Tainted Lilies

Prologue

New Orleans, 1811

Slowly, deliberately, as if hoping the darkness might banish her fears, the young woman, swathed in cream-colored satin and lace, snuffed out all the candles about the room, then went to her window to gaze out through rain-spattered panes.

The wet glass reflected like a mirror, limning high cheekbones and brow, sensually flared nostrils, and fragile lips—now trembling slightly.

Nicolette Vernet’s face, curtained on either side in thick skeins of raven’s-wing black, radiated a pale, mysterious beauty—the Creole ideal of delicacy and refinement.

Her black-sapphire eyes searched muddy Toulouse Street three floors below. Carriages lined the narrow way, each stopping briefly to deposit party-going passengers at the banquette before churning on to make room for the next vehicle. But Nicolette could see by the guttering gas street lamp overhanging the intersection that the burgundy landau bearing the golden Castaigne crest had yet to arrive.

Where can Octave be? she whispered, her warm breath filming the glass.

"Nicolette, unlock this bedroom door. Now!" Her mother’s voice was high-pitched, nearly hysterical.

No, Maman. Not until Octave arrives.

He’ll be here any minute!

You’ve been saying that for nearly an hour. Please, leave me alone! When he gets here, I’ll come out… not before! Surely, you can’t expect me to attend my own engagement soirée without my fiancé!

"But our guests are here, Nicolette. I’ve used up all my excuses for you. You are as impossible as your Aunt Gabrielle! And we all know how she turned out!"

Nicolette made no answer, but moved hesitantly toward the door. She leaned her ear close to the painted cypress and heard shuffling sounds in the hall.

Please, Nikki, for me? It was Claude Vernet’s quiet voice.

Nicolette knew she couldn’t resist her father’s request. For me was a phrase that always worked its charms. She might defy her mother occasionally, but never, ever her patient, soft-spoken papa.

Hadn’t he gone to a tremendous amount of trouble and expense for her special evening, even refurbishing their townhouse for the occasion? The quaint old building at Toulouse and Royal, which had survived the disastrous fires of 1788 and 1794, breathed new life tonight, glowing through the misty April twilight like a miniature crystal palace for her engagement party.

Because Claude Vernet wanted his home to reflect what he considered his daughter’s perfection, he had ordered a new coat of ivory paint for the exterior stucco covering the sand-brick façade, and fresh blacking for all the lacy wrought iron on the galleries.

Nikki? Her father’s softly pleading voice jolted her thoughts back to the present, and the problem at hand.

Squaring her shoulders, she tried to shrug off this bothersome feeling of… What? she wondered. Anxiety? Fear? Pre-engagemeru jitters?

Octave Castaigne, this is all your fault! she said to the miniature on her dressing table. When we’re married, I’ll see that you mend your tardy ways. For now, I’ll have to face our guests alone and make the best of it. But nothing will go wrong. Our life together is set-engagement, marriage, children, love, she ticked off on her fingers. Just as it should be!

Nikki, please answer me.

I’m coming, Papa. Give me a moment.

She touched the curls piled à la Grecque on top of her head, took a deep breath, and counted to ten.

There! she said. "I’m ready for anything now—even Octave Castaigne, if he decides to show up!"

Her father trained his eyes, as midnight-blue as hers, on Nicolette as she came out of her room. He waited at the top of the stairs to offer his arm. She took it almost shyly, wondering if he would scold her for the anxious hour she had given her mother and Mammy Sukey. But, of course, he didn’t.

You look perfectly regal tonight, Nikki. I’m not sure I’ll hand you over to Octave Castaigne when he does arrive. You’re too good for him or any man!

Oh, Papa, don’t tease me so.

Sensing her nervous state, he went on in a bantering tone. Thank God I’ll have a year to keep my little girl before this wicked man steals her away!

"Papa! How can you call Octave wicked when you chose him for me? Why, I’ve only set eyes on him twice in my whole life and the first time, ten years ago, I was barely seven years old! I trusted you. You haven’t promised me to some roueé who’ll drink too much absinthe and beat me with his sword cane, have you? It’s bad enough that he’s late for our party!"

He patted the soft, lace-encased fingers that lay in graceful repose on his arm, but Nicolette noticed a small frown crease his brow.

He’ll be here, Nikki, or I’ll have satisfaction from him! As for his character, you needn’t worry, my dear. Octave is well-bred, comfortably situated, and even-tempered, from all that I’ve seen of him. He’ll give you a fine home, a large enough family to make any Creole maman proud, and he’ll give you the place you deserve in society.

And will he give me love, Papa?

