The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Fully acquainted with Anne’s strength of will, Lucien had no doubt Anne would win. Judging by the warning glance she darted his way, Katherine suspected the same outcome. He had to get out of there before Anne showed up. That was why the flowers had been brought into the parlor; the dratted girl had never intended to stay in her bedchamber.

  “It’s unfortunate that I can’t stay to see Mademoiselle Weston,” said Lucien, easing his way to the door. Suddenly he turned, flashing a brilliant smile. “I hope she likes the flowers.” He glanced at the huge bouquet that the maid had placed on top of the grand piano.

  Jeffrey followed the direction of Lucien’s gaze and frowned. Jealousy was written all over him. It gratified Lucien that he was able to take the edge off Jeffrey’s huge ego. “But how fortunate for you, Monsieur Wycliff,” he continued, “to have such influence with Mademoiselle Weston that she disregards physical discomfort and defies her uncle just to see you.” He stopped and wrinkled his brow. “But I’m rather puzzled … does she go to all this trouble because of her regard for you, or because of her fascination with the Fox?”

  Lucien stayed only long enough to see the effect of his words on Jeffrey’s smug countenance. Jeffrey did not disappoint; he turned a shade brighter than the pink roses in Anne’s bouquet.

  Satisfied, Lucien bid Katherine a pleasant adieu and left. As the butler closed the door behind him, Lucien thought he heard the soft tap of Anne’s slippers on the stairs. He sighed and forced himself to keep walking to his waiting carriage.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As Anne read the article Jeffrey had written, she felt the blood slowly drain from her face. She was glad she held the newspaper directly in front of her, positioned in such a way that it hid her ashen complexion from the view of her aunt and uncle, and especially from Jeffrey.

  She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe he had stooped so low. But then Reggie had always mistrusted Jeffrey. He had always thought the brash American was too ambitious. Apparently her uncle was right.

  Enough time had lapsed for Anne to have read the article twice over. She sensed Jeffrey’s fidgeting. He was eager to hear her response. He was waiting for her praise and adulation—for feminine worshipful sighs, no doubt. And since she could not reveal that she had firsthand proof that his account of the story was pure fiction, she must certainly give him all he expected.

  She rallied herself for the playacting. It would be difficult, to say the least, but she would make short work of it, plead fatigue and a headache, then send Jeffrey on his way.

  She lowered the newspaper and discovered two expectant faces looking at her—Jeffrey’s and Aunt Katherine’s. Reggie was sitting at a distance, pretending indifference. He was miffed with Anne because she had insisted on seeing Jeffrey even though he had been unable to persuade her to sit for a polite ten minutes with Delacroix. He thought Delacroix deserved to be told again that she was grateful for his intervention in the alley. But Anne could not bear to see him, a man she’d so recently kissed and felt passion for, when last night she’d given herself heart and soul to Renard.

  Just the thought of Delacroix confused her. Despite her love for Renard, she still remembered Delacroix’s kisses with something akin to wistfulness. She didn’t know how to justify such feelings. The only explanation that made sense to her was that she was fickle and wicked. It put her out of temper to be faced with the possibility of owning such character flaws, and she dealt with it by avoiding the source of these unpleasant emotions—Delacroix himself.

  Avoiding Jeffrey was not necessary. She had no confused feelings about the man or his kisses. And she was curious to read his article about Renard and the slave escape. Perhaps there would be exciting details she’d missed in all the confusion. Perhaps there would be news about the condition of the bounty hunters. And—truth to tell—she could not resist reading about herself, and had wondered how Jeffrey would describe her part in the escape.

  Anne couldn’t have been more surprised when she found herself entirely omitted from the article, as if she’d never been there last night, as if the young man she’d masqueraded as simply didn’t exist! Instead Jeffrey had written a highly creative version of the story, casting himself in an aggrandized role of foolhardy hero. All this, when he’d obviously stayed safely hidden behind the rose arbor the whole time!

  According to the bold black script of the Picayune, Jeffrey Wycliff, humble newspaper reporter, had risked life and limb to warn Renard about the bounty hunters. He had run into the street without a weapon, frantically waving his arms, to alert Renard. While dodging bullets, he’d managed to waylay one of the three bounty hunters before the fellow took to the road in pursuit of Renard. He’d wrestled him to the ground and taken away his weapon before the fellow dashed off into the shadows of the cemetery.

