Veronique, for the past few months, had been helping Lauren perfect her French, as well as providing instruction on a number of other enlightening subjects. Lila thought Veronique a bad example and would have preferred to keep the two of them apart. But Lauren had learned one could say what one pleased to Veronique without fear of censure. And with Veronique, one could laugh—even Lauren, who rarely showed any sort of emotion.
Lauren went to the pier glass to secure her demi-mask. "But I thought you said it did not matter what the clients looked like," she reminded Veronique in a wry tone.
The redhead threw up her hands. "Of course I said that, imbecile!" she exclaimed, exasperated. "But it is better to sleep with a handsome rich man than an ugly rich man."
"Or any man who is not poor."
"With my luck, the fat one will be poor. Here is your fan, Mademoiselle Impudence. Now will you please hurry? The fish will be snapped up before I even have a chance to dangle the bait."
Taking a last look in the mirror, Lauren tucked a loose curl beneath her turban. "Such excitement over a few fish."
Veronique held the door wide. "Hah, even you would be excited over the size of these, they are so very big."
Gathering up a light shawl, Lauren draped it about her shoulders. "Perhaps they would look well stuffed and served on a platter," she remarked as she was firmly ushered from the room. "But I don't suppose I shall even see them, unless one swims by. Lila has forbidden me to leave the parlor."
"Lila is wise," Veronique said with a knowing glance at Lauren's revealing gown. "That dress is all the lure you would need to attract a man's attention. Me, I think it is good for the rest of us that you have never developed a taste for fish!"
The gaming house was typical of New Orleans architecture. Delicate ironwork in lacy weblike patterns distinguished the plain stucco facade of the exterior, while a high, arched passageway tunneled back from the wide front entrance to an open courtyard, rimmed above by railed galleries.
The ground floor was occupied primarily by cardrooms, but there was also a parlor and a smoking room, as well as a dining room where a late buffet supper was served. The elegant suites on the second floor were reached by a graceful curving staircase in the foyer or wrought-iron stairways in the courtyard. In the cardrooms, the guests had their choice of pique, chemin de fer, maccao, faro, E.O., and even roulette.
Jason could find no fault with the arrangements. The sport was competitive yet congenial, while laughter and conversation blended to provide an agreeably intimate atmosphere. Too, the redhead who hovered determinedly at his side while he played faro promised a delightful conclusion to the evening. Her gay smile and light touch proclaimed her availability as she waved her fan languorously, calling attention to the curve of her full breasts and sending a hint of some exotic perfume his way.
When the first tinkling notes of a pianoforte drifted through the open French windows, Jason was too pleasantly occupied to take notice. But when a husky voice lifted in song a short while later, his entire body tensed.
He told himself that Carlin's daughter had been too much on his mind of late, that the fascinating huskiness of the singer's voice could belong to a hundred other women, yet he couldn't prevent himself from being drawn by that siren's call. Excusing himself to the other players and the vivacious redhead at his side, he folded his hand and rose from the table. The night enveloped Jason as he stepped into the shadowy courtyard and moved silently across the flagstone. He could feel his heart driving against his ribs as he neared the source of the music, and his breathing was shallow. Yet he stopped breathing entirely as he stood staring beyond the doors of the well-lit parlor.
The room was furnished in gilt and rosewood and decorated in creams and pale golds. Mirrors lined the far wall, and at one end, a waiter served various wines and liquors from a sideboard. Jason, however, saw nothing but the woman seated at the pianoforte.
She sat half facing the long French windows, remote and elegant and regal, as she sang in the throaty contralto that caressed his senses with pain and pleasure. She appeared lost in the music. The plumes of her headdress swayed gently with the movement of her body, while her head was slightly bent.
He would have known her anywhere. Even though the golden hair he remembered was completely covered by a turban and the delicate features he had memorized that long ago night were half hidden behind a mask, the haunting loveliness that had tormented his dreams was the same.
There were differences, though. The pale complexion was tinged with rouge at the cheekbones, the full lips were so red they had to have been painted.
