Chapter 13
Was it Morning Fawn’s imagination, or was the whalebone corset squeezing the breath out of her? Obviously, civilized society hadn’t figured out that there were better uses for animal bones than suffocating women.
Piano music drifted up from the parlor—Thea’s attempt at charming their guests.
Morning Fawn frowned in the mirror and twirled a ringlet of hair around her finger. “I don’t like the idea of getting all fancied up for Mr. Moyer—or any man, for that matter.”
“Not even for Lieutenant Reynolds?” Lucy stood behind her, tugging the back of Morning Fawn’s hair into a loose coil.
Morning Fawn narrowed her eyes at her friend’s reflection in the mirror. “I’d probably have to march downstairs in a buckskin dress and buffalo robe before that man would notice.”
Devon had been polite but distant since they’d returned from Columbus three days ago. Maybe his guilty conscience was absolved now that he’d rescued her from the laudanum and permanent confinement in the attic.
“I think he notices plenty, especially when it comes to you.” Lucy smiled and nudged the lace neckline a couple of inches below Morning Fawn’s collarbone.
“You have a wild imagination.” At least he managed not to go weak-kneed over Thea’s constant flirtations. But maybe that was because he preferred Miss Perfect Hostess in Alleyton.
“I sees what I sees.” Clothed in green plaid instead of her usual black, Lucy jabbed a hand to her slender waist.
Morning Fawn stepped away. Curls bounced against the back of her neck.
Why she’d consented to the curling tongs, she had no idea.
A faint smell of burnt hair wafted to her nose.
A lot of trouble to get a man’s attention.
Lace trim scratched against her shoulders.
And the crinoline hoop? She swayed her hips, and the violet silk taffeta skirt swished side to side.
“Don’t you go stepping close to any fires.” Lucy chuckled, picking up the discarded curling papers which fluttered around their feet like snowflakes. “I might have to help you down the stairs.”
“I know nothing about any of this.” Morning Fawn spread her arms wide.
“Where I grew up, a warrior would linger by the creek in the evenings to catch the eye of a maiden who’d gained his interest. Maybe he’d drop a gift of meat at her family’s tipi or seek her out at a dance by the fire.
And the way to a man’s heart had more to do with how well she could handle a horse than extra fringe or beads on a doeskin dress. ”
“I bet you could ride mighty fine.” Lucy stepped forward, her rough hands clasped in front of her dull white apron.
“Speaking of love…I’m wondering if you could see fit not to need me tonight after dinner?
I knows it’s a lot to ask, but if you could get out of the fancy things without my help and maybe pretend like I was up here helping, I’d be much obliged. ”
“Your Ned is coming to see you?”
Lucy beamed. “Mr. Dooley allows him one night a month.”
“But why all the sneaking if Mr. Dooley allows it? He could come courting.”
“Mr. LeBeau won’t hear of such a thing. Says he’ll marry me off to one of the fellows at Sweet Briar when the time comes. Thank goodness, he’s in no hurry to do that.” She crossed her arms. “He’d whip Ned if he caught him here. And me…”
“What?”
Lucy shivered. “He’s threatened to give in to his son’s pestering and send me to Louisiana with the army. To be Arthur’s cook.”
Morning Fawn swallowed. She didn’t have to grow up on a plantation to understand that her cousin’s desire to see Lucy had little to do with cooking. “Someday, I’ll help you get away from here.”
Lucy frowned. “You go marrying that Mr. Moyer, and you won’t have any say so over anything. Mark my word. Don’t matter what he promises you.”
“You’ve only met the man once. And it was more like waiting on him than meeting.”
“It don’t take meeting. Takes watching. I knows men.” She reached forward and nudged the neckline of the day-dress-converted-to-an-evening-gown another inch from Morning Fawn’s collarbone.
“Then, why help me catch his eye?” Morning Fawn shifted her neckline back into place.
“Mr. Moyer ain’t the one I’m getting you all gussied up for.” Lucy smiled and pushed her toward the door.
Warmth spread upward from Morning Fawn’s chest.
“Ignore the man,” Lucy whispered behind her.
“Which one?”
“The one you want.”
“What if I don’t want either?”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I know which one I’d like to make miserable.” She smoothed her hands against her skirt. It’d suit her just fine to show Devon Reynolds what he was missing and that she had no interest whatsoever in him.
Sweat dampened Morning Fawn’s palms as she made her way down to the second floor and the landing.
She should have accepted Lucy’s offer to help, but she wasn’t going to be guided like a three-year-old.
