Rebel Waltz

by Kay Hooper

  Banner sent him an inscrutable look. “You'll find a costume on your bed,” she said calmly.

  “What? But—”

  “Jake's always prepared,” she added cryptically.

  “I don't want to intrude,” Rory ventured.

  She ignored that. “There'll be a couple of hundred guests at the party,” she said, “and about fifty staying the night. Tomorrow morning we'll have a hunt; you'll find a riding costume in your closet. You do ride?” she added on a questioning note.

  “As it happens, I do,” he said, stung for the first time.

  She smiled an odd little smile. “I'll be sure to pick out a good hunter for you.”

  Rory looked at her suspiciously.

  Halting before an open door, Banner gestured inside. “This is your room. Your bags have been unpacked. If you need anything, just pull the bell rope. The party is scheduled to start in two hours; we're serving a light supper downstairs in the little dining room in thirty minutes. If you decide to skip that, there'll be food served during the party.”

  Half- expecting her to add, “Any questions?” Rory took a deep breath and struggled to hang on to his manners. And lost. “You don't like me very much, do you?” he said abruptly.

  “I just met you,” she answered coolly.

  “If you treat everyone this way on first meeting them,” he noted, “you must make a lot of enemies.”

  “Only my share,” she said sweetly.

  Rory strove with himself. “I don't enjoy being treated like a pariah, Miss Clairmont,” he said in the most even tone he could manage.

  Her smile was limpid. “Why, Mr. Stewart— we never invite pariahs to our parties.”

  “I wasn't invited,” he snapped.

  “Do tell.” She was still smiling.

  Rory glanced around, wondering with that unfamiliar savagery if there would be witnesses to imminent homicide. He restrained his impulses when he saw several couples at the end of the hallway descending the stairs from the third floor and apparently on their way to the ballroom. He noted absently that the men seemed to be wearing Civil War uniforms—Rebel Gray, of course.

  “There go some of your guests down the stairs. You'd better see to them,” he muttered. “They seem to be early.”

  Banner followed his gaze, and Rory felt more than saw her start slightly, as if in surprise. When she looked back up at him, there was an arrested, almost panicky expression in her green eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I'd better do that.”

  That look in her eyes bothered him. “Banner—” he began, hardly aware of using her first name.

  She interrupted him, her voice still soft. “If you have any trouble with your costume, Jake's valet will help you. Just pull the bell rope. I'll see you downstairs.” She hurried down the hall, silk gown rustling quietly.

  Rory gazed after her for a long moment, then shrugged almost irritably and went into his bedroom, wondering vaguely why the very masculine bedroom smelled of jasmine.

  TWO

  BANNER CLOSED THE library doors by leaning back against them, looking across the room at her grandfather, who was now in costume and looked every inch the Southern plantation owner.

  He smiled at her with just a trace of wicked mischief. “How'd the tour go?” he inquired.

  “Oh, just dandy.” Banner's cheerful voice was a far cry from the cold tone of the tour. “I was horribly rude to your Mr. Stewart and he took it like a gent.” She laughed suddenly. “Until a couple of minutes ago, that is.”

  “Did he flay you?” Jake Clairmont asked interestedly.

  “He wanted to murder me! However, since he's a guest in your house… At least, that's the impression I got.” Banner hesitated, then said in a determinedly toneless voice, “He… saw the soldiers and their brides, Grandfather.”

  Jake's gaze sharpened, the same arrested expression Rory had seen in Banner's eyes in his now. “Did he?” the old man murmured thoughtfully. “Did he, now? That's interesting.”

  “He thought they were our guests.”

  “You didn't tell him…?”

  “No, of course not.” In a voice suddenly passionate with feeling, Banner exclaimed, “Jake, you can't sell to him! This place is in your blood—in mine. It'd kill us both to leave.”

  Jake looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. “He came out here in good faith, you know that. I offered to sell, he wants to buy. If his price is right—”

  “He'll be master of Jasmine Hall,” she finished bitterly.

