by Danice Allen
“But why would you need to leave New Orleans? This is your home.”
“Anne, home is with the person, or people, you love. But, as you must realize if you think about it, if it comes out that Lucien is Renard, my involvement in the work might be found out, too. I couldn’t bear for Reginald to be implicated in this mess, or even embarrassed by my incarceration.” She smiled grimly. “I’d even hie myself back to merry old England if Reginald wanted me to. He’s made it clear enough that he doesn’t exactly like the wilds of America.”
“I’m not so sure about that—”
“I don’t even know how he truly feels about me, so all of this might be unnecessary speculation—the pipe dreams of an old and foolish woman. I think I perceive a certain gentleness in his manner toward me of late, though. A certain protectiveness. But it’s probably all in my head.”
“Then it’s in my head, too,” said Anne, squeezing her aunt’s hands. “I’ve seen the gentleness. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
Katherine pulled away from Anne’s grasp and returned to the window. “I dare not believe he loves me till he tells me so. Reginald and I have been at daggers-drawn for as long as I can remember. We’re like water and oil, impossible to mix.”
“You’ve been mixing rather well the last two weeks,” Anne reminded her. She hesitated, then suggested coyly, “I think all that friction between you two over the years—when you’ve been thrown together for family weddings and funerals and such—has simply been the only acceptable outlet for your mutual attraction.”
Katherine spun around like a child’s top twisted into sudden motion. “Anne! Good heavens! What nincompoopery you speak!”
“Indeed, Aunt Katherine,” said Anne, amused by her liberal aunt’s maidenly reaction, “I speak only the truth, just as you’ve always taught me to do. I’m blunt, just as you are. It’s not a coincidence that I’m Reggie’s favorite niece and you are—quite simply—his favorite female overall.”
“You go beyond blunt. Now you’re spinning whiskers,” Katherine said weakly.
“No, I’m not lying, and if you thought I was blunt before, what I’m going to say now will surely shock you. My advice to you, dear aunt, is to get my Uncle Reggie between those sheets”—she pointed to the bed—“where the two of you can work out your accumulated differences to the mutual satisfaction of both!”
Katherine was unable to articulate a scathing retort—or any sort of retort, for that matter—though her face turned red and her mouth worked at the effort for several seconds. Finally she gave up, clamped her lips together, and walked with stiff dignity to the door. For a full minute she stood with her hand on the cut-glass knob, her face averted, gathering her composure and her wits. Then she turned and faced down her grinning, unrepentant niece. She was trying to look stem, but Anne detected the hint of a smile playing about her aunt’s mouth.
“I can see that consorting with that scalawag Lucien has caused you to abandon the finer points of discretion.”
Anne’s grin broadened. “Careful, Aunt Katherine, you begin to sound like Reggie. I love him dearly, but he tends to be a bit priggish now and then. That’s why you’re so good for him. You’re much more broad-minded. Remember when he blanched at the mention of ‘bosom’ in mixed company? How you took him to task!”
Katherine laughed aloud. “As you must know, I can converse quite freely about all sorts of body parts and the most delicate subjects as long as they have nothing to do with me. Now go to bed, Anne, and get some sleep. I just realized I was about to march, affronted, right out of my own room!”
Anne readily complied. She was truly tired. On her way to the door she almost mentioned the masquerade ball at Rosedown, but decided that the less interest she showed in the ball, the more likely that she’d be able to go. She didn’t want Katherine to know that she suspected that Lucien would set the groundwork for Bodine’s downfall at the masquerade. She wanted to be on hand when things first got rolling—when the curtain went up, so to speak—even if she was denied a part in the final act. However, she hadn’t given up on the idea that she’d be part of the final act, too…
At the door she turned, smiled her sweetest, most angelic smile, and bid her aunt good night.
The next day Reggie’s headache was not better. In fact, though he got up at his usual hour and gamely tried to make chitchat at the breakfast table, by ten o’clock he went back to bed. This sort of prolonged indisposition was very unusual for Reggie, and Anne was worried. So was Katherine.
