Nan Ryan (29 page)

“Are you hungry?” asked Denise and, not giving Nevada time to answer, continued, “Did you know that the best
café au lait
and
beignets
in all New Orleans are served in the Café du Monde right here in the Place d’Armes?” She grabbed Nevada’s hand and led her across the espanlade, still talking. “It isn’t really the Place d’Armes anymore, I know. Hasn’t been for years, but
Grand-mère
Ledet says she’ll never call it Jackson Square. Says Jackson was nothing but a backwoods loud-mouthed ruffian, and how dare they rename her beloved Place d’Armes after such a man!”

Nodding, Nevada prayed Denise’s
Grand-mère
Ledet never learned that she, Miss Marie Hamilton of the Tennessee Hamiltons, was actually Nevada Hamilton, daughter of a whisky-drinking keelboatman. Would Nevada have been invited to go shopping with the aristocratic Ledets? Certainly not.

But they didn’t know, so she spent the long, lovely day shopping and gossiping and laughing with Denise and her mother. In a little shop on Toulouse, Nevada purchased an antique fan for Miss Annabelle, explaining to Denise that she wished to cheer up her companion, knowing full well that the inquisitive Denise would promptly asked what was wrong.

Enjoying being able to have some small secret to share with her new friend, Nevada took Denise’s arm, guided her a few steps away, and whispered, “You won’t repeat what I tell you?”

“I’d allow the
garde de ville
to arrest me and cart me off to the calaboose before I’d utter a word!”

“Well …”—Nevada glanced around—“as you know, Miss Annabelle and I have been in London. We met a remarkable man on the crossing to England. King Cassidy. Dapper, middle-aged, and so rich that the Queen of England herself is poor by comparison. King is—”

Eyes wide, Denise interrupted, “And Miss Annabelle fell madly in love with him, but he already had a wife back.—”

“No, no, nothing like that. But I believe that she did grow quite fond of him. And he of her. You see, they …”

Nevada’s perception of the unlikely attraction between King Cassidy and Miss Annabelle was not far off the mark. She rightly guessed, and shared with her friend, that both the silver king and Miss Annabelle had been victims of unrequited love in their youth and were afraid of being hurt again.

“So you’re saying that Miss Annabelle rejected King Cassidy before he had the chance to reject her, and vice versa,” mused Denise thoughtfully.

“Precisely,” answered Nevada.

“Well, I can certainly understand that. If a man stomped on my heart, I’d be afraid to offer it to another. I’d be a spinster just like Miss Annabelle. Wouldn’t you?”

Nevada’s blue eyes narrowed. “No. No, I wouldn’t.”

“You’d risk having your heart broken a second time?”

“Never!” Nevada too quickly exclaimed, caught herself, smiled, and repeated more softly, “never.”

27

At fifty-five, Quincy Maxwell was still a handsome woman and well aware of it. She had kept her slim figure. Her light chestnut hair was thick and lustrous, with only a few threads of gray. Save for a few wrinkles at the corners of her large green eyes, her face looked much the same as when she was thirty.

If the stately widow had wished, she could have been married any number of times in the past quarter of a century. She did not wish. She enjoyed her life just as it was: Respected mistress of the roomy Lucas Place townhouse in St. Louis’s most fashionable section; revered mother of the one of the town’s most eligible and intelligent young bachelors; envied member of St. Louis’s governing aristocracy.

Quincy Maxwell was very pleased with her existence, very comfortable. The thought of a man in her life, another husband, made her wrinkle her patrician nose in distaste. Save for that short, disconcerting phase more than twenty-five years ago when she had sacrificed herself for money and then was helplessly swept away by the man’s coarse animal passions, she was repelled by the idea of physical love.

Even back then, when she had succumbed to the hungers of the flesh, she had felt dirty and common, ashamed in the cold light of day for the things she’d done in the hot darkness.

That was all behind her now, and she was glad. For twenty-five years there had been no man in her life except her cherished son, and hers was a pleasant, satisfying life.

Quincy Maxwell wanted nothing more than to continue to live out the rest of her days in the Lucas Place townhouse with the dutiful son she loved so much.

