5

With a tray of dirty champagne flutes balanced in her hands, Scarlet stood on the back porch, facing the freestanding kitchen. Music and conversation poured through the open French windows at the front of the house, lashing her skin like the thongs of a poisoned whip. Not for you. Not for you, girl. No dancing, and don’t speak to the guests, even if the same blood runs through your veins.

How had Lyse come to be in Madame’s salon dressed like a French doll? She’d nearly dropped that whole tray of sparkling drinks, so unbelievable was the sight of her cousin promenading on the Spaniard’s arm. Judging by the masterful way he had managed Madame this afternoon in the Emporium—she had been all but cooing as he extricated Lyse from her talons—he must have been the one to arrange for Lyse’s invitation. She’d heard it said that Spanish men came equipped from birth with a certain hubris, an awareness of masculinity and authority that emanated from their pores like an exotic scent.

Scarlet was the one who had borne the brunt of Madame’s sharp temper afterward. Questions, all the way home from the Emporium. Why would Don Rafael entrust so much money to barefoot, dirty-skinned Lyse Lanier? Why had Scarlet thought it permissible to ignore her mistress and converse with free persons in a public place?

With nothing to be gained by arguing or explaining, Scarlet had remained silent, further angering her mistress. If she hadn’t been needed to help prepare for the party, Scarlet would doubtless have spent the rest of the day, hungry and alone, in the windowless carriage house. And she wouldn’t have spoken to Lyse—which had only gotten her into further trouble.

She shut her eyes against useless tears. With Madame, there was no peace. Every second she stood here invited reprimand and punishment. Oh, how she missed her mother. Her father, a field hand who had been sold when she was a young child, was barely a memory. But Maman had had a way of reminding her whose bondservant she really was. That persecution was God’s purification tool. That joy was more than beautiful clothes and rich food.

But God had taken Maman away too. Last summer she had died in Scarlet’s arms, gripped by a fever that came with an infected tooth, of all things. Madame had been so angry to have lost her seamstress that she almost sold Scarlet in a fit of pique. But M’sieur intervened, gently reminding his sulking wife of Scarlet’s value as a breeder and her talent with a needle, that Madame would not likely be able to replace her for the money. He’d given Scarlet a compassionate, cautioning look that told her to keep quiet.

M’sieur would release her if he could afford to do so. He had once told her so. But he could not, and that was that. She was lucky that she had been mated with the Dussouys’ young blacksmith, though they couldn’t legally enter into a marriage contract. Cain treated her with shy, inarticulate respect bordering on terror, and she liked him well enough. Her circumstances could be much worse. The field slaves were considered livestock. At least she lived in the house, in a room off Madame’s bedchamber where her clothes were stored. She followed Madame to church every Sunday morning and sat in the balcony with the other slaves, and she was allowed to spend the afternoon with Cain and his parents and two older sisters.

She almost had a family.

But Lyse was her family. Same blood. Free blood under God.

Pulled by some compulsion outside herself, she carefully set the tray of flutes down upon the porch, away from the door so that they wouldn’t be knocked over, then crept down the porch steps and ducked under a low limb of the magnolia tree beside the house. The night was dark and still, thick with spring fog, the ground moist and cool under her bare feet. As she slipped around to the front of the house, the violins grew louder, harmonizing with the music in her head, and the rhythm tugged at her feet until she was dancing. If she were caught here, she would be whipped, but she couldn’t make herself go back.

From the shadows, she watched the swirling guests through the window, and Lyse went by, still on the arm of the Spaniard. She was looking up at him, eyes sparkling like jewels, her black curls beginning to escape from their beribboned tower to dangle against the low neckline of her dress. He bent his head to listen to her, his eyes full of some smoky emotion of which Lyse seemed unaware.

Scarlet caught her breath, pierced by unwanted but inevitable envy.

Not for you, never for you.

She sank to her knees, her heart bleeding aloud. “God, my Father,” she whispered. “Oh, God, my rock and my fortress, my master. Is this truly your will? I’m asking again—deliver me, set me free! I’ll serve until you do, but oh, God, rescue me from this bitterness.” She bent forward, wrapping her arms about her head, heaving silent sobs. There was no knowing how long she lay there before finally she sat up, spent, aching with weariness and sadness, and dried her swollen face with her apron. “Behold the handmaid of the Lord,” she sighed. “Be it unto me according to thy word.”