Then she raised her head and seemed to stare straight at him. Behind the mask, her eyes appeared the same hue as the vivid material draping her body: a deep emerald. But he could imagine the luminous gold flecks floating in the irises, the sensuous amber glow of a cat's eyes.
For a moment Jason was held by the spell of those eyes. Then his gaze dropped, following the curve of the slender swanlike neck to the smooth sloping shoulders and the soft white skin bared by the revealing gown. He stiffened in anger and arousal, staring at the darkly tempting shadows between her full breasts as they pushed provocatively against the satin bodice. The décolletage barely seemed to cover the peaks.
His fingers curled into fists as a myriad of questions assailed him. Had she been here all along? Had she needed to earn her way by selling herself to the rich patrons who frequented the casino? And where was Lila? Yet there was one question that he dreaded above all else: Had he driven her to this?
Anguish as great as he had ever known invaded Jason's soul. That he had purchased her innocence for a hundred guineas and an unwanted proposal was bad enough, but that she should have been reduced to this . . .
Even as he stared, an elegantly attired dark-haired man came up behind the beauty and laid a possessive hand on her bare shoulder. Jason drew a sharp breath. The man was Felix Duval, a local cardsharp and gambler. Jason had met him just moments ago, and had sensed a cunning slyness beneath the suave polish that did little to merit admiration or respect.
When Duval bent to kiss the smooth shoulder where his hand rested, Jason clenched his fists convulsively, feeling a strong desire to kill the bastard for simply touching her. Yet it was her reaction that made Jason's anguish turn to fury. She didn't flinch or shy away, but looked up at the gambler and tilted her head to one side.
"Felix," Jason heard her husky voice saying in a lilting accent, "are you leaving for the ball?"
"Yes, my beautiful Marquerite. But I shall count the moments till I return."
She gave Duval a cool smile that was seductive because of its very remoteness, and Jason's fierce oath escaped in a guttural growl. Lovers. He hadn't been mistaken. The proof was there before his eyes. Jonathan Carlin's daughter, the heiress to a great shipping line, was employed as a common prostitute. God help him, he had wanted her as his wife.
Jason took an involuntary step closer, but he stopped abruptly as he realized Duval was leaving. His gaze shifted again to the beauty, and he caught sight of the huge gem between her breasts. That necklace must have cost a fortune. Had Duval given her that? It would be preferable, of course, if she had found one man who would give her protection and support. But somehow that was no easier to swallow than the thought of her spreading her legs for any man rich enough to afford her price.
Jason didn't know how long he stood in the courtyard with black thoughts swirling in his head. His shoulder brushed a spray of starry yellow blossoms, but the fragrant scent went unnoticed. If he had seen his dream crumbling before, it now lay shattered at his feet. The innocent young woman he had held once in his arms and thought to cherish and protect was a common harlot.
After a time, Jason forced himself to relax his clenched fists. He couldn't fault Duval for desiring her. What man in his right mind wouldn't want her in his bed? Nor could he blame her. She might have had to resort to this type of work just to survive. But he had to know how it had come about.
&nbs
p; Wearily, he passed a hand over his eyes. He had no answers to the questions that tormented him, but nothing would reduce his determination to discover the truth or shake his resolve to take her away from this flesh market and the smooth-tongued gamester who had claimed her smile.
When Jason at last left the dimly lit courtyard to return to the gaming room, his face might have been carved from the glacial ice of the North Sea. Seeing him, Kyle immediately gave over his place at the table to one of the interested spectators and followed Jason wordlessly.
They found the smoking room deserted. Settling into a comfortable chair, Kyle lit a cheroot and watched his friend and one-time captain. Jason was restlessly pacing the floor as if the room were the upper deck of a ship. No, not quite, Kyle amended, for on a ship Jason never lost his air of calm assurance.
"I've found her," Jason said in a voice taut with emotion, and then proceeded to relate his discovery.
Kyle frowned as he listened. He wasn't surprised that the girl was the cause of that arctic expression, of course. Jason had been so certain he would find her someday. But discovering the heiress here, in this house, wasn't exactly what either of them had expected.