The question, which had been gnawing at her for weeks, popped out before she let herself think about it. This was not the sort of thing a daughter discussed with her father. Nicolette felt uncomfortable for her papa as he struggled to find an answer. The silence lengthened between them.

Claude Vernet stopped on the stair and searched his daughter’s face with melancholy eyes. "He will love you! And if his love is half as great as mine for you, Nikki, you can count yourself fortunate indeed."

Oh, Papa, I love you too, she said, blinking back tears.

A happy tide of friends and relations engulfed Nicolette and Claude Vernet when they reached the bottom of the stairs, sweeping them along to the petit salon.

The room had been magically transformed into a ballroom for the evening by sliding the heavy doors, which connected to the grand salon, into the thick walls. The rugs of winter had been taken up, beaten clean, and stored in protective sleeves for the hot months ahead. Even the grass matting, which served as carpet pad in winter and floor covering in summer, had been removed and the wide boards had been polished to a high gloss for dancing.

Three musicians, on flute, violin, and French horn, were tuning up to begin playing. The formal room glowed with candles reflecting crystal and silver, and a rainbow of fashionably gowned ladies and their elegant gentlemen.

Nicolette’s uneasiness at not having her fiancé at her side subsided somewhat amidst the compliments and good wishes showered upon her.

"Ma chère, you look très élégante! Aunt Phoebe enthused, her purple bombazine bosom heaving hugely with excitement. You will be a beautiful bride, dimming even the prayer candles on the altar of Saint Louis Cathedral."

The image of your dear maman, Uncle Alphonse added with an approving twitch of his waxed gray moustache.

Then Nicolette’s cousin, Clementine, a confection in pink-and-white ruffled dimity, chimed in, Oh, Nicolette, I’d just die if a man as handsome-as your Octave wanted to marry me! bringing the missing man back to the forefront of her thoughts.

Suddenly, she felt a cool palm clasp hers. She looked up into glass-black eyes in a faintly familiar face. The tall, slender young man, dressed all in black except for the snow-white ruffles of his shirt, said with the barest hint of a smile, Mademoiselle Nicolette. Your father has spoken of you often, but I assumed he exaggerated your charms. I owe you both an apology on that account.

Nicolette tried to place him. She had seen him somewhere only recently. Then it came to her. Why, Monsieur Bermudez, of course! You are Papa’s new clerk at the Exchange. Maman pointed you out to me only last week when we were shopping in Royal Street. You were going into Jean Laffite’s showroom, I believe?

Diego Bermudez stiffened and shot a glance toward her father. "Not so loud, please! If Monsieur Vernet found out I do business with those smugglers, I might lose my job. He has little respect for the banditti of Barataria."

You don’t have to tell me that. Nicolette restrained a wayward laugh with the tips of her fingers. "Papa seldom loses his temper, but I saw it happen once. His ship, the Carlotta, was seized in the Gulf. He swore that Jean Laffite was behind the raid. The loss of that cargo and ship almost ruined him. He’s never forgiven The Terror of the Gulf.’"

And rightly not! He took her arm and said, I think we should dance now.

Surprised by his forwardness, Nicolette stammered, Why, yes… I mean, no… thank you.

He looked both amused by her confusion and annoyed by her reply. Ah, you think you should wait for the man of the hour… allow him the first waltz? Well, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. Monsieur Castaigne has been detained and I’m quite sure he won’t be here tonight.

Of course he will!

Have it your way, mademoiselle. A strange, cold smile twitched his thin lips. But if he fails to show up, I offer myself as a willing and quite suitable substitute. I’m not married, you know.

Diego Bermudez did an about-face and moved across the room. Nicolette, her mouth open to protest, stared after him. Was this arrogant young man serious, or only making light of a desperate situation? In either case, his attitude and outspoken proposal were in the poorest taste.

The brass knocker on the front door banged insistently. Nicolette whirled around, dismissing all thoughts of the brazen Monsieur Bermudez. She raced Jonah, the butler, to open the door, sure that Octave had arrived at last.

She threw the door wide and gasped when she saw the two men standing there. Octave Castaigne, his eyes glazed over and his smooth face pale and drawn, leaned heavily on a tall, red-haired man for support.

Monsieur Vernet, please, the green-eyed stranger said, but Nicolette didn’t hear for the furious rushing of blood in her ears.

Octave, how could you? she cried angrily. On the very night of our party!

This is no time for a temper tantrum, mademoiselle. The man needs help!

Nicolette shot a quick, cold look at Octave’s partner in crime, himself a shabby sight with mud covering his bottle-green velvet evening clothes and his longish hair in wild disarray. She was forming a few choice words for the pair of disreputable tipplers, but got no chance to speak them.

