“It... it’s all very beautiful,” Simone stammered, “but I cannot go to the ball.”
“Why not?” The woman cocked a skeptical eyebrow.
“For one thing, I’m supposed to be hiding.”
“What better place to hide than behind a mask?” Lisette picked up a white satin half-mask from the dressing table and placed it beside the dress.
“I’d be recognized.”
“I don’t think so. You’ve changed, filled out just in the time I’ve known you, and now your hair is black instead of brown.”
“And it’s short,” Simone reminded her.
“Easily remedied.” The woman dismissed that objection with a wave of her hand. “I’ve ordered a hairpiece dyed black.”
Simone looked wistfully at the ensemble on the bed, but she shook her head. “I’d never be able to carry off the masquerade.”
“Simone Devereaux,” Lisette exclaimed, “you have been posing as a boy for nearly nine months. Don’t you think you could pass for the lovely young woman you are?”
“What if Marcel is there?”
“He won’t be,” Lisette said confidently. “I hear his mother is ill again, and he plans to stay with her until after Easter. Do go, chère. It’s your chance to be the belle of the ball, at least for one night.”
Simone was tempted. “What if someone asks my name?”
“Don’t tell them. I’ve bribed the doorman to let you in without being announced.”
“Alain de Vallière might be there,” the girl protested.
“You’re going to have to face him eventually. He has been here almost every day since November, looking for you. I don’t need to remind you, you’ve had more than one narrow escape.”
“And what do you suggest I do if he confronts me?”
“Smile and flirt and dance with him,” Lisette answered promptly. “Go and have fun. You’ve had little enough in your life.”
Warring emotions were evident on Simone’s face as she lovingly fingered the lace of the gown. Picking up the mask, she held it in front of her face and looked in the mirror. At the ball she would be only one among many wearing masks.
When she faced Lisette, the other woman knew that she had won.
“Très bien.” Simone surrendered with a tentative smile. “I’ll do it. And merci beaucoup. It seems you’ve thought of everything.”
“Not quite everything,” her friend disagreed. “I forgot to have a cloak made, but I have a short cape that will be perfect for you. Try the gown on, and we’ll plan the conquest of every male in New Orleans by a mysterious, raven-haired beauty.”
“Your sentiment de fer, your feel for the blade, is good, young friend,” Serge told Jean-Paul, “but you must remember to keep your derriere in line with the rest of your body.” He prodded the lad’s hip gently with the buttoned tip of his foil.
“Oui, maître.” Simone nodded, wasting no time on girlish embarrassment.
“That’s enough for today. I must go, but you may continue to practice if you wish,” Serge announced, looking around the nearly deserted salle. A pair of fencers engaged in loose play in one corner, and a couple of his students, weary after their exertions, ambled toward the door.
The fencing master departed with a smile for his scrawny assistant as Jean-Paul concentrated on the muscle control necessary to keep his upper body straight, his knees slightly bent, and the offending portion of his anatomy tucked firmly in.
“Keep it in,” a bold voice advised.
Simone glanced over her shoulder to see Alain leaning against a post, watching. “I don’t need you to tell me that,” she snapped.
“I thought you might appreciate some guidance from someone older and more experienced.” He shrugged indolently.
“That’s you, of course,” she sniped, nettled by his criticism.
Alain’s eyes narrowed. Time and time again Jean-Paul had provoked him, and he had often thought of teaching the boy a lesson. Today was the day for it.
“Since you’ve become such an expert under Serge’s tutelage, why don’t you show me what you’ve learned?” He donned his mask, his dark eyes challenging the boy through the wire mesh.
Simone hesitated only a moment. Much could be learned from practice with a good swordsman, and Alain was one of the best. She would undoubtedly be beaten, but she vowed to give him more than he bargained for.
Putting on her own mask, she returned his salute. From the moment their blades engaged, Jean-Paul fenced aggressively, advancing on Alain with energy and speed. The big man parried his thrusts easily but allowed him to move forward unhampered. When the boy gathered himself for a lunge, Alain sidestepped neatly, reaching around to slap his foil across Jean-Paul’s derriere.
