Catherine felt herself stiffen at the familiarity in his tone and the assessing expression in his small, protuberant eyes as they raked over her as if mentally dragging away her clothing.
“There’s no need for an introduction,” Marcus said, his voice cool. “The lady has been claimed.”
“Ah, that’s a pity, but then you were always a lucky dog. Still, if I am to converse with her I must call her something. Her name, mon ami. Make me free of it since you have all else.”
Catherine smothered a gasp as anger welled up inside her. Surely she could not be expected to stand and endure such insults.
Marcus did not move though a frown gathered between his eyes. A moment’s consideration convinced Catherine that his was the wisest course. He could hardly make a show of resenting the portly man’s manner without attracting undue attention. This man with the testy gleam invading his small eyes was the type to enjoy embroiling them in a loud disagreement. Why he should think he could do so without being called to account was something of a mystery — unless he was involved in this damnable wager and was aware that Marcus could not engage in a public altercation without endangering her reputation. Perhaps the little man was not so harmless after all.
“My name is — Celeste,” Catherine said abruptly.
“Celestial indeed,” the man murmured as he reached out, grasped her hand, and bore it to his lips. “A veritable star of the heavens — and pale, surely the palest star that has ever graced this ballroom. I, Antoine Robicheaux, would give a great deal to know your bloodlines, ma chèrie. Such a beautifully shaped head, so slender — exquisite.”
“If you will excuse us,” Marcus said in clipped tones, “Celeste has expressed a wish for a glass of champagne.”
“Certainement. The champagne is potable, much better than was served across town this evening.” Taking the opportunity of the farewell to salute her fingers once more, he bowed to Catherine. “Serviteur, Mademoiselle.”
But before they had taken a half-dozen steps the man called after them. “Oh, Marcus, you knew Rafe was back in the city, did you not?”
Marcus stopped, standing as if turned to stone, his hazel eyes guttering with green lights. “No, I did not know,” he answered harshly.
“No need to fly up in the boughs,” Antoine Robicheaux said, his voice fruity with wine and an oddly malicious amusement “Someone said he was asking after you at the exchange earlier in the afternoon. Some say he took the death of poor little Lulu hard. I’d keep an eye out for him, mon ami.”
Marcus did not bother to answer. He shouldered ruthlessly through the crowd, pulling Catherine after him.
There was such a crush before the table supporting the huge silver bowl filled with champagne that they were forced to a standstill. Two white-coated waiters ladled the sparkling wine into flat-bowled glasses as fast as they could, but the crystal stems were snatched up almost before they were set down.
“What was that all about?” Catherine asked when she had caught her breath.
“Nothing,” Marcus answered without meeting her eyes.
Catherine tilted her head consideringly. “I don’t think I liked that man. It seemed like he was trying to warn you — in a frightening sort of way.”
“Don’t let a toad like that upset you.”
“No, of course not,” she agreed softly before asking, “And who might Rafe be?”
“A pirate.”
At that one savage word Catherine was startled from her mocking curiosity into real interest. “What business could a pirate have with you?”
Marcus smiled with grim humor. “He would like to run a sword through me.”
“Could he?” Catherine asked after a moment.
“He thinks he could,” Marcus flung over his shoulder as he removed a pair of filled glasses from beneath questing hands. Handing one to Catherine, he looked away over her head, and though he made a pretense of nonchalance, she thought he was searching the crowd. Was he a shade paler beneath the olive of his skin? Catherine watched as he raised his wineglass to his lips, his knuckles white where he gripped the stem.
“Is this pirate such a formidable swordsman then?” she asked.
“He was the best in New Orleans. Two years ago his father was ambushed and murdered by a trio of his own slaves. Rafe tracked them down in the swamp and killed them. There was unrest among the slaves in the area at the time, and quite a few people felt he should have stood trial — at any rate. Governor Claiborne was displeased with him. He banished him from the city until the furor died down.”
