Masquerade (20 page)

"Would you swing by the Crescent Line office for me, Flannery, and give this message to my brother Sean?" He hastily scratched it on the paper, folded it, and handed it to the drayman, ignoring angry shouts and raised fists from the drivers of other wagons that had been forced to halt as well.

"Sure I'll be doing it for you, but it's a whiskey you'll owe me, Brodie Donovan," the red-headed Flannery declared as Brodie hopped down.

"Get it in Sean's hands in ten minutes and 'tis a bottle I'll buy you—and not tell your wife."

" 'Tis a deal you've got, and I'll be holding you to it." He cracked the whip above the long ears of the mule team and slapped the reins on their rumps, urging them forward with shouts and curses and hollering at the wagons ahead of him to "Make way!"

Dodging the freight wagons that quickly filled Flannery's breach, Brodie crossed to the other side of the street and walked down two doors to the millinery shop of Madame Rideaux, where a small sign in the window promised the latest in styles from Paris. The fulfillment of that promise was wrapped in the bundle under his arm—the most current fashion plates from France, only two weeks old, courtesy of his ship the
Crescent Glory.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, then started toward the rear of the shop, automatically scanning the front area for the henna-haired proprietress who wavered so insecurely between the unctuous smiles of a shopkeeper and the haughty airs of a customer. His eye was first caught by the shimmer of velvet the deep, rich color of garnet. It drew his glance to a young woman clad in a velvet walking dress, her back turned to him as she tried on hats in front of a freestanding counter mirror. Brodie noticed two things simultaneously: the small span of her waist, accented by the wide circle the skirt made, and the jet-black of her hair, in lieu of the typical dark-brown color of most Creole women's tresses. Obviously she had some Spanish blood mixed in somewhere.

In the next stride, Brodie saw her reflection in the mirror and halted abruptly, stopped by a sharp kick of feeling that momentarily stunned him. There was a perfection to her oval features that he could only liken to that of a cameo, her expression serenely composed yet possessing a subtle vibrancy that gave immediate life to her face. He stared, knowing he had to find out who she was but unwilling to move from this spot, for the moment content to gaze at her.

Suppressing a sigh of dissatisfaction, Adrienne Jardin laid the bonnet aside and picked up a dress cap of pearl-colored silk, trimmed with a wreath of velvet leaves, flowers, and ribbons. She slipped it on, first letting the ribbons hang, then tying them in a loose bow. As she turned her head slightly to view her side reflection, she saw another face in the mirror—a man's face. For the briefest of seconds her eyes locked with his in the mirror. A small crease appeared between his dark eyebrows, his glance flicking to the bonnet, as he gave a faint shake of his head in disapproval.

Adrienne immediately broke eye contact with him and fixed her gaze on her own reflection, stiffening in annoyance at the man's boldness, his rudeness. No doubt he was a Yankee. Did he think his opinion of the bonnet mattered to her?

To make matters worse, she discovered she didn't like the bonnet, either. She kept it on a little longer, playing with the ribbons, tucking a dark curl in here and rearranging another there, trying to make it clear, when she finally did take it off and lay it aside, that her decision hadn't been influenced by his reaction to it. All the while, she pretended to take no notice of his reflection in the mirror, acting as if her peripheral vision hadn't observed his wide and slanted brow, the slight break in his otherwise straight nose, his well-formed chin, which neither jutted nor receded, his high, broad cheekbones, and his sharply angled jaws—or the deep mahogany red of his hair beneath his black hat, and the dark brown of his eyes. Honesty forced her to concede that he was handsome—in that rough, raw way Yankees usually were.

As she picked up a white silk bonnet trimmed with satin roses and white lace, Adrienne wondered what he was doing in Madame Simone's shop. She remembered hearing the shop door open, but she had no idea whether he had entered alone or with another. Had he accompanied his wife, perhaps? Or his sister? Or his demimondaine? The last seemed most likely. There was a picaresque quality about him that would prompt him to appear in public with such a woman.

