How Aria had hated it.
Now, as the heavy Louisiana air stole her breath, she snapped open her parasol and indifferently watched as the porter brought their small trunk and bags from the train. Babette came up beside her.
“I have asked the porter to summon a carriage,” she said. “Come into the station, Anna.”
Numb with despair, Aria followed Babette inside. Travelers sat on the benches, talking or simply sitting, the men reading newspapers and the women idly plying their fans. Aria waited, unmoving, until the porter came to fetch them.
Everything about New Orleans was new and strange, even after all she had seen in San Francisco. The streets were full of people of every color, including some she hadn’t seen in San Francisco. Even the simply dressed women Aria presumed were servants carried themselves with unconscious grace and elegance. The shops and buildings were festooned with delicate ironwork, pretty as the women’s gowns, and the crowded markets were vibrant and colorful.
None of it left any impression. Aria stared blankly at the fancy upholstery on the opposite seat of the carriage as they rode to the hotel Babette had chosen for their first night in the city. Babette quietly reminded her that she should remain as quiet as possible and volunteer nothing about herself to anyone they met, even if someone should seem to recognize her. If it became necessary, Aria would share only a few “facts” that Babette had devised, a story that had very little to do with what had really happened since Aria had left Carantia.
“But why?” Aria had asked. “If I’m not Lucienne and they don’t know me, why should I lie about where I came from and how I got here?”
“It will make things easier in the beginning,” Babette had said. “But it is only for today, in any case. There are things I must tell you before we go to the Reniers. Things I should have said before we—” She looked down at her gloved hands. “Everything will undoubtedly seem very strange to you, ma chérie, but you must trust that Cort believed this course was best for you.”
Believed. Aria found she could not even be upset at Babette’s use of the past tense. She paid little attention as the coachmen drove along Royal Street and into the porte-cochère of a hotel that rivaled the Palace in its grandeur, if not its height. She stepped down to the street, adjusting her skirts without thought. Babette took her arm.
“This is not the finest hotel in New Orleans,” she said, “but it is quite respectable. We have just enough money to stay a night or two if circumstances require it, but I do not believe it will be necessary.”
Aria followed Babette into the lobby, trailed by porters with their trunk and bags. Like the Palace, La Court des Palmes clearly catered to wealthy clientele. The women were beautiful and seemed well aware of their own worth. The men were dapper and handsome, reminding her painfully of Cort.
He would belong in a place like this.
Almost as if she expected to find him waiting for them there, Aria began to study the faces of those who passed by. Many men returned her glances. Some stared. Several smiled as they lifted their hats to her.
Babette seemed to notice the lingering stares, too. She seemed increasingly nervous, especially after she looked toward a particular group of men who were holding an intense conversation at the far side of the lobby.
“Let us check in and go directly to our room,” she said. “You must be hungry. We’ll order a tray to be brought up as soon as we are settled.”
Aria began to shake her head, but she never finished the gesture. One of the men from the group across the room, an older gentleman with a short beard, was staring in their direction with obvious interest.
“Mon Dieu,” Babette whispered.
“Do you know him?” Aria asked with a spark of curiosity.
“Yes. Years ago.”
“Why are you afraid?”
Babette didn’t answer. The man began to walk toward her, accompanied by a much younger blond gentleman with longish hair and a suit much finer than anything Aria had ever seen Cort wearing.
“Madame Moreau!” the older man said, tipping his hat. He had an accent very different from Cort’s lilt, but it still had a hint of the French in it. “What a surprise to see you in New Orleans after so many years.”
Babette bowed and smiled. “Has it been so long, Monsieur Duplessis?”
“It seems an eternity.”
“I have been in Denver, monsieur. I was married to Mr. Clive Martin four years ago.”
“Married?” Duplessis raised his brows. “My congratulations, Madame Martin.”
“Mr. Martin died a year ago, monsieur.”
“I am sorry.” He cast a bemused glance at Aria, and then at the young man beside him, who had been staring at Aria all the while.
Babette seemed deeply flustered. Aria sensed that it had something to do with the etiquette of introductions, and realized that for some reason no one knew quite what to do. The seconds stretched into minutes.
“I see that we have interrupted your business, madame,” Duplessis said. “If you will forgive us…”
“Forgive me, madame,” the younger man cut in. “I must be unforgivably discourteous in introducing myself.” He bowed. “My name is Benoit Renier. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Renier. Aria felt as if all the heat had been sucked out of the room. Babette inclined her head as if she were perfectly comfortable with the breach of etiquette. “It is my pleasure, Monsieur Renier,” she said.
At once Renier’s attention returned to Aria. “May I beg to know the name of your fair companion?”
Aria couldn’t help but stare right back at him. The young gentleman’s hair was only a shade darker than her own, his eyes a glacial blue. But there was nothing cold about his expression when he looked at her.
Was she actually related to him? Did he think he saw Lucienne, all grown up and magically restored? His curiosity was obviously eating him up, but Babette seemed to choke on her answer.
