by Lisa Kleypas
“Philippe.” Alexandre took his shoulders and embraced him briefly. Like the other Vallerand males, Alex was tall and dark-haired, with a temperament that could be as charming as it was volatile. His eyes met Justin’s. He nodded briefly as if he saw what he had expected. “It is good to see you again—though I never expected to.”
Justin grinned at him, knowing Alexandre was not deceived. “You always were my favorite uncle, Alex.”
Craving attention, Henriette stepped between them and lifted her face pertly. “Shame, shame, Philippe, refusing to see anyone all these weeks! I’ve had no news to give my friends during Thursday coffees!”
“Forgive me,” Justin said, and laughingly placed a kiss on either side of her face. Henriette seemed to believe he really was Philippe. “Truly, there’s been nothing of interest to tell. I’ve done nothing but rest and submit to the expert nursing of my devoted wife.” He grinned down at Celia. He would have liked to slide an arm around her waist, but Philippe would not have made such a familiar gesture in public.
“Philippe, when you walked in you seemed to limp,” Henriette observed tactlessly. “Is it permanent?”
There was a split-second of silence, and Celia answered before Justin could. “It may be,” she said, looking pointedly at Henriette. “But it gives him a rather dashing air, don’t you think?”
Henriette flushed. “Oh yes, of course.”
Justin smiled at Celia as Alexandre dragged his wife away. “Little heart, I don’t need protecting,” he said softly.
“Empty-headed, gossipy hen,” Celia grumbled. “She is no credit to the Vallerand family.”
“Neither am I,” Justin said dryly, pulling her to the side of the room underneath one of the many large columned arches. The Vallerands stood in a small group and watched the dancers negotiate their way through a quadrille, their feet moving airily over the shining maple floor. Lysette smiled and conversed lightly with those who sought her attention while Maximilien became involved in a conversation with their host, George Duquesne.
Innumerable people approached Justin, men who wanted to hear the story of his escape from the pirates, women who made attempts to flirt with him, elderly matrons who asked his advice on how to treat their ailments. Celia was able to help with the latter, explaining that her husband was not yet well enough to resume his practice. Occasionally she hinted at remedies for them to try. There were many things she had learned from being a doctor’s daughter, and she was thankful that her memory was excellent when it came to such matters.
Realizing, that the evening was progressing smoothly, Celia began to relax. No one seemed to suspect Justin. His imitation of Philippe was perfect, down to the way he stood with his thumbs hooked in his coat pockets, and the way he caught at his lower lip with his teeth just before he smiled. Because of his height, he often inclined his head when talking with people. Philippe had always been like that, approachable, ingratiating, striving to make himself accessible to everyone. It was not like Justin, who usually didn’t care if he intimidated others.
Celia found herself studying Justin quizzically, realizing that she preferred him as himself. She missed his free laugh and sardonic comments, and his wont to say and do the unexpected. Philippe would have adored a gathering such as this, while she knew that if Justin had the choice, he would rather be alone with her. Guiltily she banished the disloyal thoughts. Glancing around the room, she found her attention drawn to a figure in the distance, a man standing by a window built into the wall between the ballroom and the dining room.
His face was turned toward her. He was as thin as a blade, and as well-dressed as any of the other gentlemen present, but she found him somehow sinister. The he flashed a jagged smile at her. Cold terror squeezed her heart until it stopped beating.
The room swayed around her. Forgetting herself, she tried to wheeze Justin’s name, but sound was impossible. Suddenly Justin was in front of her, his large hands gripping her arms. He stared at her waxen face. “Celia?” he murmured. “Celia, what is it?” He had to bend his head to hear the whisper that came from her shaking lips.
“Legare.”
Immediately Justin turned his head and surveyed the room, but he could see nothing. Celia looked as well. The hideous apparition was gone. She tried to recover herself, but her mind was whirling.
Maximilien joined them, his golden eyes alert. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“I don’t know,” Justin said frankly, holding Celia steady.