Discreetly Adrienne scanned the interior of the shop, turning her head this way and that as if inspecting all angles of the silk bonnet on her head, while bringing every corner of the room into view. But
non,
there was only Tante ZeeZee at the counter with a patient clerk, engaged in what was, for her, an agonizing decision over which pair of gloves to purchase. As if gloves would help her appearance, Adrienne thought with a sudden twinge of pity for the woman who had raised her. Poor Tante ZeeZee had inherited Grandpère's very prominent nose, a feature that on him looked most noble, but on her . . . Adrienne understood why her aunt had acquired such an inordinate fondness for the jade-green absinthe.

She looked again at her own reflection, discovering that she was back to her original question: what was the Yankee doing in Madame Simone's shop—alone? Had he business with the proprietress? But of what kind? He was too well dressed to be a tradesman, and he hadn't asked after the woman, who had been called to the rear of the shop to handle some minor emergency in the cutting room.

With rising curiosity, Adrienne let her glance stray again to his reflection. Again eye contact was made, and again she saw the faint frown and slight shake of his head, rejecting the latest bonnet. And yet again, Adrienne pretended to take no notice of him. She recognized that it would be a simple matter to move to another mirror, but that would be an admission that she was aware of his attentions, and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was in any way affected by his presence. It was always best to ignore these Yankees.

Yet sheer perversity prompted her to try on a singularly unattractive bonnet with an extra brim, reminiscent of a calash and appropriately called an "ugly." The mirror showed that it was all of that and more. She allowed the barest trace of a smile to touch her lips as she darted a quick look at the Yankee. His eyes were downcast, as if he were hiding the humor in them, while his mouth twitched with a smile, bringing into play a pair of very attractive creases in his cheeks. Again there was a shake of his head, but this time it seemed to be more an expression of amusement.

Hiding her own smile, Adrienne removed the bonnet and picked up a hat that had appealed to her earlier, of a somewhat sophisticated style, with a black lace demi-veil spilling from the brim, the effect slightly dramatic. She tried it on and liked it immediately. She felt certain that even the Yankee would approve of this choice. But when she stole a glance at his reflection to observe his reaction, he wasn't there!

Startled, Adrienne threw a quick look over her shoulder to the place where he'd been standing, but he'd disappeared. The instant she realized what she was doing, she squared around again to face the mirror, stunned by the strange disappointment she felt. A second later she was doubly stunned to see him standing before her, next to the mirror. She was extremely conscious of the quick, small beats her heart struck—from the shock of finding him there, of course. There could be no other cause.

"The hat is very attractive." He spoke in French, his accent definitely American and his voice deep-pitched. "Unfortunately it hides your eyes. And I'm certain you've been told before that you have very beautiful eyes, black-shining like the sea on a moonless night."

She made no response. Frankly, Brodie would have been surprised if she had. Well-bred Creole misses didn't address strangers, and she was unquestionably well-bred. But it wasn't necessary that she speak to him; she had a very expressive face, and what it didn't tell him, her actions did.

She had regained her composure with remarkable swiftness after initially stiffening in surprise at finding him so near. There'd been no betraying blush of discomfort, no hint of alarm in her eyes. More than that, there'd been no indignant walking away. She'd stayed—out of pique? Out of pride? Out of curiosity? Brodie didn't particularly care what her reason was. She was there, and she was listening—however much she might be coolly pretending not to be.

The hat with the veil was exchanged for a white straw bergere with a wide, soft brim, a wreath of flowers encircling its flat crown and pink satin ribbons dangling at the sides. Instead of turning her into a picture of virginal innocence, the hat made her look even more alluring, yet . . . there was nothing of the coquette about her.

This time Brodie made himself shake his head in rejection. "I admit the brim would protect your face from the sun, but it would also force a man to keep his distance. I wouldn't want you to be wearing it if you were on my arm."

Again his remark was met with silence. She removed the straw hat and replaced it with a bonnet that had plumes of white ostrich feathers sweeping down its sides. Brodie frowned in exaggerated disapproval.

"That
would be guaranteed to tickle a man's nose and turn any whispered word into a sneeze."

The corners of her mouth deepened with the faintest suggestion of a smile, the only outward indication that his observation had amused her. Brodie didn't need any other.

