by Shirl Henke
Scolding herself for being fanciful, she checked the clock on the mantel once more. Nearly time to make her exit. She had bought Lenore and Caleb three hours, more than ample time for the lovers to be married and to consummate their marriage before the Flamenco family could intervene.
The unmasking and official betrothal announcement were to take place at midnight with a lavish banquet to follow. However, when she made her excuse at a quarter to twelve and did not reappear, there would be no announcement, nor likely any celebration supper. Deborah would be found sleeping in her room and Lenore would have vanished without a trace. A note on her dressing table would tell the tale. If only I can slip by undetected. She watched the minute hand inch toward the nine with agonizing slowness.
It was nearing midnight as Rafael watched Lenore dance a slow quadrille with Georges, then excuse herself and turn to leave the press. Suddenly, he felt a need to be assured of her happiness before the irreversible announcement took place. She was going upstairs to freshen up for the big moment, no doubt.
“Lenore, wait, little one,” he called out at her retreating back as he followed her into the front hall.
She turned and caught sight of him. Gasping, she murmured hoarsely, “I must repair my toilette before the unmasking, Rafael. Tell Papa and Georges I'll meet them by the south door.” With that she picked up her skirts and scampered up the wide low stairs to the second floor.
His immediate impulse was to follow her. But he quickly stifled the urge. What was done was done. Still, something nagged at the back of his mind—what was it? He mulled distractedly as he searched for his father and soon-to-be brother-in-law.
When Lenore did not come down at midnight, Celine quickly went up to see what was detaining her. She returned ashen and pulled Rafael and Claude into the hallway. “She is not in the retiring room. None of the ladies who are there have seen her. I've sent the servants to search her room and the grounds discreetly.”
Claude let out an impatient sigh. “She cannot have gone far. Rafael saw her go upstairs a scant ten minutes ago.”
Rafael suddenly ripped off` his mask and swore, then automatically apologized to his shocked mother. “The shoes, that's it!” With that he was gone, sprinting toward the rear stairs and his room, where he knew Deborah would be waiting.
“Did you return the dress and wig to her room and put them next to the unused clogs?” His voice sliced through the warm night air as he ripped the sheet from her still form.
Deborah had heard him enter and prayed that if she feigned sleep he would leave her. But he did not. Reluctantly, she sat up in bed. One look into his blazing black eyes told her all. “How did you know?”
“Your flat-heeled shoes. When you ran so precipitously up the steps, you raised your skirts too high, Cherie. I should have recognized my wife's beautiful ankles.” He slid one strong hand around a slim ankle and squeezed cruelly. “Where is Lenore?”
She shivered despite the heat as he held her fast.
“Well, I'm waiting. So are my parents, her fiancé, and over one hundred people.” He increased the pressure.
Tears swam in her eyes, but she blinked them back. “It's too late, Rafael. She and Caleb were married hours ago.”
He swore at her, even more virulently than he had the morning in the woods, but this time he used French, as if to emphasize the distance between them. With a disgusted grunt, he released her ankle, shoving her away from him.
“Where are you going? Rafael, let them have peace. There's nothing you can do now. She loves Caleb, not Georges!” But she was crying to an empty room.
After dressing in haste, she slipped quietly down the hall to where she heard the low murmurs of Rafael and Claude interspersed with Celine's shrill denunciation. They were in the elder Flamenco's private sitting room and Rafael was standing at Claude's desk, calmly loading a pistol.
“What will we tell Georges? Our guests?” Celine's voice wailed in anguish.
“I shall announce that Lenore was taken suddenly quite ill. After all, she did have a ‘sore throat’ tonight. The betrothal is merely postponed. Rafael will bring her home. You must go to her room and wait. People will expect that you are attending her.” Claude's voice was calm, but his face was gray.
“She and that skulking wolf may be at his lake house, but I doubt it. They've probably used this time to flee to New Orleans and search for a priest. I'll go to the cottage and then head to his city house.” Rafael slipped the pistol into his belt with deadly ease.
