Lady Vixen (86 page)

Christopher
himself was back in the city by the second week in December, tired and
irritable. His moroseness disappeared when Jason informed him that the general
was agreeable to a meeting with Lafitte.

In
a private meeting between the two principals in Maspero's Coffee House they
agreed that Lafitte would fight for the Americans. Upon hearing the news,
Christopher felt a wave of hope sweep through him. With only five thousand men
to face an enemy of twice that number, it was definitely encouraging to know
that there would now be ample ammunition and that some of the best-trained
fighting men in the world were on their side.

And
now there really was nothing else to do but wait —wait and wonder where the
British would begin their assault.

Christopher,
at Claiborne's recommendation, was appointed to the general's staff as the liaison
between him and Lafitte and his men. It both gratified and pleased him, for now
there was something he could definitely get his teeth into.

Nicole
found the waiting excruciating and wished she possessed some of her husband's
enjoyment of the preparations. Like the other ladies, she had been busy making
bandages, but for the women there was little to do except wait and tend to the
absentminded, distracted men who were their husbands, brothers, and lovers.

Then
the stunning news reached New Orleans that the British did indeed mean to
attack by way of Lake Borgne, having captured Patterson's five gunboats.
Jackson was enraged. Not only had he lost his "eyes" and valuable
men, but now the British had the use of his shallow-drafted vessels to transport
their troops. From his Royal Street headquarters he wrote frantically to Major
General Coffee: "You must not sleep until you reach me."

The
citizenry was panic-stricken at the news of the British attack on the lake. On
December 16, Jackson declared martial law.

Major
General Coffee and his men arrived on the twentieth, and on Wednesday of the
same week Jackson called a briefing session at his headquarters. Christopher
was in attendance, and as Nicole had a fitting at Madame Colette's just down
the street, they had decided that Christopher would meet her there after the
meeting.

The
briefing lasted longer than either of them had expected, and Nicole, growing
weary of waiting, told Madame Colette to explain to her husband when he arrived
that she had gone home. Her cloak fastened securely around her, Naomi in
attendance, she walked out and accidentally bumped into a neatly dressed young
man.

Laughing,
she stepped back and exclaimed, "Excuse me! I'm awfully sorry, but I
didn't see you, if you can believe that!" And the next instant the color
drained from her face as she found herself looking into Allen's features.

For
a frozen moment neither of them said a word, Allen Ballard's face as white as
Nicole's. Unaware that she did it, Nicole reached out to rest her hand on his
chest, as if to reassure herself that it was not an apparition.
"Allen," she said at last in the merest whisper. And Allen, after
throwing a sharp glance around, grasped her hand and said urgently, "I
have to talk to you. Is there someplace we can be private?"

Still
stunned by the unexpected meeting, still not quite assimilating what his
presence in New Orleans on the eve of the British attack might indicate, she
shook her head slowly. Then looking at Madame Colette's, she murmured
reluctantly, "I suppose Madame would let us use one of the fitting
rooms."

It
wasn't what Allen wanted, but it would have to do. Thrown as completely off
guard as Nicole, he was still fighting with the shock that she was here in New
Orleans and not in England as he had been led to believe. She had to be
silenced—at least long enough for him to escape the city and report to his
commanding officer on the city's woefully inadequate defenses.

Allen
hadn't wanted to be sent to spy out the city, but he was the only one who was
totally familiar with the area, and reluctantly he had agreed. He had been
aware that he might be recognized, but was relying on the frail hope that not
everyone had known he was a British spy during his imprisonment on Grand Terre.
Besides, dressed as he was as a young man of the city in a tight-fitting coat
of Spanish blue, buff pantaloons, and highly polished boots, the brown hair cut
short and wearing a cocked hat, he had thought it unlikely that anyone would
connect him with the Allen Ballard who had sailed on
La Belle Garce.
But
then he hadn't counted on Nicole Ashford to be tripping merrily down the
banquettes of New Orleans either. It was the devil's own luck, he thought
exasperatedly; another half hour and he would have been safe.

