The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  “That is not necessary. My word is my bond,” she answered stiffly.

  “Don’t be angry,” he beseeched. “I’m Alain’s friend, and yours. But I, too, gave my word.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “But what are we to do? Sit here and worry?”

  “Try not to worry. Alain is the best swordsman I know besides Maître St. Michel. You go and put on your prettiest dress for welcoming him home while I cook breakfast.”

  “Très bien.” Simone’s heart was heavy as she trudged up to her room, but Batiste was right. Alain would soon be home again, and all would be right with her world.

  Listlessly, she washed and dressed. When she went to the bureau for her hairbrush, her eyes fell upon an envelope, addressed to her, and a slender velvet box she had not noticed before. With trembling hands, she opened the envelope and withdrew a note in Alain’s bold hand.

  Simone, my own love,

  By the time you read this note, I will have gone to meet Marcel under the Oaks. I know you did not wish it, but I could not do otherwise for you, for us.

  If my skill with the sword fails me, I will die a happy man, knowing you return my love. Though defeat is bitter to contemplate, I have left instructions for your security, and Batiste will protect you to his last breath.

  Rest assured, mon coeur, that I have every intention of returning to you the victor, having won for us a long and contented and peaceful life together.

  Please accept my gift to seal our engagement and to signify my love for you. Emeralds mean lucky in love, you know, and how fortunate I am to have loved you.

  Your adoring Alain

  Opening the box, she found a magnificent emerald and diamond necklace with earrings to match. Unable to contain her emotions, Simone threw herself down on the rumpled bed she had so recently shared with Alain and wept until no tears were left.

  Batiste made no comment when she returned to the kitchen, red-eyed and pale. After breakfast, they sat in the courtyard, waiting.

  As the oppressive minutes ticked by, Simone was deluged with a flood of memories: Alain holding her as they waltzed; Alain parrying skillfully as they fenced; Alain, his rugged face alive with tenderness, as they made love.

  She started violently when the bell sounded at the front gate. Batiste was on his feet at once.

  “Stay here,” he commanded, disappearing down the passageway to the street. Through the wrought iron gate, he could see three men on the banquette.

  “Where is de Vallière?” Marcel Baudin greeted Alain’s servant haughtily.

  “He left before dawn to meet you at the Oaks,” Batiste answered, his brow creased with concern.

  “He never showed up,” Marcel asserted, looking to Charles Greaux, his second, and his henchman, Guy la Roche, for agreement.

  They nodded, and, emboldened by the company of others, Charles added, “Perhaps he had second thoughts and turned back.”

  “Not Alain,” Serge said from behind them. He had arrived in time to hear the snide remark. “Something is wrong.”

  Batiste regarded Alain’s second worriedly and asked, “You did not see him on the road?”

  “Non.

  “I demand to see Simone,” Marcel interrupted arrogantly.

  “M’sieur Alain sent her away,” Batiste lied.

  Marcel’s icy blue eyes narrowed at the servant. “I know she is here. Get out of my way or I will walk over you.”

  “You may try, sir,” Batiste said, drawing himself up to his considerable height.

  “You’ll find it difficult to walk over both of us.” Serge added his support, stepping beside Batiste.

  “I am willing to try,” Marcel snarled.

  Charles stared at him disbelievingly. Sometimes he wondered if his cousin were mad. He had been willing to serve as second in a duel, but he would not take on the best fencing master in New Orleans for a woman he did not even know.

  “Temper, Marcel,” he cautioned him, catching his arm when his cousin would have drawn his sword.

  The blond-haired Creole whirled on his unfortunate relative, but the distraction proved to be what he needed. Gradually the haze of red cleared from his vision, and the pounding in his head lessened. After a breathless moment, he collected himself and addressed Batiste. “Tell Simone to pack her things. When de Vallière forfeited the duel, he lost all claim to her. She is mine now, and I intend to have her.”

  “You would have to fight me for her,” the servant informed him, unperturbed by the menace in Marcel’s voice.

