The raw pain that flashed in her eyes stabbed through him. Better the short term pain of rejection than a knife in her gut or across her throat.
Her chin lifted. Her mouth firmed and she donned the flirtatious smile that hid all—the one that hid her feelings, her thoughts, her dreams. “I think some of my father’s old clothes might fit you until we can return to your hotel.”
“Are you saying I smell?”
His attempt at levity fell flat.
“Just bathe. We won’t make it past the front door if you don’t.”
“Front door of where?”
“You’ll see. I’ll get you those clothes.” Christine crossed the living room, opened a door, then disappeared. A moment later she emerged with pants and a shirt folded over her arm. She laid them over the back of a settee.
She left behind her the scent of flowers. He still smelled of alligator scat. Drake grabbed the clothes.
Ten minutes later he emerged to an empty apartment. Something essential—some bit of energy…or magic—had disappeared. Had she wandered off into the streets alone? He raced down the stairs in Warwick Lambert’s ill-fitting clothes, his heart lodged firmly in his throat.
Christine stood at the counter in her shop, replacing the ripped trim on the hat the complaining woman had dropped off.
“What are you doing?” His voice, sharpened by momentary terror, cut through the scented air.
She looked up from her task and smiled. “Fixing this hat.” Did she really mean to act as if nothing had happened between them? She might look serene but Drake wasn’t fooled. She probably wanted to break her father’s cane over his head.
“You can’t just disappear like that.” Didn’t she realize the scare she’d given him? She could have been kidnapped or murdered or raped.
“I didn’t disappear. I’m right here.”
He said a silent prayer for patience. “Why are you fixing the hat now?”
“So I can return it to her.” She pulled a needle and thread taut then snipped the thread.
Drake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why?”
“I can hardly call on Yvette Simms without a reason.”
“Why do you want to call on her?”
“Because that’s where the coin says we need to go. There.” She held up the hat. “What do you think?”
A broad brim swathed in tulle and feathers and—he squinted—a stuffed hummingbird. It was God-awful. “It looks lovely.”
She rolled her eyes as if she could sense his lie. “I don’t expect a man to appreciate a hat like this.”
“Then why did you ask?”
She paused, tilted her chin, then met his gaze. Anger and hurt still lurked in her eyes. “I honestly don’t know.” She settled the hat into a round striped box with the name Lambert scripted across it. “We should go before it gets too late.”
They stopped at the hotel where Drake changed into clothes that actually fit him then walked down Royal toward Canal. “Where exactly are we going?” he asked.
“The Garden District.”
It was far easier to talk about the Garden District than their feelings. “What’s that?”
“What do you know about the history of New Orleans?”
“Not much,” he said.
“When the United States acquired the city, the Americans didn’t want to live in the Vieux Carré. They built their own neighborhood.”
“The Garden District.”
“Exactly.” She smiled at him as if she was a teacher and he was a dull pupil who’d managed to answer a difficult question. The hatbox she held by a silken cord whacked against his leg.
“How do we get there?”
“The St. Charles Avenue streetcar.”
Another few steps and a trickle of dread tickled the back of Drake’s neck. He glanced around the crowded banquette but saw neither voodoo witch nor gun-toting henchman. Still, he took the hatbox from Christine then tucked her reluctant hand into the crook of his elbow. “Can you walk any faster?”
“Why?”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“Then, yes.”
He increased their pace.
“Is someone following us?”
He risked a glance over his shoulder. “Maybe. I can’t tell.”
She nodded. “The streetcar stop is just ahead. It looks as if that car is almost full.”
He walked faster, stretching his legs, nearly running. Somehow, even with her cane, Christine matched him step for step.
They climbed aboard and the doors closed behind them. Drake scanned the people still on the banquette. There! A man with a thatch of ginger hair scowled at their car. Had he missed a ride or lost the people he was supposed to follow?
The car pulled away from the stop and Christine settled onto one of the bench seats. “Everything all right?”
He nodded but his chest constricted. How was he going to keep her safe when he wasn’t sure if they had one enemy or four?
The car clacked down the tracks.
“Where does your customer live?”
“Near Sixth Street.”
“You know the house?”
Christine glanced at her lap. “You could say that.”
“Oh?”
“My father lost it in a card game.” Her voice sounded as bleak as the expression in her eyes when she looked up at him. She turned and stared out the window, as if averting her gaze could hide her sorrow.
He’d lost his mind. There was no other explanation for wanting to protect her from past wounds. Tell that to his hands. They fisted ready to slug Lambert in the gut for causing his daughter so much pain.
The passing scenery changed from businesses to homes—homes that grew larger with each passing block.
She stood and pulled the bell cord. “This is our stop.”
They stepped down from the streetcar and she led him toward a wedding cake of a house. It was enormous with a wide veranda and balconies fronted with wrought iron scrollwork. White columns stood out against sunny yellow paint. This was the house Lambert had lost? The family must have been tremendously wealthy.
And now Christine sold hats to the woman who lived there.
She climbed the front stairs and knocked on the front door.
A uniformed maid answered the door then stared at them expectantly.