By noon they were standing by the side of his bed, trying to talk him into seeing the doctor. “What for?” he asked. “I just have a headache. Everyone gets headaches.”
Katherine reached over and felt his forehead for the third time in ten minutes. “No fever…”
“You see, Katherine? There’s no need for concern.”
“What about your throat? Does it hurt?”
“As I’ve told you innumerable times, my throat feels fine.”
“But you haven’t got an appetite. I saw how you pushed that egg around your plate, trying to make it look as though you’d had a bite or two.”
At the mention of food, Reggie grimaced. “Well, you’re right about that. I don’t have an appetite. It’s probably a touch of influenza, which is why the two of you are being very unwise in standing so close to me. Go away and rest up for your evening at the Bouviers.”
“You don’t think we’re going out and leaving you home sick, do you?”
“You and Anne are not sick, and the Bouviers will be offended if one or two of us don’t go to their masquerade ball. It’s the highlight of the social season, I’m told.”
“I know, Reginald,” said Katherine. “You forget that I’ve been attending Madeline Bouvier’s balls for nearly a quarter-century. Missing just this one won’t matter.”
Reggie grew agitated. He was pale, but patches of hectic red appeared on both cheeks. There was a deep furrow of displeasure between his brows. “But it does matter … at least to me. They paid particular attention to Anne when we arrived in the city, introduced her to all the right people. I won’t have them thinking the English are ragmannered ingrates. If you won’t go, I’ll go myself.”
He threw off his covers and started to sit up. It was immediately obvious that the slightest movement made his head throb. Katherine was horrified. “Good God, Reginald, lie down, you stubborn fool! I’ll take Anne to the ball if that will make you happy. All I want is for you to rest and get well.”
Reggie lay back down, but he didn’t gloat over his victory. He was in too much pain for that. He just lay there, very still, as James and Katherine hovered over him, straightening his pillows and retucking his blankets.
Anne watched his face, her heart full of sympathy. She could swear that behind that English stiff upper lip, Reggie was gritting his teeth. She’d watched the exchange between him and Katherine with mixed feelings. She was very concerned about her uncle, but worried about Lucien, too. She felt she needed to be at Rosedown tonight. But the matter seemed beyond debate. Reggie would not be satisfied—in fact he would not rest at all—unless both she and Katherine went to the ball.
“Fetch my writing paper and quill, Anne,” said Reggie after a moment.
Anne moved to the Chippendale drop-front desk, saying over her shoulder, ‘To whom are you writing, Uncle? Can’t it wait?”
“I’m going to ask Delacroix to escort you to the ball tonight.”
“He can’t!” said Katherine rather too quickly. Then, more casually, “He’s not planning to stay beyond the supper hour.”
Anne looked keenly at her aunt. Now why would she know that unless Lucien had made a point of telling her? Anne was more than ever convinced that Renard’s plot against Bodine would begin to take shape that night at the Bouviers’ ball. She didn’t think her aunt had been lying to her about not knowing the particulars of Lucien’s plan, but it appeared that she at least knew that tonight’s masquera
de ball was the setting for the opening scene.
It was settled that Anne and Katherine would be driven to the ball by one of Katherine’s relatives by marriage—an ancient uncle on her second husband’s side of the family, a Captain Miller, retired from the navy. He would lend the respectable chaperonage that Reggie demanded for both women. Katherine didn’t bother to remind him that she used to go everywhere without male escorts before Reggie came to New Orleans. But just the fact that she refrained from this reminder was proof of her worry over his health—and evidence of her love.
Reggie got no better and no worse as the day progressed. After dinner, Anne went upstairs and put on her costume. She was going as an angel, the irony of which was not lost on Reggie when she showed him her costume before descending to the drawing room to await Captain Miller’s carriage.
