by Danice Allen
“I see prudery rearing its ugly head again,” Katherine remarked dryly as she brushed the crumbs off her bodice. “Captain Duval was simply speaking the truth, Reginald, only in more colorful terminology than you’re used to hearing. I wonder whose ears are really the more innocent—Anne’s or yours? Yours are the shade pinker.”
“Mine are pink, Aunt Katherine,” said Anne, “not because I objected to the captain’s terminology, but because he spoke so condescendingly. Oh, is there no one who takes these matters seriously, or who might take me seriously? What this country needs are more men like Renard!”
“Like Renard?” croaked Reggie. “He’s an outlaw!”
“But he’s doing what he believes in. Inside the law, he can do nothing. Don’t tell me, Uncle Reggie, that you agree with the captain!”
“Anne, of course I don’t. But in England, where people are civilized, such unpleasant matters need not be thought about, much less discussed at such great length.”
“Well, I’d rather be dead than simpering and silent,” Anne announced, licking the powdered sugar off her fingers one at a time.
“Anne, ’tis unbecoming in a young lady to speak so violently, and do use your serviette, my dear!” admonished Reggie, at the end of his tether; but too late. With a thumb knuckle-deep in her mouth, Anne looked up to see Delacroix staring at her from the doorway of the saloon, Bodine at his side. And the dratted man was smiling.
With all the people in the saloon—many of whom had lingered over their meal in hopes of witnessing the entrance of the unfortunate Bodine—Anne found it rather unlucky that Delacroix’s lazy, mocking gaze had happened to fix on her just as she was sucking sugar off her thumb.
She quickly looked away from Delacroix’s amusement and removed the offending digit, wiping it dry on the serviette in her lap.
Anne was embarrassed and reluctant to look back toward the saloon entrance again, but she was just as curious as the other passengers to see how Bodine fared after receiving his bad news. Anne hoped he was wretched. By the quick look she’d had of him, she suspected he was nursing a hangover headache as well as a self-pitying conviction of ill usage at the hand of the Fox. Bravo, Renard! thought Anne. Bodine got no less than he deserved.
She slid a glance their way, sideways and surreptitious, out of the corner of her eye. Delacroix and Bodine were moving toward an empty table just next to theirs. Like everyone else in the room, she watched their progress. Delacroix walked with haughty nonchalance, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Anne noticed again that he had wonderful legs. She sighed and looked away. No rogue should have legs like that. He’d only use them to further his nefarious designs on women’s hearts. Thank goodness, she was immune!
Anne Weston sat in a pool of sunshine, dressed in a butter-yellow dress and with a frothy, feathered bonnet sprigged with daisies perched atop her fair curls. She was sucking on her fingers, avidly enjoying every slick, sugary mouthful. Even from across the room, Lucien could see the white confectioner’s powder from the beignet outlining the curve of her upper lip. One swipe of the tongue—preferably his—and she’d be as clean as a whistle and ready for kissing.
Kissing. It was not his usual habit to intersperse his undercover activities with romance, but last night he’d been unable to resist such an enchanting armful as Anne Weston had been. When he’d first seen her standing at the railing of the steamboat as it eased against the levee at Biloxi, he’d wondered how much she owed to her corset for that tiny waist. Now he knew that the nipped-in waist and just-right swell of hips and breasts were perfect without the benefit of undergarments; actually more perfect.
He vividly recalled the feel of her as she’d leaned against his chest and thighs. He’d felt the pulsing warmth of her skin through the fine muslin material of her nightdress. Her lips had been as sweet and eager as a besotted bride’s. But more disrupting to Lucien’s peace of mind than all these luscious physical delights was the unbelievable fact that Anne Weston supported Renard’s cause with the sort of dedicated fervor most females saved for picking out a new bonnet or parasol. She’d been quivering with excitement last night because she was glad the slaves were escaping. Anne had fire and substance. She was an idealist. So far, she was damned near perfect.
And he must leave her alone. Lucien had no time for such foolishness. He had a masquerade to play out, and he didn’t need such a tempting wench distracting him from his purpose.
