‘None,’ Harry replied, allowing himself to be led, like the others, to the long bench that lined one wall.
‘Then you are clearly strangers to the Crescent City. Now what name shall I place them under?’
‘Ludlow.’ The old man’s grey eyebrows shot up, which made Harry add a quick explanation. ‘We were invited to come here by El Señor de Fajardo de Coburrabias. He said we should ask for Mademoiselle Feraud, and present his personal compliments.’
The old man who’d recovered his poise, stiffened at the name, like a soldier coming into the presence of an officer.
‘Certainly, gentlemen. I will inform Mademoiselle Hyacinthe that you are here, Captain Ludlow.’
‘What a wonderful name,’ said Harry, as a small Negro boy began to work on their boots with a damp cloth. ‘Hyacinthe.’
‘Don’t raise your hopes, brother. I’ve been in such places in Paris. They are, without exception, run by ladies of advanced years whose ugliness is only surpassed by their avarice. The “Mademoiselle” is not a voluntary state.’
Harry laughed. ‘It’s not just in Paris, James. Such creatures are to be found in every port I ever visited.’
‘Did I detect a hint of recognition in that old man’s face?’
‘I think so,’ Harry replied. ‘He called me Captain. I take New Orleans to be as gossipy as every other anchorage. News has obviously got out about us, and our predicament. The question is, how much and how accurate.’
‘Would it be an idea if I was to get down among the rivermen, your honour? Who knows, with them being English-speakers I might pick up something.’
‘Good idea,’ said Harry, after a brief pause. ‘But don’t get into any fights. They have a fearsome reputation.’
Pender laughed. ‘You can say what you like about ’em, Capt’n, but they ain’t no different to what you’d find in a Portsmouth tavern any day of the week.’
He stood up, which produced a slight hint of panic in the shoeshine boy’s face. He’d finished Harry and was halfway through James. Pender grinned at him and patted him on the shoulder.
‘Don’t you fret, nipper. I don’t need no clean boots where I’m a’going.’
It was doubtful whether the boy understood. But the tone of Pender’s voice made him smile, white teeth that gleamed against his flawless, almost polished black skin. Harry saw a trace of a shadow cross Pender’s face, and wondered if he was thinking of his own children, far away at the Ludlow family house in Kent. His servant never mentioned how much he cared for them. But then he didn’t have to say anything to men who’d seen the happiness he displayed when he received a letter from his eldest daughter. Both brothers followed his progress across the smoky room. Only when they looked back did they become aware of the lady standing before them. The major-domo who’d taken their weapons stood beside her. When they looked at him, which was several seconds later, he favoured them with a low bow.
‘Captain Ludlow, may I present to you the head of this establishment, Mademoiselle Hyacinthe Feraud.’
Neither Harry nor James gasped as they jumped to their feet. But if such a sound had burst from their breasts they would have been forced to admit it to be deserved. The lady that stood before them was an outstanding beauty, and what’s more one who, judging by the smoothness of her skin, could not be more than twenty years of age. A half-caste, her features combined the best of the races that had contributed to her creation. That skin, smooth and glistening, was a dark coffee shade, but the nose and mouth were European. Her eyes, lively and large, were a deep, deep brown in colour, with the whites very obvious against the tone of her complexion. Dressed in a pink silk garment that showed the curves of her body, they were aware of the outlines of the willowy figure it contained. It was trimmed at throat and wrists by sparkling white lace, the décolletage cut low enough to reveal a handsome bosom. On her head she wore a matching pink and white scarf, piled high so that it added several inches to her perceived height, this decorated by silken ropes of pink, set with pearls. Even in the smoky atmosphere, the smell of her musky perfume wafted towards them.
‘Captain Ludlow,’ she said, smiling. When Harry nodded she held out a hand and stepped forward. ‘Then you must be Monsieur James Ludlow.’
‘I am indeed, Mademoiselle,’ James replied, bending over the hand. ‘Enchanté.’
‘Cayetano came by on his way to Fort St Jean. He said that I should expect you, though not this very night. Were I to announce you to this assembly you would be the object of much attention.’
