To Save a Lady: French Quarter Brides, #1

By Patricia Preston

A DARING MASQUERADE

A move from Paris to New Orleans brings disaster to Elise's predictable life as a lady's maid. The son of her grief-stricken mistress disappears and Elise is swept up in a whirlwind of intrigue as she turns to a devious gentleman for help finding the lost boy.

A CAPTAIN BEWITCHED

In a city on the verge of war, Captain Jesse Cross, a dauntless American officer, finds himself spellbound by a beautiful French spy. Their forbidden romance is born in the darkness of a moonlit courtyard, and he soon realizes that his biggest battle will be one of the heart.

A FUTURE IMPERILED

As the battle for New Orleans approaches, the lines between loyalty, love, and duty blur, and the perilous search for the missing boy leads Elise and Jesse into treacherous situations that not only threatens their lives but their love as well.

 

The French Quarter Brides series, set in 1814-15, takes readers on a thrilling journey of adventure, intrigue, and romance from moonlit courtyards to glamorous balls. So if you're ready for a tale of passion, danger, and the indomitable spirit of love, come discover the magic of the French Quarter Brides historical romance series. The books are mainstream historical romances. Heat level: warm. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Preston
• Release date: Apr 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215004470

Book preview

Chapter 1

CAPTAIN JESSE CROSS strode through the blanket of misty fog that filled the dark streets of the French Quarter. A discarded playbill from an opera house lay in a mud puddle, and the muffled sound of piano music came from a closed theater where a musician practiced after the show.

New Orleans was on the brink of war. Nevertheless, on any given night, a man could attend an opera, a play, or a concert in this muggy city filled with wealthy residents who loved to be entertained.

Also, a man could be robbed, shot, or stabbed to death on any given night. Crime thrived in the cultural city, which had its share of cutthroats and thieves who prowled the streets at night, looking for unwitting victims.

Jesse had no plans to become one of those victims.

The navy greatcoat he wore over his uniform brushed the tops of his riding boots and concealed the flintlock pistol he cradled against his thigh. As the moon ducked behind a cluster of heavy clouds, he listened carefully to the quiet footsteps that echoed his own. He had been followed since leaving a tavern on Rue Dauphine.

He continued at a steady pace, walking south on Rue Toulouse. Townhouses and shops jammed against sidewalks called banquettes in this city where French was the primary language.

The midnight hour approached. The houses were shuttered, and the streets deserted. There was no good reason to think the man trailing behind him was just out for a jaunt, not in the middle of a winter night.

Jesse picked up his pace as the damp, cold air breezed about him.

He longed to be elsewhere—warming himself by a glowing fireplace, with a glass of good wine and a woman eager to ride him. That would be such a joy right now. When had he last known such pleasure? He would have to dig deep into his memory to answer that question. Sometimes, memories were a comfort. Sometimes, a curse.

He tightened his grip on his pistol. The sound of footsteps grew closer. Faster now, in the darkness. Coming up behind him while he walked along the banquette as if he didn’t have a concern in the world. He drew in a steadying breath.

There was nothing like the element of surprise.

He came to an abrupt halt, wheeled around, and seized the cloaked figure. He forced his adversary against a pair of wooden gates and shoved the barrel of his flintlock against his opponent’s gut.

You chose the wrong man to rob. He cocked the pistol.

A silent moment passed. There was no struggle, and he caught the heady scent of garden flowers and musk. Where the hell was that coming from?

Capitaine Cross, a breathless feminine voice addressed him. She spoke with a French accent, as was common in the city. I do not mean to rob you.

Jesse blinked. You’re a woman? He let out a ragged breath as shock settled over him. He lowered the pistol. A woman?

"Oui, she responded quickly. I am."

My God. His adrenaline ebbed, but his outrage remained. Have you lost your fool mind?

I am sorry if I have, um, she paused as if she were searching for the right word in English, distressed you.

Distressed me? He shoved away from her. You slipped up behind me. What were you thinking? It’s a complete wonder I didn’t kill you.

I was trying to catch up, but you walk so fast. She shrugged. Like a man rushing to put out a fire.

