Prisoner of Desire (40 page)

“She is young, yes, but there are many girls her age who not only are married, but already have children. You must trust her.”

He sighed. “Yes, but it isn’t easy.”

Anya could only agree. The waltz ended and they all walked on; still Anya found herself thinking of Murray’s morose and jealous uncertainty. She had always thought of him as being confident within himself, easy of temperament, happy. Was it simply that she had foisted the image upon him with her need to make him like Jean, or had it been a pose, a mask he wore as did so many others, herself included?

They were all masqueraders in their different ways, people hiding their pain, their weaknesses, their vices, even their frightening strengths behind carefully constructed fronts, concealing these things from themselves as well as others. She herself, wrapped in her role of tragedy, pretending she needed no one because she was so afraid of being hurt again. Madame Rosa, whose indolent image not only prevented her from having to do the things that displeased her, but also covered her strong will that allowed her to direct the lives of others. Playful, sweet, innocent Celestine, who had a deep sensual streak that would one day be the delight of her husband. Gaspard, who was less the dandy and dilettante than he affected to be, disguising his virility behind a social facade. Emile, who behind his sophisticated and courteous mien was both more primitive and more credulous than he knew. And Ravel, the Black Knight, who despite his past was as tender as he was tough, at least as generous as he was self-seeking, and not half so unconventional as he was painted.

Where was Ravel? What was he doing? She had expected somehow to see him, or at least hear from him. It seemed so unlikely that he would leave the situation between them unsettled, unfinished. For herself, it was a constant disturbance at the back of her mind, a nagging ache that she had done her best to ignore as the day wore on.

Not to think of it at all was impossible. She had turned the fact of the meeting she had witnessed over and over in her mind but could come to no conclusion.

What had been the purpose of it? The possibilities were many, for clubs of various kinds, from the Freemasons and young men’s benevolent societies to the heroics of the volunteer firemen, were a favorite occupation of the men of New Orleans, who had little else to occupy their time during the winter season.

On top of these were the political groups with a cause, such as the Democratic party members who were opposed to the notoriously corrupt Know-Nothings currently in power, and perhaps the Vigilance Committee with the same purpose. Another group might be one she scarcely believed in, that shadowy coalition of influential men whose purpose was to control the commerce of New Orleans and, by extension, the entire Mississippi Valley.

Then there was the Mistick Krewe of Comus that had evolved into a closed social organization known as the Pickwick Club, with meetings the year round. The last had rented for themselves a large and handsome house on St. Charles Street as a male retreat and gathering place.

That was the trouble. Of all the groups Anya could bring to mind, there was not one that did not have its accustomed location for meetings, a location that was more spacious, more convenient, and more comfortable than the house on Rampart Street. Why then had the men she had seen collected together in that house?”

A simple answer presented itself. Rampart Street was quiet, it was discreet, and it was not unusual for strange men to come and go there.

The glaring question then, the one that eluded an answer, was which of the possible groups might be subject to police harassment? Which of them would be most likely to contain members who would swiftly fade away at the arrival of the police Charleys?

The answer seemed to depend on the part played by the police the night before. If they had been protecting the citizens of New Orleans, then it was likely that there had been a report of criminal activity of some kind at the quadroon’s house. If they were acting as the tool of the city government, then the meeting must have been of political nature. It was possible also, supposing that the meeting had been of neither character, that it might be highly significant that the Charleys had shown such incompetence they had failed to detain a single man who had attended that meeting.

Ravel and Gaspard. They seemed such unlikely allies. Anya had not been aware that they knew each other, except perhaps on the most superficial level. What could they have in common, what goal did they share. She wished she knew.

Anya’s attention was caught by a woman in the habit of a nun, who was waving to her from across the street. Anya stopped, and the woman came toward her. As she neared, the eyes behind the woman’s mask were wary and she reached up to draw her black veil closer around her face.

“Mademoiselle Hamilton?”

“Yes?”

“I thought I could not mistake that hair, so shining and not quite gold or brown or red, but something in between.”

Anya suddenly knew the voice. Clear and carefully modulated, it belonged to the actress Simone Michel, Ravel’s mistress. “Yes, and you are—”

The woman interrupted her. “Could I speak to you on a matter of importance? You can catch up with your friends in a few moments.”

There seemed no reasonable objection. Besides, the only likely subject of conversation between them was Ravel, and Anya could not deny a strong interest in whatever Simone Michel had to say on the subject. “I’ll be along shortly,” she said with a smile to the others.

They moved off, glancing back over their shoulders and at each other with some curiosity. The actress watched them go. When they were out of earshot, she asked abruptly, “Have you seen Ravel today?”

“No, I haven’t,” Anya answered just as shortly. “Have you?”

“No. I don’t like the way he disappears lately. There have been some odd tales concerning his vanishing act last week, some that concern you, my fine lady, but I think there’s more to it than that.”

“Such as?”

The actress did not answer for a moment, as if judging whether to trust Anya. At last she said, “I think whatever he’s doing is dangerous. There are people who want him stopped because he’s a gambler, a man who thrives on calculated risks, a natural leader. I don’t know what you feel for Ravel, or he for you, but I think you should know what you are letting yourself in for if you get mixed up with him.”

“Close association doesn’t seem to have harmed you,” Anya observed.

“I wouldn’t say that. However, I remain in the background; I know my place, you see. You apparently don’t.”

Her place. She had none, nor was it likely she would ever have any. “What is this danger? What are the risks he’s taking?”

“I can’t say for sure. All I know is that it’s outside the law.”

