Bay. Over the years, members of the two families had intermarried until mutual cousins often sprouted in the most unexpected places.
Monsieur Burelle’s married daughter Brigitte was sweeping the porch and greeted Lyse with a cheerful “Good morning” as she mounted the shallow front steps.
“ B’jour , Brigitte!” Lyse smiled without stopping to talk. She hurried into the inn’s dining room, where the houseman was popping open a fresh white tablecloth and letting it float down onto a table by the open window.
Zander gave her his usual wide grin as he smoothed wrinkles from the cloth. “M’sieur be lookin’ for shrimps, come time for makin’ de gumbo.”
“I don’t have shrimp yet, Zander,” she said, pausing with a hand on the door lintel. “In fact, I haven’t seen Simon since yesterday morning.” She glanced at the kitchen door. “I was hoping there might be hot beignets . . .”
“My Joony got the grease a-bubblin’ since dawn. And we got sugar brought in yesterday!” He kissed his black fingers.
Lyse laughed at the slave’s wicked grin. “Sugar? Then I better hurry before the word gets out and they’re all bought up!”
“Oh, señorita, please don’t abandon me when you have just arrived!” Don Rafael Maria Gonzales de Rippardá, resplendent in a dark-green jacket with deep lace-trimmed cuffs, over fine buckskin breeches and a scarlet-and-gold waistcoat, descended the stairs. “I must be insulted!”
It appeared they would be conversing in English today—the neutral tongue.
Lyse looked at Zander. She couldn’t afford to actually pay for beignets. Joony could usually be counted upon to give her a sack full of the droplets that splattered off the spoon into tiny, mouth-watering, grease-laden confections.
“Come, you must be my guest. I insist!”
Guest? She wavered. She had never dined in the tavern as a paying customer. If Monsieur Burelle came in and saw her here, he might shoo her out like a mosquito.
Apparently Don Rafael mistook her reluctance, for genuine hurt seeped into his expression as he executed a formal bow. “But I see that you are quite busy, so I will excuse you—and I will eat alone.” With a set smile he sauntered toward Zander’s table.
The thought of beignet scraps flew out of her head. “Oh, no no! Of course I will join you, it’s just that I never—”
“Ma’m’selle forgot to ask me to set two places ’stead o’ her usual one,” Zander interrupted smoothly. “Come, ma’m’selle, while I get another plate for m’sieur.” He stood behind a chair and waited for her to be seated, then pulled out another one for Don Rafael. With a friendly nod, he headed for the kitchen.
Feeling as if she’d suddenly been transported into her daydream from the pier yesterday, Lyse looked at the snowy linen napkin on top of her plate. It had been folded in the shape of a peculiar, long-necked seagull. She glanced at the porch. Brigitte was going to come in and evict her at any moment.
Don Rafael seemed unaware of her unease. He picked up the seagull in front of him and destroyed it with a careless snap, then draped it across his lap. Propping his elbows on the table, he fixed her with sleepy brown eyes.
She couldn’t make herself ruin her napkin bird, so she set it aside and tried to return that unsettling regard. He was an empty-headed popinjay. A practiced flirt. Nothing to be scared of.
She cleared her throat. “What would you like to see first this morning?”
“I have already seen it,” he said with a smile.
A silver-tongued popinjay, she amended. She willed herself not to blush. “Wait until you see Joony’s beignets and seafood omelet. They should be in an art gallery.”
Fortunately Zander returned with another plate and setting of flatware. He addressed Don Rafael with the respect due a wealthy patron of the inn. “I like to recommend the chef’s specialty of the mornin’, m’sieur. The omelet—”
“Belongs in an art gallery, I
Theresa Marguerite Hewitt