Prisoner of Desire

by Jennifer Blake

  Out the window. Though the bottom half was covered by a grille, the top was not. She had only glanced at the windows through the muslin curtains, assuming that since the house was fairly new and had many American features the windows were double sashes. Now she moved to jerk the draperies open and pull the muslin curtains underneath to one side. With the filmy fabric out of the way, it was easy to see that the windows were casements. They opened on hinges, swinging into the room, leaving the entire expanse free and uncluttered. All she had to do was climb over the grille. That was, of course, if she could find some way of letting herself down to the ground.

  There was an obvious solution. Whirling to the bed, she threw the pillows and bolster aside and stripped back the coverlet and quilts. The sheets were of linen, monogrammed at the top hem, gratifyingly strong. She tugged the top sheet from the mattress, holding it up, wondering if it would not be better to tear it in half.

  The knob of the door rattled, was twisted back and forth. Anya hurriedly bundled the sheet in her arms, turning toward the bed. There was no time to remake it. What Ravel would say when he saw what she was doing, what action he would take, she did not like to think. The key was being inserted in the lock, scraping as it was turned. The knob began to move.

  The woman who stepped into the room was tall and elegant, if rather thin, and dressed in a visiting costume of soft velvet trimmed with gray and pink striped ribbons. Her hair, drawn back in lustrous waves, was black with wings of white at her temples. Her eyes were dark and quick with intelligence under rather thick brows, dominating a face that seemed to gain strength from the fine lines of humor and pain around the eyes and about the mouth. Her age might have been no more than forty, though common sense suggested it must be nearer fifty, perhaps more. The resemblance to Ravel was unmistakable.

  The woman’s entrance was swift, impetuous; then as she saw Anya her footsteps slowed. Her face pale, she said in soft distress, “If I had not seen it for myself, I would not have believed it.”

  “Madame Castillo?”

  “You have it right.”

  “I’m Anya Hamilton.”

  “I am aware. This is really too bad. This time he has gone too far.”

  Anya moistened her lips. “Perhaps I should explain—”

  “There is no need; I have eyes in my head. The arrogance of him, the sheer unprincipled gall. That he could do it at all is shocking, but that he would dare while I am under the same roof makes me long to slap him!”

  “If you think,” Anya said, her temper kindling, “that I am some loose woman your son has brought here to embarrass you, or that this is an episode of simple lust, I take leave to inform you—”

  Madame Castillo’s expression changed rapidly from concern to blank surprise to amusement. She gave a choke of laughter. “Simple lust! Oh, chère, if only it were.”

  “You are aware then of — of what is between your son and myself.”

  “In part, and the rest, knowing Ravel, I can guess.”

  The message he had sent from Beau Refuge must have been more comprehensive than he had indicated. An uncomfortable flush rose to Anya’s face. “I can’t blame you for being angry for what I did—”

  “Oh, I’m not angry. Anything done to prevent a duel in which my son is involved must have my blessing — even if his continued good health was not the purpose.”

  “Then your disapproval is for his keeping me here?” Anya said slowly, a trace of surprise in her tone.

  “Not, perhaps, the fact, but the method seems lacking in finesse.”

  The older woman tipped her head to one side, her gaze upon Anya direct, relentlessly appraising. She was no easier to understand than her son. Did she mean that she had no objection to Anya despite the abduction, that her annoyance was with Ravel’s flouting of the conventions? Or was she saying that she understood and applauded Ravel’s deeper purpose, to pressure Anya into marriage, but deplored the way he was going about it? In either case, it made no difference. There was only one point of importance at this moment.

  “You will let me go then?”

  Madame Castillo smiled. “I doubt that I could stop you; you appear a very determined young lady. Of course, it might be best for the peace of this house if I were to go away and close the door, permitting you to make your way out the window. My conscience won’t allow it, however; I should never forgive myself if you fell. And so you are free to go, if that is what you want.”

  Anya tossed the sheet she held on the bed, searching out her bonnet and gloves where they had been thrown to the floor as she removed the coverlet. She stood, tying the bonnet of sea blue velvet set with nodding egret plumes on her head, smoothing on her kid gloves.

  Of course it was what she wanted. How could it not be? To be free at last of Ravel Duralde, never to cross his path again, was her dearest wish. It was unreasonable of her then to think of him as he had been that morning, splendidly naked, with his hair damp and curling on his forehead and his eyes black and lustrous with passion. “Look at me, Anya—”

  If she left now she would never again feel his caresses, never see the sudden flash of his laughter or the intent concentration of his thought processes as they played chess or solved problems together, never again lie replete and languorous in his arms. If she were to marry him, no matter how or why, she would have those things.

  But there was nothing to say he wanted to marry her at all. The suspicions she harbored might be no more than tortuous fancies without foundation. Because she found his chess moves complicated and filled with clever entrapments did not mean that he must proceed in that manner in the situation in which they found themselves. He was a man of the nineteenth century, not some Byzantine ruler from the ancient world plotting confusion to those who had injured him. She would go home, back to Madame Rosa’s house, and that would be the end of it.

