Leslie Lafoy (9 page)

Not if attitude counted for anything along the way. “Has anyone ever mentioned that you’re an incredible optimist?”

“It’s certainly better than crying in your grits.”

Grits?
“Your what?”

“Grits,” she repeated more clearly—as though proper pronunciation would help. “I especially like them made with cheese and lots of butter and cream.”

Clearly they were something to eat, but beyond that he didn’t have so much as an inkling. But he nodded anyway and offered diplomatically, “They sound delicious. Perhaps you’ll prepare some for me in the days ahead.”

“Oh, I’d love to,” she offered, seeming to be genuinely thrilled by the prospect. “And gumbo. Have you ever had gumbo?”

“If I have, it apparently didn’t make much of an impression.”

“And cornbread,” she went on, fairly bouncing on her seat in excitement. “You have to have cornbread with gumbo. And a praline cake for dessert. Or maybe a pecan pie. Yes, pecan pie would be the better choice. Then for another meal we could have red beans and rice and—”

“Are you hungry?” he asked, chuckling.

“Famished, actually. It’s all this talk of good food.” She shrugged and her smile took on a chagrined edge. “Well, that and meals have been few and far between lately. It makes you truly appreciate and savor food when you have some in front of you.”

“How long is ‘lately’?”

“The last three or four years,” she blithely supplied. “War tends to make every part of life somewhat unpredictable.”

And apparently it also made people quite immune to the everyday hardships. Which was a decidedly sobering realization. At least he could make sure her stomach was full during the time they’d be together.

“I wish I could offer to take you out to dine,” he began apologetically as the carriage eased to the side of the road. As it slowed, he reached for the door handle and continued, saying, “But it’s not a wise course. Not given that whoever searched your room today is likely to be the same one who searched mine and killed Mignon. The less you’re out and about, the safer you are.”

“Oh, please don’t feel bad about that,” she said as he pushed open the door and vaulted out. Accepting his hand and assistance down onto the walkway, she added, “I really don’t mind cooking. Honestly, I could probably do it in my sleep. And I am so hungry for good old-fashioned, familiar food.”

It might be familiar to her, but with the exception of beans and rice, all of it was quite foreign to him. But, in the belief that life should be lived as an adventure, he was willing to take a chance or two. Nothing made with cheese and cream could be totally inedible.

“Did you happen to take note of the kitchen stores earlier?” he asked as the driver helped him pull Mignon’s trunk from the rack. “Is there enough there to prepare a decent meal this evening or do we need to put these things inside and then make a furtive trip to market?”

She appeared to be mentally sorting through the pantry as she followed them up the walk. They’d reached the front door and were carrying the trunk inside when she finally answered, “I think we can make do well enough for tonight. It won’t be anything fancy, of course. Tomorrow, though … We’ll have no choice but to make a list and go shopping.”

A movement in the street beyond him caught his attention. “Damnation,” he muttered, nodding his thanks to the driver and dismissing him.

“You were just being nice in offering to go to market?” she laughingly asked from behind him. “You don’t
have
to go with me, you know. I’m perfectly capable of buying shrimp and pecans on my own.”

“Not that,” he growled, his stomach twisting. “My parents have just pulled up.”

Chapter Five

Tamping down the urge to slam the door closed and use Isabella’s trunk to barricade themselves inside, Barrett watched his father hand his mother out of their carriage.

“I assume from the look on your face that it’s not a welcome visit.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” And he didn’t have anywhere near sufficient time to even make a start at explaining it.

“I’ll be polite. I promise,” she offered quietly as his parents started up the walk toward them.

Bless her heart for wanting to try. “If only it’d make a difference,” he muttered darkly, knowing that his only hope lay in keeping them all together. His parents were far too polite to bring up any sort of unpleasantness in the presence of a stranger. If one of them managed to get him alone, though, there’d be no holding back the tide.

