by Danice Allen
“Yes, so do I.” She brooded a moment, biting the outside edge of her lip, contemplating the floor. “You did get my note, then, warning you that Wycliff was bragging to Anne about knowing your rendezvous point?”
Lucien reached over and squeezed Katherine’s hand. “Yes.”
“Thank God,” Katherine murmured wryly. “I had the devil of a time last night finding a private moment to scribble that hasty message. I was afraid the young groom I sent wouldn’t get it to you in time.”
“He did. And forewarned, we were very careful … at first. But when we’d managed to get the three men inside the wagon without the least sign of trouble, and Armande was actually at the ready to flick the horse’s ear and take off, we began to relax. A foolish and precipitous act. The bounty hunters crept up from behind us, through the cemetery.”
“How were you alerted?”
Lucien blinked. “Anne didn’t tell you?”
“Anne’s explanation about last night was short and sketchy. She said we’d read about it in the Picayune.”
“Wycliff got his story, then. It should report that a certain anonymous ‘young man’ saved my life by risking his own. As you must know, Anne was that young man.”
Katherine was silenced. While the ormolu clock on the marble mantel ticked away the seconds, Lucien watched her absorb the shock. Anne nearly killed. Anne in love with an outlaw. Anne no longer a virgin.
“Are you ready to draw and quarter me?”
“More than ready.” She sighed heavily. “I didn’t take Anne away from her family in England so she could throw away her future, Lucien. You are a good man, but a man of strong passions. It appears you’ve allowed those passions to rule you where my niece is concerned. She deserves everything that’s best in life, and if you don’t think you can give her the best, then…” She didn’t finish the sentence; she didn’t need to. “I don’t want her hurt, Lucien.”
“Neither do I,” he replied soberly.
Katherine reached across the distance between them and took Lucien’s hand. She squeezed hard. “I know you will do what’s best.”
Lucien was grateful for Katherine’s show of confidence, even while she was obviously angry with him for compromising her niece’s future happiness. He was determined to “do what was best” for Anne, but no matter how carefully he made his plans, there was always a chance that something could go wrong … dreadfully wrong. Till he could be more sure of the outcome, he still couldn’t make promises to Anne, or to her aunt.
Lucien had another concern, too, that he didn’t dare voice aloud to Katherine, and tried not to dwell on himself. Anne still didn’t know that he and her hero, Renard, were one and the same. What if she had nurtured such a hatred for Delacroix, the wastrel and cad, that she couldn’t accept who Lucien really was?
Katherine interrupted his brooding thoughts. “As Renard, what are your immediate plans? Am I involved?”
He stood up. “I’ll let you know, Katherine. I dare not stay longer. Reggie’s already suspicious of my wanting to speak to you.” He cocked an inquiring brow. “You don’t suppose he’s jealous?”
Katherine stood up, too, busily smoothing non-existent wrinkles out of her blue bombazine skirt. “It’s too early to suppose anything,” she mumbled. When she looked up, her face was delightfully flushed. “You’ll keep me abreast of developments, Lucien?”
“Certainly,” he replied, distracted from his own troubles by his enjoyment of the girlish bloom that had spread over her handsome features. “And you’ll keep me abreast of … developments, too, won’t you?”
“Out of here, you rapscallion,” she said with a haughty sniff, her lips fighting a smile. “I shan’t put up with your nincompoopery!”
Lucien playfully threw up his hands in defeat, then bent to kiss Katherine’s cheek. Just then the unoiled hinges of the parlor door announced Theresa’s arrival with the tea tray. Lucien immediately put a proper distance between himself and his hostess, transforming himself in the wink of an eye into the persona of Dandy Delacroix. His lips smirked, and his eyelids drooped lazily.
“Certainement, Madame Grimms,” he drawled. “I understand completely. If you say your literary club is not interested in hearing Monsieur LaPriell expound on the social benefits of slavery—” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Well, then I suppose I must believe you. But I thought you might be a little more open-minded about allowing a dissenting voice among your ranks. How else can you make educated choices?”
