by Danice Allen
Christian merely shrugged. “Do you think I know everything? Renard’s sex life is his business, not mine.”
Jeffrey swallowed this blow to his pride with considerable difficulty. Anne knew he’d been no hero that night. She’d followed him and hid herself, waiting, just as he’d hid and waited. So she knew that he’d only squatted inside a rose arbor and watched the drama played out by others. Even when he’d seen the shadows of the bounty hunters creeping up on Renard from the cemetery, he’d frozen.
As much as he admired the outlaw for his derring-do, he’d not had enough gumption himself to warn Renard of the imminent danger. But Anne had, he thought grimly. Anne had risked her own life to save Renard’s. Renard had probably been extremely grateful for that, and, besotted fool that she was, she had probably been extremely accommodating.
“I haven’t got time to stand here all night while you sulk,” said Christian.
Jeffrey rallied, more determined than ever to carry out his plan. “You’re the one withholding information. I’m just waiting to hear where the escape is going to take place, and when.”
“How much will you pay me?”
“The paper will only allow me a hundred dollars bribe money a month, as you know.”
“That’s not enough.” He turned to go.
“No, wait,” said Jeffrey, desperate. “I’ve got some money of my own. Say another hundred?”
Christian paused, considered. “Three hundred altogether.”
“Why so greedy all of a sudden?”
“I have a feeling…” Christian’s brows knit together. “Renard’s been more reticent lately with information. He’s no fool. I’m sure he suspects a leak. Hell, he might already suspect me, and without your rumors to fuel the fire, I think he’s going to disappear soon. This could be his last assisted slave escape.” He smiled ruefully. “You won’t need me anymore, and I’ll have to get my money elsewhere.”
“Then why don’t you tell me who he really is?” Jeffrey said nonchalantly. “I’d pay you plenty for that information. You could have a neat stash put away.”
“Do you take me for a fool? Why would you pay good money for information if you weren’t going to turn it around and make more money? You’re thinking it would make quite a headliner, aren’t you? You’d really be a big shot at the paper then.”
Jeffrey faked a hurt expression. “Do you think I’d do that to Renard? I’m on his side. I always have been. Everything I’ve ever written about him has been glowing. I could have alerted the authorities with that last information you gave me, but I didn’t.”
Christian looked at him keenly, suspiciously. “I used to believe you were on Renard’s side, but I’m not so sure anymore. Sometimes I think you’re on whatever side’s most lucrative for you, that you’re too ambitious.”
Hearing Anne’s words repeated by this pathetic snitch stung Jeffrey to the quick. He wanted this interview over as soon as possible. He pulled out a wad of bills and gave them to Christian. “Three hundred. You can count it if you want, but it’s all there.”
Christian took the money almost reluctantly. The fool, thought Jeffrey, he’s got too many scruples. “Now tell me.”
“The escape is planned for midnight, at the bayou behind the slave cabins on Bocage.”
“Dandy Delacroix’s plantation, eh?” Jeffrey smiled, cheered to hear that Delacroix’s slaves were the escapees this time, even though in the end the slaves would not get away.
“But not Delacroix’s slaves,” Christian clarified. “The escaping slaves are coming from Rosedown.”
Jeffrey took this disappointing news in stride. “Rosedown, you say? Yes, there’s a ball there tonight, isn’t there? A good time to sneak away, I suppose.”
“Remember what I said about leaking this information before the deed’s done, Wycliff,” was Christian’s parting threat. “If anything happens to my brother, I’ll kill you.” Then he turned and walked away, leaving Jeffrey alone in the alley.
He stood there for a minute, feeling the impact of Christian’s words, feeling his blood chill and his heart beat hard and fast. For once, he told himself, he was going to have to be brave. If, as Christian speculated, Renard was going to hang up his mask, this was Jeffrey’s last chance.
