Guarded Heart (8 page)

Even as they spoke, the woman could be seen turning away from Ariadne. She had not, apparently, been offered a chair or encouraged to linger. “What connection has she to Madame Faucher?”

“Who can say? From her appearance, she might easily be a cousin of some degree.”

It was true enough, Gavin thought; there did seem to be some resemblance. Nothing was more likely. Creole families were large and their branches torturously intertwined due to frequent marriages between cousins during the long years when the city was an isolated colonial outpost. As he watched, however, the intruder put a hand to her mouth, then turned and departed with drooping shoulders.

“Not a close connection apparently,” he commented.

“So it would seem.” The agreement came from Caid.

“More might be brought to light with the exercise of guile.”

“Or you could abandon it and just ask Maurelle,” his friend answered, his voice dry.

“The trouble with that suggestion is that she seems equally at a loss.” It was possible only Ariadne could satisfy his curiosity. And the chance of that happening was about as likely as having her respond to his more carnal inclinations.

“Madame Zoe might have some idea,” the Irishman said after a moment. “She's met practically everyone during one winter season or another.”

“So she has.” Gavin was thoughtful. The idea had one merit not present in the direct approach. Contrary to his client in the opposite box, asking the diva was not likely to result in an attack with a sharp weapon.

It might be just as well if he didn't approach the lady this evening after all. He could see she suffered few ill effects, if any, from her wound. Inspecting it could wait for a less fraught, and considerably less public, occasion.

Accordingly, he and Caid gave up their places to other gentlemen waiting to pay their respects, withdrawing with Rio and also Denys Vallier, Celina's brother, to the corridor outside the box. They stood in a male huddle where they talked of the latest news dispatched to reach the city, particularly those that dealt with the war drums that rumbled along the Mexican border.

“You heard, I suppose,” Caid said, “that Santa Ana was so irritated by the last message sent him from President Tyler, he issued a decree expelling all United States citizens from California and New Mexico?”

“Also that old General Waddy Thompson, our American minister, threatened to demand his passport and quit Mexico if it was enforced,” Rio said with a nod. “The decree is said to have been revoked within twenty-four hours, but that may be wishful thinking.”

Caid tucked a thumb into his waistcoat pocket as he shook his head. “We can only hope Thompson doesn't actually resign. The Mexican fleet has apparently set out for Vera Cruz for refitting in the midst of this little contretemps. It would be nice if we had somebody there to say whether it's in preparation for war. Yes, and to prod Sam Houston into reporting the latest border activity to Washington in hope Congress will get off its collective asses.”

“A dangerous tactic if they decide to let him fight his own battles instead.”

“Tyler is disinclined to allow too great a British influence in Texas, I think—which may happen if London decides to come to Houston's aid.” Gavin felt sure it was in the minds of his friends but would not be aired to avoid offending his English sensibilities.

“Is that likely since Texas refuses to abandon slavery?”

“I suspect the answer depends on governmental self-interest rather than moral verities,” Gavin answered. Slavery had been abolished in Britain and its territories some ten years back, with more than a million pounds paid out in compensation to owners. It was his considered opinion that the abolitionists who shouted so loudly for the same in this country would make more progress if they loosened their stranglehold on the national purse strings as well. To expect people with their life savings and the promise of wealth and ease for their children to give up their human chattel as a mere moral gesture seemed ingenuous, if not downright simpleminded. Still, he was a foreigner with little right to comment.

“In the meantime, the Louisiana Legion is losing members as time drags by with no fight and no solution either.” This came from Denys Vallier.

“Some are quitting, but quite a few have jumped over to the new Washington Battalion of the Americans.”

“I saw in
L'Abeille
that it's the Grenadiers and the Grays that are transferring,” Gavin observed. “Not that it seems to matters. Being mostly from the Second Municipality, they didn't understand commands in French anyway.”

“Too true.” Caid chuckled. “Since they left, the main question seems to be which uniform will be commissioned in case of war, the one with the most shine to attract enemy fire or the one with the wildest color to hide bloody wounds. Heaven forbid the legion should be mistaken as part of any mere Federal army.”