Her father appeared at her side suddenly, his manner controlled, but anxious.

Monsieur Laffite, he said, sizing up the situation at a glance. Help him through the carriage drive and the courtyard to the servants’ quarters. We mustn’t let our guests see.

Nicolette hissed, "He’s falling-down drunk, Papa! We’llnever get him sober enough to be presentable tonight!"

Claude Vernet pulled Nicolette quickly through the door and closed it behind them, following the two men into the drizzly night.

Hush, child! was all he said to her.

When Jean Laffite lowered Octave to the moss-stuffed cot in the room next to the kitchen, Nicolette saw the scarlet stain for the first time. His evening cloak had hidden it before.

But he’s been injured! she gasped.

Octave’s bluish lips moved slightly and a word escaped in a ragged whisper that sounded like mortally.

We have to do something for him! Get water, bandages, a doctor! she cried, tearing at his brocade waistcoat, trying to open his dress shirt.

A strong hand gripped her shoulder. You’ll do the lad a favor, mademoiselle, by leaving him in peace. Only a priest can help him now. I’ve sent for Pere Antoine.

Oh, she said and stilled her hands. She sat by Octave’s side, watching his life flow away through a sword-wound near his heart. She felt as if she should be screaming, fainting, crying her heart out. But no tears came. She experienced only a queer numbness, as if she were wading into deep, icy water. Her breathing grew shallow with Octave’s. She took his cold hand and held it, not wanting him to be alone when the end came.

Her father and Jean Laffite were talking only a few paces away, but their muffled words seemed to drift to her over a vast distance.

He was at the St. Philip Street Theater earlier this evening, Monsieur Vernet.

At the quadroon ball?

Yes. He’s a regular. But tonight he brought his mistress, Lizette.

Not so loud, man, my daughter!

Forgive me. I heard about the engagement… So did Lizette. She was furious… out to find a new protector this very night. Castaigne took her scandalous behavior for as long as he could stand it, then he challenged several gentlemen in a fit of irrational jealousy. You can guess the rest, sir.

Swords under the oaks?

Castaigne had the better of the first two. But the third man did him in.

"And who was the third? You, Laffite?"

I’ve heard you have no use for me, Monsieur Vernet, and you probably won’t believe me, but I was only passing by. I went to see what aid I could give. But it was too late. Young Castaigne begged me to bring him to this address.

A murmur from Nicolette drew the men’s attention.

What is it, Nikki? her father asked gently.

He’s gone, Papa. I’m a widow before I was ever a bride, she answered, still dry-eyed. I’ll go into mourning immediately.

That’s crazy! For a man you hardly knew? A man you never loved? The angry questions came from Laffite.

Nicolette jerked her head to face him, fire in her dark eyes as she challenged, What business is this of yours?

None, he admitted. I’m sorry, mademoiselle. It’s only that you’re so young, so lovely, and I know how marriages are arranged among you Creoles. Little consideration is given to the heart’s desires. His eyes caressed her for a moment. Besides, mourning won’t suit you.

Monsieur Laffite and I have had our differences in the past, Nikki, but this time we agree, Claude Vernet added quickly. I won’t see you wrapped in black bunting like an old crow to shrivel away for months on account of the foolish indiscretions of a man you hardly knew, much less loved. He paused and looked pleadingly into her eyes. "I’d rather see you exiled than have you in the center of this scandale."

You mean you’re going to send me away, Papa?

He folded her in his protective arms and cried, "Don’t say it like that, ma thin. You’ll break my poor heart. I’d never send you away! I’m allowing you to go. Your mother’s sister, Gabrielle, in Paris will welcome you, Nikki."

Paris! But that’s across the world from here! New Orleans is my home. And besides, you know Maman doesn’t approve of Aunt Gabrielle. She’d never let me go to live with her.

I’ll handle your mother, don’t worry. And you’ll be back soon, I promise, Nikki. I want you to put all this behind you. While you’re away, I’ll make a new engagement contract, and be more selective this time. You’ll come home to be a bride. There won’t be the slightest whisper of gossip.

Your father’s a wise man, Nicolette. Listen to him. Anyone can tell he loves you very much. Laffite’s words were spoken with a quiet compassion.

She looked closely for the first time at this man her father had cast in the role of villain for as long as she could remember. His green-gold eyes held a sadness she could only imagine and couldn’t begin to understand. Something in the way he spoke to her stirred sympathetic feelings that she had never known before. Deep inside she knew that here was a man who had experienced true sorrow. She reached a trembling hand out to him and said, Thank you, Monsieur Laffite. For everything.

He bent warm lips to her fingers; then a slight smile softened his grave features. She returned it, feeling a strange quickening within her breast.

