The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Anne blushed. “Thank you, but no. I shall manage very well by myself.”

  Armande grinned, looking genuinely relieved. “Thank goodness. I don’t know how I would have explained to Renard that I was required to help you dress, or convince him that I did it with my eyes closed.”

  Anne blushed even more deeply, if that were possible. “Then … then he does care about me?”

  Armande’s smile faded. Seriously he answered, “I can’t speak for Renard, mademoiselle.” He turned the latch. “But he has shown much concern for you. You must trust him to do what’s best for both of you.”

  After Armande left, Anne stared at the door. She mentally groused over the taciturn nature of Renard’s right-hand man. He could tell her so much, but he obviously had no intention of doing so. She must trust Renard to do what was best. What did that mean? Why did Renard and his friend have to be so cryptic, so vague? If she was ever going to know anything about Renard’s true identity, or his real feelings about her, she was obviously going to have to wait till he was ready to speak for himself. And that might never happen.

  As things stood, Anne had no idea when or if she’d ever see Renard again. What if she was just another conquest in a string of conquests? It was a painful, sobering thought, and she ate her food and drank her wine glumly, not really tasting it but well aware that she needed the energy it gave her to get through the morning.

  She dressed, then braided her hair and tucked it under the hat again. She’d ride back to town on the back of Armande’s horse, keeping her hat brim pulled low over her forehead. No one would recognize her. Certainly no one among her set of acquaintances would even be out of bed yet.

  When they reached her aunt’s house, she’d hurry through the kitchen and past the servants, hoping none of them would comment to her aunt or uncle about her strange clothing and the odd hour she was coming in the back door. There was little chance she would get away without having to offer some explanation, though, and she’d been mentally constructing another lie. She hated lying, but Reggie would have a hard time handling the truth of her latest escapade.

  Finally they were on their way. The swampy country they traveled through didn’t look even remotely familiar to Anne, and by the time they emerged from the lush foliage and onto River Road, if not for the flow of the river to use as a compass, she’d not have known which way was north and which was south. Thankfully they weren’t required to travel through the heart of town to reach the Faubourg St. Mary, and they completed the journey without being troubled by anyone.

  Word of the escape probably wasn’t out yet, though Jeffrey had likely worked all night writing an exclusive for the Picayune. Anne wondered how Jeffrey would relate the story and how she would figure into it. She saw the printed column in her mind’s eye: “An unknown male youth alerted the Fox to suspicious shadows in the cemetery…” She amused herself for several moments speculating on all the possible ways the story could be written up, and wondered if Jeffrey would recount it as accurately as she could.

  An alley connected Katherine’s backyard with the yard of her closest neighbor to the north. Armande used this approach to the house and let Anne down just outside the far gate, keeping his horse and himself well-hidden from view behind a full-leaved hickory tree. He kept astride the horse, handing down a small container. “Take this paste and apply it to your clean wound every night and every morning.”

  “Thank you, Armande.”

  He shrugged. “For what?”

  “For being my friend today. For trying to reassure me”—she grinned ruefully—“even though you told me nothing.”

  Armande doffed his floppy-brimmed farmer’s hat, sweeping it in grand and gallant fashion. He smiled warmly. “Au revoir, mademoiselle, till we meet again.”

  Anne lifted a hand in farewell, her heart touched yet saddened by his parting words. Till we meet again. Renard had not said those words to her last night, and he hadn’t even left a single word of farewell, of love, or even of friendship with Armande to pass on to her. Anne’s spirits flagged.

  She watched him ride away, then turned reluctantly to the gate that led into Aunt Katherine’s well-kept, inviting backyard. She’d spent many happy, reclusive hours there. Today she was entering it a changed person. She’d never be happy again until she was reunited with her love. She hoped that didn’t mean she was condemned to a lifetime of unhappiness.

  But while she was left in doubt about his feelings for her, she had no doubts about her feelings for him. She loved him, and she’d spend every waking hour worrying about him. The appearance of those bounty hunters last night suggested that Renard’s operation was hardly impenetrable. Someone was leaking information. Who was the snitch? she wondered.

