Ciji Ware (41 page)

Blushing for a second time that evening, Daphne met his glance as Monsieur Hébèrt raised his eyes and resumed an erect posture. No one had complimented her like this except her father… long, long ago, before the greedy bankers, the succession of dead babies, and his melancholy wife had driven him to suicide and changed his daughter’s life forever.

“If you will excuse me, the young duke beckons,” the governor declared jovially.

“Would you care to dance,
mademoiselle
?” Jacques inquired politely. “
C’est une gavotte.
I’m sure you will put these rusty feet of mine to shame.”

Daphne gazed in horror at the lines of dancers preparing to launch into a series of figures that originated as a gamboling French peasant dance.

“Oh… I’ve rarely—”

“Come,
mademoiselle
,” her escort commanded. “I will show you how ’tis done in Paris! Just observe the lifting of my feet, and we shall outshine them all.”

The next hour was a fantasy of fun the likes of which Daphne had not sampled in her entire life. Jacques was a superb dancer, schooled in the French court, and passionately devoted to the terpsichorean arts.

And his manners! Daphne mused, filled with gratitude for the young aristocrat’s effusive attention and the string of compliments he showered on her throughout the evening. He showed her every respect, fetching her refreshments, delicately clasping her hand each time they returned to the dance floor, and bowing often to demonstrate to everyone present his sincere regard.

Jacques Hébèrt was not at all like the younger Simon Hopkins, who had made no secret of wanting to kiss her and had clutched her hand until she had been forced to push him away one moonlit night the previous summer. If Simon would not speak of what he had witnessed that cold, January day when her father had killed himself, Daphne refused to entertain any thought of an alliance, despite the proximity and business ties of Hopkins House to Devon Oaks and her youthful fondness for her neighbor. Her erstwhile suitor had finally given up, and Daphne was relieved that such ardent wooing had now unleashed itself upon Rachel Gibbs, leaving Daphne free to enjoy the attentions of the visiting Frenchman.

At length, when the orchestra paused, Jacques declared, “’Tis insufferably hot in here,
non
?”

Daphne nodded, speculating worriedly that the perspiration she felt soaking her bodice might have made itself known to sensitive French nostrils.

Before she could reply, however, Jacques gestured toward open doors. “Would you join me on the… how you do call it? The veranda?”

Daphne closely regarded the duke’s fellow traveler whose arm she clutched as he swept her past her somber, vacant-eyed mother, who looked for all the world like a skinny black crow sitting next to Simon and Rachel Gibbs. The trio stared curiously as Daphne and Jacques escaped the stuffy ballroom for the balmy night air outside. Simon rose abruptly from his chair, but mercifully did not follow them.

“When we are cool again, I shall fetch you some refreshment and you shall tell this wanderer all about life in this exotic land,” Jacques proposed.

The
poor
man
is
lonely
, reflected Daphne sympathetically. She knew too well the dark despair that loneliness could engender. She smiled faintly and nodded. “Perhaps you will do us the honor of visiting Devon Oaks while you’re here? The countryside is lovely, full of woods and birds and streams. It might make you feel less homesick to see land that would make you welcome.”

“You are too kind.” He sighed heavily. “You are…
sympathique
with my sad fate?”

“
Sympathique
,” she said softly. “Yes… I believe I am.”

They walked down the porch steps and along a garden path until they reached a shadowed arbor, bereft of leaves on this mild February evening.

“When the orchestra has recovered its strength, perhaps you will play an encore on your harp?” Jacques inquired gallantly.

“I fear I will not be a-asked,” she stammered. “I struck a few false notes earlier.”

“’Twas the orchestra that faltered,” he assured her blithely. He paused and indicated a bench where she might sit down. His pale brown eyes looked into hers intently.

“’Twas I who made the mistakes,” she demurred.

“Surely not!” Jacques insisted. “I have witnessed many an entertainment at court and know whereof I speak. You played brilliantly!”

“Are you a royal cousin to His Grace?” Daphne asked shyly, wishing she had her fan to cool her perspiring forehead. She was greatly relieved to be inhaling the sweet-smelling night air and prayed that her overheated face would quickly lose its flush.

Jacques tilted his head and laughed mirthlessly. “Ah…
non, mademoiselle
, I have noble, but no royal blood. I am a
journaliste
. I was known everywhere in Paris as
Le
Terroriste
… for in my newspaper I gave opinions on political affairs, you understand?”

“You were not a royalist?” she asked, startled. “But then, why are you with—”

“I am a Frenchman, and loyal to
La
France
,” he declared in rather a sharper tone of voice than he had used earlier. “The newest
duc
d’Orléans
wants the best for our poor country now—as do I. So we have found common ground.
La
Revolution
has made for strange bedfellows. I quite think my skills with the pen make me valuable to him… do you take my meaning?” he added, with a mysterious smile. “He, the Marquis de Vaille, and I shall do well together when we arrive at
La
Nouvelle
Orléans
.”

Daphne didn’t understand the import of the stranger’s words, but she enjoyed the warmth of his glance and the praise he heaped on her about her performance. After all, surely he had heard the finest music in the world at the French court. Hadn’t her father once told her that the queen herself had been noted for the beauty of her harp playing?