It was regrettable that Renard was going to have to pay the price for Jeffrey’s financial windfall, but he didn’t feel that badly about it. After all, he’d only pretended to champion the outlaw’s cause. Renard had simply been an excellent subject to write sensational articles about, articles that had considerably furthered his own journalistic career. He admired Renard more for his image than for his ideals. But his admiration for the man was no reason to spare him. Money was money.
Jeffrey left the alley and headed down the street to the Calaboso and the police.
The ball was a crushing success. Americans and Creoles alike were invited to the home of the modern-thinking Bouviers; they didn’t discriminate, as a lot of Creole families did. In fact, one of their daughters had recently married a rich American, which made the integration of the two cultures almost mandatory.
When they first arrived, Captain Miller, dressed in a simple black domino, retired immediately to the card room, and Anne and Katherine stood on the periphery of the dancing and took in the scene. Anne was enthralled. She’d never been to a masquerade in her life. This one was done on such a grand scale, it was overwhelming to imagine how much money had probably been spent on this single event.
It had been too dark to see the grounds around the house as they drove up in Captain Miller’s sedately paced carriage, but the front facade, basking in the glow of torchlight, was quite interesting. It was a traditional plantation house, not a modern building with the classical pillars and lines so favored by the rich lately. Anne couldn’t help wondering if Lucien’s Bocage was similar. She knew the Delacroix estate adjoined the Bouviers’.
In the back of the house, down the hallway, was the ballroom. Obviously the room had been built to be used specifically for balls, and only for balls.
Anne looked up. Above the dancers were several huge crystal chandeliers. It must have taken dozens of servants—or slaves—to light all the tapers. Her eyes dropped again to floor level, where innumerable historical and fictional characters were represented, the myriad colors of their costumes flashing in the candle glow.
A daring Marie Antoinette danced with a Mohawk Indian brave. Caesar Augustus showed off his shapely legs in a short toga. Robin Hood flirted with a sultry Cleopatra. A medieval knight made the turns of the dance with ease despite his restrictive armor, while the nubile black cat in his arms held her tail instead of her skirt as they swirled and dipped to the lilting strains of a Viennese waltz.
Anne looked for Lucien, but so far she had not spied him anywhere. She smiled to herself, wondering what costume he’d worn. She’d teased him last night to tell her, but he’d insisted that he wanted to surprise her.
When the dance ended, several gentlemen immediately descended upon Anne. She agreed to dance with a man dressed like Napoleon. Despite his mask, she recognized him as Edward Dean, a friend of her aunt’s. She was sure it wouldn’t be difficult to recognize most of the people she knew, because only a few faces were actually obscured by cosmetics or fake beards or full masks. Some, like Captain Miller, wore only domino capes and masks over their usual evening wear. But where was Lucien?”
“Miss Weston,” said Edward, peering down into Anne’s face, “would you think me terribly forward if I told you how heavenly you look tonight?”
Anne smiled obligingly at the witticism. “No, Mr. Dean. However, I hope your Josephine doesn’t get jealous if she sees you dancing with me.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Weston. You won’t lose your head over it.” Anne laughed, as she was supposed to.
The dance was almost over before she saw Lucien. He was conversing with King Henry the Eighth, who, on closer inspection, proved to be exactly the person Anne expected him to be talking to—Charles Bodine. As
for Lucien, he was dressed like a frontiersman.
Anne couldn’t believe it. When she’d first met Jeffrey, she had imagined him in just such a get-up, thinking that because of his resourceful American ways, he deserved a more rustic image. But Jeffrey could never have done justice to those tight-fitting buckskins and knee-high fringed boots. Nor could the beaver-tailed cap have sat so rakishly on Jeffrey’s head, or the rifle looked so right hanging over his shoulder.