“He is just now returning?”
Marcus nodded. “He was recognized in Paris, then, after a year or so, he dropped out of sight. About the same time that wily rascal out in the gulf, Lafitte, gained a new right-hand man, someone known only as El Capitan.”
Seeing the direction of his narrative, Catherine said, “Slender evidence, surely.”
“Few people forget the face of Rafael Navarro.”
No, she had not imagined the bitterness in his voice. “Navarro? That is a distinguished family.”
“Oh, certainly. Rafael can play at being a gentleman with the best of us, when it suits him. And that family you speak of is the reason he is back in the city.”
“They interceded for him?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I doubt that anyone has that much fondness for him,” he ground out “But he does have a sister dependent upon him — and a plantation going to seed in his absence, reasons enough for allowing him to return now.”
“A plantation? I don’t think I know it.”
“Don’t you? It’s called Alhambra.”
Catherine stared at Marcus in sudden comprehension. Alhambra. The home of the Fitzgeralds, the estate Marcus had lost by gaming. Alhambra, now in the possession of this man, this Rafael Navarro. Though not particularly sporting, it was natural for Marcus to be reluctant to engage in social pleasantries with the man who had taken so much from him. Still, that did not explain his wary attitude. Why this agitation? Did Marcus have something to fear from the meeting? And if so, did it have anything to do with the death of “poor little Lulu”?
Reaching out, Catherine touched the sleeve of Marcus’s coat. But before she could form the question he placed his hand over hers, and with new resolution, drew her out of the crowd toward a window embrasure at the far side of the room.
“Darling Catherine,” he said as he walked. “I must speak to Antoine on a matter of importance. You will stand here, out of sight, and enjoy your champagne until I return. You will be quite safe. You have only to refuse to speak to anyone until I return, to act shy and frightened. I’m sure you can pretend to that extent if you put your mind to it.”
“Wait Marcus—” she protested, but he was gone, leaving her alone in the embrasure, between the thick panes of glass and the overhanging portieres of gold satin. With an exclamation of annoyance, she watched him wend his way through the gathering until the dancers obscured her view.
Turning her back to the room, she stared out the window sipping at the golden liquid in her glass, ignoring the curious glances of those who strolled past as well as the couples who sought the privacy of her sanctuary. Weariness invaded her mind and she longed to be taken away from this bizarre entertainment. What was she doing here? How had she come to be foolhardy enough to allow herself to be persuaded to begin this masquerade? The gaudy turban that covered her hair pressed against her temples and she could feel a headache beginning to form. Instead of raising her spirits, the champagne seemed to cast them down into her slippers. With a gesture of distaste, she set her glass down upon the low sill.
There was a movement behind her. Swinging around, she cried, “Marcus, take me—”
With one hand lifted to hold back the draperies, the man standing in the opening sketched a mocking bow. “I would be delighted if such a thing were possible. Mademoiselle.”
A vivid flush rose to Catherine’s cheeks and she stepped back, feeling the coolness of the glass
panes behind her. The man confronting her was dressed entirely in the dark colors of mourning. Black velvet revers trimmed his tailcoat of dark superfine. Jet studs glittered among the ruching at his shirt-front. His waistcoat was of silver-gray brocade, and his deep gray pantaloons were strapped beneath half-boots of a brilliant and unrelenting black. There was an arrogant set to his shoulders as he blocked her passage, and though the smile that hovered on his sun-bronzed face held a deliberate attempt to beguile, it did not quite reach the somber depths of his eyes. He awaited her reaction with infinite patience and a total unconcern for anything, or anyone, else.
Catherine, her poise already shaken, felt her composure deserting her under that still, considering, gaze. “I — I thought you were someone else,” she said.
“I regret exceedingly that I am not he, but in his absence, perhaps I could prevail upon you to allow me to lead you into the courante they are now playing?”
