Sweet Piracy (6 page)

The smile he gave the young girl transformed his face, giving him an undeniable charm. Estelle, thrown off balance at drawing his full notice to herself, dropped her lashes, retreating from the conversation behind a blush.

Amusement at the girl’s sudden self-consciousness brought a tiny smile to Caroline’s lips. Flicking a glance at the Marquis, she found herself once more the object of his regard. She tilted her head a fraction, meeting his green gaze squarely. He was mistaken if he thought he could stare her out of countenance so easily. She was not a young girl fresh from the schoolroom. Still, she knew an inordinate relief when a quiet comment from Amélie gave her a reason to look away. For some reason that she could not explain, she felt there was something faintly dangerous about their new neighbor.

“What do you intend to plant on your acreage?” M’sieur Delacroix asked, sitting forward in obvious anticipation of a thorough discussion of the value of sugarcane versus cotton.

Estelle cast a despairing look in Caroline’s direction. In answer to the unspoken plea, Caroline began to cast about in her mind for some means of changing the subject.

It was not necessary. Rochefort refused to be drawn. He shrugged with magnificent sangfroid. “I doubt I will trouble with a crop this season. Next year, perhaps.”

M’sieur Delacroix was so taken aback at this flagrant disregard for good husbandry that he seemed at a temporary loss for words.

It was Theo who bridged the uncomfortable pause. Bursting into the room with M’sieur Philippe tripping along behind him, he checked his rush, a flash of dismay in his eyes as he caught sight of the formal assembly, then stepped forward, making his bow with all the dignity possible for a boy in shirt sleeves, muddy breeches, and minus his shoes.

“M’sieur Rochefort, may I make you known to my scapegrace son, Théophile,” M’sieur Delacroix presented him with dry humor. “Theo, Jean Charles Henri, Marquis de Rochefort, and his cousin Victor.”

“M’sieur Victor Rochefort and I have met,
mon
père,” Theo said.

The Marquis’s cousin nodded. “Theo has been most helpful in making us familiar with the countryside and our new neighbors.”

“I hope he has not made a nuisance of himself,” Madame Delacroix said with an anxious glance in the Marquis’s direction.

“Not at all,” Victor answered promptly before his noble relative could speak. “I’m sure I would not have known he was anywhere near the estate if I had not made a habit of going down to the boat landing at dawn.”

“Theo?” M’sieur Delacroix said, fixing his son with a fulminating frown.

“I wanted only to view the ship at close hand. She is called the
Egret, Papa
. Did you know?”

At this point, M’sieur Philippe, motivated by either exasperation with being ignored or else an unlikely desire to distract parental disfavor from his pupil, cleared his throat with a loud rasp.

“Eh? Oh, yes,” M’sieur Delacroix said, recalling his duties, “My lord, may I make known to you my son’s tutor, M’sieur Philippe Hautrive.”

The Marquis gave the man a civil nod to which the tutor replied with a deep obeisance complete with a sweep of his handkerchief. “You must not think ill of Theo, M’sieur, really you must not. He was but carried away by his excessive fascination with things nautical — in short, sir, his admiration for your vessel.”

Caroline, with her past knowledge of their own consequence usually assumed by those of noble birth, fully expected the Marquis to administer a freezing setdown to both Theo and his tutor.

Instead, he smiled at the grubby young man standing so stiffly before him. “So you like ships? Would you care to sail in the
Egret?”

Theo flushed with pleasure. “Do you mean it, sir? If so, I would — that is, I accept with pleasure, and thank you most sincerely for your generous offer,” he said, a gruff note coming to his voice in his excitement.

With the lift of a brow, Caroline exchanged a look of wonder with Amélie at the spectacle of Theo behaving with such ceremony. He had flatly refused to do the pretty, as he called it, in the past. No doubt they had never made him so aware of a need for proper gratitude.

“Perhaps some of the others share your interest?” Rochefort said, sweeping the room with an encompassing glance. “Shall we make it an excursion? I feel sure my chef will be equal to packing a luncheon basket.”

