posted, and remembered that I'd put my letter to Mr. Goodson there this morning. It wasn't there now. Papa John was in the dining room, polishing the heavy wood mantel. "Did the post already go out today?"

"I believe it did, Miz Julie. Miz Vengle was talking to the postman earlier. The way they were laughing made me think they were well acquainted."

"
Merci
. Can I help you with the polishing?" I desperately needed to do something mundane, to regrasp my staid life.

"Not today. I'm feeling spry and the job is done. I'm heading to the attic now to see if I can't find those letters you were looking for. I'm still not believing the way those trunks fell."

"I'll go with you," I said, to escape seeing anyone. I had no idea what I was going to say to Mr. Trevelyan when I saw him, and having Mr. Gallier witness my flight from Mr. Trevelyan's room made my cheeks scorch.

"Are you all right, Miz Julie? You look as if you have a fever."

I shook my head. "It's just the heat."

"And the worst has yet to come," Papa John said.

I knew it down to the center of my soul.

I followed Papa John up the stairs and we started working our way through the attic. I kept looking for signs of the ghost, testing the air with my fingers, peering around objects for Jean Claude's letters. I found some blue boxes, but none of them held the letters. After searching through several trunks, I came to a gasping stop upon reaching a corner.

On the far side of the attic, near a neat stack of old papers, a cigar sat in the middle of a crumpled page of the
Picayune
newspaper. The newspaper was partially burned and had charred the edges of the large stack of papers nearby. It wasn't dusty or aged and was dated from two months earlier. Printed on it was an article about a radical political group.

Someone had been up to the attic. Someone who smoked a cigar and started a fire.

My stomach clenched, making me feel ill. The only boarder with cigars was Mr. Trevelyan. I told myself no, but doubt lingered. Then I forced my mind to Mr. Latour and his threat that he had other ways of getting what he wanted. A fire would have been one way to get me and my family out of
La Belle.
But why?

Years ago, just after Jean Claude and the gold disappeared, my home had been searched from top to bottom. Mr. Latour had led the search and had at least declared me innocent of being involved with Jean Claude's theft. I clung to the belief that Jean Claude wouldn't have abandoned me and Andre.

Slipping the cigar and what was left of the paper in my pocket, I felt as if I finally had a clue to help me discover who my enemy was.

I didn't have long to wait. An hour later, I noticed two men out on the street in front of the house. One man appeared to be photographing
La Belle
, his head tucked under a black cloth as he bent to look into the lens. The other man had a pad and alternated between writing on it and staring at
La Belle
.

I marched out of the house. "Gentlemen, I demand to know what you are doing."

The camera man peeped from his shroud, scowling. "Madam, please move to the side. You're disrupting the picture."

Moving quickly, I planted myself in front of the camera. "This is my home and there will be no photographs taken. Now state your business before I send for the authorities."

"There's no need to be unpleasant," the other gentleman said, dotting his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. "We're gathering the necessary information for the upcoming auction. We won't be but a minute more."

My body went numb. "
What
did you say?"

"The gentlemen have obviously made a mistake," Mr. Trevelyan said forcefully, as he stepped from the shadows of a nearby live oak and joined me, giving the men a hard look.

"Now, see here," the camera man bristled. "We have it on good authority from Monsieur Latour that this property will be up for auction shortly. We don't make mistakes."

"You have this time." Mr. Trevelyan's voice was deadly cold. "I suggest you leave immediately. Come back again and I'll take it as license to shoot."

The men blustered and huffed, but packed up their equipment and went down the street. Mr. Trevelyan didn't move a muscle until they were nearly out of sight.

"I could have sent them packing," I said, not ungrateful for his intervention, but feeling as if I were losing control of my life.

"I know. Unfortunately, I find myself unable to stand idle while you're being attacked on all sides. Do you know why someone would threaten your family and your home?"

"Not really." Yet I knew everything had to have some connection to Jean Claude.

Mr. Trevelyan's gaze turned cooler, and I missed the warmth of it. I had my doubts, and he could see that. I wanted to trust him, my heart cried out for me to, but there were too many dark shadows surrounding both of us.

"Who is Mr. Latour?" he finally asked.

"A former friend of my husband who has been trying to buy
La Belle
for the past two months. Since we won't sell, he's apparently trying to find a way to force the issue."

Mr. Trevelyan quirked his brow. "Mrs. Boucheron, do you have any friends?"

As I shook my head, I realized how alone I really was.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

For the next few days the household settled into an uneasy routine with no "ghostly" events or trouble of any other kind. After the attack on Mignon, I wanted everyone close to home and did what investigation I could on my own. I went through all of Jean Claude's army papers that I kept in the study safe, looking for names or any information that might enlighten me to what danger Mr. Goodson found. And a discreet question or two slipped in at an unsuspecting moment to my boarders confirmed that neither Mr. Fitz or Mr. Gallier used cigars. Of course, that wasn't to say someone wasn't trying to frame Mr. Trevelyan by using one.

Nothing unusual happened, except that Mr. Trevelyan was strangely absent. He'd gone to town immediately after kicking the auction assessors off my property, didn't return until late, and had been gone from dawn to well into the night every day since. I found his behavior exceedingly frustrating. It was as if he'd kissed me and then I'd ceased to exist.

My family, Mr. Davis, and the boarders had gathered in the parlor after another Trevelyan-less dinner. Ginette was about to play the harp and sing when Mr. Trevelyan entered the room. Devastatingly handsome in a dark blue suit and an elegant shirt, he stole my breath in a heartbeat.

"Wherever have you been, Monsieur Trevelyan?" Mignon asked, getting up to greet him. "We've missed you."

Mr. Davis frowned at Mignon's enthusiasm. He'd been to call on her every day since the attack. I could tell his feelings for her were growing, but though grateful, Mignon's feelings for him hadn't changed.

"Attending to business." Mr. Trevelyan slid his gaze to me, and I saw cool doubt shadowing his eyes instead of heated desire. My smile faltered. He looked at Andre and held up a book. "I have a present for you, Andre."