The gambler. Delilah watched him from beneath half-closed eyelids as he lazed against the guardrail of the steamboat. The afternoon sunlight profiled his high cheekbones and glinted off his jet black hair. His stance was proud, aloof.

He shifted positions and turned toward her. A jolt surged through Delilah. She had the feeling the gambler could read her thoughts--and they weren't ones she would want to share. Delilah dismissed him with a cool nod.

She stood on tiptoe, searching the wharf. Spying her servant Lizzy, Delilah squealed in delight. The black woman stood ramrod straight, wearing the ever-familiar black silk dress. Delilah shaded her eyes and looked again for her father. She couldn't locate him in the milling throng of people.

Delilah grabbed her satchel and the numerous bundles she'd accumulated on the trip and headed toward the stage to go ashore. A tug on her skirt brought Delilah to an abrupt halt. As she slowly lifted her gaze, it traveled from a shiny black boot up black trousers to an expensive topcoat--then to the gambler's languid eyes.

He raised his hands as though to plead his innocence, but his ebony eyes sparkled with laughter. He grinned. Twin grooves bracketed his smile, then faded along with his grin. He knelt at Delilah's feet and gathered her skirt in his hands.

Relief gushed over her as she realized he was only trying to free her entangled skirt from the ironwork on the guardrail. Her face heated with embarrassment when he raised her dress a few inches. As the material pulled free, the gambler's fingers brushed against her ankle. She gasped.

The gambler straightened, towering over her. Delilah's pulse quickened. She clutched her satchel tight against her breasts.

A deep, rich laugh escaped. "I'm only a riverboat gambler, ma'am, not a pirate. Let me help you." One by one, he relieved Delilah of her burdens.

"Thank you. I thought you were.... Thank you." Dismayed at her childish rambling, Delilah collected her thoughts. Just because the man was devastatingly handsome and had just fondled her ankle was no reason to stammer. She smiled at the stranger.

He hadn't needed to tell her he was a gambler. His looks gave him away. Strong hands with long, slender fingers free of calluses, the rich cut of his knee-length topcoat, the expensive silk shirt--they all said gambler.

What would Papa do if he caught her conversing with a cardsharp? A riverboat gambler at that. The thought excited her--and made her feel guilty. Her smile vanished.

His eyes turned somber. "Don't worry, my dear. No one is watching us."

Delilah's face heated. Before she could reply, he tucked her parcels beneath his arm and picked up her satchel. With a tilt of his head, the gambler indicated she should lead the way.

Grateful for the distraction, Delilah pointed toward the wharf. "My father is here somewhere."

The stranger threaded his way through the crowd of departing passengers. Before disembarking, he paused. "Are you alone? I thought I saw another woman with you a few times."

"I do have a traveling companion. Mrs. Fitzsimmons was sent to escort me home. But she's so slow, I couldn't wait."

He chuckled. "Now you're in a hurry to see your father? How long have you been away?"

"Forever and ever. I've been at school in Boston for the past two years." She emphasized the word Boston enough to convey her disdain. She closed her eyes, absorbing the tangy smells of the wharf and the hum of the crowd. She imagined the marketplace brimming with the sweet smell of candles and the boiling vats of gumbo. "I'm home now. No more school."

"A schoolgirl." A thread of regret laced through his words. "Nature, and noble mankind, prohibit that which is not to be."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind."

Puzzled, Delilah continued, "Anyway, I'm not a schoolgirl. It was a finishing school. I'm quite grown up. I'll be eighteen in a few days." She glared up at him, daring him to dispute her.

His gaze swept over her from head to toe. Approval was evident. "Indeed you are. Quite grown up, that is."

Such frank appraisal from a man shocked her, but not unpleasantly so.

"We'd better find your father before he sends out a search party. I'm certain he's as anxious to see you as you are to see him." Again, that slow smile and the trace of regret. "If you were coming home to me, I'd certainly be anxious."

Further conversation was prohibited as he helped her across the stage to the wharf.

"Delilah!" Lizzy's unmistakable voice cut through the air.

Whirling, Delilah saw the black woman pushing though the crowd. She waved, scanning the throng for her father. With a quick glance up at the gambler, she said, "There's my family! Would you like me to introduce you to them?"

"I don't think so." He stacked her packages on the ground beside her.

Hoping she sounded nonchalant, Delilah asked, "Is your family meeting you here in New Orleans?"

