For the convenience of its guests, the Royal Victoria boasted large, fresh-water bathrooms. Leaving her room, Lorna went in search of them with her wrapper over her arm and a bar of castile soap in her hand. They were located on the south side of the building, at the end of a long walk along the railed verandas and over a long bridge to an adjoining building. Fitted with zinc tubs encased in mahogany, they were most luxurious when finally reached. An attendant filled the tub with heated water and laid out towels before drawing a curtain around the bathing alcove and leaving Lorna in privacy.
She soaked for long moments, letting the warmth of the water seep into her muscles, draining away tension and sundry small aches, floating away the invisible encrustation on her skin left from saltwater bathing while aboard the ship. Sitting up at last, she soaped herself with the fresh-scented soap, rubbing the lather into her skin, reveling in the cleanliness. Last of all, she wet her hair and worked a rich lather through the tresses dulled by fatigue and salt-laden mists. She had several hours yet before she must be ready, and she did not intend to hurry.
It might have been better if she had. When Ramon returned to the hotel some time later, she was still struggling with the myriad small hooks that closed the back of the pearl silk gown. She opened the door to him with one hand twisted behind her to hold the back from gaping wide, keeping the décolletage from failing open. There was temper in her gray eyes and a flush on her cheeks from her efforts.
"Ready?" he inquired, his gaze resting on her face, his tone light.
"Do I look it?" The words were indignant, and she swung to give him a glimpse of her problem before turning back again. "I was just going to ring for the maid."
"Perhaps I can be of service." Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him. He placed his high-crowned hat, cane, and gloves to one side, then put his hands on her shoulders and wheeled her gently around in her wide skirts, so that her back was to him.
It wasn't, fair, the wave of weakness that moved over her at his touch. His fingers were warm against her skin, his movements quick and accomplished. As an antidote to the sensations that gripped her, she said, "You are very good at this; you must have had practice."
He stopped, his knuckles resting against her back just above her camisole. "A bit."
"More than a bit, I would say." She felt as if she were drowning in the spicy aroma of the bay rum he had used to counter the burn of his straight-edged razor.
There was lazy amusement in his voice as he answered, and his fingers began to move again, though with a slower, more lingering touch. "Feeling waspish, are you? You needn't fret; the Lansings will welcome you, just as they have hundreds of others in the past few months."
"Especially the Lansing sisters?"
"Charlotte and Elizabeth are charming young ladies. I think you will like them, and I see no reason why they shouldn't be good friends to you."
"No doubt, since you ask it!" She seemed driven to jibe at him, irritated as much as affected by his warm breath brushing across her shoulders.
He fastened the last hook, then catching her forearm, swung her to face him. "What is the matter with you? So what if you are invited tonight for my sake? You need these people to help you make a fresh start here, the right kind of beginning that will lead to a respectable alliance."
"Respectable? Are you sure? Mrs. Carstairs, this afternoon, wasn't so certain I was respectable, simply because I was with you! What do you intend to tell the Lansings to account for the fact that you are paying my bills? That I'm your sister, or maybe your cousin? And do you actually think they will believe you?" She had not been aware of the doubts festering inside of her until they came spilling out under the pressure of anger.
He scowled. "I will say that you are the niece of an old friend, an orphan, single, of course, who was entrusted to my care in order to get you out of New Orleans before it fell to the Yankees. I can't think why the question of your expenses should arise, but if it does we can always say that I am handling your funds for you. Whether they believe it or not doesn't matter, so long as no one challenges the story."
"That's all well enough," she said with a scathing glance, "but why didn't my so convenient uncle make his escape with me?"
"He stayed behind to look after his holdings, naturally. Your aunt could not bear to leave him. Their own children are married, no longer at home. They were concerned for your safety whether you stayed or went, but with your beauty, your fervent belief in the cause, and your somewhat fiery nature, they feared you must draw the attention of the northern soldiers."
The irony in his last words was not lost on Lorna. "I was the most even-tempered of females-until I had the misfortune to meet you!"