Rafa whistled through his teeth. “Your papa was engaged to the Harpy? Truly?” Now this was a turn he had not seen coming.

“Yes—when she was Mademoiselle Isabelle Hayot, and Papa was very young and ignorant. The match was arranged by their parents. You must know that my family has not always been so down on the luck.” She gave him a quick sideways glance, as though daring him to contradict her. “The Laniers came from Canada to Louisiana with Iberville and Bienville, before even the Hayots. Their family is in the transport business as well.”

“But—”

“Be patient, m’sieur, and I will explain. There are two branches of the Lanier family—one being descendants of Tristan Lanier, who settled his family at Mobile Point, near the mouth of the bay; the other, those of his younger brother Marc-Antoine, a soldier of the French Marine. The two lines came together when Marc-Antoine’s son Charles—Chaz, as he is sometimes called—married Tristan’s adopted daughter Madeleine. My grandpére Chaz founded the shipping business and had two sons, my papa being the younger. He was, perhaps, more handsome and impulsive than wise, as things turned out . . .”

Rafa waited while she gathered her thoughts, her expression far away in a distant past. A deep love of story and a natural curiosity fueled his sense that there was more to this lovely young woman than met the eye.

After a moment, she blinked and went on. “As I said, the Hayot and Lanier family businesses were about to be joined by the marriage of Isabelle to Antoine. As a wedding gift, Grandpére Chaz sent my papa to New Orleans with money to buy a ship. But as you know, the slave market is located near the waterfront.” She paused, as if this non sequitur might explain everything.

He made a noncommittal sound. “Yes. I have seen it.”

“Well, Antoine stopped to observe the proceedings, as he had not seen it before. As it happened, there was a beautiful young woman for sale that day, a mulatto with café-au-lait skin and lips like ripe berries.”

He glanced at Lyse’s lush mouth. “So he bought her instead of the ship.”

“Yes.” She made a face. “But my papa was not content to bring home the beautiful slave instead of a ship. He must set her free and have the priest say words over them, so that she is bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh!”

“He married a slave? Your mother was a slave?” He should have made the connection before, and not just in the honeyed pigment of her skin, the springing curl of her hair. Not that her manners were coarse, for they were not—but there was something of-the-earth, something as fresh and natural as seawater, in her expression. And he knew with sudden clarity that, when the time came, Lyse would deeply feel and understand the ideal of freedom.

She shook her head. “She was a freewoman when I was born. But she and Papa didn’t have an easy time of it. Grandpére Chaz wouldn’t disown his son, but he was enraged that he lost the money for the ship and refused to give him more. The Hayots, of course, were insulted beyond redemption, and there has been bad blood between the families ever since.”

“Ah. And thus the shrilling of the Harpy.”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“But what has this to do with the girl named Scarlet?”

She stopped walking, turned to face him. “Look at me, m’sieur. Can you not see it? Our mothers were sisters.”

He did as she invited, for a long moment. He saw the rarity of a soul who dared take on someone else’s battles, housed in a woman unaware of her own translucent beauty. Dangerous words trembled on his tongue. To keep them from spilling, he looked away. Finally, he managed lightly, “I see that you feel guilty for something that is not your fault.”

“But that’s just it! How could I be so wretchedly cruel as to come here with you—dressed this way, to flaunt my freedom in front of Scarlet—” Her voice wobbled. “Whose fault is that but my own?”

“Señorita—Lyse, listen to me.” He leaned close and spoke quietly, urgently. “You will not help your cousin by raising these sorts of questions in such company as this.”

“Then where am I to raise them? In church?” She laughed. “The people in this room are all good Catholics who attend mass regularly. And if they don’t own slaves, it’s only because they can’t afford them.”

“I agree that there is much injustice all around, and I understand and admire your compassion and love for Scarlet. But we are all buffeted by circumstances that can either shape us into people of strength and character—or make us bitter and vindictive.”

The thick, heavy lashes slowly lifted until she met his eyes. “You would have liked my grandmére Madeleine. She said something like that to me once.”

“She sounds like a woman of great good sense.” He smiled. “And remember, little cousin, things are not always what they seem.” Praying he had not just unwrapped a carefully laid cover, he took her gloved hand and pulled her toward the center of the room, where a cotillion was beginning to form. “Now let us dance away these sober cobwebs before Cinderella must return to her stepmother’s clutches.”

