She glanced up at the ceiling, wondering if it was true. It wasn’t. Her stepmother accused her of being difficult. Yeah, but consider the source. How about her ex-husband? He accused her of being difficult when they were business partners. Yeah, but consider that source, too. Then there was her roommate in college… Okay, but Billie was a neat freak.
“I can tell from the look on your face that I am not the only one. So explain the bug on the wall.”
“It’s a fly…”
He slammed his fist again.
She jumped. “Damn it. Stop doing that. You can get my attention by being sweet, you know…or maybe you don’t.” She patted her chest. His outbursts also made her heart race. “In answer to your question, a fly on the wall is an expression that means to observe but be inconspicuous.”
“Wilhelmina…”
He brushed her chin with his fingertips, and a whiff of his olive soap made her wonder—not for the first time—why the soap smelled more exotic on him.
“…you could never be inconspicuous.”
She leaned back in her chair, forcing him to drop his fingers. He tapped the rejected digits on the table. Da dum da dum da dum!
“Come along. If the general decides to put me in jail, you can argue for my release.” He stopped drumming and gave her a sharp look. “Or maybe you’ll encourage him to throw away the key.”
“There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to see you locked up for the rest of your life. But now”—she grinned—“ten years would be sufficient.”
“Only ten?” he asked, mildly amused. “Your opinion of me has improved.”
“Don’t get me started on my opinion of you.” She rolled her tongue along her bottom lip, then rolled it into her mouth. There was more she wanted to say, but probably more than he wanted to hear. And what was her opinion of him now? “If you want to know, I think you’re irredeemably louche.”
“I don’t know what that means, either,” he said through his teeth.
“Discreditable, disgraceful, dishonorable, disreputable, ignominious, infamous, notorious… I could go on,” she said without taking a breath.” And she could. At one time in her life, she played a lot of Scrabble and could even come up with at least three two-letter words that ended in “U”—gu, mu, and nu.
He jerked his eyes away from her, only to steal them back again. In their depths floated a boatload of vulnerability she hadn’t seen before, and it surprised her. Her opinion of him mattered.
She changed the subject. “I’ll go with you to meet Jackson, but I’m limited as to what I can tell him. And I doubt he’ll take me seriously if I’m all dolled up in a fancy dress and hat. I wouldn’t take me seriously either.”
Jean tipped his chair on its back legs, and his lazy half-grin curled. “So don’t wear a hat and a fancy dress.”
She blinked. “What do you want me to wear? You don’t like me in trousers.”
“Dress like a privateer. It’ll confuse Jackson. And you’re right. I don’t like it, but if I can use your costume to my advantage, I will.”
“Why do you need an advantage?”
“I’m a hunted man. Until the prosecution of the men of Barataria has ended, none of us are safe in New Orleans.”
“Then forget it. I’ll go like this. I’d rather not look like a privateer until it’s safe. Then I want a cutlass and two pistols.”
Lafitte barked out a laugh. “So you can shoot yourself?”
“I’m an expert shot—”
Dominique bounded into the room with a cigar pinched between his teeth. “Do not give her a weapon, Jean. She’ll shoot you.”
“Dominique,” Billie said. “Do you have preternatural hearing, or do you just stand outside the door and listen to conversations?”
He rubbed his finger in his ear. “What? Did you say something, mon Capitaine?”
She put her hands on the table and pushed up out of the chair to kiss Dominique’s cheek. “You should share your sense of humor with Boss. He takes himself far too seriously.”
“He comes from such a large family that the good traits were handed out long before he came along.”
“You did come from a large family. Eight children, right?” When Lafitte gave Dominique a side-eye, she knew she was missing something, but what?
“And I was the last,” Lafitte said.
She remembered now. “And the oldest was Alexandre Frederic. Your family moved to Port-au-Prince, Haiti, to escape the Inquisition in Spain. So that makes you Spaniards. Not French. I’ll be damned.” There was no telling what other details she’d remember now that she’d dusted off the mental file cabinet where she kept the Battle of New Orleans notes, files, and memories.
