Heart of Lies (33 page)

“No more nightmares,” she said softly. “Not since Laura and I were reunited.” She reached for his hand, turned it over, and traced his palm. “Thanks to you.”

“Brand would say it was meant to be. Just as we’re supposed to be together.”

She found herself smiling, hopeful and confident of the future for the first time in forever. She was still in awe of all that had come to pass.

“I can’t believe we’ll be married tomorrow. Right here. By a real minister.”

“Your sister is an amazing woman,” he said. “She can move mountains when she puts her mind to it.”

“She knows me so well.”

“She’s determined to make our wedding a day you won’t forget.”

Come morning, they would be married by Brand in Laura’s elegant sitting room. The only ones in attendance would be the McCormicks, as well as the Larsons, who would stand witness. Maddie refused a new gown, but had agreed to wear one of Laura’s. Ana had been working for two days making the alterations.

Maddie turned to Tom, studying his profile in the dark, wishing she could see into his eyes. “You don’t feel rushed, do you?”

He turned her way, cupped her cheek. “Do you?”

“I asked first.”

He leaned closer, slowly kissed her, and then raised his head. “Tomorrow morning seems like years and years away.”

Maddie nestled her head against his shoulder. They sat in contented silence, slowly rocking the swing back and forth, listening to the sounds of the night. It was enough for now, only because they were so close to the promise of tomorrow and so many tomorrows to come.

“I’ll tell Hank that I’ll take the job of sheriff,” Tom said, breaking the stillness, “if you want to stay in Glory. Just say the word.”

She tried to imagine life in Glory with Tom sworn to uphold the law, tried to imagine him wearing Hank’s shiny brass sheriff’s badge. No one but Laura and Tom would ever know of her past, but she couldn’t help wondering if she would ever fit in.

The wife of a sheriff.
She shook her head and bit back a smile.

“What about being a Pinkerton? Would you miss it?” she asked.

“I’d still be doing what I love to do, though I doubt there’s much crime here in Glory.”

“It’s definitely not as dangerous as New Orleans.” At least that was one advantage to having him uphold the law in this one-horse town.

“Tom?” She traced his hand again, stroked his palm.

“Hmm?”

“I really want to go home,” she whispered. “I want to go back to Louisiana. To New Orleans.” She would do that for him; she would live in the city again. She would live wherever he was, wherever he wanted.

“Wouldn’t you prefer the bayou?” he asked.

She sat up, squeezing his hand.

“Could we?”

He was quiet for so long she was sorry she asked. Then he shrugged.

“Why not both? I’ll find a bigger apartment in the city —”

“Your apartment is big enough —”

“We could keep a cabin on the bayou closer to town.”

“Are you sure?” She was almost afraid to hope it could be that simple.

“I’ll need a place in the city for business,” he said. She could tell he was thinking aloud. “My contacts are there and most of the cases I’m given are centered around New Orleans. We can use the bayou house as a retreat. It’ll be perfect.” He stopped suddenly and turned to her. “Unless you mind living in New Orleans part of the time. You must have so many bad memories …” His words drifted away.

She reached for his face, ran her thumb along his jaw and over his lower lip, and then kissed him. “We’ll make new ones,” she whispered. “We’ll make new memories of our own.”

“We should go in. Get some sleep before tomorrow,” he suggested.

Neither of them moved.

“Are there any women in the Pinkerton Agency?”

He laughed. She didn’t.

“One or two. Why?”

She shrugged. “Who better to catch a thief than another thief?”

He drew back, took a long look at her.

“You’re serious.”

“What am I going to do while you’re out solving cases?” She
couldn’t imagine sitting alone in his apartment day after day waiting for him to return, knowing he was on the hunt for criminals, searching for clues, combing the streets in one disguise or another.

“I thought of getting you a tutor to teach you to read and write.”

“I’m a quick learner. What else would I do?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“You don’t exactly see me as a lady of leisure, do you?”

