Armande shrugged and smiled, a purely Gallic gesture. “Perhaps. I’m no fortune-teller. If you want your fortune told, you must visit the voodoo queen.”
Lucien shook his head with resignation. “All I see in the future for me and the South is strife and danger.”
“It will change,
mon ami
. You will help to bring the changes—slow and sure, like the Mississippi swelling in the spring to overflow the banks. Once they build in power, in momentum, nothing will stop the changes. But until that time comes, you must still keep the secret, you must still wear the mask, you must still play the masquerade.”
Lucien sighed and turned away, staring into the dark night.
“It’s lovely, Anne, but it’s not white.” Reggie peered critically through his spectacles at Anne’s midnight-blue gown.
“You didn’t really expect me to bedeck myself in white like some debutante straight out of the schoolroom, did you, Uncle Reggie? Goodness, I’m twenty-three years old!”
“I only thought it might be more traditional if you first presented yourself to New Orleans society in a coming-out color. I understand all the young ladies make their first social appearance at the opening night of the opera. There will be a veritable sea of white, and probably one little dab of midnight-blue.”
“Good,” said Anne, fastening a gold bracelet over the long white glove that came to the middle of her upper arms. “I shouldn’t wish to be just another fleck of foam in a sea of white. I like being different. And if there are going to be so many young women there, it’s best I wear something that makes me stand out in a crowd. An old spinster like myself must use every possible trick!”
“What nincompoopery!” Katherine’s voice preceded her as she entered the drawing room. “You will always stand out in a crowd, my dear, no matter what you wear. You’re beautiful. You take after
my
side of the family.”
“You look splendid, Aunt Katherine,” said Anne, eyeing her aunt appreciatively. “You look absolutely regal in purple.”
“It’s the height and the bosom, I suppose,” agreed Katherine, patting her upswept hair, simply styled as usual to match the austere elegance of her town and opera cape.
“Ahem,” said Reggie, pinkening.
“What is it, Reginald?” said Katherine, turning to observe him as he stood uncomfortably by the mantel, tugging on his mustache. “Oh, yes, of course. You look very nice, too. All men look best in black.”
“Good God, you don’t imagine I was fishing for a compliment, do you?” He shifted from foot to foot, obviously flustered.
“Well, if you weren’t wishing to be noticed and flattered, why were you clearing your throat in that odious manner?”
“If you must be told, I was discreetly objecting to your use of the word bosom in so casual and coarse a fashion, and in
mixed
company!”
“Lord, you’re a prude, Reginald. Did you think Anne had never heard the word before? Sheltered though you are, you can’t be objecting for
your
sake, I hope. If you’ve never heard the word bosom spoken in the company of females at your advanced age, Reginald, I pity you.”
“Save your pity, madame,” he said stiffly, thrusting up his nose in a pose of offended dignity. “I cherish and honor the purity of my past no matter how dull you might deem it to be in comparison to your own. Now, shall we go the opera? I trust I won’t be humiliated by your conduct in so public and revered a place as the opera house, will I, ladies?”
Reggie slid a meaningful glance at Anne. He obviously felt he had no influence with Katherine, and, besides, her behavior was probably tolerated by a society who knew her well after twenty years of exposure. But he cared what they thought of Anne, and he believed her debut tonight could determine her acceptance into the more preferable circles.
Anne wasn’t sure just how much she and Reggie agreed on who and what were “preferable,” but she had no desire to cause him undue distress by debating the point as they were about to leave for an evening on the town. She smiled sweetly and answered just as she ought. “I will be as good as an angel, Uncle.”
Relieved, Reggie smiled and offered his arm to Anne. “Shall we go, then? The carriage has been waiting this quarter-hour.”
Anne slid her gloved hand into the crook of Reggie’s elbow. As he was about to lead her into the hall, she squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Uncle?”
Reggie’s brow furrowed. “I’ve a gardenia for my lapel, my opera glasses, money, and a clean handkerchief. What could I have possibly forgotten?”
“Ahem!”