‘In what respect, Mademoiselle?’ asked James, with an innocent air.
‘Let us just say that when a ship receives such a welcome as yours, tongues begin to wag.’ An elegant hand was waved at the room behind. ‘Would you consent to take wine with me at my table?’
‘Dear lady,’ said Harry, who hadn’t once taken his eyes off her, ‘the whole Spanish Armada could not restrain us.’
That made her laugh, which, being deep and throaty, only added to the stunning impression she was making on both her guests.
‘Such gallantry,’ she replied.
‘I was just about to make that observation myself,’ said James, wickedly. ‘My brother is more often noted for being forthright than gallant.’
There was a sudden commotion down at the lower level of the bar, with raised voices and loud cursing. She glanced towards the noise, but neither Harry nor James, either through good manners or natural inclination, followed the look.
‘I admire that,’ Mademoiselle Feraud replied, craning to see what was causing the fuss. ‘Though dalliance has its place. I shall ask Bernard here to show you to my table. I must see to one or two things before I join you.’
‘That was uncalled for, James,’ said Harry, as Bernard led them through the closely packed tables. Behind them the noise was increasing in volume. ‘I attempt a little flattery and you immediately set out to undermine me.’
‘I think you’re being oversensitive, brother,’ James replied, his eye twinkling.
Harry grunted. He wasn’t the jealous type, but he did consider James to be far more handsome than himself. His brother was slim and elegant while he, with years at sea to coarsen him, was of a much heavier build. Likewise, a sailor’s rough life, combined with his combative nature, had led him into many a scrape and shaped his speech and manners. Not so James, a scion of the London salons, educated at school, at university, and in the drawing-rooms of his artistic patrons. The family likeness was there for all to see, but in James it had a classical dimension that Harry had forfeited years ago.
‘Am I being sensitive?’ Harry asked. ‘We have met two interesting people tonight. The first was informed that I am devious, and the second you tell I am forthright, which is a polite term for being downright rude.’
‘And which do you care about most?’
Harry sat down in the chair Bernard had pulled out for him, his face angry. ‘Does it matter?’
James sat too, and waited while another servant, who’d appeared behind Bernard, poured him a glass of wine.
‘From the table of Monsieur Patrice Saraille.’
‘Where away?’ asked Harry. The servant pointed to a fat man, round of face and pink, sitting at a table with two exquisitely dressed black women. The man raised his own glass to the Ludlows.
‘He is the editor of the French-language newspaper, Le Moniteur,’ said Bernard.
‘How does he know who we are?’ asked James.
‘Monsieur. Everyone who is anyone in New Orleans knows who you are.’
Harry lifted his glass in response. He knew Bernard was not being entirely truthful. No one else in the crowded tavern was paying them any attention. Only the fat fellow who’d bought their drinks. Which implied that the major-domo was employed, no doubt for a fee, to keep the owner of the newspaper informed of any interesting arrivals.
‘If we are going to compete for Hyacinthe’s favour we’d better establish the rules now,’ said James.
Harry had t
o practically shout. The musicians had increased their volume to try and cover the noise emanating from the lower taproom.
‘Who said anything about that!’
James laughed and shouted back. ‘I rather think you did, brother – if not in so many words, certainly by your face. But I must caution you. A woman like that tends to be spoken for. I doubt that El Señor de Coburrobias would take kindly to any attempt by either one of us to oust him.’
‘Just don’t offer to do her portrait,’ Harry growled.
‘My, my, brother, you are smitten.’
Harry, facing the direction of the noise, saw Pender pushing his way through the throng. He waved to him to join them.
‘What a bunch of rogues, an’ no error,’ he said, as he sat down. Then he threw back his head and laughed. ‘I reckon your Mr Pollock had the right of it. I’ve never seen a set of men so willing to scrap as that lot down there. There’s challenges flying about all over the place. For cockfights, dogfights, boat races, shooting contests, wrestling bouts, and fisticuffs. And drink! They got that heathen brew whiskey instead of a decent drop of rum.’
