His Dark Desires (18 page)

On my return to the parlor, Miss Vengle stood in the doorway.

"Mrs. Boucheron, I hope you don't mind, but might I have a word with you?"

Her molasses drawl made me cautious. "Of course."

She glanced about and lowered her voice. "This negotiation with Mr. Trevelyan to use your land. I wondered if it was well—wise, to be blunt."

I was so surprised that I stood frozen for a few moments before I collected myself. "Miss Vengle. Not to be rude, but my business matters are hardly of concern to you."

"You are right, but I did overhear the men speaking of it. You should know there is a great deal of speculation going on in regards to your, uh, reputation. I also heard them say that once you lease land to a large company, you might as well will it to them, since they take everything over. Before you know it, the Trevelyans will have your house, too."

"That's utter nonsense." Yet was my attraction to Stephen blinding me? Was I so busy looking for a wolf that I missed seeing one wearing sheep's clothing? "But I thank you for the warning, Miss Vengle. Whom did you overhear?"

She fluttered her hand. "Just the men. Oh, I forgot to tell Mr. Fitz something. Excuse me," she said, and hurried across the room.

Scanning the room, I noticed Mignon and Mr. Davis were absent. Stephen stood at the French doors, looking out. I went to him.

"Mignon?"

"She and Mr. Davis stepped outside for a moment. He brought me Mr. Maison's address in Washington, D.C.," he replied.

"Good." Peering through the glass, I saw my sister and Mr. Davis by St. Catherine's statue. Mignon was talking in an animated way, using her hands expressively. She appeared to be entreating Mr. Davis to understand. "Miss Vengle just warned me that our land-leasing association was not only compromising my reputation, but could cost me my house. She believes you will take over everything."

"Interesting that she would approach you. I've found myself questioning the legitimacy of that acting troupe on occasion. Their method of putting on a production seems highly unusual, and now they are expressing far more interest in our land-leasing proposal than I had anticipated. The deal seems to be the topic of the evening. Mr. Latour has monopolized Mr. Phelps with questions about it. And a moment ago, I heard Mr. Fitz and Mr. Gallier elbow into the conversation."

Though concerned about what Stephen had to say, I kept my gaze glued to Mignon and Mr. Davis. Mr. Davis said something else to Mignon, and she shook her head adamantly. She definitely meant no. I hoped Mr. Davis would realize that Mignon regarded him as a friend and not a suitor.

"There is a problem with Mr. Davis?" Stephen asked.

"His interest in Mignon has deepened and she does not reciprocate his affections. She is telling him so now."

Mignon soon entered the house, frowning, and Mr. Davis was beaming.

"
Dieu
, this does not look good," I said under my breath. "His persistence is taxing."

Stephen smiled at me. "I can well understand his attraction to the DePerri beauty, though."

"Your sympathies are supposed to be with me," I said, exasperated.

Thankfully the dinner bell rang, and I urged everyone toward the dining room. On the way in I whispered to Mignon, "What happened?"

"He's convinced that once I have more time to know him, my feelings will change." Mignon smiled sweetly. "I agreed and promised to sit with him at dinner."

I watched her cross the dining room, worry weighing on my heart. She wasn't being very successful at discouraging Mr. Davis.

We had just started to eat when Mr. Fitz spoke to the table at large. "We have settled our argument over which play to do."

Since finding me at the fountain and mistaking me for another, Mr. Fitz had avoided speaking to me, whereas Mr. Gallier, who had to know I suspected something after seeing him in the park, didn't show the least bit of discomfort. He was smooth as honey with his wife and his mistress at the same table.

"Yes, a delightful compromise," Mr. Gallier added.

"We are going to do two plays, both rather appropriate for the times," Mr. Fitz continued. "
Julius Caesar
, and
Romeo and Juliet.
"

Mr. Davis cleared his throat "Sorry, gentlemen, but I find it hard to believe plays written centuries ago have any great relevance to the complexities we face in today's world."

Cheeks puffing, Mr. Gallier bristled. "No relevancy?"

Stephen spoke up. "From
Romeo and Juliet
, it's a mere step to speak of the North and South—from a long-held grudge, the spilling of civil blood, and a rage that only death could remove. Enough life has already been lost, enough blood already shed, enough young men have died. The continued strife between the North and the South needs to be buried."

