Tainted Lilies

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Her hopes went as black as the silent night, then flickered suddenly, leaping with the welcoming flame, which lit the doorway on the opposite banquette. There on the corner an old building of French design squatted unpretentiously, its twin dormer windows looking like eyes staring at her own house across the street. She had never really taken note of the blacksmith shop before, though it had claimed that corner for much longer than she had lived. But now, the quaint old building and the dim lamp guttering in the darkness gave her new hope.

  Laffite was there! Laffite would save her!

  “Close the gate behind the carriage… and lock it!” she heard Diego order their driver.

  The horses’ hooves clattered hollowly on the flagstones of the carriage entrance. The deep clang of iron and the click of the massive lock made Nicolette shiver. Once more she felt like a prisoner.

  And so she was. Diego hurried his wife and Jada into the new townhouse and through the petit salon to the bedroom so quickly that Nicolette had no time to admire the rich furniture created especially for her by Napoleon’s cabinetmaker or the exquisite gifts of silver and crystal, which had been sent to their wedding and placed here during the past week by her father’s servants. In less time than it took her eyes to adjust to the lamplight inside, she was in the master bedroom. Diego stood before her, a large key in his hands.

  “I’m going to lock the two of you in the house, Jada.” He spoke to the servant, again ignoring his wife.

  “As you wish, M’sieu Diego,” Jada replied with a smile that invited and promised pleasure.

  Nicolette felt her last hope draining away. With the doors locked from the outside, she would have no way of escape. She rushed at Bermudez, screaming, “No! You can’t!” as she struggled to wrest the key from him.

  He fought her off with little effort and shoved her down on the bed.

  “Very well! If this is what you want, you’ll have it!”

  Nicolette shrank back, expecting him to strike her. Instead, he brought out the handcuffs and damped them on her wrists, attaching them to the high post of the tester bed.

  “I had planned to give you the freedom of the house. But I see you can’t be trusted.”

  He turned to leave, then went to kiss Jada.

  “Later for us, ma enfant,” he said to the dusky beauty. “Wait up for me.”

  “Oui, M’sieu,” she answered in a sultry voice, reaching for his lips once more and letting her hand caress him boldly.

  Nicolette looked away from the two of them, sick with disgust and hopelessness.

  “He’s come!” Dominique Youx called from the doorway. “The carriage just entered the gates.”

  Jean Laffite sprang to his feet, alert and ready for action. “The others, Dom?”

  “All here—waiting in the courtyard to catch a breeze, Boss. Mon Dieu, the heat in this place is awful! What a night for a game! It will not be who stays in long enough to win, but who can bear the heat long enough to play!”

  Laffite squinted one eye at his older brother, a habit he had when in-deep concentration. “Perhaps it’s the devil’s own breath, mon frère, and he’ll come to claim his disciple tonight! Call the others now, please.”

  The players filed in from the tiny courtyard out back—Messieurs Bernard de Marigny, his graying hair as rumpled as his suit and his Creole features set with a determination to win; John Blanque, Laffite’s business manager, a sharp man with money, at the gaming table or away from it, and finally, Auguste Davezac, a rich merchant who traded with the Baratarians to his own advantage and to theirs. They were Jean Laffite’s friends—men who would not tip the authorities to the fact that the wanted men were in the city.

  Laffite greeted each of them solemnly, shaking hands and indicating chairs around the green baize-covered table.

  “Only four of us?” Davezac questioned when the men had taken their places. “Why not have Pierre sit in? An even number’s unlucky at the card table.”

  “Unlucky for whom?” de Marigny chuckled. “I put no faith in luck, my friend.”

  “Not four. Five,” Laffite answered, counting out ivory chips for his guests. “Monsieur Bermudez will be joining us shortly.”

  The other men exchanged glances. All three knew that Diego Bermudez had married the woman the Baratarians called “Madame Boss.”

  “What’s the pot limit tonight, Laffite?” John Blanque asked, counting out a stack of gold coins.

  “No limit!”