  Suddenly extremely exhausted, Anne wended her slow way up the red brick walkway to the back entrance of her aunt’s house. Glancing up at the windows she knew belonged to Uncle Reggie’s bedchamber, she thanked Providence that he wasn’t an early riser.

  Reggie hadn’t slept a wink all night. He’d risen early, far earlier than his usual hour, dressed, and wandered outside to sit on a marble bench under one of Katherine’s banana trees. He was bedeviled by the most ludicrous thoughts, romantic thoughts, the sort of thoughts he’d never expected to take root in a head as hardened as his was to such fanciful notions. And worse still, Katherine Grimms—the cane-swinging, liberated female with a voice like fingernails on a schoolchild’s slate board, and with the bearing of a navy admiral commandeering a fleet of battleships—was the center of all these tender feelings.

  In spite of himself, Reggie smiled. Last night, when she had swooned, he’d had the English starch scared out of him. He realized that he would be devastated if something happened to Katherine, and his nurtured dislike for her had disappeared like morning mist in the path of the climbing sun. He admitted it; he liked Katherine Grimms very much. Very much indeed. Now, what was he going to do about it?

  Reggie brooded. He looked for answers in the Eden-like paradise of Katherine’s yard. It was not yet seven o’clock in the morning and mid-November, but the air was warm and sweet with the scent of a hundred flowers and fruit trees. The chirps and whistles of birds echoed in the tall trees that were scattered harum-scarum over the three or four acres that made up the Grimms estate. Now he better understood why Anne liked sitting out here on Sundays.

  Anne? Had he conjured her up? No, because if he had, she’d not be dressed like a man, nor would she have a bandage tied around her head and a stricken look on her face at the sight of him. She had just walked around the edge of a profusion of bushes, apparently from the back of the yard. He sat in a copse of sorts, surrounded by trees and vegetation, not easily seen from any direction. Finding him there well before his usual hour of rising had obviously given his niece a shock.

  “Uncle Reggie?”

  He braced himself. What mischief had she gotten herself into this time? “The very same, Anne. Whom did you expect?”

  “N-no one,” she stuttered. “But least of all you.”

  “Come closer, Anne,” he said softly. “How have you hurt yourself, child? It can’t be a mortal wound,” he added grimly. “I see you’re still walking.”

  He expected her to take him to task for calling her “child,” but she didn’t. And, indeed, she was no child. Watching her cross the few feet that separated them, he was struck anew with how womanly she really was, despite her masculine apparel. He was trying not to overreact to her odd appearance and behavior, or assume the worst possible explanation for her wandering in the yard at seven o’clock in the morning. But the closer she got, the more clearly he could see that she was extremely upset about something. His protective instincts reared up.

  He scooted along the bench, making room for her to sit beside him. As she sat down, he took her hand in his. “Good God, Anne, what’s happened to you?”

  Anne lifted her downcast eyes and looked earnestly at him. He speculated that she might be deciding how much to tell him. Her eyes were ver
y clear and blue. Again he was arrested with the notion that she’d suddenly grown into a woman, seemingly overnight. She sighed heavily. “I was thinking of lying, but I’ve decided to tell the truth. I did something very foolish last night. I went to see Renard.”

  Reggie could not immediately respond. He knew she was smitten with the outlaw, but he’d taken it for granted that she had far too much common sense to actually seek out Renard’s dangerous company. He cleared his throat, but his voice still had a telltale rasp in it when he said with deceptive calm, “I must have misunderstood you. You can’t have gone alone to that outlaw’s lair.”

  “I didn’t go to his lair,” she asserted, lifting her chin a fraction. “I’m not a complete dolt.” She got an odd look about her then, which Reggie was terribly afraid meant that though she’d not set out to go to his lair at the beginning, she’d certainly ended up there. “Jeffrey had been given a tip about Renard’s next escape plan. I got enough information out of him to establish the approximate time the escape would take place. I stationed myself outside Jeffrey’s boardinghouse and waited till he came out, then secretly followed him to the rendezvous point.”

  “What happened at the rendezvous point? Did Renard show up?”

