Leslie Lafoy (28 page)

“I’ll make amends when we come back.”

Oh, such a thinly veiled offer. Such a delightful game to play. And as long as he was indulging
her
 … “And you’re absolutely convinced that it’s the directions for making your way through a cemetery?” She gave him a look that said she preferred not to think of him as an idiot. He moved smoothly to the next gambit. “The sun’s not setting.”

“We’ll squint and imagine it.”

“What about your half of the map?” he posed. “It’s in a bank vault.”

She arched a brow and her eyes sparkled. “And you think I can’t draw it from memory?”

“It’s cold and damp,” he countered next. “It would be a miserable hour to go out and about.”

“It’s always cold and damp in England. Where you are, what you’re doing, and the hour of the day don’t make the least bit of difference.”

It wasn’t
always
cold and damp, but he suspected that she’d have to personally experience a beautiful day to believe it; his word wasn’t going to suffice on the subject. And the English weather wasn’t worth debating at that particular moment, anyway. He had another topic altogether in mind. “You’re not going to be put off, are you?”

“You know me so well.”

Not really, but he was making quick progress on the front. “How well do you know me?”

“Well enough that I know you’re being obstinate just for the sake of being obstinate.” A mischievous edge came to her smile and she added, “And to exchange your compliance for promises of later favors.”

She did know him; not that he’d been making any effort whatsoever to hide his objective. Lord, playing the game with her was fun. “What kind of favors are you willing to grant?”

Devilment sparkled in her eyes and in her smile. “Apple dumplings for dessert?”

He took a moment to pretend to give the offer a bit of consideration and then shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not quite the kind of reward I have in mind.”

The amused light in her eyes was replaced by a slow, sultry heat that jolted his heart and caught his breath. “Whatever you want,” she said softly, knowingly. “Name your pleasures and they’re yours.”

If her intent had been to rattle his sense of self-control, she’d succeeded beyond his wildest imagination. “That’s quite a bit of leeway, angel.”

“I’m very much aware of that.”

Jesus. He’d had no idea she could be so damn deliberately seductive. “What if they’re dark ones?”

“I’ll take the chance.”

She would; there wasn’t a doubt in his mind. And she wouldn’t flinch, wouldn’t retreat regardless of what he asked of her.

“Can we go, Barrett? Now?”

If they didn’t, odds were it would be a fortnight before he’d had enough of her to even think about climbing out of her bed. He nodded and closed his eyes as she laughingly rolled out of his arms and onto her feet.

God, she was the most incredible woman he’d ever known. She’d dance along the razor’s edge with him, tumble over with him if that’s where he wanted to take them. She’d give him whatever his heart desired and never once weigh the risks, never once think past the moment to what price she might have to pay or to what expensive gifts might come out of his gratitude.

No, Belle didn’t think about such things. Ever. They didn’t matter to her. She’d endured the hell of war, emerging from it physically scarred and with a remarkably simple approach to living. Belle lived to
live
. Each and every moment. Fully. Wondrously. Without apology or regret.

The kind of strength and courage it took to do that … His chest tightened and in that instant a truth swelled to fill his soul. Her happiness had brightened his world and her spirit made his own soar. He needed her—and had for long years before she’d walked so boldly into his life.

Christ on a crutch. How had it happened? When? He swore silently and reminded himself that how he’d gotten to this point wasn’t nearly as important as deciding what the hell he was going to do about it.

“Are you planning to go naked? Not that I’d mind, you understand.”

He opened his eyes to find her standing beside the bed already half-dressed, her hair a wild tangle of untamed curls, her smile wide, and her eyes bright with the anticipation of adventure. The wonder of her wasn’t going to ebb away, he realized, his heart thundering. Not tomorrow. Not next month, not next year. He could think all he liked and until hell froze over, but the effort wasn’t going to change anything. He loved her.

She tilted her head to the side, her smile fading by slow degrees as she searched his eyes. “Is something wrong, Barrett?”

