Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Read online

  THE STORM AND THE SPLENDOR

  BEGINNING

  MID-P0INT

  LOVE’S WILD DESIRE

  PART 1

  PART 2

  ABOUT JENNIFER BLAKE

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  Individual Book Cover Designs by LFD Designs For Authors.

  Boxed Set Cover Design by SM Reine.

  The Storm and the Splendor

  Copyright © 1979, 1994 and 2012 by Patricia Maxwell

  First Fawcett Gold Medal Edition: December 1979

  First E-Reads Publication: 1999

  First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2012

  Love’s Wild Desire

  Copyright © 1977 and 2012 by Patricia Maxwell

  First Popular Library Edition: June 1977

  First Warner Books Printing: December 1983

  First Ballantine Books Edition: November 1996

  First E-Reads Publication: 2000

  First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2012

  ~ ~ ~

  For my mother,

  who taught me to love reading,

  and for my father,

  who never had a chance to be a journalist.

  ~ ~ ~

  1

  Julia Marie Dupré paused in the doorway and looked back. The light of a girandole attached to the wall beside the doorframe caught her in its flickering rays, giving her the look of a gilded Madonna. Her high-piled hair, shining through a mantilla of blond lace, had the burnished gleam of old gold coins. Beneath winged brows, her eyes were a shadowed and mysterious amber, like the sun penetrating into the depths of a woodland spring. She was taller than most French Creole women, with a regal bearing that went well with the classic mold of her features. Still, there was nothing cool or severe about her. Her eyes could flash with sudden life, with anger or mirth, and the curves of her mouth were both sensitive and sensuous. There were those in New Orleans who claimed that a misalliance such as the marriage between her French Creole father and American mother could produce only mongrel progeny lacking the attraction of either nationality. That they never made such claims in the presence of Julia Dupré was not because of her admittedly hot temper, but because she could shatter their argument with a single bewitching smile.

  She gave a slight nod to herself. All was well. On the dais at the end of the long room, made by throwing the grand salon and the petit salon together, the musicians played with a will. Her guests swung to the strains of a lively contredanse, the ladies in light gowns of pastel muslin, the gentlemen in dark cutaway coats and knee breeches. Music, the scuffle of dancing feet, the murmur of conversation filled the air. At a sideboard at the end of the room, a footman in black-and-gold livery served liquid refreshment from silver bowls. For those who found the damp air of the rainy spring night a trifle cool, there was a small fire in the Carrara marble fireplace. The chairs lining the walls were occupied only by the older women who were acting as chaperons. Julia had seen to it that no young girl was left to sit making tapestry while her more fortunate sisters cavorted on the floor. Julia herself would not be missed if she slipped away for a time.

  Like most houses in what was becoming known as the Vieux Carré of New Orleans, the Dupré mansion was built around a courtyard. Because of dampness and the danger of flooding, the lower floor was not used for living space, but was rented out as shops and offices on the side fronting the street and used as stabling, kitchens, and laundry in the interior of the court. The family living quarters were on the second floor, where wide galleries protected the high-ceilinged rooms from the sun and the courtyard could act like a funnel to draw every passing breath of air through the French windows. On the third floor under the eaves were the servants’ quarters.

  Most of the family rooms opened into each other, but some, for the sake of privacy, did not. To reach the chamber known as the library, it was necessary to venture out onto the dark, rain swept gallery and follow its turnings until the last room on the end of the right wing was reached.

  Picking up her skirts of white tissue silk shot with gold thread, Julia hurried along. The rain drummed on the tiled roof, running from the eaves to splash into the paved courtyard below. The night air was cooler than she had expected, and she shivered a little as she ducked her head to avoid the blown spray. She should have had one or two flambeaux lit in the court, she thought, though it would not have done to draw too much attention to the need to see in these back regions of the house.

  She was rounding the corner where, a flight of stairs rose from below when two dark shadows loomed in her path. With a small cry, she tried to sidestep and found the stairwell nearer than she had realized. Her stomach gave a sickening lurch as empty space fell away beneath her feet, and then she was caught in a braising grip. An arm like a band of steel compressed the air from her lungs while hard fingers sank into the flesh of her upper arm. As the yielding softness of her body came up hard against a masculine chest, the man who held her gave a startled exclamation.

  Beside him, the other man chuckled. “Your pardon, captain, but I believe you have there my daughter Julia. She is no threat, at least not in the way you must have imagined. Permit me to present you. Julia, ma chère, this is our guest, Captain Rudyard Thorpe. You will have observed his ship, the Sea Jade, anchored in the river.”

  The instant her feet touched the floor Julia pushed free. Her skin burned where he had held her. Curiously shaken, she retreated behind what was left of her ruffled dignity. “Captain,” she said, acknowledging the introduction in a tone as cool as she could manage. “I believe I must thank you for your quickness and presence of mind.”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “It was no more than a reflex action.”

  “Nonetheless, I am grateful.”

  “The pleasure was mine.”

