Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  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 19

  “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 yo
ur 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?”

  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?”