  If memory served her, Anne had counted three bounty hunters in pursuit when she and Renard left the area. So even that part of Jeffrey’s story was fabricated. He couldn’t have waylaid one of the bounty hunters unless there had been four altogether. And there weren’t. The wrestling match was just another figment of his writer’s imagination, a clever ruse to gain a little hero worship for himself.

  Anne forced a brilliant smile. “So, Jeffrey, last night was even more exciting than you’d hoped.”

  Jeffrey was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows propped on his knees, his square-tipped fingers steepled. His smile broadened. “I should say it was!” He waited, expecting more.

  She had no choice. Reluctantly she said, “What a hero you are! Why, without your intervention, Renard might have been killed last night. You must be very proud.”

  Jeffrey sat back in the chair and crossed his legs, right ankle over left knee. Anne might have imagined it, but she could have sworn his chest puffed out a good two inches. “It was nothing more than any honorable man would do under the circumstances. I couldn’t let them catch Renard unawares, leaving the poor fellow without a fighting chance. And, naturally, I support Renard’s cause and couldn’t allow money-grubbing bounty hunters to kill him for something so ignoble as a paltry reward.”

  “The reward’s not so paltry, I hear,” said Anne, her jaw beginning to ache from holding a false smile for so long. “And if they don’t believe in the abolition of slavery, and consider Renard a menace to Southern society, why shouldn’t the bounty hunters try to catch him?”

  “Indeed, Jeffrey,” Katherine piped up from her seat next to Anne on the sofa, “men do all sorts of things to further themselves in the world. Dishonorable things, dishonest things.”

  Anne flashed a surprised look at her aunt. It almost sounded as though Katherine knew Jeffrey had lied about last night. But there was no way her aunt could know, because Anne hadn’t told either her or Reggie about her part in warning Renard. They only knew that she had been wounded while she and Renard rode away from the bounty hunters. The only way Katherine could possibly be privy to the truth was if Renard himself had told her. And that was impossible.

  “Well, thank God, I don’t have to depend on such low means to earn a living,” said Jeffrey, sighing happily. “Though it wouldn’t surprise me if this little coup earns me a considerable hike in salary and more column space in the paper.” He leaned forward again, his eager face offending Anne’s sensibilities, tempting her to slap it soundly. “Someday I’ll own the paper, Anne, lock, stock, and printing press. Mark my words.” Then, in a lowered voice, “I’ll have all the gals in New Orleans chasing after me then. Won’t you be jealous?”

  Anne squeezed her hands together, willing them to stay put in her lap. She managed an arch smile. “I should think all the ‘gals’ will be after you as soon as they’ve read today’s newspaper. You’re a hero, aren’t you, Jeffrey? A hero like Renard.” She supposed that was what he’d always wanted.

  He laughed, a sort of manic exhilaration evident in his posture, his expression. “Can you believe it?” he pressed her, obviously wanting even more flattery. “Can you believe that I was really t
here, and that I was actually lucky enough to be part of Renard’s success last night? It’s something the two of us have wished for and talked about so many times, Anne!”

  “Indeed, Jeffrey, it is rather incredible,” said Reggie, rising from his chair and sauntering over. Anne couldn’t tell by his expression what Reggie was thinking. He had his English reserve tightly buttoned up, like a protective emotional overcoat. “One wonders why you don’t abandon the drudgery of a nine-to-five job at the newspaper and pen novels.”

  Confusion passed briefly over Jeffrey’s face, but he recovered quickly. “But novels are fiction, Mr. Weston. I prefer the drama of real life.”

  “And you certainly do have a dramatic flair, Mr. Wycliff,” said Reggie, stretching his lips into an unconvincing smile. “However, I’m afraid your eloquent prose has wearied my niece. I think you’d better go now.”

  Anne took her cue. “Yes, I am rather tired, and my head hurts a little.”

  Belatedly Jeffrey made a show of sympathy. “What was it your aunt told me you did? Fell against the wardrobe or some such thing?”

