Midnight Masqerade Read online

  Settling himself comfortably behind his massive desk, Josh reached for ink and paper. A letter to Royce wouldn't come amiss ... and he could just ask, very casually, of course, when Royce intended to return and if Mr. Slade would be coming with him. So early the next morning a servant rode to Thousand Oaks with Josh's letter tucked securely in his saddlebags. But Josh's letter to Royce would not be the only one arriving at Thousand Oaks dur ing the next few days. Melissa, her desperation great, was writing to Dominic.

  It wasn't a decision that had come to her easily, and even as she stood at the long windows of the library at Willowglen the same afternoon composing the sentences in her mind, she doubted if this last frantic gamble would work. Time was running out, the first of July creeping steadily closer and closer, and she was nowhere nearer to raising Latimer's money now than she had been the day he had first suggested she become his mistress.

  She had not slept well since the visit from Latimer, and whereas once she had been certain that she would never become his mistress, she now no longer believed that she could escape the trap he had set for her. It was obvious to her, in retrospect, that he had deliberately bided his time; that his overtures of friendship, the seeming consideration in not pressing for payment, had been to lull her into a false feeling of security. It also, she thought with bitterness, had given him time to ascertain the situation at Willowglen.

  Even if Willowglen were sold, Melissa seriously doubted that its sale would raise the amount owed to Latimer. Oh, the land and the house were well worth a small fortune, but under foreclosure, the best price could not be gotten. Those prospective buyers bidding on the place would want to buy it as cheaply as possible, and she and Zachary would not get a quarter of what their home was worth. And Latimer, she realized with a quiver of helpless rage, knew it! He knew how she felt about her home, knew that she would do just about anything to save it. But become his mistress? Shuddering, Melissa turned away from the window. Keeping feelings of fear and defeat at bay were becoming increasingly difficult, but gallantly, she endeavored to think clearly, to not overlook any possible way out of her dilemma.

  If only it were just herself to consider, she'd throw Latimer's words in his teeth! But there were Zack and Etienne, and Frances and Ada and . . . Without Willowglen, they would all be homeless; their fate rested on her slim shoulders. In time, once Zachary turned twenty one, or she married, their troubles would be lessened, but right now . . .

  Her hands clenched in fists at her sides. She would not allow Latimer to ruin everyone else's life! As for her, what did it matter? Women had been bartering their bodies for centuries, and at least she would have the satisfaction of knowing that those dearest to her had benefited.

  Melissa had longed to tell Zachary, longed to share the terrible burden, but just as she had dared not tell Josh, so she could not tell Zachary. It would put him in grave danger-his reaction would be far more violent than either of the Manchesters'.

  There was one frail hope, she had finally admitted tiredly. Mr. Slade had made it clear that he was interested in Folly. Would he be foolish enough to buy the stallion for an outlandishly exorbitant sum of money? She didn't really believe that he would, and as she remembered her own insolent words that Folly was not for sale at any price, a wave of humiliation swept through her. But she had to try, it was the only path left to her and the first of July was only five days away. ...

  Chapter Eight

  THE FELICIANA parishes of Louisiana, where both Willowglen and Dominic's Thousand Oaks plantations were located, were a vastly different area from the half-drowned . marshes and swamps that inundated the lower reaches of the state. Away from the low land, the ground rose quickly into thickly timbered slopes, beautiful green valleys and fields. Here there were no murky bayous, no sluggish canals moving lazily between knobby-kneed cypress, only clear, sparkling blue creeks and lakes. An upland forest of thickly trunked beeches, yellow poplars, gloriously perfumed magnolias and spreading oaks flourished in the rich red-clay soil.

  This was also fine cotton-growing country, and even before the Revolutionary War, the English had begun to settle on this lush, fecund land. When the War for Independence had broken out, many more English, loyal to the crown, had fled to the Felicianas; bewitched by the luxurious vegetation and the fruitfulness of the soil, they had been pleased to stay and build their homes and plant their cotton. Even when Spain had gained control of the area and it had been known as West Florida, the English had stayed, quietly and doggedly clearing and planting the land, their productive endeavors outstripping the French and Spanish settlers in the swampy lowlands.

