The sound of raindrops and their wetness was cut off as Ryan ducked into the tunnel-like entrance of the porte cochère. Gaining the courtyard, he climbed the stairs to the gallery. At the top, he turned to speak to the two servants who still followed.
“Go to the rooming house. Bring her things, everything.”
“I’ll take one of the maids and go,” Devota said to Benedict, exchanging a long look with the manservant. Benedict gave a nod, as of some communication made.
Ryan appeared not to notice their exchange. Swinging about again, he moved to the open door of his bedchamber and shouldered through it, kicking it closed behind him. He crossed to the bed and placed Elene none too gently onto the yielding surface of its mattress.
Elene caught herself on her elbows. Before she could push to a sitting position, however, Ryan flung himself down beside her and leaned to brace an arm on either side of her shoulders. His voice hard yet etched with pain, he said, “Tell me again, why?”
“Why what?” she snapped in return, incensed at his use of his strength for mastery, angry too at the flicker of gratification inside her at his show of rampant determination to have her with him.
“Why did you go on with Gambier?”
“Maybe I was tired of having you decide my life for me! As you’re doing now. You can’t just cart me here again and expect me to stay.”
“I can,” he said, the words grim with certainty. “And I will keep you here until the gate to hell drips icicles, unless you can give me some good reason for why you left this house.”
The impulse to strike out at him was strong, but to struggle would be useless, if not dangerous, in her condition. As much as it went against the grain, she must think of such considerations now. More than that, there was a matter or two that required some clarification between them, for her sake as well as his. She lowered her lashes, staring at the pulse that throbbed in the strong brown column of his neck. Finally, she said, “It seemed best.”
“Best? Best for whom?”
“For both of us.”
“You might have consulted me before deciding my life for me.” He mocked her earlier complaint with bitter sarcasm, and despised himself for having to fight the urge to kiss away the drop of rain that fell from the thick fan of her lashes to her cheekbone.
“Oh, very well! It was best for me. It seemed a good thing to remove myself before I was thrown out. There are few wives who care to share their homes with their husbands’ mistresses!”
His face hardened. “You said something similar before. I think you had better explain.”
“Flora Mazent.”
She had succeeded in surprising him, if nothing else. As his expression remained uncomprehending, she was forced to continue. “Flora was supposed to be engaged, but her fiancé withdrew from the arrangements after the death of her father. You were seen in a close business discussion with M’sieur Mazent.”
“That makes me the fiancé? Gambier was with Mazent more, both before and after we landed here.”
“He denied mat he was the chosen groom.”
“And that’s all that’s required?”
“I have no reason to doubt him.”
“Suppose I deny it, too.”
Was he denying it or not? There was no way to be sure. “But it had to be one of you. The Mazents knew no one else.”
His voice neutral, he said, “There was always Morven, or one of me men on my ship.”
Morven and Flora? Don’t be absurd! As for the men on your ship, I think M’sieur Mazent would have chosen a gentleman.”
“For that much,” he said in irony, “I thank you.”
“In any case, there was nothing said when you left to indicate that you wanted me here when you returned.”
“The unpardonable sin, I took you for granted.”
She flashed him a sharp look. “You rode off without a backward glance or thought.”
“What was I supposed to have done? Given you my undying love and begged you to wait?”
She did not answer. She could not. Nor could she look at him.
“Ah,” he said softly, “I begin to see.”
Panic seized her, panic based on fear of what he might guess, and what he might say in response to it. If it was the wrong thing, it might be too painful to bear. “You needn’t think I am breathlessly waiting for a declaration of your intentions.”
“No, I would never think that. I have not forgotten that you are a woman of ambition.”
She clenched her jaws together, a reaction of sheerest nervous agitation, one that kept her lips from trembling. Her words when she could speak were brief. “Is that so wrong?”
“Not at all. But I see no reason why you cannot also be my woman.”
The deep tone of his voice, the caressing look in his eyes made it difficult to breathe. He shifted, resting his weight on one hand while with the other he released the tie of her damp bonnet and drew it off, flinging it aside. He loosened her shawl, sliding it from her and disposing of it also since it had absorbed the rain, leaving her walking dress fairly dry.
Seeing* his gaze move next to the buttons of her walking dress, Elene moistened her lips and spoke in a tumbling rush. “To be your woman would mean I would always have to be afraid of losing you.”
“Never, except in death, and to live in fear of that loss is to turn your back on the joy of living.” He touched her cheek, as if marveling at its smoothness, then trailed his fingers along the curve of her jaw line to the point of her chin.
With a catch in her voice, she said, “I can’t help it.”
“Can’t you? Only someone with no fear of death would risk her health by taking arsenic, even to produce such fragile loveliness.”
“I didn’t!” she cried in indignation, snatching her chin from his grasp with a toss of her head. “I wouldn’t! It would be too dangerous for—”
A knock came on the door.
Ryan cursed under his breath, then pushed himself away from Elene to sit erect on the end of the bed. He called out a command to enter.
