Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (20 page)

As if on cue a footfall sounded on the wooden stair, and a nattily
dressed Navarre opened the door to the inner sanctum. Jackson could tell by the
look on the older man’s face that he was shocked to find him there. “Uncle,” he
said, “please do come in.”

Navarre came silently into the room, his movements graceful,
catlike, and Jackson was reminded that his uncle’s foppish affectations were
relatively new. He’d worked very hard alongside Emil to build the company. The
man beneath the swallowtail coat and impeccable cravat was just as shrewd as
ever. The older man raised his black brows at Jackson’s invitation. “You don’t
have a pistol hidden in the drawer, do you?”

Jackson gave him an exasperated look. “I need your advice, not
your sarcasm. Come in, and be so good as to close the door.”

“My advice? Now, there’s a surprising turn of events. Does this
perchance mean that you have forgiven me for neglecting to tell you that your
father was ill?”

“Not completely, yet as Kaintuck would say, you are kin, and as
such I owe you my loyalty, as well as my understanding.”

“The intrepid Miss Dawes, is it?” Navarre said with a smile. “It
seems I may have formed an opinion of her too hastily. Tell me, nephew, just
how great an influence does your wood nymph have on you? You aren’t harboring
thoughts of anything permanent, are you?”

Leaning forward, Jackson tapped the open ledger with one lean
brown finger. “Reagan is not my wood nymph, and I need your advice on the
accounts, not on my relationship with her, or the lack thereof.”

“You,
examining the books? You
are jesting, of course.”

“I wish to God I were.”

Navarre folded his elegant hands over the silver head of his
walking stick, and sat patiently waiting for Jackson to explain.

Jackson sighed heavily, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m being
drawn into it all
—his
business...
his
world—after I vowed to have nothing to do with him ever again.”

“I
do
seem to recall your saying something to that effect,” Navarre
said slowly, carefully. “If I remember correctly, it was shortly after you came
to yourself at the town house, and you consigned his black soul to the devil
more than once. Has your knowledge of your father’s condition altered your
feelings toward him?”

Jackson just snorted.

Navarre shrugged. “Well, I had to ask. Emil
is
your father, after all, and you
are
here, for all intents and
purposes delving into a business that you swore you wanted no part of. I assume
that much has not changed?”

“No, it has not changed. But someone had to come. Bessie and the
other servants do not have the authority they require to run the house in my
absence or care for Papa, and clearly he is not up to the task.” He paused,
then shook his head. “For God’s sake, Uncle. The pantry shelves were bare when
I arrived, and there were no funds allocated to replenish the supplies. Papa’s
personal account at the bank is totally depleted, profits from the business
have sharply declined, expenditures have risen... the servants haven’t received
their wages for months. No matter how I feel about that grievous old man, I
cannot stand idly by while he is forced to live on gruel and eggs. It’s inhuman.”

“It’s no more than he deserves,” Navarre said quietly, “for the
way he treated you.”

Jackson frowned at Navarre, who waved the look aside.

“It is truth,” he said. “Any man who would attempt to murder his
own flesh and blood deserves to eat gruel and eggs. Besides, such a Spartan
diet might in time purge him of some of his stubbornness and pride.”

“Somehow I doubt it,” Jackson replied, turning to the books once
again. “There is not a single entry here indicating that a deposit was made
into Papa’s personal account since Clay’s death, yet these last columns appear
to be in your handwriting.”

“Perhaps I simply forgot to make the notations,” Navarre
suggested.

“Or forgot to deposit the allocated funds?”

“I’m quite certain that was taken care of,” Navarre said, his
expression bland. “With whom did you speak down at the bank? Not young Gilmore?
Now, there’s a rascally fellow if ever I saw one. All that twitching,
fidgeting, and sly, nefarious winks! Perhaps he’s made off with the funds in
question. For all we know, he could be keeping a mistress somewhere with
expensive tastes.” He made a face. “Although, now that I think of it, it isn’t
very likely.”

“Are you certain the deposits were made, Uncle?” Jackson pressed.
“Is it possible you could have forgotten?”

A negligent shrug. “I suppose it
is
possible. My social schedule has
been more hectic than usual of late, and with Clayton gone and your father
drooling in his chair, my duties have increased. You know what a poor head I
have for figures. Emil possessed the business acumen and a knack for making
money. I, on the other hand, was blessed with only charm and good looks, and
would far prefer to spend it.” Raising his sooty

brows, he leaned forward to peer at the ledger. “Have I done
irreparable harm? Good God, we are not destitute, are we?”

      “No,” Jackson said slowly, “we are not destitute. The pack
trains will soon be arriving from rendezvous. The take was good. Better, in
fact, than the two previous years.”

Navarre thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Better than when Clayton
was in charge?”

“Yes. Though the losses incurred previously were not Clay’s doing.
An increasing scarcity of fur, the constant depredations by the Blackfoot,
whole companies of men being recruited and won over to the American Fur Company...
it could have happened to any one of us.”

Navarre just smiled. “Do not sell yourself short, nephew. It takes
a special knack to successfully work the fields, strength and resiliency, the
sort of resiliency required to run an empire this large.” He took a deep and
steadying breath as he got to his feet, looking around at the small office in
which they were closeted. “It’s something we will need to discuss, and soon—the
role you will play in the business.”

“It’s Papa’s empire, Uncle,” Jackson reminded him, “not mine.”

