Sweet Piracy

by Blake, Jennifer

  Fletcher, in affront at her acerbic tone, inclined his head. “I must hope you have the right of it.”

  “Perhaps I can shed a ray of light on this mystery.” The Marquis, crossing one booted foot over the other, entered the conversation. “To the best of my knowledge, Theo, with the aid of Jack, the son of my overseer, is engaged in building a raft.”

  “I might have known,” Caroline said, relief lending the smile she sent Rochefort an extra degree of warmth. “He has ever been mad for anything to do with water.”

  “A raft? To be used on the river?” Fletcher asked doubtfully.

  “Theo is a levelheaded boy. I’m sure he would do nothing really dangerous.”

  Fletcher gave her a fond smile. “Boys are not renowned for recognizing danger when they see it.”

  Undismayed, Caroline informed him, “The river holds little menace for Theo; he swims with the ease of a fish.”

  Fletcher subsided though he did not appear convinced.

  “How does Jim the groom go on?” Rochefort asked, claiming Caroline’s attention.

  The man had been sent home from Felicity only a few days before. Agreeably surprised that Rochefort should concern himself any further, Caroline answered. “He’s mending nicely, hobbling about with the aid of a stick. He’s quite the envy of the stables for his sojourn with you.”

  “I suspect his fame rests on his attempt to rescue the ladies of Beau Repos,” Rochefort replied. “Honor enough, surely, for any man.”

  Caroline responded to such a flagrant piece of gallantry with aplomb, and the conversation moved into easier channels. The Marquis made no effort to introduce the purpose of his call, nor did he inquire the whereabouts of either M’sieur Delacroix or the young ladies.

  Caroline might have brought matters to a head. An odd reluctance, fueled by the frequent puzzled glances Fletcher cast in Rochefort’s direction, prevented her.

  Under any other circumstances, the visit would have been an excellent opportunity to discuss the arrangements for the ball, but in the face of Fletcher’s disapproval, Caroline felt a sense of constraint. It was ridiculous to let his preachings on propriety trouble her, she told herself; still she could not find a way of bringing the talk around to the preparations without giving a totally erroneous impression of the footing on which she stood with the Marquis. Heretofore their discussions had been held with Madame present, ostensibly giving her assistance in the proceedings. The most formal circumstances had prevailed. Though Rochefort was cordial, at no time was his manner in the least encroaching; far from it. At times, Caroline, taking down the list of his requirements, felt that for all his awareness of her she might have been in his employ rather than that of Madame Delacroix.

  Perhaps because Fletcher was present, perhaps because Madame was not, on this occasion the Marquis did not see fit to mention the ball. When his Madeira arrived, he idled over it for the length of a discussion of crop rotation and the latest advances in agricultural pursuits with Fletcher. Setting down his empty glass, he got to his feet.

  By all rights, Fletcher, with the prescribed length of time for his call at an end, should have been first to take his leave. Rochefort, his adieus made to Caroline, surveyed the stolid figure of his neighbor firmly seated in the chair beside her. Humor flashed in his green eyes as he inclined his head.

  “Do you go my way, Masterson?” he asked. “Perhaps you will bear me company. There is a drainage problem in the west field. I would appreciate your advice.”

  Nothing could have been better calculated to arouse Fletcher’s interest. Caroline watched the struggle that animated his features with something like sympathy. It was not in his nature to be deliberately rude or to decline a call upon his knowledge of the subject dearest to his heart — after commission profits.

  The Marquis’s motives in presenting him with that challenge were harder to understand. It might have been no more than pique at Fletcher’s obvious distrust. It might have been a reluctance to leave another man in gloating possession of the field. Caroline was under no illusion of his need for advice. From hints he had let drop, she knew Rochefort had every confidence in his overseer and was engaged with him in an intensive program of soil replenishment and reclamation in preparation for planting the following spring. The question occupied her mind long after the dust from the departure of the two men together had settled upon the drive.

