Arms of a Stranger (7 page)

Delacroix smiled wickedly, then nodded and winked at Anne as a sort of farewell as he breezed by with the two females clinging to his arms and the other less fortunate one trailing adoringly behind. They had barely gone through the door when he let loose with another hearty laugh.

“Good God!” said Reggie in an appalled undertone as he sidled up next to Anne. “What deplorable manners!”

“Nothing more than one might expect from Delacroix,” said Jeffrey, his voice dripping with scorn. “I don’t understand what all those females see in the fellow—except his money, of course.”

Anne was sure she still detected envy in Jeffrey’s voice, despite his disapproval of Delacroix. She wasn’t certain how she felt. Insulted, yes. Summarily dismissed, yes. A little hurt, yes. But how could such a man have the power to hurt her?

“Anne, dear, I’ve a host of people to introduce you to.” Katherine’s voice broke through Anne’s troubled thoughts, and she realized that a veritable army of dapper-dressed, smiling gentlemen was descending upon her. She also realized that she was still clinging to Jeffrey Wycliff’s hand.

She was embarrassed. She darted a look at Jeffrey, found him grinning down at her, and hastily untwined their fingers. “You must excuse me, Mr. Wycliff,” she mumbled, so low only he could hear. “I forgot myself in the confusion of the moment.”

“I like you best of all, Miss Weston, when you forget yourself,” he whispered back.

Anne couldn’t help smiling, which was just as well, since politeness required that she look agreeable while being introduced to society’s best.

“What’s wrong,
cher?
” Micaela’s golden-brown eyes were full of sober inquiry and compassion. She reached up and pushed a lock of hair away from Lucien’s forehead. They sat together on a sofa in her small, elegantly decorated parlor. Micaela’s voluptuous figure was draped in an alluring diaphanous dressing gown Lucien had carefully picked out for her, but she might as well have been wearing a gunnysack.

Lucien leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands. “Nothing’s wrong, Micaela. I’m just tired.”

There was a long pause. Finally, gently, she suggested, “You are tired very much lately, Lucien.”

“Yes.” What else could he say? It was a good excuse. At first he’d tried to forget Anne by spending more time in bed with Micaela, but that had proved fruitless. And in the past week—even before he had seen Anne and talked to her tonight—he’d entirely lost any desire to be with Micaela sexually. How did one tell his mistress he only wanted to … talk?

After that scene at the opera, leaving Anne so rudely, he felt like an absolute villain. He’d hurt her. He had seen it in her eyes. But he’d felt himself slipping, slipping … slipping into the grasp of something he didn’t want to face at this point in his complicated life. He liked Anne Weston too damned well, and a few more minutes in that opera box with her and he might have wrestled her to the floor for wicked purposes. He’d acted in self-defense. He got out of there as fast as he could, leaving a trail of insult and hurt in his wake.

Micaela’s hand slid down his arm. “You are full of anger tonight, Lucien. At me,
cher?
”

Lucien stirred himself, caught Micaela’s caressing hand, and absently held it “No, not at you. At me.”

“Why? Did you do something bad?”

Lucien lifted his head and smiled wryly at her. “Yes. Are you surprised?”

She smiled back, encouraged. She snuggled closer to him. “I can make you forget…” She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him. Lucien felt nothing.

She drew back, a look of puzzlement on her face. She was exotic, incredibly beautiful, and wonderfully primitive in her lovemaking. But she wasn’t Anne. He closed his eyes for an instant and imagined she was. He went further and imagined Anne’s golden hair scattered on a pillow, her blue eyes hazed with passion, her sweet, sly tongue silenced by his kisses…

“Lucien?”

He opened his eyes. Micaela drew back and settled into the crook of the sofa, studying him.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, feeling the inadequacy of the word but not knowing what else to say.

“It’s all right,
cher,
” she answered. “Tell me about her.”

He made a sound of surprise, laughing softly. “Is it so obvious?”

“
Oui
. So … tell me about her. I will listen.”