“But wait a minute. Alexandre Frederic changed his name when he became a privateer. He changed it to”—she turned toward Dominique—“Youx. Dominique Youx. You two are brothers.”
After a shocking burst of laughter, Dominique said. “I don’t know how you put that together, mon Capitaine. Jean and I look nothing alike.”
She tapped her chest above her heart. “You’d put yourself between Jean and a bullet, and he’d do the same for you.”
“It’s safer for all of us if that information stays in this room,” Dominique said.
She collected her dirty dishes and set them on a tray to carry downstairs to the kitchen. “Your secret is safe with me, Dominique. No one would believe you’re brothers. You stay and have breakfast with your lover, and Jean bails before the sun comes up.”
Dominique smiled. Lafitte growled.
“While your squabbles are trés entertaining, I do have news,” Dominique said. “Judge Hall demanded a resolution be passed in the legislature suspending all procedures against the Baratarians for four months. All Baratarians locked up will be released, and you, Jean, are now free to walk about the city.”
“That is excellent news,” Jean said. “It won’t inconvenience the general to meet with us now.”
“In preparation for that meeting, I sent Estelle with your traveling clothes, mon Capitaine, to Marguerite Bonnard’s dress shop so Marguerite can make you a more dashing wardrobe, one to befit the Queen of Barataria.”
“I’m not the queen. If I was, he”—she pointed toward Lafitte—“would have been in my bed last night and not off with a secret paramour.”
Jean jerked back in shock, his chair toppled backward, and she covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. He lay there giving her a death glare until his face pinked, and he laughed, too.
“Don’t just stand there, Dominique. Help me up.”
Dominique grabbed Lafitte’s arm. He jumped to his feet with ease, as if toppling over was an act he performed regularly. Might have been, for all she knew. Lafitte calmly dusted himself off.
“Mon Capitaine, did you say—?”
With her hand still over her mouth, she shook like a bobblehead. It was a joke. She didn’t mean it.
He peeled her hand away. “Explain yourself!”
“I was…teasing. I didn’t know you’d have such a…I don’t know…strong reaction.”
“So, you’re not—?”
“No, I’m not. We’ll never knock boots, Jean.”
He righted his chair, his lips pursed. “Knock boots?”
She pantomimed with her hands—up, down, sideways.
He stared blankly—then a blush smacked his face as his jaw tightened. And then his face took a downturn. “Never?”
“After what you put me through? Never.”
He gave her a flat smile. Then, after minutes seemed to mosey by, he asked, “Then what?”
“We’ll see where we go from here after the Battle of New Orleans.”
He scowled and walked out of the room, but quickly returned. “You haven’t been out since you arrived. Dominique can take you for a stroll this afternoon.”
“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“Not at all. But I have business to attend to.”
She fake smiled. “I thought yo
u did that last night.”
He smacked his hand on the door frame. “Merde, mon Capitaine. This is the last time I want to hear about that. Am I clear?” He held her in place with a long, indecipherable look.
Her jaw dropped, then snapped shut. She stood and saluted. “Crystal clear, sir.”
30
New Orleans (1814)—Sophia
Sophia stood at the front of the dress shop staring out the window and tapping her foot. Tommy was due any minute to escort her to General Jackson’s headquarters. That was the agreement they reached after she drew two sketches of him. When he saw the drawings and realized Sophia was a “real artist” he insisted on paying her, although he didn’t have any money.
After some haggling, Sophia suggested Tommy be her official escort to and from headquarters for a few days, or as long as Pete was gone. Tommy thought it was a grand idea, but he wouldn’t always be available since he ran errands for the general and took care of Duke, the general’s bay Thoroughbred. But they agreed that whenever he wasn’t available, he would find her a reliable substitute.
While Sophia sketched Tommy, Marguerite altered a uniform she purchased from a soldier who broke his leg and was going home to Tennessee. But first, the dark hunting frock and woolen trousers had needed a thorough cleaning. By the time Marguerite finished altering the uniform, it was stylish enough to sell in her shop but too tailored for a lowly private to wear.