Through the black lace oak trees lining Conception Street, Lyse caught glimpses of the moon, a bright white crescent in a star-spangled sky, as Rafa drew the horse up in front of the Redmonds’ cottage. She should have been exhausted after such an emotionally and physically taxing day. Yet the nerves pinged along her skin, and she found herself reluctant to bid her escort good night.

She waited while he jumped out and wrapped the reins around the hitching post at the end of the carriageway, then she leaned forward so he could take her hand and help her to the ground. Instead he reached up, grasped her waist, and swung her down directly in front of him. Caught by surprise, she stood in the shadowy yard, looking up at him.

“You’re sure Miss Daisy knew you were coming back here?” His voice was quiet, deep, lending an air of conspiracy to the fact that they were alone in the darkness.

“Yes.” She should have stepped back, should have run for the side door of the house. But as she’d told him, she wasn’t a proper society maiden. And she wasn’t ready for him to leave.

But he seemed to be aware of the proprieties. “Good, then I’ll walk you to the door.” He tucked her hand through his elbow. “Are you glad you came?”

What a question! Her first time to attend a party in the wealthy part of the city. Her first time to dress like a young lady. Her first dance with a gentleman who wasn’t a relative. Those three things might never happen again, but like Cinderella she’d be able to tell stories to her children about it all. She stopped, hugging Rafa’s arm.

He looked down at her in surprise. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I—” She cleared her throat, suddenly embarrassed. “I just wanted to say thank you. For—for making me go, for making me feel like a princess just for one night.” Before she lost her nerve, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “No one has ever treated me this way before.”

She was about to run, but he caught her hand and stepped in front of her. “Wait. I think there is a misunderstanding.”

“What do you mean?” A huge magnolia tree blocked the moonlight and shadowed his face. She wasn’t exactly afraid, but there was an odd timbre to his voice, something that lit more little pinpricks of excitement under her rib cage.

“You think I feel sorry for you?”

“Well, of course you do,” she said stoutly. “You are a very wealthy man, a very kind man, and I—”

“I am not kind. And I don’t feel sorry for you.” He stepped closer, as he had when the minuet brought them palm to palm, only this time the force of his personality seemed to wrap all the way around her, softening all night sounds, absorbing and focusing all light so that she could look nowhere except his eyes. “Eres bella, mi corazón.”

The words might have been breathed on the wind, except she felt them against her lips just before . . . oh! Nothing, nothing in the poverty of her hardscrabble young life, had prepared her for the lush, full-blown kiss of a true courtier. He kissed and kissed her, then after a moment cupped her face with one big hand, pressing the pad of his thumb beneath her lower lip, breaking the kiss only to slant his head the other way and start again. This soldado of amor held her prisoner with nothing but sweet words and honeyed mouth, and if she didn’t get away from him now, this very minute, she was going to break every promise she had ever made to her dear departed Grandmére, and there would be no going back to the before.

She jerked her mouth away with a little squeal, shoving against his chest.

He instantly let her go, stood there breathing hard, as if he’d just run a long distance.

There was a long, humming silence, during which they stared at one another like combatants in a war.

“Lyse!” he finally burst out. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.” She put both hands to her cheeks. She felt feverish as with some illness. “I brought it on myself. I—I threw myself at you, like a—but I only meant friendship, though it mustn’t go any further because my brother would kill you and then I would have to—”

“Lyse! Stop it!” Now he was laughing at her, reaching out one of those beautiful seductive hands for hers.

Humiliated, she took another step back. “Yes, I’ll stop it. So, good night, Don Rafael.” She bobbed a curtsey. “I thank you for the treat of the party, and I wish you safe travels, for I won’t be seeing you again. I have to go home in the morning, and please give my kind regards to your maman and your sister—”

“I said stop it!” This time he reached her in one long stride, seized her face in both hands, and branded her with one more brief, searing kiss. He laid his forehead against hers and muttered, “The only way to shut you up.”

She closed her eyes and stood in his embrace, defeated. “I don’t know what you want,” she whispered.

“I don’t want anything, you crazy infant. I’m only astonished you haven’t pulled your knife on me. Except . . . perhaps you like me a little?”

“I like you more than a little,” she admitted. “I think that is the problem. But even a barefoot Creole like me knows a lady doesn’t kiss a man who is not her husband upon the lips.”

He sighed. “Well . . . perhaps it was a little outside the pale, but let us blame it on the moonlight and the scent of honeysuckle and begin again. Sí?”

