Prisoner of Desire (31 page)

Anya made a sound of impatience for such scruples. “The doctor looked after you all right?”

“Indeed he did, once I mentioned your name.”

“You must stay here with us for a few days, until you feel well enough to return to the country.”

“You are kindness itself, mam’zelle,” he said, “but this is a mere nothing. I’m well enough to return now, unless you have need of me here?”

He deserved a rest, though it might be difficult to make him take it unless he could also feel useful. A plan began to form in Anya’s mind. She seated herself once more at the
escritoire.

“Please sit down, Marcel,” she said. “There is something I would like to discuss with you.”

Emile arrived within the hour. When Anya swept into the salon, she found him sitting on the settee with Celestine, regaling her with outrageous compliments and teasing remarks while Madame Rosa sat fanning herself gently, smiling as she watched the young pair. Celestine blushed and laughed, but her behavior had the pretty circumspection becoming in one betrothed to another man.

Such an audience for her interrogation was not what Anya had envisioned. She allowed several minutes filled with banter and the exchange of the latest news to pass. Finally, she turned to Emile, saying quite frankly, “There is a matter that I need a man’s opinion on, if you don’t mind,
mon cher.
Perhaps you will be so kind as to walk with me to the square and back?”

“It will be my pleasure,” he agreed at once. He rose with inherent good manners, giving no sign that he was reluctant to depart with her. Still, Anya had the feeling that he would rather have stayed talking to Celestine. It was troubling that he should be developing a tendre for her half-sister, but it seemed that was the way of the world. Love was seldom convenient, parceled out in exact proportion to those who had need of it.

The square was the old Place d’Armes, now beginning to be called Jackson Square after the equestrian statue of General Andrew Jackson donated by the Baroness Pontalba a few years before when she had turned the old parade ground into a park. Strolling around the square had always been a pastime of the people of New Orleans. It was even more enjoyable since the cathedral had been rebuilt with new, pointed steeples and the upper floors of the buildings on either side, the Presbytère and the old Spanish Cabildo, had been given new facades. The Pontalba apartments, where once Anya had snatched the nightcap of the operatic tenor, ran at right angles to the other buildings. The apartments were long structures of red brick with galleries graced with wrought-iron railings and slate roofs. On the lower floors were select shops in the Continental manner, while the upper floors housed some of the most distinguished families and famous visitors in the city. The park in the center, planted with lush flowers that flourished in the near-tropical climate, was enclosed by a fence of wrought iron. On the fourth side of the square, beyond a street where horses pulling carts and carriages stepped at a quick pace, lay the levee and the river.

Anya and Emile took a slow turn about the square, glancing now and then into the shop windows where fancy goods were displayed. The air was pleasantly cool, with a fresh breeze from the river that fluttered the ribbons of Anya’s bonnet. The cool sunlight of the waning afternoon slanted through the buildings, gilding the wrought iron, casting long blue shadows across the streets. Emile kept up an easy and general conversation, swinging his cane with a jaunty air as he walked. He glanced at Anya now and then, but gave no sign of impatience, seeming quite willing to wait for her to broach the subject that had brought them there herself. His attitude reminded her so much of Jean that it made it easier to turn to him at last.

“What would you say, Emile, is the best way to know and understand a person?”

He gave her a quick, inquiring look. “It would depend on the person.”

“A man, say, of some reputation. If you did not want to depend on the public view of him, what could you do?”

“I suppose the best way would be to talk to him.”

“And if you could not do that?”

“Then you could speak to those who know him.”

“Precisely what I thought. At the theater a few days ago, you defended Ravel Duralde. Could you tell me why?”

“I felt he was being unjustly maligned.”

“Yes,” she said, her gaze intent on his face, “but what made you think so? The accusation, if I remember correctly, was of cowardice, or at least a reluctance to meet my future brother-in-law on the field of honor. What lead you to believe it was false?”

“One gains an impression.” He made a slight helpless gesture.

“How,” she persisted.

“From what other men say, how they say it.”

“What do they say of Ravel?”

“Anya, you ask the impossible. I couldn’t begin to tell you.”

He was avoiding the issue, she knew it. Why should he? Was it the natural male reluctance to discuss another man with a woman? Or was it that he had some knowledge he wished to keep from her?

“Has there ever before been anything strange about a duel in which Ravel was a participant?”

“Not to my knowledge. Most occurred when he was younger or elsewhere, primarily Central America. I understand the duello was a favorite way of settling disputes there.”

“What of his other activities? Have you ever heard that he trifled with other men’s wives, or was associated with any kind of enterprise that might be dangerous?”

“Anya!”

“Well, have you?”

“No.” He touched his thin mustache in a quick, nervous gesture.

“Where does his money come from, then? Isn’t it strange that he has become so wealthy overnight?”

“It came originally from gambling. Ravel has since used a combination of skill, acumen, and luck in the financial arena to increase his holdings.” He came to a halt, exasperation in his face as he turned to her. “What is this, Anya? What are you trying to say?”

She looked at him, studying him feature by feature. To trust or not to trust? It was a strange choice, one usually made on faith, not fact. She said frankly, “I want to know who would want to have Ravel Duralde killed.”

“What do you mean?”