“Not at all,” he replied, managing a smile as he rolled off the bed.
If you love me. But if you don’t
 … Gathering up his clothes, he decided that it was pointless to spend any time worrying about it. She either loved him or she didn’t. Once they’d found Lafitte’s treasure, he’d offer her a bridge and give her a clear choice between crossing it with him or blowing it to bits. God Almighty, he didn’t want to hope. But he did.

Chapter Fifteen

Sitting cross-legged on the rug, the portable writing desk balanced on her lap, Isabella drew her half of the map from memory and then copied the scraps of Mignon’s half. When it was completed, she corked the ink bottle, laid aside the pen, and considered the design. “It almost looks like one of those knots the Irish make,” she ventured, squinting. “If you took the four corner lines and pulled them tight.”

“It looks to me,” Barrett contributed, emptying the contents of his pockets on the bedside table, “like the web of a drunken spider.”

She could see that, as well. Carefully folding the map in quarters, she handed it up to him and then set aside the desk and let him pull her to her feet. As he did, her gaze fell on the items he’d discarded. “Where did you get this?” she asked, plucking a bit of green and white waxed paper from the pile of odds and ends.

“Out of the dead man’s pockets. Why?”

“It’s the same kind of wrapper that was around the chocolates I found in Mignon’s trunk.” She turned it over in her hands, examining it. “This isn’t creased in the same way, though.”

He took it from her and sniffed it. “Peppermint,” he declared, handing it back.

“Could we hope that it’s a wrapper used by a little-known candy maker?”

“Sorry,” he replied, sounding genuinely regretful for having to dash her fledgling optimism. “It’s from Nickel’s on St. James. And they sell thousands of kilos of sweets a year. The fact that Mignon and our dead man both had candy from them isn’t likely to be the least bit important. If there’s anything even mildly significant about it all, it’s that Nickel’s is expensive and not the kind of place the common man can afford to lay down his coins. That tells us that our dead man was being paid handsomely for his work.”

And he’d paid dearly for the chance to buy a few peppermints. Frowning, Belle turned the paper over in her hands again. “I know I’ve asked the question before, but I can’t stop wondering. Why would Mignon buy chocolate when she couldn’t eat it?”

“I’ve been known to buy chocolates from time to time and not eat them.”

Not eat them? She looked up to meet his gaze. “Good God, why?”

His smile was softly, deliciously roguish. “Nothing persuades or cajoles quite like fine chocolate.”

“You’re shameless.”

“I’m good, too,” he admitted with a wink. His smile faded, the end of it marked by a shrug. “Mignon might have bought them intending to give them to someone, but was killed before she could.”

“It’s far more likely that someone gave her the chocolates.” The angle of his brow said that he needed an explanation and so she added, “Not to disparage the dead, but it’s a well-known fact that Mignon firmly believed that it was far more blessed to receive than to give.”

“Then it had to have been someone who didn’t know her very well.”

“Or someone who did,” Belle countered, “and was hoping she’d give in to temptation and then break out in hives.”

“There’s a third possibility, you know. Our dead man might have dropped them while searching Mignon’s trunk.”

Yes, she had to admit, he very well could have. And if he had, she was truly wasting time and effort in trying to see a clue where none existed. “That’s not a very interesting possibility,” she grumbled, tossing the wrapper down on the tabletop.

“Sometimes they’re not,” he replied, sounding both rueful and amused. “In fact, most of the time detective work is damn boring.”

“Then why,” she asked, bending down to scoop her revolver from among the pillows, “do you do it?”

“It allows me to behave badly every now and then.”

“Badly in what respect?” she pressed, tucking the gun into the waistband of her trousers at the small of her back.

“In the name of professional conduct,” he supplied over his shoulder as he headed toward the door, “I get to visit the seamier haunts of London. Once or twice a year, on average, I get to threaten someone with violence.”

Isabella quickly followed as he continued, “And then there are the parties my parents insist that I attend. You can’t imagine how many secrets people don’t really have and how they pale when they see me come through the door.”