Lucien shook his head. “No, I don’t want to talk about her.” Anne was the last thing he should be talking
or
thinking about. He made an effort to smile at Micaela and said, “Thank you, Micaela, for being so understanding. Right now, though, the thing I need the most is a good strong cup of coffee.”

Micaela smiled back. “Whatever you want,
cher
.” Then she rose and went to the kitchen.

Anne sighed and stared out of the carriage window as they drove slowly home through the Vieux Carré. It was raining, and the roads were thick with mud, the gutters swirling with dark brown water. The city was well-lighted by the oil lamps that hung by chains at each streetcorner.

Reggie had made it clear to Anne that he disapproved of the way she’d behaved with Wycliff, allowing him to monopolize her throughout the evening. Anne had no ready excuse to offer her uncle because she knew she had behaved irresponsibly. She’d paid far too much attention to Jeffrey Wycliff.

She’d probably encouraged him to think romantically of her by impulsively grabbing his hand during Delacroix’s rude exit. And earlier she’d touched his arm with her hand, keeping it there far too long for propriety. But she’d left her hand on Jeffrey’s arm for so long only to irritate Delacroix. Now Anne couldn’t imagine why he incited her to behave against her own good judgment just to spite him. She couldn’t explain it to herself, much less to Reggie.

Her behavior with Jeffrey was much easier for Anne to understand. Reggie’s snobbishness about Jeffrey’s orphaned background and his distrust of Jeffrey’s ambitions and intentions toward her had conspired to make her more determined to get to know him better.

For once Katherine stayed out of the fray, and, after several minutes of heated discussion with her uncle, Anne decided to put the subject to rest. Laughing, she fell back against the plush squabs of Katherine’s well-sprung carriage. “I’m flattered by all this vigilance on my account, Uncle Reggie, but you’re jumping to conclusions. You act as though I’m ready to marry Jeffrey Wycliff. I
do
like him—very much—and I do admire him, but I’m not mad to marry him! Don’t worry, I don’t intend to be hasty about anything as serious as that.”

These few heartfelt words seemed finally to reassure Reggie. He, too, relaxed against the cushions, his face disappearing in the shadows. They continued their slow drive to the Faubourg St. Mary in noncontentious silence, allowing Anne to drift into private speculations about the most interesting of the men she’d met so far in America. Jeffrey, Renard, and Delacroix. Yes, Delacroix.

But first Jeffrey. He seemed to Anne to be exactly the sort of man she’d hoped to meet in America. He was self-made, ambitious, and involved in meaningful work. He was attractive, too. But the thing that most drew her to Jeffrey was something she was wise enough to keep from Reggie. They were both avid fans of Renard. On that basis alone, Anne knew they could be good friends. Whether something romantic was possible between them, she didn’t know. So far he hadn’t made her heart leap into her throat as Renard had.

Renard. He was her romantic ideal. Their chance meeting on the
Belvedere
had become to Anne like a sharply focused, golden dream. She had no hope, certainly no expectation, of ever seeing Renard again. But once in his arms was better than never, even though, after her brief but thrilling encounter with Renard, she would always compare other men to him. With such daunting competition, would a regular fellow ever be able to win her heart and hand?

Then there was Delacroix. Anne shook her head and smiled, but it was a bittersweet smile after the way he’d behaved tonight. He was an enigma. There was something about him that stirred her. Was it curiosity? He was clever … Was she charmed by his wit? Or was she really so shallow that she could disregard his conceit, arrogance, bigotry, and loose morals, and simply be enthralled by his physical beauty?

She didn’t know. But something about Delacroix had made her heart race more than once…

She closed her eyes. American men were a diverse lot, she thought sleepily. Diverse indeed.

M
idmorning sunshine slanted across the ruby-red and peacock-blue Persian rug covering Katherine’s drawing room floor, the light that streamed through the tall French windows illuminating the exotic art that hung on the walls and the strange artifacts and barbaric-looking sculptures that littered the tabletops.

A vase of roses stood on a wrought-iron stand next to the sofa, the deep yellow buds exactly matching the color of Anne’s walking gown. She was reading Jeffrey’s latest article in the
Picayune
, and he was watching her. All was quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper and the muted tick of the ormolu clock on the marble mantel.

