Merline Lovelace (6 page)

Blindly, Barbara stared down at the folded oilskin. She didn’t need to extract the document inside or read the French phrases. She’d burned them into her brain the very first time she’d read them in the dank, squalid visitors’ cell.

They’d been written by the bishop of Reims. In bold, flowing script, the cleric certified that a Jesuit priest by the name of Père Jean Sebastian had indulged in a series of debaucheries with a young female more than thirty years ago. Père Sebastian had fled to French-held Louisiana to escape censure and had been defrocked in absentia. All rites performed by the priest in the New World, the bishop declared, were null and void.

Those rites, the possessor of this document had gasped to Harry with his last, rattling breaths, included the marriage of one Henri Chartier to a half-breed squaw. The woman wasn’t his wife. Had
never
been his wife. The fortune she’d inherited from Chartier should have gone to his descendants in France. To him, through his great-grandmother!

Ever one to seize an opportunity, Harry had lifted
the tiny square of oilskin off the dying man. Months later, he’d passed it to Barbara.

Carefully, she slid the folded square back into its hiding place. She’d have to choose the best moment to produce the document. Not tonight, certainly. As Harry had taught her, one must always bait the trap before springing it.

Fishing out her jewel case, she crossed to the gilt-edged stand the Morgan girls used as a dressing table. She’d just seated herself on the padded bench, when Hattie returned and held the blue gown up for Barbara’s inspection.

“Well done! You have a light hand with a pressing iron.”

A blush rose under the woman’s bruises. “My mam always said so.”

“I don’t have time to brush out my hair. Will you tuck in the loose strands?”

Laying the dress across the bed, Hattie took up the silver-backed brush and put her nimble fingers to good use. Not only did she tame the flyaway strands, she teased the side tendrils into feathery curls.

Her hair attended to, Barbara’s impatience to be downstairs mounted. She stepped into her gown and tried not to fidget while Hattie fastened its buttons on the shimmering silk.

“I’ve never seen the like of this gown,” the maid murmured.

“It’s Italian in fashion.” A little tug lowered the rounded neckline and bared her shoulders. The full sleeves puffed up to Barbara’s satisfaction, she sorted through the contents of her jewel case.

The case that had once held a sparkling collection was now almost empty. She’d sold her ruby earrings to pay the barrister who’d defended Harry at trial—
most
ineffectually, it turned out. Her rope of pearls and magnificent, square-cut Russian emerald had gone for bribes to ensure her brother received what comfort he could in the prison hulks. Barbara’s diamonds had paid for her own voyage, first to Bermuda and then to America.

The sapphires and a few inexpensive trinkets were all that remained. They, too, would go unless she succeeded in the mission Harry had sent her on. Setting her jaw, she clasped the filigree strands studded with sapphires around her neck.

“You may straighten up in here, Hattie, then go to your supper.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

On her way to the door, Barbara stopped and swung back. “I have a lotion of distilled pears in that valise. You may put some on your face and neck, if you wish. It will help ease the discoloration.”

As she smoothed the lotion over her cheeks, Hattie marveled once again at her astounding change in fortune.

Not three days ago Thomas was slobbering all
over her and near suffocating her with his stink. Now here she was, daubing the essence of distilled pears on her skin. She’d smell as fine as any lady—including the one who pranced about with her nose so high in the air it was a wonder she didn’t trip over her own feet.

Awash in a cloud of fragrance, Hattie threw a glance over her shoulder. The door was firmly shut. Giving in to avid curiosity, she poked through the jewel case sitting on the dressing table.

A choker of glittering jet made her gasp in delight. She held it to her throat, imagining how it would look when the finger marks faded. Returning it to the case, she continued her explorations. A small brooch lay buried under a string of Venetian-glass beads. The pin was just a trinket, the kind of bauble a man might buy his sweetheart at a country fair, but the enameled flowers surrounded by tiny seed pearls caught Hattie’s fancy. Surely Lady Barbara wouldn’t miss such a trifling piece.

Slipping it in the pocket of her cherry striped gown, she straightened the room and went downstairs to find her supper. The murmur of voices in the parlor slowed her step. She was as curious as Lieutenant Morgan as to Lady Barbara’s business with his mother and would dearly love to put an ear to the keyhole. The heavy tread of footsteps forced her to continue on her way to the kitchens.

