Blessed Assurance (41 page)

“I was in the mood for jazz, not opera.” Surreptitiously Meg watched Corelli. Gabriel's elegant appearance contrasted with Corelli, who'd obviously attempted to cut a figure like St. Clair but came across as a cheap imitation.

St. Clair glared at her. “This is no place for a lady. Chivalry demanded I protect you from your own folly.”

“Folly? What a delightfully old-fashioned word. It suits you.” Nothing more could be accomplished tonight—thanks to St. Clair. She stood up. “Let's leave.”

Startled, he rose also. “You mean you are not going to argue with me and insist on staying?”

“You've completely ruined my evening.”
And my plans
. Having a parish prosecutor sitting at her table would scare away everyone, innocent or guilty. The woman in red had disappeared.

“Then we're even.” He trailed Meg through the maze of tables. Behind them, LaVerne was squeezing off high notes on his horn in a haunting solo. The melody put her own frustration and worry into sound. Outside the door, Meg paused. The young black woman now stood across the street under a streetlamp.

Meg tightened her grip on her bag, its beads prickling her palms. With St. Clair at her elbow, she didn't dare make contact with the girl. Meg raised her voice, “Did you bring your car or do we need a taxi? I'm staying at the Monteleone.”

“I know where you're staying,” St. Clair growled. “I took you home last night—if you remember.” With the wave of an arm, he hailed a taxi.

Just as she slid into the cab, she snapped, “I can go home alone.”

He shoved in beside her, his solid form forcing her to make room for him. “I'm going to make sure…
very
sure you go to your room and stay there for the night.” He gave the hotel name to the cabby.

St. Clair sitting so close made her intensely aware of him—his clean scent, broad shoulders—along with male strength and arrogance under the mask of evening attire. “How are you going to make sure I stay there?” Meg goaded him. “Going to sit outside my door all night?”

“No, I'm going to remind you that your behavior in New Orleans reflects on Emilie and her cousin, Fleur Fourchette Bower. I don't care if you're bent on social ruin, but I do care about Emilie and the Fourchette family.”

Meg bit her lower lip. She hadn't thought of that tonight.

“You probably didn't know,” he admitted grudgingly. “Penny Candy is one of the most notorious, dangerous clubs in Storyville.
Anything
could have happened to you there.”

Did he think her a complete fool? “I don't think so.” She slid her
ivory-handled derringer from her purse. The gun weighed heavy and cold in her hand.

In the faint light, St. Clair looked shocked. “Put that away. You're beyond anything.”

Slipping the gun back into her black bag, she chuckled. She'd gotten the exact response she'd wanted. Oh-so-proper Gabriel St. Clair invited her to be audacious. “Is that the best you can do?”

“It's obvious that you have no common sense or any sense of decorum—”

“I'm not interested in being decorous. I'm interested in finding out the truth about why Del has been falsely arrested. I'll do anything, go anywhere necessary to see him free again.”

“Delman's guilty. And you're out of your depth.”

Blistering words smoldered inside her, but why waste words on this museum relic? They reached her hotel; he escorted her inside. Striding ahead of him, she did her best to ignore him. But his powerful presence made this impossible.

The night desk clerk handed her a key and a yellow envelope. “This telegram came for you earlier in the evening.”

She accepted it with a serenity she didn't feel. “Thank you.” She'd already received a reply to her first telegram to her father. Had something happened to her stepmother or Kai Lin's baby? “Good night, Mr. St. Clair.” Without a backward glance, she hurried to the staircase glad to be free of him.

“Don't mention it, Miss Wagstaff.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “See you in court.”

Meg gritted her teeth. His reminding her that tomorrow she had to go to court without a lawyer to represent Del was just what she would expect from St. Clair. She would best the man if it was the last thing she did.

“Good morning, Father, Gabe.” With thin morning light behind her, Belle sat in her usual place at the breakfast table.

Gabe wondered why Belle was dressed in a red cashmere sweater and plaid wool skirt, an outfit she had formerly reserved for school. Gabe swallowed coffee, hoping it would brace him for the day. “You were out until two
A.M
. at that post-opera party. Why aren't you still in bed?

Belle lifted a cup of coffee. “I need a ride to school.” Her chin quivered with the final two words.

Gabe set down his cup. Coffee splashed over the rim onto the white tablecloth.

Before Gabe could, his father inquired, “You're going to school today, Belle?”

She lowered her puffy eyes and in a subdued voice, said, “Yes, father, I'd like to.”

“But you quit school before Christmas,” Gabe objected. “This is your season, your Carnival. You can't go out all night every night and go to school every day.”

“Why don't you tell us what you're thinking, my dear? I know I'm interested.” Father's tone remained gentle.