“You are most kind, Monsieur. But I could not do that.” Though it was not necessary to offer an explanation, she found herself seeking one. “We — you have not been presented to me.”
“That is easily remedied. If you will let me speak to your duenna, I’m certain she will have no objection.”
Catherine lowered her lashes, glad of the mask that helped shield her expression as she turned her back to him. “I have no duenna, Monsieur. Please leave me.”
She was aware of a strange element in the silence of the man behind her, as though there was something repugnant to him in her answer. “You have a protector then,” he said, though it was more of a statement than a question. “You will permit me to say it was most unwise of him to leave you alone?”
“My — He will return at any moment,” she informed him, her back stiff.
“Will he?” the man in black asked with a slow thoughtfulness. “Then I will have the pleasure of making his negligence known to him.”
“You can’t mean that?” she said whirling to face him, alarm coursing through her veins as she pictured the clash between the two men and the attention it would draw.
“It appears someone must mend his manners. I assure you, Mademoiselle, nothing would please me more.”
She hesitated, drawing her shawl closer around her. “He is a — ferocious swordsman, Monsieur.” She had no idea that it was so, but Marcus wore his dress sword, his colchemarde, with as much aplomb as any man of her acquaintance.
“Indeed? I am credited with some skill with the weapon myself,” he said, letting his fingertips rest on the knob of the sword cane held under his arm.
Something, perhaps a trace of irony in his tone, caught Catherine’s attention. She surveyed him through narrowed eyes, particularly the copper hue of his skin where it had been burned by the sun. It was not the skin of a gentleman. What was he then? A man with some skill at swordplay, a man recently returned from sea? Sudden shock ran through her mind. Could he be Navarro?
“M’sieur—” she began, but even as she spoke she had no idea what she intended to say. She felt instinctively that it would be better if Marcus and this man did not meet, but she could see no way to prevent it. Still, would it not be better for them to meet while surrounded by people? That should have a beneficent effect upon their tempers, forcing their quarrel — if quarrel it was — to await a more opportune moment.
“Yes, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
Beneath her mask, Catherine’s lips curved in a deliberately provocative smile. “The music still plays — if you will permit a lady to change her mind?”
“Certainly,” he agreed with such promptitude that she immediately doubted the wisdom of her decision. And as she laid her hand upon the arm he preferred, she wondered if she had not been maneuvered into making precisely the move he wished.
In any case, they never reached the parquet. Before they had moved a half-dozen paces she heard Marcus call the name she had given herself.
“Celeste, my love, I did not intend to keep you waiting so long—” he was saying as he came toward her. Then as his gaze went beyond her he faltered. His smile faded and his face assumed the rigidity of a mask as he covered the last few feet that separated them.
There was a difficult pause, then the man in black said in a deceptively mild voice, “So we meet again, Marcus? Have you no words of welcome after all these months?”
“Yes, of course.” Marcus inclined his head. “I trust we see you well, Rafael?”
So she had been right. The man at her side was Navarro. Disengaging her arm, she moved closer to Marcus. “Would you take me home?” she asked him in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone.
Marcus murmured an agreement and they had begun to walk when Rafael Navarro spoke.
“Not so quickly my friend. I promised the lady I would take exception to your manners.”
“My manners?” Marcus repeated blankly.
A curious smile tugged a corner of the dark man’s mouth. “They leave much to be desired,” he said, his voice soft.
Marcus paled, but he seemed to have himself under firm control. “Unfortunate,” he said. “Perhaps we could discuss my failings at another time. For the moment I find myself compelled to grant the lady’s request.”
Navarro slanted a wicked black glance at Catherine. “Ferocious,” he said in so droll a tone that she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from smiling, though there might have been something of hysteria in her amusement.
But when he turned to Marcus the words of Rafael Navarro rang with such steel that it drew the attention of the couples nearest them. “I object. The — lady — and I were just becoming acquainted.”
