“The general will never believe you. As young as you look, you couldn’t possibly have worked for Mr. Jefferson twenty-five years ago.”
Sophia dug into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out her journal. “This might convince him.” She handed the notebook to Marguerite.
Marguerite sighed as she ran her fingers over the leather cover. “This is the one I bought for you the morning we left Paris. It hasn’t aged either.” Even with her eyes focused and her jaw tense, her face was unreadable.
Was Marguerite confused, angry, scared? Probably a little of each, and who could blame her?
“When I returned home, I painted several of the drawings, then put the journal away until now. I thought it might help get General Jackson’s attention.” The truth was, Sophia never traveled anywhere without it. The journal was her talisman. Silly. But that’s how she thought of it. The journal’s design made it easy to add pages and remove them, but she only removed the sketches she painted.
Marguerite thumbed through several pages. “Many of these sketches were in the newspapers. General Jackson might have seen them.”
“He was practicing law in Tennessee at the time. He might have. It’ll make it easier to convince him to let me spend a couple of days following him around.”
“His headquarters is at 106 Royal Street. I’ll go with you. I know a few of the men working there now. They might be able to get you in to see him, but from what I hear, he’s not well. He won’t be like Mr. Jefferson.”
“You’re right, and I know the general isn’t well.” Sophia knew he suffered from two unknown diseases—dysentery and lead poisoning. “He has reoccurring bouts of poisoning from an unextracted bullet in his shoulder, along with intestinal problems. One of my traveling companions brought medicine that might help him. But I’m sure you’re correct, and getting in to see him will be a challenge.”
“When it comes to you, Sophia, as Molière said, ‘The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it.’”
Sophia flipped to a clean page in the journal and started a sketch of Marguerite surrounded by her potted flowers. “I’m not looking for glory. I’m only interested in painting the general and hopefully a battle scene or two.”
But she needed to call herself out on that one. If her goal was to sketch the general preparing for battle and a scene of the attacking British to later paint and exhibit, then what else could she be seeking but glory?
20
Barataria (1814)—Billie
When the gray light of the overcast dawn peeked through the shuttered French door, waking her, Billie had no idea where she was, what day it was, or how long she’d been asleep. A haze like a thick velvet stage curtain hung between her conscious mind and her subconscious, and she was too groggy to care.
Her head throbbed, her body had that college hangover sluggish feeling, and her mouth tasted like she’d eaten flowers. Flowers? No way. They’d never been on any menu she prepared, or that she would order in a restaurant.
What the hell had she ingested?
She had no memory of anything that resembled flowers.
Oh, well. She’d figure it out later. What she needed right now was a toothbrush, a hot cup of coffee, and a twenty-minute shower, in that order.
Then she needed to figure out where she was. She certainly wasn’t at the hotel in New Orleans, but other than that, everything was a blur.
She sat on the edge of a lumpy bed, her toes dangling over a two- to three-hundred-year-old Aubusson rug woven with flowers in geometric patterns, surrounded by a floral wreath and ringed with two-toned pale leaves in hues of ripe peaches, daisies, and roses, and accented with rich gold and brown leaves.
For some stupid reason, she was studying the designs in a rug. A rug? Seriously? What was that about? She gave a half-hearted chuckle. Clueless.
A bell rang in her head.
Hey, girl! The rug is a metaphor. It’s covering something you don’t want to remember.
Like what?
Her stomach roiled, and she grabbed a washbowl, but there was nothing in her stomach to vomit, which didn’t make sense to her. She had a vague memory of eating chicken and fresh bread.
Then, with the suddenness of a gale slamming a window open, a monsoon of memories smashed through her brain and took the fast track through her bloodstream, shaking her to her core.
Images of an ogre hovering over her exploded in her brain, then the sense memory of a revolting stench, and she bent over the bowl again, wanting to vomit, but still, nothing came up.
She dry-scrubbed her face, her neck, her arms. She smelled sour and rotten. Her breasts and nipples hurt like hell and were too sensitive to touch. What did that revolting bastard do to her?
