Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [36]
“This is pretty tame compared to what it used to be,” Cece said as we passed bars, cafés, and restaurants lit with neon. Loud music poured out onto the summer evening. “Before the War of Northern Aggression, this was a hotbed of river pirates, thieves, conmen, and prostitutes. It’s a bit upscale now.”
She was right. Laughter rang out as a group of young people jostled out of a bar and onto the street. They linked arms and moved toward another nightspot. If there was danger about, they were oblivious to it.
“Not much criminal activity here,” I agreed.
“It depends on what you consider criminal.” Don Cipriano stepped out of the darkness. Once again he wore only black, making his figure hard to distinguish from the dense shadows cast by the building he stood beside.
“Oh, my,” Cece said, faking a timid spirit, “it’s the dark lord himself. I must say, sir, you’ve captured the essence of the tormented Byronic hero perfectly.” She gave a genteel opera clap.
“A woman of literary pursuits.” He stepped forward, grasped her hand, and brought it to his lips. Even Cece, who was well prepared for his gothic charm, was momentarily flustered.
“Give it up, Don. We’re onto your game.” I kept a safe distance. Even knowing he was a lying fake, I was still affected by his presence. The man had sex appeal oozing from his pores.
“Don Cipriano Viedma,” Cece said. She’d regained her composure. “Character in The Plumed Serpent. A general in the Mexican army but not Spanish, as most officers were. He was of Indian extraction. A man doomed by his own beliefs, yet one with the sexual powers to subdue even the strongest woman. Willing surrender, I believe, is what Lawrence was writing about.”
“Astute as well as beautiful,” he said, completely unruffled by the fact we’d blown his cover. In fact, he was amused.
“So if you aren’t Don Cipriano, who are you?” I asked. “Not a New Orleans antique shop owner.”
“No, that was a fabrication. I’m Barclay Levert.”
He was full of surprises. And lies. “Eleanor told me there’s only one Levert here. Millicent Gentry, a cousin.”
“Eleanor doesn’t know about me.”
“So you’re a big secret? A wild branch on the Levert family tree.” I didn’t believe it for a moment. He looked like the Gypsy he claimed to be, not a Levert. “You were born to play that role.”
“Other than my name and the tiny fabrication about an antique shop in New Orleans, I’ve told you the truth.”
“If you truly were a Levert, I daresay Eleanor and Monica would know about you.”
“Perhaps not Eleanor.” He walked slowly around us. “But I’m a Levert. My mother gave me nothing, not even her family name, before she abandoned me. But my father knew who she was. He told me before he died.”
I remembered the story he’d spun to me. “Your mother, an aristocrat, no doubt, abandoned you in the arms of your noble, Gypsy father who raised you single-handedly and against all odds. Right?” I hadn’t believed it the first time and I certainly didn’t believe him now. Cece looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, but Don Cipriano, aka Barclay Levert, only arched an eyebrow.
“All true,” he said. “Monica could tell you the truth, if she would. But she won’t. She never will. I’d bet she’s never even told her sister about me.”
“Wait a minute.” I studied him in the dim light. There was the same smooth forehead, the widely spaced dark eyes, the full lips and straight nose. His skin tone was olive where the Levert sisters were pale as English roses. If he favored his father’s Gypsy heritage, it was possible. “Who is your mother?”
“Monica.”
“Impossible.”
“Not at all. Monica was sailing along the Florida coast. I believe the boat belonged to one of her Palm Beach conquests. At twenty, she had many, many wealthy lovers. Anyway, she docked in a small inlet near Tarpon Springs.