  Seething with fury, the Creole considered running de Vallière’s insolent slave through, but he thought better of it with Serge standing by. Instead he pivoted and stalked away, trailed by his bodyguard and his anxious cousin.

  When the three had gone, Batiste and Serge went to the courtyard, where Simone waited, white-faced and tense.

  “You heard?” Batiste asked.

  She nodded, looking back and forth between the men. “What could have happened?”

  “I don’t know, but I mean to find out. I’ll search the road to the Dueling Oaks. If ‘Lain is there, I’ll find him.”

  “I will go with you,” Serge offered at once.

  “I would appreciate it if you’d stay with Simone,” Batiste told him.

  “No one needs to stay with me,” she announced. “Let me change clothes, and we can all go.”

  Both men looked pained at her suggestion, but it was Batiste who spoke.

  “Petite amie, I promised Alain I would protect you,” he said gently. “If I don’t find him right away, we must get you out of here before Marcel Baudin returns.”

  “If I put on Jean-Paul’s clothes and--”

  “You would not be safe.” Serge sided with Batiste. “Don’t you see, mam’selle? Marcel already knows you are here. If he saw Jean-Paul emerge from Alain’s house, he would see through your masquerade at once.”

  “He’s right,” Batiste agreed quickly. “You must save that disguise in case you need it later. If I find Alain, this conversation will have been for nothing. But, as it is, we’re wasting valuable time. Both of you must wait here for me.”

  “Oui, but Batiste,” Serge suggested tactfully, “I would feel better if the mam’selle had a lady friend to keep her company.”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Batiste fought back a smile at the man’s unexpected delicacy. “I’ll stop at Mademoiselle Dupré’s on the way out of town.” He nodded encouragingly at the girl who watched him, seemingly numbed. “Try not to worry, Simone.”

  Before she could speak, Batiste was gone.

  After Lisette arrived, tense and solicitous of her friend, there were more hours of waiting. Serge paced while the women sat silently. Everyone rushed to the passageway when they heard the carriage gate open. Batiste appeared, leading Alain’s horse. In his hand was the man’s battered hat and, at his side, attorney Dominique Cuvillion.

  “I fear something has indeed happened to ‘Lain,” the servant said at once. “I found his horse wandering and his hat in a thicket where there were signs of a fight.”

  “Have you sent for the police?” Simone asked.

  “M’sieur Cuvillion did.” Batiste nodded toward Alain’s bookish lawyer. “We decided it was better that he report Alain’s disappearance. I was questioned. That’s what took so long.”

  “What did the police say, monsieur?” Simone asked the attorney.

  The young Creole’s thin, pinched face looked dazed as he stared at Simone through his spectacles in open amazement. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her green eyes were large in her pale face, and her hair, cut short for no reason he could imagine besides illness, made her look fragile and ethereal. There had been few women in his life, and Dominique felt an unfamiliar stir of protectiveness toward this one.

  When Alain had come to him yesterday, he had been baffled by the man’s very specific instructions regarding his little ward: She must be kept hidden. This lovely young woman must be the ward in question, but i
f Alain thought her a child, Dominique mused, he must be blind.

  The proper young man was scandalized to realize Simone had been living in the household of a bachelor. Even now she was unchaperoned but for a manservant, a prostitute, and a fencing master—hardly suitable companions for a girl who looked fresh and innocent and extremely distraught. His heart went out to her, and he did not care if it ever came back.

  “Did the police say they would search for him?” Simone was asking urgently.

  “Oui, mam’selle.” Recovering himself, Dominique searched for words that would soften the blow, but there were none. Running his fingers through his prematurely thinning hair, he explained gently, “They believe your guardian may have been the victim of foul play. They plan to drag the bayou nearby to see if they can find his body. I-I’m sorry.”

  Simone sat down heavily, tears brimming in her green eyes.

  “Mademoiselle Devereaux,” Dominique said urgently, “I have bought some time before the police come. You must not be here when they do. Though I do not understand why, Alain was adamant that you must be kept safe from discovery, from any hint of scandal, and from Marcel Baudin. Is there perhaps somewhere you could go?”

