EMERALD QUEEN is a lengthy saga, enriched with many diverse characters, that chronicles the adventures of an indomitable woman whose quest for happiness is linked with several different men.
— Romantic Times
Rave Reviews
For my agent
and my editor
Thanks for your faith in me, not to mention your
patience, guidance, and many kindnesses.
Emerald Queen
KAREN JONES DELK
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Author
PROLOGUE
New Orleans, 1831
“Calas! I got sweet rice cakes.” The Negro woman selling pastries on the corner noticed the two children bundled against the November chill, marching down the banquette toward rue Conti.
“Y’all want a nice warm cala?” the vendeuse invited.
“Non, merci,” the older boy answered with scarcely a glance at her. Clutching the mittened hand of his small companion, he hurried him along the wooden sidewalk toward their destination.
The woman watched them go, laughing when the youngster in tow tugged at his muffler to reveal a charming grin, cheeks pink with cold, and green eyes sparkling merrily. With a shrug of apology, the little one trotted along behind his elder, urging, “Slow down, cousin. Your legs are longer than mine.”
At the head of Exchange Alley, the adolescent glanced furtively over his shoulder before making a sharp turn into the narrow passageway, jerking the small lad after him.
The child stumbled but followed willingly, his neck craning as he attempted to take in everything at once. Cafés, shops, and bars crowded together at street level along Exchange Alley as they did on almost any street in the Vieux Carré. But upstairs...
The little fellow gazed up excitedly toward les salles d’armes. In those mysterious masculine environs, fencing masters gave lessons in swordsmanship and the art of the duel to the young Creoles of New Orleans.
So intent was the child on savoring his adventure, he nearly collided with his guide, who had halted suddenly beside a wall of dusty pink brick.
“Watch where you’re going,” the older boy commanded. Turning, he groaned, then quickly adjusted the youngster’s misshapen wool cap, nervously shoving a brown curl under the knitted brim.
“Why are we stopping here, Fabrice?” his little cousin asked, fairly dancing in anticipation as the clash of swords reached their ears. “Are we not going to see your famous maître d’armes?”
“Oui, though we should go back instead,” Fabrice Chauvin answered impatiently. His face was grim as he glared at his companion. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”
“Don’t make me go home now,” the child wailed. “You said that here one could see the finest swordsman in all New Orleans.”
“The finest in the world,” Fabrice corrected with a scowl. “But how was I to know you were going to come up with this . . . masquerade?”
With an unmistakably feminine pout, ten-year-old Simone Devereaux lifted wide green eyes appealingly to her favorite relative. “How else could I come to the fencing school, chéri? You said I could if I were a boy.”
Fabrice gave an exasperated sigh. “That is not what I meant, and you know it. I said if you were a boy, you would be allowed on Exchange Alley. It’s an unwritten law that no woman may pass through here.”
“How can it be a law if it’s not written anywhere?” she demanded reasonably.
“Because that’s the way it is. Or was, until now,” the youth answered glumly.
Smiling cajolingly, Simone laid a hand on his arm. “Allowing only men here is a silly rule, oui? And not very fair. After all—”
“I know, I know. ‘I can do anything a boy can do,’” Fabrice mimicked. “That is probably true, Simone. You certainly get into as much trouble as any boy I know.”
“Merci.” She dimpled mischievously and clutched her loose trousers, preparing to curtsy.
“Stop that,” he snapped. “If you’re supposed to be a boy, at least act like one. I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” he repeated.
“Because you love me, chéri.” Placing her hand in his, the little girl looked up with childish candor. “And because we always have such fun together.”
“Oui, ma petite, because I love you. But your fun always gets me into such trouble.” He sighed. “If your père hears of this... “
“He’ll laugh while he scolds me,” Simone said with certainty.
“Perhaps, but if my father finds out, he will not laugh,” Fabrice predicted.
When the pair reached the salle d’armes of Serge St. Michel, they found a score of boys were ranged along the staircase up the side of the building, jostling for a spot on the landing at the top. There, sons of aristocratic Creoles and their slaves clustered in the doorway, admiring the fencers within.
Propelling Simone through the crush of bodies, Fabrice positioned his small cousin as close to the front as possible. Drawn by the singing of the swords, she wriggled past elbows and knees to emerge at the doorway. She grimaced with annoyance to discover her view was still blocked by a pair of broad-shouldered dandies who tarried there, unwilling to interrupt the action in the room.
She turned to complain to Fabrice but found he was not beside her, held back, no doubt, by the crowd. Ever resourceful, she ducked and squirmed until she found a niche between the men’s bodies, through which she could see a tiny portion of the enormous salle. Two windows stretched from the polished wooden floor to the high ceiling. Between the windows were tiers of benches, upon which young men in various stages of dress lounged, talking among themselves and staring avidly toward the other end of the room. Over their boisterous laughter rang the sound of sword against sword.
