Jumping to her feet, Simone announced, “Think I’ll leave you to your fine friends, m’sieur.”
The young Creole watched with amazement as his cousin hitched up her baggy pants and sauntered into the crowd on rue St. Ann. Quickly Simone made her way past the Presbytère and over to rue Orleans. She lingered behind the cathedral, wishing she dared to amble down the sunbaked street for a look at her old home. But the house was surely being watched.
Clamping her hat down, almost to her eyebrows, Simone sauntered with boyish nonchalance in the opposite direction. This charade would not go on forever, she reminded herself. Eventually Marcel would forget about her. He had never reported her crime to the police. Perhaps when she had saved enough to repay him, she could return to her own life.
Jingling the coins in her pocket comfortingly, she felt the smooth texture of an envelope. She had forgotten the note she had written to Monsieur Fusilier, informing him that she intended to repay all her father’s creditors. She had enclosed two dollars, the first of many payments to be deducted from the amount still owed after the auction. It would take a long time, but she would settle her father’s debts as she was honor-bound to do.
Simone hesitated on a street corner, wondering how to get the note to Monsieur Fusilier’s office without risking being recognized.
“Hey, Jean-Paul,” a youthful voice hailed her.
Obadiah Prejean ambled toward her, a broad smile splitting his black face.
Simone had met the street urchin the week before and already felt he was a friend. Though Obadiah was a couple of years older than “Jean-Paul’s” twelve, he had taken a liking to the scrawny boy.
“How come I ain’t seen you around here before?” he had asked.
“Haven’t been around,” had been Simone’s laconic answer. “I just came from Bayou Teche.”
“Fresh off the farm,” the Negro boy had teased. “You prob’ly don’t even know your way around yet.”
“Know it well enough to get a job with Maître St. Michel,” Simone had bragged with just the right amount of boyish pride.
Obadiah had whistled softly, eyeing the stranger with new respect. Eager to know what went on in the salle, he had bombarded Jean-Paul with questions. Simone had answered, glad for someone to talk to, and a friendship was begun.
She was happy to see him again today and understanding when he apologized, “Sorry I didn’t meet you at the Place d’Armes. I gotta deliver a message backstage at the Opera House. Seems their soprano’s got a fit of the vapors.”
“You’re going backstage?” Simone breathed admiringly.
Gratified that Jean-Paul recognized the significance of his mission, Obadiah said humbly, “Well, it ain’t payin’ much, but every little bit helps since my daddy died.”
“Obie, could you deliver a letter for me when you’re done?” she asked impulsively, pulling the envelope from her pocket. “I’ll pay you.”
With a skeptical snort, the older boy accepted the envelope. “Who’d you be sendin’ a letter to, short stuff?”
“Monsieur Fusilier “
“The lawyer?”
“Family business,” she explained vaguely. “You can just slide it under his door.”
“I’ll do it on my way to the Opera House, but I ain’t takin’ money from no friend,” Obadiah declared. “After I deliver my notes, why don’t I meet you on the levee behind the market? We’ll watch the ships, and you can tell me ‘bout that fencin’ school.”
“Très bien, but don’t eat before you come,” she insisted. “I’ll find us some lunch.”
“Got yourself a deal.” Grinning in anticipation, Obadiah trotted off toward Monsieur Fusilier’s office.
As Simone walked back toward the River, she heard a voice call out, “You, boy. Yes, you,” it repeated when she stopped and looked around. She saw a rotund man beckon from a doorway across the street. She was the boy being summoned.
“I’ll give you a quarter to take a note down to Hewlett’s,” the man said when she approached him.
Simone hesitated. Then, thrilled at the chance to see that male stronghold where women were not allowed, she agreed.
Note and coin in hand, she set off importantly. But on the banquette outside Hewlett’s Exchange, she faltered. Peeking through the window into the crowded bar, she could see nothing but a knot of broad backs.
Opening the heavy door, she eased into a world scented with sawdust and smoke, bay rum and tobacco. She hovered at the entrance for a moment, half expecting all talk to cease and every eye to turn toward the newcomer. But no one noticed another urchin with a message.
