She could go to Gavin Blackford instead, but to venture into the Passage de la Bourse would pose grave risk to her reputation. While she was not as concerned as some with that aspect, she had no wish to become persona non grata in the city while her task was yet unfinished. Besides, any scandal in New Orleans was certain to follow her to Paris where she might one day wish to make her home again.
Perhaps she should just give up, allow the duel to take its course. There was nothing to say that the Englishman would listen to her. What did it really matter if Sasha took the satisfaction she craved?
No, no, she could not bear that to happen. The risk required to stop it must be met. It was the only way.
Leaving the town house again at this hour was a problem in itself. Explanations and excuses would have to be made if a servant saw her go. Care was required then. Pausing on the gallery outside her room, she gazed along its length, from the straight stretch where she stood to the far corner where it turned at a right angle to continue along the L of the garçonnière. Nothing stirred, nor was there any movement in the courtyard below. The only other sounds were the soft rustle of a night breeze in the banana trees and the plaintive mewing of a hungry cat from the next street. Everyone seemed to have retired for the night.
Ariadne descended to the lower gallery and moved with silent care to the passageway which led under the house to the street. It was dark in the long tunnel. She could feel with her gloved hand the rough, handmade bricks that lined it, feel them underfoot through her thin slippers. She should have changed into more sturdy walking boots before leaving her bedchamber but had not thought of it and could not bring herself to turn back for them now.
The solid wood doorway loomed before her, made visible by an outline of light coming in around it. She felt for the metal bar which held it closed, lifting it carefully so it would not squeal. A moment later, she was in the street.
The night was cloudy and a faint mist hung in the air, making a nimbus around the street lamp at the corner. Her slippers were soon damp and muddy but made little sound, for which she was grateful. They would have to be replaced, but it was a small price to pay.
Pray God it was the only price.
The Passage de la Bourse lay a few blocks away, not at all an arduous walk by day. The dimness relieved only by the occasional street lamp made the banquette stretch to infinity ahead of her. The wind from the river was chill so she gathered her cloak closer as she hurried along. She also pulled her hood forward around her face to conceal it. Most of those on the street were men, and there was no point in making it easy for anyone to either recognize or accost her. As long as she kept moving, walking as if certain of her purpose, she should be all right.
At a cross street, she caught a glimpse of three ruffians reeling toward her. The trio were riverboat men from their clothes, dreaded Kaintucks, as they were known, who brought their corn and wheat, hogs and tallow downriver on keelboats, then proceeded to drink up their profits before toiling homeward again by land. They were said to be devils and no respecters of ladies, though they usually kept to the dives along the river or in the rougher area of the American section known as the Swamp.
Whipping back out of view, Ariadne took shelter in a doorway inset until they had crossed at the corner and passed on down the street. Only when she was certain they were gone did she set out again.
This was madness; she could admit it to herself if to none other. Her breath rasped in her throat and a stitch was forming in her side. She should be safe in her bed at the town house. Nonetheless, she could not turn back. Something inside her would not allow it.
At last she passed under the arcade outside the Hotel St. Louis, then turned and flitted across the street to enter the Passage which began opposite its main entrance. A barroom was still open at the far end; she could hear the music of a barrel organ and the low hum of male voices from that direction, see the light spilling into the street through its doors. Since that was a place to be avoided at all costs, she moved to the left, taking refuge in the shadows of one of the long archways that, in imitation of the hotel, fronted the buildings on both sides of the Passage.
As she stared down the long vista leading to Canal Street, she realized she had no idea which atelier, out of the dozens lining the throughway might belong to Gavin Blackford. A soft imprecation feathered her lips.
What was she to do? The ateliers were unmarked without doubt, since dwellings in the Vieux Carre had no numbers of any kind, much less identifying placards. She could hardly knock on doors until she found him. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth as she sighed at her own foolhardiness.
"Your pardon, ma'am."
The speaker was a gentlemen who had turned into the Passage behind her, stepping around her where she stood undecided. He tipped his hat with a brief, curious stare before continuing along the arcade. Tall and wide across the shoulders, with an open countenance and firm mouth, he seemed to have kindly eyes. He was not French, she thought, but an American of a different breed from the riverboat men she had avoided. He might be from some upriver plantation or else the uptown section of the city, which meant he was unlikely to know her on sight or to see her again.
"Monsieur, a moment, if you please," she called after him.
He turned back with reluctance in every line of his large body. She thought for an instant that he suspected her of importuning him for a less than virtuous purpose. If so, her appearance, or perhaps her voice, must have reassured him, for he removed his hat and stood holding it against the side stripe of his pantaloons. "Certainly, ma'am. How may I be of service?"
Yes, he was most certainly American. The relief of it was staggering. Perhaps she cared more for her good name than she had thought. "Do you perhaps know the maître d'armes, Monsieur Gavin Blackford?"
"We are acquainted."
"Then you know where he lives?"
He was silent a moment, his gaze thoughtful in the distant light from the barroom. "You have business with him at this hour?"
"Business of the most urgent, monsieur. If you will direct me, I should deem it a great favor."
