Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (20 page)

      
Deborah was dressed in Lenore's costume for the masked ball. Lenore had convinced her parents that if she were to announce her betrothal to Georges that night, the festivities must be of her choosing. She wanted a masquerade. Creoles loved such costume affairs; and her father, delighted that she was finally willing to comply with their plans, quickly endorsed the idea.

      
The plan was Deborah's, not Lenore's. Now Deborah stood dressed in Lenore's elaborate shepherdess costume with its frilly, flowing overskirts, long lacy gloves, and huge wide-brimmed bonnet. She wore a wig of long yellow curls and a mask. The costume was chosen with care so as to conceal every distinguishing feature of either woman.

      
“Be sure you don't let anyone see your feet,” Lenore admonished. She was a good four or five inches shorter than her sister-in-law. However, if Deborah wore flat-heeled slippers instead of the very high-heeled clogged shoes that Lenore had chosen, the height difference might go unnoticed. Deborah had always observed that people see what they expect to see. Celine and Claude had watched Lenore twirl and mince all week during fittings for the frothy costume. In secret, Deborah had practiced the same flirtatious movements.

      
“I do declare, you can use your fan as adroitly as any Creole belle, Deborah,” Lenore said in amazement as she watched her double practice a coy gesture.

      
“Well, let's hope I can get by with your ‘sore throat’ voice as well,” Deborah said darkly. That morning Lenore had feigned a sudden cold, but insisted the ball must go on as planned despite a problem with her voice. “If I only can keep Georges talking, he shouldn't notice the substitution until it's too late.”

      
“Just let him talk about himself. He'll be amused for hours,” Lenore replied acidly, then begged reassurance. “You're positive Caleb will be out behind the dairy house?”

      
“Sure as you're in love with him, and he's in love with you,” Deborah said soothingly.

      
That afternoon when Georges arrived, Lenore had pleaded her nervousness over the night's festivities as an excuse not to greet him. Deborah had stayed upstairs, as well, sending word that she, too, had caught Lenore's ailment and would not attend the gala. If Rafael was irritated with her refusal to participate, his parents were relieved.

      
“You're sure Rafael won't come up to see that you're all right?” Lenore still saw all manner of pitfalls to their scheme.

      
“Just before he went downstairs, I provoked a bit of a tiff,” she replied grimly.
As if I needed to make him angrier,
she thought desolately. “He won't be concerned about me. All his friends and cousins are downstairs reveling with him. I'm sure Minnette Gautier has wasted no time batting her eyelashes at him either.”

      
Lenore put her arm around Deborah's slim shoulders. “Minnette doesn't mean a thing to Rafael.”

      
Deborah swallowed and said with false brightness, “Oh, bother the silly twit. I have to remember to hide my feet and keep my eyelashes lowered so my eyes don't show violet.”

      
Lenore dimpled. “Just stay away from the chandeliers. Let Georges think you enjoy huddling in romantic dark corners with him.” She paused and said thoughtfully, “Strange, now that I think of it, he never seemed to want to—well, you know, get close to me that way. Only when he wanted to control me would he really touch me—” She dismissed the distasteful memory and said “Caleb and I will never forget what you're doing for us, Deborah. If there's anything we can ever do to help you, you know to come at once.”

      
The two women hugged fiercely. Then, Deborah gave Lenore a quick shove toward the open doors at the rear of the house. “I must face the lion's den downstairs and you must slip through the kitchen and out to Caleb. Now, go.”

      
The room was crowded with richly costumed men and women. Greek muses simpered in silver and white robes, outlandish pirates dripped with gold chains, sporting gleaming sabers. Deborah saw Rafael at once, standing across the room, a head taller than the men and women who surrounded him. He was resplendent in the burnished breastplate and leather breeches of a Spanish conquistador. Idly, she wondered if he had chosen the costume to remind her of his ruthless ancestry, or if he had done it only because it became his bold, swarthy looks so well.