When Kyle voiced his doubts as to her identity, Jason retorted that he had spent half an hour in the courtyard, watching her, and he needed no further proof that the young woman was indeed Andrea Carlin.
Yet it was obvious that Jason hadn't yet recovered from the shock of seeing her, for he merely nodded absently when Kyle suggested that some reconnaissance was needed.
* * *
When Kyle sauntered into the parlor a short while later and claimed a chair close to the piano, Lauren was no longer singing but was playing a Scottish folk song.
Seeing the stranger studying her so intently, Lauren nodded politely, a slight smile curving her lips. Veronique had not lied. The gentleman was tall with massive shoulders, and his size reduced the smaller Frenchmen in the room to the status of minnows. Yet he was extremely attractive, she decided as her gaze was drawn to him again. He had dark chestnut hair worn rather long and hazel eyes that glinted with hues of amber.
Stealing another glance, Lauren found him still watching her. He was no rich businessman, she concluded. The lines on his bronzed, rugged face proclaimed he had often been exposed to weather, and although his evening clothes were of a somber color and well cut, the way he tugged at his neckcloth suggested that he found his clothing uncomfortable. He did look somewhat out of place surrounded by the delicate furnishings, Lauren thought: a medieval warrior in a doll's house. In fact, the gilt chair on which he was seated looked in danger of snapping under his weight.
When she finished the song, Lauren saw him rise. She was a bit startled when he made a direct line to her side, for it seemed as if he meant to run her down.
But the Viking merely stopped before her, giving her a deep bow and a smile that warmed her. "You play superbly, miss," he said in a pleasantly deep tone. "Is yours the voice that so enchanted me a few moments ago? I vow I heard angels singing. Dare I hope that you might favor us with another songr
"But of course, monsieur, what would you wish to hear?"
One craggy eyebrow rose in surprise. "You are French? Pardon me, for I was just then comparing you to the most beautiful of native English roses."
"But that must surely be a compliment, monsieur," Lauren responded as she wondered if she truly did look English. "Please do not take it back."
After a moment he shrugged his muscular shoulders. "Oh, no, I wouldn't take it back, for you would adorn a garden of any nationality. I suppose it's just that you reminded me of someone I once knew. Have you never been to England?"
Lauren forced herself to remain relaxed, but she was glad for the disguise which hid her most revealing features. "I think you must be, how do you say? Sick in the heart for your home."
When she clasped a hand to her breast, his gaze dropped to the pale swells covered by green satin. "Homesick," the gentleman supplied. Then he seemed to recollect himself and cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose I might be, except that I'm an American now. I was born in England, but my family moved to Natchez nearly twenty years ago." Reaching out a giant paw to shake hands, he grinned. "I'm Kyle Ramsey."
That explained why his speech was slightly more clipped than the soft, drawling accents of the Americans she knew, Lauren reflected. Relieved, though, that he had given up trying to determine her origins, she smiled. She ignored his outstretched hand, which was strong and calloused, and presented her slender fingers to be kissed. "And I am Marquerite, Monsieur Ramsey."
The large man hesitated before carrying her hand to his lips, his grin fading to a puzzled frown. "Marquerite?" he repeated quizzically. "Merely . . . Marquerite?"
Lowering her eyes to the keyboard, Lauren said gently but with implied rebuke, "Monsieur, here we use only the first names. There is need for no other, n'est ce pas?"
He studied her a moment longer, before drawing a chair forward and seating himself beside her. "You must think my manners atrocious," he said mildly. "Perhaps it is because I have spent so much of my life at sea and am unused to being in polite company."
The candor of his admission made Lauren smile. "Mais non, monsieur. I think you refreshing."
When he remained silent, Lauren realized with a sense of chagrin that Kyle Ramsey was staring at her—or more precisely, at her lips—in fascination. She didn't need Lila to point out that her smile was what caused that arrested expression in his eyes. Veronique called that curve of her lips her sourirer seduisant. But as Lauren had no intention of seducing the gentleman, she allowed her smile to fade.
