Creole Fires (5 page)

She swallowed past the lump in her throat and blinked against the tears so close to the surface. She’d been a fool to think he would care if he did know who she was—and she wasn’t about to remind him. Her father had gone to Belle Chêne for help with his failing plantation and got nothing but a slap in the face. Nicole had been standing outside the door to his study when he had returned.

“François was just as I remembered him,” her father told her mother. “Selfish and uncaring. He said his father may have been an easy mark, but François du Villier was a businessman. He had his own problems to worry about and his brother felt the same.” She would never forget the look of despair on her father’s handsome face or the tears in her mother’s eyes.

Steeling herself against the bitter memories, Nicki took a seat opposite the imposing man in the expensive dark-green tailcoat. She was careful to keep her eyes cast down, as she had learned in prison, but couldn’t resist a single surreptitious glance. She found him watching her with as much curiosity as she watched him. She knew she should glance away, but for the life of her she could not.

He looked as handsome as she remembered, maybe more so. There was an air of maturity about him now that hadn’t been there before. His jaw looked stronger, his features a little harder. The sensuous grooves beside his mouth were gone, and there were tiny lines beside his dark-brown eyes. He looked older, as if the responsibilities he now carried had taken the last of his youth.

He seemed almost angry, she suddenly realized, and wondered if she could possibly be the cause.
When he said nothing more, just kept staring at her as if he wished she would disappear, she felt her own temper beginning to build.

“I’m not a thief,” she finally told him, certain the words were hovering in his thoughts. She had done nothing to deserve the things that had happened to her in the last three years. Nothing at all!

“That’s not what your papers say.” He propped one long, muscular leg on the front of her seat. “They say you were caught with your employer’s emerald brooch hidden in a pair of your drawers.”

Nicki flushed crimson. How could he refer so casually to something so personal? “My employer found the missing brooch, which is not surprising, since she is the one who put it there.”

“And just why would she do that?” he asked with a mocking note he did not try to hide. He leaned back against the seat, his shoulders so broad they took up most of the tufted red leather.

“W-why?” she repeated, hating the accusation in his eyes. She wanted to fling the truth at him, but God in heaven, she couldn’t tell him it was because the woman was jealous. He’d never believe a wife would be jealous of a twelve-year-old girl! “I don’t know,” she lied, wishing she could sink lower in her seat, but drawing herself up instead.

The Frenchman’s eyes turned harder than they already were. “Well, you can be certain that I won’t be stashing any jewelry in your drawers, so you had better not turn up with any.”

Nicki bit her tongue so hard it hurt. Who the devil did he think he was? “Must you constantly make reference to my underwear?” Her jaw clenched so tight she practically hissed.

“You mean you own some?”

Her eyes went wide. “You are … you are …
not
a gentleman.”

Alexandre grinned at that. The dimples were back. “I’m happy to see they haven’t broken your spirit completely. Tell me … how is it a little gutter rat like you speaks such educated English?”

Gutter rat!
And to think his father had once been called “friend.” “If I’m such a despicable person, why did you buy me?”

Alexandre’s smile faded. His eyes swept over her ragged dirty clothes and the stringy matted hair she tried to cover with her bonnet.

“I needed a little amusement.”

With those final hard words, they rode along in silence, the carriage filled only with the sound of spinning wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets. Nicki’s heart pounded harder than the hoofbeats. He needed a little
amusement.
Etienne St. Claire’s daughter, ragged and filthy, was an amusement. A thing to be laughed at, a thing to be scorned.

What did a man like Alexandre du Villier find amusing about someone as pitiful as she? she wondered. And how long would she have to wait with her insides churning to find out?

As if in answer, the carriage wheels stopped, the driver jumped down, and the door swung wide.

“We here, Mista Alex.”

Alex climbed to the street, and the driver helped Nicki climb down.

Alex motioned toward the inside of the carriage. “Give that seat a good scrubbing, Ukiah. She’s probably got lice.”

Nicole St. Claire, once her father’s pride and joy and a much-sought-after belle, could have died right there on the spot. And worst of all, it was true.