Aria didn’t care what rules she broke. “My name,” she said, extending her hand, “is Aria. Aria Renier.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE BLOOD RUSHED from Babette’s heart into the soles of her shoes. This was not at all what she had planned. She had never known the Reniers or their associates to frequent the Court des Palmes, which was precisely why she had chosen it. Nothing in the world could have prepared her for this unexpected meeting—or Aria’s response.
That response provoked such obvious shock in Benoit Renier that Babette was almost ready to call for a physician. His eagerness for an introduction had made it clear that he was too young to recognize Babette as a former courtesan.
But he was not too young to remember Lucienne—or to believe he had seen her across a crowded room.
“Mademoiselle,” Benoit said, bowing unsteadily. “Your servant.”
Aria curtsied. “Thank you, sir.”
“Have we…have we met before?” he stammered.
“I do not believe that can be possible, monsieur,” she answered in a voice so cultured that no one could ever doubt that she had been born to wealth and privilege. “I have only just arrived in New Orleans.”
“But…” Benoit’s expression relaxed as he struggled to regain his poise. “If you are a Renier, we must be cousins, n’est-ce pas? Surely this cannot be coincidence?” He didn’t wait for Aria to answer. “May I ask from whence you have come? Are you perhaps one of those Reniers who settled in the West? Texas, perhaps, or Arizona?”
The abrupt questions were just as rude as his forced introduction, but Aria was quick with a reply. “From even farther afield than that, monsieur,” she said demurely.
“Farther afield?” He leaned closer, breathing in deeply. “Surely you have not sprung from the ocean like one of Neptune’s daughters?”
“I have been…separated from my family for some time,” she said, lowering her gaze.
Babette knew she had let the situation get out of hand, and she had no intention of permitting further interrogation in suc
h a public place. She had to take control, and quickly.
“We have come a long way, messieurs,” she said. “If you will forgive us…”
“Madame,” Benoit said, pretending not to understand, “your manner of speaking…you are perhaps from New Orleans yourself?”
Babette glanced warily at Monsieur Duplessis. “I am.”
“And have you known Mademoiselle Renier long?”
His behavior was unforgivable, but Babette knew where he was leading. “We were acquainted in San Francisco,” she said.
“I see. Are you aware, perhaps, of the case of my cousin Lucienne Renier?”
No, this was not at all what Babette had planned. “I am, monsieur. A tragic loss to your family. I am sorry.”
He stared at her for a moment longer and then turned back to Aria. “Your family, mademoiselle…you said you were separated from them. Have you—”
“I never knew them,” Aria interrupted. “My late guardian brought me to the United States from Europe to meet my American relations, though I did not know of them until we arrived.”
“Europe?” Benoit repeated. “How remarkable! And you have come to find us?”
“Thanks to Madame Martin. I—”
“It is a complicated story,” Babette said, “best told under more congenial circumstances.”
The Reniers of New Orleans were not accustomed to being treated as they liked to treat their “inferiors,” and Benoit was no exception. “If it is congenial circumstances you prefer,” he said coldly, “I will be delighted to introduce you and Mademoiselle Aria to my family.”
And that would be catastrophic. Benoit might not recognize Babette as New Orleans’s former reigning Queen of Courtesans, but he would learn her identity soon enough. And Aria was lacking crucial information she must know before any further introductions could be made.
Whatever Benoit might believe—even if he thought that Aria was actually Lucienne but for some reason felt compelled to conceal her true identity—Babette strongly suspected he knew nothing of Lucienne’s birth as a princess of Carantia. That fact would surely have been hidden from all but a few of the elder Reniers.
His ignorance was perhaps Babette’s only advantage.
“I fear I must insist that Mademoiselle Renier be allowed to rest,” she said. “Her welfare was put in my hands by her late guardian. If you have any concern for her, you will permit us to retire.”
“The lady is quite right,” Duplessis said, breaking in for the first time since Benoit had spoken. “All will be revealed in the morning.”
He gave Babette a secret smile, and she wondered just how much he intended to say. But she would not borrow trouble. “Merci, monsieur,” she said.
Thus chided by his elder companion, Benoit had no choice but to give in. “May we escort you to the reception desk?” he asked.
So it was done. Like it or not, the first part of the introduction was over. The most difficult was yet to come.
The moment Aria was inside their room, she yanked off her gloves and hat, and flung herself down on the nearest chair. “I wish we had never come,” she said.
The vehemence of Aria’s declaration hardly surprised Babette. The young woman had done a marvelous job of presenting herself, almost making Babette believe that she had been pleased to meet someone she could finally claim as family.
But Babette had known better. Aria was far from ready to be pleased about anything. She was still very much in a state of shock. And grief.
Babette sat in the chair opposite the sofa and met Aria’s gaze. “You are doing very well,” she said. “In light of the fact that you ignored my advice to avoid speaking and gave them your real name, of course.” She sighed. “I did not expect to meet any Reniers here. It could have been a disaster.”
Aria’s chin jutted like the prow of a Spanish galleon. “I’m certain he thought I was Lucienne when he first saw me.”
“It was what we expected. He may still believe it.”
“I don’t care what he believes. I don’t like him.”