A blue haze of smoke filled the long, narrow room, drifting up to the high pressed-tin ceiling. Men lined the bar, their booted feet propped against the polished rail, the low rumble of their voices broken occasionally by hearty laughter.
When her message was delivered, Simone turned reluctantly to leave. If she dawdled, she was likely to be noticed, and she could not afford to be conspicuous. Near the door, however, a familiar voice made her stop in her tracks, her heart pounding. So many times she had heard that voice in her girlish dreams. And so many times, she had tried to forget it.
Filled with dread, she turned to see Alain de Vallière. His elegantly tailored jacket strained over muscular shoulders as he leaned across a small table to speak to Monsieur Fusilier. Since she had last seen him, his face, bronzed by the sun during his recent voyage from France, had matured. Straight brown hair, lightened by the sun, swept back regally from his brow. Dark, penetrating eyes, so brown they were nearly black, gave his lean, hard visage a watchful intensity. Ah, non, the girl thought with something akin to dismay, he was even more handsome than she had remembered. And he looked like a force to be reckoned with.
Engrossed in conversation, neither he nor Monsieur Fusilier noticed the boy lurking nearby. Careful to keep her back to them, Simone edged closer to eavesdrop.
“I appreciate your meeting me on a Sunday, monsieur,” Alain was saying.
“My pleasure, Monsieur de Vallière,” the attorney responded politely. “Though I do not know where Mademoiselle Devereaux is, I hope I have set your mind at ease by showing you the note that was just slipped under my door.”
“Where could she be?” Alain asked, his vexation apparent. “She took nothing with her. No one has seen her for more than a week, not even you. She’s not at LeFleur, or she wasn’t when I sent word out there yesterday.”
“That is worrisome,” Monsieur Fusilier murmured with a frown. “But, at least we know she is well.”
“Yes, but where?” In a harried gesture, Alain raked his fingers through his hair and frowned. “It’s quite trying to come home after four years and find oneself a guardian—then to discover your ward is missing.”
Monsieur Fusilier made sympathetic clucking sounds until Alain continued, “What’s worse is that Simone’s landlady is worried about her. She believes something happened at the house the night she disappeared. She insists Nicholas’s sword had blood on it, though by the time I arrived, she had wiped it clean. It may be the prattling of an old woman. The police seem to think so. They refused even to look for Simone, saying if she doesn’t return in a few days, they will question her neighbors.”
“Now that we know the young lady is not dead, they certainly will not bother,” the attorney said soberly. “You’ll continue looking for her then?”
“Oui, I’m going out to speak with the Chauvins today.”
“Please let me know if you hear anything,” Monsieur Fusilier requested. “Simone is such a sweet, helpless child.”
The sweet, helpless child and her guardian had nearly identical reactions: They fought back laughter. But Simone forgot her amusement and dodged behind a post when Alain rose and took his leave with a polite bow.
She nearly tripped over her own feet getting out of the big man’s way. She smelled the spicy scent of his shaving soap as he passed her, so near she could have touched him, but he did not give the skinny boy so
much as a glance.
She waited while he stopped on the banquette to don his hat, then she trailed him, lagging a safe distance behind. Running at times to compete with his long-legged stride, she kept his broad-shouldered figure in sight as he strolled toward the river, then veered across the cobblestone street to Exchange Alley.
With sinking heart, she thought she knew where he was going. Alain was already out of sight when she reached the head of the narrow passage. Following at a brisk jog, she managed to arrive at her salle d’armes in time to see him disappear within. Why hadn’t she remembered he was a friend of Serge’s? she wondered despairingly. Now she must be doubly careful not to be recognized.
Creeping silently up the staircase of the building, she slipped into her room and, poised apprehensively at the door to the salle, listening to the conversation within.
“I knew you were coming home, ‘Lain, but I didn’t expect you so soon.” Serge sounded pleased.
“I didn’t expect to be here so soon,” Alain answered soberly. “It became imperative that I leave France at once.”