"I don't have any family."

"Oh, you aren't married?" She stole a glance at him.

The gambler's expression remained guarded. "What I mean is I have no family."

"No family!" His tone had been neutral and unrevealing, but the words jarred Delilah. Family was all important. Her own deep feelings for her father surfaced. "It must be terrible to have no one."

"I've had a lifetime, twenty-five years to be exact, to get used to being alone. Until now, I've never regretted it."

A warm glow spread from the inside out until Delilah felt her face heat. Fighting an almost irresistible urge to touch the gambler, to offer comfort, Delilah silently cursed the dictates that placed such constraints on her. But as his black gaze held her captive, the rules of etiquette deserted her. She reached out to him. "I want--"

His voice dropped to a whisper. "Goodbye, my sweet."

Twice he'd used an endearment with her. She should have been shocked. She wasn't. Their gazes locked, and the unspoken message was clear: he had to leave. Regretfully, she watched him disappear into the crowd. He never looked back. She realized she didn't even know his name.

As he made what he hoped was a graceful exit, the gambler attempted to dispel the gloom which had suddenly descended on him. Beautiful women were no novelty to him, but the young woman he had just met possessed something more than beauty ... innocence. He scoffed at his choice of words. Nothing and no one in this world was innocent.

Even so, he found himself dwelling on the sight of her lovely eyes. Beautiful and guileless. A combination rarely seen, doubly so in the occupation he'd chosen. He seldom regretted the choices he made. Still, there were times....

The memory of her soft words poured over him like a balm. "It must be terrible to have no one."

With a sigh for things that couldn't be, Delilah turned her attention to Lizzy. She flung her arms around her friend. Lizzy's squeeze sent Delilah's breath rushing out of her.

"You be beautiful, ma petite ange. I sent a little girl to Boston, and they send me back a woman, more beautiful than I could've thought." Lizzy's dark eyes glistened.

Tears of joy threatened to spill from Delilah's eyes. "I missed you so much. I'm never going to leave you or Papa again. Where is he?" Delilah tilted up on her toes and scanned the crowd. Her father was nowhere to be seen, but Mary Atchison, a family friend, scurried toward them as quickly as her voluminous skirts allowed.

She gave Lizzy one final squeeze before releasing her. "Where's Papa? Don't tell me he thought business was more important than I." Laughter coated her voice.

A grim expression raced over Lizzy's face. Her fingers curled into fists. She looked away.

Tendrils of dread wrapped around Delilah. "What's wrong? Where's Papa? Is he ill?"

Mary Atchison puffed to a stop beside the two women. "Your papa is dead." She blurted the words out as though afraid someone else might deliver the bad news before she got the chance.

Time froze. Delilah rotated until she faced Mary. "What did you say?"

"Your father is dead. Suicide." Mary fanned herself, as if delivering the devastating news left her breathless.

The words were plain enough. Papa was dead. That was what Mary said. Delilah could not accept the meaning. Her mind screamed a thousand denials. Two years of finishing school, two years of hated school, were over. Two years of longing to be home with Papa. Now she was home. But Papa was dead.

Her mind recoiled from the horror. She tried to focus on Lizzy's face, but the woman blurred in and out of her vision. Delilah's knees buckled. Comforting arms encircled her, and she took solace in Lizzy's embrace until Mary pried her loose and hugged her awkwardly.

No. She would not faint. Not here. Not now. She must know what happened. Delilah found the strength to pull away. To her surprise, her legs supported her. She willed the world to settle and quit its mad spinning. "Is it true, Lizzy? Please tell me it's not true."

Her servant's hooded eyes drooped even lower. She glared at Mary before dropping her gaze to the ground. She nodded.

"When?"

"About two weeks ago," Mary Atchison interjected as she stepped forward. With a firm grip, she guided Delilah toward the waiting carriage. Mary called over her shoulder, "Lizzy, make arrangements for Delilah's trunks to be delivered. Also, pay Mrs. Fitzsimmons and discharge her from her duties."

Waving her handkerchief like a sword, Mary parted the crowd as she propelled Delilah onward. "Yes, two weeks ago, but I refused to telegraph you. That's why Lizzy is upset with me. But you were on your way home, and the news would only have ruined your trip."

