The Creole Princess (12 page)

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.”

6

L
yse was standing shin-deep in the marsh, cutting strips of bear grass for Justine’s baskets, when she heard a shout in the distance. She looked up, shading her eyes against the noonday sun glaring down onto the glassy surface of Bay Minette. Just above the water, scudding clouds moved along in the wake of a salty wind blowing up from the Gulf. March could be cool and wet, but this year summer looked to be coming early.

She squinted, trying to make out the shape of the boat as it approached at a moderate clip from the direction of Mobile. No sail, just someone rowing an old-fashioned pirogue—no, two someones, both figures male—and as they got closer, she saw that one was young and vigorous, dark-haired, the other somewhat stooped, silvery hair blowing in the stiff breeze.

Who could it be? Not Simon’s bateau—this boat she’d never seen before. She rubbed her eyes. The younger passenger almost looked like . . .

She jerked erect, nearly dropping the basket hanging on her arm. Rafael Gonzales . . . and
Grandpére
? Her hand clenched the haft of the knife in her hand. After disappearing for two days without a word, Rafa had rowed himself all the way across the river
to her home? And in company with her patrician French-Indian grandfather, who had not visited them in the twenty years since Papa built the raised cottage?

As the boat drew swiftly nearer, she looked down at herself. The skirt of her oldest dress, a shapeless striped poplin of faded grays and blues, was pulled between her legs from the back and tucked up into the sash around her waist, forming a pair of balloon pants that allowed her to work in the water without soaking the skirt. She had plaited her hair from the crown of her head into a couple of long braids, then pinned them up in thick coils on either side, and both her arms were scratched from palm to elbow from the sharp edges of the grass.

She almost took off in a splashing run to duck behind the house and pretend she wasn’t home. But then she remembered that Rafa had seen her in far worse condition. He knew she worked as hard as any slave to help keep her family afloat, and he knew she had little in the way of feminine frills and furbelows to call her own. He would not think less of her to find her thus employed.