The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Anne supposed it irked Jeffrey considerably to be denied the opportunity of talking over his popularity with her, but she hoped he’d find other, more willing female ears to listen to his boasts.

  Anne saw Delacroix once as he was walking past the house. Aunt Katherine hurried her inside before they had a chance to exchange a single word, which Anne thought was rather odd. But Katherine made some excuse about avoiding everyone till they formally made their reentrance into the whirl of social activities.

  But what was really odd about the brief encounter with Delacroix was Anne’s reaction. When she noticed him on the sidewalk in front of the house, she was stunned by how glad she was to see him. Her heart seemed to leap into her throat. He looked his usual self, very dapper in a russet jacket and black trousers, the rings on his fingers winking in the late morning sun, but he looked different, too. She felt no repugnance, not even when he threw her a kiss. She’d wanted to catch it and hold it to her heart.

  By now Anne was sure she was as fickle a woman as ever walked the earth. How could she love Renard, yet still be so attracted to another man? Especially when that other man was a scoundrel.

  As for Reggie and Katherine, Anne had never seen them happier. They whiled away their time playing cards, strolling in the yard, snipping dead heads off the rose bushes, reading poetry and travelogues, and generally getting along like two doves in a cote.

  Now their occasional arguments were more the tolerant give-and-take of differing opinions, rather than the childish bickering of before. In fact, these disagreements gave spark and spice to their harmonious existence. They had learned to understand and respect each other. They were in love. She wondered how soon they’d acknowledge that fact to each other.

  One day as Anne sat with them in the parlor, taking afternoon tea, Reggie sighed deeply and set down his cup with a clatter.

  “What is it, Reginald?” asked Katherine.

  “We have to go back out there, you know,” he replied glumly, casting his eyes wistfully about the room, his fond gaze resting finally on Katherine’s face. “All this peace and comfort has to end. Just thinking about it gives me a headache.”

  Katherine echoed his sigh. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Madame Tussad tells me it’s rumored we have yellow fever in the house. A few cases have been reported in the city recently.”

  “Good God!” said Reggie, appalled.

  “So, before a few alarmists have us laid out in the parlor with our toes turned up, we’d better show our faces somewhere.”

  “Well, I’m ready,” said Anne determinedly. “I’ve had plenty of time to pull myself together, and my wound is hardly noticeable.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Katherine. “Shall we go to the opera tonight?”

  “Might as well,” said Reggie. “I can’t think of a better place to get such immediate and widespread exposure. Sitting in our box, all smiles and blooming health, ought to convince the populace we aren’t laid up with yellow fever.”

  “I thought the fever came only in the summer, Aunt Katherine.”

  “Generally it does. But we’ve had a very mild autumn. It could be a particularly hearty strain that’s been around for a while.”

  “Well, I hope it stays far away from here,” said Reggie fervently, looking nervously at Anne. “I shouldn’t like to see you abed with such a malady, Anne.” His anxious gaze shifted to Katherine. “Or you.”

  There was a wealth of feeling in those two simply spoken words. Flustered, Katherine hastily replied, “I haven’t had the fever once since moving to New Orleans. They say newcomers and the fair-skinned are the most susceptible, but I guess I’m too stubborn to succumb to it. Either that or my hide’s too thick for the disease-ridden mosquitoes to puncture it.”

  “Thank God for that,” said Reggie solemnly, lifting his cup for another sip of tea, then pausing just before his lips touched the rim. “What will you wear, Katherine?”

  Startled, laughing, Katherine inquired, “Where to, Reginald? My wake?”

  “No. To the opera tonight. Perhaps your purple silk?”

  Katherine blushed prettily. “Do you think it suits me?”

  “Yes.”

  Her lashes fluttered down, her thumb caressing the smooth china handle of her teacup in a distracted gesture. “Then of course I’ll wear it.”

