An atmosphere of extremely refined, extremely discreet sin prevailed, as subtle as expensive perfume. Although men frequently came in alone or arrived in groups, no women were allowed without a male escort. The women who dined here were the most beautiful in New Orleans, sumptuously gowned, exquisitely coifed, candlelight enhancing magnolia-smooth complexions and gleaming in dark worldly eyes. These women lived in opulent apartments similar to the one I shared with Derek, welcoming lovers who kept them in luxury, showered them with jewels, paid dearly for the privilege of showing them off at Damon’s. In these circles, a man’s mistress was a prized possession as important to his image as the house he owned, the carriage he drove, the thoroughbred stables he maintained, and the men who dined at Damon’s could afford the best New Orleans had to offer.
As the maitre d’ led us to our table, I could feel the women watching me with carefully veiled hostility, the men staring with open admiration. Derek helped me into my chair, his face still expressionless. I felt naked and exposed, extremely vulnerable in the gown that, so short a time ago, had given from such a joyous feeling. I realized that I was no different than the other women who sipped champagne and toyed with their pheasant. Without a wedding ring on my finger, I was exactly like them, living off a man, totally dependent on his generosity. Until now it had never bothered me. Until now I had never given it a thought. I resented it now. I resented Derek bringing me here night after night, exposing me to the stares of worldly men and envious women.
“Champagne?” he inquired.
“I think not.”
“Are you going to sulk?”
“I’m not sulking, Derek. I’m very angry.”
“Over the dress?”
“Over what you implied.”
“I didn’t call you a whore. I said it was a whore’s gown.”
“You make me feel like a whore.”
“That’s absurd,” he said coldly, studying the menu. “Oysters, I think, and pheasant. Asparagus with sauce. Lemon ice afterward. And champagne.” He closed the menu and looked at me. “You’re going to be my wife, Marietta, and Lady Hawke must dress in gowns suitable to her position.”
“I’m not Lady Hawke yet.”
“That’s quite true. You know the reason why.”
“I know the reason you told me. You said you wanted to be married at Hawkehouse, in the chapel. If—if you really loved me, that wouldn’t matter. You’d have married me before we left Natchez.”
“You doubt my intentions?”
“I didn’t—not before.”
“And now, after a silly argument, you think I don’t want to marry you at all. You think I want to keep you as my whore. Is that it? It’s not terribly rational, Marietta. You know what I feel for you.”
“Do I?”
“You damn well should know,” he said crisply. “If you expect me to vow eternal devotion every hour on the hour, you’re due a disappointment. I love you, goddamnit. Now drink your champagne.”
He thrust a glass toward me, his gray eyes smoldering. He was genuinely angry now, tense with anger, and I fell silent, knowing it would be unwise to pursue the matter further. Eyes lowered, I toyed with the champagne glass, watching the tiny golden bubbles fizzle to the surface with soft explosions. Derek drank several glasses, and when our food came he ate heartily. I hardly touched the food, occasionally pushing it from side to side, unable to eat. The waiter removed our plates and brought the lemon ice in small silver dishes.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Marietta,” he said wearily.
“I know you didn’t. You never do.”
“You’re much too sensitive.”
“If I’m sensitive, it’s because my position is so vulnerable. I’m not your wife. At the moment I’m no different from any of these women here. I feel very insecure. I can’t help it.”
“That will all be changed soon enough, Marietta.”
“I know. I don’t mean to be unreasonable, Derek, but we were apart for such a long time—so many things happened—I’m afraid something else will happen. I lost you twice. I don’t think I could stand losing you again.”
“You’re not going to lose me.”
His anger was gone, and although his manner could hardly be called tender, it was at least conciliatory. His voice was low, and his eyes met mine with a steady gaze. The candlelight seemed to polish his lean, handsome face, burnishing his cheekbones, creating faint shadows beneath them. His jet hair gleamed darkly with blue-black highlights.
“I wanted to please you,” I said.
“I know that, Marietta.”