  Anne laughed weakly, touching the small bandage partially hidden behind the forward sweep of her hair. “Yes, clumsy me. I fell against my dressing table.”

  Jeffrey stood up, compelled to depart, with Reggie so obviously eager to get rid of him. He bent and took hold of Anne’s hand, squeezing it affectionately. Even to Anne, her fingers felt icy, incapable of absorbing warmth from Jeffrey’s. He seemed startled by their coldness, their stiff nonpliability. He laughed nervously. “It must be true what they say—all that rot about household accidents being the most common. Imagine it, while I didn’t get the smallest scratch hobnobbing with criminals, you injured yourself sitting snugly at home. Can you imagine it, Anne?”

  “Well, my imagination is quite stretched to the limit,” said Katherine pleasantly, but with a thread of steel in her voice. She lent her considerable influence to hasten Jeffrey’s departure by standing up as well.

  With both of Anne’s tall guardians hovering near, Jeffrey wisely moved toward the door. “Well, good-bye, then,” he said to Anne. “I hope that little scratch won’t keep you away from the theater. And the Taylors’ ball is on Friday. Will I see you there?”

  “I don’t know, Jeffrey,” Anne said doubtfully, lifting her hand in a brief farewell. She really wasn’t sure how she felt about going out in public in the near future, but there was one thing she was quite sure of. She couldn’t tolerate another tête-à-tête with Jeffrey. He had ruined her trust in him. Their friendship was over.

  “So good of you to come, Jeffrey,” said Katherine, herding him into the vestibule. Soon after that Anne heard the door close, and her aunt came back into the parlor. While Jeffrey was being shown out, Reggie had continued to stand over Anne. She felt his concerned gaze like a tangible thing. Katherine moved to stand beside Reggie. Anne looked up at her two loving relatives, worry etching lines in their kind faces.

  “You knew he was lying, didn’t you? So you took pity on me and threw him out by his coattails.”

  “It was my pleasure,” said Reggie dryly. “I’ve been longing to throw him out from the first.” He paused, then very gently added, “It’s quite natural for you to feel disillusioned, you know.”

  “Please don’t fret about me,” she said softly. “I’ll get over it.” Though she was holding back tears, Anne grinned ruefully. “Thank you, Uncle Reggie, for not saying, ‘I told you so.’”

  “My dear girl, did you really think I would?”

  Anne ducked her head, the tears too close now for concealment. Reggie’s pristine-white, neatly folded handkerchief suddenly appeared in her lap. Through her blurry vision, she saw it, picked it up, and dabbed away the tears.

  “I’m such a watering pot,” she complained, blowing her nose.

  “It was you who warned Renard, wasn’t it, Anne?” asked Katherine.

  “It was, but that’s not why I’m so upset. I’m upset because—”

  “Because Jeffrey lied to impress you, to impress the people at the paper, and to make himself out a hero—like Renard. His ambition has cost him his integrity,” said Reggie.

  “It cost him your friendship, too, I’ll wager,” said her aunt sadly. “I was fooled, too. I thought him a much better sort of chap.”

  “I wish now,” said Anne, lifting her misty eyes to look at her unde, “that I’d come down to see Delacroix as you wanted me to.”

  “Why, love?”

  “Because he’s certainly more of a hero than Jeffrey. Despite his wastrel ways, he’s proven to be much more honorable, hasn’t he?”

  There seemed to be no need to respond to the obvious truth of this statement, and, after a pause, Reggie said, “Do you agree with me, Anne, that you ought to stay at home for the next few days, refusing visitors? We can tell people you’ve got a head cold or some such thing. You need the time to recuperate from all this tomfoolery, and that way we can also avoid having to tell the dressing table fib to half of New Orleans. I must say, it will get rather tiresome explaining your injury. In a week, you can cover the wound with some cosmetics and arrange your hair to hide it, as Sarah attempted today.”

  His eyes widened, as if he’d hit on a wonderful idea. “In fact, why don’t all three of us hibernate for a while? We can be a cozy family of three. I know I could use a little respite from society.” He looked—rather shyly, Anne drought—to Katherine for her reaction.

