by Anne Stuart
“I’m still not sure I should be coming, even for one night,” Margaret said, staring at the countryside whizzing by. When she’d first arrived in Louisiana she’d been too tense, too tired to notice the lush green foliage. Now she watched it, trying to concentrate on the beauty of the lowlands and not on her own misgivings.
“Don’t be ridiculous. How long has it been since you’ve had a little fun? Grandmère and Mizmac will take perfect care of Carrie, and it’s not like Peter is there. She’s perfectly safe, and it would have been crazy for you to spend Mardi Gras shut away from everyone.”
“Rather a tacky way to put it, wouldn’t you say?” she replied calmly. “Considering that’s exactly what’s happening with Peter.”
He hesitated for only a moment. “I know perfectly well that’s the only reason you finally agreed to come—the knowledge that you weren’t leaving Carrie in a house with Peter. So why the sudden concern?”
“Don’t you feel bad for him?” she countered. “Don’t you feel guilty?”
“Why should I feel guilty? I didn’t make him kill Rosanne! I didn’t make him crazy. I defended him to the best of my ability, and if you’re suggesting that I didn’t . . .”
“I’m not suggesting any such thing,” she soothed him automatically. How often had she soothed is cousin Dexter when he grew agitated? Most of the time it had worked. “I just feel there was something we all could have done. Dr. Pitcher said he wasn’t getting any better, and yet no one was doing anything about it.”
“What would you have suggested?” A touch of asperity threaded through Wendell’s Southern drawl. “Group therapy, encounter sessions? We give Peter a good home and accept him with all his drawbacks. I don’t think we can do much better than that.”
“No, I suppose not.” She leaned back against the leather seat and shut her eyes. “I just can’t get rid of the feeling that we failed him.”
“Margaret, you’ve only been in Louisiana eight days. You don’t need to take on any extra responsibility in this life. You and your daughter’s well-being are enough. What happened to Peter happened two years ago, when you were happily married to Cousin Dexter.”
She didn’t open her eyes, didn’t alter her expression. “So I was,” she agreed. Country music was playing softly on the car radio, some cheating-and-drinking song sung in a low-voiced wail. “Did I ever tell you I love this car? I’ve never known anyone who owned a Jaguar before. All the high rollers out in Nevada drove big American cars.”
“I got a good deal on it,” Wendell said modestly. “The owner couldn’t use it anymore.”
Margaret nestled back in the leather seat. She hadn’t slept well in the four days since they’d taken Peter off to some institution, and the lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with her. “I can’t imagine what could be so important that someone couldn’t use his Jaguar,” she said dreamily.
“How about a murder conviction and an insanity plea?” Wendell said.
She sat bolt upright. “This was Peter’s car?”
He nodded, his blue eyes gauging her reaction. “It was part of my fee for defending him. Peter couldn’t use it, and I always wanted a nice car. I would have preferred an American one, but this was such a good deal I couldn’t refuse.”
“Of course,” she murmured, looking around her with fresh eyes. It made sense. Wendell still drove it warily, as if he wasn’t quite comfortable behind the wheel, and he had a tendency to grind the gears when he shifted. She could see Peter in it much more easily, his green eyes alight with mischief, his sexy mouth curved in a smile. But of course the cigarette lighter would be gone, and there wouldn’t be country music on the stereo. “How could Peter afford such a car? I thought he was a history professor. I wouldn’t have thought that would be such a lucrative profession. Not compared to being a lawyer.”
“Ah, but there are history professors and there are history professors,” Wendell said, his eyes on the road unfolding in front of them. “Just as there are lawyers and there are lawyers. Yours truly is a second rate, storefront lawyer with a forgettable clientele, most of them two-bit criminals and all of them guilty as sin and not very good about paying their debts. Peter was always the golden boy when we were growing up. He could do anything, charm anyone. He was absolutely brilliant, and anything he set his mind to become a fait accompli. He wasn’t just a history professor—he was the youngest department head in the two-hundred-year history of the university. He didn’t just publish a few papers to keep his credibility—he wrote books that were critically acclaimed, professionally brilliant and best-sellers. Everything he touched turned to gold. Until he married Rosanne.”