When she removed the bonnet, she automatically lifted a hand and smoothed any disturbed strands of hair into place, the action drawing his gaze to the black sleekness of her hair, parted in the center and drawn back into a small knot near the back of her neck.

"In all honesty, mam'selle, your hair should never be hidden beneath a hat or bonnet. It is its own adornment, a midnight curtain gleaming with starshine," he declared softly when she reached for another bonnet. "Covering such beauty should be a sin."

Calmly she slipped her own velvet bonnet onto her head, its rich garnet color matching her walking dress. Without once looking at him, she began to secure the trailing ribbons beneath her chin with a small posy of artificial flowers.

Madame Simone emerged from the rear of the shop, took one look at Brodie, and rushed over, her expression running the gamut from horror and fury to panic and outrage. "I regret the delay, Mademoiselle," she blurted. "If this gentleman has been bothering you in my absence—"

"On the contrary, Madame Simone," she spoke at last—in flawless English, her voice round and soft and reserved. She could, Brodie thought, handle men as she pleased. "I believe it is I who have been bothering him." Brodie smiled and resisted the urge to throw back his head and laugh at this very astute and provocative observation. She had indeed been bothering him ... in the most stimulating way. "If you will excuse me, Madame, I believe my aunt has completed her purchase."

With a graceful turn, she glided away from them. Madame Simone started after her, but Brodie caught her arm. "Introduce me."

"Nom de Dieu,
you do not realize—" she whispered in frantic protest.

"Introduce me," he repeated in the same low undertone, then held up the bundle he was carrying. "Introduce me, or these drawings will end up in the muddy bottom of the Mississippi instead of in your back room. And for your information, the
Sea Star
was damaged in a storm during her crossing and limped into Havana. She'll be a week being repaired. Which means it will be more than a week before your competitor, the modiste Madame Trussard, receives
her
copies of the latest fashions."

"A week," she breathed in excitement.

"Introduce me."

She straightened, the chance of stealing a week on her competition overcoming any reservations she had about the wisdom of granting his request. Turning, she fixed a smile on her face and walked with him over to the young woman and her chaperone, a woman of indeterminate age whose face bore no family resemblance at all to her charge's.

"Monsieur Donovan, allow me to present Madame Jardin and her niece, Mademoiselle Adrienne Jardin," the proprietress declared, then completed the reverse introductions. "Mesdames, this is M'sieu Brodie Donovan. He is the owner of the shipping company the Crescent Line."

Madame Jardin gave him a baleful look. "You are a
Yanqui"

"Regrettably, yes. It was a tragic circumstance of birth over which I had no control. I hope you will not hold it against me, Madame, Mademoiselle." He inclined his head to each of them in turn and caught the amused, and approving, smile that curved the lips of Adrienne Jardin—and the dark glow in her eyes that revealed definite interest.

"A pleasure, Monsieur Donovan." She nodded her head, acknowledging the formal introduction.

"Yes, a pleasure, m'sieu," her aunt repeated with little conviction. "Now we must say adieu."

"Not adieu . . .
au revoir.
We will see each other again," Brodie stated, looking straight at Adrienne Jardin when he said it and realizing that his patience would be sorely tested by the careful manners and correct ways of doing things dictated by Creole society. He watched her leave the shop with her aunt, then turned to the proprietress. "Jardin. Where have I heard that name?"

"It is Emil Gaspard Jardin's name, you know. It is whispered that he owns half of the Vieux Carre and a half dozen plantations on the river. Adrienne is his granddaughter," she replied, and held out her hand. "You obtained your introduction—for all the good it will do you. I will take my package now."

Brodie gave it to her. "What makes you think it will do me no good?"

"You heard the old crow of an aunt," she said, tearing at the brown paper around the fashion plates. "You are a
Yanqui.
And Emil Jardin clings to the old attitude toward
Americains."

"We'll see." He knew there was a way around him. There were always ways.

Leaving Madame Simone to her intense perusal of the drawings, Brodie exited the shop and paused on the banquette to gaze after the departing figure in garnet. The strains of Cado's violin came to him. He turned and crossed the street to the blind fiddler's corner.