She was watching him as he walked across the saloon toward the unoccupied table near theirs. For a panicked instant Lucien imagined she recognized something about him that might connect him to Renard. He gave her a sly smile and winked. She looked annoyed and turned away. Success, but at a price.
Before Anne Weston came on the scene, Lucien had actually taken a certain wicked enjoyment in his masquerade, amused by how easily he controlled people’s opinions of him with a little playacting, a few careless, selfish remarks, and prideful allusions to wenching and gambling. But fooling Anne was a bittersweet triumph indeed. With her, Lucien wanted desperately to be himself.
“Will this do, Bodine?” Lucien gestured toward the empty table.
Bodine squinted and snarled, “There’s too much sun, but I suppose it shall have to do since it’s the only available place to sit.”
Lucien knew they were the center of the room’s attention, but he only cared about the presence of the young woman who watched from the nearest table, and the scrutiny of the bluest and most clear-sighted pair of eyes. Bodine plopped into a chair without glancing around him, propped his elbows on the table, and cradled his head in his hands.
Before sitting down himself, Lucien took the time to briefly visit the surrounding tables. He kissed several hands and got several saucy looks and coy smiles in return. One young girl blushed to the roots of her hair and ducked shyly behind her fan. Having done his roguish duty, he at last approached Anne’s table and bowed low.
“Bonjour, ladies, Monsieur Weston. I trust you are all well and happy this fine day?” He bared his teeth in the most insouciant smile he could manage. But Anne was watching, and it was hard to appear as unconcerned and carefree as he wanted to. He felt a tic in his jaw.
“Certainly happier than your friend, Mr. Bodine,” said Katherine, tilting her chin in Bodine’s general direction.
Lucien spread one hand in front of him to inspect his nails. Between his slightly splayed fingers, he saw Anne’s upper lip—still dusted with sugar—lift in a barely perceptible sneer. He had doubtless irritated her by flirting with all the women within hand-kissing range. How very satisfying.
“Oui, last night’s incident was most regrettable, n’est-ce pas? I understand he paid a pretty penny for the family of slaves. No matter how rich one gets, you know, it’s never easy to part with one’s property in such a manner. I’m sure it irks Bodine all the more because it was the doing of the outlaw Renard.”
“Yes, Mr. Bodine does look dreadfully drawn this morning,” said Anne with sweet rancor. She sighed and looked mournful. “How I pity him. But perhaps he’ll improve once he’s eaten breakfast.”
“With a thundering headache and a queasy stomach, he probably won’t order more than a cup of strong coffee,” Lucien said in a voice of mild concern. “But as his friend, it is my duty to persuade him to eat at least a little something. How are the beignets this morning, Mademoiselle Weston? I was going to kiss your hand, but once I got a taste of that sugar on your fingers, I might embarrass us both by lingering overly long … Sugar is so divinely sweet, like a woman’s lips.”
He watched her blush. It was like watching a rose open, all dewy freshness and color. He stood there most rudely and smiled his enjoyment. Her uncle threw him a fretful glance, then leaned close to Anne’s ear and whispered something. She quickly wiped the sugar off her lip with a serviette, then briskly wiped her fingers, too. Recovering her composure, she lifted haughty eyes to Lucien’s mocking ones and said, “The beignets are especially light and delicious today, Mr. Delacroix, an
d perhaps even sweet enough to charm away Mr. Bodine’s sour mood. Perhaps you ought to advise him to order some before he sends the server away.”
Lucien recognized a broad hint when he heard one. She was dismissing him. But it was time he got on with the business of pretending to soothe Bodine’s battered pride, anyway, and proving himself an excellent friend to the blackguard. His false friendship with Bodine was the most repugnant of his deceptions in the masquerade he played.
“How right you are, mademoiselle,” conceded Lucien with a courtly bow. “I will advise Monsieur Bodine to order a plate of beignets immediately. Au revoir, ladies. Au revoir, Monsieur Weston. I hope we meet frequently in town.”
Anne’s responding look assured him that she’d probably much prefer meeting the devil to meeting a wretch like him. He ought to be pleased that his wastrel act was convincing enough to make her dislike him so intensely. But instead he found it damned irritating. He returned to the table and Bodine, determined to put the saucy baggage out of his mind and keep his thoughts on the pressing matters at hand.
