Painter of Dreams

New Orleans, August 1838

* * *

Desiree Thornton dipped her sable brush into the paint and carefully stroked her initials into the lower left corner—D.T.

Stepping back to let her gaze sweep the painting, she drew a breath. A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. Finishing a piece usually brought her satisfaction, but looking at this one, a reluctance to let it go gripped her. She’d poured too much of her own desperation into the strokes. At nineteen years old, she was scraping by on tavern wages and dreaming of an escape that remained out of reach.

She wiped the brush with a rag soaked in turpentine, the pine solvent biting at the back of her throat.

Attachment was a luxury she could ill afford. The small tin beneath the floorboard only held about eight dollars—not even a fraction of what she needed for her tuition and lodging at the Art Academy in New York. The scullery work downstairs barely covered the rent on this stifling attic apartment, and the Royal Street art dealer bought her canvases for pennies.

For this one, however, she would demand more. She would tell Eric, the tavern keeper who displayed her work downstairs, that she’d take nothing less than five dollars. An absurd sum for an unknown girl from the waterfront, but she’d not surrender her soul for less.

The door flew open with a rattling crack.

Desiree turned as her twin sister swept into the room, bringing with her the heavy summer heat and the faint scent of gardenias.

The attic was split by an unspoken boundary. Desiree’s half was scrubbed white, her narrow cot neatly made, paint brushes poked out of stone jars, sketches hung neatly in portfolios on the wall.

Deirdre’s half was chaos. Gowns in crimson and amber silk cascaded from open trunks; porcelain doll heads with unblinking eyes eerily stared out from wicker crates; masquerade masks, brass birdcages, and stacks of books spilled across chairs and the pine floor alike.

Though the mess held a sinister beauty that she’d be hard-pressed to emulate on canvas, Desiree feared that if she ever dug deep enough, she’d find bones.

Without a word, Deirdre cut a path to the wardrobe, shoving aside satin and brocade until she hauled out a low-cut evening gown of vivid crimson silk. Holding it against her slender form, she stood before the cheval glass mirror, tilting her head at various angles as if deciding whether she would wear it.

Desiree watched her, the dread in her soul that had been simmering for weeks tightening into anger.

About a month ago, Deirdre had quit serving tables downstairs for what she’d called “a more promising career.” Almost every night since, she dressed in scandalous finery and vanished into the riverfront beside Pierre Beaumont. Where they went and what they did remained a mystery, but Desiree doubted that Pierre dealt in anything honest.

Deirdre dropped the red gown onto an armchair. She sat at her vanity, her long fingers rummaging through tin rouge and fluted glass vials.

Crossing the floor, her skirts brushing past a crate of rusted iron trinkets, Desiree said, “We need to talk, Deirdre.”

Deirdre flipped open a compact and patted ivory powder across her high cheekbones, her dark eyes meeting Desiree’s reflection in the glass. “I haven’t the time. Pierre is waiting for me downstairs.”

“You’re going out again tonight?”

“I am,” Deirdre said coolly. “And I would thank you to keep your nose out of my affairs.”

“How can I?” Desiree’s voice rose, though she fought to keep it steady. “You’re wandering through the Swamp at midnight with a man whose reputation is as black as the river. You think I can sleep while you risk your neck every night?”

As she swept a brush of vermilion powder across her cheeks, Deirdre said, “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“You’re playing with fire, and Pierre is the one holding the match. If you’re in trouble, tell me. How can I leave for New York in a month, knowing you might end up in a ditch?”

Deirdre slammed the compact onto the cluttered table with enough force to send a shower of loose powder drifting through the air. She stood, whirling around, her dark curls tumbling over her shoulders.

“I’m not your responsibility, Desiree! If you wish to run off to New York, go, but stop trying to manage my life.”

Desiree held her ground, fists clenching at her sides. They shared a similar face, the same straight nose and expressive dark eyes, but the chasm between them felt insurmountable.

“I worry because you’re the only family I have left,” Desiree said quietly. “Grandfather Carlisle wants nothing to do with us. There’s no one else. We only have each other.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Deirdre’s brow, but she turned back to the glass, her defenses snapping into place. “It’s no wonder that he disowned Mother. Stop worrying. You expect disaster at every turn. Some things are beyond our control.”

“Come now, you’ve been running toward disaster ever since Mother died.”

The air in the crammed room turned stifling.

Deirdre stiffened, her gaze locking onto Desiree’s through the mirror. “Leave Mother out of this.”

“You can’t lock her memory in a box and throw away the key,” Desiree pushed, the ache of their past rising to the surface. “You used to write poetry. You filled journals with stories. Now all you care about is whatever Pierre has tugged you into.”