Adopting a noncommittal tone, she asked, "But what is your pleasure, monsieur?" Her choice of words was inappropriate. Though she had only meant to inquire as to his musical preference, she could tell by the sudden gleam in his eyes that he had given the question an entirely different interpretation. "The song, Monsieur Ramsey," Lauren said hurriedly. "What is it you wished to hear?"
"Song?" Kyle asked slowly, his jaw suddenly hardening. "Oh, the song, of course. I fear I don't know many, except—perhaps you should choose . . . mademoiselle."
His voice trailed away, but his cool tone unaccountably made Lauren feel like she owed the handsome giant an apology for some unknown offense. "I think I would much enjoy hearing of your sea travels, monsieur," she said uneasily, "for you look to be a man who has seen much of the world. But Madame Gescard will be angry with me if I do not play for the guests." Lauren gave an apologetic shrug of her beautiful shoulders. "So you see . . . ?"
"And later?" he queried in response, his boldness taking her by surprise.
Lauren shook her head. "Later, I shall be otherwise occupied," she said firmly, running her hands lightly over the keys to put an end to further conversation.
He did not, however, leave her side immediately in search of a more willing partner, and Lauren was given ample opportunity to wonder at Kyle Ramsey's odd behavior. He seemed still to be puzzled by her, for he was studying her with an intent frown. She could read perplexity and disappointment and—could it be pity?—in his hazel eyes.
Lauren was rather relieved when after a quarter hour or so, the gentleman at last rose. He brought her fingers to his lips easily this time, without any trace of his earlier awkwardness, as he politely thanked her for the entertainment and expressed his regret that he must leave her. "For my friend will be wondering what has become of me," he said with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes. Lauren thought the excuse rather feeble and wondered what she had done to earn his displeasure.
She watched, somewhat wistfully, perhaps, as Kyle Ramsey strode from the room. Oddly, she couldn't dismiss the notion that she had somehow failed him. Not failed in the usual sense, because he had offered for her and she had refused. But because he had discovered something in her that he could not quite like.
Lauren returned to her music, trying to recover her composure. Earlier, her spirits had been dealt a severe blow by Lila; now her enjo
yment of the evening fled completely under this new assault from a disapproving stranger. It seemed that she was forever fighting to prop up her hard-won self- confidence, to keep her self-imposed seclusion from overwhelming her.
She closed her eyes as the crushing loneliness assailed her. At the moment, even Felix Duval would have been welcome, but he had left for the same ball that Lila and Jean-Paul were attending.
Felix was the one man who continued to pursue her, in spite of her unattainability. Intrigued by her very aloofness, he had propositioned her frequently during the past year. Recently, he had even offered to set Lauren up in her own establishment as his mistress.
But though his offer would provide her security and wealth, at least temporarily, and though she would be getting a home and affection of a sort, Lauren had refused him. Gently, of course, for Felix was fond of her, even if his primary reason was that she challenged his ego. Moreover, she didn't want to allienate him entirely, for she was benefiting from his attention. The rumor had somehow started that she was Felix Duval's special property—strictly off limits to the gamesters. Few were willing to force the issue and face the threat of pistols at dawn with the volatile Duval.
It had never come to this last, Lauren was thankful, but Felix was becoming too possessive for comfort. His frustration at not being able to have her was growing out of hand.
He thought she was holding out for marriage, she knew, yet her answer would have been the same had Felix offered for her hand. She wouldn't marry him—couldn't marry him. Not under false pretenses. She could never tell him about her past. Not unless she trusted him, and trusting any man would be difficult after her mother's experiences with Jonathan Carlin
and her own with George Burroughs.
Giving a sigh, Lauren transferred her gaze to the clock on the mantel. Only a few more hours. Then she would be free of her duties and would climb the stairs to her room. Quite alone.
When Kyle returned to the smoking room, having learned little of what he set out to discover about Andrea Carlin, he found Jason pacing the floor again. Kyle shook his head, acknowledging his lack of success. "I'm damned if I can tell, Jason. At first I thought it was Miss Carlin, for her voice and eyes were just as you described. But she seemed so . . . at home here. If she was faking that French accent, I couldn't tell. She said her name was Marquerite."
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