by Danice Allen
“Well, my imagination is quite stretched to the limit,” said Katherine pleasantly, but with a thread of steel in her voice. She lent her considerable influence to hasten Jeffrey’s departure by standing up as well.
With both of Anne’s tall guardians hovering near, Jeffrey wisely moved toward the door. “Well, good-bye, then,” he said to Anne. “I hope that little scratch won’t keep you away from the theater. And the Taylors’ ball is on Friday. Will I see you there?”
“I don’t know, Jeffrey,” Anne said doubtfully, lifting her hand in a brief farewell. She really wasn’t sure how she felt about going out in public in the near future, but there was one thing she was quite sure of. She couldn’t tolerate another tête-à-tête with Jeffrey. He had ruined her trust in him. Their friendship was over.
“So good of you to come, Jeffrey,” said Katherine, herding him into the vestibule. Soon after that Anne heard the door close, and her aunt came back into the parlor. While Jeffrey was being shown out, Reggie had continued to stand over Anne. She felt his concerned gaze like a tangible thing. Katherine moved to stand beside Reggie. Anne looked up at her two loving relatives, worry etching lines in their kind faces.
“You knew he was lying, didn’t you? So you took pity on me and threw him out by his coattails.”
“It was my pleasure,” said Reggie dryly. “I’ve been longing to throw him out from the first.” He paused, then very gently added, “It’s quite natural for you to feel disillusioned, you know.”
“Please don’t fret about me,” she said softly. “I’ll get over it.” Though she was holding back tears, Anne grinned ruefully. “Thank you, Uncle Reggie, for not saying, ‘I told you so.’”
“My dear girl, did you really think I would?”
Anne ducked her head, the tears too close now for concealment. Reggie’s pristine-white, neatly folded handkerchief suddenly appeared in her lap. Through her blurry vision, she saw it, picked it up, and dabbed away the tears.
“I’m such a watering pot,” she complained, blowing her nose.
“It was you who warned Renard, wasn’t it, Anne?” asked Katherine.
“It was, but that’s not why I’m so upset. I’m upset because—”
“Because Jeffrey lied to impress you, to impress the people at the paper, and to make himself out a hero—like Renard. His ambition has cost him his integrity,” said Reggie.
“It cost him your friendship, too, I’ll wager,” said her aunt sadly. “I was fooled, too. I thought him a much better sort of chap.”
“I wish now,” said Anne, lifting her misty eyes to look at her unde, “that I’d come down to see Delacroix as you wanted me to.”
“Why, love?”
“Because he’s certainly more of a hero than Jeffrey. Despite his wastrel ways, he’s proven to be much more honorable, hasn’t he?”
There seemed to be no need to respond to the obvious truth of this statement, and, after a pause, Reggie said, “Do you agree with me, Anne, that you ought to stay at home for the next few days, refusing visitors? We can tell people you’ve got a head cold or some such thing. You need the time to recuperate from all this tomfoolery, and that way we can also avoid having to tell the dressing table fib to half of New Orleans. I must say, it will get rather tiresome explaining your injury. In a week, you can cover the wound with some cosmetics and arrange your hair to hide it, as Sarah attempted today.”
His eyes widened, as if he’d hit on a wonderful idea. “In fact, why don’t all three of us hibernate for a while? We can be a cozy family of three. I know I could use a little respite from society.” He looked—rather shyly, Anne drought—to Katherine for her reaction.
Katherine was pink with pleasure. Her eyes sparkled. Apparently the idea of holing up with Reggie for a week didn’t strike the chord of terror it might have done just a month or so before. “I should be delighted to hibernate for a while,” Katherine admitted. Reggie beamed. “But I must make one exception,” she said. “I never miss my visit with Madame Tussad. I must go and see her this Saturday, just as I always do. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Reggie, trying not to grin too broadly. He turned to Anne, as if just remembering that she had a vote to cast as well. “Anne?”
“Agreed,” she said, smiling.