“Mother was a slave to the opium pipe,” Deirdre said, her voice cold. “She traded whatever dignity we had left for a fix and let strange men stroll into our home. You’ve painted over the decay and turned her into an angel. I haven’t. She’s dead, and for the first time in our lives, no one owns us.”

Desiree felt the words like a slap. “She was ill, Deirdre. She loved us.”

“She loved the pipe more than us,” Deirdre said, stepping into the red gown and pulling the stays tight with practiced efficiency. “Now, if you’re finished preaching, I have an appointment to keep.”
Deirdre swept a dark wool cloak over her shoulders and reached for the door latch.

“Deirdre—”

The heavy oak door slammed shut, cutting off the plea.

Desiree closed her eyes, her heart a leaden weight. She couldn’t let it go. Not tonight. The cold certainty that Pierre was steering Deirdre into something catastrophic wouldn’t leave her.

Desiree grabbed a shawl, tucked a small kitchen knife into the deep pocket of her dress, and slipped quietly down the back stairs.

* * *

The entry door of the Bayou Bar closed with a slam, cutting through the raucous chatter of the bar. Every head turned to scrutinize the stranger in the entryway

Squinting against the darkness, he shoved a booted foot in front of him. As he did, the pine floor creaked in his wake, serving to hold the many inquisitive faces in rapt attention.

Aware of the eyes on him, Brandon Hawthorn, Earl of Drayton, regarded the ill-looking bunch with a stern countenance. From his tailored suit to his polished black boots, he was out of place here. At once he wondered why Billy would have wanted to meet him in this lowly, riverside tavern, which stunk of rum and cigars. He must avoid attracting attention to the heavy pouch of sterling in his frock coat.

He wasn’t looking for trouble after the day he’d endured.

As he pinched his way through the table-jammed establishment, the men turned their attention back to wenching, gambling, and boozing. The female patrons continued to cast him sultry smiles beneath batting lashes, and he berated himself all the more for coming here. He was not in the market for “companionship” either.

Keeping his eyes averted, he hoped his admirers got the message. When his gaze alighted on Billy, who was slouched over a snifter at the rear of the bar, Brandon sighed with relief. In sure strides, he squeezed his way through a haze of smoke to the dimly lit table.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” Brandon said.

Billy smiled beneath a wild tuft of faded-red hair that peeked out from his Captain’s hat. He had a warm smile and lively sea-green eyes, which made his height seem less intimidating.

“Not to worry. I had company,” Billy said, pointing to a half-empty bottle of rum.

“I noticed,” Brandon said with a grin.

Brandon doffed his beige frock coat and swung it over the back of a chair. His lace-cuffed shirt was open partway down the front to reveal a sun-bronzed chest. From the thatch of wavy, chestnut hair rakishly outlining a handsome face, to the tight breeches hugging a powerful build, he was an arresting man.

“Can I get somethin’ for you, monsieur?” a fresh-faced barmaid winked, her blue eyes raking him as he settled into the seat opposite Billy. The invitation for a dalliance danced in her smile.

“Ale, and keep them coming,” Brandon said.

When the barmaid returned with a frosty mug, he drained it in one sure swipe, hoping the alcohol would numb his ire.

“I take it we’ve no cause for celebration?” Billy said.

“No. Carlisle is impossible to deal with. He’s stubborn, distracted, and treats steam propulsion as if it were a parlor trick invented by madmen. But the biggest obstruction is his manager, Rochambeau.”

“Rochambeau is known as ‘The Little Dictator.’ He’s said to run Carlisle’s Constellation Line and yard with an iron fist, skimming ten percent off timber contracts to line his own purse. He’d never let an outsider look too closely at the books.”

Billy was a veritable warehouse of information, thought Brandon. Though he captained the Catherine and served as manager at North Star headquarters in Liverpool, he had the nose of a reporter, always sniffing out dirt. It was one of the many attributes that made him an asset to the company.

“Well, then. It’s no wonder why he advised Carlisle to reject our proposal,” Brandon said, grasping the mug of ale the barmaid set before him. “He claimed transatlantic steam liners are an expensive hazard that will never replace timber and canvas.”

“And Carlisle listened?”

“He did. I believe Carlisle was genuinely interested in steam, but he was preoccupied.”

“The Rumor on Royal Street is that he’s searching for family he lost years ago, a daughter I believe. Is there no way to salvage this merger?”

“Not that I can see. Before I could even address Rochambeau’s nonsense, Carlisle made an offer of his own.” Brandon’s mouth twisted in disgust. “He said he would consider financing a joint shipyard on the Mersey and a merger of our lines on the condition that I marry his grandniece, Lilly.”