“That’s not fair!” the youngster yelped. Springing backward, he glared at his opponent.
“Keep it in,” Alain counseled, grinning, as Jean-Paul rubbed his smarting backside.
Serge’s assistant resumed his stance and began to fence more cautiously. Again Alain fought defensively, retiring just out of reach, inviting his opponent to make a flèche, a quick, short run. As Jean-Paul passed, Alain delivered another slap across his buttocks with his foil.
“You’re cheating!” Jean-Paul howled, wheeling on the man.
“I’m reminding you of the maître’s lessons,” Alain explained patiently. “And teaching you a lesson of my own.”
“What’s that?” the boy bawled.
“To respect your elders.”
Enraged, Jean-Paul glared at him through narrowed green eyes, then charged mindlessly, all finesse forgotten in his anger.
Once again Alain applied his foil, but with less vigor than before. He wanted to curb Jean-Paul’s insolence, not beat him. Yet the lad showed no signs of quitting.
When his small opponent resumed his stance, Alain saluted politely. “I’d like to give you more of my time, Jean-Paul, but I have an engagement this evening.”
As he walked away, his voice drifted back to the boy, “You really must work on your temper, young friend. It gives your opponent a definite advantage.”
Simone watched her guardian go, tears of humiliation and rage rolling unheeded down her cheeks.
That night when Simone stepped from her bath, Lisette gasped in horror. “Chère, what happened to you?”
Simone twisted to examine her bruised buttocks in the dressing-room mirror. “I crossed swords with Alain today. He was set on teaching Jean-Paul a lesson,” she said crisply as she wrapped herself in a towel.
“I’ve known Alain de Vallière for years. I’ve never known him to lose his temper quite so drastically,” the woman said dubiously.
“I seem to have that effect on him.”
“Indeed you do.”
Lisette led the girl to a low stool beside the fireplace and began to towel her short hair dry.
Simone stared pensively into the fire, then sighed. “It is not enough that I make Alain lose his temper without even trying,” she said sadly. “You know what is worse, Lisette? He makes me so angry, I go out of my way to provoke him at the salle.”
“Provoked or not, it’s not right to beat an innocent boy,” Lisette said disapprovingly, picking up a comb.
“He didn’t beat me.” Simone was surprised by her own defense of him. “He only slapped me with his foil as the maître does at times, though I must say Serge doesn’t do it with quite so much relish.”
“Well, if Alain ever lays a hand on you again--”
“I don’t think he will,” Simone said.
“Hmmm.” Holding a dozen hair pins tightly between her lips, Lisette gave only that enigmatic answer as she arranged the hairpiece on the girl’s head.
Next, taking up a bottle of lotion, she rubbed Simone’s rough hands until at last she acknowledged defeat. “These are not the hands of a genteel young lady.”
“Non, they are the hands of a twelve-year-old boy.”
“Never mind. I have lace gloves you can wear. Now come and I can help you
into your dress.
“You are très jolie, ma petite,” Lisette said admiringly, as she hooked the back of the splendid evening gown. “Ah, I almost forgot.” Picking up a circlet of pink roses from the dressing table, she placed it on Simone’s head and affixed it to where the hairpiece joined her hair.
“Now turn around and close your eyes.” When the girl had complied, Lisette led her to the full-length mirror. “Open them. Now, are you not magnifique?” she asked softly.
Simone stared at her reflection in disbelief. It was true, she realized. For the first time in her life, she was beautiful.
The gown Lisette had chosen for her was perfect, elegant in its simplicity. The white satin bodice left her shoulders bare, shirring in graceful drapes from the modest décolletage to the rose-colored sash at her narrow waist. Her sleeves ended in a cascade of white lace gathered with ribbons at her elbows.
Her glossy black hair was drawn back from the forehead and held in place by the rose circlet. A few loose tendrils curled around her face, as if to emphasize her femininity. Her color was heightened by her excitement, and her lips reflected the rose of the ribbons trimming her gown.
