Deceive Not My Heart

  Deceive Not My Heart

  The Louisiana Ladies Series

  Book One

  by

  Shirlee Busbee

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  DECEIVE NOT MY HEART

  Reviews & Accolades

  "One of the best romance writers of our time."

  ~Affaire de Coeur

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-476-9

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1984, 2013 by Shirlee Busbee. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Fiction. Romance. Historical. American. Revolution.

  Cover by Kim Killion www.thekilliongroupinc.com

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedication

  This one is for my favorites.

  MRS. GALENA TERRY, my favorite "modiste," who cheerfully and cleverly sews wonderful creations from my haphazard, confusing directions.

  MR. L. DEAN KASTENS, my favorite boss, who encouraged and took such sincere delight in my success and that of his other secretary, Rosemary Rogers.

  MRS. CHARLOTTE BUSBEE WHITNEY, my favorite mother-in-law, who laughs when she hears of my latest klutzy experience and then takes pity on me and comes to cook dinner.

  And of course, as always, Howard.

  Part I

  The Double-Dealers

  Song's but solace for a day;

  Wine's a traitor not to trust;

  Love's a kiss and then away;

  Time's a peddler deals in dust.

  Hearth-Song

  Robert Underwood Johnson

  Chapter 1

  The house resembled a gracious elderly lady that had fallen upon evil times, but it was still a lovely old building. It sat with timeless elegance near a bend in the Mississippi River some miles below New Orleans. Once it had been lavishly, lovingly, and meticulously kept, but since the death of Monsieur Claude Saint-Andre's only child, Damien, some fourteen years before, the old man had lost all interest in the plantation and had let Chateau Saint-Andre fall into its present faded, crumbling state.

  Even in its prime it had not been an overwhelming house, but even now it possessed an elegant charm that was instantly recognizable, despite its faded exterior. The main house, with its matching pair of colonnaded garconnieres, had been built in 1760 when Louisiana had been a French possession, and it was typical of the houses of that period. The first floor was cement-covered brick; it served as a basement, office, and storage place, while the upper level with its wide galleries and slender wooden colonnettes was where the family lived.

  In the front of the house there was a graceful horseshoe-shaped staircase, which led to the second level of the house, and at the rear, underneath the overhanging galleries, was a carriage entrance. Several tall double doors with glass casements served as both window and door; the painted cypress shutters hanging on either side of the doors provided additional protection during the short winter or when a howling hurricane struck.

  The signs of neglect were everywhere. The sun-bleached blue of the house and the blistered white paint of the columns told the story, as did the missing shutter here and there. The broken step in the staircase and the gaps in the wooden railing that enclosed the galleries completed the tale. But to sixteen-year-old Leonie Saint-Andre, the heiress to all this faded elegance, it mattered little. She loved the house even with all its faults; it was where she had been born and lived all her life. The Chateau Saint-Andre was home and she couldn't have imagined ever living anywhere else, and being Leonie, she would have objected rather heatedly if anyone had ever attempted to remove her from it.

  But in this summer of 1799, all was not well with her beloved home and none knew it better than she—she had kept the account books since she was thirteen and the plantation manager had been let go because her grandfather's gaming debts ate up any profit the plantation earned. The field slaves had gone next, and without the field hands there was no one to work the indigo fields, and without indigo there was no money, and without money there was no—

  Ah, bah! Leonie thought disgustedly as she slammed shut the leather account books she had been perusing intently. One slim, tanned hand toyed absently with an intricate, gold crucifix that hung from a slender chain about her neck. If only grand-pere would cease gaming, she thought angrily, they might be able to redeem the vouchers he had scattered all over New Orleans and have some money for their own use. Sighing impatiently she stared through the trunks of the moss-hung oaks towards the swirling Mississippi River. Her sea-green eyes narrowed against the glare of the bright sunlight. Mon Dieu, but I shall have to think of something soon, she decided grimly.

  Leonie was not a beautiful girl, at least not in the accepted sense of the word. Sultry, exotic, and striking more accurately described her, and yet even those words could not precisely convey the vivid impact of golden skin, ruby lips, laughing and slightly slanted green eyes, and a tawny mane of hair that cascaded in tousled curls about her slender shoulders. Her mouth was full, almost too full, but the lips were delicately carved, and it was a mouth that smiled often; the cheekbones were high, the nose straight and finely molded, and with those almond-shaped green eyes between the thick, curling lashes and the slashing golden-brown brows, she had the look of some half-wild swamp cat that had been magically transformed into human shape.

  She was a small girl, but she appeared far more fragile than she actually was. Though wearing an outgrown cotton gown, the outline of the firm young bosom could be clearly seen, and while the high waist of the gown hid the slenderness of her hips and waist it was apparent from the neat ankles and bare feet, which showed beneath the too-short hem, and from the slender arms, revealed by the puff sleeves, that she was delicately built.