  Madame was not pleased to discover that the Marquis had paid a visit while she slept.

  “Why was I not summoned? And Amélie and Estelle also? You must have known we would have thrown on our clothes and put in an appearance. You cannot have thought we would not. Whatever possessed you to sit entertaining our guests while we lay asleep?”

  Caroline had no ready answer. True, Rochefort had not asked for the ladies, but neither had she offered to rouse them. She could tell herself he would not have allowed it; she could plead the confusion of the moment, the antagonism between the two men; it would not have been the strict truth. Thoughtlessness? Vanity? She refused to consider her motives. She apologized and, with some disturbance of mind, went about her duties.

  The date of the ball drew nearer. The list of items pertaining to the final preparations grew longer, and still there had been no opportunity for a last close discussion with Rochefort. Madame had seen to that. With single-minded determination, she monopolized that gentleman and, when she was not holding his attention with conversation, found excuses to send him off with one or the other of her daughters. Rochefort seemed to have no objection to viewing the garden, seeing the twilight on the river, or any other diversion, lending himself to all with an air of tolerant amusement. He was pleased to help Amélie sort embroidery silks, to play at écarté with M’sieur Delacroix or backgammon with Tante Zizi, or to show Anatole the finer points of turning a curricle and pair in tandem. Not once did Caroline see boredom on his fine, chiseled features, a thing she felt she had every reason to expect. No London dandy would have suffered himself to be so used, she knew. At least, not without good reason.

  One morning Caroline awoke to the realization there were only two days remaining until the ball. Decorations, flowers, dance cards, a dais for the musicians, the selection of the music, the placement of those who would receive, and dozens of other details whirled in her brain. There was no help for it, she must speak privately with Rochefort. She dreaded the confusion which must certainly ensue if she did not. And if she was not to be allowed to do so when in company, then she must arrange to see him alone. The surest way to accomplish this was to go to Felicity.

  At the thought her courage misgave her. Despite the presence of the housekeeper, it was not at all the thing for a young woman to set out deliberately to pay a call at a bachelor establishment. She had very little concern for appearances; still she felt a distinct aversion to giving anyone the opportunity to say she was pursuing the Marquis de Rochefort.

  It was Anatole who saved her blushes. Lounging in from the dining room with his gold-headed ivory toothpick protruding from his mouth, he replied to her query that he was up early because of his intention to practice feather-edging the curves of the river road in his curricle. He was just as happy to have someone up beside him to applaud his newfound prowess. If she wished to stop off at Felicity, well, he often did so himself. Rochefort was never backward with the offer of a glass of wine. A grand fellow, the Marquis, un gentilhomme par excellence! He always treated one as a man, was never patronizing. He never accepted an excuse for failure, either, but when one did his best, an excuse was not needed.

  Caroline, clinging to the curricle seat, smiled at this bit of philosophy, though not unkindly. There had been a great improvement in Anatole over the past weeks. He had lost much of his indolence, and he lapsed less and less into his pose as a bored man of the world. He even ventured to show enthusiasm on occasion. The most dramatic change was in his dress. Gone were the florid colors, the excess of ornamentation. He looked what he was, a carefree young man of ample means and a bright fut
ure.

  Their attention was caught by the warning blast of a steam whistle. It was the General Jackson racing along with a full head of steam and its flags flying. The obstacle in its path was a keelboat, which obligingly veered toward the river bank. Espying the curricle with its comet tail of dust, the ladies on the steamboat dock waved and Anatole lifted his whip in reply as they gradually drew ahead.

  They did not find Rochefort within doors. He had ridden out with Victor and his overseer to inspect a newly installed cane press. The butler showed them into the salon and went away, perhaps to confer with the housekeeper, for that worthy woman swept into the room a few minutes later. Her eyebrows arched nearly to her hairline at the sight of Caroline, but she put on a stiff smile and informed them that she had sent a messenger after M’sieur le Marquis. With that she left them sitting, staring at each other, Anatole in budding wrath and Caroline torn between amusement and chagrin.

