The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) (23 page)

“I meant what I said. You owe me a meal and an explanation.”

Sydnee looked dismayed.

“If you are worried about what people may say if they see a man enter your home after midnight, you are too late.”

Sydnee started to laugh and so did Locke.

“You have a caustic wit, Fletcher Locke,” Sydnee said.

“So I have been told,” he replied.

He sat back and looked out the window. Something stirred in him a moment ago when Sydnee had used his given name. But he dismissed it as another curiosity about the evening.

When they arrived at Sydnee’s town house, Fletcher told Frederick he would walk home and that it was not necessary he wait up.

“
Tres
bien
,
Monsieur
,” Frederick said with a bow.

Sydnee stopped in the front entry and lit a candle. Locke followed her down the hall to the kitchen. He glanced quickly in the parlor. He remembered seeing Saint-Yves’ portrait hanging over the mantel. He met the man on one occasion and found him good looking and charming.

“Didn’t you have two dogs before?” he asked looking around.

“I do, but Baloo suffers so in this heat. He sleeps out in the courtyard where it is cooler.”

Sydnee lit a few more lamps in the kitchen. “Marie has retired for the night, but I will see what she has left us,” she said, walking into the pantry.

Fletcher sat down on a tall stool by the work table.

“There is some leftover meat pie. Does that sound good?” she called.

“Yes, that will do nicely.”

Sydnee brought the tin out and set it on the table with two plates and forks. She went to the cupboard, took two glasses down and poured them some wine.

As she was cutting a slice of pie, he said, “I was making a steak and kidney pie when you called tonight.”

Sydnee looked across the table at him. “No, that is not possible.”

“Why?”

“Because the English cannot cook,” she said with a smirk.

“This Englishman can,” he said proudly.

He took a bite, wiped his mouth and said, “Now suppose you tell me what is going on down at that livery.”

Even in the candlelight, Sydnee could see the intensity in his eyes. He was not about to be put off any longer. Sydnee did not want to tell him. Locke was the kind of man who would try to shut her operation down. A moment ago she was actually amused by him, but now she remembered how pompous and self-righteous he could be.

“I want the truth. I know you have been concocting a story all night.”

She put her fork down and said, “You are reading into things, Dr. Locke. Rosin O’Malley is staying at the livery until her room is ready here. She is my new house--“

“Don’t waste my time!” he barked, tossing his napkin on the table and standing up. “The authorities will be more persuasive. I assure you.”

Sydnee blanched. This was just what she feared. If she didn’t tell him, he most certainly would expose her. Now all she could do is tell him the truth and hope for his silence.

“Please sit down,” she said.

Locke was pleased. His bluff worked. He sat back down on the chair and took another bite, staring at her.

She pressed her eyes shut a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I help women and children who are being beaten escape to new lives elsewhere.”

He stopped chewing. This was more than he imagined. “What?”

“Women come to me, and I put them in hiding at the livery until I can ship them away. Each situation is different. Most are wives being beaten by their husbands but some are servants or apprentices being beaten by their masters. Some are prostitutes being forced to solicit. Many have children who are being beaten too.”

“How do you find them?”

“I have a contact.”

“Have you been successful? That is to say, how many times have you done this?”

Sydnee had to think. She said at last, “Eighty, perhaps ninety times.”

“What!” he roared, standing up again. This was unthinkable. This elegant New Orleans’ courtesan was leading two lives: one as a prominent socialite, and one as a smuggler. All this time he believed she was shallow and self-absorbed
.

He began to pace the kitchen while Sydnee watched him, her hands in fists in her lap. “Outrageous,” he mumbled. Turning suddenly, he said, “Dangerous, extremely dangerous. What of the men?”

“There have been incidents, but we have been lucky so far.”

“Yes, so far.” He looked at her as if she was daft. “I have heard of this for slaves but--”

Sydnee swallowed hard and asked, “Are you going to report us?”

Locke did not answer. He was too preoccupied.

“Dr. Locke?” Sydnee said firmly.

“Yes?’

“Will you report us?”

“Oh, of course not,” he said.

Sydnee put her head back and gasped.

“You aren’t breaking any laws. Even if you were I--” and his voice trailed off. He was lost in his thoughts.

Running his hand through his hair, Locke mumbled, “I’m-I’m really not hungry anymore.”

He picked up his coat and went home.

Chapter 23

Fletcher Locke did not sleep well that night. His mind was racing with the information he had just received. It all seemed so fantastic. This petite young woman was goading the leviathan
and
tempting fate at the same time. There was no doubt that it would end badly, but there she stood before him, her spirit undaunted.

He turned over in bed, exasperated and feeling guilty. How many times had he railed at the injustices he had seen in the hospitals? How many wounds had he bandaged or bones had he set after a woman had been stabbed or a child beaten? And what had he done? Nothing. He had passively accepted all of it as a fact of life. But this woman, this wisp of female, had found the courage to make a difference. Again he tossed over in bed, punching his pillow. It was going to be a long night
.