Belle's gaze flickered from her father to Gabe, then back. “I decided I want to reenter school and graduate in spring.” Belle faced them, her expression defiant. “Then I want to enter Newcomb in the fall.”

“What?” Gabe gasped.

“This is very sudden,” Father commented.

“No, it isn't.” Belle's jawline and tone firmed. “I've wanted this for a long time.”

“But what do you need a college education for?” Gabe asked dismissively. “You're just going to be a wife and mother.”

Bridling, Belle threw him a disgusted look.

“What do you plan to do after college, Belle?” Father asked, still calm.

Belle drew herself up and took a deep breath. “I'd like to train as a nurse.”

Gabe couldn't believe his ears. “My sister will not be a nurse. No lady becomes a nurse.”

“What about that French nurse who helped you recover after you were shot down in the south of France?” Belle objected. “You said
she
was a lady.”

“That was in the middle of a war. She had no choice, but to come to the aid of her country.” Speaking of Lenore cost him. When would he get a chance to call Paul again?

Father cleared his throat. “Son, this is really between Belle and me.”

“You can't mean you're going to listen to this…this nonsense.” Gabe couldn't imagine his sister going to college. In a world run mad, venerable New Orleans, where nothing ever changed, had become his anchor.

Father ignored him. “Belle, your mother has her heart set on your taking part in this year's Carnival as a debutante. You've had dresses made—”

“But do I have to go out every night? Couldn't I just attend a few each week? I've wanted to attend Newcomb College ever since I visited there with my freshman class.” Belle's expression begged for understanding.

“Why didn't you say something then?” Father asked.

Belle's eyes flashed. “I
did
. Mother said it was out of the question.”

“I see.” Father looked grim. “What caused you to decide to talk to me now?”

Though addressing their father, Belle's gaze met Gabe's. “Last night I felt so miserable that I went to Emilie's powder room and broke down into tears.”

This surprised Gabe. His sister didn't cry easily.

“Miss Wagstaff came in.” His sister's voice softened.

Gabe's temper flared.
I might have known.

“She took me to the den and helped me stop crying.”

“What did Miss Wagstaff suggest?” father asked.

Gabe didn't have to ask. Rebellion was that woman's middle name.

“She told me I should talk to you, that you seemed to be a reasonable man, and intelligent, too.”

Gabe could just imagine Miss Wagstaff's opinion of him.

“I'm flattered.” Father grinned.

“She didn't have a season at all.” Belle rushed on, “She went to Europe instead.”

“I'm not surprised,” Gabe bit out.

“That's not fair, Gabe!” Belle exclaimed. “You wrote about the American girls who worked at the YMCA canteens, how brave and good they were. Miss Wagstaff was even wounded. How can you forget so easily?”

Gabe grimaced, disgusted with himself. “You're right. I did forget. It's just…” He passed a hand over his forehead. He didn't want to shatter Belle's innocent illusions. But out of that ghastly nightmare he'd gotten Marie, Lenore.
I must call Paul.
Glancing at his watch, he rose. “I've got to be off.”

Half rising, Belle cast a worried glance to her brother, then her father. “Will you give me a ride to school, Gabe? May I go, father?”

“Yes, I've decided to go into town today. I'll drop you at school and explain to the principal that you'll be reentering—”

“Oh, father, thank you.” Belle jumped up and hugged his neck.

Gabe didn't like the idea of that Wagstaff woman abetting his sister in flouting their mother. But it wasn't for him to correct his father. Belle, a nurse? What next? But he only said, “I'll see you this evening, then.”

“I may see you downtown later, son.”

Gabe paused. His father didn't venture downtown often. Gabe thought since his father could no longer practice law, being around the courthouse depressed him. “Did you want to meet for lunch?
I won't be free today.” With any luck, he'd be talking to Paul in Paris.

“Just go about your business, son. If our paths cross, they cross.”

Gabe left as Belle began serving herself a generous breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and grits. If he didn't reach Paul at lunch, he'd try again after the afternoon recess. If he kept trying, he'd get a Paris telephone operator eventually and Paul would have to show up at the hospital sometime.

 

After a hasty, too-spicy breakfast, Meg dragged her feet up the marble steps of the courthouse, the sensation of doom permeating her. Last night's telegram said her stepmother was on complete bed rest and of course Del still had no lawyer.

God, why is this happening? Del's been through so much. We both have.
Why didn't the faith learned from her father feel real after France? Meg forced back tears of frustration. She had to show Del a brave face. They'd survived an earthquake together; now just the two of them would be confronting this. Somehow, some way, she'd get Del set free. Clinging to this vow, she entered the formidable courthouse where her best friend in the world was held for a crime he'd never commit.