She glanced over at him. “Wasn’t it hard growing up in his shadow?”’
He turned to smile at her, the warmth in his blue eyes finally reaching her. “Fortunately I’m not a very competitive person. I truly loved and admired Peter. More than anything in the world I wanted to be like him. I’m just sorry I didn’t see what was happening until it was too late.”
“What was happening?”
“The stress of his overachieving was driving him over the edge,” Wendell said flatly. “Add to that a wife who slept with his best friends, refused to agree to a divorce and would doubtless have taken him for every penny he had if they had divorced, and you have a prescription for a dangerous psychotic break.”
“I don’t believe it,” Margaret said instinctively, then could have kicked herself. It was too late to back down now. “I’m just curious—it’s none of my business. But stress and infidelity don’t make a man insane. I expect half the married men in this country cope with the same thing every day.”
“They don’t live in Louisiana. They’re aren’t brought up in a system that borders on feudal, believing they’re the heir to the kingdom and privilege. There are times when I forget what a Yankee you are, Cousin Margaret. We do things differently down here.”
“So I’ve noticed,” she said dryly. “I still find that diagnosis hard to believe.”
“It’s not mine. It’s all a matter of court record, attested to by Dr. Pitcher and two other psychiatrists. Not to mention Peter’s corroborating testimony. You want to argue with that, go right ahead.”
“No, I don’t want to argue with it,” Margaret said, closing her eyes. “I just find it difficult to believe.”
“So do we all, Cousin Margaret.”
IF SHE STILL harbored any doubts about whether she’d made a mistake in accompanying Wendell to the last night of carnival, Mardi Gras itself, within eight hours she was certain. She just wasn’t ready to face the desperate merriment, the roars of laughter, the flirtations that bordered on flagrante delicto. The past few months of homelessness and hopelessness were still too close.
It had taken Wendell three hours to drive a mile and a half across the city to the elegant town house in the French Quarter, and during that endless stretch of traffic he never once betrayed any impatience, anything but goodwill and a bonhomie that matched the city’s festive mood. Margaret had wanted to scream.
The Delacroix town house hadn’t been any relief. It was crawling with Delacroix and Jaffreys, hordes of brightly costumed men and women between the ages of fifteen and fifty who seemed to have no other purpose in life but to talk very loudly and very fast, to drink, to laugh and to call her “Cousin.” The house was filled to the brim, with Margaret put in a bedroom with three other women she’d barely had time to meet. She lost count after her twentieth introduction, her twentieth perfumed and cologned embrace, and still the front door opened and more people arrived, complete with costumes over their arms and suitcases in their hands.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” Wendell said as he settled her into the bedroom, dumping her things on one of the narrow, folding cots.
“Wendell, how many people are staying here?”
“Who knows,” he replied cheerfully. �
�Two years ago we had more than fifty, but we’re not expecting quite that many. Never fear, we’ll fit. The latecomers have to make do with the floor, but none of the cousins would ever miss Mardi Gras.”
“You can’t really be related to all of these people,” she protested faintly.
“I am, and you are. Haven’t you noticed the family resemblance?”
“Yes,” she said faintly. On top of everything else she didn’t particularly enjoy cramming into a house with half a dozen men who looked like her late husband, and another three or four who bore a disturbing resemblance to Peter Delacroix. “Wendell, I don’t think this is a good idea. I think I’d be happier off in a hotel room. I should have enough money.”
“Don’t even think of it, Margaret. There’s not a hotel room to be had within fifty miles of New Orleans.”
“Then maybe I should go home.”
He shook his head. “There’s no public transportation to Delacroix Landing, Cousin. And even if I wanted to drive you, and miss carnival, I don’t think I’d be able to get to my car. There are at least another twenty who’ve arrived since we have, and no one’s going to be driving until Lent starts.”
“When does Lent start?” she asked faintly.
