Arms of a Stranger (9 page)

“Not all Creoles are as frivolous as I am, you know. With her limited experience, and within her limited sphere of influence, my mother is strong, loyal, and loving.”

Anne felt the heat suffusing her cheeks again. “You are gently chastising me for my mocking comment that night at the opera, my implication that I do not admire Creole women and would never want to emulate them. I was wrong to lump them all together.” Anne smiled sheepishly. “I fancy myself so fair and unprejudiced, then I say something so bigoted.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, we all make mistakes. In our dealings with people, we so often find that there is more than meets the eye.”

It was suddenly overcast again and had started to sprinkle lightly. Anne hardly noticed, because she was staring at Delacroix, dwelling on his last words. At last she said, “I quite agree with you, Mr. Delacroix. For example,
you
present yourself to the world as a frippery sort of fellow, but there seems to be much more beneath your light facade.”

He laughed harshly. The sound was unexpected, intrusive. He stood up and extended his hand. “Are you rested, mademoiselle?” His arrogant drawl was back in full force. “It begins to rain. Besides, I should not wish for your uncle to think I’d absconded with his niece. I haven’t dueled in a fortnight, and I don’t wish to interrupt such a long stretch of good conduct. I promised my mother, you see.”

“I’m quite rested,” she replied stiffly, offended again. It seemed Dandy Delacroix’s moods were mercurial, and the man’s character too complicated to understand. She took his hand and stood up, but when she tried to pull free, he held fast. Then, with a little tug, he had her next to him, face to face, with only inches between them.

“Wh-what are you doing, Mr. Delacroix?” she mumbled, her gaze resting on the sly slant of his finely molded lips.

“I’m thinking of proving to you that I am, indeed, quite wicked, mademoiselle. I only promised my mother that I wouldn’t duel. I never said I’d refrain from seducing frisky females in the cemetery.”

Anne felt mesmerized. She watched as he bent his head and his lips drew closer, then curved in a rueful smile.

“It is customary to close one’s eyes when one is about to be kissed,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes. But instead of the warmth of Delacroix’s lips, Anne felt the first cool drops of rain. An instant later it was storming in earnest, large drops of water felling in buckets.

“Lucky girl,” he murmured. “Saved by Providence on All Saints’ Day.” Then he hurried Anne along, back toward the Protestant section of the cemetery and the shelter of her aunt’s closed carriage. Dazed and bemused, Anne moved like someone in a dream. Later, much later, she would try to understand what had happened, and why she’d almost let him kiss her…

“I
n England a woman of quality would never send her niece out on a shopping errand,” grumbled Reggie, trailing Anne closely as she meandered through the stalls of the marketplace with a large basket dangling from her elbow. “That’s what servants are paid for, for heaven’s sake.”

Anne bent to examine a bunch of plump purple grapes. “Everyone comes to the market,” she said, paying for the grapes and placing them in the basket. “That’s probably one reason why I enjoy running these little errands for Aunt Katherine. At the market all races and social classes mix harmoniously.”

“I don’t know how you can describe a place with so much discordant noise as being harmonious,” argued Reggie, waving away a grinning mulatto boy who was hawking brass bracelets he’d cleverly displayed by adorning his own thin arms.

Feeling festive and hoping to improve her uncle’s disgruntled mood, Anne stopped a pretty girl who was selling
boutonnières
and bought one for Reggie. It was a tiny bouquet of Spanish jasmine, carnations, and violets.

“Here, hold my basket, Uncle.”

“I’m happy to take your basket. I’ve been wanting to carry it for you all afternoon. But you’re as stubborn as your aunt—what’s this? What are you doing, Anne?”

“I’m pinning this
boutonnière
to your lapel. Perhaps the beauty of it and its sweet smell will lighten your mood!” Having completed her task, she patted her uncle’s arm and smiled up into his face. He was peering skeptically down his nose at the cluster of flowers, but even as Anne watched, his expression softened. He lifted the lapel and inspected the
boutonnière
closely. “Humph! They
are
rather lovely, aren’t they?”