“You're admirably dressed for the role you plan to play,” Deborah said from the doorway. Celine gasped and made a lunge toward her daughter-in-law with claws out, but Claude restrained her. Deborah ignored the woman and turned her attention to Rafael. “If you kill him you'll break her heart. She is married to him now.”
“No priest in New Orleans would marry a Creole girl of good family to an American—in the dead of night with no family in attendance,” Celine spat venomously.
“An Episcopal priest would. Caleb is a good parishioner. He made the arrangements days ago.” Deborah's voice sounded lifeless. What was the use hiding her role in the charade? She must keep Rafael from doing something terrible, even if it meant turning all the family's wrath on herself.
“She would not marry outside the Church.” In a voice filled with impatience, Claude dismissed the idea.
Celine's eyes narrowed as she stared at Deborah's straight back and assured stance. “You concocted this scheme with Armstrong, didn't you? You've led her immortal soul astray.” In truth, Celine was as little concerned with religion as were her husband and son. What would their friends think? The scandal of the elopement loomed far larger than the threat of perdition.
Understanding what was going on in her mother-in-law's mind, Deborah retorted, “I only helped your daughter marry the right man.” She put her hand hesitantly on Rafael's arm, but he withdrew as if stung before she could speak.
“None of this signifies. I'm going after them. Deborah, if you value your neck, get back to bed and stay there!” He stalked from the room and slammed the door.
* * * *
When Caleb responded to the butler's summons, Lenore knew it was her brother or her father. She had heard only one set of hoof beats pounding up to Caleb's Garden District home in the stillness of the early morning hours. Likely it was her brother. With numb fingers she struggled to pull on her dressing gown.
This was her wedding night. Why must something so beautiful and private be marred by confrontation and violence? As she ran her fingers through her tousled gold ringlets, she looked quickly into the mirror. Do I look any different? Will Rafael be able to tell? She colored as she recalled the gentleness of her new husband's touch and the sweet, breathless pleasure she had found in his arms only a few hours earlier. She must never lose him, never lose his love. Quickly, she headed downstairs toward the sound of angry male voices.
Caleb stood in the center of the richly paneled hallway facing a coldly furious Rafael. The American was of a height with his new brother-in-law but heavy-boned next to Rafael's leanness. A bigger target beneath the Dueling Oaks, Caleb thought with grim humor as he looked into those cold, black eyes.
“I don't want to fight you, Rafael, your Creole honor be damned. A practical Yankee like me doesn't set much stock by it.” He waited, poised tautly on the balls of his feet, knowing that he could not live up to his resolution if the dangerous young Creole attacked him.
“You'd let a challenge go unanswered?” Rafael responded scornfully. “No one in New Orleans would do business with you again.”
“My Creole partners at the bank have done business with me until now. I imagine they'll have to decide for themselves if this breach of your etiquette casts me outside the pale,” Caleb said almost gently.
“We have a proverb in New Orleans,” Rafael replied furiously. “Cutting off a mule's ears will never make him a horse. Neither will an American gain acceptance hiding behind the skirts of an innocent girl. I've com
e to take my sister home, Armstrong, whether or not you honor my challenge!” He moved forward as if to bypass the larger man, but Armstrong was quick. He blocked Rafael's path and stood still, hands clenched into fists, yet making no move to strike the first blow.
“Flamenco, I'm not hiding behind Lenore or anywhere else.”
Rafael took another step toward Caleb and reached to his sash for the pistol.
Before he could draw it free, Lenore's voice carried down from the top of the curved mahogany staircase. “If you harm him, Rafael, I'll kill myself. I swear it!” She ran down the stairs, her face ashen and her blue eyes enormous.
Lenore placed one arm around Caleb's sturdy waist, but before she could say any more, he gently pushed her behind him. “My wife is not going anywhere with you. You're right about one thing, though—I am a Yankee mule and I won't budge.”