“Get her out of here before she attracts any more attention. The French doors lead to the outside gallery. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Justin complied, clamping his arm around Celia’s shoulders as he guided her outside. The night air was cold and tranquil. They were surrounded by darkness as they retreated to the lee of one of the immense columns. He forced her chin up, looking into her terrified eyes.
“I s-saw Dominic Legare,” she babbled. “I saw him in there, st-standing, looking at me. He…he smiled at me. You must believe me, he…he is here—”
“You’ve been thinking about him a great deal lately,” Justin said calmly, sliding his hand to the back of her neck. He felt the tremors that shook her entire frame. “Is it possible you saw someone who looks like him?”
“No, it was him! He is somewhere nearby, right now, I know it was him! Justin, please believe me, you must—”
“All right,” he said, pulling her body into the shelter of his. He held her protectively. “Breathe deeply, petite, and try to calm yourself.”
“No, we must—”
“Shhh. Be quiet.”
She buried her face in his chest and felt her wild panic fade as his body warmed hers. “I’m here,” Justin murmured. “He won’t hurt you. No one will hurt you.” Her frantic breaths slowed, and Justin’s arms loosened.
Maximilien’s voice interrupted them. “Explain, Justin.”
“Dominic Legare is here,” Justin said grimly. “She saw him in the ballroom.” Had he not been so worried he would have laughed at the sudden astonishment on his father’s face, an expression Max rarely wore.
“Describe him,” Max said tersely.
“Lean and of medium height, with reddish-brown hair worn in a queue.”
Celia pushed herself away from Justin, adding unsteadily, “A-and a smile like a shark.”
Justin gave a short huff of laughter, recalling Legare’s pointed teeth. “An apt description.”
Max was frowning. “That sounds like Antoine Bayonne. A friend of George Duquesne, a French planter. He also has dealings with some of the richest merchants in the city. On occasion I’ve talked to him myself. He is an intelligent man with a sharp wit.”
“I’m not familiar with the name,” Justin said.
“Bayonne first appeared in New Orleans four—no, five years ago. Since then he has established himself with the Duquesnes and a few other Creole families.”
Justin regarded him intently. “Have you seen him here tonight?”
“Not yet, but I can inquire of Duquesne…” Max paused and asked in a dangerously soft voice, “Do you mean that the man who caused my son’s death may be within reach at this moment?”
Before Justin could reply, a young woman’s voice called from the French doors. “Dr. Vallerand? Dr. Vallerand, are you outside?”
Justin glanced at Max and Celia, then stepped out from behind the column. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely, facing the young woman. It was Amalie Duquesne, George’s eldest daughter.
“Dr. Vallerand,” she said tearfully, “ma mère sent me to find you. It is my little brother Paul—he has been ill all day and has suddenly become much worse. We have sent for Dr. Dassin, but until he arrives you must do something for Paul. He is upstairs. Maintenant, you must see him.”
Justin stared at her, began to say something, but then bit the words off. He raked his hand through his hair. “It would be better to wait for Dassin,” he said curtly.
The girl shook her head wildly. “Non,
non, Paul may die! He is coughing until he cannot breathe. Dr. Vallerand, you must come upstairs and do something for him!”
Celia emerged from the darkness and stood by Justin’s side. She was pale but controlled. “Have you tried a steam kettle?” she asked. “Have him inhale the steam until—”
“We have tried that for hours,” Amalie replied. “It has not helped at all.”
Celia and Justin stared at each other. They would have to do what they could until Dr. Dassin arrived. There was no other choice. “Bien, take us upstairs to your brother, Amalie,” Celia said, forcing thoughts of Legare to the back of her mind.
They proceeded in silence to the sickroom. Celia recognized what was wrong soon after she began to look at the listless boy. He had a hacking cough that sounded like croup, a thready pulse, and a bluish pallor. She had seen these same symptoms years before when the illness had spread among the children of a village near her home. She had gone with her father on many of his rounds. A telltale membrane formed in the back of the throat, in the worst cases sealing it off until the child could not breathe at all.