Simone yearned to see the swordplay, but she could not. Then one of the men in front of her shifted, giving her a glimpse of a slim, striking mulatto sitting alone at a small table across the room. The moment she saw him, Simone knew that this was the famous Serge St. Michel, maître d’armes.
Wintery sun filtering through a huge fanlight washed over the fencing master. Clad in velvet and lace, Fabrice’s hero cut an elegant figure indeed. He sipped coffee and smoked a slender black cigar, his amber eyes following the practice duel at the far end of the room.
Simone stood on tiptoe, but she could not better her view. Frustrated, she realized that she would not see the maître—or anyone else—fence. She knew it was time to go; Fabrice was probably anxious.
But her cousin and her good intentions were forgotten when a break in the action prompted the men in front of her to hurry across the room to the students’ benches.
Suddenly exposed, Simone poised for flight, but no one seemed to notice her. And when the throng behind her surged forward, she was bumped across the threshold. She was inside a real salle d’armes! This was more than she had dared to hope.
Emboldened by
her seeming invisibility, the little girl sidled to stand beside the equipment rack.
At the far end of the room, two young men were preparing to fence with practice foils. Simone recognized the youth facing her. Marcel Baudin, the son of a wealthy Creole family, was almost angelically beautiful with his golden hair, pale blue eyes and flawless, even features.
As he and his opponent donned their masks, assumed the en garde position, and began to thrust and parry, Simone decided the men were evenly matched. Darkly handsome Alain de Vallière was tall and lithe, his shoulders muscular under his flowing white shirt, the tense power in his rippling leg muscles the only clue to the effort he expended in holding his position.
“I see you learned a few things in Paris, Alain, mon ami,” the maître called over the ringing of the swords.
“My money is still on Marcel,” announced Charles Greaux, who was related to the Baudins. He surveyed the other spectators. “Does anyone wish to make a small wager?”
“To take your money would be robbery, Charles,” another of the idlers teased. “Alain has only toyed with your cousin until now.”
Simone imagined she could see Marcel scowl and his pale eyes flash beneath his mask. Doggedly, he parried Alain’s thrusts and retired a few steps.
Enthralled, Simone inched forward, but all eyes in the room were on the fencers, and no one noticed.
“Have a care, Marcel,” Alain warned mildly as he blocked a balestra by his opponent. “If I had put on a fencing jacket today, I wouldn’t mind a slap on the arm. But as it is, it gives you no points and me a bruise.”
“Surely you don’t bruise so easily. Have you changed so much since we were children?” Marcel’s tone was jeering.
Alain countered the other man’s advance, and the blades skittered and slid against each other, bringing the fencers almost mask to mask.
“I haven’t changed much. I can still beat you,” Alain answered dangerously.
With a bellow of anger, Marcel shoved his opponent away and began to advance recklessly. “Let us get it over, de Vallière, and see who is the better swordsman.”
Conversation ceased between the combatants, and the only sound was the clash of the swords. Even the spectators fell silent as Marcel advanced ruthlessly. Alain met his assault coolly and slowly yielded ground, allowing his opponent to weary. Gradually, they moved toward the center of the room.
Simone did not notice. Uninterested in the fencers’ conversation, she examined the equipment rack beside her, delighted by the polished foils and the leather-lined fencing masks.
A fluttering overhead caught her eye, and she stepped back to look up at the banner bearing the standard of the nobleman under whom Serge St. Michel had trained.
“Zut!” the maître exploded, jumping from his seat when he saw the urchin standing in the middle of his salle, gawking upward. “Look out behind you, Alain!”
Simone spun around to discover the fencers bearing down upon her. Glancing over his shoulder, Alain lurched to one side to avoid trampling the child.
Seizing his opportunity in the confusion, Marcel lunged triumphantly, with more force than necessary. The tip of his foil caught the folds of his opponent’s linen shirt, and in the sudden silence, the sound of rending fabric was nearly deafening.
Tearing the mask from his head, Alain wheeled on the urchin, his furious brown eyes meeting wide green ones. Without a word, the child bolted for the door, where other youthful spectators were beating a hasty retreat.
“Run, Fabrice, run,” Simone shouted. Her heart pounding, she scampered down the stairs with Alain de Vallière on her heels. Leaping the last few steps, she looked around desperately for a place to hide.
A cramped passageway between the buildings, a storage space for neighboring merchants beckoned. Beyond stacks of boxes and barrels, a tall gate opened onto rue Royal.
Diving through the narrow opening, the child sprinted toward the distant street, praying she had lost her pursuer. But behind her she could hear the man crashing through the cramped space, cursing as he tripped over crates and wooden pallets.
When she reached the gate, she fumbled urgently with the rusty latch, but it would not open. Stepping back, she gauged the height. Too high to scale without help. For an instant, her thin shoulders sagged; then she noticed several packing cases precariously stacked nearby.