Quincy Maxwell frowned.

She must have another serious talk with her son. How many times did she have to point out that it was now up to him to insure their lovely way of life? There was nothing more she could do. She had done her part years ago. Now it was his turn. He was the one who had to see to it. Their future was in his hands—and time was running short.

Quincy Maxwell rose from the small cherrywood secretaire in her upstairs bedroom. She had spent the past half hour handling her correspondence, mainly answering the RSVPs to the season’s many parties. She picked up the stack of envelopes and went downstairs in search of her son.

On that cold Sunday afternoon in December, Malcolm Maxwell was seated in his favorite easy chair before the fire, reading. A tall, slender man with light chestnut hair, green eyes, a straight, narrow nose, and lips so beautifully shaped they were almost femininely pretty, Malcolm was placid, intelligent, and kind.

A professor of literature at Washington University, Malcolm was as content with his life as his mother was with hers. He had his chosen profession, an extensive library of fine books, his poetry club, several stimulating acquaintances, a handful of good friends, and one very dear one. He, like Quincy Maxwell, wanted his life to continue just as it was.

“There you are,” Quincy said, entering the warm library where her son sat reading, his long legs stretched out to the fireplace.

Malcolm’s green eyes lifted to hers. He smiled. “Mother. I thought you had gone out.” He laid the book aside.

“I’m leaving shortly.” She walked to the fireplace, picked up the poker, and carelessly jabbed a smoldering log. “I thought before I left we might have a little talk.”

Malcolm Maxwell tensed. He knew what was coming. “Certainly, Mother.”

She turned to face her son. Crossing her arms over her chest, she smiled and said, “Darling, the social season’s in full swing. So many parties, it’s impossible to attend them all.”

“Such a shame,” said Malcolm.

His mother stopped smiling. Her arms came uncrossed. “Malcolm, don’t be insolent with me. I’ll not have it. There are a number of important parties coming up that I insist you attend.” Her jaw hardened slightly.

Malcolm sighed, beaten. “Very well. Choose the ones you wish to go to and I’ll be happy to escort you.”

Quincy’s smile returned. She stepped forward, put a hand to her son’s cheek. “You’ll enjoy them, dear, if you’ll just give yourself a chance. The Taylors are giving an egg-nog party. The Bradfords a tea. A wine supper, as usual, at the Crowleys’ and … and … oh, yes, those Ledets who moved here recently from New Orleans, they’re having a big New Year’s Eve gala.” She moved her fingers fondly to her son’s temple, stroked the thick chestnut hair.

“Mother, I’ve never even met the Ledets.” He caught her hand in his.

“I know. They have a daughter, Malcolm. She’s nineteen—tall, slender, with lovely red hair. A charming girl.”

“And she’d make some lucky man a good wife?” His light eyebrows lifted accusingly.

His mother snatched her hand from his. “Yes, she would.”

Nevada, Miss Annabelle, and Stryker arrived in St. Louis, Missouri, on the cold but sunny afternoon of Friday, December 29, 1876. A very excited Denise Ledet and her distinguished father, Davis Ledet, were waiting on the river landing to meet them.

Nevada spotted Denise’s bright red hair blazing in the sunshine and began waving furiously. In minutes the two girls were embracing while Davis Ledet greeted Miss Annabelle and shook Stryker’s hand.

At the Ledets’ big Georgian mansion on Thirteenth, the visitors from New Orleans were warmly welcomed by the beaming Mary Ledet and a staff of cordial servants. Within an hour of their arrival the three had been shown to their respective quarters and Nevada and Denise were closeted in Denise’s huge bedroom gossiping and giggling.

“… and on Sunday night we’re having the grandest party this city has ever seen. It’s formal, of course, and Daddy’s hired a full orchestra and Mama’s got the cooks working ’round the clock and she’s ordered so many flowers it’ll take every florist in town and, oh, Nevada, wait until you see my ball gown. You’ll simply die! I mean, it’s cut to
here!
” She stuck a forefinger into the middle of her chest. “Mama says I’ll scandalize everyone and Daddy’ll never allow me to wear it, but I can handle Daddy. We’ll have imported champagne and I’ll bet I get tipsy and you will too, and we’ll have to decide early in the evening who we most want to kiss us at midnight. You do like to kiss, don’t you? I do. I’ve kissed three different gentlemen in my life and—”

“How did you manage?” Nevada laughingly cut in.