She’d never considered the social consequences—as obvious as they were—of his occupation. It was some consolation to realize that apparently his parents hadn’t, either. If they had, they certainly wouldn’t have put their fellow guests in such awkward positions. “And you enjoy having that power over people?” she asked as they made their way down the squeaking, groaning stairs.

“Of course,” he admitted blithely, grabbing the newel post at the bottom and swinging off the stairs. “My father uses money as a means of maintaining social position. But money comes and it goes. Secrets, on the other hand, can be leveraged forever.”

Isabella froze on the bottom step, her heart skittering and her throat tight. “You’d engage in blackmail?”

“Never,” he solemnly replied, looking up at her. “But they don’t know that. And I deliberately let them wonder. Out of their uncertainty comes a bit of fear and a sufficient amount of respect to make up for the slights of childhood.” Giving her a quirked grin, he shrugged. “One really should have the maturity to set aside and forgive the taunts, but, quite frankly, I don’t want to. It’s petty and I know it and I don’t care.”

And she adored his honesty. “Why did they slight you?” she asked, coming down off the stairs.

Leading the way down the hall and toward the kitchen, he answered, “My father didn’t inherit influence and power. He earned it through service to the crown. Financial service. Earned money and earned power are considered tainted by those born into both. And those not born into them consider the achievement the worst sort of class betrayal. You can’t win for winning.”

Always the child apart by circumstance. And the man apart by deliberate choice. She understood completely. Just as she realized how comforting it was to know that the experiences and choices weren’t unique ones. “When I was younger,” she began, “we had planters and merchants. The planters were something akin to your titled class, I suppose.

“My father was a merchant tradesman. He built, renovated, bought, and sold buildings. Homes, warehouses, factories—those sorts of things. Since he worked with his hands, I wasn’t considered good enough to associate with the planters’ daughters and I didn’t mesh well with the daughters of the other tradesmen and merchants.”

“Why?” he asked, stepping up to the stove and testing the heat of the pan of coffee they’d fixed earlier in the evening.

“Even as a little girl,” Isabella supplied as he filled their mugs with the steaming brew, “I thought dolls were a ridiculous waste of time. And when I got older, I didn’t care one whit what the ladies were wearing in London and Paris. I found more pleasure in gardening myself than in supervising the slaves—which we didn’t have, anyway—and I didn’t enjoy needlework the least little bit. Given that the other girls didn’t care about construction, demolition, hunting, fishing, or riding, there simply wasn’t anything for us to talk about.”

“What about Henri? To which group did he belong?”

She lifted her mug and took a cautious sip. It was scalding hot and strong enough to peel paint. Wincing, she explained, “His family owned three sawmills. Not that Henri ever saw any part of them beyond the money they made. His older brothers were running the business by the time Henri and I were marched up the aisle. They didn’t approve of me.”

Propping his hip against the edge of the cabinets, he stared down into his mug and asked, “For any particular reason? Or was it simply on general principle?”

How interesting, she mused, taking another sip of the coffee, that in all the years since she’d married, this was the first time anyone had ever thought to ask her how she’d been treated by her husband’s family. “I didn’t stand in awe of their money,” she answered honestly. “That and I refused to pretend that having acquired the Dandaneau name was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. Our relationship was always strained, and when Henri went off to serve in the army, they gave me a hundred dollars and wished me all the best.”

“Did you take it?”

The gentleness of his inquiry warmed her in the strangest, nicest way. Marveling at the unexpected absence of pain in remembering, she nodded. “Not happily, mind you, but becoming an emaciated corpse lacks even more dignity than accepting charity.”

“It had to have hurt, though.”

“It did. But life has a way of coming to a balance,” she announced, smiling and lifting her mug in salute. “The Dandaneaus refused to disable their mills when New Orleans fell to Farragut and, rather than let them produce lumber for the Union, the Resistance marked them for demolition.”

“Did you personally light the fuses?” Before she could answer, he laughed and added, “Never mind. I already know. Did they ever find out?”

“I have no idea. They left New Orleans within days of the blasts.”

“Where did they go?”

“I have no idea about that, either,” she admitted, grinning as he took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “Rumor said they were intending to make their way to England somehow.”