Caid could talk because he, Rio, and Nicholas were no longer associated with the Legion, Gavin knew. The obligations of their growing families, abandonment of their
salle d'armes
in the Passage due to these increased responsibilities and natural waning of their taste for armed combat accounted for it. Gavin had never joined, being too solitary in his habits and inclinations, but he thought Celina's brother, Denys Vallier, still marched on the parade ground with his friends.

“Please,
mon ami,
” Denys said now with mock offense. “The uniforms proposed most recently are of the noblest tradition, one borrowed from a perfectly acceptable army.”

“Which would be?” Rio's dark gaze rested on his brother-in-law with some skepticism.

“Why, the exalted Janissaries of the Great Sultan of Turkey!”

Caid groaned. “We might have known.”

Denys gave him a grin and a bow. “You may be sure I am doing my best to encourage a more sedate example.”

They spoke of other things, including the shake-up in the British parliament during the autumn that brought Sir Robert Peel to power, and the current engagement of British troops in India against an enormous force of Sikhs led by Lal Singh. Gavin tried to explain what was happening with his home country, but was just as happy when Rio turned to something closer to the Vieux Carré.

“I saw the Russian friend of Madame Faucher in the Passage yesterday. He was asking for you.”

Gavin met his friend's gaze for an instant. The warning he saw there sent wariness prickling along his nerve endings. “Was he indeed?”

“It not being your day for receiving clients, he made do with a bout at Rosière's salon. His strength was formidable.”

“And his technique?”

“Adequate. It might be more threatening if he depended less on power and rote moves, or so it seemed from my observation. Facing him could be different.”

Gavin had a healthy respect for Rio's opinions. He had been one of the great masters of the Passage and was still a swordsman around whom others tread lightly. He filed the information away for the future.

To face the Russian, sword in hand, was not an object with him. Still the life of a sword master was uncertain at best and could slide quickly into dangerous waters. It was as well to be prepared.

A
riadne sat rigid in her chair. She hardly knew where to look, could think of nothing to say. That Maurelle continued her languidly flirtatious banter with the gentlemen standing here and there in their box was something for which she was grateful since it allowed her a few minutes to collect herself.

Her mother.

The woman who had approached her just now was her mother. Not her foster mother whom she had learned to think of in that light, now dead these three years and more, but rather the woman who had given birth to her.

Who could have guessed she would appear after all this time?

Ariadne drew a deep breath and let it out in a slow and silent attempt at composure. She had not been particularly polite, she feared. It was the shock of it. And the risk. The Englishman in the box across the way had missed nothing of the meeting, she knew. What if he learned its import? It would be only a small step from there to her true identity. Then to her purpose.

Her mother.

The woman had given her away as a child of two, tearing her screaming from her neck and thrusting her into the arms of Josephine and Etienne Dorelle who had adopted her. Ariadne had looked into the woman's face just now and felt grief and rage allied to a longing so strong that she still shook with it.

She had not known she could care, or at least care so much. How had it come about when she had adored her foster parents and been content with them, wanted only to please them?

Oh, she knew the tale. Nothing of it had been kept from her, nor was it particularly uncommon. Her mother had married out of convent school and become a dutiful wife, presenting her husband with eleven children in fifteen years, all daughters. Josephine Dorelle, a cousin once-removed and dear friend from childhood of her mother had been barren still in spite of marrying in the same year. For a woman so blessed with children to give one to a woman bereft of that boon was seen as a generous impulse of the heart. The gratitude of Ariadne's new parents had known no bounds. That it took the form of a sum of money which tided Ariadne's parents over a bad sugarcane season was incidental.

But as often happens with adoptions, the woman whose womb had been so empty miraculously conceived, a fine son was born in due time and named Francis. Ariadne had been enthralled with the baby, treating him as her personal plaything and dearly beloved younger brother. They could not have been more inseparable if they had shared the same blood. In fact, they had never been apart until Francis decided he must seek the literary circles of New Orleans.