*                    *                   *

Sydnee too was having difficulty sleeping. She was no longer worried about Locke reporting her to the authorities, but something different nagged her. It was something far more personal. Tonight she had seen Fletcher Locke at home in his world. She had seen an esteemed and talented physician drop all of his lofty pretensions and take great pains to gain the trust of two fearful children. She had witnessed patience and tenderness in him even when he approached a wary canine. She could not understand it. How could one person
have two so very different sides to his character?

These new impressions disturbed her, and she wished this had never happened. It was much more comfortable disliking the man. At least she had been able to sleep.

The next morning Sydnee was stiff and tired. She had managed to rest for only a few hours. The house was quiet. Marie had gone to market, so Sydnee took some coffee and went out into the courtyard to sit and think about what had transpired last night. She decided to consult with her ever-faithful confidant, Baloo about this new turn of events. She found Vivian first, sitting in the magnolia tree.

“Good morning, Vivian,” she said, walking over to the bird.

She held up her arm for her to come and perch, but Vivian did not move. She just stared at Sydnee. “What’s wrong?” she asked, perplexed. She could feel that something was wrong. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and then looked down. There was Baloo curled up under the tree, sleeping peacefully. His nose was tucked under one paw, and his head was on his leg. Sometime during the night, her old friend had fallen asleep and never woke up again.

*                    *                   *

She buried Baloo where he died, in the shade of the magnolia tree. She knew that it would be cooler for him there. From that day on, Vivian would sleep every night on the branch above his last resting place. Sydnee marveled at the old crow.
She may be a nag, but she is a good mother.

Sydnee grieved terribly for Baloo. He had been her rock and her oldest friend. He was from the old days on The Trace when she had been a child, and he had protected her like a father. Time would be a soothing balm, but the scar would never fully heal.

In late September, Tristan, Isabel and Delphine returned home. It was a welcome diversion for Sydnee to listen to news about their travels. Isabel chattered endlessly about Mortimer and delivered news that some of the families Sydnee smuggled up the Mississippi were thriving and happy. Most of them Mortimer never heard from again but a few stayed in touch, stopping by his livery to visit.

“I am so grateful to have had the summer with him,” Isabel said. “But it was excruciating to leave. Oh, how I wish I was born in another time and place, Sydnee,” she said wistfully. “How I detest the confines here in the South. Just look at all of us, laced so tightly in these corsets of convention that we are suffocating to death.”

With Tristan back, the salon season began again. Business had been difficult for him lately. Although his enterprises were thriving, he was spending a great deal of time helping his father sort through financial difficulties. Cuthbert Saint-Yves had speculated poorly and lost a great deal of money over the past few months. He resented help from his son but needed him if he was going to continue his lavish lifestyle in Natchez and at
Saint-Denis
.

Many nights, Tristan sought refuge at the town house with Sydnee, and it was good for her to have him around once more, but D’anton’s visits in the evening had stopped. He had taken a wife, a woman his parents had introduced to him when he was in Saratoga over the summer. Like Tristan, his marriage had been arranged, but he had not been as lucky. Paula Delacroix was from New York, not familiar with the ways of the Creole and certainly not as understanding a wife as Isabel. She jealously guarded D’anton’s affection and would never abide him taking a lover.

Paula Delacroix was completely unaware of her husband’s devotion to Tristan, believing the two men were merely business associates. D’anton and Tristan had to meet at Sydnee’s townhome in the afternoon to be alone when Paula believed D’anton was at the office. At those times, Sydnee would give them the entire house, and she would go to market or call on friends. This was the understanding she had with Tristan from the start, that they would protect each other.

Paula Delacroix was aware of Sydnee’s salon, but she did not acknowledge that it existed. In her eyes it was just one more decadent gentleman’s club in New Orleans, nothing more than a chic whore house. She was not sure if D’anton ever attended a supper there, but she did not ask.  

With summer ending and salon season resuming, Sydnee was busier than ever. Several evenings in October she had musicians perform for her guests. Sydnee liked to introduce these young virtuosos to potential patrons and
après
supper performances were the perfect setting.

It was during one of these performances that Frederick delivered a disturbing note to her. It was regarding a woman who wanted to be smuggled out that night. Liesl had been instructed never to write down the name of a woman in crisis, but this woman was the wife of one of the wealthiest planters in Louisiana, and Liesl wanted Sydnee to be aware of the danger.

“Thank you, Frederick,” Sydnee murmured. “I will be there.” 

Sydnee told herself that this escape was no different than any of the others, but she felt uneasy. She knew that tonight more than any other night, her anonymity was in jeopardy. Although she did not know Charisse Archambeau personally, there was a good chance that even in her disguise this woman might recognize her. She would have to drop her at the livery, and have Frederick takeover from there. Sydnee had met the husband, Royden Archambeau, on one occasion and found him to be pompous and ineffectual. She was not surprised when she learned that he had merely inherited the successful plantation, not built it.

Immediately when Sydnee arrived home she burned the note from Liesl. She would take no chances tonight. Changing quickly into her disguise, she headed to the livery with Frederick.

It was raining and the streets were deserted when she left with the hearse. She pulled up her collar, adjusted her mourner hat so the water would not run down her back and snapped the reins. She wound through the city, listening to the rain splash on the cobblestones. It was a lonely sound.