Anne’s breath was suspended. Lucien looked even more virile than usual. Women would be flocking to him all evening. In fact, his coterie of females was already forming. Hovering nearby were two women, apparently just waiting for Lucien to look up from his close conversation with Bodine and notice them. Anne felt a stab of jealousy. If only she were more certain of Lucien’s feelings for her, perhaps she wouldn’t be so vulnerable to unwelcome anxieties…
While she was being twirled about the dance floor in Napoleon’s arms, Anne couldn’t tell if Lucien had seen her or not. When Napoleon returned her to her aunt’s side, Anne said in a whisper, “Did you see Lucien, Aunt Katherine?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yes.” Anne nodded in his direction. “He’s over there, in the corner … with your husband, King Henry.”
Katherine’s eyebrows lifted. She looked, she pursed her lips. “How appropriate. One despot playing another. He treats his slaves like Henry treated his wives.”
“Yes. Reggie would enjoy the irony, wouldn’t he?”
Katherine’s brows knitted. “Yes, he would. I wonder how he’s doing. How long do we have to stay at this stupid ball before we can go home and check on that stubborn old fool? I’d feel much better if only he’d let us call for the doctor.”
“You left word with Theresa and James to send a message if Reggie got any worse, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Uncle Reggie would be angry if we left too early. We haven’t even seen our host and hostess yet.” Anne’s voice lowered and grew slightly petulant. “And, though I know it’s selfish of me, I’d really like to dance with Lucien just once before we leave. However, with so many women vying for his attention, perhaps I won’t get the opportunity.”
Katherine squeezed her hand. “I’m sure Lucien will dance with you if he gets the chance, but you can’t expect him to spend much time with you. A single dance might not be wondered at, but people know you two have opposite political philosophies.”
Anne saw Lucien lead a woman dressed seductively as a Persian slave girl onto the dance floor. When he took her in his arms for a waltz, he whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Anne’s heart ached with longing. She wished he were whispering in her ear.
Just then she and Katherine were approached by several more acquaintances and were obliged to socialize. Smiling determinedly, they did their duty. Reggie would have been proud.
Lucien could barely concentrate on what Mademoiselle Petit was saying. She smiled at him through her transparent veil and murmured something about wanting to be part of his “harem,” but nothing she said or did was stimulating enough to keep his mind off Anne. Anne … dressed as an angel. She’d always looked like something celestial to him, but were angels supposed to look so damned seductive?
He counted the minutes till he could take her in his arms and dance with her. Since that was all he could do in front of three hundred people, dancing would have to suffice. At least then he’d get a whiff of her light scent, be able to look down into those bright blue eyes, hear her voice, tell her how beautiful she was.
He decided to wait till just before late supper was served. He’d be leaving right after that, when people would be reorganizing and sauntering back into the ballroom, the card room, outside on the lawn. He and Bodine could slip away then without it being remarked upon. He’d take him to Bocage and start the beginning of the end. The end of Renard, and, he hoped, the end of Bodine.
He mingled. He pretended interest in all sorts of insipid conversations. He was insipid himself. He danced with scores of women, with whom he flirted shamelessly. He made each of them laugh, simper, and blush, then went on to his next partner. He played the part of charming rogue so well, heads turned in his direction all evening—some people smiling, some frowning.
Then the moment he’d been waiting for arrived. He’d been watching Anne surreptitiously all night. She’d certainly had no lack of dancing partners, either, and he knew he’d have to be aggressive in getting past all the would-be swains that clustered around her the minute she left the dance floor.
One dance had just ended, and in three minutes another would begin. In that short interim he’d have to make his way across the room and gain possession of Anne’s hand before someone else claimed it. And even if someone did claim it, he’d state a prior commitment. What the hell. He moved across the room.
He was there, she was there, all the swains were there. She looked up at him, unsmiling, rosy from dancing—or was she upset? He hoped the former. He bowed low, sweeping his beavertailed hat off his head and gallantly crushing it to his chest.
“Mademoiselle Weston,” he intoned in his best drawl, “I believe this dance is ours.”
“You’re just a tad late, Delacroix,” said young Richard Waverly, squinting belligerently through the eyeholes of a black mask under a huge sombrero. “She’s already promised this dance to me.”
