"You're s'possed to."
"No."
"I'll tell!"
The dark-haired boy muttered under his breath while he stared at his younger sister. Josephine had her hands planted on her hips, mouth in a taut line, and an unwavering glint in her chocolate-brown eyes. "Quatre," he groaned, raking his hand through his thick hair.
"I'm gonna tell," Josie declared, marching out of the den.
Luc slumped in the armchair, grumbling to himself. He knew she'd head straight for Alexandre. He'd side with Josephine. He always did. The boy opened his mouth slightly, pursing his lips together, drawing in a breath of air and exhaling to make a short quack sound.
Josephine spun on her heel, marvelously grinning at her brother. The toddler clapped her hands together and ran deeper into the room, plopping on the ottoman. "Again, Luc!"
"Josie," he whined.
"Again!"
"Tu m'énerves."
Her brows crinkled. She didn't understand the French he'd used. She gasped as her older sister brushed past her and smacked Luc's shoulder, ordering him to apologize for calling the toddler annoying.
The seven-year-old sank lower into the cushion, hating his luck of Vivienne overhearing. He momentarily would've preferred Alexandre. Luc and his sister could hardly be more different. He could never convince the serious, mature Vivienne to put a book down every now and then to get out of the house for fun. Most of the time, he could twist Alexandre's arm to join him on an adventure. He stubbornly shook his head. "She is, Vivi!"
"She is not."
"She is."
"You apologize to Quatre before I make you," she folded her arms over her chest, daring him to challenge her.
His resolve vanished as his sibling's sapphire eyes narrowed on him. "Je suis désolé, Quatre."
Vivienne dipped her head in approval and sat next to her sister on the ottoman.
"Sorry for bein' annoying, Luc," Josie said quietly, feeling her sister's arm slip around her in a gentle, comforting hug.
As Josie leaned her head onto her shoulder, Vivienne pressed her lips to her sister's wild ringlets, whispering, "You may be annoying to Luc, but you aren't annoying to me ever. Maman's making cookies. You want to help?" she asked, grinning at the enthusiastic nod. Vivienne was grateful her sister's mood had brightened so suddenly. She waited until Josie was out of the room before she turned to her brother. "Now you're mad at me."
"I've quacked and quacked. She won't leave me alone."
"It wouldn't be so bad if you hadn't teased her earlier."
Luc still believed the way Josephine's curls had been piled on her head looked like carrot greens. During breakfast, he'd called her carrot top in his blunt manner. "Vivi, I wasn't teasing her. I told the truth."
"She's little, Luc. You have to be gentle with her."
"You and Alexandre always take her side," he complained, dragging his hand over his face. "It's not fair."
"If you were in the right, I'd take your side. You're not in the right, Luc," she sighed, glancing at him while scooting to the edge of the ottoman. Her knees bumped against his. "Be more like Papa," Vivienne whispered. She bit her tongue, stopping herself from telling him that he could learn how to be like him from Josephine. Her younger sister was just as affectionate, devoted, and empathetic as the Frenchman had been.
"What? Make sense, Vivi." He stared at the ground as his face fell. "I barely remember anything about Papa."
"Be considerate and kind, Luc. I always wanted to have tea parties, but Alexandre thought it was too girly. He'd hurt my feelings like you hurt Josie's feelings. Papa never thought tea parties were just for girls, and he always made time to have a tea party with me. Didn't matter if he was busy or didn't really want to. Just quack when Josie asks," she lifted her hand as he opened his mouth to protest, "I know it can be irritating, but Luc…you'll miss it when she stops asking you."
He seriously doubted he'd ever miss Josephine and her quack requests, but he took a breath, pondering his older sister's advice.
"Josie looks up to you, me, and Alexandre."
"Well, yeah. We're taller," he wisecracked, mumbling an apology as Vivienne rolled her eyes at him.
"Who's being annoying now?"
Appropriately chastised, he sat up straighter in the armchair. "I'll try to be like Papa. Je te le promets, Vivi."
"Bien," she smiled, sliding off the footrest.
Luc swung his legs over the armrest, watching her settle onto the settee to crack open a thick book. He drummed his fingers on his thigh. "Vivi…"
"I'm not going to climb the magnolia tree with you. I can't get dirty. I'm going with Maman to The Seraphine in a while."
A smirk lined his lips. He knew the redhead wouldn't climb the magnolia even if she wasn't tagging along to the hotel. "I thought we could go to the kitchen and help with the cookies."
"I'll race you," Vivienne announced, carefully tossing her book aside and darting out of the den.
He took off after her, running with all he had. Luc edged past her and slid into the kitchen on his socked feet, yelping as his mother popped his rear end with a dish towel.
"How many times do I have to tell you and Alexandre not to race in the house, Luc?" Kitty scolded, cocking her head while recognizing her daughter's gait. "Vivienne Serena, you know better."
"Yes, Ma'am," Vivienne answered. "Luc and I wanna help. Is that alright?"
"Of course."
"What are we making?" Luc asked, pulling a stool out from the table. He pushed his sleeves to his elbows as Vivienne tied her apron.
