Intentional or not, he had caused a scene, judging by the silence that had fallen over the big room and the weight of the eyes he felt as people directed their gazes toward him. That scrutiny eased as it became obvious that violence wasn’t about to erupt.
Osborne said, “You can go on back to your seat, Mr. Crowe. I assure you, I’m in no danger from either Miss Tarleton or Mr. Cornelius.” He smiled at Lucy. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”
She returned the smile and said, “Why, of course, Colonel. Why would anyone ever want to harm an old sweetheart such as yourself?”
“There have been plenty of men in the past who might believe they had reason to hold a grudge against me,” Osborne replied with a smile that was half-smirk, half-leer, “especially those with beautiful wives. But I fear those days are long past me now.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I’ll wager you’re still a charming devil with the ladies.”
Osborne laughed. “I can but try, my dear. I can but try.”
Crowe said in his deep voice, “If you need me, Colonel . . .”
He seemed content to let that trail off as he started to turn away, but Cornelius stopped him by saying, “Just a moment. I believe there’s an apology owed here. An apology to the lady.”
Crowe gave him a hard stare, and for a few long seconds, their eyes dueled. Then the black man’s brawny shoulders rose and fell in a shrug almost too minuscule to be seen. He turned to Lucy, inclined his head a fraction of an inch, and said, “My sincere apologies, miss, if I was too protective of Colonel Osborne. I meant no offense.”
“Of course,” Lucy acknowledged coolly.
When Crowe turned away, Cornelius let him go.
Colonel Osborne said, “Perhaps you would allow me to buy you a drink in a feeble attempt to make up for this little contretemps, Mr. Cornelius.”
“Most kind of you, sir. I accept.”
Lucy said, “I can think of something even better.” She turned to Cornelius. “The colonel was telling me about a quaint little place in the French Quarter, and perhaps you and I could pay it a visit, Edmund.”
Osborne lifted a hand and said, “You speak of the Catamount’s Den, Miss Tarleton? It’s a very exclusive club. One must have an invitation or at the very least be accompanied by one of its regular patrons.”
“And you are one of those regular patrons, aren’t you, Colonel? You were speaking of taking me there just a short time ago.”
Osborne’s eyes flicked toward Cornelius, and the man’s thoughts were plain to see on his weathered old face. He had planned to take Lucy to this so-called Catamount’s Den when he was unaware that she already had a male companion. Now the situation had changed.
But Cornelius saw acceptance of that come into the old man’s eyes.
Osborne said, “Of course. I’d be delighted to show both of you around the French Quarter, and our first stop will be the Catamount’s Den. I should make you aware, though, that it’s owned by M’sieu Simon LeCarde, Mr. Crowe’s employer.”
“This M’sieu LeCarde must set a great deal of store by you, sir, if he has one of his men look out for you,” Cornelius said.
“Yes, he does, he does. I suppose I’m a valued customer to him. Very well, it’s settled, then. We’ll have a drink here, and then we’ll all go on over to Bourbon Street and pay a visit to M’sieu LeCarde’s establishment.”
“Thank you so much, Colonel.” Lucy linked her arm with the old man’s and laughed. “Why, being escorted by two such handsome gentlemen and treated to the legendary nightlife of the district, I’ll feel like the belle of the French Quarter.”
“Please,” Osborne said, “call me Augustus.”
“Of course . . . Augustus. I believe this is going to be a very memorable and entertaining evening!”
And with any luck, Cornelius thought, a lucrative evening as well.
CHAPTER 13
From the looks of it, the building that housed the Catamount’s Den had been a private residence at one time. Moss coated the stone walls of its two stories. A balcony with a wrought iron railing in the Spanish style ran along the front of the second floor. Like much of the architecture in New Orleans, the French style could be seen in the basic structure, but with such Spanish touches overlaying it. And as with so many buildings in the town, the Catamount’s Den had an air of antiquity about it.