Affronted, he stiffened. He always walked quickly. I’m not one to shuffle along and waste time. I have no tolerance for idleness.

She straightened her cloak and caught her breath. Shall we take a stroll, Capitaine?

How did she know him?

He tugged her onto the banquette, where a lamp hung from a rope suspended across the street. A haze of light shimmered through the fog. He stepped back to get a better look at his quarry.

A black hooded cloak with beaded trim shrouded her from head to toe. An excellent garment for pursuing a man in the dark. The deep hood obscured her face, except for the half mask she wore. The sparkling gemstones scattered across her silver mask winked at him.

He couldn’t believe a woman was following him on the street, especially at such a late hour.

You could expect anything to happen in this bizarre city.

He shoved his pistol into his waist belt. He figured he knew who was behind this caper. Bonnard hatched this little plot, didn’t he?

His cousin, Lieutenant Bonnard Reid, was enthralled by the whorehouses in the city. Bonnard acted like a kid running from one candy shop to another. Despite numerous eye rolls from Jesse, he had begged Jesse to join him on his escapades.

Jesse declined. He had been too busy setting up the general’s headquarters. Now, he assumed his Lothario cousin had taken the matter into his own hands.

Bonnard has gone too far this time. I promise he won’t pull a stunt like this again.

I do not know the man you call Bonnard, she repeated the name awkwardly.

He frowned. But you are here intentionally?

Oui. She stepped forward, closer to him.

The seductive scent of flowers and musk intoxicated him. Like her face, her body was hidden. It was all shadows and secrets beneath the black cloak except for the flirty mask with its twinkling gems. Still, his imagination pictured her as a beautiful woman. Nude, of course.

I am your liaison. Her sensual voice was a mere whisper carried in the wind.

Liaison? The implication was so intimate that it aroused him. He reminded himself she could look like a toad for all he knew. She could have a husband and ten kids waiting at home for her.

Certain individuals share your general’s desire to defeat the British. Lifting the hem of her cloak, she started walking down the banquette. He followed beside her, struggling to drag along at her pace. Could she possibly move any slower? She even paused to glance in a dark store window where shoes were displayed.

Did she think he had all night?

He cleared his throat. I suppose the individuals you speak of are French Creoles.

The elite Creoles, descendants of French and Spanish colonists, maintained a society all their own in the city. They spoke French, proudly displayed the French flag and observed Latin customs. The Creole aristocracy controlled commerce and politics in the city.

They lived in the French Quarter, the heart of New Orleans, where life was all about art, music, politics, and money. A miniature Paris.

The fashionable and sophisticated beau monde of the Quarter considered the Americans an unwelcome barbaric lot. They had gone into mourning when Napoleon sold Louisiana to the United States. To the Creoles, the Americans were a lot like bugs. They couldn’t get rid of them, but they didn’t have to befriend them.

I represent a Creole gentleman who has much to lose if the British claim the city, she spoke smoothly as if reciting memorized verse. He can obtain information about the enemy that will be helpful to your general.

So you are part of a Creole spy ring, Jesse surmised. War meant fortunes would be gained and lost, and there were always spies working for both sides. The Americans had several planted among the British now.

I am only a messenger.

A messenger for a man worried about losing his fortune. Jesse’s vigilant gaze skirted the street as he hurried along the banquette. She was probably not alone. Were they being watched? Followed?

Capitaine, she called, and he stopped when he realized he was several steps ahead of her. She rushed to catch up. I suppose you do not often take a lady for a promenade?

He narrowed his eyes. Not in the middle of the night. Once again, he tried to match her delicate pace. What surprises me is that a gentleman would send a woman to do his bidding.

I speak your language, and it is an arrangement that is, um, beneficial to everyone.

Beneficial? It was probably very beneficial to the man she represented. He wondered if that man bought the exquisite perfume she wore. The fragrance was probably known as Midnight Paradise.

With a scowl, Jesse said, It is dangerous for any woman to be out on the streets so late. I could have shot you. Perhaps your Creole gentleman should have considered your safety first.

