Triumph in Arms (11 page)

Y
our late husband was an arrogant fool…

What had Christien meant? Reine, safe behind the closed door of her sitting room, pondered the possibilities. No exact idea presented itself, but just remembering the deep timbre of his voice and the pledge that lay in the inky darkness of his eyes were enough to keep her wide-awake.

She sat with her slippers kicked off, her feet on the settee and a palmetto fan in one hand, waving it before her face against the still, sullen heat of the evening. Beyond her room, she could hear the noises of the house as everyone settled down for the night. Marguerite had been sent to bed in the nursery some time ago, and now her nursemaid, done with her chores of straightening the nursery and putting out her charge’s clothing for the next day, climbed with slow steps to her attic room. The murmuring voices of her parents died away, became gentle, near-matching snores. Christien’s even footsteps passed down the central hallway to his bedchamber. Alonzo could be heard closing the shutters and locking the French doors. In
due time, he climbed the stairs and his treads continued on up to the attic.

The night quiet was broken only by the whir of insects and vibrato cries of frogs hoping for rain. After a time, a dog howled somewhere behind the house, in the direction of the slave cabins, and the hound, Chalmette, answered with a gruff bark from the front portico. Reine strained for other sounds, but none impinged on the stillness.

Ladylike desire…

Had her response really seemed that way to the man she was to marry? She hardly dared believe it. She had felt the complete wanton, so lost in pleasurable sensation that she had come close to abandonment. If he had decided to take her there on the card table with her skirts rucked up around her waist, would she have stopped him? She could not think, in all truth, that she’d have had the willpower. What was ladylike about that?

He didn’t seem repulsed. Perhaps his experience was with women of less-than-sterling virtue, the kind who battened on the desires of men. Such females must be more overt in expressing their ardor so as to inflame their partners into paying for their company. Yet if Christien considered her in the same light, what did that make her?

He would show her the difference between controlled and uncontrolled passion, or so he said. The very idea sent anticipation surging along her veins. It also terrified her. She was not herself around him. She felt too much, hovered too close to some dangerous
sensual surrender that might destroy everything. She didn’t trust him, but still less did she trust herself in his presence.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she gave a small shake of her head. She would not think of Christien anymore, would not wonder at what he might teach her. That way lay fevered madness she could not afford. It would be best to consider all that must be done for the wedding or, better yet, make her mind a blank. Some small degree of calm must be gained, one way or another.

Her bedchamber door creaked open. The abrupt jangle of her nerves and the odd, stiff position of her neck let her know she had fallen into a doze. The night had advanced, and heat lightning glimmered through the slats of her French door shutters.

“Maman?”
Marguerite’s eyes were wide in her small, pale face as she peeked around the hall door.

“Yes,
ma petite?
”

Her daughter eased into the room, then flew to catch Reine around the waist. She pressed her face against her, her breathing labored as she clung. “He’s gone,
Maman,
he’s gone.”

“Who, sweetness? The
loup-garou?
”

“No, no. He is always there. It’s Monsieur Christien. I had a bad dream. I went to his bedchamber. I knocked, but he didn’t answer. I went in anyway, and he wasn’t there. Oh,
Maman,
he wasn’t there!”

The last was a cry of despair. Reine drew Marguerite with her to the settee, pulling her down beside her as she dropped back onto the cushioned seat. “Are
you sure,
petite?
” she asked, rocking her back and forth, wiping tears from the small face with her fingers. “The bed is high, and perhaps you just couldn’t—”

“I climbed up the steps. He wasn’t in the bed. He’s gone, gone away and left us.”

“Oh, but surely not forever.”

“I want him back, my Monsieur Christien! I want him back!”

“Not so loud, sweetness, or you’ll wake everyone in the house. It could be that he hasn’t gone far. Perhaps I could look for him. If I call Babette to stay with you, will you let me do that? Will you?”

Her daughter’s arms tightened around her. She shook her head in refusal. As Reine spoke in a litany of soothing phrases interspersed with promises, however, her grip eased. Finally, she let Reine go.