  Flatly, Jake said, “Restoring the place took a huge chunk out of our capital, Banner, and it'll take more than we've got left to turn the Hall into a paying plantation.” Deliberately, brutally, he added, “D'you want to see it decay like the others in this area?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Then we have two choices. We can turn the place over to a historical society or we can sell to someone like Rory Stewart, who's interested in keeping it relatively intact.”

  Banner squared her shoulders, the reason of his words sinking in against her will. She smiled at him, hiding heartbreak and showing her Clairmont blood and her love for the old man in her affectionate words. “You old bastard.”

  Jake grinned at her. “I promised I wouldn't sell the place without your approval, lass, and I meant it. We'll take a long, hard look at Stewart before we decide. We'll make sure we leave the Hall in good hands. Agreed?”

  “Agreed, Grandfather.”

  “All right, then.” He lifted a quizzical brow at her. “And none of your tricks, Banner.”

  “I don't play tricks,” she said indignantly.

  Jake Clairmont smiled faintly. “When you were ten,” he reminded her, “you very innocently proclaimed that the Hall was haunted, because you wanted to discourage potential buyers.”

  “That was seventeen years ago,” she pointed out virtuously. “I didn't know that you weren't serious about selling and I was not playing tricks.”

  “Well, be nice to Stewart. No more rudeness, all right?”

  Banner tossed her head and turned to open the door. “Of course I'll be nice,” she said loftily over her shoulder. “I've already short- sheeted his bed, disconnected the hot water in his bathroom, and put thorns in the seat of his riding breeches—how much nicer could I be?”

  She closed the door behind her, hearing her grandfather laugh. She listened to the growing clamor of the party preparations and, after a moment of indecision and a guilty glance at the clock near the stairs, hurried out of the house through the French doors in the front parlor. She crossed the veranda and went down the steps and through the rose garden, holding up her skirts and following a path that led into the woods.

  She wound up at a little cottage built in a clearing less than a hundred yards from the main house. According to the Hall books, the cottage had been built before the Civil War, but Banner had never been able to find out just why it existed. As a child, she'd woven stories of lovers’ trysts and family disapproval, and saw no reason now to reconsider the stories. They suited both her romantic nature and the cosy architecture of the cottage.

  In good repair, the little house was nestled among the trees, peeping like a shy maiden from behind her fan. It had been Banner's “pretend” house as a child, and as she'd grown she had made it her sanctuary. It contained a single bedroom—the bed kept ready in case she chose to sleep there—and one large open area that Banner had made into a workroom. The bathroom had been built a few years ago and was the only modern part of the structure.

  Banner stood on tiptoe to find the key resting above the doorjamb, then unlocked the door, replaced the key, and went inside. She left the door open out of habit, secure in the knowledge that no one ever disturbed her here.

  In the main room of the cottage, she quickly removed the ringlet-dressed wig she wore and hung it rather comically over a bust of her grandfather, which had been one of her few early attempts to sculpt. She ran her fingers through her own short raven curls, massaging her scalp absentl
y as she stared at the half- finished painting on the easel in the center of the room. She longed to sit down and frown at her work in earnest, but lacked the time and was reluctant to crush the silk gown.

  So she just stood, rubbing a scalp that was itching from its confinement by the wig, and glared at her portrait. Why, she wondered, did it look so awfully damned much like Rory Stewart? That was what had brought her out here to stare even though she'd little time for it. She'd started on the thing days ago, and had intended merely to portray a Southern gentleman, to paint him entirely from her own mind.

  Dammit, it looked like Rory Stewart!

  Thick, sun- lightened blond hair—and she didn't even like blond men. Level gray eyes. A lean, strong face with compelling bone structure. Crooked smile. Proud tilt to his head. Only the attire was different; this man was dressed in the well-cut, long-tailed coat and ruffled shirt of the Southern beau out to break hearts—

  “That wig's a crime.”

