The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  “Bonsoir, Claude, messieurs.” Her nod included all of them.

  “Where are you going, mon ami?” Claude asked, taking the lad aside when the others returned to their conversations.

  “To run an errand,” she answered vaguely.

  “You wouldn’t by any chance be delivering a message for Pierre Bordelon to his beloved Fatima?”

  “Oui,” she admitted reluctantly. She was not surprised he had easily guessed her errand. Everyone in the salle knew of Pierre’s involvement with Fatima, a dancer who performed in one of the seedy taverns of The Swamp. And everyone knew his family was in town, making it impossible for him to risk going to see her.

  “So you’re going to The Swamp.” Claude frowned disapprovingly. “Do you know what goes on there? It’s the reason New Orleans is called The Wickedest City in the World. It is home to rivermen, gamblers, murderers, rapists, thieves--”

  “I might have a better chance with them than with some Creole gentlemen I know,” she snapped; she had not forgiven the night at the house on rue Dauphine.

  Claude looked pained. “I apologized for that. And you were the winner anyway. You’re the one who spends time now with Mam’selle Lisette in her private apartment.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Jean-Paul demanded truculently.

  “What I said and nothing more. I wouldn’t speak ill of the lady. She is perfect, and I wish...” The young Creole sighed. “Never mind. She looks at me as if I were her idiot brother.”

  “Perhaps you are the idiot brother she never had,” Simone retorted.

  Claude scowled. “Mind what you say, Jean-Paul. I don’t want to end up under the Oaks with you.” Rising, he picked up his hat and looked at his young friend expectantly. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are you going?” Simone asked hotly.

  “With you, to The Swamp.”

  “The Swamp?” Eugène asked, curious, catching the attention of the others.

  “Oui. Jean-Paul has an errand to run, and I’m going with him.”

  Simone considered protesting, but secretly she was glad of Claude’s company. She was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of carrying a message to The Swamp.

  “You must be taking Bordelon’s message to Fatima.” Eugène nodded knowingly. “I believe I’ll go along and see her for myself.”

  “We all will,” another of them cried.

  “Oui,” the others agreed in unison.

  “I don’t need you treading on my heels,” Simone complained.

  “Consider us your bodyguards, Jean-Paul, since Serge won’t let you wear a sword yet,” Eugène teased.

  Eager for excitement, the Creoles set out on foot. Crossing to the American Section, they followed a rutted street to the heart of The Swamp, the road at the river’s edge. The stench of raw waste in the gutters was nearly unbearable in the summer heat.

  The squalid street, lined on both sides by barrooms, was nearly impassable, teeming with tough, menacing-looking men. Scantily clad, grotesquely painted women seemed to occupy every window, upstairs and down, along the thoroughfare. Their raucous laughter and shrill, suggestive calls to passersby rent the air.

  Along the river, tin-roofed shanties seemed to lean against the levee. Behind them, keelboats moored side by side formed almost a solid walkway across the water. Because the level of the Mississippi was higher than New Orleans, the boats seemed to loom over the hovels in the darkness.

  When the party reached its destination, the young rakes clambered onto the porch and swaggered into the bar.

  “Give me the note, and I’ll take it to Fatima,” Claude ordered Jean-Paul.

  “Pierre told me to deliver it,” Simone argued, but just then a body flew through the swinging doors, landing facedown in the dirt. The unfortunate lay where he fell, groggily shaking his head. Without a word, she handed the note to Claude.

  “I will be right back. Eugène and his cronies think this is a great adventure, but I’ll be ready to go as soon as I deliver this,” the young Creole muttered as he went inside.

  Simone was inclined to agree. She waited on the porch, trying to shrink into the shadows. Across the street, a brawl spilled out of another tavern, attracting a crowd. She watched in horror as the combatants rose unsteadily and slashed at each other with razors before passing out in a sodden heap.

  Even in her guise as a boy, she was uneasy. Shrugging her narrow shoulders, she looked around anxiously, wishing her companions would return.