For a fleeting instant, there was an expression in his eyes as if she had struck him. His voice was hard as he said, "With me out of your way soon, perhaps you will be again."
It seemed better to ignore that brief exchange. She whirled from him, searching for something to say and marveling, at the same time, at the thought he had given to the story they must tell. Moving to the washstand, she checked her appearance in the mirror, noting without surprise her flushed countenance and the darkness of her eyes. She tucked a tendril that had become dislodged back into place in her low chignon before she spoke again.
"Doesn't it bother you, foisting a murderess upon your friends?"
"For the last time, you are no murderess," he answered with aggravation, taking a swift step toward her, grasping her arm to swing her around to face him. "It was an accident and you are not to blame. Let it go. Forget it."
"I…I can't," she said, her voice low. "It's always there at the back of my mind, in my dreams."
"You can, and you will, if I have anything to do with it." He gave her a small shake, his grip tightening, his thumbs smoothing over the silk-clad roundness of her arms.
She lifted her lashes and, placing her hands against his chest, stepped back, straining to break his hold. Her voice low, she said, "But, it isn't your affair, is it?"
He retained his grasp, his gaze resting on the tender curves of her mouth for the space of a long-drawn breath. Abruptly, he released her. "No, it isn't."
What had she expected? More to the point, what had she wanted? She pushed the knowledge from her, removing herself from proximity to him with a fierce twist. Gliding with self-conscious grace to the washstand, she picked up her fan and the drawstring purse that lay ready, containing her room key and a handkerchief. Lifting her head, she said, I am ready."
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Chapter 9
As promised, Ramon had hired a carriage to transport them to the Lansing home. Of the type known as a victoria, its hood had been let down, so that they rode in the open, enjoying the mild night air. The man on the box sent the vehicle along at a sedate pace. Their progress took them in an easterly direction along quiet, shady streets above the harbor, beyond the reach of the few gas street lamps newly installed near the town square. On the right, rising high due to the upward slope, were large houses with lamplight gleaming through the jalousies that covered the windows beneath the wide verandas, while on the left snaked a high limestone wall that concealed the rear gardens of the houses along the lower side of the street. Soft voices called in the night, music played, and the heady smell of citrus trees in bloom mingled with the scent of dust.
Lorna cast a glance at the man beside her. In the light of the carriage lamps, he appeared virile and darkly attractive. For the first time, she had leisure to note his well-cut evening clothes of black broadcloth with a waistcoat of cream-colored satin and a gray cravat gleaming against the pristine white of his shirt. Aloof, preoccupied, he gazed out into the night.
She looked away again, her attention caught by the clatter of a carriage coming toward them. As it drew even, she stiffened, staring straight ahead; then, as it moved past, she turned in her seat to stare after it. Swinging back to Ramon, she exclaimed, "That was a naval officer, a federal naval officer!"
; "So it was."
"I know this island is under British control, and therefore neutral, but it seems so odd to see one going peacefully about his business, when others like him were trying to kill us only a few days ago."
"It's odder than you think. I expect the man is on official business with the governor this evening. Ordinarily, the United States Navy isn't too popular with either the officials or the citizens of the Bahamas."
"It isn't? Why is that?" It was a relief to hear the even tone of his voice, which seemed to indicate his willingness to forget their quarrel earlier.
"Several reasons, first among them being that Nassau harbor itself is very nearly in a state of blockade, with the federal ships attempting to stop vessels of foreign registry coming in from Europe, as well as those going out toward the southern ports-anything they can catch beyond neutral waters. For another, there is the Trent affair. A Federal naval captain by the name of Wilkes boarded the British mail steamer the Trent on the high seas and took into custody two Confederate diplomats who had been sailing out of Havana to their posts, one in France, the other in Britain. England came close to recognizing the Confederacy out of outrage over federal tampering with Her Majesty's vessel. The last reason is simply that without the South, and the blockade runners that supply its armies and its people, Nassau would be little more than a sleepy town on a sand spit in the middle of the ocean, where the descendants of pirates, wreckers, and American loyalists try to eke out a living."