Paul, a boy of not more than four or five years, seemed unaware of her presence. He coughed weakly and began to choke. Celia realized with dread that they could not wait for Dr. Dassin. She knew what had to be done. She had seen her father perform the procedure, a technique he had learned from a talented surgeon in Paris. But she had not had any medical training, and there was every chance she would hurt more than help.
Paul’s breath rattled harshly. Madame Duquesne broke into frightened sobs. “Oh, Dr. Vallerand, you must help my little boy, I beg of you—”
“Madame,” Celia said, gathering her courage. Something had to be done or the boy would suffocate before her eyes. “I believe my husband would like you to bring a very sharp knife and a piece of hollow cane, just a short length, perhaps two inches.”
Madame Duquesne looked at her with wide eyes and then glanced at Justin. He nodded shortly, and the woman fled to fetch the articles. As soon as she left the room, Justin was at the side of the bed, pushing the child’s hair back and staring into the small, sickly face as the boy struggled to breathe.
Carefully Celia poured water from the hot kettle into the wash basin. “They should have sent for the doctor sooner,” she said in English. “Perhaps he will arrive before we have to do anything.”
“I know Dassin,” Justin said, stripping off the foul-smelling poultice the Duquesnes had placed on the boy’s chest. He used a handkerchief to wipe it clean. “Cantankerous old man. He delivered Philippe and me. Though I doubt he would count that among his most distinguished achievements.”
Celia gave him a despairing glance. “Justin, I…don’t know if I can do this.”
“Then tell me what to do.”
Celia hesitated and shook her head. “No, I’ve seen it done before. If I can just remember how my father…” She concentrated, her brow furrowing.
“He’s not breathing at all,” Justin said tersely, giving the small shoulders a shake. The child was unconscious.
Celia’s brain began a swift, methodical ticking. Madame Duquesne burst into the room, and Celia herded her back, taking the knife and snippet of bamboo from her. “Dr. Vallerand requires privacy,” she said firmly. “Please, madame, allow him just a minute or two.”
“Oui, if that is what he wishes, but I would rather stay and—”
“A minute or two,” Celia repeated, and gently urged her out of the room, closing the door behind her. She washed her hands, the knife, and the hollow tube, and sat on the bed. Justin tilted the child’s head back until his neck was fully exposed. Celia’s hand hovered over it with the knife, trembling slightly. She did not want to cut him in the wrong place, perhaps open a vein and be forced to watch as he bled to death.
“Go on,” Justin said quietly.
She whispered a prayer, then made an incision near the base of his throat. There was a small spurt of blood, and she worked the cane into the puncture. She bit her lip until it ached. Suddenly there was an indrawn rush of air through the tube. Frozen, Celia watched and listened, assuring herself that the breathing would continue unhindered. “Thank God,” she said, and shuddered with relief.
Justin released the breath he had been holding and wiped away the streaks of blood. “What now?” he asked.
“The cane will allow him to breathe until his throat clears. In one or two days it can be removed. It should heal quickly…that is, if he survives the rest of the illness.”
There was a fluttering knock at the door, and Madame Duquesne’s voice. “Dr. Vallerand? Dr. Dassin has arrived.”
Dassin strode into the room with his medical bag. He was a small but distinguished man with an intimidating presence. His clothes were old-fashioned: knee breeches, a long floral waistcoat, and a narrow-shouldered frock coat. A gray bob wig was settled on his head. His sharp gray eyes went from Celia to Justin. Justin stared at him without blinking, knowing that Philippe and Dassin had been close friends.
Some glint of hope, anticipation, went out of the doctor’s eyes, and he sighed somewhat bitterly. He went to the bed and examined Celia’s handiwork, smiling reassuringly as Paul awakened. “Ah…c’est bein…do not try to talk, mon fils.” He glanced at Celia and Madame Duquesne. “Il va bien—all is well for now. It would seem that Dr. Vallerand has the situation well in hand. Perhaps the ladies would leave us for a few moments to discuss the diagnosis?”