  “Yes.” She ducked her head, her eyes fixed on her hands, the long, slim fingers splayed over her knees. “Do you think you would be willing to wait for further explanations, Uncle Reggie? You can read all about it in the Picayune. Jeffrey saw it all. There will be plenty of details.” She made a trembling smile. “Just insert my name in the part played by the ‘young man.’”

  “How can you ask me to wait, Anne? You’ve been injured, and I don’t even know how and by whom! Who bandaged you? Did anyone—” He blushed with embarrassment and bottled fury. “Did anyone take advantage of you?” He thought he’d burst a blood vessel when Anne blushed a most revealing, gloriously female shade of rose. “If that outlaw laid a finger on you—!”

  Anne’s head reared up. Tears shone in her eyes. Her voice was thick with emotion as she said, “Renard didn’t hurt me, Uncle Reggie. He saved my life.” She touched the bandage. “There was gunplay. This wound was caused by a bullet that grazed my forehead. Renard protected me. If not for him, I might be dead.” By now Anne was shaking. “Don’t ever, ever think Renard hurt me, Uncle Reggie,” she ended on a fierce note. “He’d never do that. Never.”

  Reggie was too stunned to think at all, much less speculate on Renard’s motives concerning his niece. Every detail of the story faded into insignificance when compared to the fact that his own sweet Anne had nearly been killed.

  He stared at her for a startled, horrified moment, at her wide blue eyes shadowed with a new maturity, at her slim shoulders shaking with a delayed reaction to the horrors and hard-learned lessons of the night before. Then he pulled her against his chest, tucked her head under his chin, and stroked her hair with a gentle hand.

  “There, there, my girl,” he soothed. “I shan’t ask you another thing … for now. And I won’t blame anyone for anything till I know more about the situation. Just calm down and lean against your old uncle till you feel better.”

  He felt her relax against him. She clung to him like the child she used to be, till eventually her convulsive shivering stopped and a soft sigh escaped her lips.

  “I’m so tired, Uncle Reggie,” she said. “I think I want to go inside and go to bed now.”

  “Yes, my girl,” he answered firmly. “To bed you’ll go, and that’s where you’ll stay till I say otherwise.”

  Anne managed a weak laugh. She squeezed his neck affectionately. “I’ll let you bully me now, but soon I’ll have recovered my old vim and vigor and be wanting my way again.”

  Reggie heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Yes, Anne, I know. I expected no less.” Then he stood up and escorted his troublesome niece into the house.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lucien stepped out of his carriage and onto the banquette in front of Katherine Grimms’s stately mansion. He held in one hand a potpourri bouquet of flowers, the multicolored blossoms and leafy stems so tall and profuse they tickled his chin. He was dressed in a dark green jacket and black trousers. His brocade vest was the palest of yellows, closely imitating in color the fresh rose attached to his lapel, the bud still damp with morning dew. He was correctly and elegantly attired for a morning call, but this was no ordinary visit.

  “Take the horses around the block, George, s’il vous plaît,” Lucien advised the driver with a flick of his wrist. “I shan’t be long.” George nodded and drove off.

  Lucien surveyed the front of the house, his eye straying to Anne’s bedchamber window. The shutters were closed against the heat and brightness of the late morning sun. He imagined her lying on the bed, resting, he hoped, and being tenderly cared for by her aunt and uncle. His heart ached at the bittersweet memory of last night. He could never regret the magic hours they’d spent together making love, but he’d had no right to take her virginity when he could give no promises in return.

  How could he have lost control to the point of involving Anne in his life when he had no guarantee of a favorable outcome for his own destiny? And what was he doing now, standing in the hated guise of Dandy Delacroix in front of Anne’s home?

  As each day passed, Lucien’s contempt for the part he must play in society had grown by leaps and bounds. Being considered only as a pleasure-seeking wastrel with no ambition beyond his own comfort and gratification was wearing thin. It had proven to be an effective screen against any connection to Renard, but he was looking forward to a time when deception would no longer be necessary.