When she arrived at the convent, she waited only moments before the infirmary door opened, and Liesl stepped out with Madame Archambeau. She was an attractive young woman with dark hair, wearing a travelling cloak and carrying a leather bag. Sydnee stayed in the driver’s seat to protect her identity.

When the woman was safely inside the back of the hearse with Atlantis, Liesl came around and said to Sydnee, “In the past when women have escaped, the nuns have always assumed they went home during the night, but with this one there will be questions. What shall I say, Mademoiselle?”

Just as Sydnee was about to reply she heard a man’s voice from the back of the hearse. With her heart in her throat, she jumped down to see what was happening.

They found Madame Archambeau standing in the pouring rain with her head down and her arms crossed over her chest. A well-dressed man in a cutaway stood in front of her, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. Sydnee knew him immediately as Royden Archambeau. Rain and tears streamed down his face.

“How could you do this to me?” he whined. “I have always loved you.”

“Please, Royden,” Charisse Archambeau pleaded. “Just let me go.”

He looked at Sydnee and Liesl. “Who are they?”

Charisse did not reply.

He wiped his nose and snuffed. “This is none of your affair,” he said in a shrill voice. Turning back to his wife, he appealed once more. “I have been under a lot of strain lately. It won’t happen again.”

“Please, I just need some time--”

“No!” he screeched.

Sydnee jumped.

Realizing Atlantis was still locked in the back of the hearse, she moved to unlatch the door, but someone stepped up from the shadows, and she stopped. It was an older woman, impeccably dressed with white hair.

“Mother!” Charisse cried.

“My darling,” the woman said, rushing up and taking her daughter’s hand. “I know this is difficult, but listen to Royden. Your place is with your husband.”

Charisse stared at her mother, dumbfounded. “So you were the one who told him where I was tonight. That note was meant only for you.”

“But dearest--” her mother said.

Archambeau stepped forward and took Charisse’s arm. “We are going home now.”  He looked at Sydnee and warned, “And you stay away from her.”

Charisse jerked her arm free and started to back up.

“Come,” he said, flicking his fingers at her as if he was calling his dog. “Come now,” he demanded.

Tears streamed down Charisse’s face, and she shook her head.

“Why are you doing this? Why, why, why?” he whined.

“I mean what I say, Royden. I have to go,” she said with conviction.

He blinked and then stared at his wife as if he finally believed what she was saying. Suddenly he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pistol. “Goddamn it, you’ll never leave me!” he screeched. Stepping back, he aimed and shot her in the chest.

The blast sent the woman into a spin, and she tumbled backward, slamming against the hearse and then down onto the wet pavement, blood soaking her bodice. Her mother screamed and dropped to her knees beside her daughter as she lay gasping for air.

Sydnee lunged to let Atlantis out, but it was too late. Archambeau had reloaded his pistol and ordered, “Stop!”

She froze, staring at him.

Royden’s red-rimmed eyes were on her, and Sydnee knew he meant to kill her too. Suddenly he staggered forward and dropped face down in the mud. Standing over Archambeau with a cudgel was Frederick.

It was like the world stood still. No one moved. The rain was splashing on the pavement and Charisse’s mother was sobbing. A river of blood was running between the cobblestones. Her daughter was dead.

Panting, Sydnee swallowed hard and said to Frederick, “You must go before he wakes up.”

Frederick didn’t hear her.

Sydnee took the old man by the shoulders and pushed him toward the hearse. “Get in!” she ordered. “You too!” she said to Liesl. “We can’t stay here.”

Slamming the door, Sydnee scrambled up into the driver’s seat and snapped the reins. Grateful for the pouring rain, she drove the hearse madly through the streets. Haste would not seem unusual in weather this foul. Sydnee’s mind was racing too as she tried to formulate an escape plan for them.

When they arrived at the livery, she opened the stable door and quickly pulled the hearse inside. Frederick and Liesl jumped out.

“Change clothes,” Sydnee ordered. “I have work clothes for you in the trunk, Frederick, and Liesl put on the gown I wore here tonight. I will explain later.”

While they changed, she built a fire. She stood, staring into the flames, clutching herself and shaking. Liesl would be easy to smuggle out of New Orleans. She could join the O’Bannon sisters on their next run to the North. It was Frederick she worried about. Assaulting a white man in the South would mean a lynching. As perilous as it was smuggling slaves out of Louisiana, helping a black man escape who was wanted for assaulting a white was next to impossible.

Sydnee told herself, no matter what happened, she would find a way to save him. He had saved her life.

“You should change out of those wet clothes, Mademoiselle Sauveterre,” Liesl said.

As if waking from a dream, Sydnee blinked and then murmured. “No, I will be driving you to my townhome in the carriage. You will be masquerading as me. That is why you are in my gown. It’s dark and without my mourner’s hat I will simply look like a carriage driver.”

Sydnee turned to Frederick and said, “I must speak with you alone.”

Nodding, he followed her out into the stable. He was dressed in a tattered shirt and vest, and wearing threadbare trousers.

She looked up into his wrinkled, care-worn face. “You saved my life. How can I ever thank you?”

He nodded slowly and said, “At least I could save
you
.”