"So, you aren't forced to associate with Federals every day?"
"You think that would trouble me?" he asked, turning his head, so that his dark gaze caught and held hers. "Why should it? I've known some of them since my academy days, and met others during my years in the Mediterranean. They are men, no more, no less. I've talked to one or two who said that, if they weren't assigned under orders to the blockading fleet, they would like to be commanding a cotton runner themselves."
She turned her gaze forward, staring at the back of the driver. "You make it sound so reasonable-so civilized. How does it come about that men like you, and those back there, are killing each other?"
"An idea, nothing more or less. That's the usual basis for war."
"It's a stupid reason!" she cried.
"So it is, but ideas are what make the difference between existing and living; why should men not die for them?"
"Some do," she said before she could stop herself. "And then some live and die for gain."
She thought he would argue with her, would remind her of the use he would make of the money he acquired. Instead, he pressed his lips together in a firm line, turning away.
They did not speak again until the carriage had pulled up before a terraced Palladian mansion. Newly built, the home of Edward Lansing and his family was set in the midst of tropical vegetation that had not yet been tamed into the English idea of a garden, despite evidence of efforts in that direction. A groom in tailcoat and white gloves waited to hand them down, then passed them into the keeping of the dignified footman who stood on the landing before the house.
Edward Lansing was one of any number of Englishmen who had seen the opportunity inherent in the conflict in the United States and had moved to take advantage of it. Many of the investors had formed into companies and sent out representatives to look after their interests. Lansing had decided to oversee his particular venture himself; once his fortune was made, he could always return to London, taking up the place among the gentry to which his birth entitled him, though in considerably improved circumstances. In the meantime, he and his family were not adverse to being the leading social arbiters of life in the fast-growing tropical port; they were considered second only to the governor and his lady. Mrs. Lansing enjoyed her role as a hostess whose cards of invitation were much sought after, and the daughters of the house were, quite naturally, in demand.
This much Ramon had made plain during the voyage out from New Orleans, but he had not prepared her for the Lansing scale of hospitality. The butler, correctly stiff, with collar and cravat starched and white enough to do credit to a lord, bowed and welcomed Ramon with dignified familiarity before escorting them to the massive front door where he gave them into the hands of the butlers who waited in the front hall. That worthy, in the evening wear of an old-fashioned gentleman, took their names and ushered them toward the reception room.
The floors of the entrance hall were of polished marble checkered black and white; the walls were plastered and frescoed with scenes of palm trees, blue seas, and old Spanish galleons. A winding, unsupported staircase curved upward into the private reaches of the house. To the right was a library, plunged in gloom, while to the left was the brightly lighted room, hung with yellow silk and with floors of polished parquet studded with flowered Brussels carpets, where the dinner guests were gathering.
As they paused in the doorway, their names were shouted to all and sundry. There formality ended, for hard on the call came a girlish squeal, and a young woman, whirling in her enormously wide skirts of pale green muslin, turned and bore down upon Ramon.
She was a minx; that could be seen with half an eye. Her hair, of an unremitting shade of red, was drawn back in a style that was much too sophisticated for her age and piquant features. Her eyes of sherry-brown were tilted in her face, and her smile was saucy, displaying no hint of uncertainty over the sincerity of her welcome.
"Ramon," she cried, "I could not believe it when Papa said you were to come tonight! You have been away so long I was afraid you were feeding the fishes on the ocean bottom."
"What a revolting idea," he chided her, though there was affection in his eyes as he reached out to take her hands. Lorna, watching, thought his gesture was as much to keep the girl from flinging herself into his arms as part of the undoubted warmth of his greeting.
"So Elizabeth tells me," the girl admitted. "She says I am without sensibility, but I think it better to laugh at such things, for the more one dreads the worst, the more likely it is to happen! Don't you find it so?"
