Guarded Heart (17 page)

She did not protest as he leaned to kiss her, first on one cheek and then the other. Afterward, he turned and left her. His stride was firm and strong, yet seemed to have less swagger than in the past. The words he had spoken rang in her head while she watched him cleave a path through the chattering groups, making for the door.

Dignity.

What did such a thing matter when the lives of two men were at stake?

To convince Maurelle that her nerves were overset and she wished to return to the town house at once was easy enough. Her friend showed every sympathy, gathering up their cloaks and ushering her homeward with the escort of one of her married friends and her husband who happened to be going the same way. That instant, caring response made Ariadne feel guilty even as she was grateful for it.

Once in her own bedchamber, she paced the floor with her cloak sweeping around her, trying to think of some way to contact the English
maître d'armes.
She had no trusted servant of her own to send with a message, and if she relied on the maid Adele, who had been attending her, she feared the news would be all over the city by morning. She had grown wary of the girl as well; she seemed to be of a curious disposition, asking too many prying questions. Solon would be the perfect go-between if she was wasn't positive he would go to Maurelle at once with the request.

She could go to Gavin Blackford instead, but to venture into the Passage de la Bourse would pose grave risk to her reputation. While she was not as concerned as some with that aspect, she had no wish to become persona non grata in the city while her task was yet unfinished. Besides, any scandal in New Orleans was certain to follow her to Paris where she might one day wish to make her home again.

Perhaps she should just give up, allow the duel to take its course. There was nothing to say that the Englishman would listen to her. What did it really matter if Sasha took the satisfaction she craved?

No, no, she could not bear that to happen. The risk required to stop it must be met. It was the only way.

Leaving the town house again at this hour was a problem in itself. Explanations and excuses would have to be made if a servant saw her go. Care was required then. Pausing on the gallery outside her room, she gazed along its length, from the straight stretch where she stood to the far corner where it turned at a right angle to continue along the L of the
garçonnière.
Nothing stirred, nor was there any movement in the courtyard below. The only other sounds were the soft rustle of a night breeze in the banana trees and the plaintive mewing of a hungry cat from the next street. Everyone seemed to have retired for the night.

Ariadne descended to the lower gallery and moved with silent care to the passageway which led under the house to the street. It was dark in the long tunnel. She could feel with her gloved hand the rough, handmade bricks that lined it, feel them underfoot through her thin slippers. She should have changed into more sturdy walking boots before leaving her bedchamber but had not thought of it and could not bring herself to turn back for them now.

The solid wood doorway loomed before her, made visible by an outline of light coming in around it. She felt for the metal bar which held it closed, lifting it carefully so it would not squeal. A moment later, she was in the street.

The night was cloudy and a faint mist hung in the air, making a nimbus around the street lamp at the corner. Her slippers were soon damp and muddy but made little sound, for which she was grateful. They would have to be replaced, but it was a small price to pay.

Pray God it was the only price.

The Passage de la Bourse lay a few blocks away, not at all an arduous walk by day. The dimness relieved only by the occasional street lamp made the banquette stretch to infinity ahead of her. The wind from the river was chill so she gathered her cloak closer as she hurried along. She also pulled her hood forward around her face to conceal it. Most of those on the street were men, and there was no point in making it easy for anyone to either recognize or accost her. As long as she kept moving, walking as if certain of her purpose, she should be all right.

At a cross street, she caught a glimpse of three ruffians reeling toward her. The trio were riverboat men from their clothes, dreaded
Kaintucks
, as they were known, who brought their corn and wheat, hogs and tallow downriver on keelboats, then proceeded to drink up their profits before toiling homeward again by land. They were said to be devils and no respecters of ladies, though they usually kept to the dives along the river or in the rougher area of the American section known as the Swamp.

Whipping back out of view, Ariadne took shelter in a doorway inset until they had crossed at the corner and passed on down the street. Only when she was certain they were gone did she set out again.

This was madness; she could admit it to herself if to none other. Her breath rasped in her throat and a stitch was forming in her side. She should be safe in her bed at the town house. Nonetheless, she could not turn back. Something inside her would not allow it.

At last she passed under the arcade outside the Hotel St. Louis, then turned and flitted across the street to enter the Passage which began opposite its main entrance. A barroom was still open at the far end; she could hear the music of a barrel organ and the low hum of male voices from that direction, see the light spilling into the street through its doors. Since that was a place to be avoided at all costs, she moved to the left, taking refuge in the shadows of one of the long archways that, in imitation of the hotel, fronted the buildings on both sides of the Passage.

As she stared down the long vista leading to Canal Street, she realized she had no idea which atelier, out of the dozens lining the throughway might belong to Gavin Blackford. A soft imprecation feathered her lips.

What was she to do? The ateliers were unmarked without doubt, since dwellings in the Vieux Carré had no numbers of any kind, much less identifying placards. She could hardly knock on doors until she found him. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth as she sighed at her own foolhardiness.

“Your pardon, ma'am.”

The speaker was a gentlemen who had turned into the Passage behind her, stepping around her where she stood undecided. He tipped his hat with a brief, curious stare before continuing along the arcade. Tall and wide across the shoulders, with an open countenance and firm mouth, he seemed to have kindly eyes. He was not French, she thought, but an American of a different breed from the riverboat men she had avoided. He might be from some upriver plantation or else the uptown section of the city, which meant he was unlikely to know her on sight or to see her again.

“Monsieur, a moment, if you please,” she called after him.

