look on her face, she’d been ready to join right in.
‘No need for pardon, madame. Monique Picabou understands a woman’s dreams — her needs. And I’m here to service you.’
Blood rushed to my face, and I couldn’t find words to cover my embarrassment any more than my nightgown, crumpled on the floor, could hide my nakedness. ‘I — I don’t understand. I never sent for —’
‘Ah, oui . You haven’t read Monsieur Proffit’s note, because I have it right here.’
She fished a slip of paper from beneath her dress, her grin waxing wicked as she touched herself. ‘It says he’s sending me here on loan from his own household, because you need a niece. Your wish is Dewel’s command — and here I am, madame, just the woman to teach you about seducing that man you married.’
I buried my face against my bent legs. Dewel would be laughing like a hyena, certain this impertinent girl with the lilting voice would catch me unawares — and probably flying high on a fantasy about him . How could I have fallen prey to such an egocentric bastard?
Therein lay the key, the fallacy that had led me to this moment of exposing myself not only to my housekeeper, but also to a wild young wanton whose ideas went beyond my comprehension. I was in charge here: the wife of a prominent New Orleans gentleman, ensconced in my fine home on Prytania. No one could make me do anything as outrageous as this wayward female was suggesting.
With that in mind, I composed myself. Not easy, because when I looked up, determined to send her away, Monique was rifling through my closet. She’d thrown open the louvred doors to assess my dresses — feeling the fabrics and checking the cut of the bodices, shaking her disheveled head before flicking each one aside.
Mustering all my tact, and trying to ignore the shimmy of her backside beneath that indecent uniform, I addressed her firmly. ‘Contrary to Mr Proffit’s high opinion of his abilities, what woman in her right mind would ask such a scandalous man for help with her marriage? He’s a known —’
‘Right mind? Left mind?’ she replied, playfully tapping each side of her head as she grinned at me. ‘Both brains fly out the window when Dewel focuses those baby blues on you, oui ? You might as well play along, Auntie Eve. But he always wins, you know.’
I nipped back a retort. This outrageous young lady would remain loyal to her employer, so I needed another approach. Something to sidetrack her from this talk about my private affairs.
‘Who did you say you were again?’
‘Monique Picabou, madame. At your service!’
Peekaboo, indeed! She looked far too eager to render services I couldn’t even imagine. And since she’d come from Dewel’s house, I could guess what sort of servicing went on between those two. I was naive, but not blind.
‘So you’re French?’ I ventured, hoping again for a safer avenue of conversation.
‘ Non, non, non , madame — Cajun,’ she replied with snapping brown eyes. ‘My family lives in the bayou behind Monsieur Proffit’s cane plantation. I suggest we start by getting you new clothes, Auntie Eve. No wonder your Chapin’s chasing after a hot young pussy!’
My face must have fallen again at this reference to my personal dilemma, for then Miss Picabou scurried to my bedside, her eyes wide with apology. Even so, I sensed she — like her employer — knew more about my husband’s private life than she would ever let on.
‘You’re a beautiful woman, cherie ,’ she crooned, tilting her head to study me until I thought her disorganised black topknot might topple out of its white ruff. ‘Pretty face, and shiny hair that glows like fire in the morning light. Curves in all the right places, while most women your age look like one big lump from shoulders to hips, non ?’
I was about to protest her remark about my age, for this careless little wanton was probably only five years younger than my thirty. But she prattled on.
‘Some men,