  At that very moment Eugène did. He lurched backward through the doorway, powered by a mighty punch. Claude and the others followed, swords drawn, as they retreated from a rabble armed with hefty staffs and wicked-looking knives. The dandies from the salle were clearly receiving the worst of it.

  Just in front of Simone, a burly Kaintock slammed his stick across Claude’s shoulders. Giving a strangled cry, Simone launched herself from the porch and landed on the brute’s broad back, kicking and hitting. When he recovered from his surprise, the big men swatted at the youngster who clung to his back. His beefy hand caught her on the side of the head, setting her ears to ringing, but she did not let go.

  Bellowing with annoyance, he whirled and bucked, trying to rid himself of the pest. Over his shoulder, Simone caught a glimpse of Claude, watching wide-eyed as Jean-Paul’s legs flew out behind him, leveling anyone in the path of his swinging feet. Still she held tight, her arms wrapped tight around the man’s grimy neck.

  Suddenly Simone was yanked backward, lifted by the scruff of her neck and the seat of her pants. Flailing and hollering, she fought. She folded her body, jack-knifing, then suddenly straightened with all her might to aim a kick at her captor’s shins. She was rewarded by a muttered curse before a big hand tightened painfully on the back of her neck, and a voice growled, “You’re coming with me, young man.”

  Her unseen captor maintained his hold on both her neck and her pants, thrusting her ahead of him like the prow of a ship. As they cut through the fracas, she saw that the Creoles had turned the tables and seemed to be having the time of their lives. At the fringe of the brawl, Simone was set on her feet with a jolt.

  “I ought to leave you here, you little barbarian, but I wouldn’t do that to them.” Alain de Vallière scowled at the disheveled lad.

  Alain again! Simone nearly groaned aloud. Then, regaining Jean-Paul’s feisty composure, she snapped, “You let me go. I’ve got to help my friends.”

  The hand on her neck tensed, reminding her who was in control. “They seem to be doing well enough,” Alain observed.

  “I won’t leave them.”

  “You’ll come, my boy, if I have to carry you.”

  Afraid he would do just that, Simone allowed him to steer her through dark, deserted streets, the fight having lured everyone to the waterfront.

  As they walked, Jean-Paul’s hair curled over Alain’s fingers, bringing back an indistinct sense of déjà vu. Funny it should be so soft, he thought, glancing down at the sulky boy who walked beside him, his hands in his pockets and his head lowered. Alain ruffled the little fellow’s hair amiably and withdrew his hand. Jean-Paul shot him a scathing, sidelong glance but said nothing, and they walked back to the Vieux Carré in silence.

  Freed of Alain’s touch, Simone could think again, but her thoughts were disturbed. His hand on her had been like fire, and his nearness had an almost physical effect. She could not escape the awareness of him, so tall and strong and masculine, at her side. Just this morning her heart had stood still when she had seen him without his shirt. Now it pounded at the memory.

  “What were you doing in The Swamp?” Alain asked as they turned down Exchange Alley. “You had no business there. Even the constabulary stay out. If you had any sense--”

  “If you’ve got so much sense, what were you doing there?” she cut in hotly.

  “Playing cards—why should I explain to you?” A look of exasperation crossed his face. “A man can go where a boy cannot.”

  “Whose rule is that?” Th
e belligerent youngster balked. “Yours?”

  “Mine and Serge’s.” Alain dragged the boy to the backstairs of the salle. “I happen to know the maître likes to keep his assistants in one piece. So I suggest you get upstairs where you belong.” Placing his boot against Jean-Paul’s rump, he shoved her in that direction, chuckling at the boy’s dire mutterings.

  Simone peered into the parlor through the French doors from the garden and called softly, “Lisette.”

  “Mademoiselle Dupré attends an emergency in the kitchen, m’sieur,” an unfamiliar voice answered.

  It took a moment for Simone’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior after the brilliance of the autumn day. But when they did, she saw a lovely Negro in a chair by the fire, a small wooden case at her feet.

  “Merci.” Simone prepared to depart with a polite nod.

