Prisoner of Desire (32 page)

At the other end of the alley a man entered, followed by a crowd of small boys. He was of average height, thin to emaciation, with a dark line of mustache that drooped past the corners of his red mouth. His eyes were feverishly bright and his cheeks flushed. He was obviously ill, and yet he moved with the spare elegance and strength of a born swordsman. One of the boys behind him carried his cane as if bearing a holy relic, while the others pushed and shoved, jockeying for the positions at his sides. A towheaded tot smaller than the rest clutched at his coattail and was gently reprimanded.

“Who is that?” Emile murmured.

“Luis de Salvo, or so he calls himself. He arrived only a few weeks ago, but has established himself as one of the greatest of the
maîtres d’armes,
though he has an old injury in the lungs that troubles him. His swordplay is like lightning, and there is a special corner of the St. Louis Cemetery filling up with his victims. Soon he will have to copy Pépé Llulla, and buy his own graveyard.”

De Salvo turned toward one of the fencing halls and paused at the short set of steps before the door. Retrieving his cane, he distributed a few coins to his young escorts, which sent them scampering as the younger ones tried to keep their booty from the bigger boys. The master swordsman climbed the steps and disappeared through the doorway. Immediately there were calls of greeting and good-natured banter from inside.

Anya and Emile drew even with the door of that
salle.
The sound of a voice rang out. If he had not spoken, Anya might not have noticed Murray in that place. As it was she turned her head and saw him standing in the circle around de Salvo. His head was thrown back as he laughed at a comment of one of his companions. He leaned on a buttoned foil, holding it with the ease of one familiar with the weapon.

How long had Murray been learning to fight with a sword? Was it an interest of long standing, or had he taken it up after he had so narrowly missed having to meet Ravel? It was disturbing to see him there, mingling with men who had, most of them, handled a blade of some sort since they were children. What was he thinking of? Celestine would be upset if she learned of it.

Anya would not have him think she was spying on him, however. Averting her gaze before she could draw his attention, she walked on beside Emile.

They talked of this and that, idle commonplaces, while they made their way toward St. Philip. As they neared the rooms of the actress located above the grocery, Emile began to look uneasy. He glanced from Anya to the grilled gateway ahead of them that led to the back court entrance. It was so obvious that he suspected he was going to be involved in an unpleasant confrontation between women that Anya had to compress her lips to keep from smiling.

“Anya, this is not — not
comme il faut,”
he said as she paused beside the iron gate and waited for him to open it.

“No, but I see no alternative. You yourself said I should talk to those who know him, and who better than his—”

“Yes,” he said hastily, “but you should know nothing of this woman, much less visit her.”

“Shocking, isn’t it?” She looked at him squarely, a challenge in her eyes. “I would have thought your years in France would have cured you of such provincial notions.”

“I assure you the canons of behavior for females of good family are just as strict there. In Paris there are only two kinds of women, ladies and those who are not. They do not mix on a social basis.”

“This isn’t a social call. However, you may leave me if you like.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

The sulky tone of his voice made him seem very young. She tilted her head. “Is it your own reputation that concerns you?”

“Certainly not,” he said, his face registering his disdain for the question.

“Then,” she said gently, “let me worry about mine.”

She reached for the gate handle. With an imprecation under his breath, Emile forestalled her and opened the grilled closure, standing side as she entered. She could feel his disapproval like a weight as he followed behind her down the paved walk and into the courtyard. Here grew a few shrubs and a redbud tree that was a froth of reddish purple bloom, but the leaves of fall still littered the ground, drifted into the corners. To the rear was an arched opening through which could be seen a staircase leading up to the gallery that ran around the court. With her skirts sweeping the dead redbud leaves into eddies, Anya headed toward it.

A maid opened the door to them. She had the coloring and self-assurance of a quadroon, and the cap and apron she wore were of fine muslin trimmed with lace. She took Emile’s hat and sword cane and Anya’s visiting card and invited them to be seated in the salon, then went away to consult with her mistress.

Anya looked around her with interest. The salon seemed suffocatingly full of crimson plush. It hung in generous swags at the windows, covered the settee and chairs, and was present in several fat ottomans sitting here and there. The remaining furniture was of dark and massive wood heavily carved in spiky and uncomfortable-looking Gothic designs. Bric-a-brac overflowed the tables and crowded the shelves of a huge étagère, from crystal ornaments and daguerreotypes and tintypes in tarnished silver frames to boxes covered with seashells, from molting feather fans and curling theater programs to antimony cups and pin trays embossed with the names of famous spas and theaters. The room was fairly neat, but there was about it the dejected air of most places where the occupants are transients. The attempt to impose a personal stamp upon it with the collection of souvenirs of past tRavel’s and meager triumphs seemed too revealing, oddly pathetic.

Anya seated herself on the edge of the settee. Emile, apparently too ill at ease to follow her example, stood at her side. They waited.

After long minutes, the door into the other rooms of the house opened. It was not the actress who emerged, but the maid. The girl carried a folded square of paper in her hand. She did not speak but, flashing a nervous smile, hurried through the room and out the front door. Her footsteps clattered down the stairs and died away. Anya and Emile looked at each other with raised brows but did not speak. The minutes ticked slowly past. Finally, the door opened once more.

Simone Michel sailed into the room in a gown of plum brocade decorated with coils of black braiding. Her dark hair was carelessly dressed, piled in a mass of curls that made her appear as if she had just left her bed. The curves beneath the brocade were opulent, the arms and shoulders gracefully rounded. The actress’s face, without stage makeup, seemed softer and yet at the same time more determined. The sensuous fullness of her mouth was curved in a tight smile, and in her large and luminous eyes was a militant light.

“Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Mademoiselle Hamilton,” she said, “I was just dressing to go to the theater. Would you care for a glass of sherry? I’m sorry I can’t offer you more, but I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

Despite the politeness of the words she spoke, their tone was brittle, demanding an immediate explanation. Hearing them, Anya, who would have been happy to come at once to the point, felt in herself a distinct unwillingness to be pressed by this woman, or to allow her to control the visit.

She said pleasantly, “We have not met, Mademoiselle Michel, but I have seen you on the stage in several roles this winter. Permit me to compliment you on your success and also your considerable skill as an actress.”

“Thank you.” The reply held a note of surprise and no small degree of wariness.

“I don’t believe you are acquainted with Emile Girod. He is a dear friend, recently returned from Paris.” She indicated Emile with a brief gesture.

The young Frenchman did not let her down, but stepped forward to execute a perfect bow over the hand of the actress. “Delighted, mademoiselle. I am at your service.”

Anya did not give the woman time to reply. “I don’t believe we will trouble you for refreshments, though it is kind of you to offer when we have descended upon you unannounced. We were out walking, enjoying the afternoon — so very mild and agreeable, don’t you think — when I had an impulse to see you.”

“I see,” the actress said, though it was plain from her stiff tone that she did not. Moving to a chair, she seated herself, spreading her skirts around her.

Anya hesitated, eyeing the other woman. The superior manner she herself had assumed suddenly seemed wrong. It was not going to help her cause if she made an enemy of the woman. They could sit here and exchange supercilious remarks for hours without approaching the point where they could be frank with one another.

“No,” Anya said, relaxing her upright posture, shaking her head with a wry smile, “and how could you? The fact is, I have a problem, and I thought you might help me with it. It concerns a mutual acquaintance, Ravel Duralde.”

“Ravel?”

The actress was still wary, as if she were afraid of being accused and upbraided.

“Not twenty-four hours ago someone tried to kill him.”

Simone gasped, her hand going to her throat as her eyes widened. “But who? Why?”

“I don’t know I thought you might have some idea.”

“I?”

The actress stared at Anya as slowly her composure returned. She leaned forward, lowering her hand to clench it on the arm of her chair. Bluntly she asked, “What is it to you? Why are you concerned?”

It was an excellent question, one Anya had managed to ignore until that moment. She snatched at the first thought that occurred to her. “The attack was made on my property. Naturally, as his hostess I would have felt some responsibility if he had been killed.”

“And why was he there on your property?”

“A — matter of business, livestock,” Anya answered with silent appreciation for Madame Rosa’s invention. It was proving most useful.

Simone lifted a brow. “You wouldn’t know anything about the duel he missed while he was sojourning with you?”

“Men don’t talk about these things,” Anya said evasively. “But could you tell me who his enemies might be, and why they sought to kill him?”

The actress was silent for a long, considering minute. “My association with the gentleman is not of long standing.”

“Still you must know something?”

“Ravel isn’t one to talk much; he’s more a man of action.”

“A small reminiscent smile flitted over the other woman’s face that made Anya’s fingers curl until her nails dug into her palms. She made no comment, however, but sat waiting for the actress to go on.

“He’s a strange one, coming and going at odd times, with some most peculiar friends. It wouldn’t be surprising if he had enemies, considering the life he has led, men who have been bested in duels, or their relatives; men who have lost to him at the gaming stables, or who have disagreed with his political views such as supporting that madman Walker. I’m afraid I couldn’t name them for you, however.”

Anya nodded. Keeping her voice carefully noncommittal, she asked, “What kind of man is he, from your point of view?”

Simone leaned back in her chair. “Generous. Demanding. Inventive. Strong.”

Anya had the feeling she was being baited. It was effective, for the softly musing tone of the other woman’s voice conjured up images in her brain that burned with white heat, spreading a burning ache throughout her body. There was the sound of the door opening somewhere behind her, doubtless the maid returning. Ignoring it, she said abruptly, “Would you say he is honorable?”

“In his way.”

“Is he capable of murder?”

“Murder!” The actress sat up straight once more.

“Is he?”

There was the scrape of a quiet footstep at the doorway. “Why don’t you ask me?” Ravel said.

The quadroon maid who had summoned him, breathless now with her haste, slid into the room behind him and scuttled across to disappear into the back of the house. Anya rose to her feet, aware as she did so of Emile stepping forward in a protective gesture.

Ravel looked from Anya to Jean’s brother, the expression in his black eyes as cold and flat and bitter as yesterday’s coffee. Even after the time they had spent together, the things they had shared, she still thought him a murderer. The idea was like a knife twisting, ripping inside him. He heard again the scathing sound of her voice, saw the proud tilt of her chin, and he wanted to make love to her then and there, to force her to recognize what he felt for her, to make it matter to her. The desire was an ignoble one and he knew it for such, but it was no less entrancing for that.

Anya could think of nothing to say, could not force words through the constriction of her throat. What had prompted her to ask that question? She wasn’t sure. She had wanted to startle Simone, to get an unstudied reply, perhaps to test her own judgment of Ravel, the judgment that though he might kill in self-defense, he would not deliberately take a life.

“What is it?” Ravel asked, a vicious undercurrent in his voice as he watched Anya. “Have you lost interest in hearing the answer? Or is it just embarrassment for being discovered here? Are you afraid that I will be so base as to spread abroad the news of where I found you, or even use it to bend you to my will? Is there nothing, no crime, of which you will absolve me?”

Before she could answer, Emile spoke. “I think we had better go, Anya.”

“Oh, has the impropriety of her being here finally dawned on you?” Ravel inquired, turning to the younger man. “What a pity it didn’t do so sooner.”