by Danice Allen
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 h
er 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.”
“I’m glad.” Reggie smiled, but Anne could tell it required an effort. Apparently his headache was worse. “But I must confess I asked you over for something more than an ordinary courtesy call. I’m afraid I’ve got a dreadful headache and need to go home. I was wondering if—”
“Reginald!” expostulated Katherine. “You never said a word!”
“I didn’t want to ruin your first night out in nearly a fortnight, Katherine, but, indeed, I was beginning to wonder how I was going to manage to sit through the whole performance.”
A furrow of worry between her brows, Katherine leaned forward, prepared to stand up. “What nonsense!” she scolded. “Of course you don’t have to sit through the performance. Goodness, Reginald, what nincompoopery is this? I wish you’d spoken up. Anne and I are ready to go home immediately.”
Reggie laid his hand on Katherine’s shoulder, gently compelling her to remain seated. “I wouldn’t dream of dragging you away from such bravura performances. I was wondering what to do when I saw Delacroix across the way and thought perhaps he could—?”
“How can I be of assistance, monsieur?” Delacroix instantly inquired.
“You can escort my two charges home at the end of the opera.” He frowned, rubbed his temple. “You did bring your carriage?”
“I’m delighted to report that I did indeed bring my carriage tonight. But even if I hadn’t, I’d have sent home for it for the privilege of such enchanting company.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to take Anne and Katherine home, Mr. Weston?” questioned Jeffrey, respectful but peevish. “I know I don’t have a carriage, but I’d have gotten them a cab.”
“The doorman might have hailed them a cab, Mr. Wycliff,” said Reggie with dampening logic. Jeffrey opened his mouth, but Reggie forestalled him, saying, “Yes, I know, you’d have been happy to escort them, as well. I didn’t want to inconvenience you. Mr. Delacroix has proven very helpful in past, and I trust him implicitly.” When Jeffrey’s face turned bright red at the implication that he wasn’t trustworthy, Reggie realized the faux pas. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wycliff, you mustn’t mind me. I’ve got such a devil of a headache, I’m not saying precisely what I mean. No offense meant.”
“But, Reginald, I don’t want to stay for the opera,” asserted Katherine, trying to stand up again. “There won’t be anyone to take care of you when you get home.”
Reggie’s light grip on Katherine’s shoulder increased. While his smile was weak, his resolution was firm. “My devoted manservant, James, would take umbrage at that remark. Truly, Katherine, it would make me wretched to drag you home over a silly little headache. I just need to sleep it off. I’ll be perfectly fine in the morning.”
“But you’re making me wretched by refusing to allow me to—”
“Just this once, Katherine, don’t argue with me.”
The simple, succinct request finally got through to her. Staring with concern into Reggie’s pain-filled eyes, she realized she would only be doing him more harm by continuing to argue. “Very well. But I expect James to appraise me of your condition as soon as we arrive home.”
Reggie laughed, wincing at the same time. “I will, though I think you’re fussing over nothing. Isn’t that something you’ve always accused me of doing?”
Katherine sniffed. “Well, go home then,” she said brusquely, probably to cover up her worry. “Don’t tarry while your head’s pounding like a kettledrum. Mr. Delacroix will see us home in splendid form, won’t you, Mr. Delacroix?”
“Just as I could have done, if I’d been given the chance,” muttered Jeffrey.
“Rest assured, Mr. Weston,” said Delacroix, “I will take the utmost care of your two charges, as you so quaintly call them.” He slanted a sly look at Anne, a look brief but fraught with meaning. Anne’s pulse quickened.
“Then I’ll be off,” Reggie announced, relief in his voice. “Without the endless lines of carriages ahead of me, I should get home in no time at all. Good night, Anne.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, Mr. Wycliff.” He gave Jeffrey a brief nod, but for Delacroix he attempted a full-fledged smile. “Much thanks to you, sir, and a good evening.” Lastly he turned to Katherine. It looked as if he wanted to kiss her, too, but he restrained himself. “Good night, Katherine,” he said softly, then he was gone.
Directly after Reggie left, the lights dimmed and the curtain rose on the second act. Delacroix went back to Bodine’s box, but first assured Anne and Katherine that he would return to collect them after the performance. Visitors to the box had kept Bodine company during Delacroix’s absence, but it would have been rude for him to desert the horrid man for the entire evening, Anne reasoned.