Recognizing her cue, Katherine opened her mouth to deliver a sharply worded set-down when another voice intruded. “Some choices are self-evident, Delacroix. At least to an honorable man”—Jeffrey Wycliff inclined his head to Katherine—“or woman.”
Lucien turned to see Jeffrey sauntering in behind Theresa and the tea tray. Another maid was carrying a vase holding the flowers he’d brought for Anne. Lucien wondered why she was bringing them to the parlor, when Reggie had expressly instructed her to take them to Anne’s bedchamber.
Jeffrey was dressed in his customary conservative gray suit and hat, but there was something different about him today. He looked more smug than usual. A very definite self-satisfaction shone from his clean-shaven face. Lucien’s eyes dropped to the rolled-up copy of the Picayune Jeffrey had tucked under his arm. He’d apparently brought the newspaper fresh off the printing press so he could impress Anne with his story about Renard.
“Monsieur Wycliff, bonjour,” he said, ignoring Jeffrey’s baited implication that he wasn’t an honorable man. Katherine thought he was honorable, and her opinion counted much more than Jeffrey’s did. He bowed politely, but was nearly overcome with an irrational urge to bloody the cocky braggart’s nose. “Your timing is exquisite. I was just leaving, and now you may keep Madame Grimms company at the tea table.”
Jeffrey nodded cordially to Katherine. “Mrs. Grimms will understand that I don’t have time to stop for refreshment this afternoon. Actually I’ve come specifically to see Anne.” His gaze lifted abruptly to Lucien’s face, as if trying to catch a reaction to the familiar use of Anne’s name. Lucien kept his expression as vacuous as possible, while inwardly his vague dislike for Jeffrey Wycliff took on substance.
“You will be disappointed, I’m afraid,” Lucien couldn’t help saying. “Mademoiselle Weston is indisposed today and not receiving visitors.”
“Oh, she’ll see me,” Jeffrey asserted.
“Jeffrey, I’m afraid Reginald won’t allow it,” Katherine interjected.
Jeffrey smiled charmingly as he walked across the room. “I beg to differ, Mrs. Grimms. Wild horses couldn’t keep Anne away from me today.” He pulled the paper out from under his arm and waved it like a taunting schoolboy. “I have a firsthand account here of Renard’s latest derring-do. Nearly freed his last slave this morning. There was a very close, very exciting encounter between Renard and a band of bounty hunters.”
Lucien frowned. A band of bounty hunters? Did three men constitute a band?
“Goodness!” exclaimed Katherine, feigning surprise. “Yes, I’m quite sure Anne will want to read the article, Jeffrey, but I’ll have to take it up to her room. She had a rather nasty fall last night against her dressing table, and the wound has left her a bit woozy.” She moved forward, holding out her hand.
Jeffrey backed away, tucking the paper under his arm again. Lucien noticed that Jeffrey didn’t react at all to the news of Anne’s fall; he seemed too full of himself at the moment to have much concern for the woman he’d been determinedly wooing for the past several weeks. “Oh, no, I can’t let you do that. I absolutely have to watch the expressions flit across that beautiful face of hers as she reads this.” He waggled a finger at her. “You can’t take that pleasure away from me, Katherine.”
Katherine laughed, but the sound was forced. She was obviously losing patience. “But, as I told you, Reginald won’t allow—”
“She was standing at the window, looking out, as I came up the drive. I showed he
r the paper, and even from a distance I could see her eyes light up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. ‘I’ll be down, Jeffrey,’ she called. ‘Wait for me.’”
Jeffrey shrugged and smiled an insincere apology. “Can you blame me for doing exactly as she asked, Katherine? I imagine that Anne has been for the past five minutes cajoling and arguing with her uncle. If you were a wagering woman, whom would you bet on to win the argument?”
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 15
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 there, 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?”