She wouldn’t eat with the other servants for long,
she vowed. One day—and soon!—she would sit down to dinner with the lieutenant and his family and take her tucker from gleaming silver trays.

B
arbara sipped the wine her hostess had pressed on her and gave silent thanks she’d decided to wear her sapphires. Harry had always insisted they must never appear at a disadvantage before their prey, and anything less than the sparkling stones would have put her at a
distinct
disadvantage before this particular prey.

Louise Morgan, too, had changed her gown for dinner. The elegant amber satin with its over-drape of gold gauze might have been fashioned by one of London’s finest modistes. Unless Barbara had lost her eye for gems, those were yellow diamonds encircling the woman’s throat and dangling from her earlobes.

As the two women savored their wine, they indulged in a polite exchange. Her hostess asked how Barbara had fared during her journey. She responded with a few amusing anecdotes she invented on the
spot. She knew the time for chitchat had passed when Louise set aside her glass and turned a look of cool inquiry on her guest.

“My son said you traveled from London to seek me out. Why?”

Barbara, too, set aside her glass. She’d prepared for this moment for weeks, had rehearsed a dozen times or more the devious mix of fact and fiction she and Harry had concocted. Unfortunately, they’d believed then that Barbara would be dealing with an uneducated aborigine. Instead, she faced a shrewd, sophisticated businesswoman. Hiding her clamoring nerves behind a small smile, Barbara spun a web of half truths and lies.

“I’ve come in search of you, Mrs. Morgan, because it appears we may be related.”

The older woman’s eyes widened. “What do you say?”

“I believe you are my great-aunt.”

Astounded, Louise Morgan stared at her. “How can this be? My mother was of the Osage. My father of the French.”

“I, too, have French ancestry.”

That much at least was true. Barbara and Harry’s grandmother on their mother’s side had fled France at the start of the Terror. From that point on, however, Barbara stole her ancestry from the man who’d died in chains next to Harry.

“My grandmother’s last name was Bernay. She
was the younger sister of Julianne Bernay, who married the third son of the Duc d’Argonne. The son’s given name was—”

“I know his name,” her hostess cut in. “It was Henri. Henri Chartier. He is man I marry before Daniel Morgan.”

“Yes, he is. Or was. I understand he died some years ago.”

“
Many
years ago.” Frowning, she struggled to trace the convoluted lineage. “Let me be sure I understand this. When Henri comes to America, he leaves behind a wife in France. She dies, and he marries me. You say this woman was your grandmother?”

“My grandmother’s sister. That makes Henri my great-uncle, and you my aunt by marriage.”

Barbara smoothed her gown over her knees, caught herself, and silently cursed the nervous gesture. Harry had taught her never to betray nerves.

“I only learned of your marriage to Henri Chartier a few months ago.”

In a dark, dank cell, with her brother’s chains rattling as he paced. Shoving aside the wrenching memory, Barbara proceeded carefully.

“The connection between us is tenuous at best and exists only through marriage. You may well choose not to acknowledge it.”

The older woman took her time replying. Really, she had the most unnerving stare. So intense and direct.

“You must tell me why would
either
of us wish to acknowledge this connection you speak of.”

The blunt question hit right at the heart of the matter. Both women knew there was only one reason an English lady would admit a tie, however slight, to an American commoner of mixed Indian and French blood. Barbara didn’t even try to deny her motives.

“When I learned of your marriage to my great-uncle, I also learned you inherited the fortune he amassed during his years in Louisiana Territory.”

“Yes, it occurs to me you must know of Henri’s fortune.”

The dry comment sent heat spearing in Barbara’s cheeks. She was more used to playing the role of smiling seducer than supplicant. It scratched her pride to sit here and all but beg.

“I make no bones about it,” she said flatly. “I find myself in desperate need of funds.”

“How much do you want?”

All of it.

Every shilling she’d inherited from her first husband.

The urge to lay the demand on the table rose in Barbara’s throat. Ruthlessly, she suppressed it. If she’d learned nothing else from Harry, it was to avoid overshooting her mark. The bishop’s document was her trump card. She’d play it only if necessary.

“I require five thousand pounds sterling.”