“Hello, Mother. Father,” he began, dredging up a civil smile as they reached his doorway. Edging backward, he gestured to the foyer and continued the farce, saying, “What a wonderful surprise to have you call. Won’t you come in?”

Neither of them said a word; their attentions were riveted just past his right arm, on Isabella. And judging by the way his mother’s lips were pursed and the way his father’s eyebrows were knitted at the bridge of his nose, they weren’t the least bit pleased to see her there. Did they know who she was? he wondered. Or was their obvious displeasure rooted in finding him with company of any sort?

Reaching back and taking Belle by the elbow, he drew her forward and to his side, saying, “May I present my client, Mrs. Isabella Dandaneau? Isabella, my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Cecil Stanbridge.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she offered on cue and in perfectly genteel tones. Despite the tension he could feel in the muscles of her arm, her smile was easy and unruffled.

“Charmed,” his mother replied tightly, her own smile clearly a painful effort.

“Mrs. Dandaneau,” his father offered with a crisp dip of his chin even as he brought his gaze squarely to Barrett’s. “Might I have word with you privately?” he asked in the same breath.

God, how he wanted to say no. Barrett swallowed down the rising knot of his stomach and shrugged. “Of course. My study?”

Without another word, his father started across the foyer, his back ramrod-straight, his stride long and angry. Reluctantly turning to follow, Barrett flashed a weak smile at Belle, silently passing his mother into her care and hoping for a miracle he knew he wasn’t the least bit likely to get.

“Would you care for a cup of tea, Mrs. Stanbridge?” he heard her ask in the wake of his departure. “It won’t take but a moment to put the kettle on.”

“Thank you,” his mother answered after a long pause. “That would be lovely.”

It was going to be anything but, Barrett knew. The fact that Isabella was quick-witted enough to handle the situation was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, she’d graciously handle all of his mother’s inevitable questions. On the other, she’d easily read between the lines of what his mother offered in the way of stilted conversation and emerge from the encounter with questions he’d give his right arm to avoid answering. And to think that he’d actually thought—mere hours ago—that his life couldn’t get any more complicated than it already was.

Swearing under his breath and knowing that he didn’t have any choice except to make the best of a bad situation, he closed the door of his study behind himself and eyed the decanters on the credenza. He was about to offer his father a drink when the opportunity was snatched from him.

“Jesus F. Christ, son. Have you lost your mind?”

And so it begins. As always,
he darkly, silently groused. And, as always, he knew better than to let himself be sucked into his father’s emotional vortex. Slipping his hands into the pockets of his suit coat, Barrett slowly rocked between his toes and heels as he calmly replied, “If you could define the specific cause of today’s outrage, I’d be most appreciative.”

“That woman with your mother!” his father practically bellowed, gesturing wildly toward the front of the house.

Barrett slowly shook his head and held his ground. “You didn’t know Isabella was here until your carriage pulled up to the curb. Why don’t we start with what prompted you to make the trip in the first place?”

For a second his father seemed to puff up to half again his normal size and then, as though he’d been stuck with a pin, he deflated in one swift
whoosh
. Raking his fingers through his white mane, he admitted, “I’ve spoken this morning with Chief Inspector Larson about the investigation.”

Barrett considered the likely facets of his father’s concern and managed a smile as he addressed the first of the two, asking “And how is your good friend Michael these days?”

“Heartsick. He’s not going to have any choice but to arrest you for the murder of that American woman. The public clamor for justice is too loud to avoid the course. He’s being pressured by his superiors to bring the matter to a quick and neat resolution.”

Never mind about a just one.
“Arrest me on what evidence?” Barrett pressed, crossing to the credenza.

“You were the last person to have seen her alive.”

“No,” Barrett countered, pouring himself a Scotch. “The person who accosted her in the alley was. What Larson has against me is nothing more than pure, blind assumption. There’s not so much as a shred of evidence to support it.”

“There’s no proof that there was someone else, Barrett,” his father countered, the raw notes of burgeoning panic edging his words. “God, I’ve always been afraid that you’d come to this sort of end someday. The business with Su—”

“Would you care for a drink?” Barrett offered, cutting him off.

