distraction that it was difficult to return to her paperwork. When she had placed half a dozen sums in the wrong column, entered one set twice and added a column three times with as many different answers, she flung down her pen and left the writing table once more.
A small mirror hung in a gilded frame above the console table between the French doors. She stepped to it, frowning at her reflection. Her hair, never particularly neat, had sprung into a mass of wild wisps around her face in the souplike summer air. Her face was flushed in a less-than-attractive fashion, and, yes, that was a smudge of India ink on her chin.
With an exclamation of annoyance, she slipped her handkerchief from the embroidered, drawstring pocket that dangled at her waist along with her keys. She moistened it with her tongue and scrubbed hard at the stain. Not that she cared what she looked like, of course. She had never been more than passably attractive, but she preferred at least to be clean.
What business could Monsieur Lenoir possibly have at River’s Edge? She could not think her father required instruction in the use of fencing foil or sword; he had been proficient once, though that was years ago. He owned no property on the Passage de la Bourse that might be rented out as a sword master’s atelier as far as she was aware. He was of too mild of a temper to contemplate engaging a maître d’armes to rid himself of an enemy. That was, of course, if Monsieur Lenoir could be brought to hire out his sword for such a purpose; only the least respectable of the fencing masters were so lost to honor as to stoop to such arrangements.
The only other thing she could imagine was a debt of honor. Her father was a fine man but had one vice, an addiction to games of chance. It had been years since he allowed it to overcome his better judgment, though Reine’s mother sometimes spoke of the days before their marriage when he had won and lost several fortunes. Regardless, he came up short of funds now and again after a particularly long night of play. Yes, and there had been that evening not so long ago when he had come home only as the roosters crowed.
Dismay seeped over Reine as she became certain she had hit upon the reason for the sword master’s visit. Her father owed a gambling debt.
Cash to pay it off was in short supply; she knew that well enough, having spent the morning toting up the accounts. Not that such a state of affairs was unusual; most planters lived on their expectation of future profit. Harvest time usually saw their hopes rewarded,but not always. A single crop destroyed by drought, insects, disease or storms, and ruin could overtake them. That was unless friends or a benevolent banker came to their rescue.
Her father had been fortunate in his friends and business acquaintances thus far. A convivial man, he was generous to a fault when in funds, always cheerful in company and as affable when losing as when winning at the card table. He made few enemies, which he often proclaimed to be the secret of a good life.
Reality and her dear papa were not on close terms, however; he made a habit of ignoring unpleasant facts for as long as possible. More than that, he did not believe in burdening females with financial worries. This in spite of it being Reine who kept track of plantation profits and expenditures. Though her affection was deep and abiding, her knowledge of his faults gave her a bad feeling about this unusual visit.
The need to know precisely how matters stood between her father and Monsieur Lenoir became more acute with every passing moment. It was a relief when Alonzo appeared to tell her that she was required on the gallery.
The visitor and her father rose at her approach, then sank back into their seats as she took a wicker chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her father made a hearty show of recalling the identity of their guest to her memory and expressing yet again his gratitude for his good services in preventing