  Anne smiled to herself. She might have been a fly on the wall for all the notice her two guardians could spare her. Their eyes and thoughts were for each other. It made her feel wonderful watching people coming together in love. Wonderful and a little wistful. Would she have a happy ending, too?

  Hat in hand, Lucien stood in the little parlor of his house on Rampart Street. He was dressed for the evening, decked out in his favorite black jacket and trousers, pristine white shirt with a few elegant ruffles, and a muted gray vest. Micaela stood opposite him, her arms crossed, smiling.

  He felt tense. His business with Micaela was awkward.

  Micaela sensed Lucien’s discomfort and broached the subject first. “You’ve come to say good-bye.” Her smile remained, relaxed and genuine.

  He smiled back, relieved, sheepish. “Yes.” He paused. “You do understand, Micaela?”

  “Completely, cher. I have been expecting this for some time.”

  “Have you?”

  “There is another woman.”

  Lucien shifted nervously. “My life has become very complicated lately, Micaela. I can’t afford to have anything, or anyone, distracting me.”

  Micaela laughed softly, stepped forward, and smoothed her hand along the sleek silk of his lapel. “But I so enjoyed distracting you the many months we were together. You were a wonderful lover. I hope you have not spoiled me for—”

  “For your young, brawny smithy? I’m sure I haven’t. When two people love each other, experience is the least important aspect of lovemaking. Passion surpasses expertise, and expertise comes with time.”

  “Your woman … she is lucky, Lucien.”

  Lucien frowned, unnerved by the way Micaela kept referring to another woman in his life. How could Micaela be so sure of him, when he wasn’t even sure of himself? His business with Renard was far from over, and there were times when he wondered if he was ending the masquerade too soon. Had he done enough for the cause? More to the point, had he purged himself of the hate that had engulfed him since that summer twenty years ago when he’d been forced to beat his best friend with a whip?

  “I will pray for you.”

  Micaela’s words brought him back to the present. He smiled. “Do. I’m not sure how much influence I have with the saints these days.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and handed Micaela a small scroll of paper tied with a string. It was the deed to the house. Inside the paper was a wad of bank notes, enough money to open a substantial account for her and her new husband.

  Completely unembarrassed, Micaela took the scroll and tucked it inside a pocket of her gown. She knew what it was, and, without glancing at the roll of money, she knew Lucien had been generous.

  “We’ve had a good relationship, Micaela—a real friendship. There were times in the past year when I’d have gone completely crazy without you.”

  Micaela smiled archly. “It was my pleasure, Lucien.”

  He laughed, pinched her cheek, then gave her a brief, light kiss on the forehead. “God bless you, Micaela, with many children and many happy years with that young man of yours.”

  “The same good wishes for you, cher, wherever you go, whatever you do.”

  Lucien recognized the undercurrent of concern in Micaela’s parting words. She understood so much, but he’d never once suspected her of leaking her suspicions about him to the wrong people. She was a remarkable woman in many ways. But she wasn’t Anne. No one was like Anne.

  Micaela walked him to the door. He turned at the bottom of the walkway that connected with the banquette and waved. Her slim silhouette was outlined by the glow of candlelight behind her. He couldn’t see her face. She waved back, then
closed the door.

  Lucien stepped into his carriage, and the driver immediately set the horses to a lively trot. He was meeting Bodine at the opera, the two of them to sit together in Bodine’s box like best friends. Tonight he was planting the seed for the blackguard’s downfall. And for Renard’s final coup.

  Even though he hated the day-to-day need for deception, Lucien sometimes wondered if he’d miss the excitement of setting up Renard’s little capers. When the masquerade was over, would he be bored by the tranquil tenor of normal life? Did his duty lie in the occupations of a normal life? He had much soul-searching to do.

  Lucien reflected briefly on his parting from Micaela. She was a pragmatist, and she’d made the severing of their amicable arrangement easy for him, and for herself. No regrets, just mutual good wishes for each other.

