Louisa Rawlings
Page 7
“I wish to God we didn’t have to return to La Rochelle. We have the letter of credit. Why must we risk danger?”
Lucien leaned back in his chair. His saturnine face registered exquisite boredom. “I agree. Lord knows I’d as soon avoid a seaport. Any seaport. But”—he shrugged—“it can’t be helped.”
“Why should La Rochelle be such a terrible place?” asked Topaze in surprise.
Lucien’s eyes glittered with deviltry. “’Tis a city of rogues and adventurers, in which no man is honest.” He grinned. “And no woman is virtuous. Does that dismay you, my tender flower?”
She smiled her unconcern, refusing to be baited by his cynical words. “Only Hell and the kingdom of your imagination are as wicked as that.”
“Touché.” He took her riposte in good humor, touching his finger to his forehead in salute.
“Name of God, be serious.” Martin looked more and more unhappy. “I don’t trust Captain Foure.”
“Nor do I. But I don’t want to lose our investment. We’ll just have to be on our guard.” Lucien finished the last of his chocolate and laughed. “Besides, we have the man by the culls. Unless he wants to forfeit his ship, and his life…” He tapped the hilt of his sword. He stood up and put on his tricorne. “The coach will be waiting.”
Topaze frowned at him. “Who is Captain Foure?”
“Must you always ask questions that don’t concern you?”
“Hellfire and damnation, I…”
Lucien’s blue eyes were cold as a winter sky. “Don’t swear.”
Martin bristled. “The girl has a right to ask.” He turned to Topaze. “Captain Foure is”—the words were clearly distasteful to him—“a smuggler.”
“The devil you say! What is…”
“Enough,” muttered Lucien. “We’ll miss the stage. You can tell our prying chit the whole story in La Rochelle, while I’m entertaining the worthy captain.”
They arrived at La Rochelle late in the afternoon, and went at once to a small and secluded inn, at some distance from the long quays and the tall-masted ships clustered in the Bay of Biscay. “Wait here,” said Lucien, after they had settled in. “I should be back in time for supper.”
“No.” Martin clapped his hat firmly on his blond hair. “I’ll come with you.”
Lucien shook his head. “The Three Dogs Tavern is in a vile part of the city.”
“All the more reason for me to accompany you. And you’ll be carrying all that money.”
“Damn it, Martin. Foure expects me alone.”
“Surely there’s another tavern nearby. I’ll wait for you there.” Martin’s voice was firm and determined.
Curse them both, thought Topaze. “We’ll wait,” she corrected.
Lucien’s eyes widened. “Now I’m damned if you will.”
“What if something should happen to you both? What would become of me, alone in a strange city?”
“The thought of your helplessness somehow fails to disturb me,” he drawled. “You’ll wait here.”
“No.”
“I said you’ll wait here.” His voice was cold steel.
She gulped and took a steadying breath. “If you leave me here alone, Véronique de Chalotais will vanish once again. And for good. I swear it. What does it matter to me, after all? I have my new clothes. And the Givets are, no doubt, enjoying their windfall of two hundred and fifty livres. It will be enough.” She waved away his muttered protest, then smiled in cunning. “Unless, of course, I’m permitted to wait with Martin.”
“You bold miss! I’ll…”
“Yes or no?”
He nodded reluctantly.
Her smile was radiant, wiped clear of guile. “I knew you’d see the wisdom of it. After all, I have my own investment to protect now, husband. I should hate to be widowed, when I’ve scarcely been a bride.”
He shook his head, laughing. “How is it you haven’t been clapped into prison by now?”
“For a better reason than you’ve escaped the gallows.” She grinned. “I, at least, look innocent.”
They reached the Three Dogs Tavern as the sun was setting. A squat, half-timbered building, it sat in a cul-de-sac approached by a long narrow alley that was lined with squalid shacks and dim shops. As they made their way across the cobblestones, Topaze looked uneasily about her. She was used to the poorer streets of Bordeaux, of course, and aging, ragged mariners. But this place seemed to be the haunt of seafaring cutthroats and tosspot knaves. The dregs of the ocean trade. They slouched in doorways, peered from windows, shuffled along in drunken lethargy.
