Leslie Lafoy (2 page)

“What did you expect me to say?”

“Something approximating ‘Thank God! You must tell the constables that I’m innocent!’” she replied honestly. “The last part of that would have been while you had your hand wrapped around my arm and were dragging me out of here and to the nearest officer of the law.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a decidedly cynical smile. “I’d like to know what you’re going to say before I hear you say it to the crown’s investigators. So I’ll ask the question again. How do you know that I didn’t kill your cousin?”

She liked his direct manner; it spoke of a disciplined, somewhat wary curiosity. And she most certainly understood the need to proceed cautiously. “According to the accounts I’ve read in the papers,” she offered, “everyone is of the opinion that beating a woman to death simply isn’t in your nature.”

“The crown’s men haven’t been the least impressed by the testimonials.”

“Understandably, I suppose,” she countered. “It’s their job to be suspicious. Although I personally think there’s much to be said for the fact that, without exception, people have nothing but good things to say about you. Mignon couldn’t have reasonably expected the same from those who knew her.”

“Why?”

If he and Mignon had had any sort of sustained relationship, he wouldn’t have had to ask. Oddly, the realization instantly settled her stomach. With considerably more confidence than she’d possessed since the entire fiasco had begun, she replied, “I gather that your acquaintance with her was both brief and casual.”

“It was brief.” He paused to clear his throat before quietly adding, “But intimate.”

A gentleman? Mignon had chosen a gentleman? Poor Barrett Stanbridge. “Intimate only in a physical sense, I’m sure. My cousin never took her heart into a bed,” Isabella supplied. “In fact, if I were of a mind to wager, I’d bet that you didn’t know her name until the constables battered down your door and began asking their unpleasant questions. I’d also bet that if you told her your name, she didn’t bother to remember it.”

He hesitated, studying her, his head tilted slightly to the side. “We’ll never know the answer to the latter,” he finally ventured.

“No, we won’t,” she agreed, impressed with his effort at diplomacy. She grinned. “But I am right about the former, aren’t I? Mignon didn’t slow down enough for even the most basic of conversations, did she?”

He sighed and gave her a rueful smile. “My mother has always told me that one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“It’s a nice custom if you can afford the luxury of it,” Isabella instantly countered. “In the case of Mignon … The truth, as dark as it may be, would serve us both better.”

“Us?” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “As I’ve heard it, I’m the only one under suspicion.”

“Well, the truth, Mr. Stanbridge, is that if they didn’t have you, they’d suspect me.”

A dark brow shot upward. “Oh? Do you make a habit of beating women to death in alleyways?”

No, she didn’t. But in dealing with her cousin in recent months, she’d been sorely tempted—several times—to suspend her adherence to law-abiding conduct.

“Why have you come here, Miss Dandaneau?”

She didn’t know whether he was referring to her presence in his office or the larger purpose that had brought her to London. But she was keenly aware that they were approaching the point where she was going to have to make a decision. Could she trust him with the entire story? He seemed to be an honorable man; not at all the sort that Mignon usually chose.

“It’s Mrs. Dandaneau,” she corrected, deliberately delaying an honest answer as she mentally sorted through and organized her impressions of him. “I’m a widow.”

“My condolences, madam,” he replied crisply and with a small dip of his chin. “And now that we’ve dispensed with that bit of edification, evasion, and civility, perhaps you’ll answer my question. Why are you here?”

She wasn’t at all sure that she liked the fact that he’d seen through her ploy so easily. “You’re an innocent man under suspicion,” she offered, wondering if his intelligence would make him a dangerous ally in the end. “You could very well end up on the gallows for a crime you didn’t commit.”

“I’m well aware of that,” he countered dryly. “Do you have any evidence to support the claim that someone else killed Mignon Richard?”

“Not that would be acceptable in court.”

“Then,” he drawled, unfolding his arms and coming around to her side of the desk, “while I appreciate your moral support in the present situation, I really—”

“What I have is a story to tell you,” she interjected before he could actually gesture to the door and ask her to leave.

“A story.”