“I wanted to be beautiful for you.”
Another man would have told me that I was beautiful, that I didn’t need a new gown to enhance the beauty that was ever-present, that would glow incandescently even were I wearing rags. Another man would have taken my hand and stroked it gently, apologizing for his harshness and soothing the tension with quiet, reassuring words. Derek merely frowned and told me to eat my lemon ice before it melted, but that was his way, and I didn’t want another man.
“I do hope we get passage on The Blue Elephant,” I remarked.
“We’ll know soon enough.”
“It’s going to seem strange, returning to England. I left it under—under such adverse circumstances. I left it in chains, a convicted thief, sentenced to fourteen years of servitude. I’ll be returning as your bride-to-be. Life is full of ironies.”
Derek finished his dessert. A waiter came to our table with a silver pot of coffee, pouring the steaming, aromatic liquid into elegant, paper-thin china cups. My lemon ice had indeed melted. I nodded to the waiter, indicating that he could remove the dish.
“I don’t really feel a part of England,” I continued quietly. “I don’t feel I belong there. For some reason I feel I belong here—in America. I’ve grown to love this country.”
Derek elevated an eyebrow. “I suppose next you’ll be wanting to go north and take up arms with the rebels.”
“They do have just grievances, Derek.”
“Perhaps so, but violence and bloodshed is no way to solve them. They’ll be put down soon enough, order restored.”
“England—English law—can be very harsh. I have reason to know that.”
“I thought you were eager to return.”
“I am, but only because of you. I’m eager to become your wife, eager to start our new life together, but if it weren’t for that—” I hesitated. “If you were to tell me we were going to settle permanently here in America, I’d have no desire to see England again.”
“England is my home.”
“And your home is my home,” I told him.
Derek didn’t seem to hear me. He stiffened, staring across the room with gray eyes that were suddenly hostile. Startled, I turned to see what had caused such a sudden change in him. I caught my breath, and I could feel a flush tinting my cheeks. Jeremy Bond had just entered Damon’s with a gorgeous blonde, the same blonde who had come out of Lucille’s this afternoon. He had spotted us at our table. He said something to the blonde and started toward us with that long, bouncy stride. The blonde frowned and followed the maitre d’ to a table on the other side of the room.
I tried to control my breathing, tried to still the panic inside. I hadn’t told Derek about Bond. If Derek found out that I’d already met him, he’d know I had been withholding information. He’d wonder why. Desperately striving to appear casual, I lifted the coffee cup to my lips, set it down. The cup clattered noisily in the saucer, but Derek didn’t notice. His eyes never once left Bond, who drew nearer and nearer, finally reaching our table with a mocking smile on his lips.
“Hawke,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
Derek nodded curtly. “Bond,” he said.
“I saw you sitting over here, thought I’d pop over to say hello.” He gave me a friendly glance and returned his attention to Derek. “I must say, you seem to be doing very well for yourself, Hawke. Last time I saw you you were carting a keg of
illegal rum through a swamp, yelling at the others to keep up.”
Derek made no reply. His eyes were dark with hostility.
“Glad to see you’ve come up in the world,” Bond continued jauntily. “I say, aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?”
Derek merely glared. Bond grinned.
“No? Hardly sporting of you, old chap, but then if I were dining with such a breathtaking beauty, I wouldn’t care to introduce her to another man either.”
He looked at me again, his vivid blue eyes full of mischief. He wore impeccably cut black breeches and frock coat and a white satin waistcoat embroidered with black silk flowers, an elegant white silk neckcloth nestling under his chin. That rich brown wave fell cockily over his brow. The audacious grin danced on his lips. I silently pleaded with him not to give me away. Bond was fully aware of my discomfort and sensed the reason why. His blue eyes teased me. He seemed to be full of laughter and devilment.
“Well,” he said, “guess I’d better dash off now. Nice seeing you, Hawke. Nice seeing you, too,” he added, giving me a jaunty nod.