Topaze shivered. The hired carriage that had dropped them at the entrance to the lane had been paid to return in an hour’s time. Still, they’d have to traverse this gauntlet again to reach it.
“Damn,” muttered Martin.
Lucien shrugged. “I warned you.” He looked at Topaze. “How does your courage now?”
She smiled. “Stiffened with iron. Bring on your scurvy villains!”
His eyes were unexpectedly warm. “Good girl.”
Two doors away from the Three Dogs was another tavern. Martin led Topaze there; Lucien would join them when he’d concluded his business with Captain Foure. Topaze ignored the leers of the patrons as she and Martin entered, and sat with her back to the door, her full cloak shielding her from curious eyes.
“Rot and damnation,” she said. “Did you and Lucien come from Guadeloupe for this? A rendezvous with a villain?”
Martin looked offended. “Name of God, no! We came for loans for the plantation. Before he died, my father had given me letters to several old friends of his. Bankers and investors. In case we should ever have need of them. Indigo is profitable, you understand. But they’ve begun to grow tobacco on Martinique and ship it back to France. We thought, Lucien and I, if we could pick up another piece of land, it might be worth our while.”
“But the banker in La Rochelle refused you?”
Martin signaled the slatternly barmaid for a pitcher of cider, and brushed a crust from the filthy table. “Sweet Jesus, I don’t know why I let Lucien talk me into this. The banker from La Rochelle was three years dead. We were ready to leave for Bordeaux, and seek the banker there. Then we overheard Captain Foure at a tavern. He was quite drunk. And very unhappy. From his talk we surmised that he had found a lace seller who was not above supplying good French lace for the English trade.”
“Isn’t that against the law here in La Rochelle?” she asked in surprise. “It is in Bordeaux.”
“The English don’t mind, when they’re wearing it.” He laughed sharply. “Name of God, I even begin to sound like Lucien, talking of smuggling as though I were born to it!” He fell silent as the girl served their cider, then resumed his story. “It was soon clear that Foure needed money to buy the lace in the first place. We agreed to help finance the purchase.”
“It doesn’t sound too dishonest. Just a slightly shady investment.” Not nearly as wicked as picking pockets.
“Yes.” Martin smiled uneasily and took a drink of his cider. “At any rate, Lucien met Foure alone the following night. At the Three Dogs. And they made their arrangements.”
“Why is he meeting with Foure now?”
“That was nearly three weeks ago. The good captain should be back from England by now, his pockets filled with our gold. A great deal of gold.”
“Merely for helping to pay for the lace?”
“But you see there was another problem. Foure’s contact in England had been arrested. He had the ship and crew, the means to transport the lace in coffins, books, whatever was necessary. But no one to receive the goods.” Martin looked faintly embarrassed. “Lucien…ah…knew a man in England. A baker by trade, on the Cornish coast. He was eager to buy lace. He wanted it”—he squirmed uncomfortably—“delivered to him in hollowed-out loaves of bread.”
“Hellfire! How did Lucien know such a man?”
“I think he lived in England for a time.”
“A smuggler as wel
l as a pirate?” she asked sarcastically. She didn’t know how long the two men had been friends, but it was clear to her that Lucien had humbugged Martin with wild and fanciful tales of his past! “And so Foure is paying handsomely just for the name of a baker?”
“Oh, it was more than that. Lucien supplied the captain with a letter of introduction for the baker, directions to a hidden cove off the coast. And there were certain signals, lantern flashes, before they put a rowboat ashore.”
Topaze clicked her tongue. “Ave Maria, but it begins to sound as though Lucien really was a smuggler.”
“I don’t know. It’s possible.”
She snorted. “Your partner in business?”
“And a man of honor.”
“Honor? And Foure? By Saint Vincent, how do you know Foure is waiting for Lucien? Couldn’t he just take the money from the sale of the lace and be on his way?”
“It’s not likely. Lucien had him draw up papers assigning the ship to us, against his return with our portion of the profits.”
What was it Lucien had said? The tiger recognizes its kin. Topaze had to admire the man’s cunning: the rogue outwitting the knave. Foure would find betrayal difficult.
A gust of cold wind from the opening door blew Lucien into the tavern. He joined them, allowed himself a hasty swallow of cider, then stood up. “Come on. I don’t like to linger.”