As the carriage pulled up in front of the place, Colonel Osborne said, “Rumor has it that this building was owned originally by Jean and Pierre Lafitte, but if you walk down almost any street in New Orleans, you’ll find someplace that people claim the Lafitte brothers owned. They’re some of our most famous citizens, you know.”
“Pirates, weren’t they?” Edmund Cornelius asked.
Osborne laughed. “Of course, even though they fought on the side of the Americans in the last war against the British. Why, it’s said that Jean Lafitte met with General Jackson himself and helped him plan the Battle of New Orleans.” With a note of pride in his voice, the old man added, “I was there myself for that battle. Served as a captain under the general’s command. Old Hickory, himself. This country will never see another commander as able. I can’t speak quite as well of the job he did as president, mind you. The military mind and temperament are not always well suited for politics. But I’m proud to have served under him. What a day that was. What a day. We caught the bloody British . . .”
Cornelius and Lucy sat and listened tolerantly as the colonel rambled, lost in his memories of the famous battle, even though Osborne’s carriage had come to a halt.
After a couple of minutes, the giant black man named Crowe, who was riding on top with the driver, leaned over and called through the carriage window, “We’re here, Colonel.”
“So we are, so we are. Give me a hand, would you, Mr. Crowe?”
Light on his feet despite his size, Crowe dropped to the ground from the driver’s seat and opened the carriage door. He helped Osborne climb out of the vehicle and would have assisted Cornelius, but the gambler pretended not to see the gesture. Cornelius turned back quickly to make sure he helped Lucy out of the carriage, not Crowe.
A painted sign hung from a beam extending out over the front door. It had a picture of a snarling mountain lion on it, as well as the words THE CATAMOUNT’ S DEN.
Lucy looked at the sign and asked, “How in the world did the place get its name?”
“Speaking of pirates . . .” Osborne laughed. “Years ago, one of the fiercest brigands to roam the seas in this part of the world was a man called Catamount Jack LeCarde. A Frenchman he was, by birth, although like most who took to the high seas he came to consider himself a citizen of the world. He never seized as much treasure as the Lafitte brothers did, but he did well for himself. Very well. He had one son, a lad named Simon, and when old Catamount Jack passed on—he actually died at a ripe old age, of natural causes, something rather unheard of for a man in his profession—Simon took the money he inherited and started this place. The boy, so it’s said, lacked the seagoing abilities of his sire and preferred dry land, but he’s no less the pirate for all that!”
That started Osborne laughing so hard he almost choked.
After a moment, Crowe rumbled, “We should go on in, Colonel.”
“Yes, yes, by all means. Lead the way, Mr. Crowe.”
Thick wooden beams, banded together with iron straps, formed the arched front door. Considerable force would be required to batter it down, if anyone should ever be foolish enough to attempt it. Crowe worked an iron latch, gripped an iron bar fastened to the door with huge nails, and swung it open.
Inside was a small, dim foyer where a man sat on a stool with a short-barreled shotgun across his lap. He was a dwarf, with short, stunted legs that didn’t reach the floor, topped by a stocky, broad-shouldered torso. He glared at Crowe and said, “You should have used the special knock, Balthazar. I was ready to greet you with a double load of buckshot.”
“But you did not, Long Sam,” Crowe said
, “so no harm was done.”
“’Tis lucky for you my reflexes are so exceptionally sharp.”
“I’ve said as much myself, on more than one occasion.”
Cornelius could tell that the two men were friends, despite the scolding tone of the guard’s voice. Crowe ushered them past the guard and into a long, smoky, low-ceilinged room. Candles burned on makeshift chandeliers fashioned out of wagon wheels. The bar stretched along the right side of the room. To the left a number of tables crowded into the space, with booths divided by thick partitions along the left wall.
Cornelius’s heartbeat kicked up to a higher pace when he spotted a card game going on at one of the tables.
Osborne, despite seeming rather addled by age at times, remained sharp enough to catch Cornelius’s look. “Perhaps you’d like to play a few hands later?”
“I’ve always enjoyed cards,” Cornelius admitted.
“Drinks first. Mr. Crowe, a bottle of cognac, if you would.”