And then it all came flooding back, and her vision dimmed for a moment while sweat and chills swamped her, and her stomach heaved again.
Dear God. She ran her hands down her body. That she was sore and some places were almost too painful to touch couldn’t be denied. Neither could the dark bruises and scratches on her arms.
The psycho had tried to rape her and would have succeeded if not for…
…Lafitte…
He shot him.
Blood. The ogre’s blood and brains were all over me.
She cringed, scrambled back up to the pillows, and burrowed under the covers, pulling the coverlet over her head, shivering. That asshole had assaulted her twice. The second time she fought hard but couldn’t stop him. He’d pinned her to the bed, ripped her gown.
She curled into the fetal position, gagging, and broke out in a cold sweat, her heart racing. The ogre would have split her in half if not for this fake Lafitte…
…who might have saved her, but who also instigated all of it. He’d given his permission, had given her to his men.
She gagged again.
As soon as she got back to New Orleans, she’d go straight to the cops. And if they didn’t know where to find the fake Lafitte, she’d gladly lead them straight back here to the instigator and his gang of degenerates.
But first, she needed to pull herself together and find a way to escape before someone else attacked her. And for that, she needed clothes, shoes, and at least her wallet. But she’d leave her wallet behind if she had to confront the fake Lafitte and Dominique Youx to get it. Everything she had was replaceable, even the damn Christian Louboutin pumps, but she wasn’t.
Her mind merged what happened in Afghanistan and what happened here. She couldn’t separate the two. But she’d survived both bloodbaths.
She unfurled and propped herself against the mahogany headboard. In less than twenty-four hours, she was somehow kidnapped from her hotel room, abandoned in a swamp, sexually assaulted twice, and witnessed a murder.
She needed a phone. Morgan would be so worried. Surely she’d called the police by now. And if the police were involved, her father had probably been notified. Not that he would care. Her stepmother probably hoped Billie never returned, and her father would be the beneficiary of her estate.
Sorry about your bad luck, mommy dearest. I’ll leave it to a charity before I let you get any of it.
A guitar leaned against the chair next to the bed where Lafitte had been sitting. She vaguely remembered waking up during the night, screaming. He gave her a drink and shushed her back to sleep. The murdering, crooning wannabe pirate, created quite an incongruent picture.
The way her head throbbed, he must have drugged her. But with what?
A goblet sat on the bedside table. Billie picked it up, sniffed—burnt maple syrup. A familiar odor. Opium.
Bastard.
The drug was woven into the fabric of the conflict in Afghanistan, and the US had spent a ton of money fighting the opium war there, but the country remained the biggest producer in the world. So where did fake Lafitte get his? The cops would be interested in that crime, too. He was chalking up an impressive list of felonies, and she’d spill them all as soon as she got back to New Orleans.
Lafitte wouldn’t
help her get back to the city. She knew it on a gut level before, but now her brain synched with her gut. But he couldn’t keep her here. It was only a matter of time before she found an opening and escaped.
She still needed clothes, shoes, her purse. Hell, forget the purse, just get the wallet. But finding clothes came first. She couldn’t go anywhere in a flimsy silk gown. There wasn’t a closet in the room, so Lafitte’s clothes had to be stored in the chest of drawers, or the trunk at the end of the bed. She’d start there and make her way around the room.
A knock on the door spiked her blood pressure. She did a quick inspection of the room, looking for items she could use to defend herself—candlestick, a fireplace poker, letter opener, sword in a scabbard. She’d start with the fireplace poker and progress to the sword if need be.
She tossed a blanket around her shoulders, moved quickly to the fireplace, grabbed the poker, and stabbed at the burning logs. “Come in.”
The door opened slowly, then a booted foot appeared, pushing the door further ajar. Her grip on the poker tightened. Dominique Youx entered the room carrying a large silver tray full of dishes covered with domed lids. The aromas of bacon, croissants, and coffee made her stomach gurgle.