  “She could come to my house.” Lisette spoke for the first time since the lawyer’s arrival.

  “I hardly think that suitable,” he sputtered. Turning back to Simone, he asked, “Are you not related to the Chauvins of LeFleur?”

  “I can’t go there,” Simone replied dully. “The danger to them would be too great.”

  “Will you please explain to me what is going on?” the attorney bade indignantly.

  Haltingly, Simone recounted a sketchy story of her flight from Marcel and the reason for it, though she omitted the fact that she had disguised herself as a boy and hidden in Serge’s salle d’armes.

  “I see why Alain was keeping you hidden,” Dominique said slowly when she had finished, “but surely Baudin can be reasoned with. Let me go to him and see if I can buy your father’s IOU’s.”

  “That is kind of you, Monsieur Cuvillion, but I don’t have the money.”

  “But you do, mademoiselle.”

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand.”

  Now Dominique told half-truths, the story Alain wished Simone to hear. “A sizable amount of money has been invested for you. You see, more than enough money to pay your debts came from the auction of your possessions, and there was a modest bequest overlooked in the reading of the will. Monsieur Fusilier didn’t know where to find you, so he turned it over to Alain, who invested it quite wisely. The original amount has more than doubled by now. The interest alone should keep you comfortably for some time, even after I buy back your father’s IOUs.”

  “Then do what you can, monsieur,” she requested, scarcely reacting to his news before she turned to Batiste. “Isn’t there anything else we can do, anywhere else we can look?”

  Lisette stopped Dominique as he prepared to leave. “I wish you Bonne chance, monsieur, but I do not think Marcel will ever leave Simone alone.”

  “I am told I’m very persuasive,” the attorney replied, looking down his aristocratic nose at her. “If anyone can free her of his threat and save her from debtors’ prison, I believe I am the one.”

  His confidence was severely shaken, however, a few hours later when he met with the furious Creole.

  “Tell Simone I don’t want her money,” Marcel raged. “Tell her I want her. I demand payment in full. Do you understand?” he screamed. “She will pay!”

  Alarmed, Dominique returned to the house on Esplanade.

  “Were you followed?” Batiste greeted him.

  “I’m not a complete idiot,” the lawyer snapped, his muddy brown eyes resting on the black man with dislike.

  At that moment, Serge emerged from the study, where he had been watching the street, to report, “La Roche is watching the house.”

  Dominique was nearly sick with remorse. “Any word of Alain?’” he asked, looking woeful when Batiste shook his head.

  “There is only one way out of this,” the young Creole concluded. “I must challenge Baudin.”

  “Absolutely not,” Simone refused.

  “I think it is my place to do so, Mademoiselle Devereaux,” he said fervently, “since your guardian is not here.”

  “Why you?” Serge protested, descending from the gallery. “Why not Alain’s second?”

  “Stop it, both of you,” the girl commanded, causing them to stare at her in surprise. “I won’t allow either of you to challenge Marcel. Too much damage has been done already. Let us not add your deaths to it.”

  “Then we must get you away from him, away from New Orleans altogether,” Serge mused, his mind as agile as his body.

  “I have a friend, l’américain, who owns a small steamboat, a bayou packet,” Lisette volunteered suddenly. “He’ll be leaving New Orleans tonight for a couple of weeks. If he took Simone with him, she would be safe until we can learn what has become of Alain or can make other arrangements for her.”

  Though nearly paralyzed by sorrow, Simone was about to remind them of her continued presence when Dominique cut in excitedly, “A bayou packet? He could take her to Paradis, my plantation on Bayou Lafourche.”

  “I cannot leave until I know what has happened to Alain,” Simone argued before everyone started talking at once.

  In the end she was overruled, and Batiste crept out of the house under cover of darkness to deliver a note to the captain of the steamboat moored at the Canal Street Wharf.

  “He’ll do it,” the servant announced when he returned, “but we must hurry.”

  “Serge hitched up Alain’s coach,” Simone said, “and he’s waiting now at the front gate to let Dominique in when he returns with his carriage.”