When she finished, she folded the paper and set it down, drew a long breath, and smiled at Jeffrey. “Isn’t Renard wonderful? Did he really do all that? How is it that you’re always the first reporter to know what the Fox does, Jeffrey?”

After three weeks of almost daily association—either at public functions and private parties, or at the Grimms mansion—Anne and Jeffrey were now the best of friends and called each other by their Christian names.

“Which question shall I answer first?” he asked her, grinning.

“All of them, and in order, you tease,” said Anne.

“Well, yes, Renard is wonderful. We’ve always agreed about that. And, yes, he did orchestrate the escape last night of five slaves from the Latrobe house on Bourbon Street, getting them out of the very heart of the city without being apprehended. As to how I know about these things before anyone else…” He shrugged his shoulders.

“You won’t tell me? How rude of you, Jeffrey.” Anne playfully slapped him on the shoulder. “I thought we shared everything.”

“Not everything, Anne.” He glanced toward the entryway and lowered his voice. “We’ve never kissed, and certainly not because of a lack of interest on my part. Perhaps we’ve just lacked the opportunity? Where
is
the old watchdog, anyway?”

Anne laughed. “If you mean Uncle Reggie, I’m just as surprised as you are that he’s not here. I’m sure he would be if he knew that Aunt Katherine had left us alone to fetch her bonnet. I’d almost believe she planned this. She’s been gone several minutes.”

“She likes me.”

“Yes, I know. She’s always liked men of the literary persuasion. But more than likely she’s having the servants pick flowers at the last minute to take to the cemetery. She has three husbands’ tombs to decorate for All Saints’ Day, you know. It’s a beautiful day, and the place will be awash with fresh-cut blooms. You’re welcome to come with us, Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey grimaced. “No, thanks. I don’t like cemeteries, even when they’re decorated for a party. Having no relatives at least saves me from obligatory postmortem visits to them.”

Anne winced and smiled, amused by his phraseology but still rather shocked by his lack of sentiment. “That’s rather callous of you.”

“No, just honest. Now, back to the matter of the kiss…” He darted another look toward the entryway and scooted an inch closer to her. “Your aunt likes me, but do
you
like me?”

“Of course I do.”

“More to the point, do you like me well enough to kiss me? If you do, this would be the perfect time to tell me … and to show me.”

Anne looked up into Jeffrey’s eager face. His brown eyes were clear, his intentions direct and sincere, his expression ardent. She liked him, she really did. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to kiss him. He took her hand and chafed it between his two. His palms were cool and rough. She looked down and studied his square-tipped fingers, the wide knuckles, and the clean, close-clipped nails. There was an ink stain on his thumb. For some elusive reason she found herself mentally comparing his honest workingman’s hands to Delacroix’s, whose hands were more like those of an artist or a musician—lean, sensitive, strong yet graceful.

“Anne,” prompted Jeffrey in a gentle but urgent tone, “you’ve given me reason to hope that I’m something more to you than a friend.”

He was right. She’d been flirting with him since the night of the opera when they’d met for the first time. She had supposed all along that when the opportunity presented itself, she’d happily give him the kiss he was asking for. But now she wasn’t so sure it was the right thing to do. She didn’t know if Jeffrey could ever be more than a friend. Maybe it was just too soon.

“Jeffrey, I do like you. And you’re very special to me. Only …”

“Only what, Anne? I know I’m no Renard, but I hope you aren’t comparing me to him. Any man would come up short against such a fellow.”

Anne blushed. He’d hit on the exact truth. She was comparing him to Renard. He didn’t know, either, that she’d actually met Renard and shared a kiss that she could compare with Jeffrey’s. She knew it was nonsense to continue mooning over the romantic outlaw, especially with a very real man with some excellent qualities sitting right next to her. If Jeffrey didn’t exactly make her heart race, maybe it was only because she’d grown so comfortable with him. Maybe if she kissed him it would make a difference in her platonic feelings. Guilt won in the end; she supposed she owed him at least one kiss.

