by Danice Allen
She pirouetted at the foot of his bed, holding between pinched thumb and forefinger the layers of diaphanous skirts, which were white shot through with gold threads. The bodice was criss-crossed with gold cording, the sleeves pert puffs of gathered lace. Sarah had cleverly made wings of white netting and a halo of starched piping, dipped in glittery gold paint. Anne had a half-mask of white, dotted with gold stars, which she would put on when they arrived at Rosedown.
“With your matching golden hair and that sweet face, Anne, I’d almost believe I’d died and gone to heaven.” Reggie smiled wryly. “But we know you’re no angel.”
“And we know you’re not going to heaven,” she retorted playfully. This made him laugh, but it must have made his head hurt worse, too, because he quickly quieted and closed his eyes. Anne watched him worriedly till he opened his eyes again and managed a smile. She smiled back and bent to kiss his forehead. She thought he felt a little warm. Was he getting feverish?
“You don’t think the décolletage a tad too low, do you?” said Reggie, flitting a prim glance over Anne’s bosom as she straightened. “You are, after all, supposed to be an angel.”
Before Anne could reply, Katherine’s timely entrance, in the garb of a Tudor-period noblewoman, made Reggie forget all about Anne’s décolletage. Katherine wore a purple velvet sheath tied around the middle with a length of gold cord, the skirt hemmed with fur. The long sleeves were fullest at the wrist, also bordered with fur. She wore an ornate headdress and a heavy gold necklace. She looked imposing, but, at the same time, very feminine in the flowing style and soft fabrics.
Reggie’s eyes widened. “Who are you supposed to be?” he asked breathlessly.
Katherine gave an embarrassed chuckle. “One of King Henry’s wives. I don’t care which, but since three of his six unfortunate brides were named Catherine, I suppose I ought to be one of them. Catherine Parr, perhaps?”
“I’m as entertained by your choice, Katherine,” said Reggie, speaking with surprised amusement, “as I was by Anne’s. Henry was a cruel despot who used women for his own nefarious designs. He had two of his wives executed. There’s no way in heaven you’d have married such a man or even tolerated his behavior. I find your choice rather ironic.”
“As ironic as my choice to dress as an angel,” said Anne.
“That’s exactly why I did it,” Katherine said, shrugging. “And because I thought the style rather becoming.” She hesitated, averting her eyes. “It’s purple.”
“So it is,” he murmured, a sparkle in his eyes.
She bit her lip, smiled, and darted him a quick, shy look. “Besides, since I’ve had nearly as many husbands as he had wives—”
“Posh! You’ve only had three … so far.”
Anne thought this might be an appropriate time to leave them alone. Not that she thought Reggie would propose to her aunt from his sickbed, but she felt intrusive standing there observing their gentle flirting. She slipped out the door without either of them noticing her departure.
As Anne ascended the stairs, she heard the front door being closed softly and the butler murmuring something about “waiting in the drawing room” while he fetched the ladies. Anne debated whether she should alert her aunt to the early arrival of Captain Miller, then decided against it. She’d talk to the fellow for a few minutes, giving Katherine a little more time with Reggie. Aunt Katherine had called the captain ancient, so he must be at least eighty or so. Surely Reggie wouldn’t think it improper if she entertained such an elderly gent for a few minutes without a chaperone.
At the foot of the stairs, Bentley the butler bade Anne a grave good evening. “Good evening, Bentley,” she answered. “Don’t bother to fetch Mrs. Grimms. She’ll be down shortly. I’ll keep our guest occupied till then.” He nodded his understanding, but Anne didn’t think he looked very pleased. She entered the drawing room.
As she breezed in, a tall man who was not in the least ancient turned from his inspection of one of Katherine’s paintings to face her. It was Jeffrey. He was the last person she expected or wanted to see. Her steps faltered halfway across the room, then she forced a pleasant smile to her lips and continued on, saying, “Jeffrey, how are you? I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Are you going to the ball?”
