Beguiled

by Laura Parker

  “Just what exactly does the word menina mean?” she asked in hopes of distracting him.

  “It’s a Portuguese term of endearment.” His smile deepened as devils danced in his black eyes. “Do you truly need a translation?”

  Not to be intimidated, Philadelphia changed the subject. “How did you make your fortune, Senhor Tavares?”

  As though he had not heard her, Eduardo pulled a jeweler’s case from his breast pocket. “I nearly forgot this.” He opened the box to reveal a stylized floral necklace in diamonds. “It’s French, mid-eighteenth century. It’s our good fortune that by that time French noblemen had stopped adorning themselves and instead decorated their wives. For the next few weeks, it will decorate your lovely neck. I call it le collier de Ronsard, the last of your inheritance. It’s magnificent, is it not?”

  As Philadelphia looked at the exquisite piece she forgot, for a moment, all her reservations. “It’s more,” she murmured. She bent closer to inspect the apparently flawless depth of each large diamond. “They’re absolutely perfect! Why, each of the center stones must be three full carats.”

  “Four.”

  “And the faceting of the stones that form the leaves, I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”

  “They’re unique,” he agreed, pleased by her appreciation and knowledge of diamonds. He took the necklace from its box. “Let’s see how they compliment your gown.”

  The necklace chilled her as he placed it about her neck yet his fingers were warm as they rested an instant along either side of her neck after he had fastened the latch. “Come, stand before the mirror over the mantel and tell me what you think.”

  Philadelphia allowed him to guide her by the elbow before the mirror. Yet, as she raised her eyes to the reflection it presented, she found herself looking at the man beside her rather than the necklace. He stood behind and a little to one side. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much taller and broader he was than she. They stood as they might for a portrait. No, if they were being formally painted or photographed, he would have been seated while she stood behind him with her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

  Fleetingly, she wondered what it would be like to be part of such a portrait, the traditional pose of man and wife. Once she had thought Harry would be the man framing her world with the breadth of his body and the strength of his resolve. But Harry’s resolve had been irresolute and his strength tempered by his father’s mood.

  There was nothing of intemperate resolve about the man standing with her now. His easy grace and fluid movements held no trace of weakness or deference. She had watched him this past week move through rooms with a feline arrogance. His stride was one of strength controlled by a total belief in his competence to meet whatever he encountered. She suspected that if he loved he wouldn’t be dissuaded by a father’s disapproval or even by the lady’s reluctance to return his desire. For, what woman would deny such a man if he loved her? Perhaps there already was a woman, even a wife, waiting for his return from the northern hemisphere.

  Philadelphia looked away from him, for the thought of his loving another woman rankled—which was entirely ridiculous. He wasn’t like her, they were from different worlds, different cultures. Why should she care who loved him and whom he loved? She didn’t care. She was envious of the idea of any happy woman only because her own life was in shambles.

  There could be no happily-ever-after in her life, not until she had found the answers to why her father had been ruined, and by whom, and how she might avenge him.

  Eduardo watched her expression in the mirror from the corner of his eye while he appeared to be studying the necklace. It pleased him to be the subject of her perusal. Most often she behaved as though he weren’t a virile man at all but some doddering old clerk or banker with whom she was forced to do business. There was a warm flesh and blood woman inside her cool exterior. Dressed as she was now there was no denying it. He was made excruciatingly aware of the fact by the manner in which his trousers began to bind him uncomfortably.

  To relieve his discomfort, he directed his gaze fully on the necklace but, instead, he found himself looking down the front of her low-cut bodice at the swell of her breasts, and his discomfort increased.

  “What if I should lose it, or if it should be stolen?”

  Eduardo blinked once, then twice. She’d spoken to him, asked a question which he should answer, but for the life of him he didn’t know what she’d said.

  Philadelphia turned to look at him and mistook his frown as a reply to her question. “I don’t intend to be careless, but if you don’t trust me with your jewels you’d better take them back now.”

  As she reached up to unlatch the necklace he caught her fingertips in his hand. “I trust you implicitly, senhorita, and your cleverness. What would you do to protect such a piece?”

  “Have it duplicated in paste,” she answered quickly and slipped her fingers free of his disturbing touch. Was any other human being as warm as he? She didn’t remember her father’s touch being as heated, and Harry’s hands were always cool.

  “And so I have.” He reached into his breast pocket to withdraw what appeared to be an identical necklace. The edge of it caught on the letter in his pocket as he withdrew it and the envelope slipped free and fell to the floor.

  Philadelphia bent to pick it up. He was quicker and scooped it out from under her hand, but not before she saw the New Orleans address. He straightened up with a smile that for the first time didn’t reach his eyes as he hastily shoved the letter back into his pocket. A chill shivered through her. He hadn’t meant for her to see that letter.

  One of her father’s letters had a New Orleans address. Was it only coincidence that Senhor Tavares had written someone in that city or was he playing some deeper game? He had hired her to help him sell his jewels, and she in turn planned to use him for her own purposes. But in doing so she must never forget that he was a stranger and shouldn’t be trusted.