  Then his reflections returned to the subject of most of his waking thoughts: Anne. A surge of excitement went through him. Would she be at the opera tonight?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Anne was already itching to go home. The opera was by Rossini, and the singers were wonderful, but Jeffrey had joined them in the box as soon as the curtain fell on the first act. Worse still, it appeared that he planned to stay for the whole performance, happily oblivious to Katherine’s unusual reserve and the patent lack of an invitation to join them. But they had been on such familiar terms before, it would have taken a more sensitive man than Jeffrey to catch on to the fact that he was suddenly de trop.

  Anne pitied him. He’d compromised his integrity, but she thought she partially understood why it had happened, why his ambitions had begun to rule him. He’d had to struggle for everything he had, for everything he was. Of course, that didn’t excuse him for finding his principles expendable. But people made mistakes, and Anne hoped Jeffrey would learn to handle himself more honorably in the future.

  For the present, however, she was having difficulty tolerating his preening enjoyment of the instant fame his Picayune article had gained him. Most of the opera glasses in the theater were trained on their box. This could partly be due to the appearance of Anne, Katherine, and Reggie after more than a week’s absence from the social scene, but it seemed more likely that they were staring at Jeffrey. He was heady with happiness, his handsome, boyish face flushed with success. And he was oppressively attentive to Anne. She didn’t know how to repel him without being downright rude.

  Her vexation with the situation was making her hot. She pulled out her fan, a large feathered creation that matched the deep burgundy flounce of lace on her off-the-shoulder bodice. The gown itself was ivory alpaca, tightly cinched in at the pointed waist and trimmed with tucks.

  Anne energetically plied the fan through the stifling air. Sarah had arranged Anne’s hair in a becoming coiffure that helped cover her scar, although the faint red mark didn’t amount to much, anyway. Armande’s salve had worked wonders in quick healing. But Anne didn’t want to think of Armande, because it made her think of Renard, which filled her with longing and frustration. Deaf to Jeffrey’s pandering patter, she cast her eyes restlessly over the hundreds of faces that filled the opera house.

  There had been an empty box just across the theater and up one tier. Now, suddenly, it was occupied. Anne’s gaze riveted on the two figures who had entered the box during intermission. They were Delacroix and Bodine, settling themselves in their chairs.

  Delacroix looked very handsome, as usual. As on the other morning when she’d chanced upon him passing the house, she felt strangely drawn to him. She had long ago admitted to herself that she was attracted to Delacroix, but tonight the familiar tingling along her nerve endings caused by the sight of him was magnified tenfold. She concentrated on him, looking for a logical reason for such an abrupt and illogical increase of awareness.

  He hadn’t even raised his head yet; he was still busy with small adjustments to his seating—pulling out opera glasses, turning his chair slightly toward the stage. His hair was thick and wavy and brilliant black in the candlelight. His lashes shadowed his high cheekbones, the sharp angles of his face stirringly masculine.

  Then, suddenly, he looked directly at their box. Her heart fluttered as their eyes met. Their gazes locked for a moment, then he looked away, whispered something to Bodine, and left the box.

  Anne was in a frenzy of anticipation. Her mouth went dry, her hands trembled. She mentally calculated the minutes it would take Delacroix to walk around the building to where she sat, because surely he was coming to see her.

  She was glad. She had been wanting for some time to thank him properly for his intervention in that alley incident, and this would be the perfect opportunity. She wouldn’t exactly have to say the words, but a contrite look and a warm handclasp ought to convey her apology for behaving like a brat that day. She told herself that was the only reason she was so eager to see Delacroix’s tall, elegant figure enter her aunt’s opera box, but she knew she was kidding herself. There was something else making her heart dance a merry jig. Something else that would perhaps be clearer once she saw him up close…

  He entered the box. He was detained by a couple of Katherine’s friends who were just leaving. They were elderly women, but Anne could see how effective his charm was even on women who were supposed to be past youthful follies.