‘Perhaps that is the catalyst for their bellicosity,’ said James. ‘The Scots, who are famous for the short fuse, are wont to drink the stuff, and Johnson says that in their heathen tongue they claim it to be the very water of life.’
Suddenly the band stopped playing, which left James sounding as though he too was shouting. Not that it was noticeable to an excessive degree, since the noise from the lower taproom seemed to be heading their way. The dancers, who’d been strutting in front of the table, suddenly scampered off the floor. It was easy to see why: a huge, scarred individual, with a flaming mass of red hair, was heading in their direction. His ruddy, vinous face was fixed in a fearsome scowl as he barrelled aside those who impeded him.
‘Stand aside for King Kavanagh!’ shouted a voice from behind him. ‘The best damned bareknuckle west of the Ohio.’
‘Damned right,’ growled the object of this veneration, ripping at his stained shirt to reveal an impressive hairy torso. ‘An’ that’s only cause I ain’t been east of the Ohio.’
‘What have we here?’ said James.
‘A fight by the look of it,’ Pender answered. Then he shot to his feet as Hyacinthe Feraud appeared. Harry and James did likewise.
‘Forgive me, Messieurs. Two of the riverboat Captains are set to fight. This will lead to much betting on the result. It will also mean that this table will become a dangerous place to sit. Might I invite you to retire to the balcony?’
‘Who is the other contestant?’
‘As usual, Thankful Tucker.’
‘As a name, that is even more colourful than Hyacinthe,’ said James.
She laughed. ‘He is a colourful man. And this has become a nightly occurrence since they opened the river to the Kaintucks. A while ago I decided that instead of them wrecking the salon I provide for them they should come onto the floor and fight properly. In that way, at least, they entertain my customers.’
‘Who supervises them?’
‘Bernard.’ She gestured to the floor, and sure enough, there was the old elegant Negro, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, with a bell in one hand and a vicious-looking club in the other.
‘Why the club?’ asked Harry, who’d attended many a bareknuckle contest in his time.
‘The rules are rather lax but they are not allowed to kill each other, Captain. That would only cause more trouble. So Bernard, if they don’t stop when he rings, gives them a little tap on the head.’
‘Do they have a prize of any kind?’
‘They fight for what they own, Monsieur. Their boats.’
There was a sudden round of clapping as the other competitor appeared. He was a big man too, scarred and tough, though not as large as his opponent. His black hair was cut so short as to make him appear near bald. Kavanagh was a good three inches taller and a lot broader, but that didn’t seem to frighten him at all. He held up his hands and silence fell.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve been waiting to do this for years. Over yonder is the unsightly countenance of King Kavanagh, who reckons he can scrap.’
Suddenly he spat into the gas flame in a most derisory way. That produced a hiss from the fire and a simian growl from his opponent. Many of the audience clapped.
‘He certainly has a way with the crowd,’ said James.
Hyacinthe smiled in a way that spoke volumes. ‘He has that, Monsieur. And not only crowds.’
‘It’s a good way to unbalance your opponent, I think,’ said Harry, a remark which earned him a dazzling smile of agreement from Hyacinthe.
‘And he’s been traipsing round the frontier,’ Tucker continued, ‘telling all and sundry that he’s the best, while taking care to make sure that he and I have never been in the same place, at the same time.’
‘Damn it, I’m here now, Tucker,’ Kavanagh shouted, a great spray of spittle emerging from his mouth, ‘and I hope you’re thankful!’
Too far away to be affected, Tucker still pretended he’d been hit, slowly dragging a finger across one eye. This killed any humour in Kavanagh’s pun on his nickname. The crowd laughed uproariously as two servants arrived to remove the table. Harry and James stood up and prepared to follow their hostess.
‘I think I’ll stay down here for a better view, your honour,’ said Pender.
Harry smiled, then stepped smartly in front of James so that it was him who was following Hyacinthe Feraud up the narrow, steep staircase. He could see her hips swaying beneath the pink silk dress, almost pick out each muscle as it moved. And he was in the wake of her perfume, which, acting on the warmth of her body, was so close to his nose that he had to turn away. By the time they reached the balcony rail the two contestants were in the middle of the floor. Tucker had a whiskey jug in his hand, and he was offering it to Kavanagh.