“Right away, Colonel,” Crowe said.
Osborne ushered Cornelius and Lucy to a booth in a corner that had a curtain which could be pulled across the opening to provide some privacy. Cornelius didn’t bother wondering what sorts of acts might have taken place behind that curtain in the past.
All he cared about was what was going to happen tonight.
* * *
“When do we get to meet this Simon LeCarde?” Lucy asked. “I’d like to hear about being the son of a notorious pirate.”
They had been sitting in the booth for a while, Lucy and Cornelius on one side, the colonel on the other, and the level in the bottle of cognac Balthazar Crowe had brought them had gone down considerably.
Cornelius had been careful about how much he actually drank, but he could tell that Lucy had a warm, comfortable glow about her. Colonel Osborne was drunk, to put it bluntly, but hadn’t yet reached the falling-down stage.
Osborne poured more cognac into his glass and said, “I suspect that’s not possible. To be honest with you, Simon is something of a mystery. I’ve never met the lad, myself. Everyone knows of him, but no one spends time with him.”
“Well, that’s odd,” Cornelius said. “If no one ever meets him, how do you know he even exists?”
Osborne waved a hand. “Look around you! How else could this place even be here?”
Lucy giggled. “Perhaps that black giant really owns it. Or that little man at the door. Or maybe they’re partners!”
She and Osborne laughed about that, while Cornelius thought about it. He didn’t actually believe that Balthazar Crowe and the dwarf called Long Sam owned this place, but the fact that no one ever seemed to meet Simon LeCarde—according to the colonel—was definitely odd. Something fishy there, Cornelius decided. But it was none of his business, and he wasn’t going to spend a lot of time pondering it.
Osborne tossed back the rest of the cognac in his glass and set it on the table. “Let’s go see about sitting in on that game,” he said to Cornelius. He reached across the table, took hold of Lucy’s hand, and brought it to his lips. “You can wait for us here, if you don’t mind, my dear. I’m sure we won’t be gone long. We won’t be able to bear being away from you for an extended period of time. Isn’t that right, Edmund?”
Lucy didn’t give Cornelius a chance to answer. She pouted and said, “What if I want to come with you and watch the game?”
“Not a good idea,” Osborne said, shaking his head. “I know those men playing. Scoundrels and degenerates, every one. Why, if they saw you, they might suggest something as scandalous as making you the stakes of a bet!”
“Oh, my, that is scandalous! And a bit intriguing, to be honest.”
The colonel leered at her. “Oh, ho! Quite the little minx, aren’t you?”
Cornelius managed not to roll his eyes. “Lucy, stay here. I’m eager to get to those cards, Colonel, if you’ll put in a good word for me with the other players.”
“Of course, my boy, of course. Come along.” Osborne waggled his bushy white eyebrows a couple of times at Lucy, but he got up, walked over to the other table with Cornelius, and introduced him to the men sitting around the table.
All of them appeared to be wealthy planters like Osborne, with the exception of one man, Saul Drake, who was a professional gambler.
Cornelius had no trouble spotting one of his own breed, and he was sure Drake recognized him as the same sort. He could tell that Drake wasn’t happy about him sitting in on the game, either, but the man couldn’t very well object. Cornelius wondered if Drake had been fleecing the other players.
“Welcome to the game, gentlemen,” Drake said. He held the deck of cards, having won the previous hand. “We’re playing straight poker.”
Cornelius nodded. The game had become extremely popular during the past decade and had replaced whist as the game of choice in places such as this. He enjoyed it more—and the stakes had a tendency to be higher, which meant bigger winnings. All to the good.
Drake dealt the cards. The other men had been drinking heavily like Osborne, and Cornelius soon knew that Drake completely controlled the pace of the game and the outcome of the hands. He didn’t win consistently—that honor rotated among the other players—but whenever the pot grew to a certain size, those hands inevitably went to Drake. The other men won often enough that they didn’t get angry or suspect anything, but the pots they pulled in were meager.
Smiling, Cornelius set out to put a stop to that.
