Patricia Potter (3 page)

Meredith had listened, never quite believing. Such tales portrayed a rogue, so unlike the young man who had been so kind to her.

She looked at the man patiently awaiting an answer. Quinn Devereux. Her aunt Opal would be horrified. Meredith’s brown eyes suddenly twinkled with golden lights, and a flicker of a smile passed across her lips.

“Oh how very sweet of him,” she simpered. “Tell Captain Devereux we accept…with thanks,” she ordered the tall man. Briefly she wondered whether he was a slave or freeman. Although he appeared polite enough there was something in his bearing that didn’t quite fit. He must be a freeman, she finally decided. The riverboats plying the Mississippi favored free labor since it was easy for slaves to escape once they reached Ohio.

The man nodded with dignity and turned, walking away with a slight limp.

Now why in heaven’s name did I do that?
The last thing she should do was spend the evening with a man who’d been on her mind for years. How could she possibly continue her masquerade as a spoiled ninny when her heart was pumping so abnormally? She remembered his eyes…as blue as the summer sky at dusk, she had thought then. Were they still that blue? Had they ever been that blue? Or was it just a child’s dream? And if he was the rogue he was reputed to be…

Dear God, but she had enough problems already.

But he’s Brett’s brother, and it’s only good manners to accept the invitation, scoundrel or not.

And she needed a change from pomposity. She had suffered so much stuffiness during the past weeks of traveling, not the least of which at the hands of Brett Devereux. He was frustrated with her spending ways, and had tried to instruct her on the wisdom of thrift rather than indulgence.

Where did all the money go? He had asked the question with exasperation. Why did she need more?

She had shrugged her shoulders indifferently. “A lady must have clothes…”

“You should have enough for six women,” he said, sighing as he authorized another draft.

If he really knew…

It was difficult to imagine the very respectable Brett Devereux having a black-sheep brother. It should be immensely interesting, she told herself, and perhaps she could pick up some information of value. And maybe…he would remember her, remember that summer’s day.

Now, Meredith thought, to convince Aunt Opal…

The saloon was one of the finest Meredith had ever seen. Gilded chandeliers sent glittering streams of light against the Brussels carpet and frescoes. The stained-glass skylights twisted the last colorful remnants of a setting sun against the silver and crystal set on snow-white linen tablecloths.

Meredith and her aunt were led to a large round table where six men were already seated. All stood immediately as they approached, but Meredith saw only the striking man who rose lazily. The movement was almost insolent in its slow deliberate manner, and the expression on his face was both amused and mocking.

“Why, how gallant of you all,” Meredith chirped. “Please do sit down,” she added as she settled herself awkwardly in a chair held out by one of the diners. She noticed her aunt wince at her clumsiness. She slid a sidelong glance to Quinn, who so completely dominated the table as he descended back into his seat like a sleek languorous leopard.

He was dressed in black, except for his white shirt and cravat and, strangely enough, gloves. She wondered about that briefly, but everything about him was so different, so striking, that what she might have considered an affectation on someone else seemed perfectly natural with him.

An inquisitive smile hung on his lips but his dark blue eyes were unfathomable…and cold. Nothing like she remembered. There was no smile in them, no warmth, no welcome. And perhaps cold didn’t actually describe them. It was as if they were not eyes at all, but a rich blue curtain. She had a slight chill as she suddenly sensed that much lay behind them, that he had a reason for protecting himself so thoroughly.

Noticing her interest, he inclined his head. “We are grateful that you could join us,” he said in a quiet, brandy-smooth voice that sent a current of warmth through her. “Let me introduce your dinner companions. I have the honor to be your host, Quinlan Devereux. On my right is Tal Simmons, a horseman from Tennessee. Next to him is Gerald Wright, a planter from Biloxi, and then George Brown, a businessman in Ohio. On my right are Ted and John Carroll from…Natchez, is it?”