As Lucien sat down, Bodine lifted his head from his hands. “Doing the pretty, Delacroix?”
Lucien dispassionately observed Bodine’s bloated face. He looked as though he’d just walked through a sandstorm. His eyes were red and runny, his face unnaturally flushed. No one would think he was suffering from anything worse than a hangover, but Lucien knew differently. The sleeping herbs Armande had given him had done the job wonderfully. “Chirped a little too merry last night, eh, Bodine?”
“No merrier than I have done on numerous other occasions,” he rasped. “You drank as much as I did, and I’d like to think I can throw down as many goblets of Madeira as the next man. I don’t know why I feel worse than usual after a little brew tipping.” Bodine rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “My head is throbbing.”
“I had the sorry task of waking you this morning with that damnable news. Learning you were robbed by Renard again must surely contribute to your feelings of misery, n’est-ce pas?”
Bodine dropped his hands to the tabletop, where they formed into fists. A look of hatred radiated from his bleary, bloodshot eyes. “If I ever manage to get hold of that bastard, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands!”
Lucien pretended to look slightly awestruck by Bodine’s vehemence. “Mon Dieu, I can only thank the saints that I’m not the man who inspires so much anger in you, Bodine.” Lucien casually crossed his legs. “Pray tell me, just how many times has the Fox crept into your henhouse?”
Bodine looked truculent and did not reply. Smoothly, mercilessly, Lucien rubbed salt into the adeptly inflicted wound. “I think the henhouse a most apt metaphor, don’t you? He frequently absconds with females you’re interested in. Too bad you weren’t able to have your way with that fetching little wench before Renard took her.”
Bodine bristled. “What makes you think I didn’t?”
Lucien shook his head. “Ah, mon ami, you forget. I helped you to your cabin last night. I assisted your manservant in pulling off your boots and tucking you snugly into bed. You are a large man, and last night you were—how shall I say?—less than graceful? You were snoring long before your head hit the pillow.”
Bodine hadn’t the energy to dispute what was indisputable. His head sunk into his hands again. Lucien pretended to be instantly contrite. He reached over and clasped Bodine’s hulking shoulder, ignoring the revulsion he felt at merely touching the man. “But what kind of friend am I to remind you of such frustrations? I wonder that you do not take a mistress and save yourself the trouble of seeking your … er … comfort in the inexpert arms of child slaves. Settle some beauty in her own petite maison on Rampart Street and come and go at your leisure.”
Bodine shrugged out of Lucien’s light hold and started rubbing his eyes again. “I won’t buy a whore her own house. Once I’d grown tired of her—as I surely would before a year was out—she’d expect me to leave the place to her, just as our damned chivalrous custom demands. That doesn’t sound very money-wise to me. The slaves I already own cost me nothing when I bed them. Besides, I like variety, and I like them young and virginal, if possible.”
“I see. Your tastes run to the pure and innocent,” Lucien remarked agreeably, hiding his disgust, strangling his urge to spit in Bodine’s face. “You must eat. Mademoiselle Weston assures me that the beignets are divine today.”
“Coffee. All I want is black coffee,” Bodine mumbled, laying his balding head on his folded arms on the table.
Lucien waved for the server. When the uniformed black man hurried over, Lucien ordered coffee for Bodine and a substantial breakfast for himself. Last night’s escapade had left him ravenous. If the smell of eggs made Bodine nauseous, well, that was regrettable.
“Oh, one more thing, boy,” said Lucien, purposely using the denigrating form of address, “send a plate of beignets to that table, with my compliments.” He gestured toward Anne’s table and in so doing, caught her eye. Her look was scathing. He smiled and winked. She turned away, pretending not to have noticed him at all. He chuckled to himself. Pretending. Everyone was always pretending.
Compared to the reserved elegance of London, New Orleans was an eclectic paradise, Anne thought. From the bustling port to Katherine’s house across Canal Street, they traveled by carriage through the Vieux Carre, the oldest section of New Orleans, which had been rebuilt after a fire in 1788. The pastel stucco houses were generally two and a half stories high with flat roofs, built flush with the sidewalks, or banquettes.