They turned at Katherine’s exaggerated imitation of Reggie’s habitual throat clearing. Her lips were pursed, her arms were crossed, one slipper-shod toe was tapping the Persian rug beneath her feet, and her gaze was directed at the ceiling. There could be no clearer message to Reggie of exactly what—or whom—he’d forgotten.
Before any other vanity the modest man might own, Reggie prided himself on his gentleman’s manners. Turning the rosy shade that was fast becoming his usual complexion, Reggie offered Katherine his other arm. He cleared his throat, caught himself, then blushed more deeply. “Yes … er … Katherine, why don’t we … er … go?”
Katherine’s teeth gleamed in a benign smile, much in the manner of a potentate forgiving an underling. She floated majestically across the short distance that separated them and rested her fingers lightly on Reggie’s forearm, holding her ever-present cane in the opposite hand. Anne squeezed his arm gratefully, and the three of them sashayed into the hall with a rustle of silk and satin, and the infinitesimal squeak of new patent-leather pumps.
Lucien arrived late at the opera. Dandy Delacroix considered punctuality a fashion faux pas. He headed straight for his parents’ box, intending to stay through the first act, then slip away to an elegant little house on Rampart Street and into the voluptuous embrace of his mistress. After the news of Bodine’s most recent deplorable crimes, he was in no mood for the trivial gossip and smug self-importance of society’s “best.”
Lucien’s four jeweled rings winked in the bright candlelight spilling from the large chandeliers in the hall as he strode to his parents’ box. Just outside the curtained entrance, he shook down the cuff of his white silk shirt and adjusted his cravat. A single white rose adorned the lapel of his black evening jacket. One last deep breath, and he was ready to face his family.
He slipped inside and quietly took stock of the situation before making his presence known. Just his mother and father, his younger brother, Etienne, and one of his numerous sisters, Renee, were present. Renee, who had turned sixteen last month, was making her come-out. Just like all his other sisters, Renee was beautiful—tall, slender, and raven-haired.
During first intermission, the box would be bombarded with would-be beaux, vying for her attention. Champagne would flow, and compliments would be thrown around like so much confetti. Within the fortnight, there would be offers for her hand. After weighing each competitor’s wealth and family genealogy, Jean-Luc Delacroix would make a choice for Renee. A betrothal would be announced, and she would be duly married after a decent interval of engagement. Unless Renee was very different from his other sisters, she would acquiesce to this method of courtship without the slightest complaint. It was the way things were done.
Just then his mother turned and motioned to him. Lucien stepped forward, kissed his sister on the cheek, and bowed to Etienne—who returned the bow with a curt nod—before sitting down beside his mother in the front row. Etienne was highly critical of Lucien’s wastrel pastimes and, just like their father, he took every available opportunity to manifest his disapproval.
Lucien’s father was scrutinizing the audience through a pair of opera glasses, paying not the least attention to the beautiful aria being performed or even bothering to acknowledge his son’s presence.
“Maman, you look charming as usual.”
“Lucien,
mon fils
, how delicious to see you.” She tapped his knee with her pearl-seeded fan and smiled warmly. Even after bearing twelve children, only seven of which had lived beyond infancy, Marie Delacroix was still an attractive woman. Her black hair was streaked rather strikingly with silver, and her waist, with the help of a corset, was only a couple of inches thicker than it had been on her wedding day thirty-five years before.
“Are you all settled in, Maman?”
“After so many years of setting up housekeeping in the city each autumn, Lucien, I have perfected a system. That is why your father insists we stay at Bocage till the very day the opera begins. He feels there is no need to come sooner, and you know how he loves the country.”
Lucien glanced at his father’s stern profile, his thick silver hair combed in a smooth pompadour above his high brow, his mouth a thin, straight, unequivocal line. “How is Papa?”
Lucien’s mother leaned close to him and whispered. “Not as well as he pretends to be. He’s short of breath sometimes. I worry for his heart.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, Lucien, you come so seldom to Bocage!”
“I come as often as business dictates.”
“Your father would enjoy it if you came just to see him, you know.”