“Yes, you gruff old goat. Now smile for me, please.”

Reggie tried hard to be uncooperative, but eventually a smile emerged from beneath his large mustache. He pinched her chin. “You’re a minx, Anne. But if you really want my mood to improve, might I suggest we find a place to sit down? My feet are killing me.”

“There’s a coffee shop just over there,” said Anne, standing on tiptoe and pointing. “Wouldn’t you like a cup of coffee, too, Uncle Reggie?”

Reggie grunted, which Anne took for a yes. She knew he hated to admit that he had come to enjoy coffee almost as much as tea. They wove through the crowd and found an empty table and two chairs, and Reggie ordered for them both. Reggie had barely set down the basket and heaved a weary sigh when Anne saw him wince.

“What is it, Uncle Reggie?”

“Oh, it’s that tiresome swain of yours. You’d think we could pass one day in peace without running into the fellow.”

Anne glanced around the marketplace. “My swain? Who can you mean?” For one ridiculous moment, she thought of Delacroix. The fact that she’d nearly allowed the scoundrel to kiss her must have muddled her brain! She had regretted her weakness a thousand times since that fateful afternoon in the cemetery. Delacroix was not the kind of man on which a sensible woman would risk her heart.

“Don’t look,” whispered Reggie, slumping in his chair. “Maybe he won’t see us—drat! Too late!”

Anne turned in her seat and saw Jeffrey striding toward them, a broad smile on his handsome face. “Why, it’s Jeffrey! Sit up, Uncle Reggie, you look very sulky and rude in that posture.”

Reggie begrudgingly sat up and composed his face into a semblance of politeness.

“Anne! Fancy bumping into you!” Jeffrey tipped his hat to Anne and nodded respectfully to Reggie.

“I don’t suppose you recall last night at dinner when Anne told you we were coming to the market this afternoon?” said Reggie peevishly.

Jeffrey shrugged, looking ingenuous. “Did you, Anne? Well! I’m terribly glad to see you.”

“Yes, it’s been all of eighteen hours since you last saw her,” drawled Reggie.

“Only eighteen hours?” said Jeffrey with feigned shock. “But it feels like a lifetime.”

Anne laughed. “You goose. Sit down and join us for a cup of coffee. And don’t mind Uncle Reggie. He doesn’t like these jaunts to the market. They put him in a bit of a snit.”

Reggie sniffed and said nothing, pretending to watch the people as they passed by. Anne still couldn’t understand why Reggie disliked Jeffrey so much. It was probably because he hadn’t gotten past his original opinion that Jeffrey was too “common” for her. But Reggie ought to know that that sort of attitude only made her all the more determined to be Jeffrey’s friend.

When Jeffrey had pulled a chair over and sat down, he inquired, “Where’s your aunt today?”

“She’s visiting a friend of hers, a Madame Tussad. She goes every Saturday and sends Reggie and me on some errand to get us out of the way,” said Anne. “It’s rather mysterious, actually. She always insists on going alone to see her.”

“She’s probably a vulgar acquaintance she doesn’t dare introduce you to, Anne,” opined Reggie. “Delphina Street isn’t exactly a fashionable address.”

“My guess is she’s an invalid, and Aunt Katherine doesn’t wish to appear as though she’s advertising a charity visit. But whoever she is, she’s awfully important, because Aunt Katherine never misses a visit. She goes every Saturday afternoon like clockwork.”

Jeffrey listened politely, but Anne could tell he was indifferent to such mundane chitchat, so she asked, “What are you doing today? Are you researching new information for another article about Renard?”

Jeffrey smiled ruefully. “I believe I’m growing rather jealous of what used to be my favorite subject to write about.”

Anne raised her brows. “Used to be?”

“Sometimes I think my link to Renard is the only thing you like about me, Anne.”