“You have the gold?”
Lucien’s hand moved to the breast of his coat. “Two fat sacks. But Foure is a sly one. The sooner we’re quit of this place…”
Martin took hold of Lucien’s sleeve and pulled him back into his chair. “Give me one of the sacks. At least until we’re safely in the carriage.”
“A wise idea.” Lucien slipped one heavy purse to Martin, who tucked it into his coat, rose to his feet, and gallantly offered Topaze his arm.
“Madame, will you accompany me?”
They went out into the street. Night had fallen. A frosty moon glazed the cobbles, gilded here and there by the glow of a candle in a window, lamplight from a suddenly opened door. Topaze glanced nervously about. There were far more men in the cul-de-sac, braving the cold night air, than there should have been. It made her uneasy. She clung more closely to Martin, matching his long strides with her own hasty steps. Lucien was filled with the same unease, that was apparent. Even as he quickened his pace, he unbuttoned his greatcoat, putting his sword hilt close at hand.
But it was too late. With shouts and curses, half a dozen men closed in on them, wielding clubs and belaying pins. Lucien drew his sword; Martin, caught off guard, was knocked to the cobblestones. For a moment the men swarmed over him; then, with Lucien flailing away with his weapon and Topaze kicking at the ruffians, he struggled to his feet. He unsheathed his own sword.
Topaze drew back against a wall as the fight began in earnest. She saw the flash of a cutlass in the swirling confusion. Several knives. There was the clash of steel on steel, loud grunts when a blow or a thrust hit home. Martin defended himself well enough, but Lucien was a fierce demon. Lunging, parrying, striking with the fist of his free hand when an attacker managed to get closer than the end of his sword.
“Damned assassins,” he muttered, and leaped at the largest of the men. His voice was low and controlled; his face—as much as Topaze could see—was carved stone. Merciless. His sword arm shot forward. The man cried out and sank to the pavement. Even as he fell, Lucien thrust again. A savage blow, straight for the gut.
Topaze gasped as the man shrieked in pain. His companions froze, cowed by the sight of his tortured writhing and moaning. Topaze scarcely had time to feel horror at Lucien’s ruthlessness; he and Martin reached for her, pulled her, running, to where the carriage and safety waited. They tumbled into the coach and sank back against the cushions, panting for breath.
“Merde,” said Lucien. “If that was Foure’s doing…” He rapped sharply on the roof of the coach, which set off at once, barreling through the dark streets until it reached their inn.
The fire was already lit in the hearth of their room. Lucien threw himself into a large armchair and laughed softly. “By Lucifer, I’m hungry.”
“And I swear I’m covered with bruises.” Martin moved toward the door. “Well, I’ll order us some supper. I can find out about tomorrow’s coach at the same time.” He stopped and shook his head ruefully. “Name of God, Lucien, I must have been mad to listen to you. What a wild adventure!”
“Yes. But we’re three thousand livres richer for it.”
“And not worth a pinch of snuff if those rascals had… Damn!” He smacked at the breast of his coat. “The purse is gone! They must have snatched it when I was down.”
“Merde! Half our earnings!”
“No.” Topaze reached into her bodice and produced the sack of coins. “I didn’t like the look of the men as we came out into the street. I knew they’d attack you first, if they meant harm, so…”
Martin’s jaw dropped. “You picked my pocket!”
She shrugged. “You were an easy pigeon.”
Lucien chuckled. “By Satan’s horn, Véronique was never so quick-witted as you. The purse would have vanished else.” His eyes were filled with genuine approval. Topaze felt oddly pleased.
As Martin left the room, she stripped off her cloak and her cap, and began to clear a small table to receive supper. The luxury of abundant food was still new to her; it warranted careful attention. When she was finished, she looked at Lucien.
He appeared to be asleep. It was strange. With his eyes closed he always seemed so vulnerable. The face wasn’t changed: still the same high cheekbones, the sharp, satanic eyebrows, the evil-looking scar. But for all of that, with his eyes closed he was oddly handsome. And not at all frightening.