Marcus looked quickly around at the interested faces about them. As she watched him, Catherine felt a surge of compassion. He was caught squarely between his need to protect her and the necessity of defending what society conceived to be his honor. He could not let the disparaging reference to his prowess pass. In addition, a slight to a woman under his protection must be avenged as quickly, if not more quickly, than a slight to his dearest relative. Failure to rise to the challenge would mean facing the scorn of his contemporaries, but to embroil her in an affair of honor originating at a Bal du Cordon Bleu could be disastrous. He needed time to consider. She sought desperately for something that would divert the clash she knew was near, but she could think of nothing that would stand against the cold enmity she felt in the man, Navarro.
The music of the courante played on, but there was a growing murmur of voices around them. “What is it? Who? What is taking place?” As the music stilled a harsh voice spoke out in the quiet “I do believe the black panther is hunting tonight — and it appears he is about to make his kill—”
The arch comment seemed to flick Marcus on the raw, for his hand clenched slowly on the hilt of his dress-sword. Still he made a final effort to dominate the situation. He directed a stiff bow at Navarro. “Come, Celeste,” he said.
Reaching out abruptly, Rafael Navarro caught Catherine’s wrist. “Perhaps you had better ask Celeste if she still wishes your escort. Most women are jealous of their good name. But if you cannot be induced to fight in the cause of Celeste’s honor, perhaps you can be goaded by the remembrance of — Lulu.”
That the name meant something to the people gathered in unabashed curiosity around them was obvious from the volume of comment. But Navarro seemed not to hear.
“Perhaps Celeste should be asked if she desires to remain in the care of a man who lived on the bounty of another of her kind for weeks, then deserted her when the assets given her by a previous admirer were gone. Lulu died, Marcus. Did you know? She died in a sleazy crib on the riverfront, dangling from the cord of her dressing gown. She died in shame and despair — and in the hope that her death would prevent me from learning of your perfidy. But I do not give up my own so easily.”
Marcus, white to the lips, cried, “You deserted her first, Navarro. You cannot shift your guilt onto my shoulders; I refuse to accept it. But I will stop your vile accusations!”
The man in black
bowed, an expression of unsmiling content in his eyes. “Bien. Shall we repair to the garden?”
With an abrupt nod, Marcus turned to Catherine. “Wait for me in the carriage,” he said, and with a firm step, followed Navarro from the room.
St. Anthony’s Garden, a small, hedge-enclosed area behind the cathedral, had always been a popular dueling ground. It was conveniently located, secluded, and neutral. Catherine bade the driver bring the carriage to a halt in Conde Street, as near the garden as possible. It was perhaps foolish of her to disobey Marcus’s instructions but she could not bear the waiting. She could have walked to the rendezvous as the men had done, but the carriage gave her a measure of anonymity, an illusion of safety.
Pulling aside the leather flap at the window, she listened. The only sound that came to her ears was the faint music from a barroom down along the levee, and the soft scuffle of sandaled feet as a robed priest moved beneath the arcade of the Presbyter just behind her. To her left was the bare parade ground of the Place d’Armes, its stocks and scaffold casting menacing shadows over the dusty earth. On the right loomed the bulk of the Cathedral of St. Louis with its round, twin towers, and beyond it the massive Government House where oil lamps on smoke-blackened chains burned before the doorways. The flaring light gave her courage. She sat for a moment tapping nervous fingers on the windowsill, then, with sudden decision, leaned forward to push open the door and step down.
Ignoring the coachman’s startled hail, she hurried along the street to the alley between the Cabildo and the cathedral. This was a favorite passageway to the front doors of the church, and so a few ballast stones had been laid in its mud for the convenience of the worshippers. Catherine picked her way carefully over them, missing her footing only once. Suddenly the sharp, clear ring of steel on steel came through the air, startling her. It grew darker as she penetrated further between the steep rising walls of the buildings. Finally a massed row of shrubbery appeared on her right. Through it she caught the feeble gleam of a lantern.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 48