He was more irritated than he was interested. But she’d committed herself to trusting him for the moment and there was nothing to do now but plow ahead and hope he was gentleman enough to listen and desperate enough to offer his assistance. “Tell me, Mr. Stanbridge,” she began, “have you ever heard the name Jean Lafitte?”

With a sigh of obviously strained patience, he sat on the corner of his desk, refolded his arms and answered, “He was a pirate, as I recall. Turn of the century. That’s the sum total of my recollection. History was not one of my favorite subjects in school.”

“He was a Baratarian pirate,” Isabella clarified. “A reformed one, depending on who’s telling the story. What do you know of the 1814 Battle of New Orleans?”

Shrugging, he supplied simply, “It was a slaughter of British troops. A needless one since the war had ended some days earlier.”

His lack of interest in the topic didn’t, unfortunately, make it any less vital to the explanation she had to give him. “Yes, the news didn’t reach America in time to prevent it,” Isabella said, trudging on. “Andrew Jackson was the commander of the American army in New Orleans. Such as it was. If accolades are to be awarded for the victory, they rightly go to Jean Lafitte. It was his men and his knowledge of the terrain that tipped the advantage to the American side.”

He cocked a brow and sighed, not bothering to make it politely quiet. “And the point of this history lesson?”

She bristled at his tone, but deliberately set her irritation aside to continue. “Andrew Jackson not only became a national hero as a result of that battle, but also our seventh president.”

“So you’re a Yank.”

“Yankees are Northerners,” she corrected, trying, and failing, to sound unruffled. It took considerable effort, but she summoned a smile and a softer tone of voice to add, “I am a Southerner, Mr. Stanbridge. A Louisianian of Acadian descent.”

“My apologies,” he offered with a strained smile. “The insult was unintentional, a consequence of English ignorance. Please continue.”

Despite his obvious hope that she wouldn’t, Isabella did, saying, “Jackson may have had a good number of faults, but he was loyal to those he considered friends. And he reportedly counted Jean Lafitte as a member of that small group. He is also reported to have believed it quite appropriate to use his influence to reward his friends handsomely for their respective services to him and their country.”

In the pause she took for a breath, he asked dryly, “What does all this have to do with your cousin?”

“I’m working my way in that direction,” she retorted, months of worry and frustration bubbling to the surface. She tamped down her irritation to add, “Please try to have just a bit of patience. The foundation of the past must be carefully laid or the present circumstances won’t make any sort of sense at all.”

He nodded and eased off the desk. Gesturing at the chair beside her, he asked, “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

“I’d love one,” she admitted, gratefully dropping down onto the upholstered seat. “Thank you,” she added, more for the fact that he’d at least resigned himself to hearing her out than anything else.

Barrett watched her out of the corner of his eye as he made his way to the sideboard and the silver coffee service. He had thought, in the first moments she’d walked in, that he was seeing a ghost, but, after that initial shock had passed, the differences had been more apparent than the similarities. She was more slightly built than her cousin had been. And definitely more talkative.

Unfortunately, she was every bit as physically appealing and he couldn’t seem to keep his mind fully engaged in what she was saying to him. It kept wandering back in his recent memories and wondering if Isabella Dandaneau was anywhere near the skillful lover her cousin had been. Oddly, and most disconcertingly, part of him rather hoped she wasn’t.

Not that he was ever going to know one way or the other, he reminded himself. The encounter with Mignon had been a memorable one from a physical standpoint, but he was going to be put through the proverbial mill for the pleasure. The last thing he needed now was to complicate his existence even one whit more. The fact that she’d walked into his office … Jesus.

He had to give her credit for the sheer courage it must have taken, though. Courage and, no doubt, a sense of desperation. Try as she might to appear cool and calm, he could hear the slight hesitations in her speech, see the indecision in her dark eyes, could feel her constant assessment. She wanted something from him and was slowly working up to the point of asking for it. It was a sure bet, however, that she wouldn’t ask him to bed her. The woman’s fires were well banked. Thank God.

Pouring out two cups of coffee, he asked, “Cream or sugar?”