  Aware of her sudden distraction but not the reason for it, Eduardo watched her closely as he held out the second necklace. “This one’s paste. I think the real one will be safer in my care until it’s needed for display in New York.”

  Philadelphia stiffened. “I see. Which one do you intend that we shall sell, senhor?”

  So, that was it. She still thought he might be a rogue, a charlatan. “You still don’t trust me,” he scolded gently.

  “You give me little reason to,” she answered. “I see you’ve written a friend. Do you know many people in New Orleans?”

  Eduardo’s smile straightened at the edges. She’d seen the address. She was smart and quick. He must remember that for he didn’t want her to begin to dig into his past. “A few. Do you?”

  “A few,” she answered in the same noncommittal tone.

  “Perhaps, at another time, we can compare acquaintances. We may discover that we have some in common.”

  He said it pleasantly, but Philadelphia felt more than heard irritation in his reply. She knew no one in New Orleans but she would allow him to think that she did. If he decided to go fishing for details from her, he might reveal something to her benefit.

  “How have you left matters with your relatives?” he asked to distract her from the question of the letter.

  “I wrote my mother’s relatives in St. Louis and told them that I was going to visit distant cousins of my father’s who live in New York City.”

  “Do you have relatives in New York City?”

  “No, but they don’t know that.”

  He nodded in approval. “And your lawyer, what have you said to him?”

  “Much the same. I said that I’d be in touch regularly by mail.”

  “So you’ve good and truly cut yourself off from your life as Philadelphia Hunt.”

  She felt a tremor of disquiet at his phrasing. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

  “And do you yet feel like Mademoiselle Ronsard?”

  “No
, of course not.” She looked down at the train ticket in her hand. “You will meet me in New York?”

  “No, but don’t worry. A very reliable and trustworthy fellow will be there to watch over you.”

  She looked up, startled. “Who is he? How will I know him?”

  His dimple appeared. “You need not worry, Mademoiselle Ronsard. He will know you!”

  Philadelphia snapped the lid of her portmanteau shut with a sigh and turned to look out the train window only to catch her breath in surprise at her own reflection. After nearly a week she still wasn’t accustomed to the dark-haired young woman who gazed back at her. She leaned a little closer to study her reflection, suspicious that one eyebrow was darker than the other. She had yet to master the techniques of applying makeup. Too much rouge made her look like a cheap woman. Too little mascara on her light lashes betrayed the fact that her hair was dyed. After a squinting search of her face, she sat back with a second sigh.

  “You’re excited about your arrival, aren’t you, dear?” said the matronly woman who sat on the seat opposite her.

  “Yes … oui,” Philadelphia added the French word as a delayed afterthought. Lord, how was she going to make people believe she was French if English came out of her mouth every time?

  “Your first time in New York, is it?”

  Philadelphia gave the woman a smile and nodded.

  “You’re sure to enjoy yourself. Are you being met by relatives?”

  Philadelphia shook her head. “Non.”

  “Really?” the woman looked askance.

  “I am being met,” Philadelphia quickly added in French-accented English but her chest felt suddenly tight. Eduardo Tavares had instructed her to tell people that she had spent a good deal of the last few years in India with an English cousin and, as a consequence, had grown comfortable with the language. Yet, she lacked the absolute confidence with which he spun stories so quickly and cleverly. Anything she said on the spur of the moment was certain to trip her up sooner or later. She’d been mad to agree to this game of make-believe. The knot in her chest tightened. She didn’t have the nerve or temperament for it.

  “Have you been in the country long?”

  Philadelphia jumped as though the woman had stuck her with one of the knitting needles she’d been plying with such dexterity since she sat down. “What? In this country?” She quickly gathered her thoughts. What had he told her to say? “Mais non, only a month. I came to San Francisco by ship.”

  The woman’s graying brows peaked over her short nose but her needles continued to click and lock into place the threads of her red wool. “That’s an odd way round from France, I’d say.”

  “Not France. India.” Philadelphia blushed at the sound of her voice. She sounded quite backward.

  “India? That’s quite a trip for a young lady.” The woman smiled. “I should know. Went sailing many a year in my younger days for my father was a whaling captain and my mother often shipped out as his first mate. My eldest boy, Jamie, makes the rubber run from Brazil to Boston. Have you been to Brazil?”

  Philadelphia’s wandering gaze swung back to the woman in alarm. “What about Brazil?”

  Taking the young woman’s startled question as desire for conversation, the woman said, “Never been there myself, if that’s what you mean. Jamie says it’s as wild a place as God ever set his hand to. There’s jungles full of heathens and rivers full of man-eating fishes, and snakes, and I don’t know what all. Not the sort of company for an upstanding Christian boy like my Jamie, and I told him so. Didn’t want to think he could come sailing into harbor with one of them skinny brown gals like Tom Foster done ten years back.” She leaned forward in confidence. “Tom said he bought her! Imagine that! Bought himself a wife!”

  “It sounds very interesting.” Philadelphia enunciated the words very carefully. “We will be arriving in New York soon, yes?”

  “Not precisely New York. The Pennsylvania Railroad ends at Exchange Place in New Jersey.”

  “New Jersey?” Philadelphia echoed in surprise. “It does not go on?”