  Eyebrows shot up around the table. Laffite was not a devil-may-care sort. They all knew him as a serious businessman and a poker player who looked on the game as a business. But to set no limit on a game? That was the work of a madman—a fool! A man could lose everything!

  “See here, Laffite” Blanque began, “I handle your finances and I’m responsible. Granted, you’re a rich man, but I won’t see you squander every bit and piece on a night’s entertainment. Why, we’ve never played for limitless stakes before

  “And never will again, John. Only tonight. Trust me.”

  John Blanque stared for a few moments into Laffite’s face. He had never seen such stark pain and determination mingled in any man’s eyes before.

  “It’s your game, Jean. You name the stakes. We’ll play by them. Right, gentlemen?”

  The others answered Blanque with nods and quiet affirmations. They looked up from their counting when the fifth player entered.

  “Good evening, messieurs.” Diego Bermudez’s voice was cold, his bow stiff.

  Laffite stood quickly. The two men locked gazes long enough to fill the room with uneasy tension. Davezac, de Marigny, and Blanque all felt that the two men were about to challenge each other to a duel instead of a poker game. No one voiced that opinion, however.

  Laffite smiled finally, relieving some of the electricity about the table.

  “Your rules, monsieur?” Bermudez asked with forced amiability.

  Laffite fanned the cards expertly to draw for deal and answered, “No limit, monsieur,” with equal saccharinity.

  “Ah! A man’s game for a change,” Bermudez said, counting out his money. “I’ve been waiting for this a long time.”

  “As… have… I!” Laffite drawled as he dealt the cards.

  The first hand went to Bermudez. He raked in the chips with fingers trembling as they might have if they were stroking a woman’s breasts, Laffite observed. The next hand was Davezac’s. When three more went to Bermudez, the Spanish Creole began to believe it was his night. He took chances, bluffed boldly and badly, and lost to Laffite all that he had won, plus more.

  Bermudez mopped his brow and tried to laugh off this turn of luck. “Only a momentary lapse, messieurs. I assure you, I plan to win tonight! And I’ve come prepared to stake all I have in order to strip you bare. Deal the cards, Blanque!”

  Round and round the deal passed. The heat intensified. The smoke thickened as cheroots were lit, forgotten, relit. Marie Louise moved like a shadow, refilling tankards. Pierre and Dominique sat against one wall—silent and alert, observing. Midnight died and the next day was born. Chips clinked. Cards drew damp with sweat, were tossed away and replaced with a new deck.

  Blanque and de Marigny lost heavily. Davezac stayed even. The piles of gleaming ivory in front of Laffite and Bermudez, who faced each other across the table, grew and grew as the game went on. Conversation was sparse—an occasional low curse, a dry laugh, a “well played” exchanged now and again.

  Diego Bermudez bet heavily on three queens, sure that he would take the pot. The other three folded after drawing their cards. Laffite checked to Bermudez, who doubled the bet, trying to suppress a confident smile. His opponent saw his raise and doubled it. Diego’s smile turned to a nervous twitch. If he lost this hand, his cash would be gone. Would Laffite accept his marker?

  “And I raise you another five thousand!” Bermudez announced, shoving the remainder of his chips to the center of the table.

  Laffite studied the five cards in his hand, one eye almost clo
sed. He looked up at Bermudez, who was sweating profusely now, then back to his hand.

  “And another ten.”

  Bermudez jerked in his seat as if he’d been shot. He must be bluffing! he thought.

  “You’ll accept paper?” Bermudez asked confidently.

  “Not for cash.”

  “But you can’t do this! You know I’m good for it. And, if I’m not, my father-in-law will cover the marker.”

  “I don’t see Monsieur Vernet in this game,” Laffite answered coolly. “As I said, I won’t take your paper in lieu of gold. I will, however, accept a note on your plantation.”

  Bermudez squirmed in his chair and stared at the three ladies in his hand.

  “Nicolette’s house across the street!” he said quickly. “It’s mine now that we’re married. I’ll put that in the game!”

  “No,” Laffite answered.

  “But the plantation .