She peeped up at him but saw only apparent sincerity along with gentle humor in his face. “All right.”

He looked relieved. “Bueno. You are perfectly safe with me, I promise. We are friends again, si?”

“Yes. But I really have to go inside. Daisy will be worried.”

“I have a few more days in Mobile before I must return to New Orleans. Will you take me fishing before I go?”

“You like to fish?” Somehow she found that surprising.

“I adore fishing almost as much as dancing, though not as much as kissing.”

She laughed. “Perhaps I might teach you a thing or two.”

He gave her that charming, raffish grin and kissed her hand. “You may teach me anything you wish, my princess. Now run away to your friend before I forget I am a gentleman who always keeps his promises.”

She ran, but couldn’t resist one more look over her shoulder as she reached the door. He had climbed into the carriage and sat looking at her in the moonlight. When he lifted a hand, she hurried inside.

She stood with her back against the kitchen door, one hand pressed to her lips. Dear Lord in heaven, what had just happened?

“Lyse? Is that you?”

The scared whisper startled Lyse away from the door. A single candle flared, illuminating Daisy’s yawning face and nightgowned figure halfway down the back stairs.

“It’s me,” Lyse said. “I’m sorry to wake you. I was just coming up.”

“What time is it?”

“I’m not sure. Midnight maybe?”

“I should have come with you.” Daisy peered at her as if expecting some injury. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.” Lyse touched her hair, hoping there was no overt evidence of Rafael’s embrace. “It was a lovely party.”

Daisy looked doubtful for a moment, then suddenly smiled. “I’m glad. You deserve to have a good time now and then.” She held out the hand that wasn’t holding the candle. “Come up to my room and tell me about it.”

Lyse took her hand and followed her friend up the stairs, carefully holding the skirt up so she wouldn’t tread on it. “Is your papa asleep?” she whispered. Daisy’s father’s room was on the other side of the large house, but she didn’t want to disturb him.

“I think so. He was working late, writing a letter to Colonel Durnford and Governor Chester. He’s worried about what the French will do now that they’ve joined the rebels. It’s getting harder to get supplies into the ports.”

“I know. There was talk about that at the party.” She didn’t mention Monsieur Dussouy’s fear of the Spanish joining the war. There was no need to frighten Daisy with rumors.

They reached the landing and turned right, where the door of Daisy’s bedroom stood open. They went in, and Daisy shut the door behind them. She set the candle on the bedside table and turned Lyse around to help her undress. “I’m amazed you stayed dressed up for so long,” she said, unhooking the heavy capelike train while Lyse worked on unfastening the bodice front. “I remember the first time I wore this dress, I had a headache nearly the whole time!”

Lyse peeled out of the bodice and let it fall, then untied the tapes of the skirt and petticoat. With a little shimmy, she let both drop to the rug and stepped out of the pile of fabric. “I’m glad you made me practice moving around your room and walking up and down the stairs, or I never would have managed!” Laughing softly, she removed the padded bum roll from around her hips and tossed it in a corner. “Some man must have invented that contraption!”

“No doubt.” Giggling, Daisy steered Lyse to the stool at her vanity table. “Here, sit down. I’ll take your hair down while you come out of the corset.” With a quick yank, she untied the bow of the corset tapes at Lyse’s back waist.

“Oof!” Lyse let out a relieved breath, then sucked in another one to the bottom of her lungs. “Oh my, that feels good!” She closed her eyes and relaxed while Daisy began to pluck out hairpins and toss them onto the vanity. “I don’t know how you dress this way nearly every day.”

“You get used to it.” Daisy fished the toque from the thick mass of Lyse’s hair and dropped it into her lap. “But I don’t dress up this much all the time. The children don’t expect the latest fashion.”

“Neither do the dock workers. And I know my brother would love you if you wore a sack and pigtails.”

Daisy smiled, and both girls fell silent. It occurred to Lyse that the Harpy, as Rafa had dubbed Madame Dussouy, would be scandalized to see the commander’s daughter thus serving the offspring of a former slave. If Daisy’s mother had lived to train and mentor her, Daisy would undoubtedly have been less likely to straddle the social boundaries that separated her and Lyse. As it was, the girls’ mutual state of motherlessness allowed them to move seamlessly in and out of each other’s worlds.

Finally, attired in a borrowed nightgown, hair combed and braided for the night, Lyse climbed into the bed beside Daisy, who blew out the candle and lay back as well.