In this matter, Babette felt that Aria had exquisite judgment. Still, he was a Renier, so…
“You have only just met him,” she said, “and there are others—”
“I always knew Cort didn’t like them,” Aria said. “But he never said why. Now I think I understand.”
“You judge too quickly, Aria. He was rude, to be sure, but that is hardly reason to dismiss the entire family.” Babette leaned forward, trying to make Aria listen. “You have come so far. Cort would be proud.”
“I don’t care about how proud anyone is of me.” Aria sat up straight, fists clenched against the arms of the chair. “I’m only here for one reason. If Cort doesn’t come soon, I’m going back to look for him. Once the Reniers accept me, they’ll help me find Cort if I ask them to.”
Oh, Lord. Was this why Aria had been so cooperative? How could Babette tell her that the New Orleans Reniers were not likely to help her find Cort under any circumstances, even if they never knew her true reason for asking?
How could she bring herself to suggest again that Aria face the reality of Cort’s likely death? The young woman would never believe Cort was gone until she had absolute proof.
Babette herself had come to another conclusion during the train trip from Sacramento. Cort might not come after them even if he had survived. The news of Aria’s identity had struck him hard, driven deeply and cruelly into the soul of a man who had reinvented himself to become a false reflection of those he hated.
Aria was a reflection of him, transformed from backward child into elegant lady. But there was one major difference. She had been born to nobility. No matter how thoroughly he altered himself, Cort would never be anything but a backwoods peasant boy rejected and spat upon by those who deemed themselves as far above him as an eagle from a swamp rat.
Aria believed Cort would come for her and marry her as he had promised. But he was proud, very proud, and Babette hadn’t had the chance to ask him what he intended to do in light of his new knowledge. She hadn’t been able to remind him that Aria’s feelings for him weren’t likely to change. Their conversation had ended when she had hesitantly admitted that Yuri might not keep his promise to her. That he might go through with his plans for betrayal.
Babette closed her eyes. If only she could have faith, like Aria. Faith that Cort was alive, and that he would come for Aria. Faith that Yuri had had no part in the attack, despite all her fears to the contrary. Faith that at least one person in their troubled quartet would find real happiness.
Soon, one way or another, Aria would have to make some very difficult decisions.
Well aware that such decisions—along with painful confessions—were not to be made on an empty stomach, Babette insisted that Aria eat the fresh seafood that was soon brought to their room. Well after night had fallen and Aria had gotten ready for bed, Babette called for a bottle of red wine. She poured a glass for herself and one for Aria when the girl returned to the sitting room.
“Drink,” Babette said, offering one of the glasses to Aria. “It will help you to relax.”
Aria sniffed the wine. “You didn’t want me to drink before,” she said dully, “and the way it made Yuri act…”
“As with many pleasures, it is perfectly acceptable in moderation. No harm will come of a drink or two.”
No indeed. All the harm would come from the words Babette was about to speak. She waited while Aria finished the wine, almost gulping it down as if she hoped its effects would drown the fears she refused to acknowledge.
When the younger woman had finished her second glass, Babette began.
THE NEXT MORNING, bathed and freshly dressed, they sat across from each other in the dining room, pretending to enjoy their sumptuous breakfast. Aria’s expression was that of a porcelain doll, presenting a pleasant aspect to everyone she met but devoid of any real feeling.
And no wonder. She had suffered shock after shock. First Babette had told her the easier
truth: that the lady she knew as Madame Martin was no lady at all. Babette had once dared to hope that the time would never come when she would be compelled to reveal her past to Aria; it had always been her plan to leave before Aria went to New Orleans, where “Madame Moreau” would be recognized.
Keeping the secret had become impossible once she had become responsible for escorting Aria to her kin. She had to make Aria understand why she had to go to the Reniers alone. Once Benoit knew who Babette was, he would be horrified that he had offered to introduce a whore to his family.
Aria had begun to protest that she would never leave Babette, no matter who she had been once upon a time. Babette had stopped the argument by revealing the more difficult truth: Aria was no mere orphan seeking her prominent kinfolk in America; she was a princess royal. Brecht was not simply a villain obsessed with a girl his agent had lost in a card game, but the distant cousin and murderer of the king her father and the queen her mother, a monster who intended to marry the princess and use her to take the throne from the current, barely legitimate ruler.
Some in Aria’s position might have laughed at such absurdities. But Aria hadn’t laughed when Babette told her how she had learned such incredible facts. There was no way to sugarcoat Yuri’s villainy.
“From the beginning, Yuri recognized you as the princess Alese—raised in New Orleans as Lucienne Renier,” she had told Aria. “He’d had dealings with the Reniers and knew the story of Lucienne’s kidnapping. But he was also one of the few who knew that Lucienne was only an assumed name. He concealed this fact from Cort while assisting him in preparing you to meet the Reniers. It was his aim to demand a generous reward from the Reniers in exchange for your return.”
It had been difficult then for Babette to keep the tears from her voice. “It was the birthmark, you see,” she had said. “The birthmark on your back. It is the mark of the Carantian royal family, the rulers who were deposed by the rebels, distant cousins of the American Reniers. But Cort knew nothing of this. He had no idea that Yuri had decided to take Duke di Reinardus’s part and betray us.”
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