  “You can go on, dear, by boarding the ferry to Manhattan.”

  “Oh.” Philadelphia was nonplussed. Eduardo Tavares had said she’d be met at the railroad station in New York. Was he unaware of the ferry ride?

  The woman gave Philadelphia a long hard look and realized that the girl was dressed in black. “You’re in mourning, aren’t you child?” Philadelphia nodded. “Your parents?” Again she nodded. “Poor thing, and you’ve come this way in a foreign land to be met by strangers?” Philadelphia nodded once more because she couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  “Well, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll see you get there.” She set aside her knitting and offered Philadelphia her hand. “My name’s Sarah Crabb, of New Bedford, Massachusetts.”

  Philadelphia took the extended hand. “I am Felise de Ronsard, of Paris.”

  Within the hour Philadelphia was glad she had decided to accept Mrs. Crabb’s aid. The enormous terminal called Exchange Place was a calliope of locomotive smoke and steam and noise and baggage and crowds. From the moment she set foot on the platform beneath the iron-girded canopy of the station, she felt both lost and a little afraid.

  “You wait here, dear, while I get a porter for our bags,” Mrs. Crabb instructed before setting off and being swallowed up in the crowd.

  Philadelphia didn’t notice at first the man striding toward her, though he caught the attention of every other member of the throng lining the platform. He was tall and soldierly erect, a posture exaggerated by the snug fit of his white jacket trimmed in military braid and buttoned with gold buttons from the neck, past the fitted waist, to the flared skirts that reached his knees. His black trousers were full but gathered at the bottom and tucked into polished boots. People stared as he passed them for his head was covered by a white silk turban, and at its center, above his forehead, an enormous blue stone was set.

  He stopped before Philadelphia, his graying mustache and whiskers bristling with his smile. “Mademoiselle de Ronsard, at your service.”

  Philadelphia blinked at him, her eyes taking in every detail of his weathered face, lined by age. “Who are you?”

  “Your faithful servant, memsahib. Sent ahead to make the proper arrangements for your stay in New York.”

  “Your name?” she questioned, too astonished to think to ask about Eduardo Tavares.

  He brought his right hand up to touch his forehead then dropped it in a graceful arch to touch his chin and then his chest as he bent in a bow and said, “I have the honor to be called Akbar, memsahib.”

  He straightened, looked down at the pile of luggage about her feet, and then correctly picked from the pile only those things that belonged to her. “Follow me, memsahib.”

  Philadelphia stood for a moment in indecision. Realizing that he had no intention of looking back to see if she were following, she caught up the skirt of her traveling gown and hurried after him. Passing the gape-jawed Mrs. Crabb just as she was returning with a Negro porter she cried, “I’ve been met! Merci! Au revoir!”

  “Well! Did you ever see the like?” Mrs. Crabb murmured when she’d regained her voice.

  “Naw, ma’am, I ain’t,” answered the porter with a grin.

  4

  New York City, May 1875

  “You wretch! You scoundrel! You—you cheat!”

  Eduardo Tavares easily dodged each of the oriental silk pillows Philadelphia threw at him but his amusement was his undoing. As a gust of laughter escaped him, he tripped over the corner of the settee behind which he was seeking marginal cover. As he went sprawling, he heard her say smugly, “Serves you right, you charlatan!”

  Rising to his knees, he peeked over the top of the settee. “Is memsahib’s tantrum over?”

  “Oh no!” She reached for another pillow only to discover that her supply was depleted. She reached, instead, for the porcelain v
ase on a nearby table and raised it menacingly. “How dare you present yourself to me in a disguise that your own mother would not see through. You might have revealed yourself yesterday at the station. But no, you hid behind that horrid costume and let me go about on cat’s paws in fear of you! If you hadn’t just now addressed me as senhorita, I wouldn’t yet know! You deserve to be stoned!”

  Eduardo got a foot under himself but didn’t immediately rise for his turban had been knocked askew and covered one eye. As he righted it, he said, “If you’d disarm, I’d be more than happy to explain to you why this”—he gestured to his false whiskers and turban—”was not only a useful disguise but also a very necessary one.”

  “Not likely!” She drew back her arm. “If you don’t leave my rooms this instant, I’ll have you forcibly ejected by the hotel detective!”

  Eduardo smiled at her flushed face. It might almost be worth the price of his ejection to see the reaction of the concierge and hotel detective when she summoned them. Gowned in lavender which accented her dark tresses and golden eyes full of righteous indignation, she made a picture they wouldn’t soon forget. The incident might even be recorded in one of the gossip columns. But, of course, he wasn’t ready for her name to be bandied about in that manner just yet. She needed to get her bearings. He’d been quite busy with the three days’ head start he had had before she reached New York, and if his work proved fruitful, she’d be thrust soon enough into the public eye.

  “You’re magnificent in your anger, memsahib, but I must beg you to hear me out before you destroy what appears to be a quite expensive piece of chinaware.”

  Philadelphia glanced at the vase in her hand, and recognizing the design as Ming, she lowered it. “You’re right.” She put the vase back on the table and reached for the bell pull.