The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  “I know, cousin. Merci.” Rising, she planted a delicate kiss on his cheek.

  Before he could respond, she was gone. He stepped out onto the banquette, straining to see his beloved in the darkness. Her hands shoved into her pockets, she sauntered along the shadowy streets, looking every inch a street urchin.

  Sighing deeply, Fabrice turned and trudged away

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The heat of the day lingered, and evening promised to become sultry night. Alone in the salle, Simone practiced lunges in front of the open door. Not a breath of air stirred in the twilight, and the target affixed to a post in front of her hung limp as she lunged and withdrew. Outfitted in castoffs from Claude Galvez, she sweltered in the heat. Sweat stained her quilted jacket and beaded on her upper lip. It rolled from her short hair onto her forehead, then dripped off the end of her nose.

  “This is for Marcel,” she muttered under her breath as the buttoned tip of her sword found the center of the target. A regular visitor to the salle, the scarred Creole had taken a dislike to Jean-Paul. It seemed no matter how Simone tried to avoid him, he was there to torment her.

  “Here is one for Fabrice.” She lunged again, remembering her cousin’s reaction when she told him that Serge was teaching her to fence. Fabrice had forbidden her to undertake the training.

  Straightening slowly, she resumed her original stance and prepared to lunge again. But her mind strayed to the conversation she had overheard that afternoon.

  Alain and Serge had sat at the maître’s customary table, sipping coffee, when the fencing master asked, “Still no news of your little ward, ‘Lain? What is her name?”

  “Simone Devereaux.” She had been gratified to see Alain’s lips tighten at the very thought of her. “No, I’ve been to every hospital, to the police, even to the morgue. I’ve kept in touch with Nicholas’s attorney and talked to the neighbors. I’ve put up flyers with her description from here to St. Martinville. No one has seen her.”

  “You think she may have met with foul play?”

  Alain uttered a sharp bark of laughter. “Not likely, since Fusilier mysteriously receives two dollars from her every week. I think she is hiding from me, though God only knows why. She’s stubborn and independent, but we always got along well enough. A fine task my old friend set for me, to marry off his prickly daughter. Where will I find a husband strong enough to take Simone in hand? And when I find him, do I offer him a dowry or my sympathy?”

  “From what you tell me of your ‘little spitfire,’ perhaps you should offer both,” Serge teased.

  “Well, the sooner I find my ‘little spitfire,’ the sooner I can find a husband for her. And the sooner I’m free of that obligation, the happier I’ll be,” Alain had said as the men returned to their fencing practice, never noticing Jean-Paul’s furious gaze following them balefully from the equipment room.

  “Men,” Simone said scornfully in the silence of the salle. She lunged with deadly accuracy, the tip of her sword snagging the target from its post. “And that is for you, M’sieur de Vallière,” she whispered, feeling slightly better.

  “Psst, Jean-Paul.”

  Simone turned to see Obadiah peering through the open doorway. Though he frequently visited, he never entered the salle.

  Cutting the air lackadaisically with her sword, she managed to rid herself of the target clinging to its tip. She swooped up the rough piece of canvas and wiped her wet face with it as she joined Obadiah on the landing.

  “You finished murderin’ that pole, Jean-Paul?” he greeted her with a chuckle.

  “It was self-defense,” she replied with a cocky grin.

  “Uh-huh,” Obadiah responded dubiously. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a lint-covered praline and broke it, offering her half.

  “Merci.” Simone accepted the candy, removing the worst of the fuzz before she took a bite.

  “You wanna go giggin’ for frogs tonight?” her friend asked as they chewed the sticky praline.

  “I’d like to go,” she said regretfully, “but I promised Claude Galvez I would go to a party. It’s his eighteenth birthday.”

  “Where is this party?”

  “On rue Dauphine. He said it was a white house with a red door.”

  Obadiah stared at Jean-Paul goggle-eyed and asked, “You sure you wanna go?”