His gaze was narrow, almost defensive. Anya felt a moment of chill. She had thought to tell Jean’s brother the truth, but suddenly it did not seem best. It was possible he might take it upon himself to become the protector of her good name by calling Ravel out. That was the last thing she needed. Falling back on the fiction Madame Rosa had suggested to explain Ravel’s presence at Beau Refuge, she went on from there to describe the arrival of the gang of thugs and the fire.

“So you see,” she ended, “the obvious question is, who hired those men, who is the boss who tried to kill Ravel?”

Emile Girod heard her out in grim silence. He held her steady regard a long moment; then he looked away. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice hard, intent, “but it isn’t me.”

12

EMILE AND ANYA, AFTER AN AIMLESS turn or two, had wound up in the narrow passageway that lay between Chartres and Royal streets and ran three blocks from Canal Street to the front of the St. Louis Hotel. This short street, known as Exchange Alley, was where most of the
salles d’armes,
or establishments for the teaching of the art of fencing, were located. In the quiet that fell between the two of them, they could hear the sharp clang and snick of blades being crossed. So fine was the afternoon that the doors had been left standing open to cool the exertions of the gentlemen at their practice, and the sounds rang out clearly along the stone-paved pathway.

Hearing them, Anya suppressed a shiver. They reminded her of Ravel, of his expertise and her fear of it that had led her to where she was now. It was strange, so much ringing clatter and scraping, so much sweaty striving, for the purpose of wounding each other.

Since dueling with pistols had become the fashion with the advent of the Americans, however, the
salles d’armes
had lost a degree of their appeal. The development of power in the wrist and grace of motion were no longer of supreme importance. The young men of the city were just as apt to be found perfecting their aim at the shooting galleries on the lower levee as matching blades in Exchange Alley. Nothing, it seemed, could lessen the appeal of dueling itself, not even the danger of arrest for a pastime that, though immensely popular, was illegal. The police were inclined to look the other way under normal circumstances, particularly if their palms were properly greased, but there were enough people who were offended by the noise and danger of the ritualized killings to force them to act if the offense was too blatant.

With only the briefest pause, Anya said to Emile, “Certainly you didn’t try to kill Ravel; the idea is absurd.”

“There are some who would say I had reason.” Emile touched his neat mustache in a nervous gesture.

“After all these years? I was not hinting at any such thing. I was only asking for your help.”

He shook his head, his soft brown eyes still troubled. “I will be glad to help you in any way I can, Anya, but I’m afraid I’ve been out of the country so long that I am worse than useless.”

There was reluctance in his voice. She was not surprised; men were ready enough to apply themselves to their own intrigues, but did not like to be drawn into those of women. Perhaps she should have gone to Gaspard. No. It was unlikely that Madame Rosa’s patient escort could, or would, keep such a request from her, and for the moment Anya did not care to trouble her stepmother with worries over what she was doing.

A flight of pigeons fluttered down from their perch on a building ledge to settle in front of Anya and Emile. They waddled around Anya’s skirts searching for crumbs. Their legs were bright red and their neck feathers shone with dark green and blue gleams of iridescence. The birds were the descendants of pigeons brought from France many years ago. As tender squabs they were considered a great delicacy by the Creoles, an unfailing aphrodisiac. Doubtless some of them were being baked somewhere at the moment, for it was time for preparation of the evening meal. Borne on the air were the rich smells of dinner cooking in both private and public kitchens, of seafood steaming, gravies browning, and onions and garlic sautéing in butter; of bread baking and the sweet creamy scent of sugar and milk and nuts and bottled fruits being slowly turned into dessert.

A magnificent black horse pulling an open victoria clip-clopped past. The gait was not too fast, not too slow. The occupant of the vehicle was a woman dressed in deep green. Her hair was a shimmering blonde, her face exquisite, her shape perfection. She looked neither to the right nor to the left. Her afternoon gown was fastened at the throat and at the wrists, and in her hand was a small parasol edged with fringe. Her appearance, in fact, was most discreet. And yet she was not a lady.

How Anya knew she could have not said. Perhaps the woman reclined a bit too languidly on the carriage seat. Perhaps it was the fixed and meaningless smile on her lips, as if she were too willing to please. Perhaps it was the faint shoddiness of the clothing of her driver. Whatever the reason, Anya could tell. And she was reminded of Simone Michel, Ravel’s mistress. It was not that the two women looked anything like each other; the similarity was in the attitude.

Staring after the carriage, Anya said slowly, “Never mind. I think I know who might be better able to answer my questions, if you will bear me company while I speak to them?”

He agreed readily enough. They turned back down Exchange Alley as a shortcut to take them in the direction Anya wanted to go. The paving stones beneath their feet, great slabs of slate rock that had been brought to the city as ballast on ships, slanted toward the center for drainage. They were also uneven, so that it was necessary for Anya to watch her step. Emile gave her his arm for support, and she accepted it not because she needed it, but because she did not want to reject his overture, leaving him to wonder if she did suspect him after all.

Above them loomed buildings hung with balconies of wrought iron or inset with arches or pedimented doorways set flush with the banquettes. The mingled shouts and rattle of swordplay, bouncing between the plastered brick walls, reverberated around them with a sound sometimes musical, sometimes so rasping it tore at the nerves. The sun no longer penetrated to this narrow alley. It was cooler here and a bit dank, the light growing dimmer with the advance of evening.