“I’m not dressing you to look like those frontiersmen.” Marguerite rolled in her lips until the pink flesh was nearly white with the pressure. “You can wear this uniform or…”
Sophia laughed before hugging Marguerite. “Sounds like I’m not allowed to go out unless I’m dressed to impress.”
“You’re too beautiful to wear anything dowdy.”
“You’ve gone to so much trouble, how could I refuse to wear it?”
Marguerite also made a cross-body bag out of the leftover fabric. It was large enough to hold Sophia’s paper and pencils, but the lace trim had to go. “I’ll wear the uniform, but will you please remove the lace from the bag?”
Marguerite complied, albeit reluctantly.
When Tommy entered the shop, Sophia lowered her voice to sound more manly. “Good morning, soldier.”
“I’m Private Malone, an aide to General Jackson. I’ve come to walk Mistress Orsini to the general’s headquarters.”
Sophia smiled, did a quick pirouette, and bowed. “It’s me, Tommy. How do I look? Good. Right?”
“Unh-uh. Sir…ah…ma’am.” He squinted. “Never seen a woman dressed as a man ’afore. Why’d ya dress like that? Ain’t no need.”
Pete would agree with him, but for a different reason. Tommy thought her costume was improper, while Pete wouldn’t like her hanging out at the general’s headquarters at all, but he wouldn’t stop her from going.
“I’m the same person, but now I can walk faster and keep up with you.” She slung the cross-body strap over her shoulder, said goodbye to Marguerite, and left the shop. “I thought the uniform would make it easier for the general to explain my presence. Now I can be just a clerk sitting in the corner.”
His mouth hitched up in a lopsided grin. “Nobody would pay attention to a clerk mindin’ his own business. Long as the general don’t mind, nobody’d ask him to leave. I mean…her…I mean…”
She elbowed him lightly. “It’s okay, Tommy. I know what you mean.” They crossed the street and walked alongside the Place de’Armes. “I’m hoping the general will be more willing to take me along when he goes out to inspect the city’s defenses and meets with his commanders.”
“You’ll need a horse, and there ain’t no extras around.”
“I’ll get one.” Marguerite had a team, but she would never let Sophia ride off with Jackson. Pete and Rick borrowed two of Philippe’s horses, and although he had two more, he’d never loan one to her either. That left one option—use her remaining nugget to buy one. But first, she had to convince General Jackson to take her along without Philippe finding out. She didn’t want to argue with her new friend, but she had a chance to paint a live portrait of Jackson, and she wasn’t going to throw away her shot.
She’d seen the paintings in the Jacksonian Gallery in the Catalogue of American Portraits, and all the artists varied in their attempts to delineate Jackson’s features on canvas. After viewing the extensive gallery, she wanted to scream, Will the real Andrew Jackson, please stand up!
She intended to paint the real man, and hoped to God that John James Audubon wouldn’t criticize her painting as famously as he had Ralph E. W. Earl’s portrait of the general: “I never saw a worse painted sign in the streets of Paris.”
But really, what did Audubon know? He just painted wildlife. Don’t be such a snob, Sophia. Art takes many forms. Okay, she had to admit, Audubon encapsulated the spirit of young America in his paintings, and they were beautiful. Plus, his accomplishments, his concern for conservation, and his personal story were legendary. But—she couldn’t resist making one last point, even if only to herself—he didn’t paint portraits.
She put her snarky critiquing aside and focused on what was happening around her. But it did remind her of a recent review of her work. The art critic called her the art world’s most famous prima donna and said that “She captured the art world with her rare gifts and the tacit message that she knows as well as the art critics how special she is.”
The review stung because she’d studied at the feet of da Vinci, Picasso, Donatello, Rubens, Degas, and Jacques-Louis David. Her work reflected their influence, and she had no way to thank them or to give them credit. If the critic had said, “…how special she is…because of those who influenced her,” she would have framed the review. It made her sad, and she often felt like an imposter. What kind of artist would she have turned out to be without the brooch giving her opportunities no other artist in the world would ever have?