“I’ve never felt so pretty,” Simone breathed.
“You’re more than pretty, chère, you’re beautiful,” Lisette said with satisfaction. “Now the finishing touches.” She brought out a fan and a pair of short white lace gloves.
“There is one more thing,” Simone remembered suddenly. She picked up the boy’s shirt she had been wearing and pulled her mother’s necklace from the pocket.
“Wonderful!” Lisette fastened it at once around Simone’s neck. “I’ve never seen a pearl so lovely. Et, voilà.” Simone stood still as Lisette placed a cloak over her shoulders and instructed, “Let me fetch Jude to walk you to the ballroom. I don’t want you wandering around alone at night.”
When she returned with her big doorman, Simone was waiting, already wearing her mask. Jude bowed politely and opened the doors to the garden, gesturing for her to precede him.
A cold, damp wind from the river whistled through the narrow streets as they walked silently to the ballroom. Drizzle had left the wooden banquettes slick, so they made their way carefully. At a small gate in a wall facing onto rue Orleans, they stopped, and the big Negro said politely, “I will come back for you in three hours, mam’selle. If you’re not here, I’ll wait.”
Muted music drifted from inside as Simone crept through a shadowy, deserted courtyard. Leaves crackled underfoot, and water dripped in huge cold drops from barren tree limbs above. She glanced toward the ballroom, whose bright windows seemed to beckon her.
The side door, nearly invisible in the darkness, would open onto the long hallway that ran along the front of the building. Praying it was not locked, she tried it. When it opened, she stole into the dark hall.
A pool of light spilled through an open door halfway to the main entrance of the ballroom, and the rumble of masculine voices emanated from within. Stopping a few feet away, she peeped into the gaming room, where men gathered around the fireplace sipping from snifters, their masks pushed up carelessly over their foreheads. Others, tired of the ball, played cards at small tables. Stealthily, Simone slipped past to the foyer outside the ballroom.
Framed by the doorway, the doorman did not leave his post, but he nodded silently toward the cloakroom, where Simone doffed her cloak. When she returned to the foyer, he nodded again slightly and moved to one side. She paused apprehensively for an instant, then stepped into the ballroom, which was alive with music and color as couples swirled around the floor to the strains of a waltz.
Alain leaned against a marble column, surveying the ballroom. Even in idleness, his gaze was penetrating as he watched the dancers, considering whether he should go home. His boredom was replaced by mild curiosity when he noticed the doorman eyeing the crowd as he slipped aside to admit someone unannounced. What the devil could the man be up to?
The answer came when a vision appeared in the doorway. Uttering a surprised oath under his breath, Alain launched himself from the column and hastened to the girl for whom he had searched.
“My dance, I believe, mademoiselle.” The handsome Creole presented himself with a bow, drawing Simone into his arms and onto the dance floor before she could object.
Held in his arms, Simone was afraid to look up past his crisp white shirt front. Had he witnessed the near-physical jolt of gladness she had felt when she saw him striding toward her? Even now her knees were so weak, they barely supported her.
As he stared down at her bent head, the fragrance of roses wafted up to Alain, intoxicating him. “Don’t you have anything to say to me after all this time?” he asked huskily, drawing her eyes to his and holding them with a burning intensity.
“What would you like me to say?” she asked breathlessly.
“You could tell me you’re glad to see me. I’ve been looking for you for three months. Where have you been?”
“Why would you waste your time looking for me when I told you the last time we met that I cannot see you?” she challenged softly.
“You told me,” he murmured, his lips close to hers, “yet here you are in my arms again.”
“Oui, here I am.” Her words came as a sigh as they spun around the dance floor, whirling among the dazzling prisms thrown off by the chandelier, oblivious to the other people in the huge room.
His back to the dancers, Fabrice Chauvin stood talking with Claude Galvez and Eugène Moreau.
“Mon Dieu!” Claude stared wonderingly over Fabrice’s shoulder.
“What a beauty,” Eugène breathed, his eyes following the couple as they swept around the dance floor.
