Free The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras by Vickie Britton Page B

didn’t like, but what she was.” Christine shrugged carelessly. “Edward, he’s all caught up in bloodlines and ancestry and such. There was some silly talk about her not being of Creole blood.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “The Creoles are the old families like ours, the true aristocrats, you see ...” she began to explain. I smiled to myself, thinking how much like Edward she sounded. “We are of pure French blood. That’s what being a Creole means,” she said proudly. “French-born Americans. Now, the Cajuns, their blood is all mixed up with the common folk, but not us Creoles. That’s why we don’t mix. That’s why Edward doesn’t want me marrying a Cajun boy, like Nathan. That’s why he didn’t want Nicholas marrying Elica.”
    “Elica was a Cajun, then?”
    Christine gave me an exasperated look. “Of course not! No one knew a thing about Nicholas’s wife—she just appeared out of nowhere. That was the problem. Edward didn’t know who her people were. Nobody did.”
    “Did you know her very well, Christine?”
    Christine nodded. She raised her chin defiantly. “She was strange and quiet, but I liked her. She rather liked me, too, I think.” A little of that unexpected shyness had returned. “She gave me this.” Christine unloosened a locket from around her neck. “I wear it always. It’s her miniature. Wasn’t she just beautiful?”
    I took the locket that Christine offered me. Indeed, the face in the miniature was one of striking beauty. Luminous black eyes stared out from a heart-shaped face framed with hair so dark and thick that it seemed to shine blue like a raven’s wing. There was something foreign, almost exotic, about the woman with her sad, widely spaced eyes, perfect nose, and full, sensuous lips. She wore a deep-blue dress which clung to her ripe bosom and accentuated the deepness of her hair and eyes.
    Christine’s eyes grew as dark and smoldering as the eyes of the beauty in the miniature. “Some still believe Nicholas murdered her,” she said. As I handed back the locket, I felt a sudden chill in the room. “Killed her on their wedding day.” Then, almost in the same breath, she added, “I don’t believe it, though, not for a minute.”
    “Don’t you think he’s handsome?” Her voice was dreamy. “Nicholas Dereux.” After a brief pause, she added, “Do you think Elica would mind terribly?”
    “Mind?”
    “If I marry Nicholas instead of Nathan. When I grow up, I mean. After all, she’s been dead almost a year now. He can’t go on mourning forever, and he’ll need a wife.” I stared into those strange gray eyes, feeling a sense of shock, almost horror. For the life of me, I could not tell whether the girl was jesting or absolutely serious.
    Christine tossed back the slightly wavy hair which fell almost to her waist. It was golden where the sun had warmed its rich strands, but the thick mass beneath was dark, almost the deep brown shade of my own hair.
    She rose suddenly. “Quarter to six. I’d better let you dress. Wear the lime-colored silk,” she suggested as she turned and skipped out into the hallway in a most unladylike fashion. At the doorway, she turned once more. “I think you and I will get along just fine,” she said. “But stay away from Nicholas. He’s mine.”
    I did not know what to make of her sudden warning. It was obvious that she had a crush on Nicholas. But who could blame her? To a child of fourteen, the dark, handsome man with his aura of mystery must seem like the prince out of some romantic fairy tale. And the fact that Edward had forbidden him no doubt made him, in her eyes, even more attractive.
    I suspected that, despite his stern manner, Edward had spoiled Christine rotten. After all, she was the daughter of his only child, a son he had apparently worshipped. I wondered what Racine, the war hero, had been like. Part of Christine seemed wild and untamed. I could almost believe that she truly was a changeling, a fairy