His Dark Desires (5 page)

Now the china was chipped, the silver sparse, the crystal aged, and the guests paid for the meal, which the hostess helped prepare with her own hands. Many of
La Belle’s
treasures had been stolen or sold, and repairs had been neglected for lack of funds. But traces of her beauty still lay evident in her marble mantels and ornate moldings—a grand dame whose faded wall coverings and tattered draperies exposed her age and now needed candlelight to mask realities too harsh to face.

I noticed Mr. Trevelyan watching me in the mirror, his expression dark and searching until he met my gaze and smiled. I should have averted my gaze, but some part of me chose to meet the challenge I saw sparking in his eyes. I studied him in return, and his smile deepened.

The richness of his suit, the silver of his vest, and the gold of his ring and cuff links sparkled like the patrons and guests who used to grace the table, and I wondered if that was why he didn't seem the stranger that he should.

"Miles to travel before you sleep?" he asked softly, shifting his gaze from the mirror to me. "You looked lost in thought."

I sipped my wine to wet my dry mouth. Meeting his gaze in the mirror was infinitely easier than a direct encounter with his piercing blue eyes. "I was thinking about
La Belle
and the way things used to be for my family."

"
La Belle
. An unusual name. Have I missed meeting more of your family?"

"Only my sister Ginette. She is unwell this evening but should be fine by tomorrow.
La Belle du Temps
is the name of our home. My DePerri ancestors never settled for the ordinary. Everything had to be special."

He studied the detail around him. "They were wise. The results are beautiful." The last remark was said as he looked at me. Even though I thought his flattery overdone, a blush still warmed my cheeks.

"And what about you, Monsieur Trevelyan? Were your ancestors wise as well?"

"I am afraid the answer to that is a matter of opinion. Most will say Trevelyan Manor has no equal to her beauty within a hundred miles, yet the Trevelyan men are not exactly viewed as wise or... trustworthy. Some deserve the criticism, but others, like my brother, do not."

Not trustworthy? The man was shockingly direct. Before I could decide in which category he put himself, Mrs. Gallier spoke.

"I hear you went to town today, Mrs. Boucheron. Tell me, was Madame Boussard's Dress Shop open? I spent some time there yesterday while Mr. Gallier and Mr. Fitz attended to business, and I was quite taken by her wares. She had several gowns that were imported directly from Paris this year. Of course they were exorbitantly expensive, but—"

"Now, Mrs. Gallier. You've no need for more dresses," Mr. Gallier directed.

"Of course not, Mr. Gallier," Mrs. Gallier said meekly, the sweet smile on her face faltering slightly. Though I could tell she often felt differently, she always agreed with her husband, reminding me of a pastel-hued painting I'd seen. It gave the impression of a woman, but when I looked closely there were no details—just brush strokes that her husband seemed to be constantly orchestrating. I decided I would leave some of my suffrage articles on the parlor table near the chair she frequently used.

Mr. Gallier was obsessed with finery, making up for his wife's lack. From watch fob to frock coat, he spent his every waking moment impersonating an English dandy.

Sitting on Mr. Trevelyan's left, Miss Vengle leaned surprisingly close to him and whispered something that I couldn't hear. From the irritation pulling on Mr. Fitz's handlebar mustache, he thought the action overly familiar, too.

"The dress shop was open today," I said, making a point of answering Mrs. Gallier's question. "So you and Monsieur Fitz were in town yesterday, Monsieur Gallier?"

"Yes, with excellent results," Mr. Fitz said. "We now have a theater at our disposal, and as soon as we agree on which play to perform, we can begin advertising."

Mr. Trevelyan narrowed his eyes. "From our earlier conversation, I thought your Shakespearean troupe was well established and contracted to prominent theaters for performances in advance, not that you were just forming a troupe."

Mr. Gallier cleared his throat. "We customarily do. But we canceled our plans for New York this summer because Mrs. Gallier"—he patted his wife's shoulder—"had a horrific bout of arthritis this winter, and the doctor suggested a warmer climate. Though I am not sure he meant New Orleans. This heat is murderous."

"It is murderous, which proves my earlier point, Edmund.
Macbeth
is a poor choice for our play," Mr. Fitz commented. "Ask anyone here if I am not right."