  “Take it or leave it, Bermudez.” He shoved a paper, ink pot, and quill across the table.

  Slowly, the man wrote his I.O.U. and placed it with the mound of chips. “Call,” he said in an unsteady voice.

  The tension around the table tightened like a band of steel. Not a sound could be heard but the heavy breathing of the seven men in the room. Pierre and Dominique both let their hands rest lightly on the pistols at their belts, not sure what the turn of the cards might bring.

  “For God’s sake, Laffite, I said call!” Bermudez cried, half-rising from his seat.

  Laffite spread his hand face up and said, “Two pair—aces and kings!”

  Diego Bermudez gave a shout of joy and raked in the pot as if he were afraid someone might steal it. He all but tipped over the table in his excitement. The fever was upon him. Never had he won so much. Clearly, the night was his!

  “Very well, gentlemen!” Bermudez said with new confidence in his voice. “I believe it’s my deal and my advantage. Lady Luck is on my side tonight.” Made bold by his winnings he relaxed and talked while he dealt. “I’ve always favored poker over other games of chance. Monsieur de Marigny, I believe you enjoy craps more, but dice games are not where I excel. Lucky in love, unlucky at cards, they say. But I am the exception to the rule. I have four queens, not just the three that brought me this fortune!”

  Laffite burned to ask about Nicolette, but dared not. Pierre, picking up on his brother’s thoughts, said, “Ah, yes, your bride. How does she like her new house across the street, monsieur?”

  “She’s not there,” Bermudez answered, shooting a nervous glance at the older Laffite. “I left her at my plantation.”

  “So soon after your wedding?” Pierre persisted, grinning innocently.

  Bermudez offered Pierre a cold sneer. “We’ve had time enough together to make it worth my while. She’ll be panting for me by the time I get back.”

  Laffite made an angry sound and appeared to be about to rise and go for Bermudez’s throat. A gently restraining hand touched his shoulder and Marie said in a soothing voice, “More ale, Capitaine?’

  Laffite eased back down to his chair and Dominique Youx at the same time relaxed his trigger grip.

  “Are we going to play cards or talk?” Bernard de Marigny complained.

  The game resumed. Diego Bermudez, flushed with his good fortune, doubled and redoubled bets—lost and lost again. But still the glow of that enormous winning hand made him hopeful. He had had one fortune before him tonight and each new hand held out the promise of another.

  When he was dealt the 6, 7, 8, 10 of spades and the ace of diamonds, he felt his time had come. The odds against him were astronomical. No one draws to an inside straight and wins. Still, even with five players at the table, he could draw another spade for a flush. Surely, no other hand could beat that. He made his decision.

  “How many?” Blanque, the dealer, demanded.

  “Give me one card,” Bermudez answered, discarding his ace.

  “Laffite?” the dealer asked.

  “None.”

  Bermudez gulped. Eyes shifted around the table. Davezac, to Blanque’s left, checked, waiting to hear the other bets. Bernard de Marigny opened with a cautious thousand. Laffite saw that bet. Bermudez, having difficulty controlling his excitement, raised ten thousand when the betting reached him.

  “Too rich for my blood,” Davezac said, before even looking to see what cards he would draw.

  Blanque and de Marigny agreed, folding immediately. Only Laffite, with his pat hand, saw Bermudez’s raise, and put in another ten thousand on top of it.

  “Ready, gentlemen?” Blanque asked.

  “Ready.” Bermudez and Laffite answered in unison.

  Again, the title to the Bermudez plantation was in the pot. The continued raises had outstripped Diego’s diminished funds. He would insist that Laffite take a marker on the Bourbon Street house, if he had to.

  John Blanque carefully dealt one card across the table to Diego Bermudez. He stared at it for several moments, thinking, nine of spades… be there! He lifted one corner—black! A spade! Nine or not, he had a winning hand! In one swift motion, he looked at the card and placed it where it belonged in his hand—between the 8 and 10. The card was the 9!

  “Your bets, gentlemen,” Blanque said softly.