Snap out of it, dearie. And take advantage of what’s in front of you.
She was invisible, and because no one knew she was a woman, there was no deference given to her on the crowded walkways, no leering glances from men, and no arched eyebrows and snubs from women. Instead of being watched, she could watch others and study their expressions and body language.
New Orleanians were tense and frightened. She could see it on their tight, drawn faces and could smell the stink of fear. The smell might be a horror-story trope, but not to her. It was visceral and reminded her of the horrors of Paris in 1789. Like then, the claustrophobic fog of impending violence held New Orleans in its claws.
If she had time to paint a street scene, she knew exactly how she would lay out the elements of the composition. It would be an avant-garde street scene using the dark side of the color spectrum to paint people and objects in the nineteenth century, with an overlay of people and objects depicted in vibrant color representing the future.
The juxtaposition of the darkness clutching the city of the past against the pulsating city of the future could be her most challenging project—ever. It would be like Dorothy opening the door and stepping out into the technicolor land of Oz. Sophia would title the painting: The World They Couldn’t Imagine.
Goose bumps popped up all over her skin just thinking about it, and she couldn’t wait to pick up a paintbrush. But first, she needed to focus on Andy Jackson and keeping Tommy Malone safe for his pecan-pie-making angel. The team would take care of the rest.
Looking into the distance instead of where she was going, Sophia stumbled past the general’s headquarters, and if not for Tommy grabbing her shoulders, she would have fallen on her face. Splat!
“Gosh, Miss Sophia…uh, I mean Private Orsini. Are ya okay?” He stomped on the board, but it didn’t budge. “That plank has tripped us all up. I got to get it nailed down ’afore the general hollers at us to fix it good.”
Sophia reclaimed her balance and managed a quick reverse, plowing into a soldier twice her size. “Sorry,” she said.
The man elbow
ed her. “Watch where you’re going.”
Tommy fisted his hands. “Hey, don’t talk to the lady like that.”
The hulking soldier snorted. “Ain’t seen no lady.” He elbowed his way through the swell of citizens and soldiers and disappeared in the crowd.
Tommy took her hand. “Ya gotta watch where you’re goin’, ma’am. Dressed like ya are, nobody will show ya respect. Ya might get hurt, and then Mistress Marguerite would take that pistol she hides in her sewin’ drawer and shoot me dead.”
Sophia rubbed her arm where the creep had elbowed her. “Pistol? She’s got a pistol? I didn’t know that.”
Well, of course, Marguerite would have a pistol, silly. A woman living alone, working alone, needed protection.
But for Tommy to know…
Then, on second thought, Marguerite would put the gun where Tommy would see it. Not too subtle, but he got the message. Did Marguerite’s partner/paramour know the pistol was within easy reach? Intuition told Sophia the gun came from Marguerite’s partner, either to protect his investment or to protect Marguerite.
Tommy held the door to the general’s headquarters, and she entered the lobby to the sound of laughter. “What’s going on?” she asked the soldier guarding the interior door.
He shrugged. “Don’t know. It was quiet as a church mouse. Then, all of a sudden, this roar of laughter busted out of the room. Never heard anything like it coming from a meeting with the general ’afore.”
“Guess he feels better.” Sophia gave herself a secret high-five. Jackson would be indebted to her now, and for the next few days, he’d agree to anything she asked. She didn’t give him the pills to manipulate him. Well, maybe she did, but if he felt better, he’d be more likely to let her hang around and sketch him preparing for battle.
The door opened, and the aides-de-camp she met yesterday walked out, shaking their heads, then huddled for an impromptu conference with two other officers standing near the steps.
“Who’s next?” Jackson bellowed.
No one stepped forward, so Sophia ventured in and closed the door. Jackson was looking down at one of the many maps piled on the table. “Sounds like you’re feeling better today, sir.”
The Topaz Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 10) Page 36
