To Love a Scoundrel (35 page)

"She's on her way," Mary said with a coy smile. "Ought to be at the top of the stairs any minute now."

"Is that why I'm standing here like a doorman? I'm waiting for Jewel's grand entrance, is that it?"

Mary's quiet laughter sprinkled the air before she said, "I guess you might say that."

"Then I guess you might also say that I'm leaving." He gave her a dramatic bow as he turned and started for the study.

"No, Brent. Please wait up."

In spite of his better judgment, he halted his progress. "Look," he said heavily. "I've been through all this Jewel business with Mama. Why can't you get it in your heads that I just brought the Poindexters to Sumner Hall as our guests? Why do you insist on making so much of it?"

"But Brent," she said in a soft cry, puffing out her bottom lip. "I thought she was right special to you."

"Oh, now, don't go getting all upset." He walked back to her and put his arm around her shoulder. "What Jewel is, or isn't, to me at this point is still a private matter. You'll be the first to know when it isn't. Does that make you feel any better?"

"Some," she answered with a sniff of her nose.

Footfalls from above caught Brent's attention. Raising an eyebrow, he whispered sternly to Mary, "I believe Jewel is coming down to supper now. Only one of us is going to be standing here waiting for her entrance. Will that be you... or me?"

"Oh, but , Brent you are such an old pooh," she complained with a stamp of her foot. "You, I guess."

He grinned and tugged one of her curls. "Then skedaddle on out of here."

Mary Mildred lifted her chin and the hem of her skirts, then flounced on down the hallway at the same moment Jewel appeared at the top of the stairway.

After making sure Brent was alone, she cleared her throat to catch his attention, and then quickly turned her profile to him. Dressed in a billowing rose-petal ball gown of delicate pink taffeta, Jewel posed theatrically on the top step and fluttered a matching pink hanky trimmed in white satin.

"I do declare, Mr. Connors," she breathed in an exaggerated drawl. "I just feel so completely
suhthen,
I have the insane urge to rush out to the fields and pick some cotton. Y'all
do
raise cotton, don't you?"

"Oh, good heavens," he said with a laugh that was more of a groan. "What have my sisters gone and done to you?"

"I declare," she repeated as she slowly began her descent. "I don't know what y'all could be talkin' about. I'm the same innocent li'l old thang I've always been."

Laughing, content just to watch her—to love her, he acknowledged from deep inside—Brent said nothing, but his dimples were bottomless pits as she gracefully made her way down the stairs. The old-fashioned gown, cut in a deep V at the bodice, afforded him a tantalizing glimpse of Jewel's ample bosom, yet somehow made her look pristine at the same time. Her hair was arranged like Mary's, with careful tubes at the crown and one long auburn spiral that grew from the center petals, then coiled down over her shoulder. That curl bounced, skimming along the soft rise of her breasts, as she came within four steps of Brent. Then, without warning, Jewel lurched to one side and dropped into a heap of petticoats and skirts on the third step.

"Oweeee," she cried as she thudded down on the hardwood. Moaning softly, she complained, "I guess I'm just too damn awkward to be dressing up like a fancy southern lady."

Brent vaulted up the stairs and hunkered down beside the mountains of fabric. "You all right, Pinky?" he asked, lifting her chin. "What happened?"

"I turned my ankle," she groaned, rubbing her hand up and down her leg. "And it's all because of these—" She glanced around the foyer and down the hallway, making sure they could not be overheard, then lowered her voice in a bare whisper. "It's because of these damnable slippers Trilonnie insisted I wear. They match this dress, but they're too tight in some places and too big in others. I'll be lucky if I don't break my neck before the night's over."

"Then take the damn things off. We can't have you falling all over the house." His expression solemn with concern, Brent tried to brush her skirts aside and wade through the yards of material to remove the offensive shoes.

Jewel slapped at him, still grumbling. "I can't go around barefoot, you idiot. What would your family think?"

"Since when do you care what anyone thinks?" he said with more directness than he'd intended.