  As her bare feet and faded yellow gown attested, Leonie cared little for the trappings of fashion—the one piece of jewelry she wore, the uniquely fashioned crucifix, had belonged to her mother and Leonie treasured it. Clothes were merely to cover her nakedness; she had little use for them. Which was probably just as well, considering the state of the family's finances, she reminded herself angrily as she stood up from the desk and stepped outside.

  Ordinarily she wouldn't have been angry, but grand-pere had returned home late the night before from another of his extended visits to New Orleans and had casually informed his anxious granddaughter that the money she had thought would be used to buy the barest of necessities to keep them going for a few months longer had been gambled away... again. Worse, he had admitted to signing more vowels for the money he had lost above what had been with him.

  It had not
always been so, but Leonie herself could never remember a time that her grandfather hadn't gambled away every bit of money they had. The house slaves—Mammy in the kitchen, Abraham, the head groom to a nonexistent staff and stables, and her own personal servant, Mercy—had told her often enough of the days when Claude Saint-Andre had properly run his plantation, of the happy times, of the gold that he had made and spent lavishly on the Chateau, of the grand parties he had given with only the very best people of New Orleans attending, and of the blooded stock that had filled his huge stables. But all that had changed in the terrible flood of 1785 when the rampaging Mississippi had ripped away the carefully erected levees, and had swept over the land destroying everything in its awesome path. The house had miraculously survived, but one of the galleries had been torn away, tragically sweeping Leonie's parents and her grandmother into the churning waters. Rescue had been impossible and all three had drowned. After that Claude Saint-Andre had lost interest in everything, even his small two-year-old granddaughter, and he had begun to drink heavily and gamble with a reckless disregard for the future.

  Leonie hadn't minded as a child. In fact she had reveled in it. Not for her the restraints that usually surrounded a young girl of her station. She grew up like a wild thing, more at home in the nearby swamps and bayous than in the elegant homes she should have graced. Claude had paid her little heed beyond seeing that she was fed and clothed and that she had some sort of education—not an extensive one; what would she need it for? At the proper time he would see to it that a respectable husband was found, and what gentleman in his right mind wanted a woman with her head stuffed full of book learning?

  But Leonie, for all her wildness, possessed a thirsting, inquiring mind, and she had consumed everything the impoverished English governess could teach her, and then demanded more. For Madame Whitfield it had been a pleasure; she had happily sought to impart to this volatile, enchanting, half-wild creature every scrap of knowledge in her possession. But Madame Whitfield's resources were limited and sadly there came a time when she felt that she had nothing more to give Leonie. Unfortunately Claude would not even consider hiring someone who could have given Leonie the knowledge she craved.

  Madame Whitfield had gone not long after the plantation manager departed and Leonie had been miserable for weeks. Not only had she lost her preceptress, but also a very dear friend—something grand-pere did not understand at all!

  There existed between Leonie and her grandfather a curious relationship. At sixty-seven Claude Saint-Andre was set in his ways and made no effort to conceal it. Arrogance was obvious in his every movement and although his dark, aquiline features were lined and creased from years of self-indulgence, he was still an attractive man. He had a full head of silvery hair and dark eyes that cynically viewed the world from under slender, arching gray brows. A slim man, barely average in height, he had lived all of his life certain that his slightest whim would be instantly gratified. He had expected his granddaughter to be docile and well-behaved, and he was always unpleasantly surprised by Leonie's unpredictable actions. When she had taken over the account books he had been scandalized, but Leonie had merely given him a long, thoughtful look and murmured sweetly, "And if I don't do them, who will, grand-pere? Vous?" That had ended the discussion, for Claude was appalled at the idea of doing anything so common as pottering about with ink and ledgers. Fortunately Leonie didn't think quite so highly of herself. Although she had plenty of the Saint-Andre arrogance, she was far more practical about things than her grandfather.

  The little tussle over the ledgers had not been the first test of wills between, them, nor would it be last. When Claude had made the decision to sell the field hands a year later, Leonie had been heartsick and furious. The sea-green eyes blazing with golden flecks of rage, she had stormed, "Non! You cannot sell them! They've lived here all of their lives. They're our people, they belong with us! How can you disrupt them this way and just sell them?"

  Appealing to Claude's finer senses didn't seem to work, so desperately Leonie tried another tact. "And when they are gone," she asked with deceptive calm, "how are we to work the fields, grand-pere?"

  Claude was unmoved by that argument too, and finally, Leonie was reduced to pleading. "Pour I' amour de Dieu, I beg of you... don't sell them! They are as much a part of Chateau Saint-Andre as we are!" Claude had sniffed disdainfully, but grasping at straws Leonie had begged, "I know the indigo is not selling as well, but we can wait one more year. Just one?" Almost hopefully she added, "Let us try the sugar cane this year. Please, Monsieur de Bore says that cane will soon be a most profitable crop. Let us try it!"

