Luck of the Wolf (24 page)

“I have business to conduct,” Henri said, standing back from the carriage and waving Cort ahead. “I will follow you.”

Cort bowed. Their eyes met, and Cort was reminded how little time he had left before Henri remembered just where he had met this particular Renier before. He followed Benoit into the carriage.

The ride was spent in a tense silence. Babette was clearly uncomfortable, Aria's smile was too fixed and Benoit kept strictly to his side of the seat, as if he thought rubbing elbows with Cort would somehow contaminate him. The carriage wound its way through the streets of the city and passed onto River Road, the thoroughfare that stretched west alongside the Mississippi, and carried traffic to and from the various great houses and sugar plantations of Orleans, Jefferson and St. Charles Parishes.

Many of the plantations had fallen on hard times since the War, and few remained the vast and profitable establishments they had once been. Still, many maintained an outward grandeur, the shadow of gracious living built on an institution Cort's own people had always despised.

The New Orleans Reniers, however, had once benefited considerably from that institution, and as the carriage pulled into the long, oak-shaded drive that led to the great white-columned mansion, Cort was reminded just how successfully they had clung to their antebellum wealth. Adaptability had always been necessary to the survival of the werewolf kind. But Cort doubted that Aria had any knowledge of this region's past. She would never have accepted a world where anyone, human or
loup-garou,
was held in unwilling captivity.

“The house was built by our family nearly a century ago,” Benoit said with obvious pride as they drew close. “I believe you will find Belle Lune the equal of any residence in this country, Your Highness.” He hesitated. “Of
course, you have lived in Europe. Perhaps the castles and châteaus are more impressive.”

“
Mais non,
Monsieur Renier,” Aria said. “It is lovely. Most charming.”

Benoit leaned back in his seat, relaxed and confident again. After a few more minutes the carriage rolled into a circular drive before the immense, pillared portico of the mansion. Servants arrived to assist the passengers and see to the luggage. A butler waited at the door. Benoit offered his arm to Aria again, and they preceded Cort and Babette into the house.

Enormous doors opened into an atrium and the wide, open hall that ran through the center of the house. Decorative marble columns mirrored the much taller ones outside, and ancestral busts sculpted in the Greek style stood on pedestals between them. A grand staircase swept gracefully to the second-story landing. In every way the house was a monument to pride, power and the bluest of
loup-garou
blood.

Though Aria didn't show it, Cort knew she was impressed, perhaps even a little in awe of so much private luxury. For Cort himself, the place loosed a violent eruption of memories. He'd been in this hall only once, on the day Madeleine had rejected him. He'd come openly, hat in hand, to propose to the most beautiful woman in the world.

His last view of the place had been as Madeleine's elder brothers, including Henri, had dragged him out of the house, taken him into the shrubbery and beaten him senseless. He might have died if he hadn't Changed, availing himself of the healing power inherent in the transformation, and crawled back to the bayou in disgrace.

He felt like that boy again, terrified and furious,
forced to acknowledge his low birth with his face ground into the dirt. After all the years that had passed, all the things he had learned about being a gentleman, he had never left that Louisiana mud.

But, like the poised woman Aria had become, he was good at concealing his true feelings. He smiled, offered the appropriate compliments and waited with the others in a grand, gilded drawing room while bedchambers were made ready for the new guests. Servants brought refreshments, tea and cold drinks, which Cort didn't have the stomach to sample. Benoit fawned over Aria incessantly. She was unfailingly polite, if a little reserved. Babette hardly moved in her seat.

Soon a maid appeared to escort Babette and Aria upstairs. Aria looked directly at Cort, and he couldn't mistake the pleading in her eyes.
I must see you. Come to me.
Then she followed the maid up the stairs without a backward glance.

Benoit suggested that Cort join him in a drink, and they proceeded to an unmistakably masculine study, where the sideboard displayed a very fine array of expensive liquors. The young man revealed no further sign of the distaste he had shown in the carriage.