Three hours later, after bidding her parents au revoir, Nicolette climbed into Jean Laffite’s carriage, an unusual arrangement, but necessary since her father was needed at home to calm her hysterical mother. Sukey, her tignoned mulatto maid, who would be her traveling companion and chaperone, sat on the opposite seat, her eyes wide with wonder at the thought of crossing an ocean.

Day had barely broken. The sky above Saint Louis Cathedral looked like purple velvet threaded with silver and gold.

The fetid odors that would rise from the open gutters with the sun still lay dormant at this early hour. Only the enticing aromas of black coffee laced with chicory and of fresh-baked bread drifted through the narrow streets of the Vieux Carré from the French Market near the levee.

When they reached the berth where her father’s ship, the Fleur de Lis, waited for its two extra passengers before casting off downriver to the Gulf, Nicolette felt all the pain and heartache she had been suppressing for hours well up in a sudden rush. She looked through misty eyes back over the city she loved—where she’d been born and had lived all her life. She wasn’t only leaving her parents and friends, she was going away from her beloved New Orleans, an exile, just like her mother’s younger sister.

When would she stroll the Place d’Armes again? Kneel in the cathedral’s hushed interior for morning mass? Wander among the bright stalls along the levee, making market with Sukey, stopping to indulge her sweet tooth with honeyed rice cakes and pralines?

Her tears rushed to flood, like the Mississippi after spring rains. Jean Laffite folded his muscled arms around her and drew her to his broad chest. Cry it out, Nicolette. You’ll feel better for it.

Never before had any man but her papa held her this way. Still, the feeling of Laffite’s soothing embrace was welcome. She felt neither shy nor embarrassed, only warm… sheltered. She snuggled close and breathed in his male scents of tobacco, cognac, and musk. When she relaxed against him, Laffite put one finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his.

Better now? he asked huskily.

She only nodded. She couldn’t trust her voice yet.

"The ship’s ready to cast off. Think of it this way, ma petite—the sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll return. May I wish you a bon voyage?"

She nodded again, not understanding his intentions. He smiled down at her, then his lips covered hers in a gentle, caressing kiss. A new kind of warmth tingled through her blood after the initial shock at his actions.

Her arms stole up around his shoulders underneath his cape and she was keenly aware of her breasts pressed to his hard chest. His mouth lingered over hers and teased the soft inner flesh of her lips. She felt this new sensation in every part of her and sighed.

She had never been kissed before. She liked the curious headiness of the experience—a mingling of surrender and, at the same time, a tender power over the man. His body changed, reacted to hers. She had thought of this moment for a long time. But never in her wildest imaginings had she guessed that it would transport her to such heights of pleasure.

Tonight, she realized suddenly, was not the end, but a new beginning. Even if she never saw the man again, she would always remember Jean Laffite… always hold him in a warm and secret place in her heart.

Chapter One

We’re almost home! Nicolette sang out with her first waking breath. No more exile! Won’t Papa be surprised at our early arrival?

She bounded to the edge of the ship’s bunk and searched out the porthole for any sign of land, all the while humming a French tune she had learned from a devastating suitor in Paris, the one who’d stolen a kiss from her as they strolled beside the Seine.

She cocked her head, remembering, and mused, It wasn’t a bad kiss either! But I’m sure my husband’s will be far more delicious!

She reached under her pillow, as she had every morning and night since they sailed, and withdrew a well-worn sheet of vellum—the letter from her father that had set Sukey packing, Nicolette dreaming, and Tante Gabrielle muttering oaths under her breath when her niece only smiled indulgently at her sermons on the evils of certain Creole customs.

Nicolette’s bright eyes took in the words at a glance. She knew the contents almost by heart.

New Orleans

January 1, 1813

My dearest Nikki,

If you were here this minute, I would hug and kiss you soundly, and wish you la bonne année, then give you this New Year’s gift in person which I am having to send so many miles to reach you.

No, ma chère, the package is not lost. What I send to you comes wrapped, not in paper and pretty ribbons, but in love, straight from an adoring father’s heart.

But before I give you your surprise, let me tell you what we would do this afternoon if I could wish you home this instant. Your maman would wrap up warmly in the beautiful cashmere shawl you sent. You would don one of the lovely Paris gowns you bought recently, (for which the bills have already reached me), and I would call for our carriage to be brought around. Then, with a handsome lady on each arm, a smile on my face, and the ivory-headed cane you sent me, I would direct the driver to Bourbon Street. There the three of us would make a grand tour of a certain gracious townhouse under construction and nearing completion.

