Felice, p.16
Felice, page 16
“You have my word,” he managed to say. Suddenly desperate to get the hell out of there and breathe some fresh air, he picked up the sheaf of papers and started for the door. “Let me assure you, I have no thought for your sister other than that she does a fine job with the ledgers.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, René. Do you really expect me to believe that? You even named your goddamn dog after her.”
“Miz Sassy is not—”
“Stop.” Michel raised a hand, palm out. “How many times have either one of us commented on how full of sass Felice is? Then you waltz in here with a pup you’ve named Miz Sassy?”
“Christ Almighty! I’ll change the dog’s name to whatever suits you.”
“Oh, hell no.” Michel picked up his pencil and, twirling it in his fingers, smirked at René. “I look forward to Felice’s reaction when she learns you named a hound after her.”
Even though he’d been shaken to the core, René could feel amusement spilling, twitching his lips. “You would inform her?”
Michel chuckled. “I won’t have to. You’d better hope to hell there’s not a loaded pistol around when she figures things out.”
Henri walked in carrying a basket of warm beignets and a tray of mugs filled with steaming coffee. “Bastien took his vittles dockside. Said he spied two ships on their way in and will wait for them to make port.”
Felice waltzed in behind Henri. She snatched a beignet on the way to her desk. “You speak of the Meridian and Alexia. It’ll take two days to unload their cargo, so we’ll have an easy go of things today.” She glanced at the pile of fluff wagging its tail, and paused. “You brought your hound?”
“Oui.”
Michel snorted.
She ruffled his hair in passing, then slid into the chair behind her desk. “I can see by your wicked smile that the dog’s presence pleases you to no end, brother dear. How’s our wee Emma? Did she sleep through the night?”
He grunted. “I shall wait to respond once you’ve brought your first child into the world, sister dear.”
For a brief moment, something unreadable passed over Felice’s countenance, an expression akin to sadness. René shot a speaking glance at Michel, who lifted a brow in response.
She turned to the locked case, extracted the ledgers, and set about deciphering figures.
They weren’t five minutes into the day when Ainsworth crossed the threshold and headed straight for Felice, barely giving René and Michel a nod. He pressed a kiss on her forehead. “A good day to you, my love.”
René’s appetite for beignets evaporated.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “It’s not even eight o’clock.”
Ainsworth gave an exaggerated huff. “Well, sink me. Cannot a fiancé decide to surprise the love of his life?” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a narrow, black velvet case and set it atop her desk. “Go ahead, love, open it.”
I’ll be damned. When Felice’s expression could’ve frozen icicles in Hades, René no longer pretended to work. He leaned back in his chair and watched the goings-on.
“Mayhew,” she said. “While I would otherwise appreciate your unexpected visit, we have two ships about to make port, and because I missed work yesterday, I have fallen behind in my duties. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to excuse yourself.”
So much for her announcement that today would be a slow and lazy day.
She gave the box a push toward her fiancé and went back to the ledgers. “Perhaps you could give me this over dinner.”
Ainsworth paused, then turned to Michel as if he’d not been dismissed, a broad smile on his face. “I say, old chap. Might you excuse your sister from her duties long enough for the two of us to make our way upriver for a spell? It’s past time I asked her father’s permission for her hand in marriage.”
Felice’s head shot up from where she’d been bent over entering figures in the books.
René swore she turned pale.
Michel turned to her. “Your fiancé’s request certainly seems reasonable. Once we’ve finished with these two ships, why don’t you take a couple of days off?”
“Capital!” Ainsworth fairly shouted.
She openly glowered at Michel, then stood. “Mayhew, a word.” She marched outside, far enough away to be out of earshot, but clearly visible through the window. While she stood with her back to them, Ainsworth faced her, his expression clearly visible.
René turned to Michel. “You baited her, didn’t you?”
Michel’s mouth twitched. “It worked, didn’t it? What do you suppose she’s saying to him?”