“Yes, well,” Navarre said with a wry smile, “if that’s all you
require of me, I must be going. I’ve a rousing game of whist I must be off to,
but first I must stop by
Belle Riviere
and pay my respects to your
father. He does so look forward to my daily visits. Will you ride back with me,
perchance? I have bought a new chaise, and I think it may well be the fastest
conveyance in all of Missouri.”

Jackson glanced at the tall case clock. It was half-past three.
He’d missed luncheon, missed Reagan’s fittings, missed seeing her small,
piquant face, the only bright spot left in his dark and dreary existence, and
there was still a great deal to do. “No, thank you, Uncle. I need to finish
here first.”

Navarre reached for the door handle, then turned back, a look of
concern on his still-handsome features. “You’re not going to make mention of my
ineptitude to your father, are you? I should not wish to worry him unduly.”

“Of course not,” Jackson reassured him. “But I will be looking to
hire someone more capable of handling the accounts.”

Navarre nodded his understanding and, taking his walking stick in
one hand and his beaver hat in the other, he went quietly from the office and
down the stairs, too intent upon his interview with Jackson to spare more than
a distracted glance at the brown stain that marked the spot where his nephew
Clayton had fallen.

Things were not unfolding to his satisfaction. He should have
anticipated this turn of events, should have planned for it... yet who could
have guessed that Jackson would return prematurely, and with a half-grown
mountain wench in tow?

And now this.

The thought of Jackson delving into the books—and company
business in general—made him nervous, yet there was nothing he could do to
prevent it without arousing suspicion.

The boy was no fool; that much was certain. Yet he would need to
dig deep in order to uncover his dear uncle’s perfidy. He’d taken great pains
to conceal his activities, had gone to great lengths and considerable trouble
to falsify the list of expenditures noted in the ledger.

It had taken a surprising amount of skill to mask his embezzlement
beneath a shroud of ineptitude, and the wreck of the
River Witch
had been a
stroke of sheer genius. At first he wasn’t sure he’d be able to succeed, yet
her captain’s culpability had proven equal to his own, and for a remarkably
modest sum the boat’s cargo had been off-loaded in New Orleans and the goods
stored in a secret location. The captain and crew then gave her a bit of
refurbishing, a fresh coat of paint, and the new name
Mirabelle,
with no
one the wiser. A little coin and a few carefully chosen “witnesses” and the
River Witch
and her
cargo were no more. The cost of the “wreck” had been then entered into the
ledgers with the rest of the figures to make it appear that Broussard Furs was
operating at a devastating loss.

Climbing into his carriage, Navarre donned his leather driving
gloves and gathered up the reins, flicking them lightly over the horses’ backs.

Neglecting to deposit funds in his brother’s personal account had
been an error in judgment.
Emil
had always insisted upon the use
of his own funds to run his chosen place of residence, and despite the house’s
ownership, he’d always resided at
Belle Riviere
. He should have known
that the abrupt change would have made Jackson suspicious. Yet he had
so
enjoyed Emil’s quiet sufferings
that he’d been unable to resist twisting the blade just a little.

Emil, after all, had done his best to rob his life of light and
joy. Yet soon it would end, and everything would be his... Belle Riviere, the
vast Broussard empire... and Jackson....

The thought made Navarre’s blood quicken in his veins, and he
pushed the team of matched bays all the harder, simply to feel the wind in his
face. They had nearly come full circle. Emil’s reign as crown prince of the
house of Broussard was at an end, and he, Navarre, would be prepared to step up
to take his place.

It was only right, and the shift of power was one for which
Navarre had waited a lifetime, a lifetime of hardship, toil, and disappointment
at the hands of his elder brother.

Emil had been the firstborn, and as such he had inherited
everything. Navarre, the second son, had received the first
Belle Riviere
,
a crumbling estate in Saint John the Baptist Parish, too heavily encumbered
ever to turn a profit. For several years he’d struggled, planting indigo and
then sugar, but he hadn’t been cut out for farming, and after a four-year
struggle, he was forced to sell the estate to pay his creditors, and go hat in
hand to Emil in Saint Louis.

The reception he’d received upon his arrival had been typically
brusque. That same summer, Emil had lost his first wife to a fever in the lungs.
Burdened with a young son, Emil was trying to juggle the field operations in
his burgeoning fur business and at the same time manage the warehouses in Saint
Louis. He needed help, and Navarre knew it, yet Emil had been reluctant to
place his faith in a younger brother who had already suffered financial ruin,
even though that younger brother possessed the skills that he himself was
sorely lacking: a glib tongue, a ready wit, and charm enough to talk his way
out of any situation.

He’d been forced to beg, damn Emil’s eyes, as always, forced once
again to settle for the scraps from his brother’s heavily laden table.

For two long years Navarre had labored in the mountains, bending
his back to tasks his brother would no longer consider, plying the rivers to
the northwest and trading with the tribes. It was hard and harrowing work, but
he’d succeeded, and in that second year, after wintering with the Shoshone in
the Wind River Range, he’d returned to Saint Louis. On his first day back, he’d
met Miralee.

It was late spring, the grass was new green, and the apple
orchards were rife with blossoms. He had only to close his eyes to see it all
again. The town itself was much smaller then, little more than a frontier
settlement, but the air of excitement and enthusiasm so inherent to Saint Louis
had been evident even back then. Just seeing the wood and brick buildings rising
between the muddy thoroughfares, with the flatboats plying the river beyond,
had sent a thrill of excitement through Navarre... that and the sight of the
lovely, dark-haired young lady strolling along the waterfront in the company of
Anthony Perdue and his wife, Aimee.