Sitting straighter in his chair, Mr. Gallier bristled. "I have no doubt
Macbeth
will be well received, and Miss Vengle plays Lady Macbeth so well. The public will love us."

"Murder is always welcomed under the guise of entertainment. We are a bloodthirsty breed." Mr. Fitz slashed his eyebrows together and wiggled his mustache. "Your abilities as an actor are not in question here, my friend, but rather the health of the audience is at stake."

"In what way?" Mr. Trevelyan asked Mr. Fitz.

"Simple, sir. Once you have been here a day or two, you will sense what I do. Tensions are rising, especially in this infernal heat. And human nature being as it is, tempers rise also. I have seen it before. Senseless murders are apt to follow unless intercessory measures are taken."

"Like yesterday," I said. "There was a murder on the steps outside of Monsieur Maison's law office. Monsieur Gallier, did either you or Monsieur Fitz hear of it? Madame Boussard's is on the same street."

Mr. Trevelyan dropped his spoon, making everyone jump when it clattered into his bowl. He was staring at me as if I had committed the deed myself. Had he heard of the murder? Was his surprise due to the fact that I spoke of it during dinner? I'm sure
Godey's Lady's Book
would not consider murder a proper dinner conversation.

"Juliet, how horrible." Mignon's cheeks faded from pink to white. "You could have been in danger. Why did you not tell us immediately?"

"A murder in broad daylight?" Miss Vengle asked. "How awful! Was the man robbed?"

I hadn't said the victim was a man, but it was an assumption anyone might easily make. "Monsieur Davis did not mention it if he was."

"And Mr. Davis would be?" Mr. Trevelyan asked.

"The assistant to my attorney, Monsieur Maison." I answered.

"Perfectly dreadful," Mrs. Gallier said. "And to think that I had been in town myself. When did you say this happened?"

"Midday, I believe."

Mrs. Gallier paled. "That's exactly when we were there."

"Thankfully, we missed the horrible event," Mr. Fitz cut in, then returned to his earlier subject. "So you see, Edmund. I am right. Tempers are too volatile under this heat. I suggest Miss Vengle and I do a comedy." He dipped into his soup with his spoon. "
The Taming of the Shrew
would be preferable to
Macbeth.
"

"A play cannot affect an entire community, Horatio," Mr. Gallier said.

"Words have determined the fate of nations." Mr. Fitz glowered back at him.

"Theater does change lives," said Miss Vengle. "Why, just look at poor little ol' me. I would likely have starved to death if you all had not come to my town." Her thick southern drawl reminded me of old molasses in the winter—oversweet and excruciatingly slow—and didn't match the dramatic flare of her dark hair and eyes.

"Do not upset yourself, Miss Vengle. Edmund and I will settle this." Mr. Fitz patted her hand from his place next to her. "High emotion during meals leads to bilious attacks."

I found his advice amusing, since he and Mr. Gallier were generating a fair amount of tension themselves. In fact, now that I took a moment to discern it, the tension in the room had grown tenfold since I spoke of the murder in town, as if they were forcing themselves to act normal.

"Well, gentlemen," Mr. Trevelyan said, breaking into the tension. "Were I given the choice, I would much rather be entertained by the wiles of a woman, such as Petruchio's Kate, than by the dark intrigues of murder and betrayal. What is your opinion in the matter, Mrs. Boucheron?"

The way Mr. Trevelyan emphasized "wiles of a woman" with his blue gaze centered on me was entirely too . . . enticing. "As I see it,
Macbeth
is the lesser of two evils."

Six pairs of shocked eyes met my gaze. Mignon spoke first. "Why ever would you say that, Juliet? Lady Macbeth pushes her husband to kill their king."

"Macbeth and Lady Macbeth were at least masters of their own destiny. They had a choice. Kate, in
The Taming of the Shrew
, was a pawn. She had no choice."

"Preposterous," Mr. Gallier said, his side whiskers seeming to bristle with outrage.

Mr. Fitz cleared his throat. "Hush, Edmund. I, too, am curious as to why our hostess would choose murder and betrayal over love."

"Yes," Mr. Trevelyan added. "Are you saying you condone murder as a means of directing your fate?"

His conclusion startled me. "You both misunderstand me, gentlemen. I only meant to say that I prefer choosing one's own fate as opposed to having it chosen. But we have strayed from the subject at hand. Were I to choose a play, I would pick
Much Ado About Nothing
."