Reine picked up Marguerite and took her back to her bed, tucking her in and lighting a lamp to leave burning on a side table. She summoned the nursemaid and left her rocking in a chair placed where Marguerite could see her. With another hug and quiet good-night, she left her.

Back out in the hall, she moved to the door of the room allotted to Christien. She hesitated, listening. Hearing nothing, she pushed her way inside.

Everything was neat, orderly, with no sign of disturbance. The frock coat he had worn when she saw him in the smoking room now hung in the armoire. He had changed his evening shoes for his boots and his dust coat was missing. It seemed clear that he had dressed for riding and left the house.

He had left the rest of his belongings behind. She
rested her forehead on the armoire’s wooden door and allowed herself a sigh of relief. It had seemed possible he might have decamped, bag and baggage, out of sheer disgust for her behavior. At least she was spared that humiliation.

She had not heard him go, which suggested a stealthy departure. It was only an hour, possibly less, since she had heard him come upstairs. How far could he have ridden in so short a time?

Swinging with abrupt decision, she strode to her room. Without calling for her maid, she worked her way out of her evening gown by withdrawing her arms from the cap sleeves and twisting the bodice to the front in order to strip its tiny buttons from their loops. Skimming out of her petticoats, wishing she was not so tightly laced into her corset that she could not remove it as well, she took her riding habit of marine-blue poplin from its armoire hook. It was designed to be donned without aid for the sake of early-morning rides, a good thing at the moment. Settling it around her and doing up its hooks with fumbling haste, she stamped into her boots, flung the trailing skirt of the habit over her arm and hurried from the house. A short time later, she was cantering along the river road on her mare.

New Orleans was her destination, as it made no sense that Christien would go elsewhere. She kept a wary eye out for his dust trail ahead of her. Regardless of what she had told Marguerite, she had no intention of stopping him. She burned to know where he was going and what he meant to do there. The only
way to discover these things was to follow him, once she had him in sight. With care and luck, she could manage to do that while hanging back on his trail.

The night air was oppressive, almost too thick to breathe. Gnats buzzed around her face, trying to sip the moisture from the corners of her lips and eyes. Mosquitoes rose in clouds from the occasional water-filled ditch, whining about her mount. Creatures scuttled across the pale track of the roadway of crushed oyster shells, rustling away into the underbrush. An owl called in the distance. On the far horizon, somewhere beyond the winding river levee, heat lightning glowed in erratic flashes.

She was less than a quarter of a mile out of town when she finally sighted Christien. He was a dark, broad-shouldered figure on horseback illuminated briefly as he passed a shanty tavern with a lantern hanging above the door. Reine drew her mare to a walk, guiding her into tree shadows until the space between them lengthened again. When she felt he was unlikely to recognize her even if he looked back, she picked up speed to keep him just in view.

He didn’t make for his old haunt, the salons of the sword masters on the Passage de la Bourse. Nor did he turn toward the more sordid streets where he might have expected to meet with loose women. Instead, he left the levee street at rue St. Philippe and continued along its length for some few blocks. From there, he made another turn, crossed an intersection and came upon the side-street entrance of a house that fronted on rue Royale. He dismounted and hitched the black
stallion’s reins to a ring set into the wall of the house opposite. Removing his dust coat, he tossed it over the saddle and walked across to speak to the majordomo who guarded the door.

Reine, remaining well back in the side street, dismounted and secured her mare to a balcony post. On foot, she edged a little closer. A soiree was in progress at the rue Royale address, she thought, for light spilled from the French doors standing open onto the second-floor balcony. The strains of a waltz drifted down to the street, and the spinning shadows of dancers made a dizzying kaleidoscope in shades of gray upon what could be seen of the ceiling.