“Am I to understand correctly,
monsieur,
that you have been assisting the princess since her arrival in America?” Benoit asked, pouring Cort a glass of bourbon.

Cort refused to drop his guard, even in the face of Benoit's apparent friendliness. “I have,” he said carefully.

“It is truly remarkable how closely she resembles my poor lost cousin.”

“As you said before,
monsieur,
there are ancient connections between the Reniers and the di Reinardii.”

“Hmm.” Benoit picked up a second glass and examined it with a pensive air. “You have the look and the sound of New Orleans about you, yet surely you can't be from our fair city. The West, perhaps?”

“I've lived in many places. I prefer to move as the wind takes me.”

“Ah.” Benoit splashed bourbon into his glass. “A man of the world.” He sipped appreciatively. “My father is out, but he will return presently. I'm certain he'll wish to speak with you.”

“Presently” was too soon. The Renier patriarch was a sharp-eyed old wolf, however much he had suppressed his animal nature and those of his dependents. He was bound to recognize Cort, even if the others didn't.

And where is Madeleine?
Cort thought.

Married, no doubt, and settled in some wealthy
loup-garou
's home. Her choice of mates would have been severely limited in New Orleans; she might have left the city.

Cort was grateful to be spared meeting her again. He knew now that he'd never loved her as a woman, only as a graven image of celestial perfection he had created in his own mind. She wasn't worth the effort hatred required.

After today, no woman would ever engage his emotions again. His heart would truly be dead.

“If you have no objection,
monsieur,
” he said, setting down his glass, “I will look in on the princess and inquire as to her comfort.”

“Of course,” Benoit replied. “You are our guest. And I have certain business of my own to conduct.”

With a bow, Cort left Benoit in the study and started for the grand staircase. He knew Aria was waiting for him. She would be bursting with questions about what
had happened to him after she'd left with Babette, questions she'd had sense enough not to ask in the presence of her Renier kin. She would doubtless want to share her feelings about suddenly becoming a princess, and weep over gaining and losing both parents and a twin sister on the very same day.

It was even possible, as Babette had suggested, that she would remind him that he had promised to marry her.

When he was finished, she might mourn losing him. With luck, she would hate him. That would be best for her. Best for both of them.

He had reached the landing of the first floor when the massive front doors opened behind him and five men, three unknown to him, walked into the hall. One of the scents was all too familiar. Cort froze.

Xavier Renier, patriarch of the New Orleans Reniers, was an imposing figure, a powerful bewhiskered gentleman who ruled his domain with an iron hand. With him were Henri and three other men Cort had never seen before, one near Cort's age and the other two much older. The elderly men were
loups-garous,
the younger man human. They were engaged in a low-voiced, urgent conversation and didn't notice Cort on the stairs.

“If it is true,” one of the elderly men said in heavily accented English, “it will be our salvation and the restoration of Carantia. We will have a real chance at overthrowing the usurper, and reinstating our good king's laws of justice and tolerance.” He brushed gray hair from a high forehead. “If only we had remained in San Francisco, we might have found her much sooner.”

“She is the very image of Alese,” Henri said. “And yet you never knew—”

“She must have been well hidden indeed, most
fortunately for all of us. But it will be easy enough to be sure who she is. And once we are sure, we can begin our work.”

“You ask much of a young girl,” Xavier said in his deep, gruff voice. “She is not Alese. Henri says she was raised unaware of her heritage. How do you know she will be what you hope?”

“If she is the child of her parents, she will be.”

“We have no time to waste,” the second older man said, pushing at his spectacles. He glanced at Henri. “Our original agreement will still be in effect, provided there are no further complications, and assuming the princess is amenable. When may we meet her?”

Xavier stared at each of the men in turn. “Gentlemen,” he rumbled, “the lady is a guest in this house and a stranger in this city. Permit me to speak with her first.” He gestured to a servant waiting in the hall. “Rufus, see that our guests are made comfortable in the Rose Salon.”