  The Felicianas had not been part of the historic Louisiana Purchase of 1803. Spain had retained ownership of the land, but, feeling strongly that their future now lay with the fledgling United States, the English settlers had coolly thrown off the indifferent yoke of Spanish rule. For seventy-four days the tiny area had been an independent republic, but' when, somewhat belatedly, the Americans had arrived to annex the fertile pocket of land, the citizens of the Felicianas had thrown in their lot with the upstart Americans and the country blossomed.

  It had been the idea of growing cotton that had originally drawn young Morgan Slade to the upper regions of the Felicianas, and the house he had built for his first wife was situated much like Bonheur, on a high bluff which overlooked the brown Mississippi River far below. Morgan had owned thousands of acres, some of his holdings stretching along both sides of the wide, muddy river and although he had had great tracts of the land cleared in those early days, the majority of it was still in virgin wilderness, filled with wild game and teaming with flitting birds in brilliant shades of scarlet, yellow and black.

  Dominic had been enchanted by the area on sight when he had first visited with Morgan years ago, though it had not been the lure of cotton that had drawn him to it. He now threw himself, as eagerly as Morgan once had, into shaping the land to his own dreams. Fortunately, like his brother before him, he had the money and determination to rapidly accomplish what he set out to do, and in the extremely short period of time that he had owned Thousand Oaks, there were already ample signs of his stewardship.

  Even before he had arrived as the new owner of the land, Dominic had sent ahead men and supplies so construction could start immediately on the sites he had selected for the new stables and paddocks which would soon house some of the finest horseflesh to be found in the entire Mississippi Valley. Since their arrival nearly a month ago, Dominic and Royce had spent their time overseeing, planning and discussing the progress which was moving along at an astonishing rate.

  Neat white fences seemed to spring up overnight as the paddocks and pastures were laid out; the brood mare barns and the stallions' quarters were nearing completion, and the area being cleared for a long, sweeping racetrack was gradually taking shape. Small, brick servants' houses had been hastily constructed; fields of cotton, oats, corn and barley were under cultivation on the land which Morgan had originally wrested from the tangled wilderness. Everywhere one looked there were obvious signs of activity as Thousand Oaks shook off its sleepy air and came alive under Dominic's hand.

  There was one area, though, that Dominic had left untouched, beyond the few extra necessities it had needed to make it more comfortable, and that had been the actual house at Thousand Oaks. Mrs. Thomas and her husband, the taciturn Mr. Thomas, the servants originally retained by Morgan, had kept the house scrupulously clean and tidy over the years-not such a hard task when all but a few of the many rooms in the house remained empty.

  Morgan had overseen the completion of the construction of what he had dreamed would be his home, but he had deliberately left the interior of the house unfinished, thinking that his wife should have the pleasure of selecting the wall coverings, rugs, furniture and other amenities. Consequently, though the kitchen, situated a short distance away from the main building, as were all kitchens for fear of fire, had been fitted out properly, the inside of the house consisted of bare floors and walls
. Two of the bedrooms had been hastily furnished for Dominic and Royce; a small table and chairs had been placed in the long dining room, and a few comfortable leather chairs, side tables and desk had been hurriedly introduced into the room Dominic had chosen for his office. For the two bachelors, gone most of the day from the house, these meager furnishings did fineespecially since Mrs. Thomas was such an excellent cook and the tasty meals she prepared and the fine liquors that Morgan had laid down in his wine cellar and liberally served by Mr. Thomas more than made up for the lack of elegant surroundings.