Ornamental iron surrounded the balconies overlooking streets that were fluid with masses of people of every imaginable variation in skin color. There were Creole women protecting their delicate white skin under parasols, amber-skinned quadroons in bright scarves called tignons, and ebony slaves who looked as though they’d just been imported from Guinea.
Women on the streetcorners sold candy and fruit and flowers. Some had even set up copper charcoal heaters and cooked rice cakes called calas and sold mugs of frothy café au lait to eager customers. The rich aroma of coffee, along with the stench of gutters, wafted through the open carriage windows. It was late September, but the heat was stifling. Anne could feel the perspiration trickle down her neck from beneath her bonnet.
Reggie, sitting next to Anne and facing forward, took out his handkerchief and held it to his nose. “Do you still think we’re in heaven, Anne?”
“As a matter of fact, I was just mentally comparing all this to a sort of hodgepodge paradise.” She waved a hand outside the window, indicating with one sweeping gesture all of New Orleans.
Reggie sniffed, then—judging by his grimace—wished he hadn’t. “I never imagined heaven having such a pungent odor about it. I don’t know how people can tolerate living here. Do you … er … live near here?” Reggie ventured to ask Katherine.
“No, I live in an area predominately inhabited by Americans. It’s called the Faubourg St. Mary. The houses stand much farther back from the road there. I’ve all sorts of trees in my yard, too. Oaks, magnolias, palm, and even a banana tree. It makes it cooler in the house, you know. I can’t wait to get there! I hope Theresa has everything ready for us.” She suddenly clutched Anne’s wrist. “Look there, Anne, it’s St. Louis Cathedral.”
Anne looked. And looked. And looked. She was enthralled with everything she saw, eager to know all she could about the history and culture of her temporary home.
Eventually they passed Canal Street and into the so-called American part of town. Here was where the non-Creole society built their own churches, theaters, hotels, and elegant homes. The Americans spurned the simple lines of the Creole homes and built large houses with more elaborate facades in the Greek Revival mode. Bougainvillaea, rosa-de-montana, wisteria, and roses adorned the yards with color. The houses were brick and painted pale muted tones. Everything was neat and lovely.
Katherine’s house was on a street called Prytania. As they turned onto the gravel lane that led to the c
arriage house in the back, Anne stared up at an ivory-brick mansion that was as impressive as anything she’d seen thus far in New Orleans. She thought perhaps she’d underestimated her aunt’s wealth. Even Reggie looked a bit awed. At least it kept him from talking, and that kept him and Katherine from arguing.
Once inside the house, Reggie was still silent. Anne supposed he had never expected to be so comfortable in any house that belonged to Katherine Grimms. But despite the grandeur of the place, with its plaster ceiling medallions, cornices, and carved marble mantels, it had a homey feeling about it, as well as an exotic atmosphere.
Katherine had managed this mix of welcoming impressions by combining artifacts and items from her many travels with plush cushioned sofas and ottomans and convenient tables covered with books. And there were flowers everywhere. Anne loved it. And she suspected that Reggie, though he didn’t say so, loved it, too.
Theresa, the housekeeper, was a free black. Although many Americans had slaves, Katherine was not one of them. Theresa was a tall, large-boned woman of indeterminate age. Her mahogany skin looked as smooth as the inside of a kitten’s ear, but her springy hair beneath the white tignon she wore was gray.
She showed Anne to her room, which was decorated in cabbage roses from the bed canopy, to the silk wallpaper, to the Aubusson rug on the gleaming wood floor. Gauzy curtains hung at the windows, shuttered now against the bright noon sun, and mosquito netting draped the large bed. Just off Anne’s room was a huge dressing “closet” with a deep porcelain tub Anne immediately made use of.
After her bath, Anne decided to rest and acclimate to the hot weather before attempting to eat lunch. Lying on the bed, luxuriating in a slight breeze that blew in through the louvered shutters, Anne thought about the year ahead. What would happen to her in New Orleans? Would she see Renard again? Of all her hopes for the future, that one—silly though it seemed—dominated her scattered, presleep images. She drifted off, remembering how wonderful and safe and excited she’d felt in the embrace of a dangerous outlaw.