“After the conversation you and I had before she arrived, do you think I would bother with whatever is going on between those two?”
Michel pointed to his head. “Dunce cap. Bring me my dunce cap, mon ami.”
“Bugger off. You—” René’s retort trailed off as the harbormaster stepped through the door.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Andrews,” the man said. “You’ve got two ships coming in to port, and I can’t seem to locate the proper registrations on the ships.”
“Let me have a look.” Michel took the documents to inspect just as a tall, slender man with a gray beard entered the premises.
Farouche!
René shot a glance out the window, where Felice stood with Ainsworth.
Farouche removed his top hat and gave Michel a quick bow of his head. “Bonjour, Monsieur Andrews.”
Michel glanced up from his paperwork. “Farouche. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“I can see you are busy, monsieur. I shall return on the morrow, s’il vous plaît.”
“Stay. I want to hear all about Abbott, and I also want you to meet my sister.” He nodded toward the couple, standing outside, engaged in what now appeared to be a heated argument. “She’s taken Abbott’s position until his return. He taught her all she knows, so he’s certain to be pleased.”
René caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked out the window in time to see Ainsworth stomp off. Felice headed for the door, head down, brows knitted together.
“There you are,” Michel said when she entered. “Monsieur Farouche, meet my sister, Mademoiselle Felicité Andrews.”
Felice’s spine stiffened. Her cheeks flushed. “Monsieur Farouche,” she said, her words clipped. “Please step over to my desk for a chat.”
She wasn’t the only one in the room with color rising. Farouche turned so red, even his hawklike nose pinkened.
“I . . . I must hurry along,” he stammered. “Much to do. I simply wanted to inform your brother that Monsieur Abbott is not yet ready to return to his duties. I shall inform him that you are keeping up with the ledgers in his stead.”
He turned on his heel and made a rapid exit.
Felice scooted from behind her desk and chased after him. “Stop, Mr. Farouche. We need to talk. Monsieur Farouche!”
Michel turned to René. “Go after the little fool.”
“Me? I thought I wasn’t to go near her.”
“Damn it, René, you can see I am otherwise engaged. Not only is she a woman running helter-skelter through the streets alone, but she is off to who knows where. Get her back here before she does something stupid.”
Chapter Sixteen
René dashed out the door and down the street, the heat of the day hitting him full in the face. A flash of blue skirt disappeared around the corner. “Felice,” he called.
Little good that did.
He’d not run two blocks and already perspiration drenched his shirt. He swiped at his wet brow and kept on running. How the devil can she move so fast? And in this heat no less? He drew up behind her, but she disappeared around another corner and into an alley.
He cursed aloud. Did she know she was headed straight into a disreputable part of town? He slid around the corner, nearly losing his footing. She was nowhere to be seen. He sped up and continued racing down the backstreet. Reaching the end of the alley, he didn’t know which way to turn, left or right.
He paused.
In the quiet, he heard a faint, “Mr. Farouche! Stop, I tell you!”
He ran toward the sound only to find Felice frantically pushing open the heavy entry door of a run-down, rattrap of a building.
“Felice!” He caught up with her just as she stepped inside a squalid courtyard. Stumbling to a halt, she covered her mouth and nose against the stench.
He grabbed her by the arm. “Do not take another step.”
She coughed and pointed to a door on the second-floor landing. “Farouche disappeared up there. Could Mr. Abbott possibly reside in this horrid place?”
The tumbledown building contained a multitude of cramped apartments surrounding a dirt courtyard scattered with debris. In the sudden silence, several women tending to steaming cauldrons over open fires paused to stare at Felice and René. Children of every size and age collected into a group. Clad in tattered clothing, their heads bald, their faces filthy, they began to slowly close in on the intruders.
René tightened his hold on her arm and murmured in her ear, “If you value your life, let me take you out of here.”
Speechless, she backed out with him, her eyes wide. He pulled her from the building and slammed the entry door shut. With a shout, he promised a grim death to any who tried to follow them.
