Blue Waltz (3 page)

The feeling welled up in her, all at once, the pain and longing almost choking her. The music was gone and she had learned no other escape, however temporary even that had always proven to be. She would have left the city weeks ago had she not been certain her father would come for her, here in Boston.

The memories that so often plagued her started up again in her head, as if to punish her for willing them extinct. But she would not have it. She would not allow the past to ruin tonight.

She walked to the door and threw it open, ignoring the pain in her leg. She took the stairs as quickly as she could, down and around until she reached the first floor and the cupboard that held her heavy outer wear.

Her butler, Hastings, raced up a flight of stairs from the kitchen and down the hall, his normally impeccable attire slightly askew, his coat gone, a dishrag in his hand. "Madam, where are you going?"

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Belle paused as she pulled on a new, fur-lined, long black cape. Her eyes surveyed the length of the butler. Belle was tall for a woman, taller than Hastings; formidable, when she wanted to be. She had learned that dubious skill over the years.

Belle glanced down at the rag he held in his hands. Cotton, she thought, a smile pulling at her lips. Just like the towels her mother used to use. With alternating lines of blue and red against the white, lines that ran the length then continued on, down the other side, never ending if the towel was flipped end over end, again and again.

"Uhm, you see," Hastings began self-consciously, "I was . . . helping Miss Maeve with supper."

Belle blinked, before forcing her mind back to Hastings. Her smile grew luminous. Without warning, she reached over and squeezed his arm. "Good for you, Hastings, she deserves the help."

The man tensed at the touch, which clearly made him uncomfortable. But Belle's smile only broadened as she dropped her hand away. "Sorry, Hastings. I forgot. Forgive me. Lesson number one: Never be too familiar with the staff. I'll get it yet. I'm really rather bright." Her deep blue eyes danced with amusement. "Especially for a woman. And with you here to teach me the way of things, before you know it your efforts will pay off and I'll walk right past you and Maeve and Rose without even acknowledging that you're there."

Hastings straightened, pulling his shoulders back, and despite the rag in his hand and his missing coat, he looked every inch the proper butler once again. "Most definitely, madam."

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes as she stared at the man, wondering why in the world he wasn't insulted. But he wasn't. In fact, she had learned that the

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only time he was insulted was when she wasn't acting the proper lady of the house. Belle almost snorted out loud, but held it back. Barely. Just barely.

"Well, fine." Belle pulled her cape securely around her. "I'm off, then."

"Off, madam?"

"Yes, Hastings. It's high time I get out of this house. Fresh air and a crisp breeze will be good for me."

"But a storm is coming," he reminded her.

She pulled open the door. A gust of wind and dried leaves rushed in. For a moment she didn't move. She stood in the doorway, wind whipping her hair from its pins, as she stared off into the distance, sounds teasing her mind. What if he doesn't come?

Her smile deserted her and her brow creased. "Can you hear them, Hastings?" she whispered without turning back.

Neville Hastings stepped closer, coming to stand behind her, just off to the side, and listened. "Who, madam?

The nearness startled her and she jumped, which in turn startled Hastings.

Belle laughed loud and true, relieved. "We're a pair you and I," she said with a shake of her head. "You listening to voices of propriety, me listening to voices in the wind. How do things like that come about, do you think?"

Hastings shifted on his feet, staring curiously at his employer, but was saved from comment when a short, plump woman with gray hair and rosy cheeks bustled up from the kitchen.

"What, pray tell, is going on around here?" the woman demanded, her words laced with a thick Irish brogue.

"I'm going out, Maeve," Belle responded with a

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laugh and a toss of her windblown hair. "I'm getting out of this house."

"Out?"

"Yes, out, out into the wind."

"But surely you're not. Not when supper's almost ready."

Belle's eyes filled with regret. She liked Maeve, and had since the day the solicitor had sent Maeve and Hastings over with letters of recommendation in their hands. "I'm terribly sorry, dear. But I thought I'd go out for supper this evening."

"Out for supper? You? A lady alone?" Maeve asked suspiciously. "It's unnatural." She glanced at Hastings. "Isn't that right, Mr. Hastings? Unnatural, I tell you. I've never heard of such a thing in all my days!"

"Well, you've heard of it now, for I'm taking myself out to supper, and not you or Hastings, or the impending storm, is going to stop me."

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The wind was harsh, but Belle hardly cared. It felt good to be outside. When first she arrived in Boston, she had spent days working her way up and down the grid of streets that comprised the Back Bay, looking for just the right house. She had always walked, not caring if people looked at her oddly or if little children snickered at her awkward gait. Having spent virtually no time in a carriage before journeying from Wrenville to Boston, by the end of the sixty-mile trip, Belle had come to hate the closed and cramped confines of the carriage, not to mention the great whooshing speeds at which it traveled. That, not taking one's self out for supper, was unnatural as far as she was concerned.

And of course, no matter where she turned, there were those great huge crowds of people who lived in the

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city. But she would survive. Eventually even become used to the bustling hives, she was certain. But get used to a carriage? Never.

This night, however, she need not worry about crowds or carriages. The streets were deserted. She walked alone up Arlington Street, leaning into the wind. The Public Gardens stood to her right, its spiked black wrought iron fence looking angry and unwelcoming.

She was on her way to Charles Street. The Bulfinch House was there, stately, elegant, impressive—or so her father had always told her when she was a child. Tonight she was determined to find out.

Her head tilted back and she took a deep breath. She felt good and vibrantly alive. One minute she was fighting off demons, the next she had kicked them away. A ready palliative, it would seem, was simply to venture outside.

The public house loomed, stately, yes, but imposing as well. Her excitement abated. She had never been to a public eating house in her life. Standing alone in the privacy of her home, she had given no thought to what going out to supper actually entailed. She hadn't thought much past simply getting out of the house. Suddenly she wondered how a person went about going to such a place? Was there a certain way one entered? Something special one said?