“No, but …”

“Surely there will be
some
cases I can help you with.” She grew excited just thinking about it. “I tracked Penelope all the way to Baton Rouge. I know New Orleans better than anyone, even you. I know how to protect myself—”

He sighed. “I’m beginning to think we’d be safer in Glory.”

“We’d both be bored to death and you know it.”

He kissed her again and she felt him smile against her lips. “I have a feeling life will never, ever be boring with you around.”

“At least think about letting me work with you?”

He sighed. “I do have two cases already pending that will involve mostly research in the beginning. You’ll have to put a lot of effort into learning to read.”

“What kind of cases?” The quilt had slipped off her shoulders. She pulled it up higher. He reached out and tucked it around her neck.

“I’ll be looking for two young women. Twenty-six and twenty-eight. Of Irish descent.”

“My sisters,” she whispered. “Laura’s and mine. Oh, Tom. Do you think we’ll ever find them?”

“I found you, didn’t I?”

He pulled her into his arms, and in her heart Maddie knew that she was finally home.

K
atherine Lane Keene leaned closer to the open window and studied the familiar landscape as the carriage rolled along the twists and turns of snakelike River Road. The legendary thoroughfare paralleled the Mississippi between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, where a century before, the swampy wilderness fronting the river had been sectioned into wedges of French land grants. Thriving plantations with steamboat landings and slave cabins flourished between occasional small settlements—Donaldsonville, Plaquemine, and White Castle—with their churches, cemeteries, and stores.

Despite the war, despite everything that had happened to the land over the past sixteen years since Kate had lived on River Road, the familiar scent of the rich, fertile earth was a constant. Countless shades of green expanded as far as the eye could see. Miles of long rectangular fields divided the land into holdings that stretched far and away from levees and the road. Acres of plantations once rich in sugar cane were overgrown, many formerly glorious mansions neglected. When the carriage passed Destrehan, one of the earliest Creole estates in the area, Kate’s pulse jumped. They had nearly reached their destination.

She was in the midst of assuring herself that a lifelong dream might be about to come true, when Myra O’Hara spoke, startling her out of her reverie.

“I hear he’s insane.” Kate’s traveling companion lowered her voice as if
he
could hear. She straightened her cocoa-colored traveling skirt and folded her plump hands across her ample waist. “Crazy as a loon,
he is. Won’t come out of the
garconniere.
Holed up in there like a madman.”

Kate barely spared Myra a glance. “That’s nothing but gossip and I’ll take no stock in it until I’ve seen Colin Delany for myself.”

She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt, for in reality, she had no idea what state Colin Delany might be in. She hadn’t laid eyes on the handsome older brother of her best friend since she was thirteen years old.

If rumors were to be believed, the former Confederate soldier who had finally returned to
Belle Fleuve
plantation was not the same dashing, confident young man who enlisted with his father and rode off to war.

Kate turned to Myra. “This isn’t just about
Belle Fleuve.
This is about how good the Delanys were to me. Besides, if Colin is as bad off as they say, then it’s my Christian duty to help him.”

Kate reached to the seat beside her for the long thick rolls of architectural plans tied with a black ribbon. She pulled them onto her lap and ran her gloved hand down the newsprint. She’d poured years of painstaking work into the plans for the reconstruction and refurbishing of the once grand house at
Belle Fleuve,
but it had been a labor of love.

Colin Delany would appreciate all the work she’d done. She was sure of it. After all, it was his father, Patrick, who had inspired her to study architecture.

“We’re here.” Myra raised her voice over the crunch and clatter of carriage wheels against the oyster shells lining the drive. “Wouldn’t y’know it? It looks about to rain.”

The carriage turned onto an
allee,
an arcade of ancient live oaks flanking a narrow lane leading to the wide front gallery of the main house at
Belle Fleuve.
Kate had instructed the driver to pull up near the
garconniere
next to the main house. These “boys’ places” were staple outbuildings on most plantations. Separate from the main house, a
garconniere
provided privacy where young men could gather on their own, smoke cigars, gamble, and speak of things proper ladies should not hear. The two-story hexagonal structure at
Belle Fleuve
with its pointed finial on the ogee roof appeared to be wearing a jaunty cap.