Benedict stepped into the room. “M’sieur Morven Ghent and another gentleman are here, on the matter of the duel.”
“Morven is prompt, for an actor,” Ryan said in dry acknowledgment. “Tell him I will be with them in a moment.”
As Benedict went away to do as he was bid, Elene sat up. She put her hand on Ryan’s arm. “There is no need for you to fight Durant again. Please, won’t you do something to stop it?”
“It was Durant who issued the challenge.” There was the sound of steel in his voice.
“Because of your actions. You could apologize for knocking him down.”
“I somehow doubt that will satisfy him. There is the small matter of taking his bride.”
Her lips tightened. “For the last time, I’m not his bride! If you would only be reasonable!”
A smile curved his mouth, one that struck chill into her heart. “I am perfectly reasonable, so long as no one tries to take what is mine. If Durant wants you, he will have to kill me first.”
He gave her no chance to reply, but pushed off the bed and strode quickly from the room.
A short time later, Ryan and his seconds left the house. They gave no indication of where they were going, but it was assumed their departure was on the business of the duel.
In their absence, Devota returned with Elene’s belongings. The maid did not ask if the things should be unpacked and put away, but bustled about the bedchamber restoring them to their accustomed places. Elene lay watching her, and wondering at her own quiescence.
Perhaps it was the effect of the poison, if she had somehow ingested such a thing? Or of her pregnancy? Or even the paralysis of fear, her fear for Ryan and what she had caused?
Those explanations were real possibilities, but she knew differently. She stayed where she was because it was where she wanted to be. And because there was still something unfinished between her and Ryan Bayard. That it might never be finished was something sh
e refused to consider.
Devota paused in her tasks, looking at Elene. “You are all right, chère?”
“Yes, fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Elene forced a smile. “You are so good for my conceit.”
“Humph. You’re sure your stomach doesn’t cramp?”
“Don’t fuss, Devota, please.” As her maid turned away, taking the last items from Elene’s small trunk, she went on, “I suppose you’re happy now.”
Devota gave her an oblique look. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On what happens.”
Elene looked away. “Yes.”
“He’s much man, M’sieur Ryan. He won’t be beaten.”
“But if Durant dies because of me, how will I live with it?”
“You will live,” Devota said, pausing in what she was doing. “It’s only a little for you, his challenge, chère, and much for his pride. To lose both you and his home, his island kingdom, has been too much.”
“And also Serephine. Yes, I suppose so.”
Devota returned to her task without comment. Emptying the trunk, she moved to a small wooden crate from which came the clank of glass. After a moment, she straightened. “I thought you took the last bottle of the perfume with you?”
“I did. Did you want it for something?”
“Only to set it out for you before I take the rest of this to the workroom. But it isn’t here.”
“It must be. It was on the table in the smaller room, with everything else.”
“It wasn’t there. I packed those things myself.”
“I don’t suppose it matters,” Elene said, her tone soothing as it seemed Devota was becoming upset.
“Someone has taken it.”
Was it possible? Elene frowned in an effort to think. The last time she remembered seeing it was the afternoon before Durant’s party. If it had been stolen, the list of those who might have done so was long, from the mulatto landlady and her servants, to any of the men and women who had been in Durant’s rooms on that evening. There had been much coming and going as the evening advanced.
“It was only perfume,” she said at last.
Devota met her gaze across the room, her own somber. “There are those who don’t know that, or don’t believe it.”
She could only agree.
A part of her lethargy, Elene discovered, was due to hunger and weariness. Benedict had brought her a light meal after Ryan had gone. By the time she had eaten it and watched Devota set the bedchamber to rights once more, she could barely keep her eyes open. However, when she awoke two hours later, she was only slightly refreshed and too on edge to lie on the bed any longer.
The rain had not long been stopped. The evergreen leaves of the oak in the courtyard glistened, and water still dripped from the tiled roof to splatter on the paving below. The cool breeze that blew across the gallery was so laden with moisture that it brought the rise of chill bumps. The lingering grayness of the day made the afternoon seem further advanced than it was, and there was the glow of lamplight spilling from the kitchen below where dinner was in preparation.
People were beginning to move about the streets once more. Through the porte cochère could be heard the sound of a horseman going by, the barking of dogs chasing what sounded like a stray pig, and the song of a praline seller crying her wares. There also came the firm sound of footsteps, evenly paced, purposeful.
Elene smiled a little. She would know that stride anywhere. She got to her feet and moved to the head of the stairs, waiting for Ryan to emerge in the courtyard.
He did not appear immediately. There could be heard the soft murmur of an exchange. It lasted no more than a moment, then his footsteps began to echo in the porte cochère.
His head was bent as he entered the courtyard, so that the dying light gleamed in the walnut waves of his hair. He was looking at something he held in his hands. He broke off a piece and put it in his mouth, beginning to chew.
“What do you have there?” The words broke from Elene without her volition, spurred by a vagrant idea, a faint memory.