  Banner turned so quickly that she nearly lost her balance, staring toward the door and thinking, Damn—it really is him.

  Rory had changed into the costume provided by Clairmont, and not only did it fit him perfectly, it also suited him perfectly. From the smooth crown of his thick blond hair to the mirror reflection of his black boots, he was the personification of a Southern gentleman.

  “What?” she managed to ask, then realized that she was still massaging her head. Quickly, she let her hands drop.

  “I said that wig's a crime,” he repeated patiently, studying the thick curls that lent her small head a deceptively fragile look.

  Banner considered resurrecting her hostility, but abandoned the notion. There would be time for animosity, she decided, after he bought Jasmine Hall—if he bought it. She therefore obviously startled him with a sunny smile. “The wig itches,” she confided solemnly.

  Rory blinked, torn between the instant pleasure of her smile and an uneasy suspicion about her change in attitude. “I hope you don't mind,” he said rather abruptly. “I saw you from my window and wondered where you were going.” He glanced around, then added carefully, “I don't want to intrude.”

  She wondered briefly at his odd tone, then dismissed it. “This is where I work,” she explained.

  “Do you paint professionally?” he asked, looking at all the canvases propped against the walls.

  “It's more of a hobby, really. I'm not good enough to be a pro.”

  Rory stared at her for an incredulous moment, then went over to one particularly thick stack of canvases, went down on one knee, and began looking through them. When he finally rose to his feet, he turned to stare at her again. He realized in some surprise that she honestly had no idea of just how good she was.

  “Has Jake seen these?” he asked.

  Banner shrugged. “I haven't shown him anything but sketches in a long time. Why?”

  “Because they're brilliant,” Rory said flatly.

  She felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “I'm just a hobbyist,” she told him uncomfortably.

  He decided to drop the subject—for the moment. He moved around the easel until he could see the painting she'd been studying when he came in, startled to find himself gazing on what could have been a portrait of himself. “Hello. What in the world—?”

  “Odd, isn't it?” she said. “I can't understand it. I was just imagining a Southern gent, and that's what I ended up with.”

  “Oh? I thought perhaps your friend—?”

  She blinked at him. “What friend? What're you talking about?”

  Rory looked at her, puzzled. “The man who walked across the rose garden with you. He was dressed like this”—he gestured at the painting— “and was blond. Where is he, by the way?”

  Banner very carefully backed up a step and half-sat on a tall stool, unmindful, now, of her gown. She reflected in a queerly detached manner that Rory's earlier comment about “intruding” now made sense; he'd been wary of walking in on a lovers’ tryst. “Oh… I'm alone, Mr. Stewart,” she murmured.

  “Rory,” he corrected automatically, trying to pin down her expression and deciding at last that it was a curious blend of laughter and be-musement. “Your friend's gone, then?”

  “Mmmm,” she offered noncommittally.

  Conscious of the odd feeling that he was missing something, Rory gazed at her and tried again. “It's strange that your painting looks so much like me, Miss Clairmont. Of course, there are differences.”

  “Are there? We never see ourselves as others see us, do we?” she commented cryptically, then went on, “Might as well make it Banner, all right? And I really think we should be going back to the house, Mr.—um—Rory.”

  “Certainly,” he agreed, watching as she removed the wig from a wickedly accurate bust of her grandfather and expertly pulled it on over her own short curls. He wanted to ask what had become of her friend—in fact, he was surprised at just how much he wanted to question her about the man—but held his peace. Since he'd entered the cottage, she'd been not only polite, but actually friendly, and he didn't want to put her back up inadvertently.

  Banner led the way out of the little house, locking the door behind them but making no attempt to disguise from Stewart where the key was kept. They went through the rose garden and into the house through the French doors, finding that the party chaos had intensified alarmingly.

  Wincing as the sound of something fragile crashing smote their ears, Banner gestured for Stewart to follow her. “We'll go into the little dining room; Jake's probably waiting for us.”

