Chapter Five #2
Too late.
“Nevertheless…” He took a deep breath and evened his voice. “If you’re to stay with us, I’d rather you be well provisioned than hear any complaints.”
A flicker of ice passed through her expression, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t need to with her chin thrust high. Though he itched to climb into his seat and put space between them, he stayed put until both ladies had safely passed through the door.
The streets narrowed as he steered the cart away from the French Quarter, cobblestones rattling beneath the wheels. Warstein’s townhome stood at the edge of the district, a newer brick building with green shutters. A butler in an immaculate uniform answered the door.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Warstein has gone down to the docks to tend to important business. He’ll be occupied all day. You may leave a calling card if you’d like.”
Could anything else go wrong? He bit back a laugh and opened his mouth. Then closed it. It might take days for the merchant’s response to reach him. Which meant, as unappealing as it sounded, he would have to question Miss Ross about her circumstances again.
Lucien returned to the cart and scratched behind Renard’s ear.
He’d already finished all his pressing needs in town the other day.
Nothing left to do but to get a drink while the ladies shopped.
He climbed back into the seat and sent the gelding forward, steering toward a tight side street.
Not far down, a familiar tavern squatted between two larger buildings with a wooden sign swinging above the door.
Inside, the smell of ale and smoke greeted him like an old friend.
He let the warmth and low murmur of patrons swallow him.
“Lucien? Is that you?”
He twisted toward the familiar voice as a man stood up from a nearby table. Pierre. A grin tugged at his lips before he could stop it. His old friend strode forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been too long, nearly a year.”
The ease, the endless confidence, none of it had changed since he’d last seen him. Lucien let a dry laugh escape. “Too long, indeed. You’ve been keeping out of trouble, I hope?”
“You know me better than that.” His friend chuckled and waved at the barkeep. “What brings you to town?”
“Letters to post. Aunt Eloise had some shopping to do.”
Pierre grinned. “Thank heavens for her then.”
Lucien couldn’t help a soft snort. Thank heavens indeed. As if her insistence had been some generous gift rather than thinly veiled compulsion. His lips twitched as his eyes flicked toward the tavern door.
“Did you hear about Monsieur Duval?” Lucien shook his head, and his friend leaned in.
“He’s taken a new mistress, an actress. Except she’s gone public about it, parading through town in the fine silks and jewels he’s bought her.
She even showed up at a ball and danced with him in front of his wife. ”
Lucien’s mouth pressed into a thin line. A reminder of exactly why he avoided town whenever possible. He let his gaze drift over the tavern, searching for something to change the subject. Not scandal, not spectacle, not the latest display of foolishness masquerading as courage or passion.
Pierre took a slow sip from his glass, eyes on him. “It’s not good for you to stay so closed off from society. People still talk about what happened.”
Lucien snorted, though a fresh burst of irritation flashed through him. “Let them think what they want. I don’t care what they believe if it means they stay away from me.”
“They say you’ve lost your mind.”
The barkeep appeared at his elbow, setting a glass of rum before him. Lucien grasped it without breaking eye contact with his friend. The liquid burned a trail down his throat as he took a hearty swallow. “Maybe I have.”
Pierre glanced around the tavern and lowered his voice. “Christ, Lucien, some people call you a killer.”
“And what do you think?”
His friend shook his head. “You know I’ve no time for gossip. I’m just worried that spending all that time alone in the swamp is doing more harm than good. One can go crazy with nothing but memories to keep them company.”
Lucien squared his jaw as a young couple strode by the window with arms linked. His throat tightened as the comment hit home. “Especially when the memories talk back.”
“What does that mean?” Concern filled Pierre’s eyes.
A harsh chuckle pushed its way from Lucien. “Did you think I was jesting earlier? They’re right, Pierre. I see things. Hear things.”
His friend’s face paled in the shadowed room. “Truly?”
Lucien gave a grim nod, regret at spilling his secret already flooding him.
“Like ghosts?”
He shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Isabelle?”
Hearing her name sent a familiar stab of pain through his chest. He forced a shrug.
“Perhaps. I don’t know.” He closed his eyes and tried to focus on a vision of the blurry form he’d so often seen.
Sometimes feminine. Sometimes not. Oftentimes, it looked an awful lot like him. But he wasn’t about to admit that.
Pierre ran a hand through his hair. “How long has this been going on?”
“A while. Started a few months after she passed.”
“Christ.” After a moment of silence, his friend locked eyes with him. “Have you talked to anyone about this? A priest? A voodoo doctor?”
He’d thought about it. But had never mustered the courage. It was one thing to admit it to himself, or even his friend, but quite another to confide in a stranger.
“It’s not that bad.”
Liar.
Pierre leaned back, eyes softening. “I think Isabelle would agree with me that you shouldn’t let yourself suffer.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened. He let the words settle for a moment, trying to ignore the familiar sting of loss. “I bear it as I must.”
Pierre let out a quiet, knowing sigh. “You think that honors her?”
Definitely time to change the subject.
He cleared his throat and threw back the rest of his drink in one swallow. “Are you still sailing?”
“Just got back from Charleston.” Pierre ordered another round. “What about you? Have you thought about coming back?”
“No. That life is over for me.”
Pierre crossed his arms. “So, what are you doing for income? You’re not farming out in the swamp, I know that much.”
The barkeep arrived with their drinks, and Lucien swirled his. “I’ve some investments that are doing well enough, and I’m careful with the funds my father left me.”
“I would have never been able to imagine you living a life on shore. You were made for the sea.”
He wasn’t wrong.
But even thinking it sent ghosts whispering in Lucien’s head. Not that he would admit it.
“You should think about it. New Orleans is so busy now, it would be easy to land a lucrative position. I bet it would do you good to get back on the water.”
No. It wouldn’t. Lucien shook his head and tipped his glass back.
The liquor burned on the way down, but the voices did not recede. They rarely did, waiting patiently to remind him of mistakes he could never undo. If he returned, they might drag him into the sea’s cold embrace. Perhaps he deserved it. Perhaps that was where he truly belonged.
Perhaps what he feared most was that he would not resist.
He set the empty glass aside, jaw tightening. Whatever part of him belonged to the water would remain there, buried in the depths where it could do no more harm.
Pierre turned to wave down the barkeep, but Lucien stilled his hand.
“Remember, I’ve got Aunt Eloise with me today.
Wouldn’t do to be drunk for the ride home.
” Not that it mattered. Eloise was used to seeing him deep in his cups.
And he’d have to drink the whole bottle to well and truly be drunk. But Pierre didn’t need to know that.