As the carriage rolled by the main house, Kate slid a finger beneath her spectacles to wipe a telltale tear from the corner of her eye. It never failed to upset her — seeing the sad state of this once impeccable house. She would never forget the first time she had witnessed the toll the war had taken on
Belle Fleuve.

Four years ago upon her return to New Orleans, she had settled into her mother’s townhouse and then come directly here. Her Irish temper flared hot and furious when she saw a notice of auction due to failure to pay back taxes nailed to the front door.

Kate had torn down the offending poster and immediately returned to the city, marched into her accountant’s office, and directed him to use funds from her inheritance to pay the back taxes on
Belle Fleuve,
with the stipulation that she remain anonymous.

Now she saw how the further passage of time had only added to the decay. More windows were broken. Woodwork was rotted. Gallery railings were splintered and missing. She knew inside there were shredded wall coverings and crumbling stucco that revealed the interior of original walls constructed of Spanish moss and sand,
bousillage entre poteaux,
as the French called them.

Restoration was needed now more than ever.

When the carriage suddenly stopped, her heartbeat accelerated and her plans were forgotten. All she could think of was seeing Colin again.

Myra put her hand on the full dolman sleeve of Kate’s short-waisted violet cloak as they waited for the driver to open the door.

“You know there’s no shame in turnin’ back,” Myra said softly.

“Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see.” Kate smiled at her longtime companion and friend and then added a wink. She wanted her confidence to be convincing. “Things will soon be right as rain.”

The minute she mentioned the word rain, huge drops began to spatter against the roof of the carriage, and the air was suddenly filled with the scent of damp earth. Kate glanced up at low, dark, and angry clouds. The sky was about to open up at any second.

The driver hopped down, pulled his collar up around his neck and ears, and looked quite put out as he opened the door and stepped
aside so that Kate could exit. She pressed the roll of drawings against her bodice, hunched her shoulders around them protectively, and ran for the door of the
garconniere.

She was halfway there when she noticed hers wasn’t the only hired vehicle on the drive. A scuffed, covered buggy was parked beneath a tree not far away. A Negro driver with his hat pulled low was perched on the high sprung seat. He watched Kate’s progress in silence.

Hugging the plans, pressing close to the door of the
garconniere,
Kate reached for the weathered brass knocker. Before she could grab the ring, the door flew open and she found herself staring at a tall redheaded woman, who was apparently just as shocked to see her standing there. The woman stepped out and slammed the door behind her.

Standing toe to toe with the stranger, Kate smelled the overpowering scent of cheap perfume. The woman’s hair was a garish shade of henna, her cheeks dusted with bright pink rouge, her lips carmine. Dark kohl outlined her small, close-set eyes. A slim painted brow slowly arched above her left eye as she studied Kate. Then a slow smirk curled her upper lip.

“Good luck with that one, honey.” The frowzy redhead indicated the door behind her with a toss of her hennaed head. She looked Kate over from head to toe and barked a harsh laugh. “He’ll chew you up and spit you out in no time.”

With that, the fancy piece stepped around Kate and ran for the safety of the buggy. The woman scrambled aboard and the vehicle started down the drive. Kate wiped raindrops off the lenses of her spectacles with a gloved finger and raised her hand to knock again. When there was no answer, she twisted the knob and cracked the door open.

“Colin?” Kate held her breath in anticipation. She’d waited so long to see him again.

When there was still no answer, she pushed the door open a fraction of an inch farther.

“I said, get out!” A hoarse shout was followed by a deep growl,
and something heavy slammed into the door. There followed a loud crash and the distinct sound of an object shattering against the floor.

Kate took a deep breath and quickly thrust the door open. Broken pieces of a ceramic vase crunched beneath her sturdy traveling boots. Across the room, a tall lean man, fully clothed but barefooted, was stretched out with one leg extended, lying on a narrow bed against the far wall. His thick, wavy black hair reached his shoulders; the lower half of his face was hidden beneath a thick dark beard and moustache. He bore little resemblance to the Colin Delany she remembered.