  Laffite stared across the table, through the smoke, at Diego Bermudez. He was perspiring more than ever. His eyes glittered like black glass. Laffite had seen this look of greed, this thirst for blood, many times before. But never had it been as unbecoming as on Diego Bermudez.

  “Twenty-five thousand,” Laffite opened.

  “Of course, you can’t refuse my marker on the Bourbon Street house now,” Bermudez said, his voice quivering with anticipation.

  “I can and I do.”

  “Goddammit, Laffite! This is the last hand! My plantation’s already up… my slaves… every cent I have in the world. You have to take my house! It’s all I have left to wager.”

  “All?” Laffite drawled, boring into Bermudez with eyes so dark green they were almost black.

  “Yes, dammit, all!”

  Laffite didn’t say another word, but continued to stare. The other men at the table shifted uneasily.

  “You can’t be serious!” Bermudez said at last.

  “I haven’t said anything,” Laffite answered. “But if you plan to stay in this game, you’d better think of something fast!”

  “I have thought of something,” Bermudez answered, a bemused smirk on his thin lips. “I have one thing you won’t turn down. Give me the paper.”

  Laffite passed paper, pen, and ink once more.

  “This is all academic anyway, Laffite. I have you beat, you know,” Bermudez said as he scrawled something on the paper, folded it and handed it to Laffite. “You will, I assume, accept this marker?”

  Laffite opened the paper and allowed a slow smile to take possession of his face.

  “Well?” Bermudez asked, annoyed. “Do you accept?”

  Laffite only continued to smile and nodded.

  “Then I call you with this marker, Laffite! Let’s have done with it!”

  Slowly, with almost malicious enjoyment, Laffite turned over his cards, one by one. He had hearts, queen high, and down from that lovely lady who reminded him so much of his Nikki, trailed the jack, 10, 9, 8. A straight flush—a single card higher than the one Diego Bermudez held.

  Bermudez slammed his cards down on the table. “No!” he yelled. “It can’t be! I had this hand! You bloody bastard! You cheat!”

  Dominique Youx caught Bermudez from behind before he could draw his concealed weapon. The man struggled, but Dom shoved him out of the door before he could begin a fight.

  John Blanque flipped the marker open and gasped, “Holy Mother of God! Jean, you’ve won the man’s wife from him!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Deep-throated thunder rumbled out over the river, following in the wake of heat lightning. Nicolette lay on the bed, staring out at the periodic illumination. It seemed hours had passed since
she gave up on her struggle to get free of the cruel cuffs restraining her wrists. Jada had long since left her alone, in the dark, with only her fears and the sounds of the night to keep her company.

  She wondered if Diego had told the truth about the poker game with Jean Laffite. How could two men who had tried to kill each other barely a week ago sit down together at a gaming table now? She had heard whispers about Diego’s passion for the sport. But why would Laffite risk coming to New Orleans and the danger of being arrested for an evening of gambling?

  Unless… she had to allow her mind to grasp at straws… unless he had some plan for her rescue and its success depended upon her being in New Orleans.

  Through the long, black hours, Nicolette had more time than she would have liked to dwell on her foolishness and the mistakes in her past. She had not loved enough. She had trusted the wrong people. Worst of all, she thought, I refused to listen to my own heart.

  She prayed with an awesome will to be given another chance. But her loneliness, her fear, and the dark of the night began closing in as if the walls themselves moved toward her.

  “Ps-s-s-t!’ The sound came from the door which opened onto the second-storey gallery. “Ps-s-s-t!” There it was again.

  Nicolette turned her head and squinted her eyes, trying to see if anyone was there.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  “Madame Boss,” a familiar voice answered, “it’s me, Gator-Bait.”

  “What? Gator-Bait?” She could hardly believe the joy she felt at the sound of his voice. “How did you get here?”

  “Never mind,” he said, slipping a skinny arm through the jalousies to feel for the latch. “I got news!”

  He moved so quickly that to Nicolette it seemed he never opened the shutters, but came through them by magic. In an instant, he stood beside the bed, his tiny hand resting on her cheek.