“You’re mistaken, Maman, if you think I’m a comfort to my father. Once we’ve talked about the crops, we’ve nothing to say to each other. He won’t discuss his health, and I’ve learned not to inquire after it unless I want my head bitten off.”
“It would make him so happy…” She paused and took Lucien’s hand, squeezing it till the facets of his rings cut into his fingers. “It would make us both very happy if you married this year, Lucien.”
Lucien smiled warily. “Must we argue, Maman?”
“Lucien, have you seen Liliane Chevalier since their visit to Bocage last spring? She is enchanting, so grown-up now. Here, take my glasses and look at her. Next to Renee, I believe she’s the handsomest girl in the house.”
Grudgingly, Lucien accepted the opera glasses his mother handed him. Then he remembered that Katherine Grimms had a box at the opera and made it a point to attend opening night. In his depression over the murders at Belle Fleur, Lucien had forgotten that he might catch a glimpse of Anne Weston tonight. That sudden realization caused his spirits to soar to the domed ceiling of the Orleans Opera House. He looked through the glasses with a boyish eagerness that frightened him.
Dutifully, impatiently, he panned the room first to locate the Chevalier box. Finding it quickly by the coordinates whispered in his ear by his mother, he gave Mademoiselle Chevalier a cursory inspection. She was good-looking enough, even-featured, plump in all the right places, ruddy-lipped, dusky-haired, and dressed in the usual white. But she radiated about as much liveliness as a marble statue.
“Well, aren’t I right, Lucien? Don’t you think she’s lovely?”
By now Lucien had turned his head slightly to the right and up a tier, and was looking at a vision in midnight-blue; a vivid, animated female with smiling lips and sparkling eyes. Among the several guests Katherine Grimms had already attracted to her box, Anne Weston stood out like a full-blown wild rose in a patch of field daisies.
She was just as he remembered her. No, she was more than he remembered. More lovely, more alive, more desirable than ever. And she was sitting by a man Lucien knew well by reputation. Jeffrey Wycliff was an editorial journalist and reporter for the American newspaper, the
Picayune
. They were whispering to each other, smiling and laughing as if they were old friends.
“Lucien … What do you think of her?” his mother prompted.
“I think she’s lovely,” he replied truthfully, his eyes still trained on Anne.
“
Bon
. I knew she would be just to your liking. Will you visit her at intermission?”
“Who, Maman?”
“Why, whom do you think? Will you pay a call to the Chevalier box?”
Lucien slowly lowered the opera glasses and handed them to his mother. “I won’t have time.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve business to attend to.”
“But surely, Lucien, you have time to say
bonsoir?
”
“There will be hordes of men clambering to say
bonsoir
to Liliane Chevalier. I’m sure I won’t be missed in such a crush.”
“All the more reason why you should go. Do you want to lose your lovely lady to someone else?”
Lucien paused and pondered his mother’s question. He didn’t suppose he had any hope at all of preventing Anne Weston from getting romantically involved with any one of the numerous men who might pursue her. He had no right, no business even wishing he could pursue her for himself. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to be near her. And now that he’d seen her again, he didn’t think he could help himself from spending just a few precious moments in her presence. Even if she hated him for it.
The ponderous velvet curtain fell at the end of the first act. He got up, kissed his mother good-bye, exchanged brief stilted pleasantries with his father and siblings, then excused himself just as Renee’s first admirers stepped through the curtained entryway. He walked quickly around the opera house and up the stairs till he found Katherine Grimms’s box. Muttering “Caution be damned” under his breath, he stepped inside.
“M
r. Wycliff, I believe you’ve managed to make me talk about myself through the entire first act!” Anne said gaily. “I’m embarrassed, and Uncle Reggie is looking very disapproving.”
“I hope he doesn’t lecture you on my account. I don’t believe I’ve ever enjoyed the
Barber of Seville
quite so much.”
Anne smiled. “Do you always know exactly what to say?”
Jeffrey Wycliff smiled back, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m a writer, you know. I’m never at a loss for words. At the opera I’d always rather converse with someone than watch the dramatics on stage, but I’ve never been fortunate enough before to sit next to a good-looking female who goes after a subject with the same relish that you do, Miss Weston.”