I agreed to do this, she insisted. My safety is not your affair.

He remained stubborn. If your associate wants to communicate with the general’s staff, tell him to send a man.

She came to a stop at the corner of Royale and Toulouse. You were chosen because you are an aide to Général Jackson. It does not appear that a good choice has been made. Shall I find another officer?

He glanced at the woman who called herself his liaison and smelled like heaven. He couldn’t ask another man to take on such perilous responsibility in his place. That wouldn’t be ethical. She was his burden to bear.

Finding another officer won’t be necessary, he stated in a formal voice.

"Merci," she replied politely.

I hope you are being paid well to risk your life.

You have greater concerns than my life. Tell Général Jackson the British armada has arrived on Ship Island. They have sixty ships in the Gulf, and more are coming.

Jesse inhaled sharply. The British were expected. But to know they were on the doorstep was a harsh reminder of how soon the battle for this city would begin.

I will tell him. Jesse thanked her. He studied her as his curiosity longed to be appeased. Was she pretty? Did she have a sumptuous mouth and full breasts? A firm butt and long legs? Did she have a lover? If not, he was certainly up to the task.

"Bonsoir, Capitaine." She dipped her head in a farewell nod as a gleaming black coach materialized out of the mist and shadows. A team of muscular horses came to a halt on the wet street. From within the coach, a door was opened for her. Before she climbed into the vehicle, she gave him the address of a townhouse on Rue d’Orléans.

It is empty, and the courtyard affords privacy.

She told him that a red ribbon tied on the carriageway gate would be their signal to meet in the courtyard at midnight. If you have a message for me, leave a ribbon on the gate. I will do the same.

He nodded. Very well. What shall I call you? he asked before she boarded the coach.

She hesitated. You may call me Rose. Then she disappeared inside the vehicle.

Rose, he murmured to himself, certain that was not her real name, and he reminded himself that all roses have thorns. Even the most beautiful of them.

The black coach rolled away, vanishing into the fog and darkness.

He headed for General Jackson’s headquarters on Rue Royale. Seated at his desk, with lamps burning brightly, he couldn’t focus on the pile of correspondence awaiting his attention. He drummed his fingers on the top of the desk, and his thoughts drifted back to the seductive woman in the silver mask.

I am your liaison.

The way she had said that. It filled his mind with candlelit rooms and sweaty sex.

He straightened the papers on his desk. He wondered what possessed her to get involved in such a risky scheme. She could have sinister motives.

For all he knew, she could be spying for the British. The city teemed with spies for the enemy. Plus, there was the animosity of the French Creoles toward the Americans. It was likely she intended to kill him.

He pushed the papers aside. He thought about death far too often. That’s why he was at his desk in the middle of the night. Working to avoid thinking about an inevitable battle that would pit him against an army that was superior in numbers and experience.

He should be more like his cousin, whose response to the war was to enjoy every possible minute of his life. For Bonnard, that meant whores, whiskey, and gaming whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Jesse toyed with the prospect of meeting with a masked woman at midnight. The insane idea had a certain flair, and he felt a stirring below his belt. Possibly it would provide something of an interesting diversion to the otherwise dull routine he lived. He couldn’t recall the last time he had done anything daring when it came to women.

Come morning, he did what any intrigued and infatuated male would do.

He bought a spool of bright red ribbon.

 Chapter 2

THREE DAYS LATER, Elise Plaisance stood beside the French doors on the second floor of Madame d’Clairmont’s elegant townhouse. The hour was late, the December night cool, and Rue d’Orléans tranquil. Unlike the day, which would bring the outcry of street peddlers, the clamor of carriages, and conversations spoken in French, the night brought stillness, mystery, and a hint of romance to the Vieux Carré.

Anxious, she fidgeted with the lace panel that covered the windowpanes. She watched for the captain with uncertainty ravaging her battered heart. Although life had never been easy, she had known a sense of security for the past twelve years. Now that security was in peril, as was everything and everyone she held dear.

She sometimes felt like a tightrope walker with one foot dangling off the rope.