“Trouble with a woman, if I know you,” the other man guessed.
“Trouble with her husband,” Alain muttered, adding hastily when he saw his friend’s lifted brows, “I can explain. Comtesse Marguerite--”
“The king’s cousine?” the swordsman asked with a chuckle. “Très jolie.”
“And very determined,” Alain added. “She wanted to be more than friends. As you may recall, I do not object to bedding a comely, willing woman, but a man likes to have a say. When I found her in my bed, uninvited, I sent her home.”
“And Marguerite did not like that,” Serge finished for him.
“She was furious. She told her husband I had seduced her, and the doddering old fool challenged me to a duel to the death.”
“Surely he must have known you were the superior swordsman.” Serge’s expression was incredulous.
“Surely,” the big Creole agreed without conceit. “That is why I chose pistols.”
“Very honorable,” the fencing master approved. “But still you killed him?”
“Not exactly.” Alain seemed embarrassed.
“Then why your swift retreat?”
“When the count shot first and missed, I discharged my pistol into the air. I’ll be damned if he didn’t die of heart failure.”
“Zut,” Serge swore softly.
“Indeed. The next morning, I was summoned by the king. Louis-Philippe himself advised I flee the comtesse’s revenge.
“So here I am.” He shrugged sheepishly. “It might be funny if it were not so tragic. But I tell you this, no more pistols for me. Give me a good, clean rapier any day.”
“Spoken like a true swordsman. Let’s have dinner, ‘Lain, and talk about old times,” Serge said when his friend rose.
“Not tonight, mon ami, but I’ll be back soon for a fencing match,” Alain promised.
And I’ll avoid you as though you had yellow jack, Simone promised herself, silently closing the door on their farewells.
She stayed out of sight as much as possible the next day, but it was finally necessary to prepare a comer of the salle for a private lesson. She worked with single-minded energy, paying little attention to the conversations around her until she realized a group of young blades was talking about Marcel Baudin.
“I heard someone finally bested him,” one of them said confidentially.
“I heard he fell while he was drunk,” another hooted.
“I know what happened,” a cocky fellow named Christophe volunteered. “Ma tante lives on rue Orleans, and she saw something very odd. Marcel went to visit Mademoiselle Simone Devereaux “
“Nicholas Devereaux’s brat?”
“You apparently haven’t seen her in ages. She grew up to be a real beauty,” the first young man said wistfully, “petite and dainty, with light brown hair and green eyes and, mon Dieu, such a smile. It could charm the birds from the trees.”
Hunched over the mats she was arranging, Simone scowled and resolved never to smile again while she worked at the salle.
Christophe continued with gossipy self-importance, “Apparently the mam’selle bested Marcel.”
“Mon Dieu! What are you saying? Simone Devereaux is so gentle, so fragile,” her admirer protested.
Jean-Paul snorted and wrestled a fencing dummy into place.
Frowning over his shoulder at the boy, Christophe insisted, “I tell you, my aunt saw, with her own eyes, Marcel stagger from the Devereaux home, bleeding and cursing, while your ‘gentle, fragile’ beauty made off with his horse. And Marcel has been searching for the girl ever since.”
“What do you suppose they quarreled about?”
“Who knows?” The knowledgeable Christophe finally admitted ignorance. “But it certainly causes one to wonder.”
“Gossip can be an extremely dangerous activity.” Marcel Baudin’s voice lashed through the conversation.
Behind the huddle of young men, Simone whirled to see the fair-haired Creole standing nearby. The cut through his eyebrow had not yet healed, leaving a red, raw weal that added to his menace as he stopped in front of Christophe.
“Do you wish to speculate or to confront me directly?” he asked dangerously.
“N-neither.” Unwilling to face the notorious swordsman, Christophe retreated, his friends on his heels.
Turning, Marcel saw a skinny lad, standing as if rooted in one spot. “What are you looking at?” he snarled, one hand rising unconsciously to his scar.
“N-nothing,” Simone stammered, ducking her head and wishing she could sink into the floor.
