Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(78)

Realizing, that the evening was progressing smoothly, Celia began to relax. No one seemed to suspect Justin. His imitation of Philippe was perfect, down to the way he stood with his thumbs hooked in his coat pockets, and the way he caught at his lower lip with his teeth just before he smiled. Because of his height, he often inclined his head when talking with people. Philippe had always been like that, approachable, ingratiating, striving to make himself accessible to everyone. It was not like Justin, who usually didn’t care if he intimidated others.

Celia found herself studying Justin quizzically, realizing that she preferred him as himself. She missed his free laugh and sardonic comments, and his wont to say and do the unexpected. Philippe would have adored a gathering such as this, while she knew that if Justin had the choice, he would rather be alone with her. Guiltily she banished the disloyal thoughts. Glancing around the room, she found her attention drawn to a figure in the distance, a man standing by a window built into the wall between the ballroom and the dining room.

His face was turned toward her. He was as thin as a blade, and as well-dressed as any of the other gentlemen present, but she found him somehow sinister. The he flashed a jagged smile at her. Cold terror squeezed her heart until it stopped beating.

The room swayed around her. Forgetting herself, she tried to wheeze Justin’s name, but sound was impossible. Suddenly Justin was in front of her, his large hands gripping her arms. He stared at her waxen face. “Celia?” he murmured. “Celia, what is it?” He had to bend his head to hear the whisper that came from her shaking lips.

“Legare.”

Immediately Justin turned his head and surveyed the room, but he could see nothing. Celia looked as well. The hideous apparition was gone. She tried to recover herself, but her mind was whirling.

Maximilien joined them, his golden eyes alert. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“I don’t know,” Justin said frankly, holding Celia steady.

“Get her out of here before she attracts any more attention. The French doors lead to the outside gallery. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Justin complied, clamping his arm around Celia’s shoulders as he guided her outside. The night air was cold and tranquil. They were surrounded by darkness as they retreated to the lee of one of the immense columns. He forced her chin up, looking into her terrified eyes.

“I s-saw Dominic Legare,” she babbled. “I saw him in there, st-standing, looking at me. He…he smiled at me. You must believe me, he…he is here—”

“You’ve been thinking about him a great deal lately,” Justin said calmly, sliding his hand to the back of her neck. He felt the tremors that shook her entire frame. “Is it possible you saw someone who looks like him?”

“No, it was him! He is somewhere nearby, right now, I know it was him! Justin, please believe me, you must—”

“All right,” he said, pulling her body into the shelter of his. He held her protectively. “Breathe deeply, petite, and try to calm yourself.”

“No, we must—”

“Shhh. Be quiet.”

She buried her face in his chest and felt her wild panic fade as his body warmed hers. “I’m here,” Justin murmured. “He won’t hurt you. No one will hurt you.” Her frantic breaths slowed, and Justin’s arms loosened.

Maximilien’s voice interrupted them. “Explain, Justin.”

“Dominic Legare is here,” Justin said grimly. “She saw him in the ballroom.” Had he not been so worried he would have laughed at the sudden astonishment on his father’s face, an expression Max rarely wore.

“Describe him,” Max said tersely.

“Lean and of medium height, with reddish-brown hair worn in a queue.”

Celia pushed herself away from Justin, adding unsteadily, “A-and a smile like a shark.”

Justin gave a short huff of laughter, recalling Legare’s pointed teeth. “An apt description.”

Max was frowning. “That sounds like Antoine Bayonne. A friend of George Duquesne, a French planter. He also has dealings with some of the richest merchants in the city. On occasion I’ve talked to him myself. He is an intelligent man with a sharp wit.”

“I’m not familiar with the name,” Justin said.

“Bayonne first appeared in New Orleans four—no, five years ago. Since then he has established himself with the Duquesnes and a few other Creole families.”

Justin regarded him intently. “Have you seen him here tonight?”

“Not yet, but I can inquire of Duquesne…” Max paused and asked in a dangerously soft voice, “Do you mean that the man who caused my son’s death may be within reach at this moment?”

Before Justin could reply, a young woman’s voice called from the French doors. “Dr. Vallerand? Dr. Vallerand, are you outside?”

Justin glanced at Max and Celia, then stepped out from behind the column. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely, facing the young woman. It was Amalie Duquesne, George’s eldest daughter.

“Dr. Vallerand,” she said tearfully, “ma mère sent me to find you. It is my little brother Paul—he has been ill all day and has suddenly become much worse. We have sent for Dr. Dassin, but until he arrives you must do something for Paul. He is upstairs. Maintenant, you must see him.”