"Beatrice's sharp wit equals her man's," Mr. Trevelyan said, studying me. "And though they are tricked into confessing their hearts, the hero and the heroine choose their own fates."

"Exactly so, Monsieur Trevelyan." His perception was disquieting.

It didn't escape my notice that Mr. Fitz had diverted the conversation away from the murder in town, and that all of the men had refrained from commenting on the crime. I had the distinct feeling they knew of it and had chosen to remain silent.

"There's nothing more appealing than a woman who knows her own mind," Mr. Trevelyan said.

His low-spoken words were a caress that made me tingle inside.

Mr. Gallier choked on his wine, Mignon winked at me, and Mr. Fitz coughed.

"A man after my own heart," Miss Vengle said, batting her lashes as she leaned toward him.

"A cheer for the ladies, then." Mr. Trevelyan sounded as if he thoroughly enjoyed disrupting the men and captivating the women. He picked up his water goblet and toasted the room. As he did so, light sparkled off the gold ring he wore on his little finger. The face, a flattened disk, held an unusual design of interwoven circles. I could have sworn that I'd seen that design before, but I couldn't recall where, which bothered me.

But I knew one thing: I'd never met a man like him before.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

"We finished early tonight," I said to Mama Louisa as she placed the last of the cleaned pots on the shelf. Wiping a final crumb from the kitchen table, I folded the dishcloth. It felt good to see the tasks for the day coming to an end.

"Done early means there's more work the Lord must have for us to do, and we just don't know about it yet," Mama Louisa said.

"Let's hope not. I am going to check the house to make sure it is properly locked, though."

"I already had Papa John do that. There's a strange feelin' in the air, Miz Juliet, and it isn't a good one. I'm going to check with him about it right now."

"Thank you," I said as she headed up the stairs leading to her and Papa John's quarters. Many times over the years, I wondered what we would have done without their love and loyalty.

Mignon marched into the kitchen just as I turned to leave. She looked almost angry, a surprising emotion from her. "Juliet, if Monsieur Fitz and Monsieur Gallier had not brought up the subject, when would you have told us about the murder in town?"

"Soon."

"When? My guess is you wouldn't have mentioned it. You treat Ginette and me as if we were children."

My eyes widened. "How can you say that?"

"You do not trust us. You do not tell us things we should know, like the increase in the taxes."

"I did not want you to worry."

Mignon sighed. "I know, but it has been ten years since Father died. I am not a child anymore. When you were seventeen, you were already engaged and putting together your trousseau."

"Which is exactly what you should be doing, instead of scrubbing your hands to perdition."

"What I
should
be doing is helping. Now, I want you to tell me how much we lack in being able to pay the taxes."

"If Monsieur Trevelyan stays as long as he plans, that will cover a good portion of it. But once the acting troupe moves on, we'll need to fill their rooms."

"Then perhaps we should put another advertisement for boarders in the
Picayune
. How long did you say he would be staying with us?"

"At least six months."

Mignon broadened her smile. "Plenty of time for
you
to get to know him, is it not?"

Warning signals rang in my mind. "Nonnie, Monsieur Trevelyan is a man of sophistication and means who will be returning to San Francisco once he has concluded his business here. He is far above our station in life."

Mignon did not seem to be the least daunted by my words. "Don't you think he is handsome?"

"Very."

"And wonderfully charming."

I tried to lie, but couldn't. "Yes. But the Lord put all manner of beasts upon the earth, and some of those are meant to be seen and not touched."

She blew out an exasperated breath. "Why do you not like him?"

"I did not say that. I do not even know Monsieur Trevelyan, but there are some things you can tell just by looking. You know fire is going to burn before you touch it,
oui
?"

"Did you love Jean Claude?"

I shut my eyes, then I met Mignon's questioning gaze with honesty. "Papa arranged the marriage and Jean Claude was much older, but I believe over time we might have made a happy life together. If I could go back and relive my life, though, I wouldn't marry for any other reason than love, and I wouldn't marry a man who was so many miles down life's road that he never saw the same roses I did." I patted Mignon's shoulder. "Now, no more talk of me or Monsieur Trevelyan. There is something you need to know. After calling you lovely and
amenable
, Monsieur Davis gave me the impression he's getting serious about you. Has he mentioned what his feelings for you are?"