The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras Read Free

it will do much good. Carnival crowds often attract the worst sort, I’m afraid. Was there anything of value?”
    I started to explain about the brooch, then changed my mind. After all, what good would it do? “A small amount of change. But my ticket was in there.” I tried to keep my voice from quivering. “And my boat leaves in ten minutes’ time.” Near tears, I added, “My—my luggage is already aboard.”
    “Where are you bound?”
    “Iberville.”
    He gestured toward the small, dilapidated packet. “The Swamp Prince?
    I nodded.
    The thin mustache flickered above a white-toothed smile as he took my arm. “Then do not fear. It is no luxury boat, the Swamp Prince. The fare is but a few coins. I’ll get you safely aboard.”
    “Oh, I couldn’t let you pay for my ticket—I don’t want to be indebted.”
    “You must!” he insisted.
    He was right—what choice did I have? I lowered my eyes. “You are so kind. How can I ever thank you?” I imagined myself still wandering the docks as evening approached. I remembered the rough sailors, the scarred face, the menacing eyes of the voodoo man watching me through the crowd, and suppressed a little shiver.
    “Someday I’ll make my way to Iberville. And then I’ll come calling,” the stranger announced boldly, studying my hazel eyes and slightly disheveled chestnut hair with obvious approval.
    Again, I felt color rise to my cheeks. “I don’t even know your name.”
    The tawny-gold eyes held mine fast. “I am Ian. Ian Winters.”
    “Then thank you, Ian Winters” I said.
    “Will you be staying in Iberville long?” he asked as we moved toward the boat.
    ‘‘Yes. I’ve relatives there, waiting for me. Edward Dereux and his family. I’m so anxious to meet them.”
    I thought I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, one that he kept carefully concealed. “Wait here—I’ll see to your ticket.”
    He came back a few moments later. “Though I hate to let you go, I think you had better board now,” he advised as the steamship blew its throaty warning.
    Once again I tried to thank him. Suddenly he took my hand, tossing the wilted rose into the water. “Remember, I’ll come calling,” he promised. “And I’ll bring you a fresh rose. So let’s not say good-bye, but au revoir.”
    I agreed, knowing full well that I would probably never see the charming Ian Winters again. With a last word of thanks,I hurried to board.
    The little Swamp Prince was a parody of the luxurious Josephine on which I had made my journey to New Orleans. No bronze chandeliers, no Brussels carpet here. The boiler rattled and the single deck which held cargo and passengers alike smelled of oil. There seemed to be very few passengers. I hurried up to the railing so that I could wave to Mr. Winters.
    For some reason I had expected him to wait and see me off, but he was nowhere in sight. I felt slightly puzzled, even a little disappointed.
    As I stood watching the few last-minute passengers hurry to board, a strange feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. I missed my mother’s brooch. Whether it was a genuine stone or not, I had no way of knowing. But it had been my mother’s favorite jewel, and that made it precious to me. And now it was lost forever!
    The nagging thought came to me that it was my own fault for taking the brooch off and placing it in my purse. But how could I have known that it would be misplaced—or stolen?
    I thought back to the confusion of the crowd—the children, the beggars, the scarred man who had jostled my arm. Any one of them could have taken my purse. The idea of some pickpocket coming close enough to me to cut the strap of my bag and slip it off my arm gave me a disarming sense of insecurity. I was so grateful to Ian Winters!
    The way he had appeared almost the moment I discovered my loss was certainly a coincidence. I frowned, remembering how I had first noticed him near the steamboat. Again, I found myself wondering what he had been doing there. The