"Yes, but will Blackford? I mean to say, if he isn't expecting you..."
She lifted a hand to push back the hood of her cloak, letting it slip down onto her back. "I feel sure he will speak to me regardless."
His eyes turned keen as he surveyed her face and the expanse of her shoulders exposed as the cloak's edges fell open. Lifting a hand, he rubbed it over his chin. "He might at that, since I would in his place. Come along, and I'll see about rousting him out for you."
She hesitated then took the arm he offered and moved into step beside him. Trusting that he would not lead her into some dark alleyway might be a grave mistake, but what else could she do?
At a house like all the others, of three stories with a wide balcony projecting out over the arcade, he stopped. He stepped up to the door beside the ground-floor apothecary and gave it a sharp rap. Some minutes passed. The American was about to knock again when the door swung open to reveal a tousle-haired youth still yawning and stuffing his nightshirt into his pantaloons.
"Blackford, at once. A lady to see him."
The boy gaped at her, apparently unused to female visitors. At a low word from the American, he recovered himself. Bobbing his head, he turned and disappeared up the dark stairway with much thumping of bare feet.
"I don't believe Blackford is asleep," her escort said, the ghost of a smile creasing his face into lines of startling handsomeness as he gazed down at her. "I noted a lamp still burning in his rooms."
She had also seen the light on the third floor. "I hope you may be right. I shall naturally absolve you of all blame if he objects to being disturbed."
"Oh, I don't mind that. It should be something, hearing what he has to say if he does object. The way the man talks is a pure wonder."
Somehow the thought did not promise the same entertainment value for Ariadne. The fluttering of nerves in her stomach made her feel a l
ittle ill and she pressed her fingers hard into the velvet of her cloak to prevent them from trembling. It was the effect of this unusual midnight excursion rather than any anxiety about what the man she had come to see might say, of course, but she would still be glad when the interview was done and she was safe in her bed once more.
Footsteps, brisk and even, were heard on the stairs. Gavin's voice preceded him from the dark stairway. "If I had but known you had a notion to send me bleary-eyed and blathering to the dawn meeting, Wallace, I would have put you under lock and key. Some men may swear to a night of sweaty fornication to ensure they go smiling to their graves but I am not one of them. Be the lady ever so lovely, I must—"
"A lady it is, and not a doxy," the gentleman addressed as Wallace interrupted in dry tones as Gavin appeared in the doorway.
The point was unnecessary. It was his recognition of her, she thought, that had stopped his words in mid-flight. She took a step closer to make certain of it.
"Decline," he finished, after a second's pause. "I must decline whatever the purpose and regardless of the lady."
"You haven't heard why I am here," she said, her voice not quite steady.
"It springs to the mind in images not unlike a toy soldier upon a cock horse. What maggot reamed out that fool Russian's brain that he marched off to tell you of our meeting?"
"He didn't. In fact, he asked me not to interfere when I taxed him with it. You are mistaken if you believe I am here on his account."
A glimmer of light from down the street flickered with blue fire in Gavin's eyes as he tilted his head. "Take care, madame. The alternative is that your concern is for me. Though it may please my vanity to suppose you care whether I live or die, reason refuses the leap." He looked suddenly toward Wallace. "I will see Madame Faucher homeward, my friend, unless you have a prior understanding or some other reason to stand all protective at her side."
The grin at one corner of the American's mouth vanished though it lingered around his eyes. "None in the world, in either case. I leave her to you, sir." He sketched a bow that was not without grace before touching the brim of his tall beaver hat. "I bid you a very good evening, madame. Blackford."
Watching the big American tuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and stroll away down the Passage, Ariadne felt rather as if she had lost an ally. It was with a hollow feeling inside her chest that she turned back to Gavin. "My concern, as you phrase it, is for the useless nature of this dawn meeting between you and Sasha. How can it possibly benefit anyone? What will it prove?"
"It will illustrate the lack of wisdom in speaking loosely, particularly when the subject is blameless and female."
His quiet voice was freighted by some shadow of meaning that eluded her. "Female? You can't mean me. Or can you? Am I to understand that I am the reason for this challenge?"
"He didn't give you a full account, I see. Wise of him."
It had been foolish, rather, she thought, since Sasha might have guessed she would learn of it eventually. "I doubt he spoke ill of me for any reason other than to force this meeting."
"Oh, so do I," Gavin agreed on the instant. "But like the heretic who prayed only on Sunday, the result was still the same."
"And because of it, you would risk your life for my good name?"
He looked away. "I have fought for less. The point will be moot, however, if you remain here at my lodgings, all supplicating and forlorn. I would invite you inside except that might turn suspicion into certainty in the mind of any observer. Unless, of course, you intend to offer some sweet incentive for whatever plea hovers unspoken on your tongue. Then I should have to reconsider."
"If you expect to send me running home with my hands over my ears at such a suggestion, you will have to try harder," she said, in spite of the hot color that flooded her face and the pulse throbbing in her throat.