  A more perfunctory gallantry Julia had never heard. The man spoke in the cultivated tones of a gentleman. His French was fairly fluent, though his accent was less than perfect, marking him unmistakably as being of English upbringing. One thing more Julia detected in his deep voice: a rough note of impatience. She realized that he was waiting for her to excuse herself and allow him and her father to go about their business. It gave her great pleasure when her father took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, drawing her along with them.

  “Captain Thorpe has just arrived, and we are going to meet with the others,” M’sieu Charles Dupré said. “Won’t you join us?”

  “I would be delighted,” Julia said dryly, for she had never for a moment intended otherwise, and well her father knew it.

  A pair of bookcases standing on either side of the fireplace gave the back room the right to be called a library. They did in fact hold a number of books, ancient leather bound volumes moldering in the damp climate, a Bible, and a collection of the children’s books Julia had used in the nursery. They also held a miscellany of yellowing news sheets and farming periodicals prevented from cascading to the floor only by the glass doors, plus dust-coated brass figures of soldiers and statesmen, an astrolab
e, a molting stuffed owl, and a Meissen china bowl filled with string, fishing flies, broken hairpins, rusty needles, and corroding coins. The books that Julia wanted for her consultation and enjoyment she kept in her bedchamber, since her father was jealous of the privacy of his library and seldom allowed anyone to intrude, even to clean.

  With a rueful twist of her lips, Julia noted the layer of dust that coated the center table, which served her father for a desk. The brandy decanter holding pride of place on the gritty surface had left a definite imprint, and by counting the rings, it was possible to see how many times it had been lifted to refill the glasses of the four men who sat around it.

  At her entrance, the gentlemen got to their feet. One, her father’s old friend, General Montignac, came forward and took her hand, raising it to his lips. “Mademoiselle Julia, such a pleasure, though not an unexpected one.”

  General Montignac, late of Napoleon’s grande armée, was a gray-haired, craggy-featured veteran. He had sacrificed a foot and an eye for his emperor and hobbled about on a specially fitted boot with the aid of a cane, while peering around the protection, or so it seemed, of a rakish black eyepatch. He was the accredited leader of the Bonapartist following in New Orleans, a post he enjoyed immensely. His pleasure in it did not prevent him from being deadly serious about the goals they espoused, however.

  “You are too kind,” Julia murmured as she met his one flashing black eye without evasion.

  “Not as kind as I would be were I twenty years younger,” he replied with a gusty sigh and a shake of his head. “I see you have made the acquaintance of Captain Thorpe.”

  Julia had not until this moment glanced at the man who stood beside her. He was tall, as she knew he must be. For some reason, she had expected him to be in uniform; instead, he wore excellently tailored evening clothes, which clung to his wide shoulders and molded the muscular length of his thighs. A cloak damp with rain hung from his arm, and in his hand, he carried a curly-brimmed beaver. Despite the trappings of a gentleman, his skin was burned as mahogany brown as that of any sailor, contrasting strangely with the vivid, deep sea-blue of his eyes. His hair was cut short and brushed back without the artifice of careful disarrangement practiced by the dandies. Though it appeared fine in texture, it had the crisp vitality and midnight color of a swamp panther’s pelt.

  In that quick, comprehensive appraisal, she discovered one thing more. She was also being inspected, though Captain Thorpe’s attention seemed to be centered upon the décolletage of her gown, where the creamy curves of her breasts were covered by a tissue-thin layer of silk.

  “Yes,” she said more sharply than she had intended. “We have met.”

  “Then, if your father permits, I will make known to you the two gentlemen gathered with us who may be strangers — M’sieu Marcel de Gruys, a fervent admirer of the emperor recently arrived in our city, and M’sieu Eugene Francois Robeaud, lately in the service of the emperor. M’sieu Fontane I believe you know.”

  “Please be seated, messieurs,” Julia said, taking the chair her father held before she acknowledged the two men. With a smile and a nod, she greeted the fourth, an old acquaintance of her father’s with ties in the commerce of the city. M’sieu Fontane, the general, and her father constituted the leadership of the Bonapartist following in New Orleans.

  Marcel de Gruys she had seen about the city often in the last few weeks. He appeared to have an entree into the normally closed French Creole society and was popular with the hostesses of the ton. It was said that he had inherited his money, a family fortune, though no one seemed to know anything about his family — a black mark in New Orleans, where identifying relations was a favorite pastime. Exquisitely turned out, he had the heavy-lidded eyes and slightly protuberant lips of the confirmed roué. He raked her with an exploring glance as he inclined his head, a glance prevented from being offensive only by its habitual nature. M’sieu Robeaud was entirely different. A self-effacing man, he was short and tended to corpulence. His gray eyes held a worried look, and he did not quite meet Julia’s amber gaze. Still, her attention was caught and held. There was an attraction in the man’s symmetrical features, a suggestion of steadfast character. And, there was something more which teased at her mind, something she could not quite capture.

  “Brandy, Captain Thorpe?” M’sieu Dupré, the elegant host with silver gleaming in his white hair, waved the captain to a chair. He splashed the fiery liquid into a balloon glass and pushed it toward the other man, then replenished his own glass before he joined them around the table.