Christine held up the hatbox. “I’ve brought back Mrs. Simms’ hat.”
The maid reached for the lavender silk cord.
“I wonder, might I have a glass of water?” Christine asked. “I got something caught in my throat on the drive over here and the tickle won’t go away.”
“Who is it, Tillie?” a woman’s voice floated down the stairs.
Tillie turned away from the door. “It’s Miss Lambert. She brought you a hat.”
“My hat!” The sounds of feet descending steps reached them then the door opened wider. “How kind of you, Miss Lambert. It’s my very favorite.” The woman standing in the doorway was as sultry as the weather. Curling wisps of hair escaped her chignon, brushing against her cheek. Her lips were plump. She raised a fluttering hand from her tiny waist to a generous chest barely covered by one of the light, airy dresses the women in New Orleans all seemed to wear. She looked like a Gibson girl come to life and she still couldn’t hold a candle to Christine.
“Won’t you come in? I can’t wait to see it.” The woman caught sight of him and her smile grew brighter. “And your escort as well.”
They stepped into a light-filled foyer.
“Mrs. Simms, this is Mr. Mattias Drake, an old friend of the family visiting from Boston.” Christine handed over the hatbox. “Mr. Drake, this is Mrs. Carlton Simms.”
An old friend of the family? Boston? Where had she come up with Boston? He was from New York. Drake bent over the woman’s hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Simms.”
The woman stared at him, her eyes slightly narrowed, her full lips slightly parted. “What a pleasure.”
“I wonder, might I use your lavatory?” Christine’s voice sounded unnaturally sharp.
“Of course. You know the way?”
Christine froze—a half-second of suspended movement—then nodded. “I do.”
The woman laughed. “Of course you do. How silly of me.” Her gaze lit on Drake. “I’ll keep your escort entertained.”
Christine’s answering smile was tight, as if politeness pained her. She turned on her heel and disappeared down a hallway.
Yvette Simms’ hand landed on Drake’s sleeve. He suppressed the urge to shake her off. Instead, he smiled. “What a lovely home you have.”
“It is, isn’t it? Won’t you come sit down, Mr. Drake?” She led him into a front room. “Of course when we acquired it, it was terribly old fashioned. It needed everything. New paint, new drapes, new carpet.” She prattled on about carpet weaves and the silk used in the curtains.
Drake allowed his gaze to wander the room. Despite the floor to ceiling windows the parlor felt heavy and dark. “Obviously, you have a flair for design.” This was, after all, the woman who wore a stuffed hummingbird on her head.
“Why, thank you. It’s not much but we’re comfortable here. Please sit.” She nodded toward a settee.
Drake sat.
She sat next to him, so close their knees touched.
He inched to the left.
She followed. “May I offer you an iced tea?” Her eyelashes fluttered. “Or perhaps something stronger?”
What exactly was she offering? “No, thank you.” Where was Christine? How long would it take her to find what she was looking for? Drake refrained from checking his watch. “Have you lived here long?”
She waved her elegant hand. “A few years.”
“And before that?”
Her expression darkened. “A different house. Out by the lake. It’s much nicer to be in town.”
“I’m sure it is. New Orleans is such a unique city.”
“You think so? I would have guessed a man from New York would find us terribly dull.”
Did southerners use New York and Boston interchangeably? “Boston,” he said. “And New Orleans is definitely not dull.” He smiled at her. “Besides, back home there’s probably still snow on the ground. I find the warmth delightful.” He found the warmth stifling but he could hardly admit that to a local. “Are you from here?”
“Close enough.” She trilled a laugh then rested a hand on his arm. “Where could Miss Lambert have got to?”
“Here I am.” Christine stood just inside the door, her gaze bouncing between the juncture of knees and Yvette Simms’s hand on his sleeve. She shifted her focus to the closed hatbox. “Did you like your hat?”
“We’ve been having such a lovely conversation, I forgot to look.” Mrs. Simms leaned forward, loosened the silk cord holding the box closed, then lifted the lid. She pulled the hat from the box slowly, as if it was treasure and she was savoring the moment of discovery.
The hat looked the same as it had in the shop. A broad brim embellished with tulle and feathers and a sapphire and emerald hummingbird nested in the crown. In a word—silly.
“Perfect,” she breathed.
Christine managed a gratified smile. “I’m so glad you’re pleased. We won’t trouble you any longer.”
“You’re no trouble at all. Didn’t you tell Tillie you were thirsty? Won’t you have a glass of tea?” She shifted on the settee, moving still closer to Drake.
“How kind of you to offer, but we wouldn’t dream of taking any more of your time. I’m sure your husband misses your company.”
Mrs. Simms’ eyes narrowed. “My husband is napping. You’d be doing me a favor if you stayed.”
Napping? Drake glanced at the grandfather clock. The time was just shy of six o’clock.
“I wish we could.” Christine almost sounded as if she meant what she said. Almost. “Perhaps another time.”
Yvette Simms’ plump lips pursed then she turned to Drake and smiled. “I’d so enjoy getting to know both of you better. You’re sure you can’t stay?”
