out of General Bee. But our illustrious general is so obtuse about blockade runners that I daresay he would not know the difference between a double-barreled shotgun and his nostrils.”
“ Frenchman?” she asked, seizing on the lone piece of information. “What’s his name?”
Cristobal picked an imaginary piece of lint off his mulberry-colored short frock coat. “ Kitt—something or the other. No one seems to know much about our self-proclaimed Rebel.”
“ But where does he put into?” she pressed. “Clarksville?”
“ La, Jen, if I knew that, I’d have my story. I’d interview the buccaneer firsthand.” He fixed a singular drooping eye on her. “Why all the interest?”
The flu sh that colored the broad sweep of her cheekbones and washed out her freckles was not feigned. She would have to watch herself. She took a quick swallow of the now flat punch. “Oh, but a real buccaneer, Cristobal. This Kitt sounds so—so mysterious and daring.”
“ And a mercenary out for his own profit. No doubt most uncouth. I imagine your buccaneer must go for weeks without the amenities of a bath or razor. And the ilk of people he would consort with—well, my dear . . .” Cristobal fluttered a handkerchief before his aristocratic nose as if scenting something unpleasant.
Jeanette gasped as Cristobal ’s swishing handkerchief landed in her crystal cup.
“ Dios !” he swore and dipped his fingers into the cup to retrieve the soggy portion of material. Without warning the cup tilted precariously, and the sticky punch sloshed over the rise of her breasts revealed by the sapphire-blue tulle bodice.
“ Hell and damna— ” Quickly she bit her lip. But her eyes rolled with exasperation as Cristobal plunged the brandy-soaked handkerchief into her cleavage in a fruitless attempt to absorb the liquor that dribbled down between her breasts.
“ What—whatever is going on?” demanded an imperious feminine voice.
With little hope that the question could possibly be directed elsewhere, Jeane tte cautiously poked her head around Cristobal’s broad shoulder. From behind her lorgnette, Elizabeth Crabbe, the matriarch of Brownsville society and the possessor of a voluble tongue, glared with shocked outrage. Next to her stood Claudia Greer, the hostess’s married daughter, and Jeanette caught the sympathy in Claudia’s plain face. However, on Elizabeth’s other side Aunt Hermione looked as if shock would topple her into the cistern behind her.
His hand still lodged between Jeanette ’s breasts, Cristobal said drily, “I fear this is going to be difficult to explain.”
CHAPTER TWO
“ However will I explain to everyone what happened tonight?” Aunt Hermione whinnied. “And what, God forbid, will my dear brother say when word reaches him of your outrageous behavior?”
Jeanette barely heeded Aunt Hermione ’s agitated prattle during the hour-long drive along the dusty River Road that had been built as a military highway during the Mexican War of 1846. Absently she looped the black silk Lyons shawl over her shoulders, though the summer breeze that mercifully rustled in from the coast some twenty miles distant hardly warranted the wrap.
“ Dear me, a widow scarcely a year and already those young soldiers were ogling you tonight, Jeanette. Crude, unchivalrous men. That is what war does to men. Turns them into animals. And Cristobal—I would never have thought it of him. He seemed to have such impeccably good taste. Men in my day . . .”
Why not run the blockade?
Preoccupied with the plan taking root in her mind, Jeanette scarcely noticed as the brougham rumbled down Columbia’s long drive guarded by tall, stately palms. The trees seemed to march against the night’s star-studded sky like platoons of well-drilled infantry, never out of line, never out of step.
Aunt Hermione droned on while the carriage clattered over the short wooden bridge that spanned the resaca , a water-filled channel cut by the
“ Frenchman?” she asked, seizing on the lone piece of information. “What’s his name?”
Cristobal picked an imaginary piece of lint off his mulberry-colored short frock coat. “ Kitt—something or the other. No one seems to know much about our self-proclaimed Rebel.”
“ But where does he put into?” she pressed. “Clarksville?”
“ La, Jen, if I knew that, I’d have my story. I’d interview the buccaneer firsthand.” He fixed a singular drooping eye on her. “Why all the interest?”
The flu sh that colored the broad sweep of her cheekbones and washed out her freckles was not feigned. She would have to watch herself. She took a quick swallow of the now flat punch. “Oh, but a real buccaneer, Cristobal. This Kitt sounds so—so mysterious and daring.”
“ And a mercenary out for his own profit. No doubt most uncouth. I imagine your buccaneer must go for weeks without the amenities of a bath or razor. And the ilk of people he would consort with—well, my dear . . .” Cristobal fluttered a handkerchief before his aristocratic nose as if scenting something unpleasant.
Jeanette gasped as Cristobal ’s swishing handkerchief landed in her crystal cup.
“ Dios !” he swore and dipped his fingers into the cup to retrieve the soggy portion of material. Without warning the cup tilted precariously, and the sticky punch sloshed over the rise of her breasts revealed by the sapphire-blue tulle bodice.
“ Hell and damna— ” Quickly she bit her lip. But her eyes rolled with exasperation as Cristobal plunged the brandy-soaked handkerchief into her cleavage in a fruitless attempt to absorb the liquor that dribbled down between her breasts.
“ What—whatever is going on?” demanded an imperious feminine voice.
With little hope that the question could possibly be directed elsewhere, Jeane tte cautiously poked her head around Cristobal’s broad shoulder. From behind her lorgnette, Elizabeth Crabbe, the matriarch of Brownsville society and the possessor of a voluble tongue, glared with shocked outrage. Next to her stood Claudia Greer, the hostess’s married daughter, and Jeanette caught the sympathy in Claudia’s plain face. However, on Elizabeth’s other side Aunt Hermione looked as if shock would topple her into the cistern behind her.
His hand still lodged between Jeanette ’s breasts, Cristobal said drily, “I fear this is going to be difficult to explain.”
CHAPTER TWO
“ However will I explain to everyone what happened tonight?” Aunt Hermione whinnied. “And what, God forbid, will my dear brother say when word reaches him of your outrageous behavior?”
Jeanette barely heeded Aunt Hermione ’s agitated prattle during the hour-long drive along the dusty River Road that had been built as a military highway during the Mexican War of 1846. Absently she looped the black silk Lyons shawl over her shoulders, though the summer breeze that mercifully rustled in from the coast some twenty miles distant hardly warranted the wrap.
“ Dear me, a widow scarcely a year and already those young soldiers were ogling you tonight, Jeanette. Crude, unchivalrous men. That is what war does to men. Turns them into animals. And Cristobal—I would never have thought it of him. He seemed to have such impeccably good taste. Men in my day . . .”
Why not run the blockade?
Preoccupied with the plan taking root in her mind, Jeanette scarcely noticed as the brougham rumbled down Columbia’s long drive guarded by tall, stately palms. The trees seemed to march against the night’s star-studded sky like platoons of well-drilled infantry, never out of line, never out of step.
Aunt Hermione droned on while the carriage clattered over the short wooden bridge that spanned the resaca , a water-filled channel cut by the
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