The French visitor’s command of the English language was remarkably good. Jacques explained that in 1793, when blood had flowed in the streets of Paris, the elder Philippe—“Philippe Egalite,” as the father of tonight’s guest of honor had come to be known—paid dearly for his daring and had himself become a victim of
Madame
Guillotine.
His surviving son fled to North America with the hope that he might one day be summoned back to France to assume the vacant throne. Meanwhile, the penniless young royal depended on the kindness of strangers in a land where France no longer held sway.

“Come,
ma
petite
,” Jacques coaxed. He took Daphne’s arm and gently guided her farther down the moonlit path that curved to the right of the governor’s mansion, its windows aglow with candlelight. “You must tell me more about this great Mississippi River of yours. How far is it beyond
La
Nouvelle
Orléans
until one arrives at the Caribbean Sea? We hear that the plantations are
magnifique
in that part of the world and that a thousand slaves do one’s bidding night and day.”

***

Jacques fervently hoped that the Marquis de Vaille was spying on them through the ballroom window, as his companion would be forced to admit that their wager had nearly been decided. Seducing this pathetic bit of Natchez fluff in a single evening would be child’s play, with the added bonus that he would relieve her of her diamond jewelry, and the marquis would have to stand him to a good cognac—that is, if they could secure one in this godforsaken outpost!

The necklace and earrings belonging to this gullible
jeune
fille
would come in extremely handy. He would certainly need to have new clothes and a decent mount in order to impress the widows and orphans who clung to their plantations in Santo Domingo—or whatever the island was called where they had been assured their fortunes were to be found.

Jacques summoned a practiced melancholy smile to his lips and gazed at the moon as he recounted the horror that had befallen his family in France.

“Forgive me,
mademoiselle
, for burdening you with the sad tale of my parents’ fate.”

“Oh, ’tis no burden,” she assured him in hushed tones. “’Tis indeed tragic that your mother and father met such a terrible end. I am touched that you should honor me with your trust, for I know, myself, how heartbreaking such violent losses can be.”

He could see that Daphne Whitaker had been deeply moved by his solemn recitation of the mournful last mile to
Madame
Guillotine’s
embrace—a tale he had invented out of whole cloth to deify a drunken sot of a father and a whore of a mother who dwelled in the stews of Paris to this very day. How fortunate for him that the governor had unwittingly disclosed details about the plantation heiress’s unfortunate situation—the tragic death of Daphne Whitaker’s sire and the instability of a
maman
whose perpetual melancholy rendered her a poor guardian of her daughter’s virtue.

However, he would have to proceed swiftly and cleverly, for he’d spied the girl’s black house servant watching him closely when he guided his intended prey out onto the veranda. He would woo the moony
mademoiselle
, pierce her maidenhead, and depart by dawn’s light with her jewels. He’d collect de Vaille’s wager once their barge arrived in
La
Nouvelle Orleans.

He slowly extended his hand and fondled an earring, saying softly, “
Sacre
coeur
, but you are as lovely as the greatest beauties I ever saw at Versailles. I never thought to find such a flower in this wilderness.”

Daphne Whitaker raised her chin and said with more spirit than she’d shown all evening, “Natchez, sir, is considered among the finest cities on this continent. New plantation houses are being built each year, and the town itself has many fine mansions to its credit. If you gaze around the ballroom, you will find many women pleasant to behold.”

“But no jewel as dazzling as you,” he whispered softly. “I must see you again. I must—”

Daphne had the expression of a startled deer, and took a step backward just as a voice bellowed from the shadows.

“I fear I must interrupt this unseemly exchange.”

Daphne whirled in her satin slippers and went slack-jawed. Stalking down the path were two gentlemen of similar aspect, but far different age.

“How dare you, sirs?” Jacques said icily.

“You are taking savage advantage of our hospitality, my man, to entice my ward into such a compromising situation. I am Simon Hopkins, and this is my son, whom I am pleased to say noticed your actions and hastened to inform me that you—”

“You have been
spying
on me!” Daphne looked scathingly at the younger Hopkins, and Jacques instantly sensed that she held no fondness for the young man who had summoned his
père.
Her eyes flashed and her hands formed fists beside the folds of her ghastly green gown. “How dare you presume to treat me as a child. I’m practically as old as
you
are!”

“That is of no import whatsoever,” the elder gentleman replied heatedly. “You are my ward and my responsibility, Daphne, and if you have no better sense than to slip into the shadows with a knave like this, then I must, perforce, save you from your own folly.” He seized Daphne’s hand and addressed his namesake. “Son, should you be thinking of anything so foolhardy as to challenge this villain to a duel, I command you as my only heir to
desist
.” Then he turned to address Monsieur Hébèrt directly. “By dawn tomorrow,” he declared in tones dripping with disdain, “you, sir, and the other dishonorable wastrels who call themselves
noblemen
will be miles downstream, and we
Americans
shall have no need to dirty our hands with you.”

Jacques took a step forward and glared at the intruders. “I, sir, demand satisfaction from you and this ill-mannered pup.”

“Father?” Sim said, his fists clenched in fury. “How can we stand by and—”

The elder Hopkins ignored his son. “Monsieur, you’ll not say another word to my son or to my ward. Simply make your farewells to your host, Governor Gayoso, as if nothing is amiss. Then you will immediately retire to your quarters on the barge. If not, I shall personally escort you to my plantation, and there shoot you myself. Do you understand what I’ve just said, or shall I translate it into French?”