He lifted his right hand, turning it in the pale light until she could see the ink stains that marked the fingers. "I was making my will, a tradition in this event. If you think me immune from the reflections attendant on such a task, you are in error. Mortality's malignant stare comes to us all, with or without sword in hand. If choosing between a sharp, quick death and some drawn out, black-biled fever or pus-wracked injury becomes necessary, most men would choose the first. But it is seldom welcome."
The pain fretting his voice was such an echo of the endless ache inside her for the same cause that her throat tightened into a hard knot. Driven by something more vital than the anger that had brought her out into the night streets, she stepped forward to put a hand on his arm. "Then stop this meeting," she said in low tones holding the very supplication he had named. "Send a message at once saying you withdraw the challenge."
"The time for that is past," he answered with his gaze on her white-tipped fingers. "To withdraw now would be seen as lack of zeal for the fight."
"Why not as the magnanimous gesture of a man strong enough to brave the consequences?" The muscles of his arm under her hand were stone hard, but she did not think it was to support her or to impress her. It seemed to her heightened senses to be a sign of the restraint he held upon himself.
"Oh, but what if, by chance, you should feel some warm and scented welling of generosity, after all, some inclination to banish death's specter for the protector of your good name? Even Caesar turned his head while a gladiator destined for the circus maximus took a woman into his bed the night before."
For a scant second, she caught a glimpse of something in his face which sent alarm coursing through her veins. Was it real or only a trick of the uncertain light? No matter, it held her while she searched his eyes, trying to see it again. And in that instant, he moved, taking her arm and whirling her into the dark and narrow inset of the stairwell with her back against the wall and his body pressed against her from breast to knees. His smoothed a hand from her elbow to her shoulder then cupped her chin to tilt her head. His mouth, hot, scented with night freshness and the sweet and heady liqueur he must have drunk while making his last testament, came down upon hers.
Shock and fury exploded in her mind along with a surge of wild delight. This, this was what she had expected of him, what she required. Shuddering with the heat of his body against the chill of her own, with the abrupt gratification of overstrained nerves, she curled her fingers into the fabric of his coat. His lips were smooth, firm at the corners as they moved upon hers. His thumb brushed the corners where they met so her own tingled, throbbing as they swelled to meet his. There was unconscious mastery in his hold. The hard planes of his body enthralled her, incited a drifting impulse to be closer, to feel his weight, absorb his warmth. Hot triumph and something more spiraled up from somewhere deep inside her, mounting to her brain.
The sure touch of his tongue along the line of her lips made her gasp, allowing entry for his careful probing. He swept the silken underside of her lower lip, glided over the pearl-glazed edges of her teeth, and plumbed her warm, moist depths in a rhythm that hinted, beguiled. She met the incursion in delicate, startled exploration, but was suddenly wary of its sweet flavor, its temptation. Boneless acquiescence hovered, sapping her will, threatening her purpose.
Without releasing her mouth, he shifted his hold, using one hand to find the edges of her cloak and slide his hand inside. His fingers outlined a breast, enclosed it, and sought its tightly beaded nipple. His gentle pressure upon that sensitive tip, the delicate way he rolled it with his fingertips, as if testing the ripeness of a small, sweet grape, caught her unaware with its certainty, its intimation of unlimited pleasure.
Never before had she felt like this, not on her wedding night or afterward, when the first pain of penetration was over and physical accommodation eased. Never had she been so overwhelmed by tastes, textures and touches, or the brand of hot, unbidden joy that unfurled in the deepest recesses of her body and mind. She was drowning in languor, drifting on the intoxicating surge of unexpected pleasure. Unfair, so unfair that this man should find its wellspring, should be ab
le to unlock the source of her darkest, most alluring dreams. The betrayal of it stuck her like a blow and a sob caught in her throat.
He raised his head, whispered a curse as he released her. With meticulous care, he straightened the edges of her cloak, raised her hood to screen her features. Then he offered his arm. "Depravity comes in many forms," he said, his voice even, without inflection as he offered his arm, "but I have not yet sunk to the lowest of them. I prefer my women willing and heart-whole. Yes, and with their thoughts uncluttered by concern for other men. Forgive the experiment. It was not meant to harm either of us."
"I have not been harmed." Her voice sounded stilted in her own ears. She accepted his support because it was as necessary as it was polite.
"No. But you were not alone in that stairwell," he answered as he led her relentlessly back out into the Passage. "And you will not be on the field beneath the oaks in the morning."
Seventeen
Gavin half expected to see Ariadne at the dueling ground in spite of what he'd said the night before; he did not put it past her to find some way of flouting public opinion and common sense by attending. A number of closed carriages sat off to one side, apparently the conveyances of spectators, but no females were in view. That she was not there might be owed to Maurelle's good sense or else fatigue due to her late-night excursion. It was just as well, either way. It gave him no pleasure to think the lady might rejoice in seeing him injured.
God, but what had been in his mind when he kissed her? The answer was very little, if the truth were known. He had thought, in his ignorance of her mettle, that Ariadne might have sent Novgorodcev to goad him into this ill-considered duel. It was only as she faced him with her plea to avoid it that he realized she was outraged because the Russian seemed likely to steal the honor she craved, that of dispatching him herself.
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