She needed time, too, she realized. Time to rethink all her prior conceptions and biases about people, about appearances. Time to untangle the mixed images of scoundrels and heroes, emerald rings and black masks. Time to relive last night, every whispered endearment, every caress as Renard made love to her in the dark.
Time to figure out what that night of bliss with Renard really meant in her life, or if it would ultimately mean nothing at all. She had no guarantees she would ever see him again, much less be held in his arms. Such uncertainty was difficult to bear, especially since the thing she wanted most in the world was Renard’s arms around her once more.
Lucien was drawn to Katherine’s house like a magnet. She had sent word through Madame Tussad that she and Reggie were going to keep Anne at home for a few days, but Lucien yearned to see Anne again—even if only from a distance.
Until he confirmed his suspicions about the leak in his organization, and until his plans for Bodine’s downfall were firmly in place, he had intended to stay away from Anne for safety’s sake—both hers and his. But he couldn’t resist walking by the house late at night, sometimes waiting in the shadows across the street and hoping she’d appear at her bedroom window. And she did … twice. Both times for far too short a time to satisfy his overwhelming desire to see her.
He thought she looked wistful those nights as she leaned out and took deep breaths of the cool night air. He wondered, and hoped, that she was thinking of him. Or at least thinking of Renard … Did she hope he would climb the tree again and visit her bedchamber, make love to her right under the nose of her abigail sleeping in the next room? He was tempted. Oh, how he was tempted.
One day, feeling frustrated, he walked past the house in the morning. He didn’t expect to see her; he was only indulging a particularly intense urge to be near her. He was shocked when, just as he was about to cross the street and hurry away, she walked around the comer of the house carrying a basket of fresh-cut flowers.
They both stood completely still, their gazes locked across the long expanse of lawn that separated them. He wasn’t sure what would have happened if Katherine hadn’t rounded the same comer an instant later and taken Anne’s arm, leading her back toward the porch. Anne resisted, seeming to be explaining to Katherine that someone they knew was on the street and ought to be noticed.
Katherine turned and waved, cheerfully and dismissively, without slowing her ruthless march to the front door. “Can’t stop to chat, Delacroix,” she called. “Delightful morning, isn’t it? Goodbye!”
Lucien understood her determination to keep him and Anne apart, approved it, and fervently hated the necessity of it.
He bowed low, throwing Anne a kiss in a dashing, devil-may-care gesture worthy of Dandy Delacroix’s most roguish technique. She continued to stare at him, turning her head to watch him even as her aunt pulled her inexorably away. He smiled, tipped his hat, and sauntered away, hoping he looked breezy and carefree when inside his heart pounded like a trip-hammer.
Anne hibernated with her aunt and uncle for a week and a half. Many notes of regret were sent out each day as invitations were declined. Jeffrey came by every evening, and every evening he was sent away frustrated.
Anne enjoyed her seclusion but missed Renard dreadfully. She pined for him especially at night, when memories of their lovemaking drifted in on cool night breezes, caressing her skin as his hands had caressed her. One night, as she stood at the window, she felt as though he were outside watching her. She peered wistfully into the shadows, sending him a mute invitation with her eyes, then calling herself a fool when he never came. It was her imagination, she decided. Mere wishful thinking wouldn’t bring Renard back to her. Nothing wou
ld bring Renard back if he didn’t love her.
Anne read the newspapers eagerly, hoping for at least some word of him from that source, but he was keeping out of the news these days. Rumors were rife, and Anne suspected they were spawned and spread by Jeffrey. He was in his element, the toast of town since the story broke about his encounter with Renard. There was no proof to link him with the outlaw except for this one chance meeting, and he couldn’t be arrested for aiding and abetting an outlaw because the bounty hunters were not affiliated with the authorities.
Anne supposed it irked Jeffrey considerably to be denied the opportunity of talking over his popularity with her, but she hoped he’d find other, more willing female ears to listen to his boasts.