  “Won’t you wait with me, petit?” the woman invited. As her penetrating black eyes raked Simone, the girl felt as if her disguise were suddenly transparent.

  In her best Jean-Paul manner, Simone stepped in and plopped down in a chair.

  “My name is Marie LeVeau,” the woman introduced herself. “I’m Mademoiselle Dupré’s hairdresser. Who might you be?”

  Simone surveyed the Negress with interest. She had often heard of Marie LeVeau—the queen of voodoo in New Orleans and confidante to many wealthy Creole women—but she had never seen her. Realizing the woman was regarding her expectantly, she murmured, “I’m Jean-Paul, just a friend.”

  Marie LeVeau leaned forward, the planes of her handsome face gilded by the fire’s glow, and said urgently, “You must hear me. I knew when you came to the door that you were the one the obeah told me of.”

  Her very tone sent prickles of foreboding up Simone’s spine. Suddenly she wished she were anywhere but here, beside the fire with the voodoo queen, but she could not bring herself to stir.

  “Yes,” the woman hissed, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied smile. “I am not mistaken. You are the one. You have blood on your hands, yet you seek revenge.”

  “You can’t know that,” Simone protested, deeply unsettled. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I don’t have to. The obeah never lies.”

  Simone fought back a shudder as the Negress continued, “There is more, a warning that you will bring danger to those you love.”

  “Wh-what kind of danger?” Simone asked with dread.

  For a long moment she thought the voodooienne would not answer. Marie LeVeau sat motionless, her eyes closed and a frown furrowing her brow. “Blood,” she whispered at last. “All I see is blood.” Then she sagged in her chair, as if exhausted.

  Silently, Simone rose and fled. She would not have a bath that day; she would not see Lisette. She wished only to escape the ominous predictions of the voodoo queen.

  “I don’t like this,” Lisette said to her companion as they stepped down from the carriage on rue Chartres.

  “I had to come,” Simone asserted from behind a heavy black veil.

  “I still say it would be better if I went to the shop and bought your father’s watch.”

  “And the clock from LaVictoire, and who knows what else the shopkeeper bought at the auction?” Simone countered. “You wouldn’t know my family’s possessions. I have to see them to know what I can buy back. Don’t worry so much, Lisette,” she soothed. “No one will recognize me or you in widow’s weeds.”

  The madam looked around uncomfortably and saw her friend was right. No one appeared to notice them or if they did, they respected the privacy of two women in mourning. But she drew up short when she saw Marcel Baudin in front of them on the banquette.

  Taking her arm, Simone shyly ducked her head and steered her friend past the handsome young Creole, who did no more than tip his hat in habitual politeness to the ladies.

  “This is too dangerous,” Lisette muttered when they were past. “What if he had recognized you?”

  “He didn’t, and no one else will either,” Simone replied with growing confidence.

  At the shop, the last Devereaux found not only the watch and the clock she had spied in the window, but her mother’s carved ivory combs. She was just finishing a round of haggling with the shopkeeper when Lisette announced, “Oh dear, it looks as if it’s about to pour.”

  “Why don’t you go on to the carriage?” Simone suggested. “I will be there as soon as I have finished.”

  His head bowed against the elements, Alain was hurrying along rue Chartres when a veiled woman stepped out of a shop directly in front of him. Trim and petite, her black-clad figure moved with grace, seeming to skim through the mist as if carried by the wind. Alain watched appreciatively as she hurried toward a waiting coach.

  As she neared the carriage, she dropped a small parcel. Her skirt billowing around her, she swooped gracefully to pick it up, but with two long strides Alain was there before her.

  “Permit me.” He bent, his face very close to hers.

  Realizing who had come to her aid, Simone stood at once, her petticoats rustling stiffly, and retreated a step to increase the distance between them.

  Alain rose slowly, his gaze fixed on her bowed head, trying to see her face through her veil. “Your parcel, mam’selle,” he said softly.

  His fingers brushed hers as she accepted the package from him and it seemed to Simone she felt his startling heat even through the gloves she wore.

  “Merci,” she murmured, her voice nearly lost on the whistle of the wind.