The event taking place would be a family party, Reine surmised, perhaps a birthday or anniversary celebration. The thought was dictated by the time of year; no hostess wasted funds or effort on an entertainment of any real magnitude during the summer. For one thing, it was far too hot to crowd into a single room for any length of time, almost too hot for the exertion of dancing. Mainly, however, the company in town was too thin. People of reasonable wealth and intelligence left New Orleans for their country places, for France or the watering places of Europe and the northeast during yellow fever and cholera season.

From a vantage point inside the recessed doorway of the corner patisserie, she saw the majordomo bow in token of agreement to Christien’s request and in appreciation for the coin he passed him. As he disappeared inside, Christien moved back across the street, stepping under the arcade that protected the banquette.
In the shadow cast by the building, he propped one shoulder against the wall as if setting himself to wait.

What was he doing? Was his inamorata a lady attending the party, one he expected to slip down and join him? Was he in search of one of his swordsmen friends? If it was neither of these things, Reine could not imagine his purpose.

The minutes slipped past. A few more guests arrived for the soiree, and one or two departed. That was all.

Glancing around her, Reine pulled the veil attached to her riding hat about her face. A woman on the street alone was always a source of speculation, but doubly so at night. Tongues would clack if she were identified. That she had been besmirched by scandalized whispers already meant she could afford less than most in the way of speculation about her business.

By degrees, she became aware of how tired she was, also how on edge. The distant thunder and occasional flicker of lightning rasped her nerves. Her eyes burned as she watched the dim space where Christien stood. She tried not to fidget too much, for though she thought him unaware of her presence, she didn’t trust him to remain so.

Activity at the doorway he watched slowed to nothing. Traffic in the street almost ceased, as well. Nothing seemed to be happening; Christien was doing nothing worthy of notice. He seemed, in fact, to have no purpose beyond idling away the time in contemplation of the house opposite him. Restless impatience grew inside Reine until she was on the verge of stalking from her hideaway and returning home.

The thought was banished as the downstairs entrance sprang open, throwing a rectangle of light into the street. A gentleman strode out, slamming the door behind him with a bang that echoed over the tile rooftops. Without pausing, he stalked across to where Christien waited under the arcade.

The swordsman straightened. He spread his feet a little, squaring his shoulders as he watched the gentleman’s approach.

Reine came to frowning attention, as well, as the newcomer arrived within speaking distance. What was said as the two men met, she could not tell. Their voices were no more than a low rumble, and the back of the one who accosted Christien blocked her view. A sharp sound rang out, cracking like an openhanded slap. It was followed by more heated words. Abruptly, the unknown gentleman turned and walked off in the direction of the river. Christien collected his mount, then followed after him.

Tingling alarm slid down Reine’s spine. She slipped from her concealment and moved quickly to the corner, then trailed the pair at a more sedate pace.

They strode with grim purpose until they reached the tree-shaded enclosure of St. Anthony’s Garden, which lay behind the cathedral. In a pantomime of extreme courtesy, they each indicated that the other should go first through the gateway. Christien won the exchange, entering behind the other gentleman, carrying a long case that he had taken from behind his saddle. They walked to the center, where two intersecting
paths divided the space into shrubbery-filled quarters. There they came to a halt.

Reine left rue Royale, slipping down the alleyway between the high walls of the cathedral and those of the government house next to it. In that darker concealment, she paused behind a wax myrtle shrub that filled the garden’s corner. Its sprawling growth provided a screen without obscuring her view of the deep-shadowed square of open area on its other side.

The two men conferred, then began to remove their hats and frock coats. They loosened their cravats and cast them aside. A grim word or two more passed between them, but Reine’s heart was thudding so hard in her ears that she could not hear. Christien knelt beside the box he had placed on the ground, opening the lid. When he rose again, he held a long, glittering sword in either hand.

Reine drew a sharp breath as comprehension struck her. A duel, it was to be a duel. Yet this was no civilized meeting with carefully worded challenge and answer, appointed seconds and a doctor or two in attendance in case of injury. It was, must be, one of the infamous judgments-by-the-sword that were the specialty of the Brotherhood of
maîtres d’armes.