She pirouetted at the foot of his bed, holding between pinched thumb and forefinger the layers of diaphanous skirts, which were white shot through with gold threads. The bodice was criss-crossed with gold cording, the sleeves pert puffs of gathered lace. Sarah had cleverly made wings of white netting and a halo of starched piping, dipped in glittery gold paint. Anne had a half-mask of white, dotted with gold stars, which she would put on when they arrived at Rosedown.
“With your matching golden hair and that sweet face, Anne, I’d almost believe I’d died and gone to heaven.” Reggie smiled wryly. “But we know you’re no angel.”
“And we know you’re not going to heaven,” she retorted playfully. This made him laugh, but it must have made his head hurt worse, too, because he quickly quieted and closed his eyes. Anne watched him worriedly till he opened his eyes again and managed a smile. She smiled back and bent to kiss his forehead. She thought he felt a little warm. Was he getting feverish?
“You don’t think the décolletage a tad too low, do you?” said Reggie, flitting a prim glance over Anne’s bosom as she straightened. “You are, after all, supposed to be an angel.”
Before Anne could reply, Katherine’s timely entrance, in the garb of a Tudor-period noblewoman, made Reggie forget all about Anne’s décolletage. Katherine wore a purple velvet sheath tied around the middle with a length of gold cord, the skirt hemmed with fur. The long sleeves were fullest at the wrist, also bordered with fur. She wore an ornate headdress and a heavy gold necklace. She looked imposing, but, at the same time, very feminine in the flowing style and soft fabrics.
Reggie’s eyes widened. “Who are you supposed to be?” he asked breathlessly.
Katherine gave an embarrassed chuckle. “One of King Henry’s wives. I don’t care which, but since three of his six unfortunate brides were named Catherine, I suppose I ought to be one of them. Catherine Parr, perhaps?”
“I’m as entertained by your choice, Katherine,” said Reggie, speaking with surprised amusement, “as I was by Anne’s. Henry was a cruel despot who used women for his own nefarious designs. He had two of his wives executed. There’s no way in heaven you’d have married such a man or even tolerated his behavior. I find your choice rather ironic.”
“As ironic as my choice to dress as an angel,” said Anne.
“That’s exactly why I did it,” Katherine said, shrugging. “And because I thought the style rather becoming.” She hesitated, averting her eyes. “It’s purple.”
“So it is,” he murmured, a sparkle in his eyes.
She bit her lip, smiled, and darted him a quick, shy look. “Besides, since I’ve had nearly as many husbands as he had wives—”
“Posh! You’ve only had three … so far.”
Anne thought this might be an appropriate time to leave them alone. Not that she thought Reggie would propose to her aunt from his sickbed, but she felt intrusive standing there observing their gentle flirting. She slipped out the door without either of them noticing her departure.
As Anne ascended the stairs, she heard the front door being closed softly and the butler murmuring something about “waiting in the drawing room” while he fetched the ladies. Anne debated whether she should alert her aunt to the early arrival of Captain Miller, then decided against it. She’d talk to the fellow for a few minutes, giving Katherine a little more time with Reggie. Aunt Katherine had called the captain ancient, so he must be at least eighty or so. Surely Reggie wouldn’t think it improper if she entertained such an elderly gent for a few minutes without a chaperone.
At the foot of the stairs, Bentley the butler bade Anne a grave good evening. “Good evening, Bentley,” she answered. “Don’t bother to fetch Mrs. Grimms. She’ll be down shortly. I’ll keep our guest occupied till then.” He nodded his understanding, but Anne didn’t think he looked very pleased. She entered the drawing room.
As she breezed in, a tall man who was not in the least ancient turned from his inspection of one of Katherine’s paintings to face her. It was Jeffrey. He was the last person she expected or wanted to see. Her steps faltered halfway across the room, then she forced a pleasant smile to her lips and continued on, saying, “Jeffrey, how are you? I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Are you going to the ball?”
The look on his face when he first turned around was harsh and sulky. He was peeved. He obviously had not recovered from his displeasure of the night before. But Anne acknowledged to herself that her manner had indeed changed drastically toward Jeffrey, and it was only reasonable that he would want to know why. Tonight, however, was not a good time for such a complicated, and necessarily evasive, conversation.