  But what then? Even if things ended the way he planned for Renard, he still wasn’t sure what his next step should be, or where his ambitions would ultimately lead him. He wasn’t even sure who he was anymore. Without the mask, without the facade of lazy debauchery, who the hell was he? He should have considered all these complexities before allowing Anne to give herself to him so completely. He thought grimly that perhaps he wasn’t so different from Dandy Delacroix, after all. Anne deserved better.

  But he couldn’t brood in front of her house all day. He should do what he had come to do and leave. Ostensibly he’d come to inquire about her state of mind and physical well-being after her harrowing experience in the alley. After he’d received Reggie’s grateful note early yesterday evening, it would not be considered odd or inappropriate for him to pay such a visit. But, of course, that was not the real reason he’d come.

  It hardly seemed possible, now, that the alley incident had occurred just yesterday. So much had happened since then. So much had changed both for himself and for Anne.

  Sweet Anne … It had been torture leaving her that morning. He’d longed to watch the sun rise and fill the room with light—to see her in the afterglow of their lovemaking. But he had not come to her aunt’s house hoping to see her. That would be foolish. On the contrary, Lucien felt very confident that Reginald Weston was keeping his niece in her bedchamber and denying her visitors—possibly for punitive reasons, and assuredly because she was not yet fit to be seen with that gash on her forehead.

  Lucien’s sole purpose in this visit was to find out for himself how she had fared after Armande left her at the back gate early that morning. He had a method in mind to secure this information, and it did not involve talking to Anne, or even her uncle.

  Setting his hat at a rakish angle over his right brow, Lucien slowly made his way to Anne’s front door. He was admitted into the vestibule by a doubtful-looking butler and kept waiting in the eclectic parlor some fifteen minutes. Normally he would have been intrigued by Katherine’s collection of artifacts, but as the minutes dragged by he became worried.

  Certainly if Anne hadn’t been able to sneak into her room that morning and attribute the graze on her temple to a tumble against her dressing table, there would be a bit of a commotion in the house. Reggie would demand the truth, and Anne would be hard-pressed not to tell it. He knew her, and she was too damned hon
est for her own good.

  What if she was sick? Lucien felt a surge of dread and doubt. Parts of last night had been grueling, traumatic. Not their lovemaking, surely, but how could he have possibly thought that making love to her could make things better? He was about to stand up and pace the floor when Reggie walked quickly into the room.

  “Mr. Delacroix! How nice to see you! Sorry to keep you waiting so dreadfully long, but I was … er … unavoidably detained.”

  Lucien stood up and offered the older man Dandy Delacroix’s usual lazy handclasp. Handshaking was an American custom, and Reggie seemed to view it suspiciously still, but he shook hands nonetheless. Lucien noticed that Reggie’s palm was clammy, his overall manner harried and distracted. However, he seemed to be trying very hard to be pleasant and hospitable, probably because he was genuinely grateful to Lucien for saving Anne from the threatening advances of that drunk yesterday.

  “I don’t wish to inconvenience you, Monsieur Weston,” he began, “but your note was so kindly written … perhaps it was too kind. I really did little to deserve your gratitude.”

  Reggie motioned for Lucien to be seated, then sat down himself in an opposite chair. “It could not possibly have been too kind a note, Mr. Delacroix,” Reggie assured him. “You rendered Anne an invaluable service for which I shall always be indebted to you.”

  “I only did what any man would do,” Lucien disclaimed modestly. “You must know how little I enjoy discussing my dubious merits—”

  Reggie sat up straighter, making a stiff nod, a manly acknowledgment. “Indeed, sir, I understand completely. No gentleman likes his praises sung too loudly or too long. Never fear, the subject is closed. I feel the same about such matters myself. Understand completely—only doing your duty.”

  Lucien smiled his approval. “I simply came to see how Mademoiselle Weston fares today. She’s not too overcome by yesterday’s ordeal?”

  Reggie frowned and looked at the floor, tapping his chin with a thoughtful forefinger. Suddenly he looked up at Lucien. “I hope you won’t take this question amiss, Mr. Delacroix, but I must ask it. You are keeping everything that happened in that alley in the strictest confidence? You know how people talk, even when the party is completely innocent of wrongdoing…” His voice trailed off. He appeared distressed, as if he knew he’d been insulting but couldn’t help himself.