  Katherine was pink with pleasure. Her eyes sparkled. Apparently the idea of holing up with Reggie for a week didn’t strike the chord of terror it might have done just a month or so before. “I should be delighted to hibernate for a while,” Katherine admitted. Reggie beamed. “But I must make one exception,” she said. “I never miss my visit with Madame Tussad. I must go and see her this Saturday, just as I always do. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Reggie, trying not to grin too broadly. He turned to Anne, as if just remembering that she had a vote to cast as well. “Anne?”

  “Agreed,” she said, smiling.

  She needed time, too, she realized. Time to rethink all her prior conceptions and biases about people, about appearances. Time to untangle the mixed images of scoundrels and heroes, emerald rings and black masks. Time to relive last night, every whispered endearment, every caress as Renard made love to her in the dark.

  Time to figure out what that night of bliss with Renard really meant in her life, or if it would ultimately mean nothing at all. She had no guarantees she would ever see him again, much less be held in his arms. Such uncertainty was difficult to bear, especially since the thing she wanted most in the world was Renard’s arms around her once more.

  Lucien was drawn to Katherine’s house like a magnet. She had sent word through Madame Tussad that she and Reggie were going to keep Anne at home for a few days, but Lucien yearned to see Anne again—even if only from a distance.

  Until he confirmed his suspicions about the leak in his organization, and until his plans for Bodine’s downfall were firmly in place, he had intended to stay away from Anne for safety’s sake—both hers and his. But he couldn’t resist walking by the house late at night, sometimes waiting in the shadows across the street and hoping she’d appear at her bedroom window. And she did … twice. Both times for far too short a time to satisfy his overwhelming desire to see her.

  He thought she looked wistful those nights as she leaned out and took deep breaths of the cool night air. He wondered, and hoped, that she was thinking of him. Or at least thinking of Renard … Did she hope he would climb the tree again and visit her bedchamber, make love to her right under the nose of her abigail sleeping in the next room? He was tempted. Oh, how he was tempted.

  One day, feeling frustrated, he walked past the house in the morning. He didn’t expect to see her; he was only indulging a particularly intense urge to be near her. He was shocked when, just as he was about to cross the street and hurry away, she walked around the comer of the house carrying a basket of fresh-
cut flowers.

  They both stood completely still, their gazes locked across the long expanse of lawn that separated them. He wasn’t sure what would have happened if Katherine hadn’t rounded the same comer an instant later and taken Anne’s arm, leading her back toward the porch. Anne resisted, seeming to be explaining to Katherine that someone they knew was on the street and ought to be noticed.

  Katherine turned and waved, cheerfully and dismissively, without slowing her ruthless march to the front door. “Can’t stop to chat, Delacroix,” she called. “Delightful morning, isn’t it? Goodbye!”

  Lucien understood her determination to keep him and Anne apart, approved it, and fervently hated the necessity of it.

  He bowed low, throwing Anne a kiss in a dashing, devil-may-care gesture worthy of Dandy Delacroix’s most roguish technique. She continued to stare at him, turning her head to watch him even as her aunt pulled her inexorably away. He smiled, tipped his hat, and sauntered away, hoping he looked breezy and carefree when inside his heart pounded like a trip-hammer.

  Anne hibernated with her aunt and uncle for a week and a half. Many notes of regret were sent out each day as invitations were declined. Jeffrey came by every evening, and every evening he was sent away frustrated.

  Anne enjoyed her seclusion but missed Renard dreadfully. She pined for him especially at night, when memories of their lovemaking drifted in on cool night breezes, caressing her skin as his hands had caressed her. One night, as she stood at the window, she felt as though he were outside watching her. She peered wistfully into the shadows, sending him a mute invitation with her eyes, then calling herself a fool when he never came. It was her imagination, she decided. Mere wishful thinking wouldn’t bring Renard back to her. Nothing would bring Renard back if he didn’t love her.

  Anne read the newspapers eagerly, hoping for at least some word of him from that source, but he was keeping out of the news these days. Rumors were rife, and Anne suspected they were spawned and spread by Jeffrey. He was in his element, the toast of town since the story broke about his encounter with Renard. There was no proof to link him with the outlaw except for this one chance meeting, and he couldn’t be arrested for aiding and abetting an outlaw because the bounty hunters were not affiliated with the authorities.