How was she supposed to explain her change in behavior? How could she tell him that she knew he’d lied about his part in Renard’s close call two weeks ago? She’d expose her own involvement that night if she did. And how could she tell him she was in love with another man without telling him who that other man was?
His expression had changed. He was looking her up and down, his gaze keen-eyed and lingering. She remembered that she was in costume and decided that that must account for his staring. After a couple of moments, though, the boldness of his stare had gone past excusing. He was ogling her as if he’d like to—
“Jeffrey, I asked you if you were going to the masquerade ball. As you can see, we are. Our carriage will be here in just a few minutes.”
Finally, after one last leisurely perusal of her low decolletage, his eyes lifted to hers. He’d have to be blind and a fool not to catch the flash of anger there. He looked down for a minute as if he were embarrassed, manhandling the brim of his hat as he held it in his blunt-tipped fingers. But when his gaze met hers again, the sulky, belligerent look was back.
“You’re beautiful, Anne. If there are such things as angels, you’d be a divine model.”
“Pretty words, Jeffrey,” said Anne, “but you’re good at words.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Anne sighed, shook her head, traced the shape of a flower on the carpet with her slipper toe. “It’s not supposed to mean anything.” She didn’t want to get into this. She had far more pressing matters to think about. “I’m sorry.”
“Anne, look at me.”
She schooled her features into blandness, then looked up. He searched her face and eyes intently, as if he was trying to find answers to his questions without having to stoop to actually voicing those questions out loud. He was battling with his male pride. In the end, his need to know won out over pride.
His voice was low, his tone tense and frankly bewildered. “Anne, we were friends. I had hoped to be more than that to you eventually. You gave me reason to hope.”
Anne nodded. “Yes, I did give you reason to hope. I thought, at first, that we might be able to be more than friends.”
His eyes brightened a little, but she wasn’t sure if it was from anger or a spark of false hope returning. “What changed your mind? What made you decide that you and I couldn’t be romantically involved? If I knew what I’d done wrong, maybe I could … fix it.”
Anne moved to stand by the grand piano. She slid h
er hand over the smooth, polished lid in a thoughtful gesture. “Jeffrey, when I came to America, I was looking for someone like you. In England, every gentleman I was allowed to associate with seemed to have had everything handed to him on a silver salver. These gentlemen had no purpose in life, no ambition, no strong desire to involve themselves with people or causes beyond their limited social circle.”
She smiled at him. “You were so different. You used your wits and your determination to succeed, and, against all odds, you did succeed. You involved yourself in the world around you. In your articles you championed the good, condemned the wrong. I truly admired what you’d done with your life.”
“Admired? As in the past tense?”
Sadly she said, “Jeffrey … you are too ambitious.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
She turned away. “I can’t explain.”
He grabbed her arm and roughly turned her to look at him. “I deserve an explanation!”
“You’re hurting me,” she said with controlled calmness. “Let go of me immediately.”
Jeffrey’s mouth clamped together. She could see a muscle working convulsively in his jaw. She could imagine his teeth grinding together in frustration. They were at a standoff, face to face, eye to eye. Finally he released her.
“You’re in love with someone else, aren’t you?” he said truculently.
Anne gave a soft laugh that implied denial. “Why do men always assume—”
“I saw you gawking moon-eyed at Delacroix across the opera house last night. Christ, I couldn’t believe it! Why you’d look twice at him is beyond me. He’s everything you hate. He makes mock of everything you believe in. Then, when he came to the box because your watchdog of an uncle waved him over, I saw how he looked at you.”
“Uncle Reggie likes Delacroix,” Anne began, her heart pounding. Had it been so obvious what she and Lucien were feeling?
“Your uncle likes him because he doesn’t think Delacroix’s man enough to compromise you, that’s all. And because he and your uncle are birds of a feather, all fuss and no fight.”