  “Everything is ready,” Lisette concurred. “Simone’s trunk is loaded. I’ll send Jude for the rest of her things in the morning.”

  “Good.” Batiste nodded in approval.

  “Here comes M’sieur Cuvillion.” They heard Serge’s muted call, then the creak of the big gate before it was obscured by the cadence of the horses’ hooves on the drive. Dominique alit from a compact open carriage, built for speed and tonight to be used as a decoy.

  “Is everything ready?” he whispered.

  “Oui,” Lisette answered for all of them as she donned a cloak and pulled the hood up to hide her blond hair. Simone kissed her cheek, then watched as Dominique helped her into the carriage, his thin face showing his concern at the prospect of their mad moonlight drive.

  Before he climbed into his carriage, the young Creole caught Simone’s hand and kissed it ardently. “Au revoir, mademoiselle,” he murmured. “Take care of yourself. I will see you at Paradis.”

  “Oui,” Simone agreed sadly, “and merci, all of you.” Her vision blurred with tears, she walked with Batiste to Alain’s closed coach while Serge ran to unlock the carriage gate.

  When it was open, Dominique urged his horses forward and his carriage thundered from the drive. Before it had traveled a single square, another rig raced from the darkness in pursuit.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Damn it, Tom, we can’t hold our steam much longer. Why can’t we get underway?” the river pilot asked his captain again.

  “Because we’re expecting another passenger,” Captain Franklin answered patiently. Lounged against the railing of the Bayou Queen, his tiny claptrap sternwheeler, he grinned over his shoulder at his grizzled companion. “What’s your hurry, Zack?”

  “Same as usual,” Zachary Cameron retorted. “We’re behind schedule before we’ve even cast off. But looks like we don’t have to wait any longer,” he commented, his eyes on a closed coach arriving at the head of the dock.

  Three people alit: a graceful mulatto man Tom did not recognize; Batiste, the ebony giant he had met earlier; and a woman, wearing a hooded cape.

  “What do you know about this passenger?” Zack asked, watching the three unload their meager
baggage onto the levee.

  “Nothing, except that she’s a friend of Mademoiselle Dupré’s.” Tom stood erect and headed for the gangplank when he saw the mulatto climb back onto the driver’s box and drive away.

  “I know you’ve got a soft spot for the ladies. Tom, but I can’t believe we’re runnin’ behind for a whore,” Zack groaned in exasperation.

  The captain’s blue eyes rested on the pair mounting the gangplank. The huge black man hauled a trunk on his back, bending under the weight. He seemed to lean over the tiny woman protectively, as if he could shield her with his bulk.

  “This one’s not a whore. Lisette says she’s a gentlewoman,” Tom replied, unperturbed when Zachary snorted and set off for the wheelhouse.

  “Captain Franklin, thank you for waiting,” Batiste greeted him. “This is my mistress, Mademoiselle Simone Devereaux.”

  “Captain Thomas Jefferson Franklin, ma’am.” Tom swept off his cap and bowed elegantly. “Welcome aboard the Bayou Queen.”

  “Merci.” The woman’s voice was almost a whisper, refined and obviously Creole. Unable to see the face inside the dark cowl, Tom could tell nothing more about her. She was silent while her manservant handled the arrangements for their travel. As the boat pulled away from the dock, Batiste secured a cabin for her and agreed to help cut and load wood at each stop along the run to pay for his own passage.

  When their business was concluded, Tom watched Batiste lead the woman up to the boiler deck to her cabin. Once she was inside, the negro glanced at the captain, as if daring him to send him to steerage, and spread a blanket on the deck. Then he lay down, blocking her door with his body.

  In the cabin, drained and weary, Simone waited for sleep that would not come. At last she sat up in her narrow bunk and flexed her aching shoulders. Unable to sit still, she rose and paced the tiny cabin, forcing herself to face the question she had refused to consider since Alain’s disappearance. Was she responsible for what had befallen him? Had her love brought danger to him? It was true he had not been killed on the dueling field as she had feared, but where was he? She would know if he were dead, she told herself fiercely.