  Dominic had much to be satisfied about as the days passed and he could see his dreams and plans gradually taking shape, but he was quite conscious of an annoying feeling of discontentment-and just when he should have been feeling very pleased with himself and his life. He could not put his finger on the source of his problem, but he was very aware, despite all the progress, of a lack of fulfillment. There was an unpleasant emptiness within himself that he had never experienced before, and it interfered with his unqualified delight in the revitalization of Thousand Oaks.

  He could not even blame his odd dissatisfaction on loneliness. Royce was a most agreeable companion and they spent many enjoyable hours together, eagerly discussing the plans for Thousand Oaks and hunting in the gamefilled forests. Everything was developing just as Dominic had envisioned-his own servants and personal belongings were even now on their way from Bonheur to Thousand Oaks. Within the next week or so, his stablemaster and the first of his horses would be arriving; he had even received a few letters from knowledgeable horsemen congratulating him on his undertaking and expressing interest in the fine-blooded stock they were confident that Thousand Oaks would one day produce.

  So why did Dominic have this nagging sense of ... of ... of what? he had demanded angrily of himself more than once lately. Wasn't he doing precisely what he had said, time and time again, that he wanted to do? Wasn't everything going along just as he had planned? Just as he had expected it to? Of course it was! If anything, events were moving along swifter than his fondest hopes. So why did he have a damnably uncomfortable feeling that somewhere he had badly miscalculated ... that he had somehow gone drastically astray? It was vexing, this strange feeling of hollowness within himself. And damned annoying, too! Especially when these odd sensations all seemed connected to an unsettling memory of that provoking Miss Melissa Seymour!

  To his utter consternation, he could not push aside the memory of that night with her, remembering vividly the feel of her mouth beneath his. To his utmost frustration, he would find himself dwelling on the dowdy and unappealing Miss Seymour at the most inopportune times. Viewing the newly constructed brood mare stable with its wide alleyways and huge, freshly whitewashed stalls, the tack room filled with expensive leather saddlery and, equipment, the bustling, neatly attired stableboys as they hurried about doing their tasks, he found himself brooding on the memory of the shoddy excuse of a barn that served Miss Seymour. The contrast between the two buildings was ludicrous, but for some peculiar reason, Dominic took no pleasure in the differences. And idly watching the muscles ripple in the broad back of one of his field slaves as the man labored to even out the floor of one of the new stalls, he was irked to discover himself remembering his first sight of Miss Seymour, her slender body bent over as she cleaned out one of the dilapidated stalls at Willowglen.

  Furiously he attempted to banish her from his thoughts, especially when he became conscious of feelings of admiration and sympathy. The woman was nothing but a stubborn, rude, sharp-tongued vixen! he reminded himself grimly. She was obviously content with her lot-he'd been willing to pay a goodly sum for Folly, and the money would have gone a long way in alleviating the necessity for her to work like a damned slave! But had she taken advantage of this opportunity? No! The stupid little shrew wouldn't even let him see the blasted horse, let alone consider selling the nag! Let her wallow in the uncomfortable bed of her own making, he thought wrathfully. He wasn't going to waste another moment thinking about her!

  Which was far easier decided upon than done, he was to find to his growing resentment. At night when he lay in his bed, the seductive memory of her warm mouth responding so passionately to his kiss, the way her slim form had melted into his hard body, came back to bedevil him, to make him wonder if there were indeed such things as witches and spells that could snare the unwary male. Why else was she always at the back of his mind? Why else did he wonder even now what she would think of Thousand Oaks and his plans for the future?

  It was unnerving, to say the least, made all the more so when he recalled his last sight of her. In the clear light of day her lack of obvious beauty had been glaringly apparent, and without effort he could see in his mind's eye the tight, unattractive bun anchored at the back of her head, the ugly spectacles and the drab, shapeless gown. For a man who prided himself on his superb judgment of beautiful women, a man whose mistresses were legendary for their charm and loveliness, his reaction to Miss Seymour that one evening was incomprehensible..

  ill Annoyed with himself, Dominic vowed to stop this ridiculous fascination with Miss Seymour and channel his thoughts in a more pleasant direction ... such as the success he would make of Thousand Oaks, or, if he wanted to think of women, why not the soft, yielding body of a certain young woman of easy virtue who resided in Natchez in a discreet little house owned by Dominic.... Smiling, he took a large swallow of wine. Yes, it was far more enjoyable to remember the buxom charms of the delectable Yolanda than it was to speculate about the infuriating Miss Seymour.