It’s the eyes, she thought. Most assuredly the eyes. Cold and hostile. She’d seen eyes like that once in Bordeaux. On a galley slave who’d broken free from his chains and had swum ashore. The police had cornered him, beaten him down with clubs. He’d looked up at them—desperate, trapped, yet still defiant. Daring them to kill him. To snatch the last shreds of humanity from him.
They’d knocked the poor wretch senseless and dragged him away.
Lucien opened his eyes. He returned her searching look. “I know what you’re thinking. I can see it on your face. I shouldn’t have struck him again as he fell.”
She’d almost forgotten the fight. “He’ll most likely die from a wound like that,” she said gently.
His lip curled in a sneer. “Damn them all. They would have had no pity on us.”
“I’d rather die than sink to their level.”
“Then you’re a naive fool. Lord, I ache.” He grimaced and moved his shoulder. A trickle of blood seeped from below his coat cuff, staining the lace of his shirt.
“By Saint Côme, you’re hurt!”
He glanced at his upper arm, where a small cut in his greatcoat had begun to turn damply red. “So I am. I thought it was only the blow of a cudgel.” He stood up and removed his greatcoat and the simple velvet coat beneath. The white linen of his shirt was crimson with blood. He touched the wound through his shirt and moved his arm in a slow circle. He muttered a soft oath. “Well, the shirt is ruined, more’s the pity, but it appears to be a minor wound.”
Topaze poured water into a basin. “Take off your shirt and your waistcoat.”
“It isn’t necessary. It will stop bleeding in a little. Tie my handkerchief around it over my shirt.”
“No. Take off your shirt.”
“It’s only a scratch, I tell you.”
She smiled and took a step toward him. “I’ll not ask again. Unless, of course, you’re modest.”
He stared, his brows lowering. She held her ground against the ferocity in his blue eyes. Suddenly he began to laugh. “You’re bold, by Satan.” His hands went to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Do you want my breeches off as well?”
The plaguey devil! “Not for the time being,” she said evenly. “Sit down.”
Yes, she thought. “No,” she said. “But I’m like Lot’s wife. I might turn to stone at the sight of you.”
He chuckled. “Am I as wicked as all that?”
“I have no doubt of it. Now keep still, while I see what those villains have done.”
As Lucien had said, the wound was superficial. The merest prick of a dagger, a red line on the smooth bronzed flesh of his upper arm. Topaze cleaned it and bound it up. While he changed into a fresh shirt, she rinsed the old one as best she could, and dabbed at the blood that had seeped onto his outer garments.
Martin returned, followed by a servant bearing the supper tray. The evening’s adventure had whetted their appetites, and they ate with enthusiasm.
There’s something to be said for a full belly, Topaze thought. She felt more lighthearted than she had in weeks, bubbling with foolish humor and witty asides. His eyes warm with admiration, Martin watched her, saying little, as was his habit. But Lucien laughed a great deal. He seemed to find her amusing. Remembering the menace in his piercing glance, Topaze felt decidedly safer when he was laughing.
Afterward, Lucien went to his portmanteau and took out his nécessaire. It was a small gold-and-mother-of-pearl traveling box, fitted inside with sewing and writing instruments. He pulled out a thimble and needle case. “I think it’s best if we sew some of that money into the hems of our coats for safekeeping.” He turned to Topaze. “I’ll give you a purse as well. If you should need to leave the Chalotais household in a hurry…”
The danger in his unspoken words seemed to sober them all. They retired for the night on a quiet note, each with his own thoughts. Topaze slept fitfully, her mind filled with fresh doubts. At the first light of day she woke again. She heard Lucien groan in his sleep. Perhaps his wound was troubling him. She arose from her little cot and tiptoed to the large bed where the men slept.
The room was gray and dim, but she could make out their features quite clearly. For the first time, she allowed herself the luxury of a minute examination. They were as different as night and day. Martin—blond, handsome, almost beautiful, kindness and good fellowship in every line and feature of his face. And Lucien. Dark, from his white-winged head of hair to the clouded soul that hid behind his cold eyes. She doubted, of course, that he’d been a pirate, despite his pierced ear; a comfortable landowner didn’t become a pirate. But he didn’t mind consorting with smugglers, and he fought like a savage. No. Martin was far more to her liking.