The Creole Princess by Beth White

Lanier.”
    Lyse rose jerkily and whirled to meet her cousin’s—her real cousin’s—astonished brown eyes.
    “Lyse?” Scarlet squeaked, juggling the teetering tray. “What are you doing here?”
    Madame rounded on her. “Girl, how dare you address the guests directly. Obey me instantly!”
    Scarlet managed to land her heavy tray on a nearby table and, after one more frightened look at Lyse, hurried away toward the butler’s pantry.
    Lyse wanted to run after her, but she felt Rafa’s long fingers gently squeeze her hand. A slight shake of his head and a sly wink kept her from flying to pieces. She forced herself to smile at her hostess with composure. “It’s kind of you to accept me, Madame. As you can see, Don Rafael is . . . difficult to resist when his mind is made up.”
    “Yes, indeed,” Madame said with a frosty smile. “Besides, I would never have it said that my charity is lacking.” With Lyse firmly set in her place, she turned to Rafa with a flirtatious flip of her fan. “Don Rafael, I believe you have not met my husband.” She turned to call to a tall, stooped gentleman in a powdered wig holding forth nearby in a cigar-smoking circle of men. “Monsieur Dussouy! Come here, sir! There is someone I would have you meet.”
    Lyse had met Michel Dussouy on a number of occasions, usually at church, and she had found him to be kind, absentminded, and yet a remarkably astute businessman. Whatever his wife’spersonal prejudices, his business dealings with the Lanier family had generally been conducted in fairness and without rancor.
    Dussouy shook hands with Rafa, acknowledging the introduction, and when his gaze lit upon Lyse, he simply bowed courteously over her hand without even a raised eyebrow—for which she would have liked to kiss his pocked cheek.
    Instead she smiled and dipped a curtsey. “Monsieur, I wanted to thank you for giving my stepmother your seat at mass on Sunday morning.”
    “Please do not mention it. At the rate she’s going, Madame Justine will soon need a whole new pew to seat the Lanier clan!” As Lyse laughed, Dussouy turned quizzical gray eyes on Rafa. “My wife has told me all about the young Spanish don marooned in our city for ship repairs. I hope you have secured what you need, but if there is aught I can do to assist, you have but to stop by my offices just down on St. Francis. We deal in ship repairs and merchant marine supplies of all sorts.”
    “Kind of you, sir,” Rafa said. “It looks to be nearly a week before the necessary materials can be pulled together. In the meantime, my partner, Señor Pollock, has given me leave to dispense with all cargo likely to spoil before we reach New Orleans.”
    Dussouy’s face creased in a smile. “Are you indeed associated with Oliver Pollock? I met him once on a trip to New Orleans, back before the American rebels took to blocking trade between our cities. Capital fellow! Hair as red as a rooster’s comb!”
    Rafa laughed. “Indeed, sir. And a temper to match. He’ll have my head if I can’t make it back to port by the end of March.” He paused and leaned in. “Are your ships indeed having difficulty reaching their markets? I would have thought the British military presence enough to keep pirates and privateers at bay.”
    Dussouy’s thin lips compressed. “You didn’t hear it from me, but there’s a shadowy devil based out of the islands near Mobile Point, who has chased my lads into shipwreck more than once.Some say he’s American, others claim he’s a Frenchman, looking for Spanish gold.”
    Rafa looked skeptical. “So shadowy that the lines of the ship cannot be identified? I find that hard to believe.”
    “She’s small and fast, and according to my men, the captain’s disguise bars any discovery of his identity.”
    For some reason, Lyse’s pulse jumped. “What kind of disguise?”
    Dussouy waved a hand. “Scarf over the head, face blacking, indistinguishable clothes. Clever sort.”
    “My