Holding onto the banister, she attempted to tame the hoop with her free hand and maneuvered down the final flight of stairs, chin high.
Two men waited at the bottom.
“We thought we might have to eat without you, cousin.” Thea sidled up to Devon and latched onto his elbow, like the snake in the grass she was.
Hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, his gaze locked onto Morning Fawn.
Her pulse quickened. Ignore him. Easier said than done.
Devon’s lips twitched upward. He’d cleaned himself up.
His uniform had been replaced with a dark frock coat and trousers.
A charcoal silk waistcoat and a finely tailored shirt finished his ensemble.
He’d combed his hair back and trimmed his beard to a thin covering.
If only he was the one there to court her.
Foolish thought. Scrub it from her mind.
The blue of his eye sharpened as he drank her in.
Morning Fawn pressed her lips together, forbidding herself even a trace of a smile. She had no intention of letting him know his opinion mattered.
“Be careful not to trip, dear.” Thea unfurled her fan.
Moyer slipped in front of Devon and offered his hand to Morning Fawn as her foot touched the ground floor. His red silk cravat shone like a banner. “Please allow me to escort you, my lady. I am but a pauper compared to your beauty.”
Behind him, Devon snorted.
Good. Let the man simmer a bit. “Thank you, Mr. Moyer. I’m not used to such compliments.” She placed her fingers in his palm, wishing for the hand of another.
Devon glowered as he followed behind Morning Fawn, her deep-violet gown swishing against the carpet.
If he had any sense at all, he would have elbowed that buffoon out of the way and taken Morning Fawn’s hand.
She wasn’t used to the shoes or the crinoline, but he could get mighty used to seeing her in such dresses.
But her hair? He preferred it long, flowing over her shoulders as it had on the return from Alleyton, instead of being drawn back in a bundle of fancy curls.
From the moment they sat down to dinner, Moyer dominated the conversation. The table might as well have been a stage. LeBeau soaked up the braggart’s stories and financial details, leaving little doubt this new guest had supplanted Devon as the favored beau for his niece.
Just as well. Devon didn’t have time for courting, fake or otherwise. He had a mission to focus on. He had a chance to make a significant difference for the North, and he wasn’t about to blow it by getting distracted by a pair of hazel eyes and a fiery demeanor.
He had enough to do making sure he didn’t end up swinging from a rope.
And it wasn’t just his life on the line.
It was the Schramms’ too. Unionists, they’d volunteered to help with the spying and the planning.
If he could get his hands on the gunpowder in the quarter master’s depot, not even half a block from the cotton warehouse, his task would be much simpler.
Thea’s hand brushed his sleeve as she retrieved her butter knife.
He startled, but she seemed to hardly notice.
Her wide gaze flickered toward Moyer in response to his latest brag. She batted her eyelashes while she lavished butter on her roll. “You’re in a partnership with Richard King of King’s Ranch?”
Moyer settled back in his chair. “A partner in twenty thousand acres in Nueces County. But that’s nothing. King has another seventy thousand, at least. We’re raising a good herd of cattle there.”
Morning Fawn’s gaze jerked from her spoon laden with rice to her dinner partner at the mention of acres. Half of the grain spilled onto her plate.
Devon stabbed his beefsteak. If Morning Fawn was after land, she was courting the right fellow. But land didn’t guarantee a home—at least, not a real one. He’d seen that all too well when his mother married his stepfather.
LeBeau leaned forward. “Any chance King will allow you a stake in his cotton contracts? From what I’ve heard, he’s the head rooster when it comes to cotton. Got himself situated as the middleman between the European cotton brokers and the Confederate government.”
“I’m counting on it, sir.” Moyer reached for his brandy snifter. “Thought it best to get in on the land deal first. I don’t aim to sit by while fortunes are made.”
Devon blew out a breath. Men were giving their lives, and this man cared more about lining his pockets. He couldn’t stomach profiteers on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line. “There is a war going on, Mr. Moyer.”
Moyer arched an eyebrow. “That’s why I’ve made my services available to the Cotton Bureau. My job is to safeguard the lifeblood of the Confederacy. Some of us do our part by utilizing our business skills and intellect.”
Devon glowered at him. The man’s head was as big as a cotton bale and just as thick. “You don’t believe it requires intellect to take men into battle and bring them out alive and perhaps victorious?”
“I wholeheartedly support our boys in gray. If the Confederacy wasn’t in such dire need of my services here, I’d be out there in the field.”