  She did not truly expect that it would be. Nor was it.

  The problem was not the necessity of explaining everything to Madame Rosa and Celestine. As the matter was discussed over an early tea hastily prepared for Anya, her half-sister cried and fumbled with her vinaigrette in a storm of sympathy and indignation and foreboding, but Madame Rosa remained reassuringly sanguine. There would be talk, a great deal of it, but so long as Anya and Ravel conducted themselves in a suitable manner, it would pass. To aid matters, she would have Gaspard drop just a hint here and there about a visit by M’sieur Duralde to Beau Refuge to inspect some — what? Horses? Mules? Of how he had become ill of an unknown and possibly contagious fever so that he had insisted on keeping well away from the main house until he recovered. And of how grateful they all were that he was on hand when the gin went up in flames. Anya might have to endure a few prying questions and suggestive remarks, but if no more serious consequences developed, they should be able to launder this particular piece of linen in private.

  The oblique reference to consequences referred to the hope that Anya was not pregnant. What she would do if she should be was a question Anya refused to consider. She had spoken blithely to Ravel of taking the English remedy, but she preferred not to put her resolve to the test. The time might come when she would be glad for Ravel to marry her, whatever his reasons.

  Because of that, and because she could not prevent herself from thinking of what had happened, the question that had haunted her from the beginning remained with her, preventing her from making an end of the affair. Gaining in importance from minute to minute the longer and harder she struggled with it, was the puzzle of what sort of man Ravel truly was.

  It was not the only question, of course. The more she thought of the things he had said to her, the more puzzled she became. He suspected her of being involved with the men who had tried to kill him, a not unreasonable surmise in view of her abduction of him. And yet there seemed something more behind his suspicion. What could it be? The duel and its cause appeared central to the matter, but surely he could not think that Murray would choose so low a means of avoiding a meeting, or that she would help
him if he had? Nor did it make sense for Ravel to suppose that, if she had aided Murray, he would then have turned on her and ordered her death. It was ridiculous.

  But what else was there? There must be something she was missing. Her need to know was so strong that she could think of nothing else. She could not relax, could not rest. She felt only a terrible need to find the answers she sought someway, somehow, and soon.

  Where was she to look? Whom was she to ask? What questions should she use to discover the information she needed? She didn’t know but she would find out. It seemed sensible to suppose that the best way to learn about a man would be to ask those who knew him. There were three people who came immediately to mind. The first of these was his mother, but Anya had spoken to her, and it was unlikely that she could or would reveal more than she had already. Of the other two, the most important was Emile. He had been out of the city, but he must have some idea of Ravel’s character, the esteem in which he was held by the men who knew him, or else could find out. The final person was the actress Simone Michel, Ravel’s current mistress.

  With Anya, to decide on a course of action was to embark upon it. She sat down at once at the escritoire in her sitting room and wrote a short and carefully worded note asking Emile to call upon her. Ringing for a servant, she dispatched the missive as soon as she had folded and sealed it.

  Her messenger had hardly left the room before a knock came. Anya called out her permission to enter, then as she saw who it was, sprang to her feet in quick apprehension.

  “Marcel! How did you come to be here? Is something wrong at Beau Refuge?”

  “No, no, don’t alarm yourself, mam’zelle. Nothing is wrong.”

  As he came forward, Anya saw that his arm was in a sling of black cloth, a color so nearly matching his coat she had not seen it at once. She indicated it now. “You look far from right.”

  He gave her a smile as he shook his head. “My wrist is broken, just a small crack in the bone, or so the doctor said. I didn’t feel it until after you had gone this morning. I was only an hour behind you on the road, but I had instruction from Maman to go straight to the doctor, without troubling you until I was sure of the problem.”

  Anya made a sound of impatience for such scruples. “The doctor looked after you all right?”

  “Indeed he did, once I mentioned your name.”

  “You must stay here with us for a few days, until you feel well enough to return to the country.”

  “You are kindness itself, mam’zelle,” he said, “but this is a mere nothing. I’m well enough to return now, unless you have need of me here?”

  He deserved a rest, though it might be difficult to make him take it unless he could also feel useful. A plan began to form in Anya’s mind. She seated herself once more at the escritoire.

  “Please sit down, Marcel,” she said. “There is something I would like to discuss with you.”

  Emile arrived within the hour. When Anya swept into the salon, she found him sitting on the settee with Celestine, regaling her with outrageous compliments and teasing remarks while Madame Rosa sat fanning herself gently, smiling as she watched the young pair. Celestine blushed and laughed, but her behavior had the pretty circumspection becoming in one betrothed to another man.

  Such an audience for her interrogation was not what Anya had envisioned. She allowed several minutes filled with banter and the exchange of the latest news to pass. Finally, she turned to Emile, saying quite frankly, “There is a matter that I need a man’s opinion on, if you don’t mind, mon cher. Perhaps you will be so kind as to walk with me to the square and back?”