The two roughly dressed men looked out of place at the table, and now they acknowledged the introduction awkwardly.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” one said, flattered by the arrival of a lady of quality as well as impressed at being seated at this table. He and his brother were usually considered outcasts.

Meredith noticed that Captain Devereux had not mentioned the two men’s occupations. She fluttered the fan she had brought with her. “Oh my, what a distinguished company,” she said. “Are you a businessman too?” she asked one of the brothers.

There was a moment of silence. “No, miss,” one said slowly. “We are…well, you might call us lawmen.”

Everything inside Meredith tensed. She should have known, should have sensed it immediately. Slave hunters. Indignation replaced sudden apprehension. Men of their stripe—though used widely by plantation owners—were regarded to be at the bottom of any social ladder, far below an overseer in fact. It was unthinkable they would be asked to dine with…with…

With whom?

She had to stifle a small laugh that was part tension, part irony, part something else, something that had infected her from the moment she sat down. If only Captain Devereux knew he had slave stealers and slave hunters at the same table.

She fluttered her fan. “How fascinating…Mr. Terrell, is it?” Beside her, she heard her aunt gasp with dismay at her choice of conversation partner.

“Carroll, miss,” the slave hunter said, emboldened by her interest. “John Carroll.”

“Have you caught any murderers lately?” Meredith asked, then felt her aunt jab her waist.

“Well, mostly we hunt fugitives.”

“How dangerous for you.” Meredith smiled sweetly. Everyone knew few fugitives ever fought back. “You must be very brave.”

John Carroll puffed up like a bloated fish. “Well, a man has to be, miss.”

The discussion ended as the waiter appeared, nodding his head politely at Devereux. “Brandy smash, gin sling, mint julep…” he recited in a monotone. “What is your pleasure?”

Captain Devereux, his lips still twitching at Meredith’s wide-eyed attention to the slave hunter, looked at his tablemates, his glance lingering on Meredith before moving to her chaperon. “Miss Frazier?”

“Nothing…nothing,” Opal stammered. She was horrified beyond speech at her fellow dinner guests.

His lips twitching even more obviously, the riverboat captain turned to Meredith. “Miss Seaton?” he said politely.

“A small glass of sherry, thank you,” she replied sweetly. She needed it. Badly. She wished she could gulp a shot of whiskey.

Captain Devereux’s grin deepened, as if he’d guessed the direction of her thoughts, but his eyes remained remote, watchful.

She studied him as he pleasantly questioned his male guests. She could imagine no one more unlike the young banker in New Orleans.

Where Brett Devereux had dark brown hair and light blue eyes and pleasing features, his brother’s hair was as black as a raven’s wing, thick and curly and looking as if it resisted taming. There were streaks of white around the edges—premature, she guessed, since he couldn’t be much more than thirty-six. Instead of aging him, the white endowed him with an air of intrigue. His facial features indicated no softness, and hard lines around his eyes and mouth belied the smile that frequently touched his lips. The impassive dark blue eyes were set deep, framed by long black lashes and heavy dark brows. High cheekbones were divided by a strong straight nose. His chin was square, stubborn, and it would have been most daunting if there had not been a deep cleft in its center that gave him a rakish look. And his mouth…

Was what?
Fascinating was one word. Frightening another. Not the shape, which was masculinely beautiful and revealed perfect white teeth beneath, but the motions it went through. Motions and curves that had, she knew instinctively, nothing to do with what he was really thinking. It was, she thought with instant clarity, only a tool he used. As she did.

But more overpowering than the near perfection of his face was the air of raw vitality and danger he exuded. As he sprawled lazily in the seat across from her, his gloved hands moving in fluid motion, she wondered if anyone else noticed the tension within him. Probably not. But then she had been trained to observe…trained by excellent teachers.

When Captain Devereux completed questioning his guests for drinks, his eyes returned to her. Meredith could feel all his attention, and it was like being struck by lightning, so great was the impact. She forced out a small nervous giggle.