Anne laughed. “What? Don’t you like the opera, Mr. Wycliff? How gauche of you to admit it! And how very much I like you for being so unfashionably honest. But if you don’t enjoy the drama and the music, why do you come?”
Anne was aware that behind her someone had entered the box, but she was enjoying her talk with Mr. Wycliff so much, she was determined to avoid the inevitable callers as long as politely possible. Since Katherine had been away several months, Anne hoped that her aunt would be the center of their attention for a few more moments while she enjoyed a rather stimulating conversation.
“I come to the opera because everyone comes, and it amuses me to watch society all tricked out in their finery and playing their circumscribed parts. I have the natural curiosity of a journalist.”
“And the natural cynicism, I see.” Anne gave him a sagacious once-over. In his black evening trousers and jacket, complete with the usual white gardenia at the lapel, she thought he looked a little too formally rigged out to suit her overall impression of him. With his straight sandy-brown hair, his attractive, square-jawed, wholly American face, he looked as if he’d be much more at home in a suit of buckskin and fringed boots. “But you are dressed as finely as the others, Mr. Wycliff … What part are
you
playing?”
His tone was low and playfully conspiring. “I’m a chameleon, Miss Weston, very adaptable to my surroundings. Wherever I go, I manage to fit in. But I don’t play a part. I’m always intrinsically myself.”
“And who are you?”
“No one special. Just an orphan from Baltimore with the lucky knack of putting pen to paper.”
“Why did you leave Baltimore?”
Jeffrey shrugged his wide shoulders. “There was nothing for me there. No family. No inheritance, certainly. I came where I thought there would be opportunity for advancement. And there is.”
“You’re ambitious.”
“Very. I haven’t any choice.”
“Do you wish you did?”
Jeffrey’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Actually I find it rather challenging to have to grasp and claw my way to the top.”
Anne raised a brow. “You’re teasing me. But somehow I think you’re still telling the truth.”
He shrugged again, his expression coyly noncommittal. “New Orleans is fascinating, a place on the cusp of profound change. Writing about change, and maybe even inciting a bit of it with my seditious journalism, is very exciting.”
“I’ve read all your articles since coming here. So far I’ve agreed with everything you’ve written, particularly on the subject of slavery and your abolitionist views. I’ve especially enjoyed your accounts of the derring-do of the Fox.” Anne felt the warmth creep up her neck and flood her cheeks. Even after two weeks, just the thought of Renard made her blush like a schoolgirl.
Mercifully Jeffrey didn’t seem to notice Anne’s blush. Instead he grew sober and sincere, all remnants of teasing gone. “Yes. I’ve the highest regard and admiration for the Fox. If I weren’t such a cynic, I’d call Renard a hero for the times.”
“Don’t let your cynicism keep you from so natural a conclusion, Mr. Wycliff,” Anne replied, delighted to find someone who thought exactly as she did. She leaned confidingly close and impulsively laid her hand on his arm. “Renard
is
a hero.”
“Who is a hero, Mademoiselle Weston? Could you possibly be talking about
me?
”
Anne looked up into the mocking face of Dandy Delacroix. She hadn’t seen him since their encounters on the
Belvedere
. In the interim she’d tried to erase him from her thoughts, but had failed utterly to do so. She felt an unwilling attraction to him, and felt desperately guilty about it. She reasoned that she was only responding to the external male charms he obviously possessed, not the real man inside. But she still deplored her weakness, especially after she’d actually been kissed by someone truly heroic—Renard.
Lucien Delacroix was even more handsome than she remembered. And more smug. His dark, sardonic gaze held her transfixed for a moment, till he broke eye contact to glance down—then stare most pointedly—at her gloved hand still resting on Jeffrey Wycliff’s arm.
A rebellious part of Anne bristled at the notion that Delacroix disapproved of her physical contact with Jeffrey. Who was he to pass judgment on her? If she wanted to behave in such a friendly fashion to a man she’d just met, it was no concern of
his
. Following this willful line of reasoning, Anne left her hand on Jeffrey’s arm another lingering moment.