Well before that, the closeness between the two mothers had soured. The sugar plantation of Ariadne's birth parents failed, in spite of the loan, and they moved upriver. Ariadne's father had died and her mother remarried. In the midst of her new life with her second husband, a Monsieur Arpegé, surrounded by her other daughters, including two from the second marriage, it seemed she no longer thought of the one she had given way. Years passed. The marriage to Jean Marc was arranged. Francis was killed in his duel. Ariadne had not seen her mother in such a long time she had almost forgotten her face.

Why had her mother approached her now, without warning and in such public view? she wondered in silent anguish. Had she thought she might otherwise be rejected out of hand? Yes, and why did the Englishman have to be a spectator at the meeting? It had been the one thing that made a rebuff inevitable.

What did the lady want of her? Did she expect to take up where she had left off all those years ago as if nothing had happened? Or had she heard, perchance, that her daughter was now alone in the world and a wealthy woman?

Ariadne pressed her lips together with a small shake of her head. She didn't like thinking such things, wasn't really that hard and cynical. Yet few people acted without first consulting self-interest.

Her mother would call at the Herriot town house; Ariadne had collected herself enough to suggest that much. They would speak in private in two days time, since her mother would be busy tomorrow with the arrival from upriver of her husband and yet another daughter. What would happen then was more than she could say. So much depended on the golden-haired man who watched her so closely.

A shiver ran over her, one so strong it took her breath. She drew her cashmere evening shawl more tightly around herself, huddling into it.

“Are you well,
chère?
You aren't catching
la grippe?
”

Ariadne, warmed by the concern in Maurelle's fine brown eyes, summoned a smile. “No, no. It was nothing, merely a goose walking over my grave.”

The brush of cloth against cloth sounded behind her as the gentlemen leaning over Maurelle's chair changed positions. A moment later, she felt a touch on her shoulder and Sasha leaned over her. “I venture to say this goose is your sword master,” he said, his voice a low growl near her ear. “Am I wrong?”

She turned a little in her chair. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Pretend innocence with your provincial friends if you must, but we are from a wider world, you and I. This affair with the Englishman does not progress well. He grows too bold, openly saluting you across the theater. He is dangerous, not only to your lovely skin but to your reputation. You would have been much wiser to apply to me.”

“To be added to your conquests? I think not.”

“I would make an exception in your case. It may be time I thought of marriage.”

Bestowing a wan smile upon him, she asked, “And if I have no wish to become a wife?”

“A cherished mistress then. I can give you jewels, carriages, a castle—anything you desire.”

“Suppose I desire nothing?”

He smiled, his ego untouched. “How tantalizing you are,
chère,
but I am not fooled. You are a woman of deep passions. The trouble is only that you have yet to decide what you desire.”

“If you think so then you know me not at all.”

He caressed her shoulder while his large, mobile mouth lifted in a superior smile. “Or it could be you do not know yourself.”

Before she could shift away from his touch or form an answer to his incredible presumption, he straightened and turned away. No doubt he expected her to stare after him, impressed by his knowledge of women and their emotions. She spared him hardly a glance. Her gaze, instead, turned toward the opposite box where Gavin Blackford was leaving, strolling out with his friends. Clouding her mind was the recollection of the moment she had discovered him there. The gaslight had flickered over his hair with golden gleams, caught the high molding of his cheekbones and given a blazing white radiance to his linen. It had illuminated the grace of his bearing and the refined strength of his shoulders and hands. And it gleamed for a bright blue instant in his eyes as he turned to meet her gaze before inclining his head in a discreet bow.

Oh, yes, he was bold.

She should have ignored him, pretended she didn't see him, did not know who and what he was or his exact place in the circle within which they moved. It was impossible. Against her will, against her best intentions and better judgment, she felt her lips curve into a cool smile as she tipped her head in return. And all the while, her heart had jarred against her corset stays with such force that the edging of gold lace on her velvet bodice trembled with it.

It beat that way still.