He turned back with reluctance in every line of his large body. She thought for an instant that he suspected her of importuning him for a less than virtuous purpose. If so, her appearance, or perhaps her voice, must have reassured him, for he removed his hat and stood holding it against the side stripe of his pantaloons. “Certainly, ma'am. How may I be of service?”

Yes, he was most certainly American. The relief of it was staggering. Perhaps she cared more for her good name than she had thought. “Do you perhaps know the
maître d'armes,
Monsieur Gavin Blackford?”

“We are acquainted.”

“Then you know where he lives?”

He was silent a moment, his gaze thoughtful in the distant light from the barroom. “You have business with him at this hour?”

“Business of the most urgent, monsieur. If you will direct me, I should deem it a great favor.”

“Yes, but will Blackford? I mean to say, if he isn't expecting you…”

She lifted a hand to push back the hood of her cloak, letting it slip down onto her back. “I feel sure he will speak to me regardless.”

His eyes turned keen as he surveyed her face and the expanse of her shoulders exposed as the cloak's edges fell open. Lifting a hand, he rubbed it over his chin. “He might at that, since I would in his place. Come along, and I'll see about rousting him out for you.”

She hesitated then took the arm he offered and moved into step beside him. Trusting that he would not lead her into some dark alleyway might be a grave mistake, but what else could she do?

At a house like all the others, of three stories with a wide balcony projecting out over the arcade, he stopped. He stepped up to the door beside the ground-floor apothecary and gave it a sharp rap. Some minutes passed. The American was about to knock again when the door swung open to reveal a tousle-haired youth still yawning and stuffing his nightshirt into his pantaloons.

“Blackford, at once. A lady to see him.”

The boy gaped at her, apparently unused to female visitors. At a low word from the American, he recovered himself. Bobbing his head, he turned and disappeared up the dark stairway with much thumping of bare feet.

“I don't believe Blackford is asleep,” her escort said, the ghost of a smile creasing his face into lines of startling handsomeness as he gazed down at her. “I noted a lamp still burning in his rooms.”

She had also seen the light on the third floor. “I hope you may be right. I shall naturally absolve you of all blame if he objects to being disturbed.”

“Oh, I don't mind that. It should be something, hearing what he has to say if he does object. The way the man talks is a pure wonder.”

Somehow the thought did not promise the same entertainment value for Ariadne. The fluttering of nerves in her stomach made her feel a little ill and she pressed her fingers hard into the velvet of her cloak to prevent them from trembling. It was the effect of this unusual midnight excursion rather than any anxiety about what the man she had come to see might say, of course, but she would still be glad when the interview was done and she was safe in her bed once more.

Footsteps, brisk and even, were heard on the stairs. Gavin's voice preceded him from the dark stairway. “If I had but known you had a notion to send me bleary-eyed and blathering to the dawn meeting, Wallace, I would have put you under lock and key. Some men may swear to a night of sweaty fornication to ensure they go smiling to their graves but I am not one of them. Be the lady ever so lovely, I must—”

“A lady it is, and not a doxy,” the gentleman addressed as Wallace interrupted in dry tones as Gavin appeared in the doorway.

The point was unnecessary. It was his recognition of her, she thought, that had stopped his words in mid-flight. She took a step closer to make certain of it.

“Decline,” he finished, after a second's pause. “I must decline whatever the purpose and regardless of the lady.”

“You haven't heard why I am here,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

“It springs to the mind in images not unlike a toy soldier upon a cock horse. What maggot reamed out that fool Russian's brain that he marched off to tell you of our meeting?”

“He didn't. In fact, he asked me not to interfere when I taxed him with it. You are mistaken if you believe I am here on his account.”

A glimmer of light from down the street flickered with blue fire in Gavin's eyes as he tilted his head. “Take care, madame. The alternative is that your concern is for me. Though it may please my vanity to suppose you care whether I live or die, reason refuses the leap.” He looked suddenly toward Wallace. “I will see Madame Faucher homeward, my friend, unless you have a prior understanding or some other reason to stand all protective at her side.”

The grin at one corner of the American's mouth vanished though it lingered around his eyes. “None in the world, in either case. I leave her to you, sir.” He sketched a bow that was not without grace before touching the brim of his tall beaver hat. “I bid you a very good evening, madame. Blackford.”

Watching the big American tuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and stroll away down the Passage, Ariadne felt rather as if she had lost an ally. It was with a hollow feeling inside her chest that she turned back to Gavin. “My concern, as you phrase it, is for the useless nature of this dawn meeting between you and Sasha. How can it possibly benefit anyone? What will it prove?”

“It will illustrate the lack of wisdom in speaking loosely, particularly when the subject is blameless and female.”

His quiet voice was freighted by some shadow of meaning that eluded her. “Female? You can't mean me. Or can you? Am I to understand that I am the reason for this challenge?”

“He didn't give you a full account, I see. Wise of him.”

It had been foolish, rather, she thought, since Sasha might have guessed she would learn of it eventually. “I doubt he spoke ill of me for any reason other than to force this meeting.”

“Oh, so do I,” Gavin agreed on the instant. “But like the heretic who prayed only on Sunday, the result was still the same.”

“And because of it, you would risk your life for my good name?”

He looked away. “I have fought for less. The point will be moot, however, if you remain here at my lodgings, all supplicating and forlorn. I would invite you inside except that might turn suspicion into certainty in the mind of any observer. Unless, of course, you intend to offer some sweet incentive for whatever plea hovers unspoken on your tongue. Then I should have to reconsider.”