“What was that . . . that . . .” she sputtered as he escorted her away at a fast clip. “Why did those poor children have no hair on their heads? What could’ve caused such a dreadful condition?”
“Their heads are shorn on purpose.”
“Whatever for?”
“To keep down the vermin infestation. I reckon the women wearing scarves on their heads are bald as well.”
A small groan left her lips. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Keep walking,” he said, knowing full well where he was headed. “Let me get you to a safe place.”
She stumbled along in a breathless daze, allowing him to lead her by the arm. “My brother said Farouche and Mr. Abbott live together. Mr. Abbott was well paid. He would have no reason to reside in such terrible conditions. I do not understand why he would choose—”
“I think I do,” René said, and kept walking, guiding her with a hand at the small of her back. Finally, he halted in front of a two-story building. “Let’s take a moment to catch our breath before we venture inside.”
“Where are we?”
“At the tax office. We’re about to discover who pays taxes on the building Farouche disappeared into.”
“The records should tell us who owns that miserable place, right?” At his nod, the confused look in her eyes cleared. She took in a deep breath and stepped forward. “Then let’s not waste another moment.”
It took half the coin in René’s pocket to convince the clerk to allow him access to the archives. “Just as I thought. Your friend Abbott owns the decrepit building.”
Felice stepped back from the open pages, not bothering to discreetly lower her voice. “You suspected this when we escaped, didn’t you?”
“Oui.” He ran a finger under one line. “See here. This is Abbott’s address. He lives in the Garden District, not four blocks from Michel.”
She pressed her palm flat to her forehead as if to aid her thinking. “Yet he allows those poor people to live under such wretched conditions.”
“Farouche’s intention was to lead you away from Abbott and into harm’s way.”
She stepped forward again and studied the paper as if she meant to brand the words into her brain. Moments later, she gripped the table’s edge, her face draining of color. “Please, take me out of here before I publicly sicken.”
He rushed her from the building and into a garden park across the street. Settling her onto a bench that offered privacy, he eased himself down beside her.
With a low moan, she gripped her midsection and rocked back and forth, swallowing hard and gulping air.
René slipped an arm around her for comfort. “Shh. Take in your next breath and hold it for as long as you can, then slowly let it out.”
She nodded and did as she was told.
“That’s it, chère. Breathe slow and easy and the dizziness will subside.” For want of anything else to do, he began soothing her with small talk in his native tongue until he felt her relax.
As color returned to her cheeks, she let go a deep sigh and leaned her head against the inside curve of his arm. At her innocent movement, his heart thudded. He fought an urge to pull her even closer, comfort her with a gentle kiss atop her head, but Michel’s words gave him pause.
“What was Monsieur Farouche doing in that awful place?” she asked. “I thought he was employed as Abbott’s gentleman companion.”
“He purposely led you away from Abbott for a reason, Felice. It was no accident he disappeared and left you to fend for yourself in that courtyard. Had I not happened along, you might never have made it out of there.”
A shudder ran through her. Suddenly, she stiffened and sat up straight. Determination filled her countenance. “We know his address. Let’s go after the rat right now.”
“Non, chère. Things have taken a dangerous turn. It is time you informed Michel of what has transpired.”
She shook her head. “Abbott was my mentor, not Michel’s. He seemed like an uncle to me. Papa was more than generous with Abbott, treated him like family. I want to . . . no, I need to confront the pigeon-livered man on my own. Afterward, I will inform Michel; then, together, we will have him arrested.”
“Felice, I am no tenderfoot when it comes to confronting danger. I’ve learned that the more clearheaded I am, the better my decisions. You might want to pause before you choose your next course of action. Especially now that you’ve decided to keep Michel in the dark.”
What the hell kind of position will this put me in if her brother learns of it? Christ.
“Good advice, but I doubt I will feel any different where Abbott and his lackey are concerned.”