  General Montignac tapped on the floor with his cane for attention. “Messieurs, mademoiselle. I believe we are all aware of why we are here. There is none among us who has not waited, dreamed, and hoped for this day. Three long years, since the moment of inattention at Waterloo, we have stood in readiness to aid the emperor. Now, at last, the summons has come. Napoleon has laid his plans. He has need of us to bring them to fruition. Soon, the eagle will fly his cage. In days to come, we will be privileged to say to our grandchildren that we, here in New Orleans, helped forge the key which set him free! Let us drink to the flight of the eagle!”

  Ladies did not drink anything stronger than a glass or two of wine with their meals, but Julia repeated the toast with the others. There was a tightness in her throat, the result partly of the emotional tone of the general, partly of her own deep sympathy for the man who was being held on the barren island of St. Helena. Head held high, she smiled, proud as any to be a part of the moment. Let him who thought he could keep her from this quest dare to try!

  When the echoes of the salute had died away, General Montignac went on. “As some of you know, I have been in direct contact with the emperor. A letter, smuggled out in the baggage of a young officer aboard a ship, which touched at Jamestown harbor on St. Helena, came to my hand not a week ago.”

  “How does he go on?” asked the elderly banker, M’sieu Fontane.

  “His morale is good, honed by his constant battle of wits with this English dog set to watch him, Sir Hudson Lowe — your pardon, Captain Thorpe, but one may condemn as a dog a single man without maligning a whole race, n’est çe pas? But, to proceed, the commissioners, these canaille of England, Bourbon France, Austria, and Russia, indulge in petty tyrannies. They refuse to give the emperor his correct title, calling him merely General Napoleon, a name he left behind after the African campaign twenty years ago! They censor his mail — that which is sent directly as a camouflage for that which is not! They search for messages in the packages of food and wine sent to him by friends and relatives, and they send away anyone on the island who they think may be too sympathetic. But our emperor is not beaten. He retaliates by making certain the viands shipped to him are more sumptuous than any the petty English officials ever dreamed of consuming. By refusing to admit into his presence anyone who fails to address a request for an audience in the proper terms, he denies himself to the commissioners, but holds court for every other visitor to the island.”

  “They do not force themselves into his chambers?” M’sieu Fontane asked, frowning.

  “They dare not. Napoleon has armed both himself and his retinue. They are sworn to defend the environs of the court at Longwood with their lives. If Sir Hudson Lowe caused death or bodily harm to come to the emperor, he would face the outrage of Europe, as well as the strictures of his own government. Public opinion is beginning to swing in the emperor’s favor. The thought of a man’s being tied to a rocky island for life, like Prometheus with the carrion birds pecking at his flesh, does not sit well on the consciences of the world. But enough. We have important matters to decide.”

  Captain Thorpe let his gaze wander from the speaker and sent Julia an oblique frown as he cupped his brandy glass in his fist. When his attention fastened on the gold bee, Napoleon’s symbol of royalty, that was pinned to a black velvet ribbon at her throat, the blue of his eyes darkened. And then, catching Julia’s inquiring gaze, he looked deliberately away.

  Julia’s f
ingers tightened on the arm of her chair. It was a novel sensation to find herself unwanted. Most gentlemen of her acquaintance were overjoyed to be in her presence. She recognized that she was privileged above most women in being accepted in the councils of her overindulgent father and his friends. Still, she knew that she was also accepted for her own sake and the contribution she was capable of making. It was irritating in the extreme to be judged on appearances alone and found lacking. That Captain Thorpe did not trouble to conceal his opinion she considered nothing short of an insult.

  Turning from the captain, she encountered the gaze of Marcel de Gruys. Smiling, his eyes closed to slits, he raised his glass in homage to her beauty. The gesture was not unusual, but she was surprised to find herself unmoved by the flattery. What ailed her that she could not be pleased by either appreciation or the lack of it?

  The one-eyed general drew his chair nearer to the table and lowered his voice. “The emperor, messieurs, mademoiselle, plans to leave St. Helena by August, at the latest, of this year. By October, he will have reached Malta, the first way station in his return as master of Europe.”

  “By August!” Fontane exclaimed, blinking rapidly. “That is less than five months away. How are we to mount a rescue, procure a ship, recruit men, and arrange for weapons and all such necessities in so short a time when the prison is half a world away? Have reason, mon ami!”

  “Everything has been planned. All these details and many others you have not dreamed of have been taken care of by our emperor, the master of logistics such as you enumerate. First, the ship — indeed a necessity, as you say. This is why Captain Thorpe, so fortuitously arrived in the city, has been invited to join us. Men? Weapons? If you envision an army, such will not be needed. The emperor does not intend to risk the lives of his faithful followers in a contest of arms at this date. How then, you will ask, does he expect to make his escape? Does he intend to hide himself in an empty wine barrel or dress himself like a common stevedore or sailor? No, a thousand times! Such conduct is beneath the dignity of a man who has felt the mantle of empire about his shoulders, a man who has bought and sold kingdoms, given crowns and coronets away as gifts!”