  His skinny young friend scowled at him impatiently. “Are you going to say the same thing as Eugène, that I am too young?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, ‘cept I don’t wanna see you get in no trouble,” Obadiah replied, unaware of the volcano of feminine ire threatening to erupt from beneath Jean-Paul’s scruffy facade.

  Men! They were always trying to tell her what to do. Even Obadiah! Frowning. Simone declared, “I won’t get into any trouble.”

  “It’s jest you gotta be careful,” the Negro boy warned. “That Galvez is pretty wild.”

  “Claude has looked out for me almost since the day I got here.” Simone defended the young blade, unwilling to hear any criticism of him since he had rescued her from Marcel’s challenge.

  The well-intentioned Claude had taken Serge’s assistant under his wing, sometimes to Simone’s discomfiture. While he protected her from the persecution of the other students, including his own best friend, Eugène Moreau, he sought to make a man of Jean-Paul, hauling him to cockfights, card games, and duels at Trois Capelines.

  “I know he’s your friend,” Obadiah said soothingly, “but he’s a lot older than you, an’--”

  “I can take care of myself,” she cut in with an intractable glint in her eye.

  “Do what you want,” Obie sighed, unwilling to argue. “Jest don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  That night, as Jean-Paul and Claude stood with a half dozen other young men in the foyer of the house on rue Dauphine, Simone wished Obadiah had been a bit more specific in his counsel.

  “Hello, boys. Bonsoir, messieurs.” Before the burly doorman had even closed the door, bold voices called down from the top of the stairs. Simone looked up to see two girls leaning over the banister, blowing kisses to the young swains below. She stared up at them in horror, her eyes widening. They wore nothing more than silk kimonos. Deliberately they descended the staircase, each step revealing lengths of creamy leg.

  The rhythmic pounding of a piano came from the parlor as another scantily clad woman opened the sliding doors to their right and beckoned invitingly. “Come in, gentlemen.”

  “Bonsoir, Sally,” Claude greeted the woman familiarly as she took his hat and handed him a snifter of brandy.

  Simone stopped in the doorway beside the worldly young Creole and gawked. Inside were several more young women, wearing kimonos and little else. For the past few months she had often seen men naked from the waist up. She hardly even noticed anymore. But never in her life had she seen women in such advanced stages of undress. And they seemed absolutely at ease, draping themselves over the nearest available male lap.

  Her face aflame, Simone tried to back out of the room, but Claude threw a comradely arm around her narrow shoulders and herded her into the room. Before she could think, she blurted out, “Mon Dieu, Claude, you’ve brought me to a—a brothel.”

  “A house of assignations,” he corrected with a smirk. “The nicest in the city. Pay attention, young friend,” he instructed, pushing her into a chair. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  “Cigar, M’sieur Galvez?” The woman called Sally returned with a brass-hinged humidor.

  “Merci,” Claude accepted. “Is Mademoiselle Dupré in this evening?”

  “She is. She will be out later to wish you a happy birthday.”

  Simone glanced up at the suave young man and was surprised to see his fair face mottled with red.

  “Lisette Dupré is so beautiful. Just wait until you see her,” Claude murmured abashedly to Jean-Paul and downed his drink. Pulling the younger lad to his feet, he instructed gruffly, “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

  He drag
ged Simone to a table laden with food and insisted she fill her plate. “You’re a growing boy, after all,” he insisted, already sounding tipsy.

  Simone choked down her food as she watched her companions fondling the women they held in their laps. Between lascivious kisses and bold caresses, they all drank heavily. Choked by cigar smoke and the smell of perfume, she couldn’t breathe. Rising, she edged toward the door.

  “Where are you going, Jean-Paul?” Claude shouted over the noise, catching her when she would have slipped out.

  “I was... I was going to get some air.” She looked at him guiltily over her shoulder.

  “The patio is that way.” He pointed his big black cigar toward a pair of French doors on the far side of the room.

  Simone’s blush deepened when a couple passed, hand in hand, a giggling girl leading one of the young men upstairs. She fled outside and breathed the muggy night air in deep gulps, her breasts straining against the binding she wore beneath her shirt.