The servant bowed and indicated that the three strangers should follow him. They went, gesturing and muttering amongst themselves in a foreign language that Cort recognized as a quaint form of German.

“You should have come to me before speaking to the Carantians,” Xavier said to Henri as soon as they were gone. “I will not tolerate such insubordination.”

Henri lowered his head. “Forgive me, sir. I was eager to learn if the girl is who she claims to be.”

“And you have sent for Madeleine? Why?”

“There are no Renier women in the house now that Aimée has gone to France,” he said quietly. “It is only proper that the princess has a female companion other than—”

“You will get that whore out of my house by tomorrow
morning,” Xavier growled. “I am not pleased, Henri. I would expect such unthinking behavior from Benoit, but—” His nostrils flared, and he turned toward the stairs.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

Henri followed his father's gaze and hesitated. Introductions were hardly necessary. Unlike his sons, Xavier clearly recognized the man who stood on his stairway. His face flushed deep red. The silence was like the stillness before a killing storm.

Without a word, Xavier strode toward the study where Cort and Benoit had shared a drink. Henri stared at Cort a moment longer and then fell in at his father's heels.

Cort knew his time had run out. He turned and entered the first-floor corridor, looking for Aria's room. He'd gone only a few steps when she walked out of the third room down. She stopped when she saw Cort, and Princess Aria di Reinardus vanished before his eyes.

“Cort!” she cried, rushing to meet him.

He raised his hand to ward her away. “Remember where you are,” he said.

She stared at him, shook her head and laughed. “You can still worry about that now?” She bit hard on her lower lip. “Oh, Cort, I was so afraid you wouldn't…that di Reinardus…”

“He's gone.”

“I knew you would do it! I wish I could have been there. He deserved—”

“Yuri killed him.”

“Yuri?” The sparkle went out of her eyes. “But why? He betrayed us. I haven't told Babette. Do you think—”

Wearily Cort shook his head. “That isn't important now. We must speak of other things.”

“Oh, yes!” She glanced toward the stairs and continued in a breathless rush. “When I saw you with the Reniers, I could see how much you didn't like each other. But you never told me why. Now that we're here, don't you think I should know? Babette told me what she did in New Orleans before she was married, but I don't care. If anyone—”

A servant appeared on the landing, and Aria paused until the woman was out of hearing.

Cort spoke again before Aria could finish. “Let us go to your room, Aria,” he said.

She hesitated, then let him in and stood watching as he stopped just inside the door, arms folded across her chest.

“You're angry,” she said softly. “I know I lied to you. I told you that I'd lost my memory. I let you believe I really was Lucienne. But I'm finished lying, Cort. I promise, when we leave here…”

“You have no need to make me any promises,” he said, standing against the door like a coward waiting for the right moment to escape. “What happened in the past isn't important. What you are now
isn't
a lie. You're becoming who you were meant to be.”

Her fingers bit into her arms. “What are you saying, Cort?”

“Aria…”

“You
wanted
me to come here. I did as you asked. I've met the Reniers. But now…” She searched his face, and he saw her begin to understand. “Is it because you think I'm different, just because my father was a king? But I'm
not
different. Can't you see?”

Cort's heart clenched. He'd spoken to Yuri of a gilded cage when the Russian had mocked him for daring to believe he could make Aria happy. He'd been referring
then to di Reinardus's plans for Aria, but the men he'd overheard, the Carantians, had their plans, as well. Aria would be their “salvation.” They assumed she would be ready and willing to help them reclaim the throne.

A woman of Aria's courage and spirit could do anything she chose to do. She would make her own decisions, but only if she fully understood what they would mean. Only if she were truly free to decide.

Cort couldn't free her from Carantian ambitions. But he could make her choice just a little easier.

“I see someone who has surpassed all my expectations,” he said slowly. “I see a wise and gracious woman who will make choices based on facts and reason, not emotion. And reason suggests that you must think carefully about what you are about to do.”