Finally she offered that same hand to Delacroix with a defiant smile. “Mr. Delacroix. Charmed to see you again.”
He kissed her hand, the light pressure of his lips sending an odd, shivery feeling through her.
“Charmed to see
you
, mademoiselle. You are a vision, as always. I trust you are comfortably settled in your new home?”
“Quite comfortable, thank you. Do you know Mr. Wycliff?”
Delacroix’s gaze shifted to Jeffrey, his expression cool and impatient, as if he’d rather not take the trouble to acknowledge him. Jeffrey stood up, and they shook hands. “Monsieur Wycliff and I have met before.”
“Yes, we have. I did a piece on gaming hells in the city, and Mr. Delacroix was one of the gentlemen who figured prominently in it.”
Delacroix smiled blandly, apparently unconcerned by the derogatory suggestion of Jeffrey’s words. “I was winning splendidly that night. Perhaps you should have stayed longer and taken notes on my celebratory party afterward and included it in your article? Readers nowadays have such a taste for anything that smacks of debauchery. Whatever sells the news, eh?”
Jeffrey pursed his lips and said nothing. Anne had to admit that Delacroix had turned the tables on him. He was a cad, but he was clever. His gaze shifted back to her. His eyes gleamed wickedly and, in the dim light, appeared as black as his jacket. “What do
you
think of debauchery, Mademoiselle Weston?”
“I’ve had little experience with it,” she replied with a prim smile, though she knew her eyes must be alight with amusement.
“Ah, if one can’t live a debauched life, one can at least read about people who do. Let me rephrase my question. Do you like reading about debauchery?”
“I like a good novel now and then,” she admitted, holding back her smile and wanting to kick herself for finding him so entertaining. “But in novels the people who behave badly—as debauched people generally do—usually die at the end.”
Delacroix nodded sagely, his dark hair full and lush in the candlelight. “Very appropriate, I’m sure, and instructive to the youth. But Mr. Wycliff writes about real people doing real things. As is frequently chronicled in the newspaper, bad people sometimes never get caught and never pay for their crimes.”
Anne nodded. “That’s why we need heroes, Mr. Delacroix. And I believe I’ve found one in this fellow Renard. Mr. Wycliff writes about him all the time. Do you know who I mean?”
Delacroix shrugged his wide shoulders. “Everyone knows Renard. Seems a foolish fellow to me, risking his neck for nothing.”
Anne immediately bristled and was about to take up her usual argument for abolition when Delacroix smoothly diverted the conversation. “How do you like New Orleans? It appears that New Orleans likes you.” He motioned toward the people filling the box, the men seeming anxious to make their way to Anne’s corner for introductions. There were three females, too, eyeing Delacroix as if he were a giant bonbon. Katherine had them all detained at the door while Reggie handed out champagne. Anne wondered how Delacroix had politely managed to get past her talkative aunt so quickly.
“I like everything I’ve seen so far, but I’ve seen very little, really. Aunt Katherine has been busy receiving calls from old friends and generally settling in. I’d love to tour the city, but Uncle Reggie won’t allow me to go out alone—even with my abigail and a footman or two in attendance—and he won’t accompany me, either. He claims it’s too hot to go gadding about during the day.”
Anne recognized the slightly complaining tone of her voice and tried to correct it. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful. More bracingly, she added, “He’s not grown accustomed to the climate yet, the poor dear. Sometimes I wish I were a man and could go and do precisely as I pleased. Then I wouldn’t be a trouble to anyone!”
“I don’t blame your uncle,” said Delacroix, flicking an infinitesimal speck of lint off his jacket sleeve, then returning his penetrating gaze to her face. His black eyes had a provocative glint; his smile was lazy and sly. “Such a charming bit of English fluff as you wouldn’t last ten minutes on the streets of the rough-and-tumble Vieux Carré.”
“I say, Delacroix—” Jeffrey began to object. Indeed, Delacroix’s use of language was a bit out of line, but Anne almost liked the bluntness of it. She laid a gently restraining hand on Jeffrey’s arm.