“All right.”

He grew very still. “You mean you’ll let me kiss you?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” She closed her eyes, preparing herself, then suddenly got a brilliant, unscrupulous idea. Her eyes flew open just in time to see Jeffrey close his. “First tell me how you get your information about Renard, Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey sat back, amused and exasperated. “You minx! That’s blackmail!”

“So it is. Now tell me.”

Jeffrey chuckled, lifting a hand to tuck a stray curl behind Anne’s ear. “I can’t tell you specifics.”

“Why not?”

He grew sober. “Because it would be dangerous for you. The men I pay to be moles, to ferret out information for me, aren’t the most savory fellows.”

Anne’s brows furrowed. “I can’t imagine you consorting with unsavory people, Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey’s clear brown eyes took on a shrewd look that made him appear hard and threatening. It unsettled her. He didn’t look at all like the amiable friend she’d come to know. “Remember, Anne, I told you I’m a chameleon. I blend in wherever I go.”

When the strange expression disappeared from Jeffrey’s face as quickly as it came, Anne thought she must have imagined it. “These ‘moles’ you pay to obtain information for you, are they associates of Renard’s? Does he have traitors in his midst?”

Jeffrey looked surprised, then admiring. “You’re a quick one. Most of my informants pass along rumors from the street. Rumors are unreliable, but sometimes quite true. However, I do have one informant who is a close, trusted partner in Renard’s local organization, which is kept small for safety’s sake.”

“Has this traitor told you who Renard is?”

“No. He’s only given me tidbits so far, things to use in my articles—nothing that might jeopardize the operation. He likes the money. I think he has an opium habit, like a lot of the scruffy fellows I deal with. He’s edgy. He sweats a lot.”

“He sounds like a threat to Renard,” Anne said worriedly.

“Not yet. But he might become a threat in time. The reward for Renard’s capture grows larger every week. The fellow might decide to betray Renard and cash in on the money. It could buy enough opium to last a millennium.”

“Some men would do anything for money,” Anne mused.

“Well, money equals power,” said Jeffrey matter-of-factly. “Now, where’s my kiss?”

After that last comment, Anne was not as disposed to kissing Jeffrey, but it seemed there was no getting out of it. She closed her eyes and waited. She felt his lips touch hers and was encouraged that she felt no revulsion. Actually, it was rather nice. Then he wrapped his large hands around her waist and began moving his lips over hers, ever so softly. But when he slipped his tongue into her mouth and his hands begin to roam up and down her back, she stiffened.

Anne put her hands on Jeffrey’s chest and pushed, but he only held her tighter. His breathing was fast and irregular, and she was getting just a little frightened and … angry. She abruptly turned her head away and pushed harder against his chest. He let her go.

“Lord, Anne, I’m sorry,” he said instantly, dragging his hands through his thick, straight hair. “I lost my head. You’re so damned—I mean, you’re so beautiful and sweet, for a minute there I forgot myself and just couldn’t let go.”

Who was she to throw stones, anyway? She’d lost her head when Renard had kissed her that night on the
Belvedere
and done things Reggie would lock her in her room for a year for doing—if he only knew about them.

“It’s all right, only don’t do it again.”

“I can’t ever kiss you again?”

She waggled an admonishing finger in his face. “
If
I ever let you kiss me again, you had better stop when I want you to.”

He squeezed her hand. “I promise. Really, Anne. I’m sorry I—”

Reggie marched into the room. “You’re sorry you
what
, young man?”

Jeffrey seemed to have been momentarily struck dumb by Reggie’s unexpected appearance, so Anne improvised. “He’s sorry he can’t go with us to the cemetery.”

Reggie looked sour. “
Is
he? He should thank his lucky stars he doesn’t have to escort Katherine Grimms to the resting places of the three unfortunate men she called husband. It certainly gives
me
pause.”

Katherine swept into the room, her arms full of white chrysanthemums. “Are you afraid of bogeys, Reginald, or is it voodoo? I daresay you won’t find either at a Christian cemetery during the full light of day.”