“Shame on you, Margaret. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Mardi Gras is Fat Tuesday, the last big blowout before a time of fasting and repentance.”
“How about I stay in the house and get an early start?”
Wendell leaned over and placed a kiss on her furrowed brow. “You’ll have a wonderful time, Margaret. Trust me in this. Why don’t you get a little rest before things really get crazy?”
“Things get worse?”
“Or better. It depends on how you look at it. Our parade starts at eight o’clock—at least you haven’t missed it. Meet me downstairs beforehand and I’ll make sure you have a good spot to watch. I’ll find some cousins to keep an eye on you while I’m working on the float.”
“Explain.”
“Our krewe, the Notable Knights Krewe, traditionally has its parade on Fat Tuesday itself, and I’m charge of one of the floats. I’m afraid nonmembers aren’t allowed in the parade, but you’ll have to remember to shout out ‘Mister, throw me something,’ as we go by, and I’ll make sure you catch something. A doubloon or one of the other prizes. It’s very lucky to catch something, Margaret. I’m counting on you to make it.”
“Wendell . . .”
“Take a nap, Cousin. The night is young, and you have nothing to do. I intend to make certain you have fun. Come downstairs for drinks and you’ll find me. I’ll be wearing the vampire costume.”
Easier said than done, Margaret thought grumpily as she fought her way down the packed staircase, her costume trailing around her. At least she’d gotten her way in that one matter. Very few people had been interested in renting the one nun’s habit at the costume shop, and the enveloping folds gave her a secure feeling of safety and celibacy. What with all the drunken affection flowing around her she needed all the defenses she could get.
Unfortunately Wendell hadn’t been quite as original as he’d hoped. The huge drawing room of the town house was wall-to-wall people, all in costumes and masks. And at least half the males, and a quarter of the females, were dressed as vampires.
“Anne Rice books are more popular than I thought,” a woman drawled in her ear.
Margaret turned to look at still another vampire, female version. This one didn’t appear quite as bloodless as some of the others, or quite as young.
“Cousin Margaret, I presume,” the woman continued. “Or should I call you ‘Sister Margaret’? I’m Cousin Francene, from the Delacroix side of the family. I was told to keep an eye on you and make sure you’re enjoying yourself. Are you?”
Francene looked a lot more down to earth than some of the other questionable cousins floating around. “No,” Margaret said frankly. “I shouldn’t have let Wendell and Gertrude talk me into coming.”
“Let me assure you from almost fifty years’ experience that there is no standing up to Aunt Gertrude once she sets her mind on something,” Francene said.
“Wendell can be just as stubborn. Though it was nice of him to ask you to look out for me.”
“Ah, Wendell,” said Francene noncommittally. “I don’t know if he’s still in the bunch or not, but I don’t think there’s any way of tracking him down in this horde of minor league vampires. Stick with me and I’ll introduce you to some of the nicer cousins. That is, if you’re not going to bolt back to your bedroom.”
“My bedroom now has seven very vain women staying in it,” she said frankly. “There’s no peace and quiet there.”
“Honey, there’s no peace and quiet in all of New Orleans right now, not in the parish. Maybe not in the entire sovereign state of Louisiana. Best accept that fact and enjoy yourself. Mardi Gras only happens once a year, and it’s an experience no one should miss,”
Margaret could feel some of her tension begin to ebb. She was here, there was no escape and she might as well enjoy it. Besides, Francene was the first truly friendly face she’d seen in a long time. “You’re very nice,” she said impulsively.
“Not everyone in the family would agree with you. I have the reputation for plain speaking, and the Delacroix and the Jaffreys like things prettified. Wendell runs in the other direction when he sees me coming.”
“Still, he trusted you enough to ask you to watch out for me.”
Francene merely nodded. “I’d better tell you something out front so we get things clear. I used to work with Peter at the university. He always has been and always will be one of my best friends, no matter what he or anyone else says he’s done or is. How do you feel about that?”
“Why should I have a problem with that?” she countered.