Louise Morgan didn’t so much as blink. She must have many times that amount in the bank to take the demand so calmly!

Relief coursed through Barbara. One of the most serious flaws in the wild scheme Harry had devised was a lack of knowledge as to how much of Henri Chartier’s supposed fortune remained, if any remained at all. Sallie Nicks’s offhand remarks had given Barbara some assurance. The fine furnishings in this house had provided more.

Now she knew without the slightest doubt this woman’s wealth was great indeed. Allowing none of her relief to show in her face, she was ready for the question she saw forming in the woman’s remarkable eyes.

“For what purpose do you require these funds?”

“To secure the release of my brother,” she answered. This time the truth served better than any lie. “He fell victim to a fraudulent scheme and was sent to prison.”

It didn’t matter that he’d devised the scheme himself. She waited, half expecting the older woman to refuse and thus force Barbara to play her trump card. Her answer was slow in coming and surprising.

“I know how it is to see someone you love thrown into prison. My husband—my second husband, Daniel—languished in the
cabildo
in New Orleans for months.”

The older woman’s glance drifted to the window.
The deepening twilight outside must have been filled with images from her past, for the face she turned back to her guest held haunting shadows.

“I make a bargain with the devil to secure Daniel’s release.”

Barbara held the woman’s gaze. “I would do the same to secure my bother’s.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “I can see you would.”

The moment stretched for an awkward length before Louise Morgan broke it.

“I must speak with my husband about this. And you must speak to Zachariah,” she added. “Tell him of your brother’s plight if you have not already done so and let him put his mind to this matter of unjust imprisonment.”

“I would prefer not to involve another lawyer in the matter. The last one cost me a pair of ruby ear-bobs and left my brother to rot in prison.”

The stiff reply won a smile from the older woman.

“I, too, have had sour dealings with lawyers. Why do you think Daniel and I send Zach East to read the law? He’s the only one we trust to manage our affairs.”

Which meant Barbara might yet have to go through the son to reach into the mother’s pockets. Oddly, the prospect didn’t disturb her as much as it had a few days ago. She was discovering the lieutenant to be a man of many talents, but he was still a man. She didn’t doubt her ability to bring him to his knees.

She didn’t have much time to accomplish the task, though. The lieutenant had been released from his military duties for only a few days. She’d have to begin her campaign soon, she decided, as Louise Morgan rose and shook out her skirts.

“Shall we take dinner now?” her hostess asked politely. “We will speak again tomorrow.”

With a nod, Barbara rose and followed her to the door. The wooden panels slid open and caught the attention of the two men deep in conversation at the far end of the hall.

“There you are.”

The older of the two came forward to greet his wife and guest. Barbara recognized him at once as the lieutenant’s father. He was every bit as tall as his son and carried himself with the same square-shouldered erectness. The resemblance went deeper than mere physical traits, though, and had more to do with his calm, confident air. This was a man who recognized his strengths and compensated for his failings, she thought.

She had only to see the light that came into his eyes when they caught his wife’s to know Louise Morgan held his heart in her hands. Suppressing an unexpected pang of envy for the older woman, Barbara returned Daniel Morgan’s warm smile.

“Welcome to Morgan’s Falls, Lady Barbara. I confess, I’m as eager as my son to learn the reason you’ve journeyed so far to meet with my wife.”

His tone was cordial and the words polite, but neither fooled Barbara. Like his son, he would allow no one to harm the petite, black-haired woman who slipped her arm in his.

“She comes because she and I share ties by marriage. Lady Barbara is Henri’s great-niece.”

“The devil you say!” her husband exclaimed.

Her son, too, expressed astonishment, but it was obvious from the glance the two men exchanged they didn’t believe Barbara had journeyed all this way simply to visit with a long-lost relation. Louise forestalled the questions she saw in their faces.

“We must feed our guest or she will think we mean to starve her. Zach, take the lady’s arm.”

“Please, call me Barbara,” she urged as Zach stepped forward. Like his parents and their guest, the lieutenant had dressed for dinner. He’d shed his well-worn buckskins in favor of a green velvet jacket with claw-hammer tails and a double row of brass buttons. His gray wool trousers were tucked into knee-high Hessians polished to a shine that would raise instant envy in the breast of any dandy on the strut in Hyde Park.

