Bal Masque by Fleeta Cunningham Page A

flicker of a moving lantern. Out in the dark, Dorcas was planting her early potatoes by the light of the spring moon and one small lantern. Dorcas! Lucienne was sure she’d carry a note to the garçonnier at Belle Mer. She could get word to Philippe. Her plan wasn’t lost yet. She dashed to her room, tumbled paraphernalia out of her lap desk, and quickly scribbled a note. Would it do? She scanned it again. Yes, it was innocent enough to reveal nothing if it fell into the wrong hands, but it should be clear to Philippe.
    Lucienne wrapped a dark paisley shawl over her light dress and hurried down the stairs and through the night.
    “Dorcas,” she whispered to the girl in the garden, “Dorcas, could you take the mule and ride to Belle Mer for me?”

Chapter Seven:
    Consequences
    Philippe Pardue sat alone in the garden, smoking and fondling the long ears of a hound, when he heard hoofbeats coming down the River Road to Belle Mer. He’d been on his way to the garçonnier , bachelor quarters for unmarried sons on the plantation, quietly cursing the misfortune of being born near kin to the Bowie brothers. Gambling schemes, rigged horse races, and now pistols at dawn! The seconds would be coming soon; perhaps the horse he heard meant they were coming now. He had to face the man, but he damned the necessity. The situation left no alternative. How far could honor demand a man go when disaster was the reasonable outcome? He’d soon find out, he supposed.
    Rustling in the leaves and the sound of hesitant footsteps made him crush his cigar and step deeper into the shadows. A form, lithe and feminine, emerged into the pale moon rays. Lucienne? Here? Clouds parted. Moonlight cast a clearer light on the upturned face. Not Lucienne. That snippy little daughter of the Mille Fleur overseer. What does she want here?
    Shaking off the apprehension he’d felt at her stealthy approach, Philippe drew near the girl before he spoke in a soft tone. “Mam’selle?” She whirled to face him.
    “Mr. Pardue?” She clutched a thin shawl, her hands knotted in its folds. “I swear I never heard you come up.” Fumbling in her pocket, she pulled a small packet free. “Miss Lucy Ann asked me to bring this to you, personal.” Dorcas pressed a folded page of paper into his hand and scurried a few feet into the darkness. “She said tell you ever’thin’ would work out just fine.”
    “Mam’selle Lucienne Toussaint, she sent you with this?”
    “Yessir, she did. Came out and asked me to bring it to you personal, and it had to be tonight. I gotta get back now, ’fore somebody finds me gone.”
    “Yes, you go along, now,” Philippe muttered. “I’ll see to Mam’selle Lucienne.” A distant rustle in the flowerbed and the pad of bare feet on the stone path told him he was alone again. He stood in the darkness a moment, fingering the folded sheet of paper. What convoluted plan has Lucienne concocted now? Between a duel and Lucienne’s escapades, he wasn’t certain which offered the greater threat, possible death or certain disgrace.
    He took his time before reading her newest plan. In the thick of the cloudy night, he made his way through the garden to enter the long apartment beyond. In deeper darkness he crossed to the sideboard, where two tapers waited. Minutes passed before he bothered to light them. Even then he didn’t rush to break the seal on the paper in his hand. Whatever words the young lady had sent would be better read with a glass of brandy in his hand. And sitting would be better than standing.
    Monsieur, he read at last.
    I know you will be as distressed as I am to hear that Mlle. Pierrette Ebert is indisposed. She will be unable to attend the wedding on Tuesday. However another young lady would be most pleased to receive your attentions if you are able to spare her some time before that day. Perhaps it would be possible for you to make a slight detour to admire the garden during the afternoon.
    Philippe savored his brandy