  Anne stared at him. His shoulders … She’d forgotten how wide they were, how snugly they fit inside his Paris-tailored jacket. She could imagine her arms around those shoulders, her fingers in that glorious hair. She could imagine kissing those sculpted lips, touching the bridge of his nose, trailing her fingers along the line of his jaw.

  The opera house buzzed with conversation, with the rustle of satin and silk, the chime of bracelets astir, the soft snap of dozens of fans moving the air. But for Anne everything suddenly went quiet. She froze. As still as a stone she sat, simply watching him, all her senses hungry for more. Deep inside her, a small ache blossomed in her chest, then grew and grew till she thought her heart would burst.

  Then the two women finally left and Delacroix moved toward her. Their eyes met again. There was something in the expression of those dark eyes … Below the tranquil surface, a storm raged. Beyond the assumption of calm civility, there was a man consumed with passionate yearning. She recognized it immediately, because she was sure her own eyes reflected the same intensity of emotion. Her heart nearly stopped. Her mind reeled with shock. She knew him. She knew him. The moment was electric and would be seared in Anne’s memory for a lifetime.

  She knew him … Renard.

  “Cat got your tongue, Anne?”

  Anne registered that Jeffrey was speaking. He pushed his face close to hers, trying to command her attention, trying to catch her eye. But her eyes were for Delacroix. The room shrank to insignificant size, and looming in the center of it was the man of her dreams … in the guise of a scoundrel!

  She wanted to laugh. She wanted to leap from her chair and throw her arms around his neck. In front of God and man, she wanted to wrestle that counterfeit cad to the floor and have her way with him.

  These were delicious, delirious thoughts, but Anne did not allow them to show on her face. The joyful discovery of her hero’s identity, and the relief of knowing she wasn’t a fickle, loose-moraled female who could lust after two such disparate men as Delacroix and Renard, was sobered by the abrupt realization that her knowledge could be dangerous. If she allowed anyone to know what she knew, Delacroix’s life could be in grave jeopardy.

  He had affected his usual facade of boredom—the languishing posture, the drooping eyelids. But Anne knew that he was fully aware of her discovery that Delacroix the rogue and Renard the fox were one and the same. His dark, shuttered gaze seared through to her very soul. His soul, too, was bared for her to see his longing. She knew he ached as she did. She knew he was holding back as she was.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said finally, taking Anne’s gloved hand and kissing it. A thrill coursed through her. With an obvious effort, Delacroix pulled his gaze away
from her and made a curt bow to Jeffrey, who returned the cool salutation with an equally brief and frosty nod of his head.

  “Bonjour, Mr. Delacroix,” said Anne. He was still holding her hand. They both seemed to realize they could be causing speculation by such lengthy hand-holding, and drew back abruptly. Anne made a gallant effort to appear normal. “How … how are you this evening?”

  “Quite well, and you?” His voice lowered. His lips curved into a seductive smile. “You are more beautiful than ever. You have a certain glow about you I’ve never seen before.”

  Anne felt the color rise to her cheeks. She knew he implied that their lovemaking had given her that glow.

  Then suddenly Reggie was there, extending an open hand to Delacroix. The fact that Reggie had initiated this American custom testified to his honest regard for Delacroix. Anne supposed her uncle would never forget what Delacroix had done for her. How would he feel if he knew his niece’s savior was Renard … and her lover?

  “So good of you to come over, Mr. Delacroix,” said Reggie. He winced a little. On the way to the opera he’d complained of a headache. “I wasn’t sure if you understood, or even noticed, my little hand signal.”

  Anne was disappointed. Apparently Reggie had summoned Delacroix to the box; he hadn’t come simply to see her. While she knew he wanted her, could sense the frustration and yearning he felt, Anne still didn’t know if Renard—or should she say Delacroix?—ever planned to make her part of his life. He could obviously choose from dozens of women. Perhaps she was just another conquest.

  “I was distracted for a moment by … something else, but when I finally understood that you wanted me to come over, naturally I was delighted.”