“Take your pick.”
“Leprosy.” She grinned. “Wait. Scurvy. We haven’t used scurvy yet.”
This time Louvaen laughed. “I think he’d believe something a little less dramatic. A headache should suffice.”
Cinnia headed for the door with a long-suffering sigh. “I seem to get a lot of those lately.”
Louvaen followed her inside as far as the kitchen and watched as she tiptoed up the back stairs to her room. Jimenin didn’t believe a word of their tales regarding Cinnia’s many illnesses, but he hadn’t challenged them yet, and Louvaen happily played the game for as long as necessary to keep him away from her sister. She brushed the wrinkles out of her apron, took a calming breath so she wouldn’t succumb to the temptation of strangling their visitor with her bare hands and marched into the parlor.
She found both men seated near the small hearth appearing like two friends enjoying each other’s company on a winter’s day—at least until she looked closer at her father’s expression. Pinched, hunted, and pale with desperation, Mercer caught sight of her. His shoulders slumped in relief. “Louvaen, my dear, Don Jimenin has been kind enough to stop by and inquire about Cinnia’s health.”
Louvaen inclined her head to their guest who stood and offered her a courtly bow. Dressed in elegant garb of embroidered blacks and grays, Don Gabrilla Jimenin cut an impressive figure. A wealthy landowner with investments in everything from caravans to ships, he was Monteblanco’s most influential citizen. Men courted his favor and women his interest. His was a regular face, saved from banality by a sensual mouth and an oddly entrancing pair of eyes that looked out upon the world with cool hauteur. He styled his brown hair in the latest fashion of tight curls confined in a neat queue. Louvaen loathed him and knew he heartily returned the sentiment.
His gaze swept over her before he glanced past her shoulder to the empty kitchen. His lips quirked in a cold smile. “You’re looking well, mistress.”
She suspected she looked murderous, but this man had a knack for bringing out the anger in her. “Most kind, sir,” she said in a flat voice. “May we offer you tea?”
He dashed her small hope he’d refuse and leave when he resumed his seat. “Thank you, Mistress Duenda. I humbly accept.”
“Of course you do,” she muttered and stalked to the kitchen to add another teacup and prepare the tea.
By the time she returned and set the service on the small table between the chairs, tension had thickened the air to a soup. Jimenin helped himself to one of the cups and sipped. “A fine brew, mistress.” When Louvaen didn’t respond, he continued. “How is Miss Cinnia today? She was feeling ill and had taken to her room during my last visit.”
Louvaen seethed at his familiar use of her sister’s name. “Mistress Hallis,” she bit out between clenched teeth, “is still poorly I’m afraid. Headaches and fatigue. Change of seasons I think.” Snakes in men’s clothing more like it.
Jimenin glanced at Mercer. “Your lovely daughter has a delicate constitution.”
Mercer nodded. “Yes she does.” He downed his tea in a single gulp.
“Any news of the third ship? I hear wreckage from the first two has started washing ashore.”
Mercer slumped even further in his chair. Louvaen, who’d taken up guard duty behind him, squeezed his shoulder with one hand and clenched her skirts with the other. The bastard taunted her father. Everyone knew the loss of those ships had made the Hallis family nearly destitute. The hope the last ship had survived the storm which destroyed the others was fast fading.
“None, but with a little luck it will arrive in harbor any day now.”
Jimenin stretched his legs toward the fire. “You’re an optimistic man, Mercer.” He gestured with his teacup. “It’s been nearly four months since we had word the ship might have made it through the storm intact. I suspect it sits at the bottom of the ocean with its sister ships.” He bared a set of yellowed teeth in the parody of a smile.
If her house wasn’t at risk of burning down, Louvaen would have wished for a back draft of flame to rush out and consume him.
“I think a little more patience and we’ll...”
Jimenin straightened in his seat and slammed the cup down hard enough to make the service rattle and tea slosh in the teapot. His pale eyes reflected back the hearth fire, reminding Louvaen of a wolf’s gaze caught in a sliver of moonlight. “My patience is done! I want the balance on the investment and the accompanying interest.”
Mercer raised his hands in surrender. “We have nothing left,” he babbled. “Only Louvaen’s house and a draft horse.”
“We’ll sell the house, Papa.” She glared at Jimenin. He wasn’t here for money, but he’d use their debt to strong-arm Mercer into giving him Cinnia. Louvaen vowed they’d live wild in the woods before she let that happened.
Jimenin’s gloating laughter scraped across her ears. “You could sell six of these houses, and they’ll only cover a portion of the debt.”
She fisted her hands on her hips. “Liar,” she spat. I check the accounts. I know the numbers. There’s no way we owe you such a sum.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “Oh? Didn’t your father tell you about his venture with me into a caravan of saffron? All documents signed, witnessed and stored at the Merchant House.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “An unlucky year for many of us, I’m afraid. Bandits attacked the caravan. Our goods were a total loss.”
The revelation stole her breath. Louvaen gripped Mercer’s shoulder until he turned to her. “Papa?”
His shame-filled expression verified Jimenin’s story. “I’m sorry, Lou. It seemed a sure thing at the time.”
No, no, no! She wanted to scream. She wanted to shake her father for his gullibility until his teeth rattled, and then she’d put a round of lead shot into Jimenin for his trickery.