Anne saw Delacroix once as he was walking past the house. Aunt Katherine hurried her inside before they had a chance to exchange a single word, which Anne thought was rather odd. But Katherine made some excuse about avoiding everyone till they formally made their reentrance into the whirl of social activities.
But what was really odd about the brief encounter with Delacroix was Anne’s reaction. When she noticed him on the sidewalk in front of the house, she was stunned by how glad she was to see him. Her heart seemed to leap into her throat. He looked his usual self, very dapper in a russet jacket and black trousers, the rings on his fingers winking in the late morning sun, but he looked different, too. She felt no repugnance, not even when he threw her a kiss. She’d wanted to catch it and hold it to her heart.
By now Anne was sure she was as fickle a woman as ever walked the earth. How could she love Renard, yet still be so attracted to another man? Especially when that other man was a scoundrel.
As for Reggie and Katherine, Anne had never seen them happier. They whiled away their time playing cards, strolling in the yard, snipping dead heads off the rose bushes, reading poetry and travelogues, and generally getting along like two doves in a cote.
Now their occasional arguments were more the tolerant give-and-take of differing opinions, rather than the childish bickering of before. In fact, these disagreements gave spark and spice to their harmonious existence. They had learned to understand and respect each other. They were in love. She wondered how soon they’d acknowledge that fact to each other.
One day as Anne sat with them in the parlor, taking afternoon tea, Reggie sighed deeply and set down his cup with a clatter.
“What is it, Reginald?” asked Katherine.
“We have to go back out there, you know,” he replied glumly, casting his eyes wistfully about the room, his fond gaze resting finally on Katherine’s face. “All this peace and comfort has to end. Just thinking about it gives me a headache.”
Katherine echoed his sigh. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Madame Tussad tells me it’s rumored we have yellow fever in the house. A few cases have been reported in the city recently.”
“Good God!” said Reggie, appalled.
“So, before a few alarmists have us laid out in the parlor with our toes turned up, we’d better show our faces somewhere.”
“Well, I’m ready,” said Anne determinedly. “I’ve had plenty of time to pull myself together, and my wound is hardly noticeable.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Katherine. “Shall we go to the opera tonight?”
“Might as well,” said Reggie. “I can’t think of a better place to get such immediate and widespread exposure. Sitting in our box, all smiles and blooming health, ought to convince the populace we aren’t laid up with yellow fever.”
“I thought the fever came only in the summer, Aunt Katherine.”
“Generally it does. But we’ve had a very mild autumn. It could be a particularly hearty strain that’s been around for a while.”
“Well, I hope it stays far away from here,” said Reggie fervently, looking nervously at Anne. “I shouldn’t like to see you abed with such a malady, Anne.” His anxious gaze shifted to Katherine. “Or you.”
There was a wealth of feeling in those two simply spoken words. Flustered, Katherine hastily replied, “I haven’t had the fever once since moving to New Orleans. They say newcomers and the fair-skinned are the most susceptible, but I guess I’m too stubborn to succumb to it. Either that or my hide’s too thick for the disease-ridden mosquitoes to puncture it.”
“Thank God for that,” said Reggie solemnly, lifting his cup for another sip of tea, then pausing just before his lips touched the rim. “What will you wear, Katherine?”
Startled, laughing, Katherine inquired, “Where to, Reginald? My wake?”
“No. To the opera tonight. Perhaps your purple silk?”
Katherine blushed prettily. “Do you think it suits me?”
“Yes.”
Her lashes fluttered down, her thumb caressing the smooth china handle of her teacup in a distracted gesture. “Then of course I’ll wear it.”
Anne smiled to herself. She might have been a fly on the wall for all the notice her two guardians could spare her. Their eyes and thoughts were for each other. It made her feel wonderful watching people coming together in love. Wonderful and a little wistful. Would she have a happy ending, too?
Hat in hand, Lucien stood in the little parlor of his house on Rampart Street. He was dressed for the evening, decked out in his favorite black jacket and trousers, pristine white shirt with a few elegant ruffles, and a muted gray vest. Micaela stood opposite him, her arms crossed, smiling.