‘Now I won’t get the chance to tell you after I’ve licked you, Kavanagh, that there ain’t no hard feelings. So I will drink with you now.’
‘Like hell, Tucker.’
‘Now that ain’t the act of a gentleman, Kavanagh,’ said Tucker, spinning round to appeal to the crowd. Someone started a slow clap, shouting the word ‘drink.’ Taken up quickly by those watching it soon became a cry that shook the rafters. Harry could see that people were crowding in from the streets. Clearly the news of the fight had got around and customers were pouring in from other taverns, noisily ordering drinks and shoving money at the overworked servitors.
‘This appears to be good for business,’ shouted Harry.
Hyacinthe, leaning on the balustrade, nodded happily. Harry leant beside her, letting his hand brush the silky skin of her bare arm. The effect was a sudden, tingling sensation that ran right through him. But what pleased him was the feeling that it had affected her too, since she turned and smiled in a slightly surprised, but very inviting way.
‘Stand by to board,’ said James, in his ear. Then he gasped slightly as Harry’s elbow dug into his ribs.
The cry of ‘drink’ was repeated until Kavanagh relented. He took the jug off Tucker, crooked it over his arm, and took a great swig. Harry could see his throat working to take in the liquid. Having drunk whiskey in the past he knew it to be a fiery spirit indeed, and the frontier variety was said to be rougher than the Scottish brew that his brother-in-law, Lord Drumdryan, had pressed him to taste. That made Kavanagh’s feat as impressive as it was stupid, since a gut full of alcohol would do nothing for his ability to fight. Tucker then took the jug and crooked it in the same fashion. But Harry saw that while he held it at his lips for quite a while, his throat didn’t move.
Then Tucker passed the jug to a spectator. Immediately it was removed from his hand he swung round and hit Kavanagh in the stomach. A rush of air left the taller man’s mouth. He bent slightly but recovered, hauling his head up to glare defiantly at Tucker. That’s when his opponent spat the whiskey, which he’d secreted in his mouth, right into Kavanagh’s eyes. Blinded, t
he best bareknuckle west of the Ohio was easy meat. Tucker hit him time and again, at his leisure, driving him back across the small dance floor. Each punch was carefully timed for maximum effect, producing spouts of blood from Kavanagh’s mouth and nose. Every blow to the belly would fold him in half, just as every uppercut sent his head flying upright. Tucker was relentless, inflicting cuts above his eyes with short telling jabs that turned the crowd delirious with joy. They cheered Tucker on as he slowly reduced his bigger opponent to a hulk. If Kavanagh’s eyes had cleared he’d taken too much punishment to regain the initiative. Finally, after Tucker boxed his ears a half dozen times, the big man dropped to his knees. As Bernard rang the bell, Tucker stepped forward and gave him an uppercut to the jaw that sent him flying. Harry was sure, even above the noise of the spectators, that he heard the bone go.
Harry touched Hyacinthe’s arm again, feeling once more that delicious thrill. It was as if his blood was trying to ooze out of his body.
‘I see that as you indicated the rules are rather lax.’
She turned to face him. He could see her breasts heaving with the excitement of having watched one man destroy another. At one and the same time, that sight elated and upset him. Somehow she had diminished herself in his mind. Had Tucker won fairly he would have seen the attraction as an understandable response. But he hadn’t. Even if there were no rules, he had cheated.
‘To win, Captain Ludlow. That is the one and only rule.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IT WAS AMAZING how quickly the Hôtel de la Porte d’Orléans was back to normal. Inside two minutes it was as though no fight had taken place. Kavanagh had been carried out still dripping blood, the tables had been replaced, the band had struck up a tune, and the dancers returned to the floor. Hyacinthe led them back to her reconstituted table. Wine appeared in a flash, with their hostess proposing a toast to Thankful Tucker. Harry only hesitated for a moment, putting aside any idea of questioning the victory. He reminded himself of why he’d come in the first place, which had nothing to doing with bareknuckle fighting or beautiful Creoles.
The Scent of Betrayal Page 22