“Don’t be silly. You and I got on swimmingly right from the start. But if you’d rather not talk about Renard—”

“Well, the thing is, I
have
discovered something very exciting about the Fox…” Jeffrey’s voice trailed off, and he glanced nervously at Reggie, who pretended not to listen while he continued to watch passersby. Just then their coffee arrived, and while Reggie fished in his pocket for some coins and ordered another coffee, Jeffrey leaned close to Anne and whispered, “I’ll come over tomorrow night and tell you everything. I’m almost certain I know what Renard has planned next. And I mean to be there when it happens.”

After such a disclosure, Anne didn’t know how she was expected to carry on a normal conversation. She was aflame with curiosity. And now it was her turn to be Jealous. Jeffrey was going to be a part of the excitement! He might even see Renard, which was something she’d longed to do for weeks! If she were a man, she could go with Jeffrey on this adventure, no questions asked.
It just wasn’t fair!
she fumed to herself.

“Have you been to Congo Square yet, Anne?”

“I’m sorry, Jeffrey. What did you say?” She glanced up and saw him looking at her meaningfully. He was trying to convey to her that she was acting oddly and arousing Reggie’s suspicions. She’d been daydreaming, idly stirring her coffee till it was probably tepid. Jeffrey was right; she must put off thinking of Renard till later.

“I said, have you been to Congo Square?”

She took a swallow of coffee and smiled wistfully. “I’ve heard about it. That’s where the slaves gather on Sundays to dance.” Anne gave Reggie an accusing look, which he pretended to ignore. All this pretending was starting to annoy her. “I’ve longed to see it ever since I got here.” Just as she’d longed to see Renard. She figured her chances of seeing either were pretty dim. She felt her spirits flagging.

“Well, tomorrow’s Sunday…” Jeffrey turned to Reggie. “Why don’t we drive down after lunch tomorrow? All of us, sir. You, me, Anne, and Mrs. Grimms, of course. It’s quite a spectacle.”

Reggie sniffed. “By all accounts I’ve heard, it’s a spectacle not fit for a lady’s eyes.”

“Gentleman
and
ladies gather to watch, sir,” said Jeffrey. “Mrs. Grimms has gone quite often in the past.”

“Mrs. Grimms is Americanized, I’m afraid. Our notions of what’s proper and fit for a lady’s eyes—particularly as the entertainment falls on a Sunday—are quite different in England, Mr. Wycliff,” said Reggie with a superior mien. “I promised Anne’s parents to look after her as if she were my own daughter. I pride myself on the fact that I’ve succeeded in doing that admirably well. Pagan dancing is not an activity one watches, particularly on the Sabbath.”

“I’ve always rather thought of it as a cultural lesson, sir,” Jeffrey persisted. “The slaves dance their native dances, using tom-toms and handmade stringed instruments that are rather crude, but which keep up the rhythm splendidly. Their dances are all quite authentic. It’s the one opportunity the slaves have to feel really free, I suppose. Feeling as you do about slavery, and as I know Anne feels, I’d think you’d enjoy seeing the black people participate in an activity indigenous to their true origins.”

“Don’t try to shame me into yielding to you, Mr. Wycliff,” said Reggie with a stem look. “One might have an intellectual or a compassionate curiosity about many things—say, Chinese water torture, or childbirth—but that doesn’t mean one should be allowed to witness them firsthand.”

“Unless you’re a man,” said Anne, matter-of-factly. “Then you might do as you please.”

When Reggie opened his mouth to protest, Anne said, “No, don’t. I don’t want to quarrel today, Uncle Reggie. It’s too beautiful a day for that, and I want to enjoy myself here at the market before it’s time to go home. Jeffrey, didn’t you order a coffee?”

Jeffrey got up to inquire about his coffee, and Anne concentrated on her own quickly cooling drink. She was feeling glum, quite trapped by conventions. And Reggie’s mood had deteriorated again, thanks to Jeffrey’s showing up unexpectedly. She was studying her uncle’s grim face over the rim of her cup when someone else unexpectedly came into view. Delacroix.