Billy burst into a booming laugh that drew scowls from a nearby patrons. “A marriage clause. It seems every merchant from London to the Gulf wants to marry off a relative to the mighty Lord Drayton. How did you react to his ‘counter’ offer?”

“I told him my personal life was not for barter and walked out.”

Billy chuckled softly. “I’m surprised I didn’t hear the explosion from here. Your anger has been building since day one.”

“I confess—from the outset, I’ve been aching to punch Rochambeau’s teeth down his throat.”

A glare crept across Brandon’s face. The memory ignited a fire in his veins as if they’d been shot full of whiskey.

Or was it the woman?

A woman strolled past their table, her eyes sweeping the room as if searching for someone. She hadn’t noticed him, but Brandon was utterly transfixed. In the brief moment she drew near, his eyes, dull from fatigue, snapped alive.

She was like no woman he’d ever seen. Her hair was jet-black, cascading to her waist and catching the twilight light with a satiny glint. In contrast, her skin was pale and smooth, her full lips touched with a subtle, petal-pink blush. Though she wore simple white homespun, she stuck out of the throng like a splendid jewel.

His eyes followed her as she strolled toward the front of the clamorous bar, holding her head high, unknowingly enticing him with every delectable curve and gentle sway.

In his twenty-eight years, he’d never stared at a woman so, but then, no woman had ever had such a powerful effect on him…though he didn’t even know her name.

What in the hell was the matter with him? He told himself that he must have gone too long without a woman’s touch.

And just when he’d convinced himself that he wasn’t looking for “companionship.”

Billy’s voice roused him from his reverie but not from his sudden madness.

“A pity about the capital. North Star needs some heavy duty financial backing if we’re to lay the keels for iron hulls.”

“We’ll find other investors,” Brandon said with certainty. “I will not tie our company’s future to an arrogant man who’s set in his ways and a corrupt yard manager.”

“Speaking of investors,” Billy said, leaning forward on his forearms, “I had a drink yesterday with a potential investor from Newport News—Derrick Devlin.”

Brandon looked up, his interest piqued. “One of the ‘silver brother’ magnates?”

“So you’ve heard of them?”

“Who hasn’t? If I recall, the brothers procured an immense fortune from a silver strike in North Carolina.”

“The very one. They’re actively looking to invest in maritime technology. Jared is currently at sea on a China tea run, but Derrick gave me his direction and said they’d welcome a formal proposal from North Star.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard in days,” Brandon said, a rare smile breaking across his handsome face. “I’ll draft a letter before we clear port tomorrow.”

“Rest assured that the regret will ultimately belong to Carlisle. His pitiful four-ship operation could have become part of the largest steamship company in the world. He should have stuck to what he’s best at—shipbuilding. Whoever suggested that the company expand into transatlantic crossings did him no favor.”

“Likely Rochambeau. But small or not, in the long term, the Constellation Line poses a threat to North Star, especially since Fenton has the means to crank out ships by the dozen.”

“While he’s at it, he’d better pry his noggin out of his arse. If he doesn’t, the Constellation Line will soon be one less competitor to worry about, and his shipyard might flounder along with it.”

Shaking his wavy head, Brandon smiled, revealing a stretch of white teeth. “Indeed, one would be pressed to challenge such eloquently spoken wisdom.”

But Brandon’s expression quickly turned serious. The dazzling enchantress had drawn near again, ensnaring his every sensibility so forcefully that she might have lassoed him with her ebony tresses.

Dear God, he thought, I’m acting like a lovesick youth. Lowering his lids over the frothy mug of ale nestled in his grip, he leaned back in the chair and wrenched his focus to the conversation.

“I regret that the trip turned out so badly,” Billy said. “I know how hopeful you were about an alliance, but I believe fate is a wise old bird even when she squawks. These events will yet prove to be a blessing.”

Brandon’s hold tightened on his mug. “I agree, and all is not lost. I’ll find other investors even if I have to scour every harbor on both sides of the Atlantic.”

“And you’ll succeed. I can see it now. Within a few years, North Star will have traded its sailing ships for a fleet of svelte, steam-powered liners.”

“I pray you’re correct.” Brandon smiled.

He knew it was a possible dream, and he possessed a relentless drive to succeed. But he was no fool. Such a venture was costly, and many men with a head full of grand dreams like him had lost their prosperity to such a risky undertaking. If he only had himself to consider, he’d throw every asset he had toward the venture. But the company his father had built, his financial responsibility to his family and North Star’s many employees, necessitated caution.