She swallowed hard and glanced away. She wouldn’t let the Frenchman know how much his words had hurt her. She might look wretched on the outside, but inside, St. Claire blood flowed through her veins.

“Where are we going?” she asked, fighting the urge to weep.

“To get you a bath.” He was scowling at her, his words meant to sting. Even the joy of being clean couldn’t allay her misery. She just prayed it didn’t show.

Heading toward a high wrought-iron gate, they entered a small, well-kept courtyard. Inside, jasmine, wisteria, honeysuckle, and clematis bloomed in profusion, and a small marble fountain made a shower for the birds. At the opposite end of the garden sat a two-story pale-pink structure, much the color of her home at Meadowood, with tiny white shutters and a wrought-iron balcony off one of the rooms upstairs. Alexandre opened the heavy carved cypress door, and they walked into the entry where a uniformed butler waited stoically for Alex’s hat and gloves.

“Whose house is this?” Nicki asked, admiring the lovely parquet floors and molded ceilings. Expensive Aubusson carpets warmed the salon, and delicate porcelain vases sat atop Queen Anne tables.

“Mine.”

“But I thought you …”
But I thought you lived at Belle Chêne, or were still living in France.

“But you thought what?” he snapped.

Why was he so angry? “Nothing.”

“Any more questions, mademoiselle,” he mocked, “or might we go upstairs and attend your bath?”

His sarcasm sent a surge of fury through her veins. Why hadn’t she remembered him as the caustic, mean-spirited man he was? Instead she’d remembered his handsome face, the way he had come to her rescue in the dusty streets of La Ronde. He was still just as handsome, but she’d learned these past few years that a person’s looks meant nothing. What mattered was what was in one’s heart.

Lifting her dirty skirts up out of the way, and with as much aplomb as she could muster, Nicki headed upstairs.

A thin-faced woman in a mobcap and apron stepped into the hall in front of them.
“Bonjour
, your grace,” she greeted him in French, and Nicki sucked in a breath.

Good Lord, now that Charles du Villier was dead, Alexandre was a duke!
Le duc de Brisonne.
How could she have forgotten?

“I told you not to call me that,” Alex said harshly.

“Pardon, m’sieur.”

“I also asked you to speak English. Both you and your mistress could well use the practice.”

“Yes, m’sieur,” she answered dutifully.

“I take it she has not returned.”

“No, m’sieur. She was in quite a temper when she left. She said she was not about to spend the night with a common criminal, even with you here to take her mind off it.”

Alex almost smiled. As Thomas had predicted, Lisette had been furious. When he’d told her about the bond servant he would be bringing from the prison, she had stormed out of the house. If he couldn’t start
giving her more attention, she’d raged, she would leave him for good. Of course, they both knew she wouldn’t.

Lisette had a violent temper, which Alex tolerated only because she showed that same hot passion in bed, but she would never jeopardize her comfortable position as his mistress.

“I have readied the water as you instructed,” the maid said.

He swung his gaze to the girl, who swallowed hard and nervously licked her lips. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Nic—Nicki Stockton.”

He studied her more carefully, trying to see past the soiled brown bonnet and the dirt on her face. “You don’t have any relatives near here … a half sister, maybe, or a cousin?”

“No.”

“I once met someone who looked a little like you. Same hair color, same eyes. But she was older, and she was French.” He hadn’t thought of the girl in La Ronde for years. That he remembered her at all surprised him, considering she’d been little more than a child.

“She certainly didn’t smell like you,” he added cruelly, still resentful he had somehow been duped into taking on one more responsibility he could ill afford. “That one smelled of violets. You smell as if you’ve been living in the bottom of a chicken coop.”

The girl’s face turned ashen. Shoulders that had been proud and straight even as she’d stood on the platform now sagged in weary defeat. Her bottom lip trembled and she fixed her eyes on the floor.

“I know,” she said, the sound of the words so soft and plaintive it tore at his heart.

Alex felt like an ass. What the hell was the matter with him? He had been goading the girl since the moment he’d met her, punishing her for his own stupidity. But she’d done nothing to deserve his harsh words. It wasn’t her fault he’d acted so rashly.

Alex tipped her chin with his fingers. Tears welled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,
ma petite,”
he said softly. “None of this is your fault.”