"If you had been in the war, Mr. Trevelyan, you would not be speaking so," Mr. Latour said forcefully.

"I take it you were in the war, Mr. Latour?" Stephen asked.

"Every God-awful moment of it." Mr. Latour spoke so passionately, that an uncomfortable silence hovered over the group. "I gave everything I had to win it, and then Lee left us hanging dry by surrendering."

"Did he abandon the cause, or did he realize the price of winning was too high to pay?"

"He betrayed us."

"The war was thick with it on both sides of the battle lines," Mr. Davis said darkly.

"Did you fight as well, Mr. Davis?" Stephen asked.

"I would have to say I was neutral at the time, being as young as I was. But I wasn't too young to understand that any man would have stabbed me in the back for a slice of bread." Mr. Davis's voice rose, then he seemed to realize it. "That was a long time ago."

"But if you were so young, perhaps you are remembering it wrong. To think there is no honor, but only self-serving greed, seems so cynical," Mignon said, batting her lashes at Mr. Davis.

I realized that Mignon was deliberately being unlovely and unamenable and from the shock in Mr. Davis's eyes, she was succeeding rather well.

"That brings us back to the topic of our choice of play.
Julius Caesar
is an old story of betrayal," Miss Vengle said, entering into the conversation.

"Reminds me of the conspiracy behind Lincoln's assassination," Mr. Fitz said.

"I wouldn't call Booth and his ilk a conspiracy." Mr. Davis appeared amused.

"It's laughable to think otherwise." Mr. Fitz looked at Mr. Gallier. "Edmund, you've been in the acting business for almost thirty years, correct? During that time, how many actors have you met who were driven enough about politics to murder a president? A casting director, or a lead actor, maybe. But a president?"

"Nary a one," Mr. Gallier said. "I even met several of the Booth acting clan, and my answer would still be none."

"Then who would you say is responsible?" Mr. Davis asked, his brows rising.

"Booth may have pulled the trigger. And others, like the Surratts, Paine, Herold, and Atzerodt, were paid to be involved. They were men desperate to avenge a fallen South. But I say to you, the power most likely behind the conspiracy is no less than the men Lincoln called his friends: Stanton, Baker, even Vice President Johnson."

"Betrayal always comes from those you trust most," Mr. Latour said, looking directly at me.

A shiver went down my spine. I had never been the recipient of so much hate and anger.

Suddenly the lights flickered. The same bone-cold breath that had accosted me several times darkened the room, and a gray mist seemed to hover over Mr. Latour. Then I blinked and it was gone. But Mr. Latour's face drained to a pasty white, and Stephen's sharp gaze searched the room as if a predator lurked nearby.

Everyone appeared tense, and the sensation that evil was but a whisper away grew as the evening passed.  Even after the guests either left or retired, I still felt the chill.

It was well after midnight when I heard Stephen's haunting music.  For a long while I stood with my cheek pressed to the glass and my hand on the lock, praying for the courage to move forward until I thought I would expire from the wanting. By the time I opened the door, my heart beat wildly and my body burned with such need that even the sultry air summer air seemed cool.  I stepped cautiously into the moonlight and went to the gallery's railing, but the music suddenly stopped.  Searching the courtyard, I saw nothing except for St Catherine's statue.

Where had he gone?

"Stephen? Where are you?" I whispered.

"Here, fair Juliet." He leaned out from his own balcony, looking up at me, a mere six feet below."

"Whatever are you doing there?"

"Getting closer to you."

My eyes widened as he raised himself onto the railing of his balcony and climbed up the decorative wrought iron framing the pillars. He didn't stop until his shoulders were well above the floor of my balcony. I got down on my knees to face him as he hung onto the bars.

"What is this insanity?  We can't do this," I said, even as I thought back to what Mignon and Mama Louisa had said. Why shouldn't I have an affair?

"I cannot stay away. One kiss," he whispered.

"Just one," I said.

