Chapter One
New Orleans
“I’ll give you seven pesos.”
“Seven?” Abigail’s voice caught as her fingers hovered over her brooch. Smooth gold glinted in a lone ray of light filtering through the nearby window. “You must be mistaken. It’s an heirloom from Paris.”
“Oui. Seven. And that’s generous.” Dark eyes sharpened and the pawn shop’s owner leaned forward. “Perhaps it would fetch more in Paris. But we aren’t in Paris, are we?”
She forced her spine straight, though her throat tightened. “It’s worth far more than seven.”
His mouth curved in a cruel imitation of a smile. “It’s worth whatever I say it is and not any more. If you’re not happy with the price, you can take it elsewhere.” He reached for a cloth and began polishing a silver pocket watch, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist.
Her jaw quivered as she stared at the carved ivory doves at the center of the heirloom.
A vision of the portrait of her mother wearing it cut through her, as if the brooch itself remembered better days.
Part of her longed to snatch it back, to sweep from the shop and leave the miserly man to choke on his paltry offer.
But doing so would mean starting the humiliating dance all over again.
A glance through the window stole the last of her resolve.
Beyond the dusty glass, the street swelled with afternoon light and bustling strangers, and the only other shop she’d seen on this lane had already closed.
If she walked out now, she might not find another chance to sell it at all.
And then she’d be at the mercy of the hotel’s clerk and whatever price they deemed fit.
Over the last weeks, she’d learned the hard way that bartering a piece of jewelry in exchange for a night’s stay got even less of a return than selling to a crooked dealer.
With a heavy swallow, she inclined her head and pushed the keepsake over.
He grunted and opened his drawer, the dull clink of silver doing nothing to ease the uncomfortable squeeze in her chest. His hand closed over the brooch and her throat tightened as yet another piece of her past disappeared for good.
Outside, thick humidity wrapped around her like a second skin as she stepped out onto Royal Street.
Shadows from wrought iron balconies stretched across pale stucco walls with bright shutters flung wide.
Voices spilled into the street—French, Spanish, English—all colliding in a chaotic hum.
Her palm closed around the velvet pouch inside her reticule.
Each town or outpost they’d stopped at, the bag had grown smaller as she traded her most precious pieces to pay their way across the country.
God, she hated this. All of it. It would have been half as bad if they had been able to properly pack. An entire month on the road had passed since they had fled their home after the infamous Captain Thorne had chased them from Savannah.
Her eyes narrowed. The worst part of it all? She had no idea why. Her father insisted it had been a misunderstanding, but her stomach clenched as she skirted a cluster of women haggling over spices. A misunderstanding did not send one fleeing hundreds of miles.
Only a few months ago, Thorne had kidnapped Samantha from her home.
Samantha had told her afterward that the pirate admitted he killed her parents, and would have killed her as well if Christian had not rescued her.
That kind of man did not seem capable of leaving room for misunderstanding.
She worried with her bottom lip as she stepped into the street.
If he was still after them, would they truly be safe in New Orleans?
Hooves clattered past, while she weaved between the clamor of pedestrians and the jostle of market carts.
Wagons and carriages veered by, kicking up clouds of pale dust that clung to her skirts.
The smell of roasted chestnuts mingled with the tang of the river, and the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer kept up a steady rhythm.
She kept her gaze ahead, aiming for the broad expanse of Canal Street, where the hotel rose like a promise.
Its grand columns gleamed in the afternoon sun, casting long shadows across the wide stone steps.
Iron lanterns flanked the entrance, and liveried porters hauled trunks for finely dressed travelers.
Abigail paused, pulse easing for the first time in days.
For a heartbeat, she could almost imagine she’d arrived as she once would have with trunks neatly packed, a maid at her side, and her name carried ahead with deference.
Instead, the hem of her gown carried weeks of grime from her travels, and she’d arrived a stranger in this foreign and eclectic city.
Inside, the shadowed lobby swallowed the clamor from the street, its dignified hush exuding order and wealth.
High ceilings soared overhead, plasterwork gleaming beneath chandeliers whose light shimmered across polished floors.
Gentlemen bent over newspapers in leather chairs, and ladies swept past in silk and lace.
This was the world she belonged in.
Yet a thread of unease tugged at her. Every opulent surface whispered of the cost, and she pictured the brooch she’d handed to the pawn shop owner.
“Miss Ross, good to see you back.” A porter approached her. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
She shook her head, pushing her worry down. “I’ll just be going to my room and preparing for dinner.”
He nodded and led her up the steps, stopping at a tall door. “Here you are.”
She nodded her thanks and swung the door open, stepping into the grand room. The setting sun spilled through wide windows, reflecting off a rich mahogany writing desk and plush rugs.
Her father sat in an upholstered chair near the hearth, studying his ledger. “Did you succeed?”
She nodded and handed him the seven pesos. Enough for two or three days’ stay. If they were lucky. A heaviness settled deep inside her as she glanced around the well-furnished room.
“Perhaps we should find lodging elsewhere? I passed several other hotels during my outing that would allow us to stretch these funds further.”
He gave her a placating smile. “Don’t worry, my darling. Now that we are finally in a respectable city, I’ll be able to visit a bank and get access to funds.”
She mustered a tight smile in return. He’d been trying to get banks to lend him money all along their journey.
Without a letter of credit, they had been laughed at the whole way.
Her fingers squeezed around her reticule, its lightness a testimony to his failure.
After a deep breath, she set it on a side table. “When is dinner?”
His face brightened. “I’ve actually asked them to hold our meal for us until later.”