It is a dangerous game you play. Colette Picard entered the boudoir. The housekeeper, who had spent three decades serving the d’Clairmont family, was a sturdy woman with a thoughtful face. She had plump cheeks and round eyes that saw everything, even the feelings you tried to hide.

Colette wore a white apron over her navy dress. Her apron pockets were stuffed with her numerous lists. Some of which she never used. Others she lost. She was never without her lists, which she claimed brought order and simplicity to her daily routine.

I am careful, Elise said. I don’t think I am in any danger.

"I speak of the danger to your heart, ma chère." Colette walked over to Elise and swept a piece of lint off her burgundy dress. The percale dress with a sash of white lace was one of Elise’s many hand-me-downs from Madame d’Clairmont. She considered the discarded clothing Madame gave her as one of the significant advantages of being a lady’s maid.

Lonesome men tend to make promises they can’t keep. That was Colette, who was always full of sage advice regarding men. Colette lit the lamp on the secrétaire and withdrew one of her lists. She constantly revised them.

While Colette sat at the desk, Elise looked beyond the shadows of the balcony to the deserted street below. Across the street was an empty townhouse with a For Sale sign propped against the French windows. Behind the townhouse was a neglected courtyard. The perfect place for clandestine meetings. Captain Jesse Cross had taken the liberty of decorating the wrought-iron carriageway gate with a dozen red ribbons every day.

One ribbon would be sufficient, Capitaine, she told him the first night they met in the dark courtyard, where moonlight and mist created an otherworldly atmosphere. One where it was easy to forget the reality of your situation.

I wanted to be certain you got the message, Mam’selle, he said. It is Mademoiselle, correct? he asked, his voice innocent as if asking about the weather.

She peered at him from behind the silver half-mask she wore. "Oui."

He stood beside the dormant fountain that was filled with murky water. A couple of frogs called it home. Possibly a snake, too. Or, perhaps, the snake was in uniform.

She saw the captain rest his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Capitaine. The hem of her hooded cloak swept over the courtyard flagstones as she stopped beside him. Do you think I am going to hurt you?

After a moment of silence, he shrugged. I don’t know who you are, and I have no idea what’s beneath that cloak.

Only me, she replied. I think you have the, um, she paused as she sought the word in his language, the advantage in size.

The captain was a tall, strapping man who overshadowed her height and weight.

He frowned suddenly. Do you mean to tell me you are out running around at midnight without a weapon?

Beneath the cloak, she carried a handsome dagger tucked in the side pocket of her dress. I never said I was unarmed. But I have no wish to harm you, Capitaine. I am not a British spy. If that is what you think.

You speak English, he pointed out. That’s a rarity in this town.

True. It is. Most of the residents of the Quarter spoke only French or a mix of French and Spanish. Some also spoke English, but you rarely heard it used in public except for business transactions with the Americans who migrated to Louisiana.

I learned both French and English when I was a child. She didn’t add that she had been born in London and lived several years in England lest that fuel his suspicions.

He pushed away from the fountain and circled her. So, why are you involved in a war between the Americans and the British? What do you have at stake?

Everything. She dismissed the thought. There is much at stake for everyone if the city falls to the enemy.

The wind ruffled through the overgrown palmettos as the captain rubbed his hand across his jaw like a man contemplating his next move in a chess game. Rose, he stated the name she had given herself. I know that’s not your real name.

There are risks I cannot take.

I see. So, you will not tell me your real name or show me your face?

She held the cloak tight around her body. It is a plain face.

So is mine, he said.

That was not true. The details of his appearance had been left to her imagination until luck came her way earlier in the day. She was riding inside a rented coach when the vehicle came to a brief halt across the street from General Jackson’s headquarters on Rue Royale. A tall, sinewy officer strode from the building.

She heard another soldier call him Captain Cross.

Mon Dieu, she’d almost broken her neck trying to see him!

The sunlight cast a hint of deep gold in his brown hair. As he crossed the street and passed by the vehicle, she noted his eyes were a rich, dark blue. The color of Madame’s sapphires. He had a rough, battle-weary face. Not a handsome face, but definitely not a plain face.