  At present, on this fine June evening, Dominic and Royce were sitting on the broad gallery which ran across the front of the stately two-storied house. They were savoring glasses of port, having just finished another of Mrs. Thomas' tasty meals, talking idly of this and that.

  Seeing Dominic's smile in the gloom of falling dusk, Royce asked lightly, "That's a very suggestive smile you have on your face, my friend. Any special reason for it?"

  Putting down his glass, Dominic grinned. "I was just thinking of a particular soiled dove in Natchez and wondering if I wanted to visit her bad enough to leave here."

  Royce chuckled, a knowing gleam in his eyes. "Yes, I had noticed that you have been exceedingly chaste of late and I've been curious to know if you'd taken a vow of abstinence! If I remember correctly from our London days, you were ever a man for the ladies."

  "And I seem to recall that you were not backward yourself-remember that night in Covent Garden and the redhaired doxy you won in a card game?"

  Royce laughed aloud, and for a while the conversation drifted back to their days in London, full of "Do you remember ...?" as they reminisced. But eventually the subject of Dominic's clash with Latimer came up, and some of the enjoyment of the evening vanished.

  Dominic stiffened as Royce said Latimer's name; then he murmured, "I'm rather glad you introduced the subject yourself-I have not taxed you with it, but it did seem a bit underhanded that you made no mention of Latimer's presence until we were to leave the Baton Rouge area."

  Grimacing, Royce admitted, "I know that hot temper of yours and I didn't want you to challenge him to another duel-which you probably would have done if you had known where he was."

  "And now that I do know where he is?" Dominic asked in a suspiciously meek tone. "Aren't you afraid that I shall still challenge him?"

  "No. Hot-tempered upon occasion you may be, but you're not a fool, and I have great hopes that now that you have gotten used to the idea that he is here in America, your own common sense will prevent you from doing something so singularly stupid," Royce replied tartly. Leaning forward in his seat, he continued. "I know that few things would please you more than putting a hole through Latimer's black heart and I don't deny he deserves it, but that act would accomplish nothing-it wouldn't change what happened between you and Deborah."

  His features suddenly pale, Dominic said tautly, "I don't want to talk about Deborah. Whatever I may have felt for her was long ago, and if she was
willing to allow that bastard of a brother of hers to force her into a marriage with a man old enough to be her grandfather, then she wasn't the woman I thought she was anyway."

  "She never was," Royce remarked dryly. "You took one look at that lovely face of hers and came as close to falling in love and committing yourself to the prison of marriage as you ever have-and don't try to deny it. I was there and I saw you making a cake of yourself over her." Royce grinned. "A most stylish cake, but one nonetheless. "

  Dominic moved restively in his chair, unpleasantly aware that there was more than a little truth in Royce's comments. He had been very near to falling deeply in love with Deborah Latimer that summer in London, and there had been a time, granted it had been an exceedingly short time, that he had actually contemplated the married state ... until Julius Latimer had shattered his half-formed dreams. If the brief affair with Deborah Latimer had been his nearest foray into love, it had been her brother who had made him conscious of a darker side of his own nature.

  Julius Latimer's reputation had been notorious in Lon don. Even though he was tolerated by polite society, there were many doors of the ton that had been closed to him and, because of him, closed also to his sister. The Latimers were poor, distant relatives of a well-liked aristocratic family, and despite the fact that most members of society found Miss Latimer perfectly acceptable, they thought it a shame that such a shy, lovely young lady should have such a cold-blooded man like Julius for her brother.