She blinked, her stomach giving a soft growl of protest before he continued. “I made some inquiries while you were out and acquired Mr. Warstein’s address. It’s not far at all from here, so I thought we would pay him a visit if you’re up for it. I’m sure he’ll be able to ease our worries.”
Of course. After all they’d been through, she’d nearly forgotten her best friend Samantha’s assurance that her uncle would be able to help them. A wealthy and influential merchant, he would have many connections. Her smile became genuine. “Yes, let’s.”
After adjusting her skirts and wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, Abigail followed him downstairs and outside.
The streets of New Orleans thrummed with life, a tapestry of color and motion that kept her eyes moving.
Laughter rang from open doorways, and the occasional dog darted between legs, weaving through the flow of the crowd.
Every corner offered a new glimpse of the city, and Abigail’s heart lifted with a mixture of relief and cautious curiosity.
Soon, they reached a tall, elegant townhouse with wrought iron balconies overflowing with greenery. A servant in a crisp coat answered their knock, sharp eyes assessing them briefly before inclining in acknowledgment.
“Mr. Ross of Savannah and his daughter, Miss Abigail,” her father announced, voice steady.
The butler gave a courteous nod, then gestured for them to follow him into a small reception hall.
They waited a few moments, the hush of the space pressing in, while he informed Warstein of their arrival.
He returned and after a slight bow, led them toward the study.
Rich carpets muffled their footsteps as they passed through heavy wooden doors.
Golden sunlight slanted from open windows, bathing rows of leatherbound books in a honeyed glow.
Mr. Warstein sat in a deep armchair, a crystal glass in hand.
“Ross, what a surprise.” He stood and poured another glass, handing it to her father. “I thought my butler must surely be mistaken. What are you doing here in New Orleans?”
“We were told you could ensure our safety.”
Gray brows rose. “Your safety?”
Her father raked a hand through his hair. “That blasted pirate, Thorne, is after us. He ran us out of our home in the middle of the night.”
“Thorne?” The merchant’s eyes sharpened. “Why is he after you?”
“How should I know?” Her father began pacing. “Clearly, he has the wrong man. There must have been some mistake.”
Mr. Warstein followed his frantic movements with a thoughtful gaze. “I can assure you, Thorne doesn’t make mistakes. If he has marked you, it is not by chance. Every step he takes is driven by vengeance.”
“Vengeance? What for? I never even did any pirate hunting while I was in the Navy.”
“Neither did he.”
Abigail’s father paused his pacing at the merchant’s soft words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mr. Warstein leveled his gaze at him. “You may find it helpful to know Thorne’s real name is Captain James Thom—”
The glass tumbler slipped from her father’s hand, shattering across the floor. Abigail jumped back as amber liquid pooled around her feet, hugging her arms to her chest as her father’s face drained of color.
“James is dead.” He gave a violent shake of his head and lunged forward to grab the merchant’s jacket. His fists clenched the fine fabric, panic etched deep into every line of his face. “He’s dead, I tell you!”
Mr. Warstein’s face had gone blank, his jaw set. He slowly lifted his hands and set them over her father’s wrists. “I’d appreciate it if you did not lay hands on me. He’s very much alive. Now, I’ll ask you once again, why is he after you?”
Her father’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and a chill sank into Abigail’s bones.
Not a misunderstanding after all.
“Are you certain? He was lost at sea. No one has seen him since.” Her father’s head continued its erratic back and forth path—as if he could reason the truth away.
“Plenty of people have seen him,” Warstein said evenly. “Only they met him at the business end of his blade, and never lived to tell the tale.”
Her father’s face paled even further. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You?” The merchant’s tone remained calm, almost detached. “You’ll need to make peace with whatever it was you did and face the consequences. I cannot help you.”
Abigail’s gut twisted, breaths coming shallow and quick. How could he say no? Her father froze mid-shake of his head, eyes wide with disbelief. “You can’t do this to us. We don’t even have enough money to get passage out of here. Where are we supposed to go?”
Her eyes squeezed shut. A month of grueling travel to reach New Orleans, enduring every hardship along the way, and now rejection? With nearly all their belongings bartered away, options had dwindled to almost nothing. If the bank here refused her father a loan…she shuddered.
“I suggest you start a new life. Assume a new identity and hope he doesn’t find out. The United States has only just purchased Louisiana—New Orleans is a thriving city and there are many ways to earn an honest living.”
Her father took a heavy step back. “This is preposterous.”
“It’s not preposterous if you want to stay alive.”
A new life. Abigail’s nails bit into her palms as the words rang through her head.
No.
She was perfectly happy with her life in Savannah. This strange city was not the place for her. A tremor fluttered through her chest, and she drew a shaky breath. The sooner this nightmare was over, the better. She would make it home. But how long would it take?
Numbness crept through her as she followed the men from the study, each step toward the front door weighing heavier than the last, her mind still reeling. When the butler opened it, she wrapped her arms around her chest. The sun had set, dark shadows cloaking the street outside.
“Miss Ross, wait.” Mr. Warstein followed them onto the steps. “You are a good friend of Samantha’s. I would be doing her a disservice if I did not offer protection to you.”
Her heart gave a hopeful beat as he continued.
“I have a place you can go that should be safe. A family that lives away from the city.”
She clasped her hands as a rush of relief washed through her. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Warstein. We would—”
“No we. Only you.” His face hardened when her eyes widened. “It’s a secluded residence. Your father will need to stay here to sort his affairs. It will not do you any good if he’s traveling back and forth from the city. Would make it too easy to find out where you are if he’s recognized.”
Her chest tightened anew. “Thank you. But I—I don’t want to leave him.”
Mr. Warstein nodded. “Very well, but the offer stands.”