Her papa, precious Papa, had been dead for weeks. Why hadn't she felt it? Delilah peered around the wharf. Roustabouts yelled, rowdy in their high spirits. Crew members rushed off steamboats toward town for their long-desired recreation. Dockhands loaded cargo: crates of chickens, barrels of sugar, bags of letters. Passengers boarded; passengers disembarked. Why didn't the world stop and mourn with her?

She was being foolish. Those who knew and loved her father had already grieved for him. She was the last to mourn. Hot tears flowed unchecked down her face.

She wrapped herself in a cloak of anguish. Her grief was private. She didn't want the world to see her cry. "Take me home. Please."

Mary Atchison nudged Delilah toward the carriage, but Delilah hung back waiting for Lizzy. She needed the black woman now more than she'd ever needed her before. The three women settled in the carriage: Delilah and Mary in front, Lizzy in back as Mary instructed.

The driver clambered into his seat and snapped the reins. No one spoke. Mingled sounds of the wharf--the dull roar of the crowd, the high squeal of steam engines--faded as the carriage wound its way through the narrow stone streets of New Orleans.

Emotions welled to the surface. Delilah choked back a sob. "I can't believe it. What happened? I don't believe Papa would take his own life. He wasn't like that."

"You've been gone a long time." Mary fluffed her skirts. "Your father changed."

From the backseat, Lizzy gently squeezed Delilah's shoulder but remained silent.

Mary rambled on. "It was his debts, you know. And the trouble at the bank." She covered her mouth with her hand, her blue eyes saucer round. "Oh, dear, I wasn't to mention that. Oran will be most upset with me. He'll explain it to you later."

Primly, Mary smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. Her blond curls bobbed with each jolt of the carriage. "We're all shocked, Delilah. I knew him long before he married your mother. It was I who waited with him when you were born. Oran and I were by his side when he buried your mother."

The words floated past Delilah. She'd often been told this story. How Mary and her husband Oran--her father's business partner--had stood beside Papa when he nearly went insane with grief after his beloved wife died in childbirth. Delilah knew this and was fond of the Atchisons. She'd grown up under their watchful eyes. But it was Lizzy who had reared Delilah, and Lizzy whom she loved like a mother. Now she wanted her friend by her side.

Mary patted Delilah's arm. "He shot himself. Oran said it was terrible. Blood was all over the study. He must have died instantly. That's a blessing, of course."

Delilah trembled. Her head fell back against the leather seat. She squeezed her eyes shut. She found it difficult to consider anything about her father's death a blessing.

Seemingly unaware of the additional pain she inflicted, Mary chattered on. "I blame myself, of course. I should have known something like this could happen."

A thousand needles in her heart could not have hurt Delilah more. Her stomach heaved, and for a moment she thought she would be sick. Delilah saw Mary's face and the familiar landscape through a blur of hot tears.

The carriage rolled past the turnoff to her home. Wherever they were taking her would have to wait. Her body and mind cried out for the comfort of her own room. She leaned forward, tapping the driver on the shoulder. "I need to go home to Les Fleurs. Please take me home."

The driver threw a questioning glance over his shoulder at Mary. The older woman inclined her head, signaling him to continue.

"Now, now, dear." She wrapped a protective arm around Delilah. "Oran and I decided it would be better if you stayed with us for a few days." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "Lizzy may stay, too, of course."

A wave of desolation rolled over Delilah. She slumped back. She longed to go home and surround herself with things that belonged to Papa, to draw strength from his clothes, his pipes, his books. But she did not have the strength to argue.

Delilah touched the tips of her fingers to her face. Her skin felt numb. This was a nightmare and soon she'd wake up.

The horse plodded on, his hooves striking against the stones like the toll of a death bell. Delilah pleaded to be taken home. "Mary, I love you and Oran, but I have to be alone now."

With a jolt, the carriage drew to a halt in front of the Atchison mansion. Oran, massive and solid as the granite pillars supporting his house, waited on the steps. His expression was no softer than the cold stone.

Panic made Delilah's voice shrill. "Take me home!"

From the back seat of the carriage, Lizzy spoke in her husky voice. "Hush, ma petite. We got no home. The bank took it."

Delilah twisted in her seat to stare at Lizzy. This couldn't be happening. Papa dead. Suicide. She grimaced as an unbidden image of her father lying dead in his own blood flashed through her mind. Les Fleurs lost.