Brandon slipped so deep beneath the weight of such thoughts that he barely noticed when the barmaid sat another mug of ale, brimming with froth, before him. His big hand curved around its pleasing coolness, a gold ring with a rearing lion, the Hawthorn family crest, gleaming like a newly minted coin in the dimming twilight.

“Well, maybe our luck is starting to turn. I got a good deal on Caribbean rum. If we can start loading the Catherine tomorrow morning, she can test ‘er pretty sails by the end of the week.”

“With such a cargo, the way should be merry indeed.”

“Aye, even if she flounders, we’ll greet Davy Jones with a smile.”

Both men grinned.

Brandon appeared focused on the topic, but his eyes roved the bar again…searching for the enchantress.

Then he noticed the paintings.

A talented hand had created several breathtaking paintings that were out of place on the grimy walls. They receded into the wavering shadows without notice. He favored the one nearest him for it sparked some excitement in him.

In hues of ebony, white and a silvery gray, the artist had rendered the image of a svelte woman who gazed past a window, an outpouring of shimmering moonlight illuminating her silhouette and igniting the blue sheen in the wind-blown hair sweeping past her shoulders. She stared out longingly across a black body of gently flowing water, which reflected a star-studded sky.

The painting evoked soul-searing awe, which rose to his eyes with a luster.

Somehow the woman seemed real, so real that he yearned to reach out and touch her—like the woman he’d seen in the bar.

Tearing his gaze from the painting, his eyes scoured the crowd. She drew near, pausing no more than an arm’s reach away. As his hungry gaze fell on her, a warm glow ignited the smoky depths. He hauled in a deep breath when she turned toward him.

And when her eyes met his, the sun rose in his soul.

Her eyes were nearly as dark as her hair, as dark as the deepest hues of the painting. The inner flame he glimpsed in the onyx depths enchanted him as thoroughly as her beauty.

But they held no interest in him. It seemed she looked through him, her mind on something else. She turned on her heel and moved to the other side of the tavern, out of his view, and the sun disappeared behind the clouds.

Damn it, man, you’re being foolish, he chided himself. Get the wench off your mind.

Yet even as an inner voice bid him to forget her, his resolve yielded to fascination, and he continued to watch as she approached a dark-haired man who strode into the establishment. The man plopped his burly frame on a stool at the bar, and she sauntered to his side.

Keen eyes homing in on the object of Brandon’s interest, Billy laughed softly. “

She’s beautiful, but she’s with someone else.”

Brandon nodded absently, watching as she whispered something in the man’s ear. Then the two shuffled up the dark stairway that hid in the shadows at the rear of the bar.

Brandon’s heart gave a jerk, his thoughts a cluster of knots.

A courtesan?

Pushing against the oak chair, he fought back a sigh and reminded himself that he had no right to judge her. She was a mere stranger. He knew nothing about her circumstances.

And maybe she had other business with the man. For the great sense of dignity and confidence she’d projected seemed to preclude an involvement in such a risqué profession.

But when the conversation from the motley bunch at a nearby table drifted his way, his doubt vanished.

At a neighboring table, two deckhands leaned in, their coarse voices carrying over the fiddle music that arose from somewhere in the bar.

“Look at that,” one muttered, shaking his head. “Every time I see Desiree, she takes my breath away.

“Isn’t her name, Deirdre?”

“Could be. Aye, but Pierre keeps her on a short leash,” the other replied with a leer. “Word is she only takes high-paying gents from the hotels. Fifty dollars a night, they say.”

“Fifty dollars? For a waterfront whore?”

“She’s worth every penny, mate. Best in the district.”

The men clinked their tankards and laughed.

Brandon’s expression tightened. An unexpected pang of disappointment struck him, followed immediately by a cynical irritation at himself.

Desiree. Apparently, she was for sale.

Brandon nearly spilled his ale. Though he’d sworn not to judge her, disappointment clung to his spirit. He’d thought, for no particular reason other than her touching beauty and regal bearing, that she was special.

Billy, eyes missing nothing, leaned forward with a wink. “A few coins may buy her love.”

“It’s hardly love I’m after,” Brandon quipped, and both men chuckled.

But when the laughter died, Brandon’s expression became serious. Intense.

He wanted her.

The potency of his desire startled him. Again, he told himself that he was being foolish. The woman was beautiful beyond measure, but she was a courtesan. This was far from the type of relationship he was looking for. The thought forestalled an urge to act upon his interest. He preferred women of quality and had never lacked for a willing companion.

But as he recalled Desiree’s startling beauty and lush lips that were ripe for kissing, he was struck with a longing that barred any argument against its fulfillment.