“Does this big old boat really belong to you, Captain Devereux?” she asked with her best admiring gaze.

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, his mouth bending into the half-amused smile that she now expected. “The ill-gotten gains of a poker game.”

“This whole boat? In a poker game?”

The smile widened. “The whole boat, Miss Seaton.”

“And you run it all by yourself?”

“I have someone who does that for me,” he said. “I prefer gambling.”

“Oh,” she said, seemingly crestfallen. In her society, a successful businessman was fair game; a gambler was not, not if he were a professional one.

His eyes crinkled with the first real amusement she had seen, and Meredith felt a surge of elation that her role as husband hunter was so readily believed. Yet mingled with that elation was a curious disappointment too.

But why? And why did her stomach feel so strange and unsettled? She lowered her eyes. She should feel nothing for a man like Quinlan Devereux who gambled for a living, who had shocked New Orleans with his reckless behavior, and who, most damning of all, entertained slave hunters at dinner.

He must approve of their activities, possibly even helped them in return for a percentage of their rewards. How could he have changed so much? He didn’t even seem to remember her.

He laughed softly, almost silkily. “You see, Miss Seaton, I’m the black sheep of the family. I don’t particularly care to work for a living. Playing poker is much more amusin’.”

“But your brother…” she protested.

“My brother is a fool. Do you know him, Miss Seaton?” He already knew the answer but he was curious about her reaction. Why, he didn’t know. This overdressed woman with the simpering manner interested him on some level he didn’t entirely understand. Perhaps because she had been so different as a child, so open and unaffected. Apparently she didn’t even remember that visit. But then he had heard something about a fall she had had as a child. Perhaps it had affected her mind.

Cam and his brother were right. Dressed properly and stripped of that infernal giggle, she would be attractive enough if not beautiful. She was tall and slender, but the bows and frills on the heavy blue velvet gown made her seem awkward, and although her hair color was a rich burnished gold, it was dressed in an unbecoming style that did nothing for the fine bone structure of her face. The mouth pouted or simpered, ruining an otherwise striking countenance. Her eyes, if they had conveyed any vitality or intelligence, would be quite remarkable. Golden lights hovered in their rich dark brown depths. But they were so damned empty now, drained of any life or passion.

For one second he’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of something more in them, something like a wary examination, but it vanished so quickly he thought he must have imagined it.

“Miss Seaton?” he prodded when she didn’t answer his last question immediately. “Are you acquainted with Brett?”

“Oh my, yes. Such a fine gentleman,” she gushed. “And so helpful. He’s my banker, you know. Or I suppose you don’t. Of course, he scolds me all the time about my spending.” A sudden surge of mischief overtook her. She wanted to jolt him, to even hurt him for not remembering a small girl. His attention then had meant so much to her, but to him apparently nothing. “But I don’t imagine he approves of you either, Captain,” she trilled. “I mean…well…” She purposely stumbled, watching the sudden chill in his eyes.

But he recovered nicely. “I don’t quite approve of him either, Miss Seaton. Entirely too respectable for my taste. Now
I’ve
never claimed to be anything but a rascal of the first order.” There was a glint in his eyes that bored into her, and she thought she had better be careful. He wasn’t quite as dense as he first appeared, as she had found most arrogant men to be. And he
was
arrogant. Everything about him spoke of it.

Quinn turned to the Tennessean, apparently losing interest in Meredith. “Tell me about your horses, sir. I understand you do some racing. Do you have a horse you would recommend betting on?”

After that, the dinner seemed fairly typical to Meredith. Courses of food arrived. Oysters and mussels, ham, chicken, mounds of potatoes swimming in butter, beans and peas and fresh biscuits. A selection of pies followed.

The conversation turned to politics, and Meredith noted that Captain Devereux seemed completely bored with it. He contributed nothing as he leaned back with a glass of brandy while the businessman from Ohio and the planter from Mississippi heatedly argued the merits of Republican John Frémont and Democrat James Buchanan in the upcoming election.