He didn’t try to win himself, though. He directed as many hands as he could to Colonel Osborne, whose already high spirits grew even more celebratory as he racked up triumphs.
Drake knew what Cornelius was doing, of course. Cornelius didn’t really try to hide it from the other gambler whenever he fed winning cards to the colonel. He smiled coolly when he saw Drake’s beefy face glowing even redder with anger.
Osborne chortled, reached to pull in a pot he’d just won, and said, “I can’t believe how my luck is running tonight!”
Finally Drake’s patience snapped. “I can’t believe it, either, Colonel. In fact, I don’t believe it.”
“Eh?” Osborne looked up from the pile of coins and currency he had in front of him. Even drunk as he was, his voice took on a sharp edge as he said, “What do you mean by that, Mr. Drake?”
“I mean it’s very strange how you and this gentleman” —his tone was insulting as he nodded toward Cornelius—“joined the game at the same time and yet you seem to be having all the luck.”
Osborne sniffed. “Happens that way sometimes, doesn’t it? They refer to it as the luck of the draw for a reason, my friend.”
Drake slowly shook his head. “I don’t think luck has a thing to do with it.”
Osborne’s eyes widened. In a voice shaking with outrage, he said, “Why . . . why, you scoundrel! Are you accusing me of cheating?”
“Not you, maybe, because you’re too drunk to know any better. But your so-called friend there. He’s making sure that you win. He and that trollop you came in with are probably trying to ingratiate themselves with you so they can fleece you.”
Osborne cursed and started to get to his feet. “How dare you insult the lady! I demand—”
Drake bolted to his feet, bringing up a derringer from below the table, which stopped the colonel from making his demand.
CHAPTER 14
Colonel Osborne wasn’t Drake’s intended target. The derringer’s twin over-and-under barrels lifted toward Cornelius, who darted a hand underneath his coat as life and death hung in the balance, a matter of a shaved fraction of a second.
Cornelius’s arm flicked out, and the dagger flashed from his fingers. At the short distance, he put no spin on it but threw it straight and true, with the strength developed by long hours of practice. The needle-sharp tip struck Drake’s coat, sliced neatly through it and the shirt underneath, and drove through skin and muscle to his heart.
Dying, Drake lurched forward over the table. His finger clenched on the de
rringer’s triggers and fired both barrels. The small slugs struck the table, scattered cards and coins, and sent splinters flying, but neither penetrated all the way through the thick wood. The derringer slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and thudded onto the table. With his other hand, he pawed futilely at the dagger’s handle for a second and then collapsed, folding up in the middle and pitching facedown on the table.
The shots had silenced the hubbub inside the Catamount’s Den. The other customers turned to stare toward the table where death had interrupted the poker game. Long Sam rushed in from the foyer, brandishing the shotgun, the fierce look on his face indicating his readiness to blast someone.
Balthazar Crowe had been standing at the bar, talking to the bartender, when the trouble broke out. He hadn’t had time to do more than look around before it was all over. He strode forward, saying, “Hold your fire, Long Sam. The trouble is over.” He looked at Cornelius. “Isn’t it?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it is,” Cornelius replied coolly. “I was simply defending myself, and if the threat is finished—”
“Drake accused me of cheating!” Colonel Osborne said as he stood up. “Well, he accused Cornelius here of helping me win . . . as if I needed anyone’s help for that!” Osborne frowned down at the corpse lying in the table. “Scoundrel got what he had coming to him, if you ask me.”
Lucy had stood up as well and went over to Cornelius. She put a hand on his arm and asked, “Are you all right, Edmund?”
“Fine,” the gambler replied. “Those shots didn’t hit me. It was a near thing, though.” He looked around at the other men at the table, who were pale from the shock of being so close to what had just happened. “Are all of you gentlemen unharmed?”
One man swallowed hard and said, “I-I believe we’re fine.”
“I think this game is over now,” Crowe said. “Gentlemen, gather up the money you have coming, then there will be drinks on the house waiting at the bar for you.”
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