“Your breakfast, mon Capitaine.”
She returned the poker to the stand. The scent of the food made her mouth water. Why was she so hungry when she’d eaten such a late dinner? “Good morning, Mr. Youx. My stomach is growling like I haven’t eaten in days.”
He set the tray on a heavily carved eighteenth-century walnut high table. “That’s because you haven’t eaten anything since”—he looked up as if conjuring a factoid out of the air—“you had dinner with Boss three nights ago.”
She did a double-take. “Did you say three?”
He held up three fingers. “Trois.”
“Three nights, two full days?” She snorted. “Why not? I’m living in Lafitte’s House of Horrors.” The aroma of freshly baked bread pulled her to the table. “Mr. Youx, I never sleep for more than six hours at a time. So I couldn’t possibly have slept that long unless…” She turned cold eyes on him. “Unless I was drugged. Was I?”
“Drugged? Je ne comprends pas.”
“Don’t give me that ‘I don’t understand’ bullshit. You know what I’m asking. Either you or Boss Man gave me something to make me sleep. What’d you give me?”
“Ah, mon Capitaine. Every time you woke with nightmares, Boss gave you more wine. But for the last twelve hours, you’ve rested peacefully.”
“It was more than wine. What was in it?”
“Une petite quantité of extract from the opium poppy plant. Just enough. Boss didn’t like hearing your screams.”
Her scowl intensified the throbbing headache. She shouldn’t be surprised at Lafitte’s insensitivity, but her surprise morphed into an emotion more intense and hotter than hell. She sounded off.
“Well, bless his little black, goddamned heart! I’m sorry my screaming interfered with his sleep. Nah.” She dropped into the chair. “Damnit. I’m not sorry at all. He shouldn’t have encouraged his men to rape me. Then I wouldn’t have been screaming.”
Dominique coughed. Choked. Sputtered. “Mon Capitaine,” he said sharply. “You misunderstand. Boss didn’t sleep. He sat by your bed. When you grew restless, he sang to you. When you screamed, he gave you wine. The rest of the time, Boss sat in silence and watched over you, a pistol in his hand. Since early morning you have been resting peacefully, so he entrusted me with your care. When you began to stir, I hurried out to get your breakfast.”
She sat back, propped her elbow on her other hand, and cupped the side of her face in her palm. “His behavior confuses me. One minute he wants to kill me, and the next, he sends me to the brothel. Then he kills a man trying to rape me. I don’t get it.”
Dominique removed the domed lids and poured a cup of coffee. “Jean might be a privateer, but he lives by a strict code of honor. If a man steals, injures, or destroys what belongs to him, he pays the ultimate price.”
“I do not belong to him!” she said in an acidic voice that Mr. Youx didn’t deserve, but she was powerless to control her tone.
His eyebrows slowly lifted. “You are under his protection, mon Capitaine. Jean doesn’t admit to making mistakes, but when he realizes he’s made one, he rectifies it immediately.”
The aroma of the rich, bold chicory coffee drew her like a magnet. She would have crawled to get her hands on it. She picked up the cup as if it was the most precious gift anyone had ever given her—and maybe it was—and she sipped, sighing. “I have to get back to New Orleans, Mr. Youx. I’ve been away too long. By now, my friends and the police will be looking for me. If Boss Man wants to rectify his mistake, he’ll call a car service to return me to the city.”
“You can discuss it with him later. For now, enjoy your breakfast. I’ll send a lady’s maid to assist you.” He bowed slightly and was gone.
He’d confessed to drugging her. So why wouldn’t he say anything about calling a car service? Maybe they didn’t intend to let her leave the island. After she finished breakfast, she’d give it more thought.
The blanket slid off her shoulders while she slathered a croissant with a thick layer of butter and jam. After her third croissant and two cups of coffee, she sat back and rubbed her full belly until a short rap on the door sent her blood pressure skyrocketing again. She dashed over to the fireplace to reclaim the poker.