He laughed. Climbing over the rail, he pulled me to my feet. I barely caught my breath before he backed me up against the wall into the shadows and kissed me hard. His body pressed to mine, making me feel the hot yearning of his desire with every part of me. He trailed kisses down my neck, then whispered into my ear, "The silk of your skin, the scent of your body, the taste of your kiss, makes me hunger even more for you.”

I shivered with pleasure. "What is a woman to do with such impassioned flattery?"

"Silence me with another kiss. Then I will go," he said, nipping my mouth with his.

"One more." Groaning, I leaned into him and he deepened the kiss, drowning me in the heady elixir of desire. My robe fell open to his insistent touch as he cupped my breasts. He brushed the hardened tips with his thumbs, driving a sharp pleasure through me. I arched to him, lost in the feel for him, but he soon stepped away, leaving me bereft.

"Stephen," I whispered, reaching out my hand.

He took my fingers and brushed them with his lips and tongue. "When you're ready to damn the consequences, come to me," he said, desire roughing his voice. "I swore I wouldn't sweep you away with my own desire. You have to want this as much as I do." Releasing my hand, he backed away. "Good night, Juliet." He swung over the rail and disappeared from sight.

I went to the railing, my whole body throbbing for him. He could not leave me on this piercing edge of desire. I yearned for him, and nothing else mattered.

"Stephen?" I whispered, and waited. Nothing. I called again and still no answer. I went inside and tiptoed to the second floor, but just before I reached his door, I heard a sound. I slipped into the shadows at the end of the corridor.

A door opened and I saw Mr. Gallier tying his robe closed over his naked body. He let himself out of Miss Vengle's room, tiptoed down the hall, and entered the room he shared with his wife. He did not see me, but someone else did.

Mr. Fitz stood outside his doorway, his gaze stark. I couldn't tell if pain or anger twisted his features. He stared at me, not saying a word, until I felt my jumping skin crawl.

"Sorry, Monsieur Fitz," I whispered. "I thought I heard a noise. Have you seen anything unusual?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Boucheron," he said, then shut his door.

I returned to my room, torn by my desire for Stephen and my need to choose the right path. Whatever decision I made would affect my entire family.

*   *   *

The next morning, after looking for Jean Claude's letters again, I finally resigned myself that they were lost. I had wanted Andre to read them so he would at least know how his father felt about him at one time. Andre's hurt had lessened since I had confessed to everyone what I knew about the sinister shadow in our lives. He may have been angry, but when his family was threatened, he closed ranks.

Walking into the parlor, I found Stephen and Andre playing chess. Their dark heads were bent over the board, deep concentration on their faces. My heart swelled. Rather than going back to my chores, I picked up a book and settled into the parlor with it, deciding to enjoy a few minutes just relaxing with them nearby. I'd read no more than a page when I felt Stephen's smoldering gaze, setting me afire. The words on the page blurred as images of being with him filled my mind.

"Monsieur Trevelyan," Mignon said, bustling into the room. "Might Ginette have a moment of your time?"

"What is it?" I straightened, slightly alarmed. "Is she worse?" Ginette had sat in the sun of the courtyard for a while, working on her embroidery, but another painful headache sent her to her room.

Mignon shook her head. "
Non
, she is the same. She is rested now and has asked to see Monsieur Trevelyan."

"Of course. I will be glad to speak to her," Stephen said as he stood. "Our game can wait a few moments, can it not, Andre?"

"Certainly. But I must warn you, I am strategizing your demise, and the more time I have to think, the worse it will be for you." Andre smiled.

Stephen laughed. "I am looking forward to the challenge, sir."

After he left, I went to Andre. "
Mon petit,
we have to talk."

"I do not want to talk." He looked away, but not before I saw the light in his eyes dim.

I swallowed hard. "I have to know what happened. Whom did you fight with? Phillipe or Will?"

"
Non
. Neither."

"Then who told you of your father? I have been meaning to tell you for months now, but I was waiting on a report from an investigator, Monsieur Goodson.

"Why? Would you have let me go see my father?"

"
Oui
," I whispered. "For though I do not know what the war did to him inside, I know at one time he loved you dearly. And I could not stand in the way of you finding out your own answers to your questions about your father."

Andre regarded me with surprise. "Then you did not purposely let me believe he was dead to keep me from him?"