Curiously, Fabrice turned to see what they regarded with such awe, and his jaw dropped in amazement. There, clasped in the arms of her hated guardian, was his petite cousine.
“Pardon, mes amis.” Fabrice excused himself and headed toward the handsome couple as soon as the music drew to a close. All around him he could hear muted conversation. The question of Simone’s identity was on everyone’s lips.
When he reached them, the elegant young man bowed. “Mademoiselle, may I have the honor?” he asked, trying to ignore the way de Vallière’s hold on her waist tightened possessively.
Alain’s expression darkened when Simone accepted. “I’d be delighted. If you’ll pardon me, Monsieur de Vallière.” She slipped from his grip and was led onto the floor by Fabrice.
“Simone Jeanne-Marie Pauline Devereaux,” her cousin began severely as soon as they were out of the other man’s earshot, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“Dancing with you, cher cousin, and enjoying myself immensely,” she answered lightly.
“You know very well what I mean,” he growled. “Are you mad to come here? Someone is sure to recognize you.”
“No one but you,” she assured him. “My father fell from grace with les bonnes familles long ago. No one will know his daughter. Not even Alain has recognized me.”
“Not yet. Claude and Eugène are also here. They could recognize you as Jean-Paul,” he argued, not daring to state his true fear. What if Marcel Baudin appeared?
“Believe me, Fabrice, if either of them approaches me, I shall make sure that Jean-Paul is the furthest thing from his mind,” she assured him with newfound confidence in her feminine allure.
Fabrice exploded in a loud whisper, “How long will you go on with this foolish masquerade? I keep hoping you’ll give it up before you’re discovered and your reputation is completely ruined. And now you trade one disguise for another. This is more dangerous than your boyish posturing. Why can’t you just come home to LeFleur, where you’ll be taken care of?”
“I can take care of myself, Fabrice. I learn more about defending myself every day.”
“You speak of defense,” he snorted. “I know you well enough to know you’ve probably decided to challenge Marcel yourself.”
“Not until I’m good enough,” she admitted.
; “Baudin is one of the most skillful swordsmen in New Orleans. If you even consider challenging him, I will expose Serge’s assistant as a girl,” he threatened.
“You will not, Fabrice, because you vowed you would not.”
He was aghast at her temerity. “Listen to reason, Simone,” he urged.
“Don’t shout. The music is about to end, and everyone will hear you.”
“As a male cousin,” he lowered his voice and continued insistently, “I have the right to counsel you.”
“As a female cousin, I have the right to ignore that counsel.” Smiling sweetly, she moved away from him.
“May I have this dance?” two voices asked in unison behind her.
As Fabrice stalked away, rigid with displeasure, Simone turned to see Claude and Eugène glaring at each other.
Simone responded teasingly, “What we have here is a most unwieldy combination for dancing, messieurs. Shall we simplify matters by agreeing that I will dance with one and then the other?”
They stared at her in mute admiration. Then Eugène found his voice. “But who will be first, mademoiselle? Will you choose?”
“Oh, dear.” She gazed flirtatiously back and forth between them. “To choose would be difficult indeed. Perhaps there is another way—a peaceful way,” she added hurriedly when she saw Eugène touch the hilt of the colchemarde, the sword cane, he wore at his side.
“We could flip a coin,” Claude suggested, eager to please.
“Très bon,” she approved. “Do you have one?”
Claude drew a gold piece from his pocket and flipped it. “Heads or tails, Moreau?” he asked as he slapped it on the back of his hand.
“Tails.”
When he withdrew the hand that covered it, Claude’s face fell. “Tails it is.”
The band struck up a brisk reel as Eugène led the girl to the dance floor, and he almost wished he had not won after all. The next dance, Claude’s dance, was sure to be a waltz.
The couple finished the reel, breathless and flushed, and Eugène returned Simone glumly to her next partner. He had been his most charming, and the mysterious girl had remained impervious to his appeal. He only hoped she would rebuff Claude’s advances as coolly, for his friend was disgustingly successful with the ladies.
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 10