Anatole, not to be outdone, signified his intention of taking a place in the expedition.

Estelle turned to her mother. “Oh,
Maman
. I have never been on such a ship. Say we may go. Please, say we may.”

Madame sighed with a shake of her head. “I regret, my lord, that I am not equal to this outing. The motion of a ship, even on such quiet waters as these, quite oversets me. I must beg to be excused.”

“
Papa?”
Estelle swung to her father.

“I could not, in all conscience, leave Madame Delacroix to go on a pleasure outing. However—”

“But there is Mam’zelle Caroline. Surely if she could be thought a suitable
dame de compagnie
for Amélie for a voyage across the ocean, she should be chaperone enough for this occasion.”

M’sieur Delacroix directed his second eldest daughter a quelling look. “As I was about to say, there is Mam’zelle Caroline to play propriety, though she looks in need of a duenna herself, in all faith.”

“Good,” the Marquis said before turning to Amélie. Bending a most beguiling smile upon her, he asked, “And do you go?”

“Yes,” she answered with a breathless catch in her voice, “as long as Estelle and Mam’zelle Caroline will be in the party.”

“Very good,” he repeated and sounded as if he meant it.

By the time the arrangements for the outing had been completed, the thirty minutes Caroline had specified had elapsed, and Colossus, on her instructions, appeared at the door of the salon bearing glasses of claret for the gentlemen. Leaving them to the enjoyment of it, the ladies made haste to their chambers to change for dinner.

Fashion had made no drastic changes since Caroline’s presentation four years before. The enormous wardrobe thought necessary for a London season had stood her in good stead in her present situation. Many of the gowns, especially those for evening wear, had not been off their hangers above twice.

As a governess Caroline usually restricted herself to rather dull colors, gray and mauve and brown. Impulsively she took a gown of champagne-yellow moire taffeta from the armoire that occupied one wall of her bedchamber. The neckline was rather daringly décolleté, edged with blonde lace. From a high waist just under the bust, the skirt fell straight to the floor, ending in a demitrain. The waist seam was covered with black velvet threaded through blonde lace, and black embroidery stiffened the hem. Lacking jewels, a length of black velvet ribbon at her throat seemed the perfect distraction from the nakedness of her shoulders.

She had become adept in the past few years at putting up her own hair. It was not difficult to pile her honey-blonde curls on the top of her head, letting them cascade down the back. Giving herself a last inspection in the cheval mirror, she found the effect not unpleasing. The touches of black emphasized the darkness of her brows and lashes and turned her eyes the color of woodsmoke. A vague apprehension troubled her. Perhaps the effect was too grand? It could not be helped, however. It was too late now to change.

She need not have worried. Madame, attired in rose satin with an overlay of black lace, had brought out the Delacroix diamonds. A necklace camouflaged the beginnings of a double chin; a bracelet graced one dimpled wrist, and a brooch held a rose-tinted aigrette in her silver-streaked black hair. That she was dressed in such a short space of time, Caroline knew, was due to the exalted rank of their guest. Any lesser mortal would have had to wait an additional three-quarters of an hour before he could expect to see his hostess.

Amélie, charming in apple-blossom muslin with amethysts and whorls of pink ribbon threading her curls, was waiting also in the back sitting room when Caroline put in her appearance. The delicate colors, combined with her own fragile quality, gave her an ethereal, almost angelic, look.

It was Estelle who kept them waiting. From the direction of her bedchamber could be heard her muted complaints mingled with the scolding of the ladies’ maid she shared with her
maman
and older sister. It did not take Caroline long to understand that the girl objected to being dressed in insipid white without jewels or feathers. It was true such a costume could not do the girl’s vivid coloring justice, but it was customary for her age group, and nothing short of a papal edict could save her from it. When Estelle finally emerged, she looked young, fresh, and extremely attractive. The placement of a white gardenia, just plucked from the garden, completed her costume, which was enhanced by the flush of temper on the girl’s cheeks and the angry sparkle in her eyes.