The heavy wooden door looked as angry and unwelcoming as the spikes surrounding the park. Maybe she should come back another night. But that would leave her with nothing to eat except the very thing that had sent her on this journey in the first place.

On that thought, before her courage could desert her completely, she pulled open the door and walked inside.

"May I help you, madame?"

When her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room she

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found a man, French she guessed, dressed in formal attire, his features harsh with disapproval. She glanced into the inner sanctum of the restaurant, dark wood and red velvet everywhere, and noticed that there was not a single unescorted female in sight, and very few escorted ones at that.

"May I help you?" he repeated, his tone brusque.

"Yes." She drew herself up, clutching her cape tightly around her body. "I'd like to be seated."

Thick bushy eyebrows rose at her statement, and when he started to speak, she cut him off. "Is there anything wrong, sir?" she asked in a tone filled with hauteur and self-importance.

She had learned the tone during her stay at the Hotel Vendome, while she waited for the previous owner to move out of her house. Sitting in the lobby, among the statuary and potted plants, she had watched men and women of apparent importance go about their business. Belle had always been a quick study, and during that time she learned just how people got what they wanted— whether they deserved it or not. It had been a deplorable display if ever she had seen one.

She started to turn away, disgusted with herself that she could even think of acting the same way. But suddenly the memories swelled in her mind, always there, always lurking, making themselves felt, and she tossed conscience aside, shamelessly willing to use whatever means necessary to gain entrance into this bastion of what she hoped would be culinary forgetfulness.

"My good man," she said straightening still further, pulling her shoulders back, much as Hastings had done earlier. "You seem to be unaware of who I am."

Unaware hardly described it, she conceded to herself. There was no reason for this man or anyone else in the

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establishment to be aware of who she was. For in truth, she was no one of importance in a town filled with important people.

"I will overlook the impertinence this time," she continued, her voice deep and dry. "It is a cold and dreary night and I'm sure you would much prefer to be at home, which undoubtedly has caused your good sense to flee. Just don't let it happen again."

She turned toward the main dining room, her spine stiff and her heart pounding. "Over there, my good man, that table will do nicely."

With that she tossed her cape into his arms, then proceeded toward the table in question, her gait slow and careful, regal, she hoped. Only when the man followed and actually pulled out her chair, did she start to breathe again.

The menu was filled with entrees she had never heard of before.

Cornish pigeon with rice dressing.

Tangerine dressing cockaigne over squab.

Squid in cream sauce.

Good Lord, roast and potatoes were sounding better by the minute.

At length she settled for onion soup, endive salad, and something called Pate de Foie Gras. It was obviously French, sounded exotic, and certainly had to be delicious. Weren't French chefs known for their culinary prowess?

Her meal arrived with amazing swiftness. Belle suspected the speed had less to do with efficiency than the maître d's desire to see her gone.

The soup was good, the salad edible, but the foie gras . . . Perhaps she should have asked for roast and potatoes instead. The only item that had been truly delicious was the bread.

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With a sigh she lifted the cloth covering the silver bread dish to peer inside. As expected, there was not a roll to be had. And not a waiter in sight. Leaning back in her chair, she pushed at the pate with her fork until she caught sight of an entire dish of bread not two feet away on the table next to hers.

The table was occupied by a man who sat with his back to her. He was firmly engrossed in the Boston Globe, which lay flat and folded on the edge of his table.

"Excuse me," she said.

The man didn't move.

"Excuse me," she repeated, leaning slightly closer.

She saw his head rise just a bit. For a second, when he remained perfectly still, she thought he would ignore her, simply go back to his paper and pretend he hadn't heard. But just when she was about to say excuse me once again, he turned, slowly, not quite all the way around.

He was large and imposing, with dark hair, cast darker by the faded light in the room. On closer inspection she noticed a thin, half-moon scar just below his left eye. Without a word, she studied him, straight forward, without flirtatiousness, summing him up.

His bearing was calm and confident—a man used to getting his way, she concluded. Instinct told her he was not someone to cross lightly. Someone dangerous, someone she'd do well to steer clear of. Someone, she thought unexpectedly, who could dissuade her from her path.

She nearly slipped off her chair when she started to turn away, suddenly apprehensive.

He reached out and steadied her. "Are you all right?"

His voice surprised her. The sound was smooth and deep, mesmerizing. A voice a person could drown in, become lost in and never find her way out.

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For a moment she forgot why she had gained his attention, or that she would do well to steer clear of him. She had the fleeting desire to ask him to say something, anything, whatever he pleased, just so long as he continued to speak and allowed her to listen.

"You have a beautiful voice," she said simply. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

Her words seemed to catch this dark, dangerous pirate-man off guard. The thought pleased her immensely and she laughed, delight mixing with her relief, making her careless. "Either the answer is no," she continued, when he didn't respond, "or you don't hold great stores in having anything about you called beautiful."

One slash of dark brow raised slightly, but still he gave no response.

"No, you don't look to me to be a man who would like to be called many things at all, much less beautiful." She glanced over his attire, or at least what she could see of it, since he still hadn't turned completely around.

"Black coat, black trousers, black boots. Unrelieved black. Intimidating," she determined, her apprehension forgotten entirely as her eyes slid over his somber clothing. "And obviously intended to be that way."

She pursed her lips. "I have a book on fashion that discusses the vices and virtues of wearing the color black. Let me think. Austere, unapproachable, forbidding." She laughed. "Though I'm not certain which are the vices and which are the virtues."

He leaned back in his chair somewhat, his chiseled features cast in sharp relief by the flickering candlelight. "Have you gained my attention simply to criticize my clothing, or is there something I can help you with?"