At
that very second Christopher was strolling in the direction of Madame's when he
was brought up short by the unpleasant sight of his wife making overtures to a strange
young man. Then as the two of them turned and walked back into Madame's, his
eyes narrowed in disbelief. Allen Ballard! What in God's name was he doing in
New Orleans? It took Christopher less than a second to realize the reason, and
his mouth went grim as he approached the dressmaker's.

His
wife consorting with a damned spy! By God, for all he knew this wasn't the
first time they had met. Perhaps that betraying little bitch had been supplying
Ballard with information all along. In the grip of raging anger Christopher was
blind to anything but the fact that Nicole was with Allen and acting in a
furtive manner.

For
just a moment he considered reporting that a pair of British spies were meeting
at Madame Colette's. Let Nicole pay the price for her duplicity! But in his
heart he knew that he could not. Whatever she was, she was his. That knowledge
twisted like a knife in his gut, destroying the peace and contentment he had
felt these last weeks, making him bitterly aware of how easily he would have
succumbed to her spell. He had begun to believe her protestations of love, to
believe that she was as different from Annabelle as Robert had been from Simon,
and now
this!

He
hesitated only a moment outside Madame Colette's, his mind coldly made up.
Nicole must be protected from her own deceit and guile. She was still his wife,
and he would not have her dragged into the gutter by the likes of Allen
Ballard. Ballard would have to die before he could implicate Nicole.

Almost
nonchalantly Christopher entered Madame Colette's just a second later, having
decided to act as naturally as possible until he could get his hands around Ballard's
neck. But his plans suffered a check the instant he entered the premises, for
Madame Colette, her finger to her lips, had hurriedly led him to the back of
her shop.

Madame
had been profoundly shocked and disillusioned when Madame Saxon had returned
with a young gentleman in tow. She was even more disapproving when Madame Saxon
had dismissed her maid and requested the use of one of the dressing rooms for a
few minutes of private conversation. And while her dressing rooms had often
been used as rendezvous places by many married ladies with their lovers, she
had not suspected Madame Saxon of being that sort. The wad of notes Allen had
quickly put in her hand would have kept her quiet about the meeting if Monsieur
Saxon had not suddenly appeared.

Now
Monsieur Saxon had been a valuable client in the past. It was likely he would
be a valuable client in the future—far more valuable than Madame Saxon—and she
had promptly decided on whose side she would align herself.

Bluntly
and to the point, she informed Monsieur that his wife, she was sorry to say,
was meeting a strange young man in the front dressing room.

In
that dressing room Nicole's mind was working furiously. Once her first shock
had fled, it hadn't taken her but a second to realize why Allen was in the
city. She could not allow Allen to leave, not when she guessed that he had
information that might mean the death of her husband. Nor could she turn him
over to the authorities, knowing that the gallows would be his fate. Too
vividly did she remember the upward spiral of that shark, and she knew she
could not live in peace with herself if she were the cause of Allen's death.
She must render him incapable of leaving the city until after the battle.

With
an elated gleam her eye fell upon the warming brick that sat so innocently in
the far corner. If she could grasp that and strike Allen unconscious, she could
then, with Madame's help, tie Allen and hide him somewhere in the city until
his knowledge was no longer of any value.
Then
she could set him free.

Allen
was thinking much the same thing, except he had decided to overpower Nicole,
gag and tie her, and then beat a hasty retreat from New Orleans. By the time
Nicole was discovered he would be safe.

Christopher
was making his own plan. He had to get Madame out of the shop while he silenced
Allen, and the only way he could do that was to send her after the military.
But then, he surmised, that would work very well, although instead of a live
spy they would find a very dead one—one who could tell no tales. Christopher
explained to Madame that when he stormed into the dressing room, she was to
race immediately to the authorities.