The look on his face when he first turned around was harsh and sulky. He was peeved. He obviously had not recovered from his displeasure of the night before. But Anne acknowledged to herself that her manner had indeed changed drastically toward Jeffrey, and it was only reasonable that he would want to know why. Tonight, however, was not a good time for such a complicated, and necessarily evasive, conversation.
How was she supposed to explain her change in behavior? How could she tell him that she knew he’d lied about his part in Renard’s close call two weeks ago? She’d expose her own involvement that night if she did. And how could she tell him she was in love with another man without telling him who that other man was?
His expression had changed. He was looking her up and down, his gaze keen-eyed and lingering. She remembered that she was in costume and decided that that must account for his staring. After a couple of moments, though, the boldness of his stare had gone past excusing. He was ogling her as if he’d like to—
“Jeffrey, I asked you if you were going to the masquerade ball. As you can see, we are. Our carriage will be here in just a few minutes.”
Finally, after one last leisurely perusal of her low decolletage, his eyes lifted to hers. He’d have to be blind and a fool not to catch the flash of anger there. He looked down for a minute as if he were embarrassed, manhandling the brim of his hat as he held it in his blunt-tipped fingers. But when his gaze met hers again, the sulky, belligerent look was back.
“You’re beautiful, Anne. If there are such things as angels, you’d be a divine model.”
“Pretty words, Jeffrey,” said Anne, “but you’re good at words.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Anne sighed, shook her head, traced the shape of a flower on the carpet with her slipper toe. “It’s not supposed to mean anything.” She didn’t want to get into this. She had far more pressing matters to think about. “I’m sorry.”
“Anne, look at me.”
She schooled her features into blandness, then looked up. He searched her face and eyes intently, as if he was trying to find answers to his questions without having to stoop to actually voicing those questions out loud. He was battling with his male pride. In the end, his need to know won out over pride.
His voice was low, his tone tense and frankly bewildered. “Anne, we were friends. I had hoped to be more than that to you eventually. You gave me reason to hope.”
Anne nodded. “Yes, I did give you reason to hope. I thought, at first, that we might be able to be more than friends.”
His eyes brightened a little, but she wasn’t sure if it was from anger or a spark of false hope returning. “What changed your mind? What made you decide that you and I couldn’t be romantically involved? If I knew what I’d done wrong, maybe I could … fix it.”
Anne moved to stand by the grand piano. She slid her hand over the smooth, polished lid in a thoughtful gesture. “Jeffrey, when I came to America, I was looking for someone like you. In England, every gentleman I was allowed to associate with seemed to have had everything handed to him on a silver salver. These gentlemen had no purpose in life, no ambition, no strong desire to involve themselves with people or causes beyond their limited social circle.”
She smiled at him. “You were so different. You used your wits and your determination to succeed, and, against all odds, you did succeed. You involved yourself in the world around you. In your articles you championed the good, condemned the wrong. I truly admired what you’d done with your life.”
“Admired? As in the past tense?”
Sadly she said, “Jeffrey … you are too ambitious.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
She turned away. “I
can’t explain.”
He grabbed her arm and roughly turned her to look at him. “I deserve an explanation!”
“You’re hurting me,” she said with controlled calmness. “Let go of me immediately.”
Jeffrey’s mouth clamped together. She could see a muscle working convulsively in his jaw. She could imagine his teeth grinding together in frustration. They were at a standoff, face to face, eye to eye. Finally he released her.
“You’re in love with someone else, aren’t you?” he said truculently.
Anne gave a soft laugh that implied denial. “Why do men always assume—”
“I saw you gawking moon-eyed at Delacroix across the opera house last night. Christ, I couldn’t believe it! Why you’d look twice at him is beyond me. He’s everything you hate. He makes mock of everything you believe in. Then, when he came to the box because your watchdog of an uncle waved him over, I saw how he looked at you.”
“Uncle Reggie likes Delacroix,” Anne began, her heart pounding. Had it been so obvious what she and Lucien were feeling?