Reggie sucked in his cheeks and puffed out his narrow chest. “After spending a month under your roof, Katherine, I daresay I shan’t be afraid of anything ever again. I was only anticipating that I might be overcome with sympathy for your departed husbands. Not because they died, mind you, but because they were each once leg-shackled to you!”

Katherine laughed out loud, a hearty laugh that made all the crystal in the room sing. “Reginald, sometimes you’re downright amusing. If you don’t watch out I might set my cap for
you!
And you’ve seen what happens to all my husbands.”

Apparently Reggie found this lightly delivered threat absolutely petrifying, much scarier than ghosts or even voodoo curses, called gris-gris by the superstitious locals. His mouth fell open, and he suddenly developed a pronounced twitch in his right eye. Anne and Jeffrey could barely contain their amusement as Reggie hastily excused himself and backed out of the room.

Laughing, Anne asked, “Do you think he’ll still come, Aunt Katherine?”

Katherine buried her nose in the fragrant bouquet of flowers she held against her large bosom. “Oh, he’ll come,” she said. “Much as he dislikes the whole business, he’d never think of letting us go alone. He’s too much of a gentleman—and a fusspot over you—to neglect his perceived ‘duty.’ Shall we go, dear?”

Jeffrey said good-bye, catching Anne’s eye with a significant loverlike look that made Anne’s stomach a little queasy. She was very afraid she was going to have a problem on her hands if Jeffrey continued to act like a mooncalf over her.

Katherine had planned their visit to the St. Louis Cemetery to coincide with the hour when most of the Catholic Creole population would be at Mass. That way, the cemetery would be much less crowded. They alighted from the carriage and walked through the neat rows of tombs, which had been whitewashed prior to All Saints’ Day by the families of the departed. Because of the high water table in the area, there were no underground graves.

The tombs were of varying shapes and sizes, and there were tall oak, magnolia, and loblolly pine trees scattered around the well-kept grounds. Everything was so bright and clean, Anne didn’t find the experience the least bit depressing. And there were flowers everywhere.

They had parked closest to the Protestant section of the cemetery, which was fenced off from the Catholic-only section and the area in the back that was specifically designated for the burial of blacks. Katherine and her first husband had bought a substantial plot of cemetery ground, and she had since put each of her husbands to rest in tombs that adjoined one another.

“There’s still plenty of room for my own tomb, although I hope I won’t be taking up residence any time soon,” Katherine joked.

Katherine, Reggie, and Anne were standing in front of the tombs, the latter two casting their eyes over the epitaphs inscribed on the front of each.

While Katherine began arranging flowers on the end tomb, Reggie’s attention remained fixed on the epitaph of her first husband. He looked grave and thoughtful. Anne moved closer and read over his shoulder, “Herein lies my beloved husband, Nathaniel, and our son, David. May the angels rejoice in the arrival of two splendid, soaring souls who enriched my life beyond my dearest dreams.”

Anne was shaken. “Aunt Katherine? I didn’t know you had a son.” She and Reggie looked at each other, then looked at Katherine, who kept her back to them as she continued with her task.

“Oh, well, I don’t suppose I talk about it very much. I told your mother and father years ago, right after it happened.”

“They never said anything.”

“It was so long ago, I daresay they might have forgotten. They knew I didn’t like talking about it.”

Instantly chagrined, Anne said, “I’m sorry, Aunt Katherine, I didn’t mean to bring up something painful to you.”

“I thought you might notice the inscription. I guess I should have prepared myself for the possibility.” She turned around, her face flushed. She smiled, but Anne detected a sheen of tears in her eyes. “Nathaniel was killed in a riverboat accident. I was eight months pregnant at the time, and the shock brought on labor. The baby—I called him David after his paternal grandfather—didn’t survive.”

She smiled again, the corners of her mouth trembling a little as she seemed to reminisce. “He was beautiful, just like his father. Nathaniel and I had intended to have several children, but life doesn’t always cooperate with one’s plans. And complications during the delivery made my chances for more children impossible, so I was very lucky, indeed, to find two wonderful men after that who loved me even though I was barren.”