Now that she knew who Delacroix really was, she understood his supposed friendship with the slimy likes of Bodine. She was sure he used the show of public camaraderie to support the image he’d honed of a decadent slave-owner. He wanted people to think that he and Bodine were two birds of a feather, so to speak.
Or … he could be setting Bodine up for a big fall.
That second idea made Anne’s stomach clench with fear. If only a fraction of the rumors she’d heard about Bodine’s atrocious treatment of his slaves were true, it would be Renard’s dearest wish to stop him. It would be a risky business, though. Bodine would be just as ruthless to someone he caught trying to free his slaves as he was to the slaves themselves.
“What has Delacroix done to earn your uncle’s undying gratitude and complete trust, Anne?”
Jeffrey’s mouth was quite close to Anne’s ear. His tone was snide, accusing. Her first impulse was to push him away, but she checked the urge with considerable effort and decided to tell him an abbreviated version of the truth. “A couple of weeks ago, I went to Congo Square to watch the dancers.”
His look was reproachful. “You did? You never told me!”
“No, I was embarrassed. I ran into problems on the way home and Delacroix rescued me.”
Now he was incredulous. “From what? What could that dandy possibly rescue you from? A small dog he beat with his cane?”
Anne kept her gaze fixed on the stage. “No. A rather large man tried to … er … seduce me. Delacroix punched him in the face.”
There was a pause, then the words burst out. “I don’t believe it! We are talking about the same man, aren’t we? Delacroix?”
“The very same,” Anne replied, keeping her voice carefully inexpressive. “Now, if you don’t mind, Jeffrey, I’d like to listen to the—”
“Lord, it sounds as if you’re smitten with the fellow!” Out of the comer of her eye she saw him cross his arms and slump in his seat like an angry child.
She couldn’t resist baiting him a little. “I do like him.”
“He’s a slave owner, Anne! A care-for-nobody fribble with as much backbone as a snake.”
“He’s not so bad after you get to know him. Besides, some snakes look nasty, but are perfectly harmless, while other snakes look harmless, and are actually quite nasty. Appearances can be so deceiving.” She lifted her opera glasses to her face and leaned forward, pretending to pay rapt attention to the performers on stage and effectively conveying her wish to be left alone.
She felt Jeffrey glaring at her in the semidark. She imagined he was at a loss to know why she was suddenly so unsociable, when before she’d been almost too friendly. He sank into a sulky silence. This suited her exactly. She wanted to think. She was stunned by the revelations of the evening and had had no time to assemble them into some reasonable order. It seemed incredulous, but Delacroix truly was Renard!
It seemed logical for Renard to have assumed such an extreme opposite persona in public. No one would ever suspect Dandy Delacroix
of risking his neck to free a handful of slaves. Anne couldn’t imagine now how she’d overlooked the similarities between the two men for so long. But nothing was as clear as hindsight.
At the next intermission Jeffrey departed, leaving no question in Anne’s mind that he was angry and jealous. Upstaged by Renard, he’d fabricated an adventure that cast him in the star role of hero. Anne allowed herself a faint smile, imagining how Jeffrey would react if he knew that Renard and Delacroix were the same man.
Katherine fidgeted and sighed heavily throughout the whole performance, seeing and hearing as little as Anne did. Their enjoyment of the opera was nullified by other considerations. Katherine wanted to get home to Reggie, and Anne looked eagerly forward to—and dreaded—the ride home in the carriage with Delacroix. It would be agony and ecstasy. He’d be so close, yet so out of reach.
She allowed herself a glance across the room at Bodine’s box, but it was too dark to see Delacroix sitting there. She sighed. She looked forward to the day when she could gaze at him in the light. To make love to him in the light. To open her heart to him and share his deepest thoughts in the light. That day would come, she vowed, if it was the last thing she ever did.
Lucien knew he had business to attend to with Bodine, but ever since he had returned to his seat, his thoughts were full of Anne, nothing but Anne. He kept remembering the look on her face when she realized he was Renard. There had been shock, certainly, but not the horrified disbelief Lucien had feared. It seemed Anne was bright enough to realize that Dandy Delacroix was also part of the masquerade. She ought to realize, too, though, that she had never really come to know the real man behind both disguises. Lucien ruefully acknowledged that even he didn’t know exactly who that man really was.