Ryan looked up with a smile curving his mouth as he began to mount the stairs toward her. He swallowed before he spoke. “Only a praline. The pecans are bitter, but I’m not complaining. What with one thing and another, I missed my luncheon. Would you care for some?”
He broke off another piece of the candy and the smell came to her, milky and sweet and sickening. She hurled herself down the stair toward him. “Don’t!” she cried, “Oh, don’t!”
His eyes widened, startled, but he was already lifting the next piece of praline toward his mouth. And then she was upon him, knocking his hand aside so that the candy he held crumbled, wrenching the rest of it from his grasp to fling it into the courtyard.
Staring at him with her eyes wide with fear, searching for the first signs of illness, she whispered in horror, “Poison. It was poisoned!”
20
“WILL HE BE ALL RIGHT?”
Elene asked the question as softly as possible. She did not want to disturb Ryan who slept, at last, with his hand resting between two of her own. It had been bad, the effort to rid his system of the poison, but Devota’s herbs and powders had finally done their work.
“I told you, chère,” the woman said, “he is strong. In the morning he will hardly know he was sick.”
Elene gave a soft sigh, then shivered. “Suppose I had not been on the gallery? Suppose he had eaten all the praline before anyone saw him?”
“He would be dead. But he isn’t, nor is he going to be. Don’t think of it. You should go and have your dinner, then find a bed.”
“Not here,” Elene said, indicating Ryan’s bed, the one they had shared for so many weeks. “I … I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”
Devota gave a nod. “Benedict can have another chamber made up for you while you eat.”
“It will be my pleasure,” the manservant said from where he stood on the other side of the bed.
Elene made no move to go. She stood staring down at Ryan, at the hollows caused by pain under his eyes and the pallor of his skin. Other than that, he was little changed. The force that he held inside him was apparent in his features, and yet there was tenderness in the curve of his mouth, and passion.
She said, “The duel will have to be canceled.” As Devota and Benedict remained silent, she looked up at them. “Won’t it?”
Benedict shook his head. “I would not presume. It’s a matter of honor.”
“Surely he can’t appear on the field. He will be far too weak.”
“It’s for him to decide,” Devota said. “You must not worry yourself about it, it isn’t good for you.”
“How can I not? Oh, Devota, isn’t there anything that can be done to stop it? Anything at all?”
Devota met Elene’s eyes across the long, straight form of the man on the bed, her own soft brown gaze infinitely receptive, cogent with thought. She pursed her lips. “It may be there is a way.”
Elene drew a quick, silent breath of hope. She glanced at Benedict who was suddenly as oblivious of the two of them as if he were deaf, as he busied himself tidying the room. Softly, she said, “But without harm?”
Devota came toward her. She took Ryan’s hand and placed it on the sheet, then grasped Elene’s shoulders and turned her toward the door. “Go eat, chère, and don’t fret. It’s possible something may occur to halt this affair, but if not, you must accept what happens, for there are things we can’t change all through life.”
Elene sat alone in the dining room picking at the food prepared for her, but she was not hungry. It was all very well for Devota to tell her not to fret — her maid could have no real idea of how she felt. To see Ryan brought so low filled her with horror. Since it had occurred so soon after she had returned to his house she must be to blame, had to be to blame. Just as she was to blame for the duel.
Her thoughts ran in circles. It was a distraction from her fears for his
health and of what would happen in the morning to think of the poisoner. It almost seemed that if she could discover why Ryan had fallen a victim, she would know who was doing this terrible thing to people.
What exactly had happened, then, to make him a target? First, he had returned to New Orleans. He had taken her from Durant and installed her in his house once more. Finally, he had accepted Durant’s challenge.
Was it possible Durant had tried to kill him to be certain that the meeting would never take place, that Ryan’s death which he so violently desired was achieved?
There was the praline vendor. What role did she play? She was the same one who had sold her the candy, for Ryan had been able to describe her. Was she no more than some pretty free woman of color paid to sell poisoned confections to the chosen victims? Or was she the killer herself?
Elene put down her fork and sat back in her chair. She closed her eyes. Slowly she brought to mind the evening she had bought her praline, the quiet street, the cool wind blowing from the river that had fluttered the skirt of bright cloth worn by the quadroon with the praline tray on her hip. She could almost see the red silk tignon the woman had worn, intricately tied, and the gold hoops of the earrings hanging from her ears with only the lobes visible where the tignon covered her hair. She had not been tall, not quite as tall as Elene herself, and her hands had been rather short fingered. Her features were vague, however. The quadroon had kept her head down, almost as if she were afraid of being noticed too much — though people seldom really looked at the street sellers, being more interested in their wares. But there had been the smell of seafood cooking and kitchen fires, and the milk-and-sugar smell of the pralines. Milk and sugar, and the girl’s skin so translucent yet creamy with the gold earrings against it—
Elene’s eyes flew open. Of course. That was how it had been. How could she have missed it? And there had been that other time. She knew. Dear God, she knew. It was unbelievable, but she knew the one person with a reason that led in a straight line from one victim and near victim to the next. The only person.
Louisiana History Collection - Part 2 Page 72