“Then who are the people who want him stopped?” Stopped. That was a nice euphemism for dead. She had known of the danger since the firing of the cotton gin, but it still seemed a thing beyond belief when spoken of here on this crowded street in the midst of noisy music and laughter.

“I don’t know, not with any certainty. They are very careful to remain behind the scenes.”

“But you can guess, surely, since you have said so much?”

“Guessing could be a dangerous business also.”

“I see,” Anya said with slow emphasis. “Then the only reason you spoke to me at all was to warn me away from Ravel Duralde. Did you really think I would frighten so easily?”

The actress lifted her chin. “I have watched you becoming drawn into something you know nothing about. I’m warning you because — because for some peculiar reason I like you. And also because if you run into trouble I will feel better knowing my conscience is clear.”

It could be true. There was no opportunity to test it, however, for the actress turned in a swirl of dead black skirts and walked away. Anya watched her blend with the crowd and disappear along a dim side street, and the main thing she felt was frustration. She had been close to an answer to her question, if only she had known it, if she had not lost the chance by her own defensiveness. And what had caused that defensiveness? The answer was simple. She had been jealous of the knowledge the actress had seemed to have about Ravel’s movements, jealous of the implied confidences between them.

Jealous.

She couldn’t be, shouldn’t be. But she was.

Jealous.

Also stupid. She had no claim on Ravel Duralde and wanted none. He was everything she most disliked in a man. He was a professional killer, a glory-seeking soldier, a reckless gambler, a deceitful despoiler of women. The best thing that she could do would be to forget what had happened, forget what the man was and was not. Forget what he was doing and why. Forget Ravel. But could she?

Could she?

So uncomfortable were her thoughts that her impulse was to escape them. She started walking along the banquette once more, searching the revelers ahead of her for Celestine and the two men. They were not to be seen. She rose on tiptoe, trying to see above the crowd. An Arab in a flowing burnous came up behind her, jostling her so that she stumbled off-balance. She moved out of his way with only a bare glance in his direction.

The man put his hand on her arm, giving her a push toward a nearby doorway. She looked down and saw that his fingernails were dirty and broken. His mask was some kind of thick veil drawn across the bridge of his nose, leaving his eyes and forehead free. He grinned at her above it and gave her another push.

Anya snatched her arm free and stepped smartly away from the man, placing a passing pair of men in monkey costumes between her accoster and herself. She was more irritated than afraid. She was a woman without the protection of a male escort, a servant, or the company of female friends, and in the easy atmosphere of the holiday it was not surprising that she should meet with some annoyance.

As she moved on, however, the man followed her. She increased her pace. He did the same. She wove in and out between what appeared to be a family group consisting of papa, mama, and nine children ranging in ages from a teenage boy taller than his mother to a baby in the arms of its nurse. The Arab, rudely pushing aside a small girl dressed as a fairy, moved after Anya. The irate papa shouted at him, but he paid no attention.

Draping her himation more closely around her, Anya picked up her skirt and dodged across the street in the path of a dray loaded with whiskey barrels. The driver cursed and hauled on the reins, but she made it. It was a moment before she could catch her breath to look back. When she did, there were two Arabs crossing after her behind the dray.

Where were Celestine and Murray and Emile? How had they gotten so far ahead of her? Anxiously she stared down the side streets as she passed them. There was no sign of her half-sister’s russet velvet or Emile’s plumed hat. The tale Murray had mentioned of a woman being attacked nagged at her. The men could hardly do that on the open street. In any case, she had no proof they meant her that kind of harm. More likely, they thought it a fine joke. Or else her costume was more suggestive of the hetaerae, the courtesans of ancient Greece, than even she had thought. She expected the two would grow tired of the chase, whatever its purpose, in short order.

Three, not two. A third man in Arab costume came at her from a side street. She swerved away to cross the intersection on the diagonal. Even as she did so, she realized that she was being herded away from the more crowded streets. That would not do. She had to double back.

Her breath was coming in short gasps. There was a pulling pain in her side. Her sandals were rubbing blisters on the sides of her feet. Her himation kept sliding down, threatening to trip her, and the tassels that banged against her shins kept getting between her legs. The maskers she passed turned their heads to look at her as if surprised at her haste, but there were no expressions on their disguises, only blank appraisal without promise of succor. If she stopped to explain, to ask for help, she might be caught, with no one to come to her aid.

She needed a weapon, but what would avail her against three men? A pepper pot pistol designed to shoot once from each of several small barrels? A sword and the skill to use it? A cane knife and the strength to send it flailing back and forth? She had nothing, could see nothing that would be of use.

The fourth man came from around a corner ahead of her. Once more she struck out away from them, racing across the street to reach the opposite corner, fleeing down the cross street.

This was no ribald jest, no accident. The men in the Arab costumes were after her. Their flowing burnouses had been chosen in all likelihood because they were already present in abundant numbers. Using them, the men could converge on their quarry in good order, but without attracting undue attention.

There was something horrifying about those faceless, shrouded figures. They seemed unreal, the silent and relentless figments from a nightmare. All she could think of was escape, to run faster and faster. She had lost track of where she was, where she was going. She could still hear the music and sound of the crowd that was congregating on Royal Street where the parade would pass, but it was growing fainter. Her heart thudded against the wall of her chest. The wind from the river was cold in her face. Her hair flew around her. Every step was agony.

She tripped on a sagging corner of her himation and staggered, catching at an iron post that supported a gallery overhead to keep from falling. Behind her she heard a loud guffaw.