  Claude had been most affronted that a fourteen-year-old girl would dare to tell him how to run his affairs! All the slaves except for the house servants had been sold within the week and Leonie had watched them being led away, her eyes filled with angry, painful tears.

  Thinking of that incident now, Leonie's full mouth thinned and for a moment she looked exceedingly fierce, like a small, infuriated kitten. But then catching sight of a slight figure, much like her own, walking beneath one of the old oaks near the house, her face was transfixed with a sunny smile.

  "Hola! Yvette, bonjour!" she called out, waving one hand above her head.

  Yvette, born just three months before Leonie, stopped on her journey to the hen house for fresh eggs and waved a hand back. "Bonjour, Leonie! Where have you been? Your grand-pere is asking for you."

  Leonie's smile faded and with a determined set to the firm, little chin she walked over to where Yvette had stopped. Approaching the other girl, Leonie demanded almost angrily, "Why do you always refer to him as my grand-pere? He is yours, too!"

  Yvette's sweet smile vanished and the great dark eyes wouldn't meet Leonie's. In a soft voice Yvette murmured, "Leonie, ma amie, let it be. He will never acknowledge me—and you shouldn't have either. How can you overlook the fact that I am his son's daughter by an octoroon mistress? And how can you expect him to do it?"

  Leonie scowled. "Ah, bah! You are my sister and it doesn't matter who your mother was—she is dead just like our papa, but you and I are alive and here, together!" Peering intently into Yvette's lovely face, Leonie said earnestly, "You must stand up to him, Yvette! He will never acknowledge you, I know, but you must not let him frighten you! I know he is gruff and shouts a great deal, but it is all thunder and lightning. As long as you scurry about and shrink into walls whenever he is near, he will bully you unmercifully." A sudden mischievous grin flashed across Leonie's expressive features. "Call him grand-pere once and watch his face turn purple! He'll not be so quick to shout at you the next time, I promise!"

  Yvette smiled her slow, sweet smile but shook her head resignedly, "I am not you, Leonie. I could not do it."

  "Peuh!" Leonie muttered with displeasure, but then with all the good will in the world she accompanied her half-sister to the hen house.

  They made a pretty pair, Leonie with her lion's mane of unruly, tawny curls and Yvette with her shining black hair caught in a tidy coronet of braids on the small head. Both were of the same size, and each had a slender, finely boned figure, but while Leonie would never be a conventional beauty, Yvette was breathtakingly lovely with her soft creamy skin and dark liquid eyes. As a matter of fact everything about Yvette was perfect—a perfectly chiseled mouth and a sweetness of disposition that would be hard to match.

  Looking at the two of them, one might be forgiven for thinking that Yvette was the true daughter of the house, for while her blue muslin gown was just as old and faded as Leonie's, Yvette's fine needlework had seen to it that the dress fit properly and the black slippers she wore had been polished just this morning. Leonie, with her tumbling curls, too-small gown and bare feet, could just as easily been mistaken for the daughter of some backwoods farmer—something that wouldn't have bothered her at all. She knew who she was!

  The eggs having been gathered into a small straw basket that Yvette carried over her arm, the two girls walked back to the house, the sunl
ight turning Leonie's mane of tawny hair the color of warm, golden honey.

  Just as they reached the house, the sea-green eyes sparkling with anticipated pleasure, Leonie asked, "Will you come with me this afternoon, Yvette? I'm taking the pirogue to le petit bayou to hunt for crawfish." And as Yvette's nose wrinkled in distaste, Leonie added, "You don't have to touch them... not even the bait. Do say you'll come!"

  Yvette hesitated, willing to do just about anything Leonie wished, but she hated the swamps and particularly she hated skimming over the dark, mysterious waters of the bayous in the lightweight pirogue that Leonie propelled so effortlessly with a long pole.

  "Leonie... I really don't want to," she said finally.

  Leonie shrugged good-naturedly, not the least put out. The easy amiability between the two girls might have indicated they had known each other all of their lives. Precisely the opposite was true—in fact they had only met for the first time one stormy, wet day in February the previous year.

  It had all started with the letter Yvette's mother Monique had written when she knew she was dying. In all the years since Damien Saint-Andre's death she had never asked for anything from his father, and Claude, paving his own path to hell, certainly had not given his dead son's octoroon mistress and her child any thought. But now she was dying of consumption, and knowing her time was running out she had finally swallowed her pride and had written to Monsieur Saint-Andre pleading for his protection for his son's child, Yvette.

  If Claude had been at the Chateau when the letter had arrived the tale might have ended then and there. Fortunately he had just left for another of his frequent and too-long sojourns in New Orleans and the letter was delivered to Leonie.