“Your uncle likes him because he doesn’t think Delacroix’s man enough to compromise you, that’s all. And because he and your uncle are birds of a feather, all fuss and no fight.”
Now Anne was angry. No one was going to talk that way about the two men she loved most in the world. And he was so wrong about them! If he only knew … With much effort, she kept the truth to herself, but not the anger. Coldly she said, “If you persist in talking about my uncle and my friend Delacroix that way, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Jeffrey looked incredulous. “Your friend Delacroix? And I suppose you and I aren’t even that anymore? Not even friends! God, Anne, what’s happened to you?”
“My eyes have been opened, that’s all. Now I see people for who they really are.”
“I suppose I’m included in that top-lofty summation of humanity,” muttered Jeffrey. “You think you know me now, and you don’t like what you think you know. Or, more probably, Reggie’s finally convinced you I’m not good enough for you.”
Anne recognized what she thought was real regret in Jeffrey’s voice. She didn’t believe he was a bad person, just on a slightly compromised path right now, driven by his over-ambition. She couldn’t let him leave believing that she thought he wasn’t good enough for her. It could possibly be the last time they’d meet privately, the last time they’d talk so honestly. Impulsively she took his hand.
“Jeffrey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry if I’ve hurt you. I’ve never thought of you as beneath me in any way. I do want us to part as friends.”
Jeffrey’s expression, curious and eager when Anne first took his hand, turned ugly. “Well, I’ve sure as hell thought of you beneath me.” At Anne’s shocked look, he squeezed her hand harder, ignoring her attempts to pull free. “I’ve thought of you beneath me, naked and writhing in passion. And that’s just one position. I’ve thought of you, dreamed of you in a hundred different ways since the day I met you.”
“Jeffrey, let go…”
He squeezed harder, pulled her closer till his breath hissed across her face. “And if I can’t have you like that, I don’t want you at all.” Then he pushed her away and walked swiftly out of the room, leaving Anne shocked and angry. She moved to a wing chair and sank into the cushions, crushing her wings behind her.
She’d certainly handled Jeffrey all wrong. His infatuation with her was as much her fault as his. How she wished she could go back and change her behavior over the past weeks!
After a few minutes of silent self-lecturing, she heard Captain Miller’s carriage pull up outside. She took a deep breath, rallying her spirits. She couldn’t change the past, but she could do her best with the future. She hoped her future would be a rosy one with Lucien … but only if everything went as planned tonight.
Jeffrey leaned against an outside wall of a saloon on Bourbon Street. He looked casually to the left and the right, watching for the familiar stride of his favorite and most reliable mole. The one inside Renard’s ranks. The one who would do just about anything for money. Jeffrey could understand that motivation. He planned to have plenty of money very soon. Things hadn’t worked out with the English heiress, but there was another, less honorable route to take, and, after his interview with Anne tonight, he was prepared to take it.
Jeffrey rubbed two coins together in his hand, the other hand shoved in his pocket, one knee bent, the foot flat against the wall. He stared at the coins, heavy, golden, and shiny, like Anne’s hair. He shook his head, bitterness burning in his throat.
He supposed it had been too perfect to work out. She was beautiful and rich, too, a fact he’d quickly made sure of before trying so hard to woo her. Winning her would have made him the envy of everyone in town. As when his embellished article had hit the press. Everyone had stared at him on the street, thought of him as a hero. It had felt good, damned good.
Marrying Anne would have been the best move of his life. He’d have finally convinced everyone else that he was good enough, that he’d put so much distance between himself and that hellhole foundling home in Baltimore that no one would ever remember where he’d come from.
But what the hell. There was another way to get rich. And once he had the money, he’d find another woman—one less complicated than Anne. He fantasized for one last time about her.
Yes, it was too bad. Too bad.