Rafael looked at Armstrong's regretful but firm expression and realized that short of shooting him in cold blood, he could exact no further punishment from him now. He turned to Lenore, who once more stepped beside her husband. Her robe was askew and her face flushed. One look at her told the story. The marriage had indeed been consummated. He felt his vision go dark as a sickening rage filled him. “Why have you done this to Mama and Papa? To Georges? You've disgraced the Flamenco name.”
“I'm sorry I hurt you and our parents, but no one would listen to me. I loathe Georges Beaurivage!” Her face paled as she ground out the words. “He makes my skin crawl. He never wanted me for who I am. He merely wanted a suitable match, and our families agreed.”
“You're too young to understand why marriage arrangements are made,” Rafael interjected disgustedly.
“And I suppose at the great age of twenty-two you know far more,” Caleb said softly.
“Let's just say I'm learning from my mistakes,” Rafael responded, grim resignation replacing his killing anger.
“Rafael, I love Caleb. That's the best reason of all for marriage—that and children.” She paused and blushed, then placed her hand on Caleb's arm. “I could already be carrying a child. I want my husband to live to see it, Rafael. And you, too. Don't do this. Don't let hate destroy you—either of you. If you love me, don't force this fight.”
Defeated, Rafael sighed and released the hold on his gun, letting his hand drop, empty, to his side. “I withdraw my challenge, Armstrong.” He stared coldly at Caleb and measured each word. “You don't know what you've begun this night. My sister has lost her parents, her friends, the life she's always known. Take care of her.” He turned to leave, but Lenore slipped from Caleb's embrace and placed one hand on his arm to stop him. “Rafael, I know Mama and Papa won't forgive me, but Deborah...” She felt him stiffen at the mention of his wife's name. “Deborah is my friend and I want her to visit me. Would you permit that?”
He turned slowly, and the look of leashed fury in his eyes struck her like a blow. Her hand dropped from his arm. “Why ever should she need my permission? She'll do as she pleases, as she always has. Do you think I don't know who thought up this elaborate scheme? You're not nearly devious enough, little sister. And your stalwart Yankee here probably had to be cajoled into letting my wife betray me!”
“Rafael, that's not fair! She only did it out of love for me—she didn't betray you.” Lenore could see by the look on his face that nothing she could say would have the slightest effect.
Caleb walked up and put his arm around his wife's dejected shoulders. Together they stood in the doorway, watching the proud young Creole walk stiffly across the lawn toward his waiting horse.
Chapter Twelve
Rafael came home at three a.m., grim and silent, saying only that he had promised his sister he would not challenge her husband. The marriage was in fact accomplished. He did not speak to Deborah all week, going out of his way to avoid her, as if he feared what he might do to her. A few nights he slept in their sitting room on a small bed he had a servant set up. Other nights, including the last one, he spent in the city. Deborah did not want to think where.
For the first time since her marriage she considered writing the truth to her father about her deteriorating relationship with Rafael. She had made three futile attempts and then abandoned the idea. It was too painful. She left her writing desk to lie on a chaise longue on the gallery outside their rooms, too exhausted and depressed to move. Then, she heard Celine and Claude begin to argue in a room below.
“I tell you, Claude, I shall never live it down. People are too embarrassed to meet my eyes. Yesterday at the Lacroix luncheon I was virtually ostracized.”
“My dear, only wait until fall. Half a dozen other scandals will break by the time we return to the city and the winter season begins.” Claude's voice was smooth.
“Nothing this horrible! Our daughter has left the Church. How can I even hold my head up at mass?”
Claude chuckled tolerantly. “Darling, I thought the idea was to bow one's head at mass.”
“Don't trifle with me, Claude! I've lost my baby and it's all that accursed Yankee's fault. Oh, why did Rafael bring her here? If only he had married Minnette Gautier.”