With his thumb and forefinger, he wiped the wetness away, leaving traces of her pale complexion where the dirt had been. He flashed an apologetic smile. “The past is behind you. You are safe now, and as long as you uphold your end of this bargain you will be. Marie’s going to help you bathe and dress, then tomorrow I’ll take you home to Belle Chêne.”

Home.
How long had it been since she’d lived in a place she thought of that way? Afraid Alex would read her wistful thoughts, Nicki tried not to look at him, but found it impossible. As difficult as ignoring the warmth of the fingers he had rested beneath her chin, the sound of his voice when he’d spoken to her with gentleness, the way he had before. The anger was gone from his voice now, his expression one of concern.

He turned to the chambermaid. “See she’s well taken care of.”

The woman nodded, guided her into one of the upstairs’ chambers, and closed the door behind them.

Nicole felt the woman’s hands on the buttons at her back. “If you don’t mind,” Nicki said, as soon as they were unfastened, “I would rather do the rest myself.” She couldn’t risk discovery just yet. She needed time
to find out the truth about the du Villiers. Were they friend or foe? Did their families’ long-standing relationship really mean nothing, or would Alexandre du Villier help her?

The woman nodded, accepting her desire for privacy. “You will find one of my daughter’s old uniforms on the bed. It is worn, but it is clean. It will fit you, I think.”

As soon as Marie left the room, Nicole peeled off the rest of her grimy clothes and the rags that flattened her breasts. They ached a little from the uncomfortable bonds, but it was a small enough price to pay. It dawned on her suddenly, she would have to find something to replace the dirty lengths of petticoat—she couldn’t stand the thought of putting them on again.

Glancing around the chamber, she noticed it opened into a bigger room and peeked inside to find a larger chamber gaudy with frills and cloying with the smell of sweet perfume.

Wondering whose room it could possibly be, she quietly backed away and returned to the task at hand. A search of the carved antique chest of drawers turned up nothing, but in the bottom of the rosewood armoir she found an old muslin sheet which she hastily tore into strips and stashed beneath the clean black uniform on the bed. Then she headed toward the big copper bathing tub that sat in the corner.

The water in the tub had cooled to just the right temperature by the time Nicki stepped in and slid beneath the surface. The scent of rose drifted up from the water.

She used to love violet, she remembered, the memory coming from somewhere far away. Then another
thought occured: Alexandre du Villier, Duc de Brisonne, had remembered her. At least a little. For the first time in years, her other lifetime seemed not so far away.

Enjoying her bath, Nicki scrubbed herself all over. A bottle of harsh-smelling liquid had been set out for use on her hair. When she had finished using it, she started scrubbing herself again. Marie came in before she’d finished, so she slid lower in the soapy water.

“There is no need to hurry.” She flashed Nicole a smile. Marie stood a few inches taller than Nicki, with mouse-brown hair and a plain but unlined face. “What did you say your name was?”

“Nicki. Nicki Stockton.”

“Nicki,” she repeated, her voice warm and friendly—until she noticed the slight disturbance Nicki’s search of the room had caused. Her warm smile narrowed to a disapproving line.

“It isn’t what you think,” Nicole said quickly, but Marie ignored her words. Stiff-backed, the chambermaid headed out the door.

Why did everything she tried to do turn out wrong? Nicki despaired as she finished her bath and hurriedly toweled herself dry. Worried Marie might return before she was finished, she quickly rebound her breasts and pulled on a cotton chemise. Clean and smelling of soap, the thin, worn fabric felt the height of luxury, the simple black uniform with its crisp white apron more precious than a Paris gown.

Using the silver-handled brush on the dressing table, Nicki combed her hair, then braided it and circled each braid beside her ear. The white starched mobcap went on next, covering most of her once-again shiny copper hair. When she glanced in the
mirror, she noticed the dress rose several inches above the floor, displaying a bit of white-stockinged ankle and a length of petticoat, the style fashionable for a younger girl.

She did look young. She had always had a look of innocence. But her woman’s body had allayed any doubts about her age. Now that her figure was disguised, she didn’t doubt her ability to deceive the most discerning. It would serve her purpose for a while.