Then he saw his mole. Nonchalantly he eased into the alley next to the saloon, cursing when a drunk followed him and started retching. Jeffrey sidestepped the vomit, hoping none of it had splashed on his new trousers, then went halfway down the alley and waited. Soon a dark figure headed his way, gingerly making a wide circle around the pool of puke. The drunk had disappeared and was undoubtedly back inside the saloon, drinking again.
Now he and the mole were face to face. Jeffrey smiled, full of happy plans. “Christian, my friend,” he said. “What’s the word?”
Chapter Nineteen
“I’m not your friend,” said Christian, resting his shoulders against the opposite wall and glaring hatefully at Jeffrey. “We do business together, that’s all.”
“A thousand pardons,” mocked Jeffrey, his good humor not in the least diminished by Christian’s surliness. He was used to the man’s mercurial moods. It was Christian’s opium addiction, and probably his guilt, that made him so changeable. “Your note said Renard was assisting another escape.”
Reluctantly Christian said, “He is.”
Jeffrey waited, then finally prompted him. “So? Where and when?”
Christian wiped his nose, shifted against the wall, averted his eyes. “I’m not sure I’m going to tell you this time.”
“Then why are you here?”
Christian turned his head and fixed Jeffrey with an accusing stare. “Where did those bounty hunters come from last time, Wycliff? I didn’t tell you the location of the rendezvous point so you could sic bounty hunters on Renard. I told you so you could get your sensational story for that damned paper you work for.” Christian looked disgusted. “And was it ever sensational.”
Jeffrey shrugged, uncomfortable for an instant, but only an instant. “Adding a little drama is the usual procedure. And, for your information, I didn’t alert those bounty hunters. I don’t know how they found out.”
“They found out because you had loose lips that week. Word got out on the street.”
“I’ve kept your dirty little secret, haven’t I? I could easily start rumors that would convince Renard you’ve been snitching to support your filthy opium habit.”
“But you won’t because you need me, not because you want to protect me. But, unlike you, I do have some natural human feelings. I won’t have Renard and his men placed in unnecessary danger again. Lives could have been lost that night. If I tell you what’s happening next, I must have your word that you’ll keep the information entirely to yourself till the deed’s done. Then, and only then, can you talk about it and print what you saw in the paper.”
“That’s easy enough.”
Christian studied him for a minute, looking dissatisfied, indecisive. He shook his head, sighed. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, ‘You don’t know’? What do you want? A promissory note?”
Christian pushed off from the wall and pointed a finger at Jeffrey. “If you cross me on this, I swear I’ll kill you.”
Jeffrey’s stomach twisted at the succinct, soft-spoken threat, but he feigned unconcern. He shrugged.
“And no boasting ahead of time,” Christian added.
Jeffrey bristled. “I don’t boast.”
Christian sneered. “You did to Anne Weston.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Why do you suppose she was there that night, too, dressed like a man?”
Jeffrey was stunned. “Anne?” he choked out at last. “Anne was the fellow who—”
Christian seemed to enjoy Jeffrey’s shocked expression, his obvious humiliation. A small, superior smile tilted his lips. Jeffrey wished he could wipe that smirk off his face with his knuckles, but Christian was big and muscled. He dared not attempt it. “Yes, Wycliff. I wonder how she felt when she read your account in the Picayune, attributing the saving of Renard’s life to your own doing. I understand she thinks quite highly of integrity. Did you ruin your chances with the girl by telling a tiny lie or two?”
“Shut up!” snarled Jeffrey. Suddenly everything became crystal clear. No wonder she’d suddenly become so distant, so cool. What a fool he’d been! But how the hell could he have possibly known that that skinny young man was Anne? Shapely, long-haired Anne tricked out like a man? He’d figured the fellow was one of Renard’s cohorts, or fans. They’d ridden off together, hadn’t they? Then another suspicion crossed his mind. A suspicion that galled him like no other.
“Renard and Anne … I know they outran the bounty hunters, but where did they go after that? She idolizes the man, but he wouldn’t …?” Jeffrey couldn’t quite get the words out. He was seething with anger and jealousy. “Did Renard … bed her?”