  The minutes ticked past, marked with precision by the ormolu clock upon the white carrara mantel. The horrible suspicion that she should not have come grew in Caroline’s mind. Nervously she played with the fringe on a cushion, then sprang to her feet to walk to the window.

  It was not like her to be so agitated. She could not understand it. The appearance of the steamboat upon the river beyond the muslin-draped glass was a welcome diversion. The General Jackson, with an announcing whistle, swerved toward the landing of Felicity. Backing its wheel, it eased up to the dock, threw out a line, and let down a gangway.

  A lady dressed in yellow muslin over silk, with a lace-edged parasol held over her stylish coal-scuttle bonnet, stepped daintily to the levee. Following her was a stevedore with an enormous trunk on his back. He took one step for her two and walked with a gatelegged swagger to keep from overtaking her. Behind him came a maid weighted down with a rattan case and a collection of bandboxes.

  Anatole moved to stand at Caroline’s shoulder. “Who do you suppose she is?”

  A horseman had come into view. It was Rochefort. He dismounted before the steps to stand with hands on hips, watching the small procession. As, the woman in yellow caught sight of him, she gave a squeal which penetrated even to the salon. Flinging her parasol aside, she ran with outstretched arms to throw herself against his chest. He bore the onslaught with fortitude, clasping her to him. As the wanton held up her mouth for his kiss, Caroline turned sharply away.

  Anatole, fighting to remove the flimsy muslin curtain obscuring his vision, whistled. “My faith,” he said. “I think — I believe — It is! It’s Madame Francine Fontaine! I would know her anywhere, saw her five times last season at the Théâtre d’Orléans.”

  Caroline barely glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” she said in stifled tones. For a long moment she stood still, then she began a frantic search for her reticule. She found it under a cushion. Placing it on her wrist, she was just about to command Anatole to see her back to Beau Repos when the tall double doors at the end of the room swung open.

  Rochefort stepped through with the woman from the steamboat clinging to his arm. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Mademoiselle, Anatole. Allow me to present to you an old friend, Madame Fontaine.”

  Anatole had been right as to the woman’s identity. The swift thought passed through Caroline’s mind of the ladies she had once known who would have cut dead on the spot both Rochefort and his paramour. Ladies did not acknowledge an introduction to an actress. She inclined her head in a frigid bow that had little to do with outraged propriety.

  Rochefort raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing as he studied Caroline’s flushed face.

  Anatole’s stammered acknowledgement at an end, Rochefort scanned the room. “You have not had refreshment? How does this come about?” Stepping to the bell pull, he gave it a vigorous tug. When the butler appeared, he was made to answer a few pithy questions.

  “It was Madame Reau, the housekeeper, maître,” the butler said. “She recommended that we await your pleasure.”

  “Inform Madame Reau that I will see her in the library. She may ‘await my pleasure’ there until I arrive.”

  Caroline, observing the tightness about his mouth, suspected that something more than the housekeeper’s dereliction of duty had incensed him. As his gaze raked over her once more, Caroline found her hands gripping her reticule so tightly her fingertips felt numb.

  Madame Fontaine gave a high laugh, her black eyes roguish. “How fierce you are, Jean. I might have known you would rule your household with the same iron hand with which you ruled—”

  “Why are we standing about?” Rochefort said, cutting across the actress’s comment with unaccustomed rudeness. “Let us sit down like civilized people. I can guess, Francine, why you are descended upon me—”

  “But yes, the grand ball! Invited or not, you could not expect that I would miss it!” She sounded gay and assured, but the look she sent him was a trifle uncertain.

  “We shall see,” he told her and ignored her pout to turn to Anatole. “Let me hear what brings you to Felicity.”

  Anatole hastily withdrew his bemused attention from the white shoulders of Madame Fontaine which were revealed by her extreme décolletage. “It was Caroline,” he said.