Every time she thought she had his measure, Barbara reflected wryly, he changed his stripes. First the rough woodsman, then the officer. Now it was a sophisticated gentleman who escorted her into the dining room.

The noisy chatter that had been emanating from
the room stilled instantly. No fewer than ten people turned in their direction. Three were servants who caught their mistress’s nod and scrambled to remove covers from the silver dishes on the sideboard. Four were the children of the house.

The others were introduced as Mr. Harris, a young missionary who taught the school on the Morgan property; Singing Bird McRoberts, a broad-cheeked woman in braids and a stunning necklace of silver and turquoise; and Jeremy, her husband. McRoberts was a little raisin of a man with reddish hair, clacking wooden teeth and a cast in one eye. Squinting at Barbara, he pronounced her pretty as a goose and promptly demanded his dinner.

“Yes, yes,” Louise said, not the least perturbed by this breach of etiquette. “First let me introduce Lady Barbara to the children.”

Chubby-cheeked little Sarah giggled. A scrubbed and clean-suited Theo made an awkward bow. Urice turned out to be a merry-eyed miss of eleven or twelve. Her sister Vera, Barbara discovered, was a serious-minded scholar recently returned from a convent school in New Orleans. A fourth daughter was mistress of her own home in the Carolinas, Louise informed Barbara, and the other Morgan sons were away at university or off on various business pursuits.

Dinner turned out to be a lively affair. Barbara was unused to sitting down to table with children, but
found herself smiling at Sarah’s infectious giggles and replying easily to Urice’s eager questions about everything from India muslins to the new dropped shoulders and epaulette collars. Vera’s questions were somewhat more daunting.

“My mother says you are but lately come from abroad, Lady Barbara. Has the debate over Mary Wollstonecraft’s treatise on the education of women lost some of its heat?”

“I, er, have not heard it mentioned of late.”

Or at all!

Her delicate face assuming serious lines, Vera lowered her soupspoon. “Do you agree with the basic tenets of the treatise? That women debase themselves by exercising the power of their beauty instead of their reason?”

Barbara was saved by Urice, who’d obviously heard the same question posed before.

“Oh, pooh! You’re not going to go off on another lecture about how a gentleman shouldn’t jump to pick up a lady’s handkerchief for her, are you?”

“Not at all. I merely hope our guest would agree a woman is capable of picking up her own handkerchief.”

“I do indeed,” Barbara said. “But why should she, if she has a handsome swain to do it for her?”

Urice sent her sister a smug look, which disappeared when their guest continued calmly.

“Beauty can be as potent a force as intellect. A
woman would be a fool not to employ both to achieve her ends.”

“The same way a man would be a fool not to appreciate both,” the lieutenant put in with a smile.

“Just so.”

Spooning her soup, Barbara sipped at the delicately flavored pumpkin bisque. It was quite good, as were the saddle of beef and pork tenderloins in wild mushroom gravy that followed. She reserved judgment on the squash soufflé, but decided she’d never tasted a more delicious syllabub. Rich with raisins, nuts and cinnamon, the pudding-like dessert swam in a puddle of sweet, thick cream.

After dinner, the family repaired to the parlor where Urice gave an astonishing performance on the piano. Her nimble fingers flew through selections from Mozart, Handel and an Italian composer Barbara had never heard of before switching to lively country airs. When the tinkling notes of “Green-sleeves” faded, the girl slowed the pace and began a piece with an odd rhythm. Every third or fourth beat she stuck a chord at the lower end of the keyboard, almost like a drumbeat. In between, the notes trilled swift and sweet, like a lark on the wing.

“What an unusual piece,” Barbara commented when she finished.

“Do you like it?”

“Very much.”

Pleasure stained the girl’s cheeks. “It’s my own
composition. I based it on one of the songs my mother’s mother taught her. The Osage are quite noted for their musical ability, you know.”

“No, I didn’t. I must confess I’ve not met anyone of Osage descent before.”

Truth be told, she found the girl’s pride in her mixed heritage somewhat surprising. The Americans she’d met so far had displayed a wide range of attitudes toward the native population, but here in Indian Country the mix of cultures and bloodlines appeared to occasion little concern or comment.