      
Minnette Gautier wasn't the only one hanging on him, Deborah thought acidly. All the women seemed to appreciate the Spanish mercenary in their midst. Well and good that he was occupied. In her disguise, she must avoid him at all costs. She might fool Georges and her in-laws, but she could never deceive her husband.

      
Almost at once, Celine swept across the floor, with Georges in tow behind her. Because of the crowd, the noise, and the flickering lights, Celine did not penetrate Deborah's disguise. She gushed when “Lenore” placed her gloved hand timidly in Georges' and curtsied.

      
Georges held her stiffly, not at all the way Deborah would have thought an eager fiancé would hold his beloved.
Even Oliver Haversham was a far better actor than this,
she thought as her irritation changed to a prickling uneasiness. However, her subterfuge was working, for he talked of his plans for the tour of Europe they would take after their marriage.

      
Deborah tried in vain to reassure herself that it was only his resemblance to Rafael that bothered her. She cast quick appraising glances at his face through her mask, careful to hide her eyes. His picture-perfect features were too pretty, his gestures too precise. There was none of the bold virility she had always felt tenuously leashed in Rafael, although the same arrogance and haughtiness were certainly present in Georges' manner. Something was wrong. Lenore must be married before this night was over, safe from this enigma!

      
Deborah was relieved when Monsieur Gautier cut in on Georges but not as grateful, she suspected, as was Georges. He fled toward the punch bowl and a group of his friends while she made hoarse, desultory small talk with the kindly old man.

      
“How does your fiancé find New Orleans after spending two years in Paris?” He inclined his head to hear her raspy voice.

      
“I suspect he misses Europe. We're to take a grand tour on our honeymoon.”
Georges will have to tour alone, which I suspect will be more to his liking anyway.

      
For the next two hours, Deborah danced, flirted, and talked as little as possible. She avoided Rafael and his parents, spending a great deal of time with casual acquaintances who were unlikely to notice the subterfuge. As for Georges, he danced with her only as often as it seemed he must for appearances. The rest of the time he spent in conversation with his friend Paul Ravat, a fellow student from his university days in France. If she were uneasy over Georges, she was outright repelled when Paul's chilly gray eyes followed her across the dance floor. It was as if he knew some secret Lenore didn't.

      
Scolding herself for being fanciful, she checked the clock on the mantel once more. Nearly time to make her exit. She had bought Lenore and Caleb three hours, more than ample time for the lovers to be married and to consummate their marriage before the Flamenco family could intervene.

      
The unmasking and official betrothal announcement were to take place at midnight with a lavish banquet to follow. However, when she made her excuse at a quarter to twelve and did not reappear, there would be no announcement, nor likely any celebration supper. Deborah would be found sleeping in her room and Lenore would have vanished without a trace. A note on her dressing table would tell the tale.
If only I can slip by undetected
. She watched the minute hand inch toward the nine with agonizing slowness.

      
It was nearing midnight as Rafael watched Lenore dance a slow quadrille with Georges, then excuse herself and turn to leave the press. Suddenly, he felt a need to be assured of her happiness before the irreversible announcement took place. She was going upstairs to freshen up for the big moment, no doubt.

      
“Lenore, wait, little one,” he called out at her retreating back as he followed her into the front hall.

      
She turned and caught sight of him. Gasping, she murmured hoarsely, “I must repair my toilette before the unmasking, Rafael. Tell Papa and Georges I'll meet them by the south door.” With that she picked up her skirts and scampered up the wide low stairs to the second floor.

      
His immediate impulse was to follow her. But he quickly stifled the urge. What was done was done. Still, something nagged at the back of his mind—what was it? He mulled distractedly as he searched for his father and soon-to-be brother-in-law.

      
When Lenore did not come down at midnight, Celine quickly went up to see what was detaining her. She returned ashen and pulled Rafael and Claude into the hallway. “She is not in the retiring room. None of the ladies who are there have seen her. I've sent the servants to search her room and the grounds discreetly.”