Celia looked at the old doctor warily as she washed her hands. Reluctantly she complied with his request, following Madame Duquesne outside the room and closing the door. Dassin opened his medical bag and rifled through it idly. “I was foolish enough to hope that I would indeed find Philippe Vallerand here tonight,” he said in his rusty voice. “But I am not like the crowd of fools downstairs who have not seen through your ruse. You and Philippe were born into my hands. I have never had difficulty in telling the two of you apart.”
“Congratulations,” Justin said sardonically.
“Your brother was a healer. It was his love and calling. You, however—” The doctor broke off and gave a mirthless laugh. “I should have expected that you would outlive him. Bad blood. In your case it came to fruition, eh?”
“Evidently.”
“After your mother’s death I found it interesting to observe how the years of neglect caused Philippe to strive for better things, while you became nothing but a callous bully. Philippe attempted many times to convince me of your latent virtues, although I was always skeptical.”
“Are you going to keep quiet about my identity?” Justin asked impatiently, seeing no reason to dance around the question.
“Oui. But only for Philippe’s sake. I believe he would have preferred it.”
Justin went to the door. “It is fortunate for me that Philippe was well-loved by so many people.” With that, he left to find Celia.
She was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. “Does he know?” she asked.
“I’m beginning to wonder who doesn’t.”
“Will Dassin keep our secret?”
“He said he would. For Philippe’s sake.” Justin scowled and raked his hands through his hair.
“What is wrong? What did he say to you?”
Justin looked at her with narrowed blue eyes. “It’s not important.”
She studied him for a moment. In spite of his blank façade, she sensed the bleakness he felt, the guilt and hopelessness. “He reminded you of the past, didn’t he?” she asked softly. “But the past doesn’t matter anymore.” She took his arm and tugged him to a secluded corner. Standing on her toes, she wrapped her arms around him and brushed a kiss on his lean cheek. He and Philippe had been deserted by their mother and then neglected by their embittered father. How could a child not rebel in such circumstances? Being the stronger-willed of the two, Justin had been more in need of discipline and attention than Philippe, and had suffered more from its absence. “Everything is different now. Nothing you do will make me sto
p loving you or believing in you, nothing—”
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, his mouth urgent. She pressed herself against him while he caught at her lips with softly biting kisses. “I love you,” he said raggedly, pressing his forehead against hers. “God, I hate this feeling of having so much to lose. If I could have you for the rest of my life, I’d never ask for anything else.”
“Justin,” she said weakly, and with a groan he let go of her before his desire for her flared out of control. They stared at each other with frustrated love and need.
Justin sighed tautly. “We should go downstairs. By now Father probably has Bayonne held at swordpoint. God knows, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything this night has in store for us.”
Reluctantly Celia nodded and took his proffered arm, allowing him to lead her down the curved walnut stairway. As they reached the central section of the house with its twenty-five-foot ceiling and large chandelier, Celia felt a warning chill that echoed what she had felt in the ballroom. She knew Legare was near, even before she saw him standing at the figured bronze clock which had been placed on a wooden lacquered table. It was a minute or two past midnight. Justin’s arm turned to steel beneath Celia’s fingertips. He stared at Legare’s sharp-featured face.
Legare was the first to speak. “Dr. Vallerand.” He drew out the name with cool enjoyment. His uneven teeth showed in a smile. “I have been looking for you.”
Chapter 11
Justin stared at Legare without expression. “Antoine Bayonne, isn’t it?”
Celia was vaguely aware of people crossing through the hall, music, dancing, and the laughter of the guests. All of them were unaware that the two most wanted buccaneers in the Gulf were holding a casual conversation in their midst. She stared at Legare while images flashed before her…the deck of the ship, covered with bodies…Philippe’s blood-soaked back…Andre’s bloated face…
“Go, Celia,” Justin said quietly, prying her hand from his arm. “It’s all right. Go to Maximilien.”