  Then she explored the tiny well-kept courtyard by the light pouring through the open windows, searching in vain for a way out. The walls were high and she found nothing but a wrought-iron bench that she might use as a ladder. She tried to move the massive bench, but it would not budge. Winded from the exertion, she gave up at last and went back into the house.

  In the parlor, she found the smoke thicker and the music louder, though the number of guests had dwindled. She knew without asking where they’d gone: upstairs with les files de joie. The daughters of joy, indeed, she fumed as she strode decisively to her host.

  “Claude, thank you for inviting me,” she said, shaking his hand, “but I must go.”

  “What’s your hurry?” the young Creole asked merrily. “I have big plans for you. Tonight, my boy, I have arranged for you to become a man.” He swayed on his feet and winked with drunken good humor.

  “Non.” She protested his unmistakable intent, trying to keep the desperation from her voice as she backed away. “Non, merci.”

  “Can you believe the boy would pass up such an opportunity?” Claude asked the others watching the exchange. Shaking their heads, they bellowed with laughter.

  “Consider it a part of your education, Jean-Paul,” Claude said magnanimously, refusing to release her hand. “My oldest brother did it for me, and now I do it for you.”

  “I don’t think I’m ready.” She nearly danced backward in her attempt to escape, but she could not free herself.

  “Jean-Paul has no appreciation for your gift, Claude,” Eugène chortled, seizing Simone’s other arm. Now even the piano player was watching the scene taking place. “It seems a shame to carry him upstairs kicking and screaming.”

  “He’ll thank us for it later.” Claude grinned, passing his drink to one of the women. “Get his feet, someone.”

  Whooping with laughter, two other young men leapt to obey, each catching one of Jean-Paul’s flailing legs.

  “Shall we take him to Poland’s room?” Eugène suggested, enjoying himself immensely.

  “She seems to be the woman of the greatest experience,” Claude answered judiciously.

  “You motherless, misbegotten snakes, put me down, damn you!” Simone howled furiously, drawing upon the vocabulary she had learned in the salle. The four young men gathered around Jean-Paul laughed uproariously, as they hauled the lad into the foyer.

  Simone arched her back and writhed in an attempt to break free. “Give me a sword, you bastards,” she panted fiercely, “and I’ll fight any or all of you, but I’m not going up those stairs.”

  “Don’t be afraid, little man,” Eugène teased, “we’re going with you, as far as Poland’s door.”

  “Then you’re on your own,” guffawed one of the fellows who held her feet.

  She continued to twist, straining frenziedly when she felt the bindings around her breasts slipping and her collar button give way. By the time they finished with her, everyone would know she was a girl, she thought, panic-stricken.

  She cursed even more loudly and jerked convulsively. “You can’t do this!” she yelled. “Claude, make them let me go!”

  “Indeed, Monsieur Galvez, make them let him go before his shrieking drives all my guests away,” a female voice commanded lightly, stopping the young men in their tracks. All Simone could see was the skirt of the woman’s rich brocade dress.

  “Mam’selle Lisette!” Claude breathed, and he immediately loosened his hold. Simone’s arm slipped through his lax fingers, and her head and one shoulder hit the floor with a thump.

  Twisting to the side, Simone busied herself prying at Eugène’s fingers with her free hand, while he too stared, transfixed, at the woman. With a distracted frown at the determined Jean-Paul, Eugène released his grip, so Simone’s entire torso now rested on the floor. She propped herself on her elbows and pumped her feet furiously, scooting backward at the same time to slip from the others’ grasp.

  “And where were you taking this little fish, messieurs? From the looks of him, you should throw him back until he grows,” the cultured voice teased.

  “W-We were going to give him a night to remember, mam’selle,” Claude stammered.

  “I’ll remember well enough,” Simone muttered with a dire glare for him. She scrambled to her feet and looked directly at the madam of the house of assignations, the woman who had just rescued her.

  Lisette Dupré was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, Simone thought at once. Tall and willowy, she carried herself regally, her head held high on a slender white neck. Her hair was so blond it was almost white, but the brows and lashes framing her wideset gray eyes were several shades darker. One eyebrow arched higher than the other, giving her face a droll expressiveness.