      
Claude let out an impatient sigh. “She cannot have gone far. Rafael saw her go upstairs a scant ten minutes ago.”

      
Rafael suddenly ripped off` his mask and swore, then automatically apologized to his shocked mother. “The shoes, that's it!” With that he was gone, sprinting toward the rear stairs and his room, where he knew Deborah would be waiting.

      
“Did you return the dress and wig to her room and put them next to the unused clogs?” His voice sliced through the warm night air as he ripped the sheet from her still form.

      
Deborah had heard him enter and prayed that if she feigned sleep he would leave her. But he did not. Reluctantly, she sat up in bed. One look into his blazing black eyes told her all. “How did you know?”

      
“Your flat-heeled shoes. When you ran so precipitously up the steps, you raised your skirts too high,
Cherie
. I should have recognized my wife's beautiful ankles.” He slid one strong hand around a slim ankle and squeezed cruelly. “Where is Lenore?”

      
She shivered despite the heat as he held her fast.

      
“Well, I'm waiting. So are my parents, her fiancé, and over one hundred people.” He increased the pressure.

      
Tears swam in her eyes, but she blinked them back. “It's too late, Rafael. She and Caleb were married hours ago.”

      
He swore at her, even more virulently than he had the morning in the woods, but this time he used French, as if to emphasize the distance between them. With a disgusted grunt, he released her ankle, shoving her away from him.

      
“Where are you going? Rafael, let them have peace. There's nothing you can do now. She loves Caleb, not Georges!” But she was crying to an empty room.

      
After dressing in haste, she slipped quietly down the hall to where she heard the low murmurs of Rafael and Claude interspersed with Celine's shrill denunciation. They were in the elder Flamenco's private sitting room and Rafael was standing at Claude's desk, calmly loading a pistol.

      
“What will we tell Georges? Our guests?” Celine's voice wailed in anguish.

      
“I shall announce that Lenore was taken suddenly quite ill. After all, she did have a ‘sore throat’ tonight. The betrothal is merely postponed. Rafael will bring her home. You must go to her room and wait. People will expect that you are attending her.” Claude's voice was calm, but his face was gray.

      
“She and that skulking wolf may be at his lake house, but I doubt it. They've probably used this time to flee to New Orleans and search for a priest. I'll go to the cottage and then head to his city house.” Rafael slipped the pistol into his belt with deadly ease.

      
“You're admirably dressed for the role you plan to play,” Deborah said from the doorway. Celine gasped and made a lunge toward her daughter-in-law with claws out, but Claude restrained her. Deborah ignored the woman and turned her attention to Rafael. “If you kill him you'll break her heart. She is married to him now.”

      
“No priest in New Orleans would marry a Creole girl of good family to an American—in the dead of night with no family in attendance,” Celine spat venomously.

      
“An Episcopal priest would. Caleb is a good parishioner. He made the arrangements days ago.” Deborah's voice sounded lifeless. What was the use hiding her role in the charade? She must keep Rafael from doing something terrible, even if it meant turning all the family's wrath on herself.

      
“She would not marry outside the Church.” In a voice filled with impatience, Claude dismissed the idea.

      
Celine's eyes narrowed as she stared at Deborah's straight back and assured stance. “You concocted this scheme with Armstrong, didn't you? You've led her immortal soul astray.” In truth, Celine was as little concerned with religion as were her husband and son. What would their friends think? The scandal of the elopement loomed far larger than the threat of perdition.

      
Understanding what was going on in her mother-in-law's mind, Deborah retorted, “I only helped your daughter marry the right man.” She put her hand hesitantly on Rafael's arm, but he withdrew as if stung before she could speak.

      
“None of this signifies. I'm going after them. Deborah, if you value your neck, get back to bed and stay there!” He stalked from the room and slammed the door.