Taken aback, her injury forgotten, Jewel rested one hand on his forearm. "Oh, but I do care, Brent. Your sisters have been absolutely wonderful to me. They've treated me almost like one of them."

Touched by her words, by what he saw in her eyes, Brent took her hand from his arm and raised it to his mouth. Against her palm he said, "I know you care, sweetheart. I wasn't trying to imply that you don't." He gently nipped the fleshy part of her thumb with his teeth, then released it and stared into her eyes. His voice breaking, he said, "Go ahead upstairs and put on your own shoes. No one will notice the difference."

Jewel slowly shook her head as she turned away. Reaching for the banister, she pulled herself to her feet and insisted, "If Trilonnie can wear these damn things, so can I." Then she cautiously resumed her descent.

Brent shrugged as he got to his feet and joined her at the foot of the stairs. He slid his hand around her waist to the small of her back, warning. "Don't blame me if you're crippled for life. Are you ready to make your grand entrance?"

Jewel glanced down the deserted hallway and listened to the sounds of muffled conversation. Lowering her voice again, she said, "Just give me one more minute. I have to know what happened with your brother. What did he say when you asked him about Harry?"

Brent frowned and took a quick look toward the study. "This is not the time or the place to discuss that, but I will tell you this much—Beauregard made a little mistake. Harry Benton was not the swindler who stole our mother's emeralds."

"I knew it."

"Hush," he cautioned, again looking down the hallway. "We'll have to talk about this later, but for now here's a word of warning: From here on out, as far as I'm concerned, Harry is an honored guest in my home. All of us, including you, will treat him as such, you hear?"

"But he's still—"

"Later," he said, firmly pressing his palm against the hollow in her spine and pushing her forward. "If we don't make our entrance now, the tongues will start wagging all over again. Let us resume our earlier conversation. I believe you were discussin' an unholy urge to do in our cotton crop."

Jewel gasped and her mouth dropped open, but before she had a chance to scold him, Brent gave her backside a nudge and propelled her into the crowded study.

* * *

Thirty minutes later the entire family and their guests were gathered around the enormous dining table. Seated majestically in his wheelchair at the head of the table, Raiford Connors droned on, leading the group in a halting, befuddled prayer. Jewel sat at his right, her thoughts as distracted as his sermon. Unable to keep from gawking around the cavernous dining room, she peeked up through her lashes. The room was rich in embellishments from the cherrywood paneling and the Italian marble fireplace to the rich solid walnut Louis XV dining table and chairs. But something was inconsistent here. Some little thing nagged at her, insisting that things weren't quite as they seemed.

Jewel ran her hands along the satiny emerald brocade covering the arms of her chair, wondering why the furniture seemed so familiar. Then the cause of her sense of discord suddenly struck a clear note. The dining room chairs, as well as other pieces throughout the immense home, were mates to those she'd seen on the
Delta Dawn.
Many similar pieces were displayed in the offices and quarters of the ship's handsome owner. Faint color variations on the mansion's walls added credence to her theory. Ghostly outlines testified that numerous paintings had been removed and were now hanging elsewhere—presumably on the cabin doors of the
Dawn.
Why had Brent stripped his family home of its priceless antiques?

Raiford suddenly increased the volume and pitch of his voice, signaling the climactic end to his incoherent speech. Her attention now drawn to him, Jewel studied him through her eyelashes. The nap had left the senior Connors keen- eyed and bright, allowing Jewel to glimpse the rakish gentleman he must have been some twenty or thirty years ago. His features, sharper and more angular than those of his sons, were proud and strong, a fine chiseled base for the full silver beard he kept trimmed and carefully groomed.

His dark chocolate eyes flashed in Jewel's direction just as his deep gravelly voice ended the prayer with a booming
"A-men,
y'all. Pass the eats."

Jewel stifled her laughter and glanced across the table through the brightly burning candelabra, to where Brent sat sandwiched between Trilonnie Georgette and Brandee Leigh. He was listening to his young niece as she tried to make her thoughts known through a two-year-old's limited vocabulary, leaving Jewel to watch him, unobserved.