If you have not guessed by now, my sweet Nikki, this is to be your wedding gift. I have also written to Monsieur Jacob Desmalter in Paris, Napoleon’s own cabinetmaker, with a letter of credit, directing him to allow you to choose whatever you like to furnish your new home.

But a wedding gift and a New Year’s gift cannot be one and the same.

Here is your real surprise, ma fleur. The contract has been struck for your engagement. The gentleman partner is of the highest calibre socially, financially, and personally. I have known him in business for several years. There will be no repeat performance of the last disaster, I promise you.

Who is he? you are demanding. Oui, ma petite?

A few hints are all I plan to divulge. He has met you and the two of you conversed quite pleasantly on one occasion that I know of. He swears he lost his heart and soul to you on your first meeting. He is older than you, but not too old. Your maman declares him a handsome man. (Actually, she used the word, elegant, but I think that goes a bit too far!) Suffice it to say, we find the gentleman son-in-law material of the first order. Already preparations are underway for your wedding.

The Fleur de Lis sails out of Le Havre in early April, so we will expect you home no later than the first of May. Captain D’Orsay will contact you in Paris with the exact sailing schedule. Hurry home to us, Nikki!

Our warmest wishes to Gabrielle, and love and kisses from your maman and your adoring papa,

Claude Vernet

Who could it be? Nicolette wracked her brain for the millionth, unsuccessful time. Oh, well, I’ll know soon enough.

She draped a peacock satin dressing gown over her bare shoulders, thinking what a grand surprise it would be for her parents that Aunt Gabrielle had decided to come with her, and began brushing her waist-length hair with long, even strokes.

Her thoughts centered for a time on her aunt, asleep in the next cabin. Why had she reacted so violently when Papa’s exciting letter arrived? Nicolette had read the entire missive to her, sure that her aunt would share her delight at the prospect of a proper marriage to an upstanding Creole gentleman. But instead, Gabrielle DelaCroix’s porcelain-lovely features had gone ash-pale, her sable eyes flashing a warning fire of anger.

So! she had said, her voice icy to brittleness. You’re to be sacrificed on the same antiquated, Creole altar in the Cathedral of Saint Louis as all the others. Of course, the blood offering will come later, beneath the marriage canopy under the very roof of your adoring papa! Barbarians… all of them! There are other ways, Nicolette, and I’m returning with you to New Orleans to put a stop to this madness! But let’s keep my visit our secret.

The words her regal aunt had mumbled to herself as she swept out of the parlor were unfamiliar to Nicolette, though she thought she had heard one or two of them before, back in New Orleans. A burly French seaman had uttered them as he was loading heavy hogsheads of molasses onto a wagon on the levee. Odd that her aristocratic aunt should know that ruffian’s jargon.

She brushed these bothersome thoughts from her mind as she brushed the night tangles from her hair and smiled into the mirror. The reflection there bore little resemblance to the young girl who had left New Orleans almost two years before. She stared at a woman, full of body, ripe now and ready for the more sensuous side of life.

We’re so close, she sighed, drawing in a deep breath, that I can almost smell the marshes along the Mississippi. Nothing can stop us now! My life is set!

Nicolette frowned suddenly, and made a sign with two fingers to ward off any bad luck that might be summoned by her high spirits and confident words. Hadn’t she thought the same thoughts, said almost the same words, the night of the engagement party?

And look what happened then! she reminded the face in her mirror.

But her charm against the evil eye came too late. Even as she made the sign, the boom of thunder reached her ears. A cannonball roared across the calm waters of the Gulf of Mexico to smash through the deck of her father’s ship with such force that Nicolette was thrown to the floor, stunned when her head collided with an edge of her brass-bound trunk.

Sukey, having delivered Gabrielle’s breakfast to her cabin, came through the door with another tray at the moment of impact. She fell atop Nicolette’s still form and the carafe of coffee went flying. The thick, aromatic liquid spilled on the sheet of paper beside Nicolette—causing Claude Vernet’s words to his daughter to run together, melting his hopeful promises away to a grayish-brown blur.

Mam’zelle Nicolette! Sukey sobbed, her arms protectively caressing her charge.

The hatch cover banged against the bulkhead and male voices intruded. Get rid of the nigger woman, Hernandez. I’ll take care of the girl!

Jean Laffite stretched his powerful body beneath the mosquito baire enveloping his bed. He patted the spot beside him, thinking he might assuage his morning’s passion. The place was still warm, but the woman who had shared his space for the night had gone. He sighed his resignation and put all amorous thoughts from his mind for the time being.

The sheets felt sticky and clung to his bare skin. No early morning breeze from the Gulf breathed in to cool him. The oppressive humidity was a sure