“What do you suggest I do, then?” she asked Delacroix.
He cocked his head to the side and studied her. The firm line of his masculine jaw was limned by candlelight. “I would offer myself as escort, but I’m sure you know that in
my
debauched company you would be in more danger than ever.”
“Indeed,” she murmured, a strange thrill running down her spine.
Their eyes held for a lengthy moment, then he seemed to recollect himself, assumed a bored pose, and drawled, “My advice to you, Mademoiselle Weston, is to mind your elders.”
Again she bristled. “If I were a twenty-three-year-old man, I’d certainly be allowed outside my house without an army of escorts. It’s not fair!”
“But you obviously are not a man—a fact for which I, for one, am most thankful.” Delacroix splayed his right hand over his ivory brocade waistcoat and bowed, his eyes closed as if in homage to her fair sex, the long lashes black and beautiful against his skin.
Another instinctive, unwelcome response to the arresting beauty of the man made Anne’s heart race. Furious with herself, she turned to look at Jeffrey, hoping to be diverted by comparing the two men—one so honorable, the other such a scoundrel. Standing slightly back, as if removing himself from the “scoundrel’s” polluted presence, Jeffrey eyed Delacroix with a mixture of anger and … envy? No, he was no help at all.
“Miss Weston is a suffragist, Delacroix,” said Jeffrey. “In our discussion during the first act, she revealed that she believes women should have all the freedoms and rights of men.” He turned and smiled at Anne. “But I do think your uncle has a point. Voting in the elections is one thing—and I fully support your views on that matter—but allowing you to go about town without the protection of an escort is another thing.”
Anne conceded this point with a tiny sideways inclination of her head and a chagrined smile. She found it much easier to accept advice when it came from someone other than Delacroix. He had a way of raising her hackles without even trying.
“Why am I not surprised that Mademoiselle Weston believes that women should be allowed to vote?” said Delacroix, gazing down at her with a sort of idle curiosity that was insufferably patronizing. “She is very different from the Creole man’s ideal of womanhood.”
“You wound me, sir,” said Anne with sweet, biting sarcasm. “For, as you must know, it is my fondest wish to be the Creole ideal of womanhood.”
Anne was surprised by the deeply masculine rumble of amusement that came from Dandy Delacroix. Wide-eyed, wondering how such an energetic sound could come from such a lazy fellow, she studied the strong column of Delacroix’s throat while his head was thrown back in laughter. She marveled at the show of straight white teeth, the expanse of broad chest, the black hair falling forward onto his forehead. The vital image was fascinating and pleasing. And—as it finally occurred to her—very insulting.
What she’d said wasn’t that amusing. But he wouldn’t stop laughing. She realized that he must be laughing at her modern views on women’s rights, which ranked with her deepest convictions about rights for all human beings.
How easy it is for him to laugh at my convictions
, she thought indignantly,
since he has none of his own
.
He thought her an oddity, a British buffoon. She thought him very rude.
Suddenly the three women at the back of the box made their way to the front and gathered around Delacroix. Feeling suddenly suffocated by full skirts of taffeta and silk, Anne stood up and drew closer to Jeffrey, unconsciously grabbing hold of his hand.
“Delacroix,” cooed one dashing young blond, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow, “do tell us what makes you laugh so deliciously!”
“
Oui
, Lucien,” said another clinging female, this one a brunette. “What is so impossibly funny? I love your humor, you wicked man!”
The third woman hovered close, looking ready to dive in and claim another arm if Delacroix should happen to sprout one. It was obvious none of the women had come to Katherine’s box to be introduced to Anne. They were there to see Delacroix.
Seeming momentarily to stifle his laughter with some difficulty, he patted the gloved hand of the blond woman and said, “We’re disturbing the elegant tranquillity of Madame Grimms’s opera box, ladies. I suggest we repair to the hall where we can be as merry as we choose.” He leaned close to the brunette and whispered quite audibly, “Or as we dare.”
“Darling Lucien,” she replied, caressing his arm, “with you I would go anywhere!”