“Why, I—what do you mean?” She twisted a fiery curl around her finger.

“I wouldn’t think a gentleman could catch you with your mouth shut long enough to kiss you.”

Denise screamed with laughter. Then said, “I do go on, don’t I? It’s just that I’m excited to see you again.” She laughed again, then added in a naughty whisper, “Besides, a kiss is better if your mouth is open!”

The snow had stopped at nightfall and shortly before nine on New Year’s Eve it was clear and cold and beautiful outside, the pure virgin snow glistening in the glow-of the winter moonlight.

And inside the Ledets’ Thirteenth Street mansion, gas lights blazed and the orchestra tuned and two excited young women dressed for the party.

The diamond-and-sapphire necklace at Nevada’s throat perfectly complemented the shimmering blue ball gown of iridescent taffeta. Denise, lifting the skirts of her pink velvet, hurried excitedly into Nevada’s room, saying, “It’s time, Marie! The guests are arriving and … and …” She stopped speaking, stared openmouthed, and reached out to touch the magnificent teardrop sapphire. “Marie Hamilton! Who gave you that stunning necklace?”

Nevada smiled enigmatically and fingered the glittering diamonds caressing her throat.

Astute, inquisitive, Denise whispered excitedly, “You’ve a rich married lover whose wife is an invalid and he can’t divorce her, but he worships you and you meet secretly and make love and he showers you with jewels and—”

“Denise!” Nevada stopped her and changed the subject. “You look beautiful in the pink velvet.” Her eyes went to the low-cut bodice her friend had promised would scandalize the crowd. It was not nearly so daring as she’d expected. Denise was a tall, slender girl with only gentle curves.

Denise read Nevada’s thoughts. “My bosom may not be as pretty as yours, but I have absolutely gorgeous legs. Only trouble is, I never get to show them.” She made a face. Then grabbed Nevada’s hand and said, “Come on down to the dance.”

Elegantly dressed couples were already turning about on the dance floor when Nevada and Denise swept into the ballroom. Whispering behind her hand, Denise supplied names to the faces gliding past them.

“Oh, look, there’s Professor Maxwell,” she said, nodding to a tall young man standing across the room, drinking champagne. “Malcolm Maxwell is one of the most eligible bachelors in St. Louis. Isn’t he handsome? He’s also from a prominent, moneyed family.”

“Really?” Nevada said. “How is it no woman has managed to catch him?”

Denise shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I understand plenty have tried. That’s Malcolm’s mother standing beside him, talking with Miss Annabelle.”

At that moment Miss Annabelle spotted Nevada and Denise. She smiled and pointed the girls out to Quincy Maxwell, who immediately turned and said something to her son.

Malcolm Maxwell drained his champagne glass, set it aside, and started toward them while Denise squeezed Nevada’s hand and whispered, “He’s coming over. He’s going to ask one of us to dance, I just know it!”

Malcolm Maxwell introduced himself, smiling warmly. He said gallantly, “Would that there were two of me that I might dance with you both.” Then he offered his white-gloved hand to Nevada and led her to the dance floor.

In his arms Nevada smiled up at him and said saucily, “I forbid you to dance with any other woman tonight, Mr. Maxwell.” Astounded, Malcolm made a misstep.

Nevada threw back her dark head and laughed gaily. She and Malcolm Maxwell danced the night away, and by the time the gala ended, Malcolm had asked permission to call on her the next evening. And every evening.

A month after that lovely New Year’s Eve party, Malcolm Maxwell proposed to Nevada.

Her answer was yes.

“Dear, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

“Absolutely.” The carriage, bitting a bump, bucked as though emphasizing Nevada’s answer.

Miss Annabelle, gripping the seat, remained skeptical. “You’ve known Malcolm Maxwell for only six weeks and … and …”—she lowered her eyes—“and what about Cap’n Roulette?”