Had she gone mad? Was she having a terrible nightmare? Please, God, let it be a nightmare. And, indeed, she thought it was one as she slipped into unconsciousness and the merciful blackness engulfed her.

By the time Delilah roused, the sun was sinking behind a bank of stormy clouds. Outside the window, a dingy gray sky hung low. The branches of a twisted oak cast grotesque shadows on the walls in a macabre dance as lacy curtains fluttered in the evening air.

Delilah pushed herself to a sitting position, curiously appraising her surroundings. She frowned in puzzlement as she tried to orient herself. Memories flooded her mind. She knew where she was. And why. A ragged sob tore from her throat.

A shadow stirred from the corner of the room, and Lizzy materialized. Delilah instinctively knew her servant had kept a constant vigil over her while she slept.

"Lizzy, how can it be true? Could Papa have changed that much in the time I was gone? Tell me what happened."

The black woman's silk dress rustled in the twilight as she moved closer. She did not light the lamps. Lizzy sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Delilah's hair. "She be a fool, that Mrs. Atchison, but much of what she told you is true."

Delilah silently agreed with Lizzy's assessment of Mary Atchison, but did not say so. "Mary means well, but she couldn't keep a secret or be subtle if her life depended on it. I know there's more to the story than I've heard so far. Mary mentioned trouble at the bank and debts Papa owed. What was she talking about?"

Lizzy shrugged. "They whisper things when they think I not be listening. But I hear, and I see." In a voice as hard as granite, she said, "They took your house, but I hid your mama's jewelry. That belongs to you, and nobody else got a right to it. I think Mrs. Atchison suspects something 'cause she been searching my room when she thinks I don't know."

The words, their meanings, were hard to grasp. Delilah realized the jewels meant she wasn't destitute, but the reality of her situation hadn't sunk in. Consciously she could explain to herself what had happened, but deep inside nothing made sense. Fresh tears scalded her swollen eyes. No matter how bitter the brew, she had to know the details.

"The truth is all I want. What happened while I was away?"

In a voice low and husky, Lizzy told Delilah about her father's death. "After you left, your papa was lonely. He gambled more than usual. You know how much he loved the cards."

Even in her grief, Delilah smiled at the memory of her father playing poker. He truly loved a game of chance. For sport, he even taught her how to play, teasing her that if she were a man, she could make a fortune at the gaming tables.

Lizzy paused. Her expression revealed a suffering equal to Delilah's. She'd also suffered alone. The woman's deep voice held a note of puzzlement. "I didn't see nothing at first. He drank some, like always. In the past few months, though, worry got him down. He spent more time at the bank and was always brooding. I didn't know about any trouble 'till afterwards when Mr. Atchison said Les Fleurs belonged to the bank. Your Papa never mentioned it."

Lizzy tensed, her words forced as she continued. "One night after dinner, he was in better spirits. Not happy, more like something in his mind was settled. Told me he knew what had to be done."

Delilah interrupted. "If things were better for him, then why did he ... why did he kill himself?" Delilah almost strangled. The words tasted sour in her mouth. She fought back another wave of sickness.

In the lingering twilight, Lizzy's expression changed. The hooded eyes were frightening--the hate almost tangible. "It was the same night Mr. D'Evereaux was in a better frame of mind that he met the gambler, but I didn't know that 'til later when Mr. Atchison explained everything. All I knew then was that he came home real late and shut himself in his study.

"In a while, Mr. Atchison came to the house. Him and Mr. D'Evereaux stayed in the study, but I heard them shouting. In all the years they been partners at the bank, I never heard them argue like that. For hours, they went at each other."

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The air stilled, heavy with the promise of rain.

"Finally, Mr. Atchison left. Your papa came out of the study long enough to get a glass and a bottle of brandy."

Lizzy's voice dropped to a whisper, and Delilah strained to hear the words. "That night was bad. I could feel something was going to happen, but I didn't know what. It was the hottest night we'd had all year. I went to bed, but couldn't sleep. I blamed it on the heat, but I knowed better."

Grief tore at Delilah's heart. Lizzy didn't have to finish. Papa was dead. Were the details important?

Yes. Delilah had to know. Somehow she needed to make sense of this madness. There must be a clue somewhere that would bring understanding.

Ignoring the pain, she gouged deeper. "Go on, Lizzy."

Flashes of lighting illuminated the sky. The two women clung to each other in the darkness as the terrible story unfolded.