Bal Masque by Fleeta Cunningham Read Free Book Online Page B

away. I wouldn’t leave that where someone could get to it.”
    Charlotte’s voice went down to a low murmur. Lucienne strained at her door to hear through the narrow crack. “I don’t want to bear bad news, my dear, but I counted exactly ten bottles where you have them so carefully locked away.”
    “Ten! Sacre bleu !” René’s shocked tone rang in the passageway. “A thief! Some blackguard took my Amontillado? I’ll have him skinned and salted alive when I find him!”
    “I told you who it is. I’m quite certain of it. Let me see if I can get proof.”
    Nothing about the duel! Just household details . Lucienne was glad her mother would be taking care of the matter and relieved such boring tripe was none of her business. It didn’t cross her mind that within a few weeks, whether married to Philippe or Armand, such matters would indeed be her business as lady of the house.
    ****
    Lucienne might have saved herself the anxiety of trying to contact Philippe at the horse race, for at the end of the week he came to Mille Fleur to look over a brood mare he wanted to buy. While waiting for René to return to the house, Madame Toussaint made Philippe at home on the veranda and excused herself to send for her husband. From the upper gallery, Lucienne caught sight of him taking his ease with a fine cheroot and a glass of wine. Making sure none of the household, especially her mother or Marie, saw her, Lucienne slipped to the stairs behind him.
    “Philippe, I’ve been frantic to talk to you.”
    “Ah, the Dupre bride.” He whispered a reply without turning. “Conversing alone with me will soil your reputation, you know. Are you inviting such an embarrassment?” His sardonic words twisted her heart.
    “Do you think it might? Perhaps Armand Dupre would change his mind if it did.”
    She caught the quick look of amusement he gave her. That lean face with its dashing widow’s peak, those dancing black eyes that seemed to see everything—she wanted to hold that picture in her mind. He could thank his heritage for his ink-black hair and olive skin, she supposed, but the casual arrogance belonged only to him. “I didn’t have any say in the engagement. You realize Papa and M’sieu Dupre put it together between them. I wouldn’t accept a proposal when my affections were elsewhere. I tried to tell you the day of the horse race, but I couldn’t get near you. You must have been distressed to hear of the engagement.”
    “Of course, I was desolate, but I supposed the old men arranged things.” He waved his cigar and considered the fading ember. “I fail to see how any lady of good taste would prefer the colorless Dupre to someone as entertaining as myself.” He leaned against the railing, bending to put his cigar out. “But you will marry the man and live in his fine, boring house in New Orleans, and go to the usual round of somber parties and dreary theaters, I suppose.”
    “I will not marry him.” She put utter finality in her voice.
    “Indeed?”
    “Philippe, I have a plan, a marvelous plan.” Hurrying her words for fear someone would come and overhear, she told him of the masquerade ball and how she’d convinced Armand to participate by coming in costume.
    “And how does that enable you to escape the throes of matrimony, chèrie?”
    “By giving him someone else to marry, of course.” She rushed on with her plan. “I’d thought Dorcas would do it, she’s always looking at him in that silly, swoony way girls do, and I thought she’d trade places with me. But she won’t. She says she couldn’t get by with it because she has blue eyes and, oh, well, she won’t. But my cousin Pierrette is mad for Armand, and I know she’ll do it. Besides she’s supposed to stand up with me, and she has a butterfly dress, too. Not exactly like mine, but nobody’ll know that because nobody’s seen them. And then there’s a mask to cover her face. And I’m sure she’ll love the idea.”
    “And you, p’tite,