“Lackey? My dear, Farouche is no hired hand. He is Abbott’s lover.”
Her eyes widened. “What? How do you know this?”
René shrugged. “It became obvious when Abbott was hospitalized. Farouche hovered over him as only a close partner would. The man who placed you in grave danger did so to protect his companion of many years. He’s likely informing Abbott at this very moment that you are aware of the embezzlement. They both have a great deal to lose now, so you must take care.”
She locked her gaze with his, held it far too long to leave René unaffected. A beat passed as he tore his gaze from hers and took to counting flowers on a bush until his blood settled. For the love of God, why was he so attracted to this untouchable woman?
“I never gave any thought to Abbott’s private life,” she said. “I grew up thinking him a saint, most likely living alone in a small house with his cat. Oh, Midnight. His cat. I wonder—”
“Farouche collected the little beast from the office once Abbott was released from the hospital. Felice, I do not think it wise for you to continue riding around town at all hours of the night. And once again, I urge you to inform your brother of Abbott’s crime.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “How did you know I go out riding at night? Have you been spying on me?”
Despite what had just occurred, and despite Michel’s warning to leave Felice alone, he fought another inappropriate urge to lean in and kiss her lush, sweet-tasting mouth. His words left his throat in a husky rasp. “I suspect you take Jingo out at the most unholy of hours when you have trouble sleeping. Whenever I feel restless, I leave my bed and sit on the veranda. We often keep the same nocturnal hours.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Her pupils dilated and her exhale left parted lips. “What do we do now?”
He knew that look, knew she felt what he was feeling. He leaned closer. Her breath fell on his lips. So close. So very close.
Mon Dieu. This would not do. She was forbidden fruit.
Catching himself once again, he eased his arm from her shoulders and rested it along the back of the bench. Merde. He shouldn’t have embraced her. But what was the harm? His action was meant to comfort.
Wasn’t it?
The fire in her steady gaze burned through him, clear to his toes. Fire was a dangerous thing when not properly tended. He knew better than to play with it.
He stood and, offering his hand, helped her to her feet. “What we shall do now, Mam’selle Felice, is set out for a scoop or two of ice cream. Isn’t that your inclination whenever you’ve a need to soothe your soul?”
She stared at him for a long moment, as if puzzled by his suggestion. And then her lips twitched. “What a marvelous suggestion, Monsieur Thibodeaux.”
* * *
Felice sat across from René, trying to decide which was more delectable, the iced confection sliding off her spoon and onto her tongue or the luscious man sitting across from her. No other word for him would do—handsome was too vague, attractive inadequate.
Those dark eyes scrutinizing her deepened in color—if that were possible—before a hint of amusement flickered through them. He eased back in his chair, his chin tilted upward, his lids lowered. Something all too familiar rolled through her belly. Could the man be ignorant of the provocative effect such a movement had on a woman? She noted several young ladies surreptitiously eyeing him.
What was it about him that drew her to him like a magnetic force when she knew firsthand he was nothing but trouble? One thing she had to admit—he certainly had the ability to smooth troubled waters using few words. With the worst of her anger having subsided, she could actually admit to enjoying herself. He’d been right—she’d do nothing at the moment regarding Mr. Abbott. Stepping away from the predicament could offer insight as to what next to do.
“Thank you for talking me down from a cliff I nearly jumped off,” she said. Dipping her long-handled spoon into the tall, fluted glass, she came up with a dollop of sweetness that nearly made her moan with pleasure.
René merely gave her a nod of acknowledgment. A wave of heat curled through her belly again. It wasn’t enough that he lazily observed her through a veil of thick lashes; his fingers were now caressing his coffee cup as if stroking the flesh of a woman. Another spark shot through her. Lord have mercy, her thoughts were turning indecent. She swallowed hard. Her next words tumbled out of her mouth without practicing the pause he’d taught her. “Back there when we sat on the bench, you wanted to kiss me, didn’t you?”