“I wish you could stay here all the time,” Daisy said on a yawn. “I always wanted a sister.”

“Mmm.”

It was a sentiment Daisy had repeated often over the years, the first time a summer afternoon shortly after Lyse’s mother died. Lyse had been sitting on the steps outside her grandfather’s office, a book in her lap, tears dripping off her chin onto the page. Daisy, walking past with her governess, stopped to ask what was wrong. Unable to articulate the depth of her misery, Lyse simply shook her head.

Daisy, ignoring the fact that her governess had already turned the corner of the street, sat down beside Lyse. “I’m sorry,” she whispered and sat there quietly until the frantic governess returned for her nearly an hour later.

The girls had become fast friends that day.

But Lyse’s family needed her now, and that was that. She lay on her back, listening to the settling of the old Creole cottage, the chirring of tree frogs outside, Daisy’s soft breathing beside her. The question she’d been dying to ask finally burst out. “Daisy, has Simon ever kissed you? On the mouth, I mean.”

There was a long silence. “That’s a peculiar question,” Daisy said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

“I won’t think badly of you if he has. I just . . . wondered how it happened. If it happened.”

Daisy sighed. “Just once. I told him he mustn’t do it again until . . . well, until we are betrothed.” The bed bounced as she turned on her side and said anxiously, “It was almost an accident. He had come to bring fresh water to the schoolhouse, and I got there early too, so there was only him and me. I dropped my satchel and reached to pick it up at the same time he did, and—and . . .” Finally she said, “So,” as if that explained everything.

Lyse lay quietly for a moment, frustrated. That didn’t sound at all like the cataclysmic event that had just happened between her and Rafael. She put her hand against the fluttering under her ribs. Perhaps it was nothing to be upset about anyway, for Rafa was going back to New Orleans in just a few days, and she would likely never see him again. What was one kiss in the grand scheme of things anyway? As he had said, moonlight and honeysuckle.

“Well,” she said, “thank you for telling me. I just wondered.”

“Lyse.” Daisy suddenly sat up. “You won’t ask Simon about it, will you?”

She was going to be so full of secrets, she would pop. “Of course not. I never talk to Simon anymore, anyway. He’s far too busy.”

“Good.” Daisy lay back down again. “Good night, then, my sister. I’m glad you had a good time.”

“Good night, Daisy. I hope your papa will let you and Simon marry one day. Then we’ll be sisters for real.”

They hugged each other, then turned back to back. Lyse closed her eyes. But it was a long time before she fell asleep.

Shoving his chair back, Rafa laid his napkin across his empty plate and rose. The food and service in the dining room of Burelle’s inn had been extraordinary, on a par with any establishment in New Orleans. But his own company was beginning to pall.

Come, admit it, he admonished himself. You miss her.

He hadn’t seen Lyse for two days, not since kissing her outside the Redmonds’ house. He could have found her, he supposed, except he had been so appalled at his own lack of restraint that he had made himself focus on business to crowd out thoughts of berry-ripe lips and silken skin and jewel-colored eyes.

Ay! Maddening to find himself unable to shut her out for more than ten minutes at a time. He slammed the door harder than necessary as he exited the tavern, then stood with his hands behind his back, observing the foot and carriage traffic on Dauphine Street. At least the town sailmaker had promised to have him under way no later than this afternoon. So he must use the last of his hours in Mobile to gather as much information about the port as he could. Gálvez would expect details of fortifications, armament, citizen loyalty . . . all the things which would determine the success or failure of a Spanish siege.

And attack was inevitable. Gálvez meant to pluck every port along the Gulf Coast, from Natchez and Baton Rouge to Mobile and on over to the final plum, Pensacola. The only question was when. The shipment of gold that Rafa’s ship brought from Madrid was a crucial installment of aid intended for outfitting and arming American soldiers.

He was already late in delivering it. The American Captain Gibson and his crew remained in detention, a sort of luxurious house arrest under Gálvez’s hospitality, awaiting Rafa’s return. In one sense, the delay strengthened the appearance of Spanish neutrality. But Rafa knew that Gálvez would be relieved when the Americans departed New Orleans. British suspicions could be allayed only so long.

“I hope your stay in Mobile has been comfortable, sir,” came a rich, slow voice behind him.

Rafa turned. He’d been so deep in his thoughts he hadn’t heard Burelle’s servant Zander open the tavern door right behind him. The man’s dark skin was creased between the eyes, his hands twisting a towel into an anxious rope.