“A lot of the cousins would be happier with Peter locked away forever. He’s a blot on the glorious Delacroix heritage. According to that bitch, Lisette, you weren’t going to leave Maison Delacroix until Peter was taken away again.”
“I have a nine-year-old daughter,” Margaret said stiffly.
“And you think he was a danger to her?” Francene’s eyes narrowed.
“No. But I had no right to take those kind of chances with her well-being. I’ve taken too many already.”
Francene nodded. “Sounds reasonable enough. And what do you think of Peter?”
“You do believe in plain speaking, don’t you?”
“I warned you.”
“I think Peter is a brilliant, charming, troubled man,” Margaret said. “Were you two lovers?” The question just slipped out, and Margaret would have done anything to call it back, but Francene merely laughed.
“You believe in plain speaking, too. Peter and I are like brother and sister. You don’t sleep with your brother, not if you have any sense. But I still like to look out for him.”
“I’m not any danger to him,” Margaret protested.
“Aren’t you?” Francene murmured. “Come on, let’s see if we can find anything more exciting than punch in this melee. And then I need to get you to a good spot to watch the parade. But remember, you’re not supposed to recognize anyone. This is all very secretive.” And with that she pulled a stark white half mask over her face and caught Margaret’s hand in her own strong one. “Don’t even call Wendell by name when we find him.”
“Why not?”
“Rules. Tradition. Hogwash, if you ask me, but we’re not about to change things at this late date. Come along, Sister Marguerite. It’s Mardi Gras.”
HE WATCHED HER from his spot behind the pillar, knowing she couldn’t see him in this crowd. If she bothered to glance in his direction there was no chance she’d recognize him. He could simply enjoy himself, observing her in that enveloping black-and-white nun’s habit, the starched white wimple framing her face, hiding her beautiful h
air. There was nothing she could do to hide her eyes, though, those gorgeous green eyes that had seen too much.
She’d obviously hoped the chaste message inherent in picking a nun’s habit would keep marauding males away. Little did she know that to a Louisiana male, one descended from devout French Catholics, there was nothing quite so mysterious or quite so appealing as a beautiful woman in a nun’s habit. If he knew his cousins they’d be all over her given half the chance.
Of course, they wouldn’t be given the chance, not with Francene acting as dragon, herding her charge through the rough waters of Mardi Gras. No Jaffrey or Delacroix would be allowed within touching distance of Sister Margaret.
For a brief moment Francene’s dark brown gaze met his above the heads of the revelers. She nodded, an almost imperceptible movement, as she steered her charge toward the door. He would have to trust Francene, at least for the next few hours. He had too many things to do before he could finally catch up with them and entice the demure Sister Margaret away. And then maybe he might see whether he could slowly, carefully, strip off all those layers, until there was nothing left but warm, pale flesh.
Damn. He had to keep his mind on business tonight, not on erotic fantasies he had no intention of acting upon. He had to concentrate on keeping his mask in place, keeping his voice low, keeping his actions circumspect. He was taking a big chance tonight, a stupid chance. He didn’t have to make it even riskier.
The parade would take no more than an hour, an hour of him sitting in the lap of a papier-mâché King Neptune, tossing doubloons to the riotous crowd. There’d been no way to avoid that duty—all krewe members had a task, and to refuse would have brought too many questions. He’d carry it off, as he’d carried everything off. And then he’d track down Francene and consider claiming his reward for the night. Who knew when the chance would come again.
THE NIGHT WAS a cool one in mid-February, and Margaret was doubly glad she’d chosen the nun’s habit. The layers kept her toasty warm, much more comfortable than Lisette’s scanty clothing. She’d caught a glimpse of Wendell’s sister from a distance, and that was close enough. Despite Peter’s destruction of her costume she’d managed very well in a short period of time, and was dressed in a confection of pink gauze and rhinestones that set off her dark-haired beauty to perfection. She probably had goose bumps on her creamy white flesh, Margaret thought without a trace of nun like charity. With luck she’d get pneumonia.