  Jake was, in fact, waiting for them in the dining room that was intended for and used when only a few people were to be served meals. It was small and cosy, the antique table, chairs, and sideboard scaled exactly for a family group. And Banner's grandfather was so patently delighted to see them come into the room together—and obviously on friendly terms—that her good humor very nearly deserted her.

  “I was showing Rory the garden,” she said without thinking, then felt a flush creep up her face.

  However, Jake Clairmont could hardly have managed to look more pleased whatever she'd said; he merely grinned and asked Rory what he thought of the estate roses.

  That topic and Jasmine Hall in general lasted them throughout the light meal. Banner said nothing; she watched Jake rather broodingly, her eyes flicking toward Rory occasionally and holding a speculative expression.

  And it wasn't until they had risen from the table and headed back toward the foyer and the sounds of guests arriving that Rory abruptly realized why Jake Clairmont had been so pleased and why Banner had fallen so unaccountably silent. His first thought as understanding dawned was, That old shark! His second thought—and a ruefully annoyed one at that—was, This is going to complicate things hellishly. This is definitely going to complicate things. He was made absolutely certain of just how complicated “things” already were when he heard Banner take a moment to hiss wrathfully into her grandfather's ear.

  “What you're up to, Jake, you can just forget.”

  Jake didn't seem noticeably abashed, but Rory was conscious of a strong desire to throttle the old man. Anyone but an idiot, he thought, could see that Banner was going to refuse to have anything further to do with him after her grandfather's intent had been made so painfully obvious.

  The old devil was matchmaking, for God's sake!

  Rory thought of several things in that moment. He thought that his own plans might now be equated with a salmon's struggle to swim upstream. He thought morosely about the unknown blond man in the rose garden. And he wondered whether it had been Fate's intention or Clairmont's to strew boulders in his path.

  “Damn,” he muttered to himself. “I haven't got a ghost of a chance.”

  Within an hour, the party was in full swing. Since nobody had bothered to explain anything to him, Rory'd had to discover for himself that this was a yearly affair at Jasmine Hall; the entire neighborhood and anybody else who could manage to wangle an invitation turned up in full an
tebellum dress to pay tribute to bygone years. Some came only for the party; others intended to spend the night to participate in the costumed hunt the next morning.

  Since Rory and Jake moved in some of the same business circles he found there were quite a few people present whom he knew. But as the guests began pouring fast and thick into the house, he started to worry that Banner and her grandfather seemed blithely unconcerned about the likelihood of gate- crashers.

  He finally managed to locate Banner in the crush of people and to draw her into an alcove in the ballroom. “I don't mean to pry,” he announced firmly, “but have you and Jake thought much about gate- crashers, Banner?”

  “Oh, there are always gate- crashers,” she told him cheerfully.

  Rory was abruptly conscious that hers was an impersonal cheerfulness, and spared a moment for a silent curse at Jake's heavy- handedness.

  With an effort, he kept his voice as easy as hers. “Well, then, crass as it may sound, shouldn't someone keep an eye on the valuables?”

  “Someone is,” she assured him. “Several someones, in fact.” She nodded toward the ballroom. “See the gent in maroon velvet? And the one in gray—and the one by the doors there— and—oh, and several others. They're private security guards.”

  “I see.” Rory grinned slightly. “I should have known Jake wasn't all that trusting.”

  “Trusting?” Banner gazed up at him in astonishment. “Jake? Listen, my grandfather is a shark with a full set of teeth,” she said roundly.

  Laughing at the probably accurate but hardly filial summation, Rory quickly caught her hand when she would have turned away. “I seem to hear a waltz,” he remarked musingly. “May I, Miss Clairmont?”

  She blinked and then tried a laugh that didn't sound quite as gaily unconcerned as she'd intended. “Why not?”

  Rory swept her out onto the floor among the colorful array of laughing couples, proving himself to be an excellent dancer and also proving that he was perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation without having to count steps or mind his feet. His excellence depressed Banner for some reason she didn't try to fathom.