Vivienne glanced at the recipe as she sat beside her brother. She knew her mother didn't need the recipe. The girl believed the older redhead could make the cookies while blindfolded. "Cinnamon jumbles," she told Luc with an ear-to-ear grin on her freckled face.
"Daddy'll eat a hundred," Luc predicted. The simple cookies were a family favorite.
Kitty ruffled her son's hair. "You're probably right. How many dozen is in one hundred?" Kitty questioned to test her son's math skills.
"Eight with four left over," he answered, beaming at his mother's pleased expression.
She patted his shoulder. "Now, crack the eggs and beat them for the next batch, please. Vivi, you can mix," Kitty instructed as she stepped closer to her youngest helper sitting on the work table. She watched Josie spoon the mixture out of the bowl. "Baby, just plop it on there like I showed you. Good job," she praised as the toddler flung the spoonful onto the greased baking sheet.
"Maman, will there be enough for Caoimhe and Maribelle?" Vivienne asked. Her two best friends were coming over to spend the night.
"Yes, Vivi."
"Are you sure? Luc, slow down," she muttered, digging a shell out of the eggs. "You're gettin' shells in it."
"Honey, I'll hide two dozen from your daddy and Alexandre if I have to."
Vivienne giggled and blended in the well beaten eggs. "Daddy's home!" she announced at the sound of the front door closing followed by Lark's overjoyed screech. She sifted the flour as he came into the large kitchen.
With Lark on his hip, Matt viewed the production line. He'd paid a visit to the neighborhood of Faubourg Marigny to check on Alphonse and Colette Baudelaire. The young man's hands were recovering well from the burns. After a lengthy chat with Alphonse, Matt believed the misfortune wasn't another stroke of bad luck. He glanced at his wife, deciding he'd divulge the particulars when sets of young ears weren't present. He breathed in the sweet, warm scents wafting to his nostrils. "By golly, it smells like cinnamon," Matt proclaimed, putting the eighteen-month-old down. Her little feet pounded the floorboards as he crossed the room to steal a kiss from his wife.
She smiled brightly while he palmed the small of her back and brushed his lips against the fringe on her forehead.
"You've got quite the workers, Mrs. Dillon."
"I do. Don't I?" Kitty simpered and popped a fresh out of the oven cinnamon jumble into his mouth. "There hasn't been a single fight or ill-tempered word so far," she whispered. "Can you believe it?"
He washed down the delicious baked good with her lukewarm café au lait. "Is the world ending?" he teased, jerking his head as the youthful trio shouted the smallest Dillon's name. He stared, wide-eyed, at the moppet with the bowl over her auburn head. The mixture of ingredients ran down her fair-skinned, precious face and onto the floor. Matt chuckled, burying his face into his wife's shoulder, laughing heartily with her.
The Frenchman stepped into the hotel. For days, he'd learned all that he could about The Seraphine. The three-story building on Esplanade Avenue had been purchased solely by Kathleen Russell and had been able to house a modest number of guests when it first opened. Over the years, the building had seen remodels and expansions, adding more accommodations, a bar, and a restaurant. The establishment was second to the St. Charles Hotel, and he could see why as he scrutinized every detail. The décor was warm and inviting in the fashion only a lady could accomplish. He gazed at the fresh bouquets of light pink and mauve roses, white anemones, lavender caspia, and solomio, conjuring fairytale romances for the fast-approaching Valentine's Day.
Casimir heard the piano from the crowded bar as he looked to thread his way through the horde in the lobby. He'd always despised the vacationers drawn to his hometown during Mardi Gras. He sighed, waiting for an elderly woman to dig her spectacles from the depths of her reticule. He caught sight of the girl, sitting at the front desk and having an animated conversation with a guest as he approached. "Bonjour, Vivienne," he greeted, flashing a friendly grin. "Comment allez-vous?"
"Bonjour, Monsieur Archambeau," she addressed. "Très bien, et vous, vous allez bien?"
"Oui, ça va."
"Veux-tu une chambre?"
He shook his head. "Non. Is your mère here?"
"Oui. I believe she's in her office. Caro," she called out, waiting for the petite Creole to emerge from the small room to the side of the front desk.
"You need my help, Miss Vivi?" Caro asked. She never strayed too far when Vivienne manned the front.
"Please. Will you handle the desk? I need to escort Monsieur Archambeau to Maman's office."
Caro's eyes fixated on the good-looking stranger, taking in his polished appearance. His raven hair was short and neatly trimmed, parted in the middle. She was certain his vicuna top coat was silk lined. "Monsieur, what do you need with Madame Broussard-Dillon?" she inquired, returning his polite smile while stepping into her role as gatekeeper. She recognized that charismatic smile had undoubtedly got him into and out of a lot of trouble. "I'm certain I could assist you."
"Carolina's the manager," Vivienne piped up.
"You cannot assist me." His voice was deep, serious.
Caro felt a chill as he met her eyes with an aloof stare. To her, he seemed distracted in an odd way as if he was concentrating on the next moment, calculating his words and gestures. She understood what had the big man worried about the Frenchman. She imperceptibly squared her shoulders and smoothed her palm over the velvet belt of her dress. "Vivienne, you stay here. I will show Monsieur Archambeau to Madame's office. Venez avec moi, monsieur."