Anne could see him in profile as he seemed to be examining a bouquet of orchids. He was with a woman—an incredibly beautiful woman. The quadroon was dressed in an aquamarine tignon and a gown of the same deep, bright blue. She was snuggled close to Delacroix’s side, her thigh flush against his, her long, slim fingers tracing circles on the smooth bulge of his upper arm.

Observing the woman’s behavior, engaged as she was in such a public display of affection, Anne concluded that she must be Delacroix’s mistress. Not even the star-eyed females who flocked to him at parties and the opera had dared to touch him as intimately as this woman did.

An odd feeling was twisting Anne’s insides till she could hardly breathe, the sharp, unpleasant sensation lessening somewhat when she looked away from Delacroix and his mistress. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she was jealous.

Then Reggie saw him. “Good God, there’s Delacroix. I suppose he’ll want to sit with us, too.”

“Don’t you like him, either, Uncle Reggie?” she asked, then added, “At least you can’t accuse him of trying to be my swain.” Anne was distressed to note a trace of wistfulness in her voice.

“Actually, Anne, I do rather like him, though I can’t say why. Maybe, as you say, it’s because he hasn’t chased after you. That wouldn’t do at all. Lord, doesn’t he have a way with the ladies?”

He paused while they both studied Delacroix. Today he was wearing a cream-colored jacket and trousers, making his dark good looks all the more striking. The woman was just as striking in her bright colors and seemed extremely pleased to be exactly where she was—practically plastered to Delacroix’s side.

“They make a handsome couple,” observed Reggie.

“Maybe we shouldn’t look at them,” said Anne, determinedly turning to face Reggie. “If he catches us watching, he’ll come over.”

Reggie’s eyes suddenly widened. “No, now that I see who he’s with, I’m sure he won’t dare to.” He blushed, shot Anne a harried glance, shifted in his chair, and cleared his throat. “That is … I mean…”

Exasperated, Anne shook her head. “It’s all right to say it, Uncle Reggie. I’m not a complete dolt. I know he’s with his mistress. In fact, I figured it out before you did.”

Reggie stiffened and refused to meet Anne’s eyes. “It isn’t proper to discuss such things with you, Anne. And it’s very unladylike of you to try to discuss them with
me
. Suffice it to say, Delacroix’s too much of a gentleman to introduce you to his … er … companion. Even if he sees us, he won’t approach us. Mark my words.”

Wouldn’t he?
Anne wondered.

Maybe it was curiosity that drew her gaze back to the beautiful couple in the contrasting colors. Maybe curiosity kept her eyes fixed to Delacroix’s face as he paid for the flowers, wondering if he’d look at her, wondering if he’d acknowledge her if she caught his attention.

He turned as if he sensed someone watching him. When their eyes met, Anne didn’t flinch. She didn’t look down shyly or pretend to be surprised, or react in any of the coy ways that would have been usual under the circumstances. She boldly held his gaze—the seconds ticking away like the emotion-charged countdown of a firing squad—till
he
looked away. Then he took his companion’s elbow and led her through the crowd and out of sight.

“There are so many things I don’t understand, Uncle Reggie,” said Anne, sighing. “People, feelings, attitudes. It’s all an enigma.”

Reggie watched Jeffrey moving toward them, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, the same self-satisfied smile on his face. “Yes, Anne,” he said tiredly, a deep line appearing between his brows. “There are many things I don’t understand, either. People frequently are not who, or what, they seem.”

Reggie was looking at Jeffrey as he talked, but Anne couldn’t imagine that he was referring to her American friend. She’d never in her life met anyone more open and genuine than Jeffrey Wycliff.

Maybe Reggie was talking about Katherine, who had surprised them both at the cemetery with a soft side she apparently hid most of the time.

Or maybe he was talking about Delacroix. To Anne, Dandy Delacroix was the ultimate enigma, the most perplexing mix of human parts and passions she’d ever met.

She wondered where he was taking his mistress. To a little cottage where a sudden rain shower wouldn’t interrupt their kisses? That awful, unwelcome twisting feeling returned.