“See that you do not stare.” Stripping to his shirtsleeves, Marcel put on his padded fencing jacket and regarded the boy appraisingly. “Who are you anyway?”
“Jean-Paul Sonnier, m’sieur,” she mumbled, keeping her head down. “Maître St. Michel’s hired boy.”
“Do you think you can speak loud enough to tell Serge I wish to see him at once?” Marcel demanded impatiently.
“But sir,” she objected, glancing toward the fencing master, who was working with a student, “he’s giving a private lesson.”
“Then what am I to do for an opponent?”
“Surely there is someone.” Simone gestured toward the bleachers, where several young men lounged.
“If I wanted to fence with one of them,” Marcel retorted, “I would have challenged that fool, Christophe.”
“Then I am afraid you will have to wait for the maître, sir,” she replied politely.
“I will not wait, you young upstart.” Picking up a foil, the Creole tossed it to the stunned youngster. “You will practice with me, and I’ll teach you some manners. En garde.”
“Pardon.” Claude Galvez, Serge’s prize student, elbowed Jean-Paul aside. “M’sieur Baudin, I was just looking for a partner. Shall we?”
Marcel’s icy glare rested on the young man a long moment, then he shrugged negligently. “Why not? I hear you’re becoming quite good, Galvez. At least you’ll be more of a challenge than this country bumpkin.”
“At the very least,” Claude responded smoothly.
Grateful, Simone escaped to stand near the door. Watching the fencers, she wished she were skilled enough to have accepted Marcel’s challenge.
“That was close,” Fabrice muttered in her ear. “I don’t like this.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“I’m not surprised. Baudin seemed to be holding your attention quite completely,” he said grimly. “I need to talk to you, Simone. Meet me tonight at St. Anthony’s Garden.”
“Are you challenging me, too?” She grinned, for the garden behind the cathedral was a frequent site of duels.
“Just be there.” Frowning his annoyance, her cousin hurried across the salle to join his friends.
Simone loped along rue Royal, relishing the cool of the evening. It was the best part of the day in the summer, she decided, when most o
f the Creoles went to the country to escape the heat and the threat of yellow fever, leaving the Vieux Carré uncrowded.
In the dusk, the city seemed deserted. Those who had not left were at their dinners in the galleried world above the narrow streets. Large families dined al fresco, their voices and the tinkle of silver on china reaching Simone’s ears pleasantly as she followed a path into the tiny, serene garden.
“Simone.” She heard Fabrice’s hushed call.
“Jean-Paul,” she muttered stubbornly, locating her cousin behind an azalea bush.
“Did you know your guardian has returned?” he asked without preamble when she joined him. “He rode out to LeFleur yesterday.”
“I knew he was going to,” she acknowledged airily, dropping down beside him on a bench.
“How did you know?”
“I heard him say so.”
“You saw him? Where? When? Did he see you?”
Simone peered at him through the dimness and decided to answer only the last question. “He may have seen me, but he would hardly have noticed me as a boy.”
“It’s only a matter of time before he recognizes you—even in that outrageous costume,” Fabrice fumed.
“I can fool him,” she boasted, sounding much like the cocky lad she impersonated.
“I wish I was as sure of that as you seem to be.”
“What did Alain say to your parents?” she asked calmly.
Fabrice frowned, remembering how his cousin had adored de Vallière when she was a child—it had been the first time he ever felt jealousy—then suddenly, for some reason, came to hate him. Fabrice decided to keep that animosity alive.
“Alain is not happy to be a guardian, and even more unhappy to discover your own family does not know where you are. I think he believes you’re hiding just to spite him.”
“Oh, does he?” Her voice was mild. “And did he say what his plans are?”
“To fulfill his duty, I suppose,” he answered carelessly.
“To find a husband for me? Well, he must find me first.” Turning to Fabrice, she entreated, “Promise me you will not give me away.”
Staring down at her in the moonlight, he would have promised her anything. Even the unbecoming garb she wore could not disguise the Simone he loved. “I would never give you away, chère,” he vowed huskily.
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 5