  “My pleasure.” He sprang at once to open the door of the carriage. His eyes on the dainty one beside him, he scarcely noticed the other woman in the cab’s dark interior.

  Gallantly, Alain offered a hand to assist the girl, and she laid one small gloved hand in his for the merest instant. He closed the door as she settled into the coach on the far side of her companion.

  “Merci, monsieur.” Her voice drifted through the window.

  “Your servant, mademoiselle.”

  She said something he could not hear over the crack of the driver’s whip and the rumble of wheels on cobblestone. But as the coach pulled away, he saw a hand lowering the isinglass window-covering. And a ring on the slender fingers told Alain the hand belonged to Lisette Dupré.

  His brows lowered in displeasure as he stared after the carriage. How blind could he be? He should have recognized her, Alain thought irritably. The veiled woman who had, for some strange reason, set his heart pounding like a green lad with his first love was the black-haired girl he had met at Lisette’s!

  He had received no answers from the madam to his relentless questions about the mysterious girl. Now he would have them, and from her own lips. Whistling for a cab, he set out for the house on rue Dauphine.

  In Lisette’s dressing room, Simone rapidly shed her clothes.

  “Would it be so bad if he recognized you?” the madam asked again. “Alain wants to meet you. He wants to apologize.”

  “I don’t want his apologies. I want him to leave me alone.”

  “Alain de Vallière is very handsome, very eligible . . . and very interested in you,” Lisette argued.

  “Well, I’m not interested in that—that beast.” Simone stared at the woman through narrowed eyes while she buttoned her shirt. “I know he’s your friend, and you may have forgiven him that night, but I have not.” She closed the subject by jamming Jean-Paul’s hat over her curls and gathering her parcels.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” Lisette asked. “He didn’t seem to recognize you.”

  “I know, but after the last time I met the roué, I don’t want to risk meeting him again.” Simone kissed her friend hastily on the cheek, then was gone.

  She had barely passed through the garden gate when the door to Lisette’s parlor was thrown open with such force it bounced off the wall.

  “Where is she?” Alain demanded, striding into the room.

  “She’s right, you are a beast.” Lisette’s gray eyes shone in indignation. “What’s wrong with yo
u, ‘Lain? When did you start bursting into a lady’s room without even knocking?”

  “When did you join that pretty little trickster in her games? Where is she, Lisette? I want to see her.”

  “She’s gone,” the madam told him.

  “Where?” Struggling to control his fury, he ground out the question.

  “I wish I could tell you,” she said. “I wish the two of you could make peace.”

  “How can we, when she refuses to see me? Why won’t she give me a chance to apologize?”

  “I think you frightened her.”

  “I know I did, and I cannot bear the thought of it. I have to see her, to apologize. You must tell me who she is and where I can find her.” He towered over the tall woman.

  Lisette would not be intimidated. “I gave my word,” she declared. “You cannot ask me to break it.”

  Alain surrendered with a bleak sigh. “I suppose I can’t.” Raking his fingers through his dark hair, he slumped into a chair beside the fire. “Can’t you tell me anything about her? She is well born, is she not?”

  Lisette hesitated. The Creole looked unusually disheartened, and she could see no harm in telling him that much. “She comes from a good family.”

  “Is she truly in mourning?”

  “Oui, she has had a great deal of sadness in her life. She’s completely alone in the world now.”

  “Non,” he disagreed softly, “she has you.”

  “I am her friend.”

  “A good friend. I would be her friend, as well, if she would give me the chance,” he murmured.

  “I suspect you would be more than a friend, ‘Lain, if she gave you the chance,” Lisette countered evenly. “I warn you,” she continued when he blinked at her in surprise, “I think of that girl as if she were my own, and I’ll protect her however I can. You have loved and left women from here to Paris and back again. Forget this one. She’s not for you.”

  Marcel Baudin attacked his breakfast with zest. After nearly six months, he was close to finding Simone. He had followed false leads up and down the Mississippi, but yesterday he had received a report that she might be in Natchez. Today he would go upriver to search for her.