Did she expect him to disagree with Christine? He shifted on the settee. “I’m afraid we must go.” He stood.
The woman’s kittenish expression was replaced by a peevish one—one that would not look amiss on a five-year-old denied a piece of candy. “Miss Lambert, if you make any deliveries in the future, be sure and use the trade entrance.”
Christine’s shoulders stiffened but neither her face nor her eyes showed a hint of the outrage she must be feeling. If anything, she looked amused. She even smiled. “Of course. How silly of me.”
“Yes, well”—Mrs. Simms patted her hair—“we all make mistakes from time to time.”
“That we do.” Christine’s gaze traveled the ornate parlor. “Some are just more costly than others.”
…
They exited the trade entrance then walked around the house to the banquette. Christine couldn’t wait to get away. Yvette Simms had taken a silk purse and made a sow’s ear. The changes in the house made her eyes prickle. But there was no point in indulging in a maudlin walk down memory lane. She lifted her chin and marched forward. Drake stopped her with a hand on her arm. “You’re angry?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the house. A curtain in the front window twitched. Someone—probably Yvette Simms—watched them. “No. I’m not angry.”
“That…that woman made you exit a side door.”
“I’m in trade.” She laid her hand atop his then jerked it away. He’d rejected her. He didn’t want her touch. “Let’s walk.”
They took only a few steps before he stopped her a second time. “But that house belonged to your family and she…” His voice trailed off.
“It’s sweet of you to care, but I’m not bothered. Not at all. She’s married to a man old enough to be her grandfather. She traded her youth and beauty for a house near St. Charles Avenue. I suspect she’s come to realize it was a bad bargain. She’s lonely.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’d rather create and sell hats than live in a world where a man decides my fate.” Depending on herself, on her talents, was infinitely superior to depending on a man who would eventually betray her…or reject her. “Are you hungry?”
He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Are you hungry?” she repeated. “I missed most of dinner. I’d like supper.”
“I could eat,” he allowed.
“Wonderful. Commander’s Palace is just around the corner.”
She took a step forward.
Drake didn’t move. “Did you find it?”
Christine looked over her shoulder at the twitching curtain then nodded. “I’ll show you when we get there.”
Drake tucked her hand deeper into the crook of his arm and they strolled down the sun-dappled banquette as if they hadn’t a care in the world. The opposite was true. She’d offered him…everything, and he’d told her no. Even now, her insides cringed with embarrassment. The only way to go forward, to rescue her father, was to pretend it had never happened.
Drake scanned the street as if he expected some new sword-wielding enemy to drop out of the clear blue sky. Despite his vigilance or maybe because of it, they arrived safely at Commander’s Palace, were seated at a table in the whimsical main dining room, and ordered etouffée.
Drake took a careful inventory of every diner in the room. Seemingly satisfied that no one seated there meant to attack them, he leaned back in his chair. “What did you find?”
She tilted her chin. Surely he could guess? Another piece of eight sat in her pocket. “The usual.”
“Another coin? May I see it?” He held out his hand.
She deposited the bit of silver in his palm.
“Where was it?”
“There are hiding places in that house.”
“Hiding places?”
“Yes, and a secret passageway. There’s even a secret room but I’d have had to sneak past Carlton
Simms to search that.”
“Where was this?”
“Dining room. I pushed the scrollwork on the fireplace and a hidden drawer opened up.”
His hand closed around the coin. “You found it right off?”
“Yes. It was hidden with this.” She pulled from her pocket a small bundle wrapped in paper made brittle by age.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know.” She untied the bit of string holding the paper closed and withdrew a photograph. Her three-year-old self sat on her mother’s lap. Her father stood behind them. Despite the serious expressions they wore for the camera, they looked happy. The image swam and she wiped her eyes. Why wouldn’t they look happy? The photograph was taken before gambling claimed her father’s soul.
“What do you have there?” Drake looked worried, as if her tears were his concern.
“Nothing important.” She re-wrapped the paper, re-tied the string, and blinked back any lingering wetness in her eyes.
“I’ll take that.” A man with an abundance of freckles, reddish hair, and a mighty scowl held out his hand. The other hand was buried in his suit pocket and looked to be holding a gun.
She glanced at Drake.
His right hand had disappeared inside his suit coat. Presumably, he too held a gun.
After the debacle earlier today, it would be a cold day in hell before she was welcomed back to Antoine’s. She refused to make a scene and find herself barred from Commander’s Palace as well. She held out the packet. “Take it.”
The gunman’s fingers yanked the photo from hers. He backed away. Seconds later he was out the door.
A waiter hurried to their table. “Is everything all right, Miss Lambert?”
Across from her, a thunderstorm had settled on Drake’s hewn face.
“Everything’s fine,” she assured the waiter. “Will our etouffée be out soon?”
“I’ll check.” He hurried away.
“What did you give him?” demanded Drake.
“Nothing important.” That much was true. Still, she would have liked to keep the photo. A memento. Nothing more.
Drake glowered. “What was it?”
“It was just—”
The waiter reappeared and placed shallow bowls of etouffée in front of them.
Bayou Nights Page 17