He left to rejoin the blonde he had so cavalierly abandoned a few minutes before. Derek had been gripping the edge of the table as though ready to spring to his feet and start swinging. He relaxed his grip now, watching Bond’s retreating figure with eyes that hadn’t lost a bit of their hostility. I sipped my coffee, relieved but still shaken by the close call. It was not until Bond sat down that Derek turned back to me, and by that time I was completely composed.
“You know him?” I inquired casually.
“I’ve known him most of my life—since both of us were boys. His family’s estate bordered ours. We hated each other then, and we hate each other now. Jeremy Bond is thoroughly disreputable, always has been.”
“He seemed—quite charming.”
“A lot of people have found him charming. They invariably regretted it.”
I took another sip of coffee. “I take it he was involved in smuggling, too,” I said.
“There’s very little he hasn’t been involved in,” Derek retorted. “He was thrown out of Oxford, drummed out of the army, squandered a fortune on gambling and women. He left England in disgrace, disowned by his family, and for the past ten years he’s made a precarious living as a gambler, as a smuggler, as a mercenary.”
“A mercenary? He fights for money?”
“For a while there he had his own band of cutthroats. They fought Indians, fought pirates off the coast, fought anyone whose enemies could afford to pay the going price.”
“It sounds terribly bloodthirsty.”
“Bond’s that, all right. That dapper, devil-may-care manner fools a lot of people. He’s as hard as steel, utterly ruthless, utterly fearless. I admire his valor—I’ll have to admit that most of his fighting was for a good cause—but he’s completely irreverent and totally irresponsible. He abides by no rules but his own, refuses to take orders.”
I finished my coffee, careful not to show too much interest. “I suppose the two of you clashed when you were smuggling,” I remarked.
“We were having some trouble with the pirates,” Derek said. “They were hiding out in the swamps, lying in wait for us, stealing our goods. A lot of lives were lost. Bond and his men were hired to accompany us.”
“And?”
“We had no more trouble with the pirates,” he said tersely.
“I should think you’d be grateful to him.”
“Bond and his men were as bad as the pirates. No discipline at all, as rowdy a band of ruffians as I’ve ever encountered. As soon as the pirates had been routed, he set up his own smuggling operation in direct competition with ours, stole some of our key men, damn near wrecked our business.”
I thought that highly enterprising of him, but I knew it would be unwise to say so. I could see how Derek—so stern, so responsible, so conscious of background and duty and appearances—would clash with an irreverent rogue like Bond. Derek took himself very seriously, and I doubted that Bond had a serious bone in his body. He was unquestionably a scamp, but, however ruthless he might be, I couldn’t believe he was a true villain. Even Derek had spoken highly of his valor.
“Are you finished?” Derek asked.
I nodded, pushing the coffee cup aside.
“We’d better go then. If I stay here much longer I might just march over there and punch his face in.”
“You do hate him, don’t you?”
Derek didn’t answer. He paid the bill and led me toward the foyer, his gray eyes expressionless. Men and women stared again as I passed in the luxuriant red gown, but I paid no attention to the stares this time. In fact, I rather hoped Jeremy Bond was staring. Derek might not appreciate the gown, but I knew full well Bond would. Resisting an impulse to glance toward his table, I held Derek’s arm, feeling much better than I had earlier.
As we stepped into the foyer, the front door opened, and a heavyset man with thick blond hair entered. He was of medium height, in formal attire, his complexion ruddy, his blue eyes friendly. He removed his cloak and checked it, smiling at the attendant, and then he turned and saw us. His lips parted in surprise.
“Hawke!” he exclaimed.
He smiled again, eyes full of pleasure, and hurried over to take Derek’s hand in a firm grip. Derek seemed genuinely pleased to see him. They shook hands, and then Derek introduced me. The man’s name was Stephen Howard. He was in his early forties, his attractive face pleasantly lined.
“I didn’t know you were in New Orleans,” Derek remarked.
“Nor I you,” Howard replied. “You disappeared after the trial. No one knew what had happened to you.”
