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standing with the Dupres?” Lucienne asked her mother. The man in question stood taller and broader than the men around him. His glinting rust-red hair caught the fading light, and his massive shoulders dwarfed his companions.
    “That, I think, is M’sieu Bowie, Rezin Bowie, a man about whom stories are told. Stories I trust are only rumors and exaggerations created by envious men, but he is not received.” Charlotte Toussaint looked away. “He’s not a man I’d care to know, whatever the truth may be.”
    Lucienne watched for a moment, still hoping to encounter Philippe. Philippe had attention only for the man Bowie at first. Then the older Pardue left, and Philippe drifted farther along the line of men assembling for the race. She had no chance of getting his attention now, she realized, as yet another visitor, a stranger, joined him. Though the unknown guest’s coat was well cut and his demeanor perfect, something about the slim, dark man declared without words he was not a gentleman. Lucienne couldn’t have explained how she knew, any more than she could explain how she knew a cob from a saddle horse, but she knew the difference.
    “And who is that, Mama?”
    “I have no idea, but he isn’t someone you’ll meet, Chou-Chou. Your papa will see to that.”
    Lucienne lost sight of both men, as well as Armand, when a wave of excitement swelled among the bystanders. The horses came to the line, dancing as they felt the interest of the crowd. With some surprise Lucienne saw Bowie mount a beautiful chestnut gelding and take a place in the line. Then the small dark stranger pushed in beside him on the back of a powerful black stallion. Philippe, as host, had not entered. It would be poor manners to compete with his guests, but Lucienne knew he’d prefer to ride rather than act as keeper of the hefty wagers laid down by the other men.
    A shot started the race. Dust rose in a curtain from the road as hooves pounded the surface to grit. One horse took the lead, the pretty grey René Toussaint hoped to buy after the race. It was quickly displaced by another, and then a third shoved ahead. The lead wavered back and forth until the pack turned at the wagon crossing, and Bowie’s chestnut roared to the front, tightly followed by the rangy black stallion. The two were neck and neck heading into the final curve. Then something, no one was close enough to say exactly what, went awry. The black bolted or was goaded into the flank of the chestnut. The chestnut faltered and for a second Lucienne was sure Bowie would fall. He clutched the reins, somehow righted himself, and stayed in the saddle, but his horse had lost pace and fell back. The stranger, awkward on his mount, raced home to victory.
    “M’sieu Bowie will be so disappointed,” Charlotte Toussaint remarked. Looking at Bowie’s flushed and angry face, Lucienne thought disappointment didn’t begin to describe the man’s rage. Still, as a gentleman, he had no course of action here but to brush off the incident and make light of his losses, losses which she knew could well be a considerable amount of money.
    Armand appeared at the edge of the crowd and made his way to Lucienne’s side. “I trust the event proved entertaining, ladies?”
    “Yes, but the dust is thick and the afternoon light is fading. I’d like to go back to the house while we can see the way,” Madame Toussaint suggested. “Lucienne must be ready to get away from the dust here, as well.”
    With a final sweep of the crowd for Philippe’s dark profile, Lucienne took Armand’s arm and made her way along the narrow path back to the house. She must find some way to speak to Philippe. Time was running short. As soon as the men settled their wagers and shared a final cup, the party would begin to break up. She’d see him, Lucienne vowed, if she had to make a minor scandal to do it. Philippe must know she had no intention of marrying Armand, no matter what that endless marriage contract said. She