  Feeling a strong desire to throttle the boy, Caroline fumbled her list out of her reticule. “Yes, the — the preparations for the ball. There are several points that need — that need discussion.”

  “Indeed? I believe Victor has most of the details well in hand. I beg you not to tax yourself unduly over this affair. That was never my intention.”

  “I — I appreciate that. Still if I could just know one or two small things, it would relieve my mind.”

  “Of course. If I can persuade Anatole to entertain Madame Fontaine for a few moments, we will withdraw to yonder corner.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Caroline began, but it was too late. A firm hand under her elbow brought her to her feet and steered her in the direction of a settee. It was so narrow that when they were seated his shoulder brushed hers.

  She had always been aware of him as a dangerously attractive man, but never to the degree she felt at this moment. Her mouth was suddenly dry. She moistened her lips before speaking.

  “I am sorry that Anatole and I forced ourselves upon you. I felt it was imperative that I consult you, and there has been no opportunity of late.”

  “No,” he replied, his eyes resting on the tender curve of her mouth. “We are seldom alone, are we? I’m afraid this affair has not proceeded exactly as I planned. Still, that cannot be helped, since we must keep up the fiction that it is Madame Delacroix who will be my hostess.”

  Caroline glanced at him, then looked away. His bluntness made her uncertain. Did he mean her to understand he would have liked to be alone with her more often, or was he indicating that the woman he would have chosen to act for him had only just arrived? The first seemed so unlikely that she discarded the idea immediately.

  “The list,” she murmured, pushing it toward him. He hesitated, then, accepting her lead, took the paper, though the expression about his mouth was a shade grimmer.

  They ran over the items quickly. As Rochefort had said, Victor, in his capacity as secretary to his cousin, had attended to the majority of the details in question. Caroline was left with the feeling that her concern was needless, that the Marquis’s staff was capable of managing all without her help.

  “Is there nothing else?” Rochefort asked.

  “Nothing, my lord,” she answered, folding the piece of parchment and putting it away.

  His eyes narrowed at her formal address. “I never suspected you were a snob, Mademoiselle Pembroke.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is obvious,” he said, meeting her startled gaze, “that you do not approve of my guest, and therefore I am in your black book.”

  Caroline lifted her chin. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove of your guests, my lord.”

  “No. Remember that, plea
se. And remember also to prevent yourself from calling me by my title in that high tone, or be ready to accept the consequences.”

  His face was inches from her own. She had the absurd idea that if she did not obey him he meant to kiss her. She swallowed hard, dropping her gaze so that her lashes made fan shapes on her cheeks. “How should I address you?”

  “Jean is my given name. I make you free of it.”

  It was also the name by which the actress had called him. Caroline knew reluctance to follow so quickly in her path. She stared at her fingers, clenched in her lap.

  “Well?’“ he prompted, his voice holding a persuasive timbre.

  “Holà, mon ami,” the actress broke in upon their absorption. “Is this a discussion you conduct or a seduction? You neglect your other guests, specifically me.”

  Color mounted in a suffocating wave to Caroline’s face. She was scarcely aware of Rochefort helping her to her feet and leading her back to the others.

  “One day, Francine, ma chère, someone will wring your neck,” Rochefort drawled to the woman who walked beside them.

  Throwing her head back in a provocative gesture that showed the lovely lines of her throat, the actress only laughed.

  The day of the ball dawned cloudy. The air was cool, and there was a mist on the river. It did not rain, but neither did the gray threat of it go away. As they bounced along in the ancient berlin that served as a family carriage, Estelle leaned forward to peer through the window.

  “I suppose it will pour before the evening is over. Such a waste! The parlor maid told me the servants at Felicity have been hanging colored lanterns in the gardens for days, hundreds of them.”

  “Be pleased not to fidget, my love,” Madame said from the corner of the coach. “You will crush your gown.”