She went for a casual, “Come in,” but kept her hand firmly wrapped around the poker.
Instead of the woman Dominique had promised, it was the Lafitte wannabe. His eyebrows twitched when he saw her. Then he paused in the wedge between the threshold and the door he held open, frozen in mid-step, smoothing down the front of his shirt. He rolled his shoulders back and said, “Mon Capitaine.” Then he backed up and closed the door softly.
The familiar storm of adrenaline unsettled her. What the hell was that about? This reenactor was playing Lafitte as a man of many faces, and clearly, she would never understand him. How could she? He was delusional, violent, hit-by-a-moon-rock nuts, and—this was a big one—a murderer. And, he’d facilitated two attempted rapes, and, if he’d had his way, dozens more.
On the flip side—if there was one—he was handsome, intelligent, charming, talented, a great conversationalist, and sensitive.
Hello, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
As soon as she reached the New Orleans Police Department, she intended to file multiple complaints against him.
She picked up her cup and stood in front of the French doors, enjoying the thick coffee while gazing out at Barataria Bay.
The Pride swayed in the waves lapping against her hull. The ship, anchored against a natural backdrop, was the most authentic-looking reproduction she’d ever seen. And there were no power lines, buildings, cars, or roads obstructing the pristine view.
Something was nagging at her, but as hard as she tried to figure it out, it remained elusive.
This whole setup seemed off. Why weren’t there any electrical power lines, or running water, or motorboats at the dock? And why was everyone dressed like they’d answered a casting call for early nineteenth-century pirates?
And this faux Lafitte wasn’t the only delusional resident in his rabbit hole. Deluded, violent men populated the entire island. It was as if time had forgotten Barataria Bay. If Captain Nicholas Lockyer of the British sloop HMS Sophie sailed into the bay, she’d know for sure Barataria was locked in a time warp.
She turned and caught her reflection in the glass, gasping. Dear God. The gossamer fabric revealed every curve, bruise, scratch, and even her war ink. No wonder Lafitte bowed out of the room so quickly. But didn’t he see the tats when he removed her bloody gown? Could he possibly have been so honorable that he averted his eyes?
“Nah. No way.”
She withdrew from the French doors, determined to tackle the dresser and trunk. Maybe Lafitte’s clothes could be rolled up, tucked in, and knotted to fit he
r.
But instead of rummaging through his personal property, she lay back down on the bed, yawning. The drug must still be in her system. Her eyes fluttered, and just as she dozed off, the bell that had clanged earlier tolled again and again and again.
21
New Orleans (1814)—Rick
Rick had only time traveled back and forth twice. Once with Kenzie and David, landing in Leadville, Colorado in 1879, then returning home a few weeks later amid a medical crisis that could have ended badly. Then back and forth again. This trip was different, though. Rick sensed it in the damp air and the buzz of voices speaking French. He knew he wasn’t in France because the architecture was all wrong. But the language barrier sparked a bit of tension in his gut and immediately reminded him of Afghanistan.
Where the hell is my translator?
He wasn’t a polyglot like other members of the clan. In French, he only knew how to count to ten, say please and thank you, and ask for simple directions. On the other hand, Pete spoke Italian, Remy spoke French, and Sophia spoke both French and Italian, but…
Where the hell are they?
Of all the times to scatter the travelers like pick-up sticks. His stick landed alone in a world he didn’t understand. The brooch god had a wicked sense of humor, like his when he was writing. He took pleasure in orchestrating conflict for his characters, then twisting the plot on its head, turning an already horrible situation into a landing in hell. Dumping him in a cold, damp, French-speaking city preparing for an invasion was a good start. The twist would come, and if the brooch acted true to form, he’d end up on his head, bashed and bruised, either before or after he found Billie and the Fontenots.
And he would find them.
Although, right now, a cloud mass hung over his head like a formless gray sheet and forced him to question his sanity. He was out in another storm less than forty-eight hours after the disaster at Jackson Square. What did that say about him?
The Topaz Brooch Page 24