"Always," he agreed lightly, then turned to Lorna, performing the necessary introductions. When the acknowledgements had been made, gracefully on Lorna's part, but with mere politeness on that of Charlotte Lansing, Ramon asked, "And where is your father, and your sister?"
"Oh, Papa is strolling on the terrace, talking business with the charming Mr. Lafitt from Trenholm and Fraser and Company. I am pledged to go and break it up at any moment, since word has come from the kitchens that dinner will be done to perfection in five minutes. And here is Elizabeth."
Trenholm and Fraser, the name was familiar. Searching her mind, Lorna thought she recalled a southern import-export company by that name. Though based on the Atlantic seaboard, it was such a large operation that its stencil markings were often seen on boxes and barrels on the New Orleans wharfs. It made sense that the firm would be actively involved in the running of goods through the blockade.
"How delightful to have you back among us, Ramon," the second Lansing sister said as she approached. Her voice was smooth, bell-like in its tone, a perfect complement to her impeccable appearance. A dark beauty, she was consciously elegant, her manner cool. Her hair was waved back from a center parting and drawn up into a Psyche knot. The gown she wore was of pale blue silk, with a wide band of tartan plaid in green, blue, and black caught over one shoulder, held by a brooch at the waist, then failing over her flaring skirts in a style made popular by Queen Victoria's enchantment with Balmoral.
Her words were echoed by a tall, blonde Englishman who sauntered up to them in Elizabeth's wake. "By all that's holy, it's grand to see you again. We heard of the fall of New Orleans and suspected you would be embroiled in that fiasco, one way or another."
"You heard?" Lorna exclaimed. "But how?"
The dark blue gaze of the blonde-haired man rested upon her with interest. "By wire to Washington, then by ship and signal through the blockading fleet, which couldn't wait until we had heard of it here. Ramon, old man, aren't you going to mak
e me known to this charming creature?"
"I wouldn't if I could avoid it," Ramon said with grim amusement, "but since that's impossible-Lorna, may I present, first of all, Elizabeth Lansing, and also Peter Balmoral, otherwise known as Captain Harris."
Lorna greeted the couple, then glancing from one man to the other, queried, "Otherwise?"
"My nom de guerre," the Englishman said, inclining his head, "though a worse-kept secret would be hard to imagine."
"I'm not sure I understand."
It was Ramon who enlightened her. "Peter is on furlough from the Royal Navy. Since England is officially neutral, his capture as a blockade runner would be an embarrassment to Her Majesty's government. That being so, he sails under an assumed name, with the agreement that he will expect no aid if he runs into trouble."
"Don't look so concerned," Peter said quickly. "Neither I nor any of the other chaps like me intends to be caught in a Yankee trap."
Charlotte, her voice subdued, said, "I'm sure none of the men who have gone aground, been captured or sunk, intended it to end that way either."
"I think it is time you fetched Papa," her elder sister said, a slight frown marring her features. The younger girl's face flushed scarlet in embarrassment for the gaffe she had made in speaking seriously of death in front of men who faced it each time they went to sea; still, she was not ready to leave them. As she opened her lips to protest, however, Elizabeth lifted a brow, and Charlotte flounced away to do her bidding.
"Could we talk of something more cheerful?" Peter said, his
tone plaintive, though ready amusement lurked in the depths of his eyes. "For instance, Elizabeth, who it is you have to entertain us tonight?"
"I trust he will not disappoint; I considered that our guests might be weary of the usual tenors and string quartets," she answered, going on to tell them of a man from one of London's most famous music halls, one noted for his wit as well as his singing voice. In honor of the southern cause, he would be giving them a medley of ballads by Stephen Foster. They spoke of minstrel shows and favorite tunes, of showboats on the Mississippi River and the French opera house in New Orleans, of London's Covent Garden and the Victoria Theater. The conversation was interesting, but so disparaging was the young Englishwoman's smile at the mention of American entertainment, so animated her attitude when speaking of that of her own country, that Lorna was relieved when dinner was announced.
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