It
did not go as anyone planned. By dropping her reticule, Nicole had managed to
get her hands on the warming brick and hide it in the folds of her cloak. Allen
was on the point of forcing himself to deliver a powerful blow to Nicole's
delightful chin, one which he hoped would knock her out, when Christopher,
murder on his mind, burst through the thin door, and Madame, faithfully following
his instructions, darted from the shop, speeding after the authorities.

At
the sound of the shattering wood Allen jerked in that direction, and Nicole,
taking advantage of his distraction, coolly brought the brick up and aimed it
at his head. Unfortunately her aim was rather bad, and instead of connecting
with Allen's head, it landed very painfully right in the middle of her
husband's chest, knocking the wind from him and causing him to stagger back
into the other room.

Allen,
now intent only on escape, leaped from the fitting room, while Nicole wasted a
precious second staring in horrified disbelief at her husband as he reeled from
the room. But then realizing that Christopher would be absolutely no help for a
moment or two, she shot after Allen.

Allen
was almost to the door, and the only way she could reach him was a headlong
tackle. She made it despite her long skirts, and wrapping her arms in a
stranglehold about his knees, she bought Allen cursing and tumbling to the
floor.

To
Christopher, his breath coming in painful little gasps, it looked as if the two
of them had been trying to escape, only Nicole had tripped and fallen, dragging
Allen down with her. Wasting little time on speculation, he heaved himself away
from the wall, and as Allen struggled to his feet, seeking to escape from
Nicole's embrace, Christopher landed
him
a mighty punch on his chin.
Allen crumpled, and Nicole, with a satisfied sigh, loosened her grip.

Christopher
dropped to his knees, his fingers itching to close around Allen's throat and
still forever his tongue, but Madame had been more than fortunate in meeting
one of the patrols that Jackson had ordered to enforce the martial law, and
just as Christopher was about to reach his goal, Madame and a patrol came
rushing into the shop.

With
resignation, and knowing he had lost his chance, Christopher rose painfully to
his feet and said in a dull voice, "This man is a British spy... I
recognized him. Take him away and inform the general that I will report to him
later this evening."

Nicole,
her heart heavy in her breast, watched with shadowed eyes as they complied with
Christopher's orders. But the real anguish of what had happened didn't occur to
her then. It was only when Christopher's steely fingers closed cruelly around
her arm and she glanced up at his face in surprise that she saw his
disillusionment, contempt, and anger.

"But
I..." she began helplessly.

Christopher's
lips thinned and he snapped, "Shut up! Don't say another word until we are
at home."

There
was nothing she could do, and confused and slightly resentful, she allowed
Christopher to hustle her away. She tried once more to explain, but
Christopher's cold, "I said later and I meant later!" froze the words
on her lips.

By
the time they reached Dauphine Street Nicole was in a fine simmering temper.
Christopher couldn't believe that she had purposely met Allen at Madame's! How
vexingly stupid and absolutely ridiculous! If that was all the faith he had in
her, well she just wasn't going to put up with it!

Standing
in the center of her bedroom a short while later, she faced him and demanded,
"What is the matter with you? Don't you want to know what happened?"

Taking
a deep draught of the brandy in his hand, Christopher replied bleakly,
"No. I already know what happened and I don't need your lies to distort
the truth!"

Drawing
her breath in with a sharp gasp, Nicole cried, "Then suppose you tell it
to me! Obviously there is something I don't know about or don't
understand."

"In
that case, madame, I'll tell you," Christopher began in a cold voice.
"This afternoon I was walking to meet my dearly beloved wife"—he
grated out the words—"when it was my unpleasant chance to see her openly
caressing a strange man on the street. And then if that wasn't enough, the two
of them slunk away, like two alley cats, into a snug little rendezvous. What's
more, the man my wife was so eager to meet and touch was none other than an
English spy. Tell me," he asked sneeringly, "have you been supplying
him with information? Is that why you have been so interested in what I have
been doing? You were gathering it for your confederate?"