He felt tense. His business with Micaela was awkward.
Micaela sensed Lucien’s discomfort and broached the subject first. “You’ve come to say good-bye.” Her smile remained, relaxed and genuine.
He smiled back, relieved, sheepish. “Yes.” He paused. “You do understand, Micaela?”
“Completely, cher. I have been expecting this for some time.”
“Have you?”
“There is another woman.”
Lucien shifted nervously. “My life has become very complicated lately, Micaela. I can’t afford to have anything, or anyone, distracting me.”
Micaela laughed softly, stepped forward, and smoothed her hand along the sleek silk of his lapel. “But I so enjoyed distracting you the many months we were together. You were a wonderful lover. I hope you have not spoiled me for—”
“For your young, brawny smithy? I’m sure I haven’t. When two people love each other, experience is the least important aspect of lovemaking. Passion surpasses expertise, and expertise comes with time.”
“Your woman … she is lucky, Lucien.”
Lucien frowned, unnerved by the way Micaela kept referring to another woman in his life. How could Micaela be so sure of him, when he wasn’t even sure of himself? His business with Renard was far from over, and there were times when he wondered if he was ending the masquerade too soon. Had he done enough for the cause? More to the point, had he purged himself of the hate that had engulfed him since that summer twenty years ago when he’d been forced to beat his best friend with a whip?
“I will pray for you.”
Micaela’s words brought him back to the present. He smiled. “Do. I’m not sure how much influence I have with the saints these days.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and handed Micaela a small scroll of paper tied with a string. It was the deed to the house. Inside the paper was a wad of bank notes, enough money to open a substantial account for her and her new husband.
Completely unembarrassed, Micaela took the scroll and tucked it inside a pocket of her gown. She knew what it was, and, without glancing at the roll of money, she knew Lucien had been generous.
“We’ve had a good relationship, Micaela—a real friendship. There were times in the past year when I’d have gone completely crazy without you.”
Micaela smiled archly. “It was my pleasure, Lucien.”
He laughed, pinched her cheek, then gave her a brief, light kiss on the forehead. “God bless you, Micaela, with many children and many happy years with that young man of yours.”
&
nbsp; “The same good wishes for you, cher, wherever you go, whatever you do.”
Lucien recognized the undercurrent of concern in Micaela’s parting words. She understood so much, but he’d never once suspected her of leaking her suspicions about him to the wrong people. She was a remarkable woman in many ways. But she wasn’t Anne. No one was like Anne.
Micaela walked him to the door. He turned at the bottom of the walkway that connected with the banquette and waved. Her slim silhouette was outlined by the glow of candlelight behind her. He couldn’t see her face. She waved back, then closed the door.
Lucien stepped into his carriage, and the driver immediately set the horses to a lively trot. He was meeting Bodine at the opera, the two of them to sit together in Bodine’s box like best friends. Tonight he was planting the seed for the blackguard’s downfall. And for Renard’s final coup.
Even though he hated the day-to-day need for deception, Lucien sometimes wondered if he’d miss the excitement of setting up Renard’s little capers. When the masquerade was over, would he be bored by the tranquil tenor of normal life? Did his duty lie in the occupations of a normal life? He had much soul-searching to do.
Lucien reflected briefly on his parting from Micaela. She was a pragmatist, and she’d made the severing of their amicable arrangement easy for him, and for herself. No regrets, just mutual good wishes for each other.
Then his reflections returned to the subject of most of his waking thoughts: Anne. A surge of excitement went through him. Would she be at the opera tonight?
Chapter 16
Anne was already itching to go home. The opera was by Rossini, and the singers were wonderful, but Jeffrey had joined them in the box as soon as the curtain fell on the first act. Worse still, it appeared that he planned to stay for the whole performance, happily oblivious to Katherine’s unusual reserve and the patent lack of an invitation to join them. But they had been on such familiar terms before, it would have taken a more sensitive man than Jeffrey to catch on to the fact that he was suddenly de trop.