With no thought of caution, Simone began to climb the teetering mountain of crates. She was braced to catapult herself over the barrier when her makeshift ladder gave way, the crash nearly obliterating her shout of alarm. She lurched forward and threw her arms over the top of the gate, dangling helplessly in midair, her feet scrabbling in search of a toehold, as she glanced frantically over her shoulder. Her pursuer was almost upon her, his handsome face dark with displeasure, his foil still in hand. Simone tried in vain to heave herself over the gate, but she was seized and dragged backward in one powerful arm.
“Where do you think you’re going? I want a word with you, young man!” Alain roared. Clutching his small, squirming captive against his chest, he ducked a windmill of arms and legs as the child fought in his grasp.
“Mère de Dieu, I ought to take a switch to you,” the Creole announced, setting her on the ground with a jolt. “Oh, no you don’t!” He positioned himself so she could not escape.
With a cry of frustration, Simone lowered her head and butted his hard abdomen, but no matter how she shoved, she could not move him. His hand closed on the nape of her neck with a viselike grip.
“A spanking was what I had in mind, boy,” Alain grunted, squeezing slightly but painfully, “but if you’d prefer to be throttled, that could be arranged.”
All at once, his captive stood very still. Shoulders hunched, the child ducked her head and refused to look up.
Alain placed his foil across the top of a barrel, but he continued to watch the small figure with wary amusement. “You know what you did, don’t you?” he asked in a slightly milder tone. “You might have caused a serious accident.”
Simone stared stubbornly at the ground and refused to speak.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” de Vallière asked impatiently. “Answer when you’re spoken to, lad.” He loosened his grip a bit, but the captive did not look at him.
“I ask you again,” Alain persisted, “what do you have to say for yourself?” Still no response. He increased the pressure on the child’s neck. Finally she lifted her chin and looked him in the face
The urchin’s cap was askew, covering one eye, but the one that was visible was green, framed with long, dark lashes, and glaring at him mutinously.
“Still nothing, eh?” Alain sighed. “Come here, my rude young friend, and let me get a better look at you.”
Careful to maintain his hold, he knelt beside the child. Immediately, Simone lowered her head and began to twist and turn, trying to escape.
“Be still.” He drew her toward him, removing the knit cap with his free hand. To his surprise, silky light brown tresses tumbled down, curling luxuriantly around his fingers.
“Well!” Sitting back on his heels, the Creole exhaled in a surprised puff. “What are we to make of a girl in boy’s clothes?”
“Nothing,” Simone mumbled rebelliously.
“An orphan perhaps? An escapee from the Ursuline convent?”
“I am not an orphan,” she countered indignantly.
“All right. What is your name then? Where do you live?” His questions met only silence. “Won’t say, eh? Well, no matter. I happen to know the good sisters accept girls with no name as well as no home.”
“I have a name,” she answered with a sullen frown.
“What is it, then? Come on, girl. I have little time and not much tolerance left.” He squeezed the back of her neck to demonstrate his impatience.
“Let go. You’re hurting me.” Grimacing exaggeratedly, she howled, “All right, you big bully, my name is Simone Devereaux.”
“Très bien, Mademoiselle Devereaux. Now, where do
you live?”
“On rue Orleans,” she muttered, attempting to shrug off his big hand. Suddenly changing her tack, she smiled winningly. “But I can find my own way, thank you. You really needn’t bother.”
What a minx this one was going to be in a few years, Alain thought, fighting the urge to smile. But he said gravely, “No bother, mam’selle. This big bully wouldn’t think of allowing a young lady to walk through the streets unescorted. Besides,” he added, “your parents should know what you’ve been doing.”
“I only wanted to see the fencing master,” Simone protested, squirming in his grip.
“You saw Maître St. Michel, and the ruin of my match. Now, come along.” Picking up his foil, he steered her down the passage.
When they emerged into Exchange Alley, Serge was standing on the stairs, holding Alain’s hat and jacket.
“So you chased the brat through the streets in only your shirtsleeves, mon ami,” he greeted the young Creole. “For a gentleman, that will never—Oh, ho, what have we here?”
“Another of your female admirers,” Alain answered dryly, handing the man his foil. “Do not even think of running,” he ordered Simone sternly as he put on his jacket. Eyeing his broad shoulders and remembering his strength, she swiftly reconsidered her plan for escape. She glanced nervously at the fencing master, who flashed her a reassuring smile.
“One of my admirers, eh?” The renowned swordsman bowed extravagantly. “Your servant, mam’selle.”
“Save your charm for your cher amie, Serge,” Alain growled good-naturedly as he jammed his hat onto his head. “I’ll see you after I’ve seen this young lady home.”
Simone placed her small hand in the big one Alain extended imperiously. Her head bowed under a cloud of doom, she listened to his lecture on proper feminine behavior all the way to the small, unpretentious house on rue Orleans. There she bobbed in a polite curtsy and smiled prettily. “Merci, m’sieur, but you do not have to see me inside. I’ve caused you enough trouble.”
“I agree.” Alain opened the wrought-iron gate and gestured for her to lead. “But I insist on speaking to your parents.”
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 1