Viewing her daughter, Madame sighed, then turned in the direction of the dining room.

They found their way blocked at the sitting room door. In the opening stood an elderly lady dressed in all the austere elegance of black silk with long sleeves covering her hands
à la mamelouk
and a high neckline relieved by a collar of white lace. Her hair was covered by a white wig over which was placed a white muslin cap with lappets that tied beneath her chin.

“Tante Zizi,” Madame said in a fading voice.

The elderly woman surveyed their elaborate toilettes, her black eyes brilliant, her somewhat prominent nose held high. “I understand we are entertaining nobility. Why was I not informed?”

“Bernard brought them to dinner when he returned from Felicity. It was not planned in this scrambling way, I do assure you. I did not think you would wish to throw on your clothing in so much haste—”

“You did not think at all,” Tante Zizi said with the bluntness acceptable only in the aged. “If you had, you would know I am grateful for anything that relieves my
ennui”

“But you never join us for dinner,” Madame protested.

Ignoring the justice of the comment, Tante Zizi replied regally, “In this case I shall make an exception. Well! For what do we wait? Let us join the gentlemen.”

The walls of the dining room at Beau Repos above the wainscoting were hung with
toile de Jouy
in a pattern featuring Diana the huntress in red on a cream ground. Above the glittering board hung a chandelier in brass with dangling crystal lustres which featured the same goddess pursuing a stag around the base. The smell of myrtle wax candles filled the air vying with the smells of hot seafood soup and fresh crusty bread.

On this occasion the younger children had been relegated to the pantry, a room half the size of the spacious dining room, where food from the outdoor kitchen was assembled and ladled onto serving dishes before being brought to the table. Colossus had charge of both pantry and main dining room. Standing just inside the door, he directed his minions with silent nods, insuring service so smooth that the diners were hardly aware of the change of courses.

The Marquis, seated on Madame’s right, was able to give scant attention to his dinner. He was subjected to a thorough catechism by Tante Zizi, who had usurped the place on his right. Her presence caused the table to be uneven, with eleven places set. It could not be helped. In Creole society age had its prerogatives.

Understandably, with the guest of honor being monopolized, conversation among the others lagged. Madame put a few questions to Victor Rochefort on her left. But when their voices began to intrude on the discussion between the Marquis and Tante Zizi, the old lady, who admitted to being a trifle hard of hearing, sent them such a quelling look that they lapsed into silence.

Small cups of coffee were served in the salon following the meal. M’sieur Delacroix followed the French style, joining the ladies rather than lingering over the Madeira and claret as was the custom of English gentry. His guests seemed content to be guided by him.

When the coffee things had been cleared away, Amélie was persuaded to entertain them on the Pleyel piano-forte. Victor Rochefort stood beside her to turn the pages of the music, a task he seemed to find most agreeable.

The Marquis, cornered once more by Tante Zizi, had begun to look a little harried. Prompted by a fellow feeling — it had not been so long ago that she suffered much the same fate — Caroline determined to rescue him.

Drawing up a chair beside the settee on which they were resting, she signaled unobtrusively to Theo. The Marquis, as best he could, was trying to explain his mother’s relationship to a branch of the Austrian peerage. The instant he ceased speaking, Caroline intervened.

“I understand, my lord, that you have brought your carriage into the country with you. How convenient that will be, to be sure.”

The Marquis turned to her, an odd light, almost of suppressed amusement, in his eyes. “I hope to find it so. In the country one can never be sure.”

“A team of four should be equal to any road conditions, I should think, especially a team described as — ah, sweet goers? Grays, I believe they were?”

“Not grays, matched blacks,” Theo corrected before Rochefort could answer.

“Of what breed?” Tante Zizi asked, then smiled with an ironic lift of an arched white brow as Caroline looked startled, then gave a choke of laughter. “Never mind,” the old lady went on, reaching out to touch the sleeve of the Marquis’s coat with the fan of painted silk in her hand. “Whatever their lineage, I’m sure it is of the finest.”