Inside, she made her way to the front row of the viewing section. St. Clair sat facing forward. His meddling still irked her. Now, sitting right behind where Del would sit alone, without counsel, she briefly entertained the idea of putting up bail and helping Del flee the county.
Am I coming unglued?

Out of the corner of his eye, Gabe watched Meg Wagstaff take a seat on the defendant's side of the room. Carrying herself tall and confident, she looked neither triumphant nor downcast. The small ruby studs in her ear lobes called his attention to her pale cheek and creamy neck. Though not beautiful, she was the kind of woman one couldn't ignore. Had she actually found someone to represent Delman?

“All rise.”

The judge in his black robes, stark against the pasty white of his
face, entered. A group of rumpled prisoners, their eyes downcast, were herded in and slumped down on a low backless bench along the wall.

Gabe covertly studied Delman. Still swollen, one of his eyes resembled a mere slit. But he no longer wore a bandage to cover the crudely stitched gash on his forehead. Unlike the others, he sat stiffly looking like a man nursing broken ribs. Silently, Gabe cursed Rooney's clumsy brutality. If the policeman didn't stop this, he'd be forced to speak to the chief of police. This wasn't Bolshevik Russia. Even blacks had some rights in America.

Gabe watched Delman glance at the judge, then scan the rest of those in the courtroom. For a fraction of a second Del and Gabe's gazes met. The contempt in the prisoner's eyes sent a shock wave through Gabe. Then Delman looked to Meg. He didn't appear surprised that she sat alone. Had Delman accepted that he'd have no counsel?

The judge tapped his gavel, silencing murmurs around the room. Everyone sat down with much shuffling of feet and creaking of the old wooden benches. “The court will now entertain a discussion of bail for Delman Caleb Dubois.”

The businesslike bailiff called Delman to the bar. Delman hobbled in his shackles to the defendant's table, his back to Meg.

“Delman, have you secured counsel?” the judge asked.

Delman cleared his throat. “I have counsel, Your Honor, but—”

The double oak doors at the rear of the courtroom pushed open with a bump and a swish of air. Gabe turned to see his family chauffeur pushing his father inside. “Dad?” Caught off guard, Gabe stepped into the aisle. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm here to represent my client.” His father gave an unruffled smile.

Gabe gaped at him.

The chauffeur settled Sands beside Del. In deference to the court, he pulled off his own cap and retired to the rear of the courtroom.

Sands thanked the bailiff, then turned his attention to the judge.
“Please forgive my tardiness, Simon. Getting me up all those stairs took my man a little longer than we expected.”

The old judge's thin, deeply lined face lifted into a brief smile. “Sands, you're a sight for sore eyes. But don't be late again.”

Sands bowed his pepper-and-salt head as though accepting his scold. “I assure you, it won't happen again.”

“I take it that this means you have taken Delman as your client.” The judge sent a sharp glance at the two of them.

“I have, Your Honor.” Sands nodded.

The Wagstaff woman gave a little gasp.

Gabe clenched his jaw. His father wasn't well enough to be in court. Over his shoulder, he glared at the Yankee woman. This had to be her doing.

“I'm confronted for the first time by two lawyers with the same last name.” The judge regarded them with a stern expression. “Since I have known both of you for years, I will simplify matters by calling you—respectfully—by your given names.”

Sands nodded.

“Your honor, the parish asks that bail be denied.” Gabe's words came out harsher than he intended. “Delman Dubois has no family or other strong ties to New Orleans. There is the possibility of flight.”

Judge LeGrand nodded. “Sands?”

“Your honor, my client has never been in trouble before. He is an honorably discharged soldier. He has no desire to leave New Orleans until his honest name has been absolutely cleared of all wrongdoing.”

“That sounds very good,” the judge replied. “But this is murder in the first degree. The prosecutor is correct. Bail denied.” The judge tapped his gavel once. “Next case, bailiff?”

Gabe had no time to question his father. This morning he'd asked himself—what next? Now he'd gotten his answer.

Listening to the bailiff call another name as his father rolled his squeaking wheelchair to the back of the courtroom, Gabe muttered
a few choice words with which he'd like to favor Miss Wagstaff. He was beginning to think Meg would be a good name for a hurricane. He'd have to do something to counter her effect on his family.

Meg stepped into the aisle and hurried to catch up to Mr. Sands. She knew what she'd seen. She just didn't believe it. How? What? Why? Questions, surprise, gratitude danced through her. She slipped out the door.

Sands awaited her, his chauffeur at his side. “Miss Wagstaff, are you free for a brief consultation?”

“Yes.” Meg nodded, trying to catch her breath. Sands taking the case was like an answer to prayer.

“Then come with me. We'll discuss this at my office at home.”