He was attractive in a masculine way, bringing a sigh to her lips and a little swoon to her heart.

According to Colette, that was worrisome. She claimed such men meant nothing but trouble.

He moved closer. She felt the warmth radiate from his body, and she wondered what it would be like to wrap her arms around him and seek shelter from a crumbling world in his embrace.

Do you think we have anything else in common besides our plain faces? he asked, his rugged voice flirty. He bent to look her in the eye. By the way, your mask is not plain. It’s lovely.

At that moment, something lit up inside her. It was a joy that she couldn’t quite describe, but she was certain it would lead to her downfall. After all, it had kept her in the courtyard for over an hour that night. She had returned the next two nights as well without good reason. But she couldn’t say it was Elise Plaisance, the loyal lady’s maid. No, it was Rose who met the captain in the courtyard. Rose, who wore the jeweled silk mask and the Parisian opera cloak, was everything Elise Plaisance could never be, not in reality.

Beneath the winter moon, Rose blossomed. She was charming and flirtatious. Imitating the beautiful ladies of Napoleon’s court came effortlessly to a girl who grew up in their shadow.

Yet she remained cautious and guarded as she learned more about the man she thought of as Jesse rather than the captain. Jesse was not the least bit secretive about his life. Why should he be? Unlike her, he had nothing to hide.

He had been born in Philadelphia, a city the Americans considered the cradle of democracy. His father served as an advisor to the American president, Thomas Jefferson, who lived in her country for a while. Jesse had impressive plans for his future once he returned home from the war.

None of which someone like her could even imagine, much less hope to achieve. Yet that did not stop her from enjoying his company. And she was happy when she’d received a missive from Monsieur Beauvais after breakfast. She had an important message for the captain tonight, so she crossed the street and tied a red ribbon on the gate.

She turned from the French door and spoke to Colette, The captain told me he was a widower.

Elise. Colette shook her head as if Elise had announced she was contemplating suicide.

It wasn’t something I asked him. The captain simply said it, and he didn’t elaborate. I offered my condolences, she added. She didn’t mention her subtle relief when he said it.

Colette folded her list and stuffed it in her pocket. "I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you have no future with him, ma chère."

How well she knew that. Captain Jesse Cross was a man of education, privilege, and wealth. Yes, he might dally around in a courtyard with the enigmatic Rose. But he would never give the servant girl, Elise, a second glance on the street.

Now, I am worried about you, said Colette.

I will be fine. I promise.

Elise walked over to the dressing table, where silver trays held everything a lady would need to complete her toilette. She reached for Madame’s special fragrance, Irrésistible. It was a special eau de parfum made for Madame in Paris by Châtillon. A blend of white rose, jasmine, and musk. Madame and Empress Joséphine shared a love for fragrances with musk.

Elise liked it as well. She dabbed some of the fragrance on her neck while Colette proceeded with an ominous lecture. Years ago, Colette took it upon herself to mother Elise because she was the youngest member of Madame’s household staff.

Men are not to be trusted. They are like wild dogs, you know. Always looking for a free meal, and then they are gone. Colette waved her hand in the air, and Elise laughed.

Are you saying I shouldn’t feed him? Elise closed the bottle of perfume and returned it to the glittering tray. Colette, I am not as foolish as my mother.

I don’t speak of being foolish. Your mother was not a fool.

Then what was she? Other than a rich man’s whore?

Elise! Colette scolded. Do not say such things about your poor mother. Women do not have many choices in this world, and someday you, too, may need a benefactor.

No. I will put a gun to my head first. The bold statement reflected her unwavering attitude toward becoming a mistress. One whose existence was dependent on a man’s favor. One who would live in the shadows of a gentleman’s life—the way her mother had done—waiting and hoping he would come for a visit, fearing he would lose interest, and finally driven to an early grave by insecurity and alcohol.

Colette sighed. Be thankful you still have your youth and your unblemished face. You may be arrogant enough to think you will never have to trade on your looks, but you must confront the reality of what will come if Madame dies.

"Madame is not going to die."