“Plain, please.”

He carried them back to the desk, handed her one, and then took up his position on the corner. As he expected, she thanked him politely and immediately launched back into what she called her “story.”

“Mignon’s and my grandmother was…” She made a little face that suggested she was trying to find a delicate way of putting an indelicate truth. “Well, the family has always referred to her relationship with Lafitte as a ‘special friendship.’”

“They were lovers,” he supplied bluntly and then took a sip of his coffee.

“I think so,” she admitted. “And, judging by the look that always came to my grandmama’s face whenever anyone mentioned Lafitte, it must have ended badly.”

“The affair that ends without hard feelings is the rarest of exceptions.”

She nodded as though she had some experience at such things and then added, “In fairness to Grandmama, though, it was before she met and married Grandpapa. Who was, in his own right, something of a pirate himself. He and Grandmama had two daughters, Juliana, my mother, and Michelle, Mignon’s mother.

“Three months ago a package was delivered to the law firm that has represented our family for four generations. It was addressed to Grandmama. Since Mignon and I were her only living descendants, we were summoned to the office for the opening of the package.”

“Let me guess,” he said, at last seeing the pattern of her discourse. “It was from Jean Lafitte.”

“In a manner of speaking.” She sipped her coffee before explaining, “Apparently he died some years ago and under circumstances which aren’t quite clear. His last will and testament was only recently discovered and the package was an attempt to see that it was, at last, executed.”

God, the woman took forever to get to the crux of a matter. Hoping to move her along in the telling, he prompted, “And what did he bequeath your grandmama?”

“That’s where things become a bit of a mystery.”

“A mystery,” he repeated, a dull ache beginning to bloom in the back of his head.

“There have always been rumors that Jean Lafitte buried a great treasure.”

“As any self-respecting pirate does,” he quipped, struggling against the urge to roar in frustration.

“Part of it is assumed to be the proceeds of his pirating days and part of it the reward given for services rendered to his country. It’s rumored to be worth millions of dollars.”

“Of course,” he observed tightly. “What would be the point of burying a few shillings? Keeping its location a secret wouldn’t be worth the lead and powder to kill the poor bastards who helped you dig the hole.”

She gazed up at him with big, dark eyes. Big dark eyes that were bright with irritation. “You’re not taking this seriously, Mr. Stanbridge.”

“My apologies,” he offered, sincere only in his intent to get the tale told before he was an old man. “Please continue. Three months ago you and your cousin were informed that you’d inherited buried pirate treasure.”

With a nod, she added another bit to the slowly emerging picture, saying “Either Jean Lafitte was a deeply suspicious man or he enjoyed games. It’s not possible to tell which from the will. What is clear is that to claim the treasure, one has to follow a trail of clues to find it.”

“You’re joking,” he accused before he could think better of it. The fire in her eyes instantly prompted him to add, “All right, you’re not. I gather the first clue is what brought you and Mignon to London.”

Fixing her gaze on the center of his chest, she crisply went on. “As I said, the law firm in New Orleans has represented the family for generations. They know all the family secrets. As well as what’s common knowledge. Most notably, they know the kind of people we are. In what he no doubt considered an act worthy of Solomon, the family lawyer gave half the map to Mignon and half to me.”

“A map,” he repeated, wondering how a seemingly rational woman could tell such a penny-dreadful tale with not only a straight face, but with apparent utter sincerity. “Does
X
mark the spot?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice tight, her eyes shooting daggers in the general vicinity of his heart. “Of the next clue.”

God help him; he had to ask. “And the map is of London?”

“I have no idea.” She paused to take a slow and dainty sip of her coffee. “Apparently Mignon thought so. She bolted with her half of the map. I had no choice but to chase after her, hoping to find and convince her that we stood a better chance of finding it if we worked together.”

His mind clicked furiously along several strings of possibility. “And what did she say when you caught up to her and presented your argument?”

Her complete attention shifted to the cup and saucer in her hands. Twisting the cup ever so slowly back and forth in the saucer’s indentation, she said quietly, “That she didn’t need me.”