"My present, Unkee Bent," Melissa Mary pouted, extending a chubby hand as far across her plate as it would reach. "I want my present."

"So that's it," he said, winking at the child's mother, Mary Mildred. "I brought you a present all right, Missy darlin', but I'm not giving it to you till after supper. First you've got to sit up like a good girl and eat your gumbo."

"Unkeeee Bent," she cried, the pout in full bloom, her big blue eyes round and pleading, ''
peeze?"

"You must listen to Brent, Melissa Mary," Miriam instructed from the end of the table. "It's not polite to ask for gifts. They must be offered."

Beaten, as he always was by the beguiling toddler, Brent dug into his coat pocket and produced a coin depicting a likeness of the Eads Bridge in St. Louis. "It's all right, Mama," he said, reaching across the table. "Here you go, Missy girl, but you got to promise to eat all your supper now, you hear?"

Melissa squealed, nodding vigorously as she snatched the coin from his hand.

Miriam slowly shook her head. "You spoil that child something awful, son."

"Begging your pardon, ma'am," he answered back. "But while I may spoil the girl a little, you flat out indulge her."

Her grin smug, her gray eyes flashing triumphantly, Miriam glanced at Brent and said, "I am Missy's grandmother. It's my job to spoil her." She lifted a steaming platter, then turned to her right and offered it to Harry Benton. "Have some spoon bread, Mr. Poindexter?"

Completely fascinated by Brent's mother, Jewel studied the older woman as Miriam passed the serving dishes around the large table. Dressed in a plain but elegant black silk gown, she looked every bit the matriarch, and completely at ease. Then Jewel looked into her tired gray eyes, noticed the strands of silver in her faded yellow hair, and saw that her proud carriage and composed expression couldn't quite hide the frailty of a woman burdened by troubles for too long.

"It's right good, you know," came the deep male voice on Jewel's right.

"What?" she said, turning to Beau.

"The spoon bread. Have some. Loanne makes the best in the county."

"Oh, why, thank you." Jewel spooned a portion of soft, hot cornbread from the dish, then passed it on to Raiford. As she accepted the platter of ham that followed, she noticed the one remaining oil painting centered between the six enormous arched windows that constituted the north wall. The portrait was of a young woman with haunting dark eyes and flowing black hair. While her features were unlike Brent's, they seemed familiar somehow. Jewel cocked her head, studying the woman from every angle as she tried to identify her.

Noticing her guest's curiosity, Miriam supplied the answer. "The painting is of Raiford's mother, Mildred Mae Sumner. Her daddy built this plantation over one hundred years ago."

"Oh?" Jewel said. Looking back at the portrait, then at Raiford, she said, "I thought the young woman looked familiar, but I couldn't decide where I'd seen her before. Now there's no question in my mind as to which side of the family she's from."

"It's interesting you should say that," Miriam commented as she passed a bowl of black-eyed peas. "It purely amazes me how often the resemblance between father and son will be noticed and remarked on immediately, but for some reason, the reverse is true of father and daughter. How often are you told that you favor your daddy?''

"Oh." Jewel blanched and looked down at her plate. "Not often," she finally said, keeping her features hidden.

Still busy serving supper, Miriam didn't notice Jewel's sudden distress. "Exactly my point," she went on. "Why, save for the fire in your hair, you and your daddy could be cut from the same bolt of cloth. Was your mama a redhead, honey?''

Her gaze still fixed on her plate and the slab of ham swimming in maple syrup, Jewel could only shake her head.

Harry elaborated. "Jewel's mother had lovely dark blond hair like Trilonnie," he said, acknowledging the girl directly across from him. "My daughter inherited her auburn locks from my own mother, who got her flaming red hair from her Scottish forebearers, the Mulls."

Jewel drew in a sudden painful breath at the reference to the ancestors she'd never known, the nameless relatives she'd ceased to speculate about sometime during her childhood. Surprising herself, she blurted out, "I'm Scottish?"