  “It will be my pleasure,” he agreed at once. He rose with inherent good manners, giving no sign that he was reluctant to depart with her. Still, Anya had the feeling that he would rather have stayed talking to Celestine. It was troubling that he should be developing a tendre for her half-sister, but it seemed that was the way of the world. Love was seldom convenient, parceled out in exact proportion to those who had need of it.

  The square was the old Place d’Armes, now beginning to be called Jackson Square after the equestrian statue of General Andrew Jackson donated by the Baroness Pontalba a few years before when she had turned the old parade ground into a park. Strolling around the square had always been a pastime of the people of New Orleans. It was even more enjoyable since the cathedral had been rebuilt with new, pointed steeples and the upper floors of the buildings on either side, the Presbytère and the old Spanish Cabildo, had been given new facades. The Pontalba apartments, where once Anya had snatched the nightcap of the operatic tenor, ran at right angles to the other buildings. The apartments were long structures of red brick with galleries graced with wrought-iron railings and slate roofs. On the lower floors were select shops in the Continental manner, while the upper floors housed some of the most distinguished families and famous visitors in the city. The park in the center, planted with lush flowers that flourished in the near-tropical climate, was enclosed by a fence of wrought iron. On the fourth side of the square, beyond a street where horses pulling carts and carriages stepped at a quick pace, lay the levee and the river.

  Anya and Emile took a slow turn about the square, glancing now and then into the shop windows where fancy goods were displayed. The air was pleasantly cool, with a fresh breeze from the river that fluttered the ribbons of Anya’s bonnet. The cool sunlight of the waning afternoon slanted through the buildings, gilding the wrought iron, casting long blue shadows across the streets. Emile kept up an easy and general conversation, swinging his cane with a jaunty air as he walked. He glanced at Anya now and then, but gave no sign of impatience, seeming quite willing to wait for her to broach the subject that had brought them there herself. His attitude reminded her so much of Jean that it made it easier to turn to him at last.

  “What would you say, Emile, is the best way to know and understand a person?”

  He gave her a quick, inquiring look. “It would depend on the person.”

  “A man, say, of some reputation. If you did not want to depend on the public view of him, what could you do?”

  “I suppose the best way would be to talk to him.”

  “And if you could not do that?”

  “Then you could speak to those who know him.”

  “Precisely what I thought. At the theater a few days ago, you defended Ravel Duralde. Could you tell me why?”

  “I felt he was being unjustly maligned.”

  “Yes,” she said, her gaze intent on his face, “but what made you think so? The accusation, if I remember correctly, was of cowardice, or at least a reluctance to meet my future brother-in-law on the field of honor. What lead you to believe it was false?”

  “One gains an impression.” He made a slight helpless gesture.

  “How,” she persisted.

  “From what other men say, how they say it.”

  “What do they say of Ravel?”

  “Anya, you ask the impossible. I couldn’t begin to tell you.”

  He was avoiding the issue, she knew it. Why should he? Was it the natural male reluctance to discuss another man with a woman? Or was it that he had some knowledge he wished to keep from her?

  “Has there ever before been anything strange about a duel in which Ravel was a participant?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Most occurred when he was younger or elsewhere, primarily Central America. I understand the duello was a favorite way of settling disputes there.”

  “What of his other activities? Have you ever heard that he trifled with other men’s wives, or was associated with any kind of enterprise that might be dangerous?”

  “Anya!”

  “Well, have you?”

  “No.” He touched his thin mustache in a quick, nervous gesture.

  “Where does his money come from, then? Isn’t it strange that he has become so wealthy overnight?”

  “It came originally from gambling. Ravel has since used a combination of skill, acumen, and luck in the financial arena t
o increase his holdings.” He came to a halt, exasperation in his face as he turned to her. “What is this, Anya? What are you trying to say?”

  She looked at him, studying him feature by feature. To trust or not to trust? It was a strange choice, one usually made on faith, not fact. She said frankly, “I want to know who would want to have Ravel Duralde killed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His gaze was narrow, almost defensive. Anya felt a moment of chill. She had thought to tell Jean’s brother the truth, but suddenly it did not seem best. It was possible he might take it upon himself to become the protector of her good name by calling Ravel out. That was the last thing she needed. Falling back on the fiction Madame Rosa had suggested to explain Ravel’s presence at Beau Refuge, she went on from there to describe the arrival of the gang of thugs and the fire.

  “So you see,” she ended, “the obvious question is, who hired those men, who is the boss who tried to kill Ravel?”

  Emile Girod heard her out in grim silence. He held her steady regard a long moment; then he looked away. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice hard, intent, “but it isn’t me.”

  12

  EMILE AND ANYA, AFTER AN AIMLESS turn or two, had wound up in the narrow passageway that lay between Chartres and Royal streets and ran three blocks from Canal Street to the front of the St. Louis Hotel. This short street, known as Exchange Alley, was where most of the salles d’armes, or establishments for the teaching of the art of fencing, were located. In the quiet that fell between the two of them, they could hear the sharp clang and snick of blades being crossed. So fine was the afternoon that the doors had been left standing open to cool the exertions of the gentlemen at their practice, and the sounds rang out clearly along the stone-paved pathway.