“I had business here.”
“As do I. Politics. Intrigue. A diplomat’s life is never easy. We hope to secure the loyalty and support of the territory, but I fear there’s a shocking amount of sympathy with the rebels. How long have you been here?”
“Ever since the trial.”
“Just arrived a couple of weeks ago myself. I say, if you’ve been in America all this time you probably haven’t heard about your uncle.”
Derek was suddenly guarded. “What about him?”
“You don’t know then. He died. His heart. It happened only a few days after he lost the case. Your cousin Roger blames you. The chap’s extremely bitter, made all kinds of noise around London, vowed he was going to—” Howard cut himself short, realizing he was being indiscreet. “I—uh—perhaps we could discuss it later,” he said.
“I’d like to hear about it now,” Derek told him. “In privacy. We’ll take one of the rooms and you can tell me while you dine.”
“Your, uh, lovely bride-to-be might find it rather upsetting.”
“I’m sending her home. Marietta, the doorman will summon our carriage. The driver will see you to the door. You’ll be all right.”
“But—”
Derek fetched my cloak and put it over my shoulders. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he said brusquely. “Don’t wait up for me.”
Howard seemed slightly embarrassed by Derek’s abruptness. He gave me an apologetic smile. The two men moved toward the archway, leaving me standing alone, disturbed, feeling abandoned. What had his cousin Roger said? What had he vowed? I felt a terrible alarm, and I resented Derek’s abandoning me like this, like … like I was a piece of excess baggage. He could have made an appointment to see Howard later. He could at least have seen me safely home and then returned to the restaurant.
Two couples came inside, the men in their fifties, silver-haired and richly attired, the women lush, lovely creoles with dark, creamy complexions and shining brown eyes. One wore ivory velvet, the other pale gold silk, and their perfume scented the air, musky and exotic. All four of them gave me curious looks, no doubt wondering what I was doing standing here alone, obviously upset about something. They went on into the restaurant, the heady perfume lingering in the air. From behind the recessed booth the check-out attendant gave me a curious look, too.
Unaccompanied women did not linger in the foyer of Damon’s, her eyes seemed to say. It wasn’t done.
Frowning, I stepped outside and spoke to the doorman. He hurried away to see to the carriage. I was angry, upset, filled with a variety of conflicting emotions. I had told Derek all about Will Hart and the man in the bulky navy blue coat, and he had said I was not to go out alone again. Yet he sent me away without hesitation, at nighttime, too, without giving a moment’s thought to any possible danger. What if Hart and his colleague had followed us to Damon’s? What if they were standing in the shadows right now, watching me, waiting? It was taking the doorman an inordinately long time to return. I was beginning to feel genuine alarm when the door opened behind me, and someone stepped outside.
“Ah, here you are,” Jeremy Bond said. “I was afraid I might have missed you. Are you ready to go?”
Six
He was wearing a long, beautifully cut black cloak lined with heavy white silk, the garment falling from his shoulders in rich folds that swept the ground. He smiled an engaging smile, as though this had all been arranged, and I couldn’t help but feel a rush of relief. I wasn’t about to let him suspect it, however. I looked at him with cool composure I was far from feeling.
“Just where do you think we’re going?” I inquired.
“I’m taking you home, of course. Can’t have you gadding about New Orleans alone, particularly at night. All sorts of villains abroad after the sun goes down.”
“The doorman is fetching our carriage. I’ll be quite all right, Mr. Bond. Lord Hawke would be very upset if he—”
“Damned ungallant of him, leaving you like that. I saw him coming back in with a heavyset blond chap, saw ’em go into one of the private rooms. Naturally, I thought he’d come back out in a minute or so. When he didn’t, I realized he must have left you to get home by yourself.”
“He and Mr. Howard had some important business to discuss.”
“Important business be damned. Man’s a bloody fool to leave you like this, particularly after what happened this afternoon. You told him about it, didn’t you?”
Love Me, Marietta Page 7