  The eyebrow was cocked wryly now as the woman jested gently, “We always try to give our gentlemen what they want, M’sieur Galvez, but we never force it on them. Go now and enjoy your birthday. You shouldn’t have to worry about your young friend tonight. He can be my guest until you are ready to leave.”

  Wordlessly, Claude bowed and pressed an ardent kiss on Lisette’s hand. Then he led his guests back into the parlor, where the piano playing resumed at once.

  “This way, young man,” Lisette instructed the lad who stared belligerently after Claude. Sweeping along a hall beside the stairs, she opened the door to an elegant parlor. “Sit down,” she invited, gesturing toward a settee.

  Nervously, Simone obeyed. Perched on the edge of her seat, she surveyed the madam’s airy, feminine suite.

  Through an open door, she could see a luxurious bedroom. Against the opposite wall stood a table, its legs adorned with intricate carving. Above it hung a huge mirror, and reflected in it Simone saw, an ornate chiffonier and Lisette’s tester bed, awash in soft light from a sconce. In the shadows on the far side of the room, the door to a tiny dressing room stood ajar, revealing the edge of a porcelain bathtub. Simone looked at it longingly.

  “I was about to have some café,” Lisette Dupré said cordially. “Will you join me?”

  “Oui, merci,” Simone murmured. Suddenly the language she had used in her ire, language she had seldom heard and never spoken before a few months ago, flooded back to her, and she blushed. Miserably aware of her rumpled clothes and the way her hair stood up all over her head, she unconsciously smoothed her errant locks and sat up a little straighter.

  Lisette watched Jean-Paul closely. “If we are to have café together, perhaps you could tell me your name.”

  “Jean-Paul Sonnier,” Simone answered in a low voice, afraid she would give herself away. She had not been around a woman since she had assumed her disguise.

  “I am Lisette Dupré. You may call me Lisette if I may call you Jean-Paul.” She had a strange expression in her gray eyes.

  “Very well . . . Lisette,” Simone said shyly.

  While Lisette poured the café, Simone realized there were already two cups, two saucers—two of everything on the tray.

  “I suspected I was going to have company,�
� the madam explained casually when she saw her curious glance. “I saw you in the garden, trying to escape, but you went back inside before I could show you the way out.”

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” Simone said sincerely.

  “You are most welcome.” Lisette handed Jean-Paul a cup, then sat back with her own. Stirring it studiedly, she asked, “Will you not tell me what kind of trouble you’re in, ma chère?”

  Simone stared at her, shocked. “Wh-what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a girl dressed in boy’s clothing.”

  “You know,” Simone whispered apprehensively. “But how?”

  “A few unguarded mannerisms. Your face, your hands—they are too fine, too delicate. Your feet are too small for a growing boy.”

  “Do you think anyone else knows?”

  “Non, not among your friends.”

  “Friends,” Simone said sharply.

  “Not the sort an innocent girl should have, perhaps, but they thought they were doing Jean-Paul a favor,” Lisette pointed out, one brow arched in amusement. “What is your name, ma petite?”

  “Simone.”

  “Will you tell me the reason for this masquerade?” the woman asked quietly.

  Undone by the tumultuous evening, disarmed by Lisette’s genuine kindness, and oddly unburdened at being herself for the first time in many weeks, Simone was amazed to find the story—or parts of it, anyway—pouring out of her. She told of her father’s death, of Marcel’s threats against her, of her uncle’s plans for her, of her daring scheme to live in the salle d’armes.

  “Isn’t there anyone to serve as your protector?” Lisette asked when Simone had finished.

  “No one,” the girl lied, knowing somehow Lisette would insist she notify her guardian. “I’m doing all right,” she maintained stubbornly. “Each week I pay a little more toward my father’s debts. I am my own person. And I’m safe as Jean-Paul.”

  “If you don’t go to any more parties with Claude,” Lisette amended wryly. She was silent for a moment, then she asked, “What if I paid off Monsieur Baudin, so you could come out of hiding?”