“No!”

“Take one anyway,” Barrett insisted through clenched teeth, thrusting the glass into his father’s hand. “It’ll settle your nerves.”

“There are times when it’s entirely appropriate to be frazzled. This is one of them.”

Barrett filled another glass and took a healthy swig of it before he had the wherewithal to calmly reply, “Father, I didn’t kill Mignon Richard. She was alive and well when I fell asleep. It may take a while, but eventually I’ll prove who
did
bludgeon her to death and hand him over to the authorities.”

“You have twenty-four hours to accomplish it. That’s the most Michael thinks he’ll be able to delay the process.”

Justice by the sweep of the hour hand. So much for the scales of truth.
“Twenty-four isn’t likely to be long enough,” he posed aloud. “Isabella—”

“Is she the dead woman’s sister?”

Barrett took another sip of his scotch, his mind sorting through the options he had. “First cousin,” he supplied absently.

“And you’re moving her in with you? Have you no self-control at all? Don’t you care how that might look to others?”

Barrett knew better than to be honest and confess that the opinions of others had never crossed his mind. It was an aspect of his character that his parents had never understood or accepted. Deliberately choosing to avoid the pitfall, he gave his father another truth instead, explaining, “Isabella walked into my office this morning and by the time she was done telling me her and Mignon’s story, I was fairly well boxed into a corner. Whoever killed Mignon is going to come after Isabella. A second woman dying after being in my company would be even harder to explain than the first one. She’s here so that I can protect her.”

“And capture the brigand when he comes to harm her.”

His father’s tone clearly said that while he could see the logic, he didn’t believe a word of it. Ignoring the wholly expected skepticism, Barrett lifted his glass in salute and managed a half-smile. “If you decide to give up the glittering world of the financier, you’d make a fairly good investigator.”

“Well, answer me this,” his father went on, as always undaunted by anything he said. “How are you going to protect her when you’re behind bars? Have you given that any thought at all? Are you perhaps planning to move her into your cell?”

Resisting the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall, Barrett stared at the scotch in his glass and tightly replied, “I’ll post a bond and be released on my honor. It won’t take any more than a couple of hours at the most. I’ll see that Carden and Aiden watch over her in the interim.”

“And if the authorities don’t allow you to post bond?” his father countered acerbically. “How are you going to protect this Isabella woman and catch the real killer if they insist upon holding you until the trial? Are you going to pass those tasks to your friends as well?”

As much as he hated to admit it, his father had a most valid point. Telling him so, however … “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

“While you’re about it, I hope you can find the time and summon the effort to find a way to spare your mother the embarrassment of yet another horrendous scandal. She’s been in constant tears since yesterday morning and has had to cancel every single one of her social commitments.”

And now they were, ever so predictably, on to the second facet of his parents’ concerns. “I’m sorry,” he offered dutifully while thinking his parents would be far happier people if they didn’t live their lives according to the opinions of others.

“Being sorry doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference, Barrett. Even if you’re eventually exonerated for this hideous crime, no acceptable young woman in her right mind is going to entertain a proposal from you.”

He was going to be arrested and charged with a gruesome murder within the next twenty-four hours and his parents were worried about the effect that would have on finding a wife? God love them both. They had the strangest perspectives and priorities. “Well,” Barrett drawled, “look on the bright side of all this. If I’m convicted, you won’t have to worry about the embarrassment of my choosing an unacceptable woman.”

“And the public hanging of my son would be ever so much more endurable?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted with a shrug, suddenly tired of the whole exchange, of trying to be someone he wasn’t. “I don’t spend a great deal of time thinking about the gossip mill. How do you think the two possibilities weigh out? There is the sympathy factor to be considered in having to bury me.”

His father looked at him as though he were a complete stranger. His brows knitted, his head tilted to the side, he said quietly, “Barrett, this is not a situation to take lightly. You’re in very serious trouble.”