No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, the flame she’d stoked burned deep into his resolve.

He’d purchase an evening with her, all right, would pay any price she asked; for he felt a stirring unlike anything he’d ever known, and he could easily remedy the discomfort by tossing her some coins and taking her to his room.

That was what he intended to do.

* * *

Midnight approaching, the full moon held an eccentric glow, throwing off a wealth of light in opposition to the rising mist rolling up in cotton-like spools from the river. But Desiree drew no comfort from the silvery rays as she hung in the entryway of the tavern.

“The Swamp,” the part of town that was notorious for its barroom brawls and cheap bordellos, was still and silent. Only the dim door lanterns, flickering and swaying against a damp atmosphere, suggested that there had been life here earlier.

A shiver jettisoning along her spine, almost made her abandon her mission and retreat to her room. Earlier, Pierre had refused to enlighten her about Deirdre’s nighttime activities, so Desiree endeavored to solve the mystery herself and rescue her sister.

But where were they?

Her gaze roved the misty street. The darkness took on a corporeal presence as it stretched along the thoroughfare. When she caught the fleeting image of the couple jaunting arm-in-arm in the distance, she took a relieved breath. Leaping into action, she dashed ahead, her dress swaying against the charge.

When a church bell tolled in the distance, she slowed to an amble and nearly retreated. The bells never rang at this hour. Something tragic must have happened in the city.

Thinking about Deirdre’s predicament, her determination rose above her fear. She vowed to emerge from the miserable night with her sister in tow. Bracing herself, she continued her flight.

A couple of blocks from the bar, stark buildings strained against the embankment. Hearing someone call her name, she paused in the misty shadows. It was likely Eric, she surmised, the owner of the bar, who looked after her with fatherly interest. He must have seen her venture out alone and sought to stop her.

But if she was to keep up with Deirdre and Pierre, she must make haste.

Heart pounding, she trained her eyes on the way ahead and kept an even pace behind the two. All the while, she skirted the buildings, ready to slip into the shadows if necessary.

But they never turned back or paused. They were as intent on reaching their destination as she was in following them, and so the procession moved steadily along.

Then her legs nearly locked up as if cold had settled deep into her bones.

Someone was following her.

She clamped down tight on the scream rising to her lips, ascribing her fear to a creative imagination and the darkness around her. Reminding herself that she wasn’t defenseless, she dipped into her dress pocket, a finger skimming the wooden handle of the knife she’d procured from the scullery.

The conclusion bore little relief. Anxiety sawed along her spine as she hustled to catch-up with the pair.

They turned toward the river. By the time she reached the intersection, they were gone.

What was she supposed to do now?

On a whim, she turned right, sprinting past wharves and warehouses in the misty shadows. Blackness yawned before her as welcoming as an abyss. The hounding fog was thickening, dancing in swirls, suffusing the air with the scent of ozone. The river, the embankment, and the way ahead converged into an opaque cloud.

A shiver bristled through her. As she trudged on, the heels of her boots sinking into soft earth, she forgot about her sister, when, for the third time, she sensed someone prowling behind her.

She halted briefly, drawing a breath, listening.

Footsteps sounded nearby.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up. As she struggled to calm her thundering pulse, she knew the threat was more than a mere product of fear. Someone had followed her and lingered nearby—a man judging from the heavy tread of his steps.

Every sense alerted to danger, she resumed her trek. Hiking up her skirt, her long strides swept her deeper into a sea of fog. It took all of her willpower not to bolt, but she took a deep breath and reined in her fear. The last thing she wanted to do was alert the man to her location.

When the sound of his steps finally died around her, she let her breath out slowly, confident that she’d lost him in the thickening fog.

But all too soon his footsteps beat against the embankment and echoed in the pearly air. Her mind careening on the very brink of hysteria, she pushed herself beyond her limits, her feet flying over damp earth and rock.

But he was just behind her, his stride thunderous.

She turned at one of the warehouses, determination binding one step to the next, eyes primed ahead. Sheathed in a gauzy mist, the world around her became a mere blur. And the man drew ever closer, his dogged strides cutting the distance between them. He could probably reach out and touch her.

As the realization took hold, she sprinted blindly, senseless of direction, into the asphyxiating fog. For all she knew, she could be scuttling toward the river. At any moment, the churning, black depths could swallow her in its unforgiving jaws.

Then she ran into something hot…hard…and solid.

Raising her head, she gasped, for she found herself staring into the fiercest eyes she’d ever seen. A silvery gray, they danced with fire and tension and penetrated the mist as fiercely as the moonlight.

And she gasped once again.