“I’ve been most comfortable, thank you,” he assured the man. “Good food, clean sheets, prompt service. Please don’t mind my . . . overzealous shutting of the door.”

Zander smiled, clearly relieved not to have been a source of displeasure. “Very good, then. If there be anythin’ else I can do for you, all you need do is ask.”

“No, thank you. Except . . .” Rafa tipped his head. “Zander, how long have you known Miss Lyse?”

The white smile widened. “Since she’s a baby runnin’ the streets with that rascally brother of hers. What one of ’em don’t think up, the other pulls out of mischief’s own workbox.”

“Ah. So you are aware of her family’s circumstances.”

Zander nodded. “I know most things that goes on around this town. People talks whilst they eats, and Joony’s kitchen draws hungry folks.”

Rafa glanced around. Perhaps he had time for one more errand before he left Mobile. “Why do you suppose Lyse’s grandfather refuses to have anything to do with her? He must be quite a wealthy man.”

“Not as rich as some, sir, and I don’ know where you gets that other idea from. M’sieur Chaz, he love Miss Lyse to pieces.”

“But—I assumed from the state of her dress that—” Rafa swallowed his astonishment. “If the old señor loves her so much, why not present her as a young lady, as she deserves?”

Zander’s old eyes took on a thoughtful gleam. “I suppose you could be layin’ that down at the door of M’sieur Antoine’s pride, much as anythin’ else. Antoine, he don’t like to be under his papa’s thumb.”

Rafa recalled Lyse’s story of her father’s rift with his family. Impetuous decisions, no matter their justification, had a way of boxing one in, as he’d found to his cost. He thought of his sails due to be delivered in a few hours, he thought of the gunpowder and gold in the hold of his ship, and he thought of Lyse’s sherry-colored eyes. Impetuous or not, he made up his mind. “Where could the old Señor Lanier be found on a lazy Thursday morning?”

“Nothin’ lazy about M’sieur Chaz. But most days you find him in his office just down the street.” He gave him a few of the building’s details.

Rafa tossed the servant a small coin. “Thank you, Zander. I’ll be back for my sea bag this afternoon and settle up with Burelle then.”

He stepped into the street, which had begun to come alive with distant noises from the docks, the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer just down from the inn, merchants calling their wares from the market. Royal Street was already teeming with foot traffic and the occasional horse-drawn carriage. He began to look for the brick building Zander had described.

Most of the structures of Mobile, like those of New Orleans, went two or three stories straight up, with ornate railed balconies fronting each level and roofed with wooden shingles. Notwithstanding the fourteen years of British occupation, it was still a very French city, with the fleur-de-lys in every wrought-iron design and a predilection for open door-height windows and brightly painted shutters.

Halfway down the street, Rafa stopped in front of a tall, narrow three-story brick building graced with curved iron stairs ascending to its second-level main entrance. A neat sign posted beside the central door proclaimed it the headquarters of Mssrs. Charles and Thomas Lanier, Shipping. He was in the right place, but it seemed Lyse’s grandfather was in business with a relative. Who was Thomas?

Checking the fall of his neckcloth and the lace at his cuffs, he mounted the stairs with his sword rattling. Surely Lyse’s grandfather wouldn’t refuse to see him.

He gave the ornate brass knocker affixed to the paneled door a brisk tap. After a moment, the door opened to reveal a tall, white-haired gentleman in the dark, formal attire of a previous generation.

Eyebrows aloft, the old man looked Rafa up and down. “B’jour!”

Rafa smiled and bowed. “Good morning, sir.” The Laniers were French, but he was more comfortable speaking English. “I am Don Rafael Maria Gonzales de Rippardá, here to see Señor Lanier—Señor Charles Lanier, that is.”

“I am Charles Lanier,” the man responded in the same language. “How may I help you?”

“I am here by reference of Señor Dussouy, whom I met at a social function two days ago. I am given to understand that if a man wants anything shipped to New Orleans, the vessels and captains of Lanier are the best.”

Pride traced the older man’s face. He moved back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

Rafa obeyed and followed the straight back in its outmoded full-skirted coat through a richly furnished reception room, across a Chinese red carpet that matched the silken cushions on a couple of wing-back chairs in a corner. Lyse’s cheerful poverty struck him all over again, and by the time they reached the open door of a fine office, Rafa was struggling to unlock clenched jaws.