He followed the woman down a corridor and stood behind her while she raptly knocked as if in a secret code.
Caro pushed the door open, peeking around the paneled door. "Madame, Monsieur Archambeau is here to see you."
"Alright," Kitty answered, looking up from The Daily Picayune. She offered the Frenchman a gracious smile as he treaded into her office. "Bon après-midi, Monsieur Archambeau. I'm pleased to finally meet the man that rescued Vivienne."
"Madame Broussard-Dillon," he cordially spoke. Casimir was unexpectedly struck by her. He'd only caught a glimpse of her beauty on the night he'd returned Vivienne to her. He drew in a calming breath to regain control of himself. There hadn't been many women to take his breath away after his beloved. "I was surprised to see her today, but I'm glad she's well," he said, looking around the light and bright space, taking in the soft pastel colors of the walls along with the built-in with shelves and credenza. Casmir moved to sit in the plush chair in front of the desk. He was taken aback by the small redhead napping on the cushioned window seat.
Kitty followed his line of sight, chuckling softly. "That's my next to youngest, Josephine. She's almost four and insisted on coming with me."
"Oh," he murmured, quickly realizing he was staring at Henri's last child. "She's named after Henri's mère."
She nodded as Caro brought in a tray and served coffee. Kitty held the mug in her hands, taking comfort in the warmth while Caro seemed to reluctantly leave the office. She took a sip and stole a glance at the man that had her husband concerned. "I heard you grew up with Henri."
"I did. His père and mine were in business together. Sugarcane," he easily offered the tidbit and rested his mug on his thigh. "I was closer with François than Henri. Henri and I seemed to have the same taste in women."
Her brow arched. "Oh?"
"He and I fell in love with the same woman, but she was merely a jouet to Henri."
Kitty wondered who the woman could've been. Before marrying her, Henri had all sorts of affairs. He'd admitted that to her – all kinds of women, all shades of skin. She slowly drank from the mug, taking the time to get her bearings.
Casimir stared at the collection of family photographs lining the shelves behind the redhead. He stood, walking to a certain framed picture. He felt hatred rise within him as he looked upon his contented rival with his lookalike son sitting on one knee and his oldest son on the other. "Beaux fils. What are their names?"
"Alexandre is on the right," Kitty answered, noticing the Frenchman's subtle recoil at the name. "And Henri Luc, but we call him Luc." She stood and took the frame out of his hands, feeling uneasiness as their fingertips brushed against one other. "What brings you to The Seraphine, Monsieur Archambeau?"
"Please, call me Casimir."
"Alright. Call me Kathleen," she offered with a tight smile. "What brings you to The Seraphine, Casimir?"
He reclaimed his seat in the spool chair, watching her put the photograph back into place. "I have a business offer for you."
"And what's that?"
"I'd like to purchase your hotel."
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not selling," Kitty stated, sitting in her chair.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars."
Kitty shook her head.
"Fifty thousand."
"Casimir…"
"One hundred thousand dollars, Kathleen."
"You can double and triple until you're blue in the face, but I am not selling The Seraphine."
He scooted to the edge of the seat, taking his checkbook from his inner pocket. "Two hundred thousand. Take it, Kathleen."
"One day, this will belong to Vivienne or Josephine or both. You cannot put a price on that," she finished, grateful for her young daughter's timing. She held out her arms for Josephine while smiling softly at the bleary-eyed girl. "You'll have to excuse me, Monsieur Archambeau. I have work to do, and I'm sorry we couldn't do business," she told him as Josie climbed into her lap for post-nap cuddles.
Casimir blew out an exasperated breath, rising from the chair. He tipped his hat and exited the office. "We will do business one way or another, Kathleen," he mumbled under his breath.
The tall, dark-haired Irishman stood in front of the wooden door, staring at the club's initials inscribed in the frosted glass. He muttered under his breath as he stepped into the marble-paved hallway. He passed through the solid mahogany door and into the well-decorated parlor of The Boston Club. He took in the handful of members, men of substance on the shady side of life, seated in leather chairs until his hazel eyes landed on his longtime employer. He walked to the circle of chairs in front of the ornate fireplace, unceremoniously dropping into one.
"Devlin," the Frenchman acknowledged. He hadn't seen much of his right-hand man since he'd been busy doing his bidding.
"Did you make the offer?"
"I did. She wouldn't accept," he sighed, pushing an empty shot glass to him.
The Irishman filled the glass, downing the cognac. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and ignored the dismayed look on Casimir's face.
"Savor the cognac, Devlin."
"I'm not pompous like you," he quipped. "Want me to burn the hotel?"
"There are too many eyes in the Vieux Carré. It's not like the lumber mill in Lake Charles. You'd be seen."
Devlin refilled his glass and lit a cigarette.
"I want you to kidnap Henri Broussard's son…the younger one, Luc. The boy looks just like him."
"Tonight?" he asked on an exhale.
"No. We have to wait for the right moment."
The Irishman stared into the fine French brandy. More moments. More moving through the shadows. More wondering what his dead wife would think of the man he'd become.