“But he did not. What is done is done.” Claude's voice was steely and bitter now. “Lenore was my only daughter and I adored her. I grieve for her loss, but we still have Rafael, and his wife is now our only hope for grandchildren. Our son assures me she'll produce a child within the year. Hope for that.”
“And what of the added scandal of the duel?” Celine seemed determined to ignore Claude's attempts to end the conversation.
Deborah's reaction shifted from humiliation to fear. Now, she leaned forward to catch every word.
“Since our son was so foolishly swayed by Lenore to spare that cur's life, it was Georges' right to meet him on the field of honor. He was most clever, too. He provoked Armstrong into making the challenge so he had the choice of weapons. The ignorant American is a good shot but a poor swordsman.”
“I certainly hope our Georges can defeat that—that seducer! What will happen if Lenore's left a widow?” Celine's voice took on a surprised note, as if the thought had just occurred to her.
“I trust her merchant husband will provide well for her. She is no longer Flamenco. We cannot take her back after she disgraced our name.” His voice was cold and final.
Deborah was shaking as she stood and walked woodenly inside. She must speak to Rafael. No matter how much he hated her, he must stop Georges from killing Lenore's husband. Pacing, she practiced a speech, dreading the late afternoon when he would return from upriver to bathe and prepare for his evening's amusements.
The interview proved even more difficult than she had anticipated. Having ridden in a horse race, he came home dusty and sweat soaked, calling curtly for bathwater.
When she knocked on the door to the sitting room, which now doubled as his bedroom, Deborah received a sharp command to enter. Obviously, he had thought her a slave, for he was in the process of shedding his clothing, clad only in a pair of riding breeches. He stood in the center of the room, barefooted, unbuttoning his trousers.
“Hurry up, Guy. Pour the—” He stopped abruptly. “What the hell do you want?” He didn't move but stared with furious black eyes at her.
“I have to speak to you, Rafael, no matter how angry you are with me.” She paused and gathered courage, then stepped inside and closed the door, leaning against it to hide her trembling. “I just heard Georges Beaurivage is going to fight a duel with Caleb using swords. Caleb is no swordsman. He'll be killed, Rafael! You must stop them!”
He scowled and shrugged disgustedly. “I might have known you'd come begging for your countryman's life. I can not interfere in a matter of honor. Georges has the right—”
“To kill a man who has never learned to fence?” she interrupted furiously. “Rafael, you promised Lenore Caleb would be safe.”
“I promised I wouldn't kill him, which I could easily have done with sword or pistol,” he said arrogantly. “But I won't stop the duel. If I did, Armstr
ong would be disgraced. He's a grown man and he has to face the consequences of his filthy behavior. It's out of my hands.” He turned and resumed his undressing. “Now, you can let me have my bath in peace—or stay and scrub my back if you wish, Cherie,” he added tauntingly in English. She fled.
* * * *
Early the next morning, Deborah rode out, supposedly for a morning's canter along the lake. In fact, she headed as quickly as she could toward the city, to the Armstrongs' Garden District home.
Deborah could sense something was dreadfully amiss as soon as she was admitted to the front foyer by a poker-faced maid. A moment later when Lenore rushed down the spiral staircase to greet her, Deborah knew by her sister-in-law's ashen face that the duel had taken place.
Lenore’s blue eyes were dark with fright as she took her taller friend into a trembling embrace. “Oh, Deborah, I'm so glad you've come!”
“As soon as I heard I tried to get Rafael to stop it, but—”
Lenore interrupted, “He couldn't—Caleb wouldn't have listened to anyone, not even my brother. I'm only grateful that Beaurivage jackal thought him dead and left quickly.” Her beautiful face, always so youthful and soft, looked startlingly hard and filled with loathing.
Hesitantly, Deborah asked, “How badly did Georges injure him?”
Lenore's pain overshadowed her anger. “The doctor is with him now. He says Caleb is lucky to be alive. The final thrust just missed his heart and lung. He's lost so much blood! Oh, Deborah, if he dies—”