“Sit, if you please,” said Lanier, gesturing toward a Louis Quinze chair facing the monstrous seaman’s desk which fronted the open window. A brisk March wind blew the light draperies about and ruffled a stack of papers under a lion-shaped pewter paperweight.

“Thank you, señor,” Rafa said with studied mildness.

Humor quirked the old man’s lips as he sat back in his chair. “You’ve been hanging about the waterfront for nigh on a week, and just now ask for the best shipping the city has to offer.” He steepled knobby dark fingers under his chin. “Young you are, for a man of business.”

Rafa stared. “How do you know how long I’ve been here?”

“There isn’t much goes on in this city that I don’t know about.” A grin lifted the lined face. “I’m also aware you squired my granddaughter to a soirée with those provincial Dussouys the other day too. Which means you’ve come to find out what sort of scoundrel would allow her to run about dressed like a veritable ragpicker, when he could easily clothe her in silks.”

Rafa tried not to look taken aback by this shockingly un-French bluntness. Beyond the words, there was something alien about the old man, a harshness in the shape of the nose, or perhaps it was the flat color of the eyes. Except for the outmoded European clothes, he looked a bit like the Indians Rafa had seen trading in the marketplace. With a shrug he accepted the thrown gauntlet. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

Lanier barked a laugh. “It is, of course, none of your business. But because Lyse seems to like you, I will trade information for information. And in addition I will give you a piece of advice.”

“What would you like to know, señor?” Rafa crossed his legs, all lazy insolence. “My poor brain is an open book.”

“I would like to know what induced Isabelle Dussouy to invite Lyse into her salon.”

Rafa picked up his quizzing glass and twirled it by its velvet ribbon. “Besides my charm and address, you mean?”

Lanier snorted. “Granted, Isabelle might fall for that. But her antipathy for the Laniers is legendary—and perhaps well deserved.”

“You have heard the adage that forgiveness is more readily procured than permission?”

The old man’s expression froze. “A sentiment which all but destroyed Lyse’s father. I would not have her exposed to Isabelle’s spite.”

“Ah, but you see, I am careful to count costs. Señora Dussouy very much wanted the coup of Don Rafael’s presence at her little party.” Rafa paused, observing his companion keenly. Lanier’s black eyes, nearly buried in wrinkles, gave away little, but one strong dark hand gripped the handle of a bronze letter opener with a fierceness that reminded him of Lyse wielding her little knife under the sailor’s chin. “She was in little danger of insult,” he added gently.

“Eh, bah,” the old man growled, tossing the knife upon the desk’s blotter. “You see my frustration that my granddaughter grows into a beautiful young woman—while I am denied even the right to protect her from social harm, let alone make sure she has decent clothes upon her back.”

“It would seem that you brought that denial upon yourself,” Rafa said.

Lanier lurched to his feet and turned his back upon Rafa to stare out the window. “I suppose she told you about the shipwreck that is my son Antoine.”

“I met him. He loves her very much, as does your grandson, Simon. They both guard her like dogs with a valuable bone. As does a rooster-combed young soldier named Niall McLeod.”

Lanier produced a rusty chuckle and looked over his shoulder. “You met young Niall, then? He proposed to Lyse when he was eight years old.”

Rafa didn’t mention the embarrassing scene involving McLeod he’d come upon near the waterfront. “She easily inspires devotion.”

Perhaps he revealed more than he meant after all, for the old man wheeled, scowling. “I suppose you are already in love with her too.”

Rafa lifted the quizzing glass to his eye. “Oh, señor, I am but a vagabond minstrel-cum-merchant, doing my best to cozen the businessman who, I am told, can introduce me to the highest strata of society in your fair city. Acquit me of lasting attachments to any maiden, be she ever so fair.”

“I wonder what my father would have made of you,” Lanier muttered obscurely, fixing him with a suspicious glare. “It would seem there is little of our family history that my granddaughter has not already spilled.”

Rafa grinned. “Perhaps. But it is not her history which I have come to discuss, so much as her present whereabouts. She promised to take me fishing.”

“To take you—” Lanier positively gaped, the black eyes scudding over the lace dripping from Rafa’s wrists and the beautiful tailoring of his fashionable coat.

“Yes, and as I am due to depart Mobile as soon as the winds permit, it had best be now.” Rafa shrugged. “Now please tell me what is this valuable piece of advice you wish to offer.”