“Sorry, Monsieur Waverly,” said Lucien, “but hours ago I secured Mademoiselle Weston’s promise for the last dance before supper.” He turned to Anne. “You do remember, mademoiselle? You had just arrived …?” Lucien raised his brows.
After a slight hesitation that confused Lucien, Anne took her cue. “Oh, yes. I do remember now, Mr. Delacroix.” She turned a regretful face to Richard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Waverly. Perhaps the first dance after supper?”
Richard appeared placated with the promise of future bliss and bowed himself away. Lucien, however, did not miss the scathing look cast his way from under the retreating sombrero. Lucien couldn’t have cared less. The prize was his.
He took Anne’s hand and led her onto the dance floor. The strains of a waltz floated from the orchestra balcony. He drew her into his arms, but found her rather stiff. She averted her face.
“What’s the matter, Anne?” he asked, concern making his tone harsh. “Has someone been annoying you?”
“Oh, yes,” she remarked coolly. “A man has been annoying me all evening.”
His jaw set. Grimly he asked, “Who? I’ll land the fellow a facer. Did he dare touch you? Did he speak disrespectfully to you?”
Anne’s blue eyes flashed up at him through her thick tawny lashes. “Indeed, I’ve been wanting him to touch me all night—”
“What?”
“—or at least notice my existence. But he’s been far too occupied entertaining half the female population of New Orleans to notice little ol’ me.” Her accusing gaze slid away, and she turned her face again.
Lucien’s tight muscles relaxed. He recognized jealousy when he saw it. Didn’t the little baggage know it was important to maintain his roguish reputation? Especially tonight.
Actually he rather enjoyed her desire to keep him to herself. He felt the same way about her. But he couldn’t resist teasing her a little.
“I danced with half the female population of New Orleans, Mademoiselle Weston,” he said gravely, “because…”
She turned to face him, arched a dubious brow. “Because why, Mr. Delacroix?”
“Because the other half are too old to dance.”
Anne’s mouth pursed, but her eyes gleamed. Lucien hoped she was finding humor in the situation and not just getting angrier. “Madame Dupois is at least seventy. You danced with her. And, I might add, you danced with her before you danced with me.”
“Madame Dupois is an exception to the rule. Although she has a touch of rheumatism and is definitely part of the female population expected to sit instead of dance, I was able to persuade her to do otherwise.”
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br /> “You enjoy that, don’t you?”
“What, dancing?”
“No, persuading women to do your bidding.”
He grinned at her. “I plead guilty.”
She shook her head, trying not to smile. “That’s just what you said to the man in the alley when you knocked him on the head with your cane. Are you always so ready to own up to your crimes?”
“Always.”
“Then someone should tell you that it’s criminal for you to wear those buckskin breeches in public.” She slid him a coy glance. “They make you look far too masculine.”
“But if I hadn’t been wearing them, I’d never have convinced Madame Dupois to dance with me. She may be seventy, but she’s got a keen eye for a good leg.”
Anne grinned. Lucien was thrilled to be finally winning her over again. “Conceited popinjay! But I must admit that the old gal has good taste. With you in that costume, even I might be tempted to do your bidding.”
The distance between them was just enough that Anne could flick an interested eye over the entire length of his person. In the aftermath of her quick but thorough scrutiny, Lucien felt the blood pulse through his veins. It was as though she’d caressed him. Their gazes met, and he saw playful arousal reflected in the depths of her blue eyes. “Yes, the breeches are quite effective,” she said demurely, “but I must confess I like everything I see.”
Lucien had thought himself well past the age of blushing, but apparently not. He felt the heat in his neck, ears, and cheeks. He probably looked like a red-faced, half-strangled Johnny Raw in his first stiff, store-bought cravat. And though dancing had always been an easy, effortless activity for him, now he suddenly felt clumsy and nervous, mindful of watching his feet.
“Sweet Anne,” he groaned, all the while trying to keep up his usual bored facade, “you’ve turned the tables on me. Now instead of me teasing you, you’re teasing me. Do you know what you do to me?”
