American Blood (32 page)

The surrey came to a stop in front of the Planter's House hotel. Delgado angled his horse to the opposite side of the street. Dismounting, he tethered his mount to one of the iron hitching posts and climbed up onto the sidewalk. Across the street Brent Horan emerged from the surrey and was met by a man Delgado had never seen before. He was obviously a man of breeding. He was clad in a well-tailored frock coat in hunter's green, fawn-colored trousers, polished boots, and a silk hat. He carried a malacca cane. The man gestured to the Planter's House barroom as he talked to Horan, and a moment later they entered that establishment together.

Delgado hurried across the street, dodging a horseman in a hurry and a dray wagon loaded with casks, and headed in the direction of the river. He approached the old slave, who was standing beside the surrey.

"Good afternoon," said Delgado. "Do you remember me?"

"Yessuh. Good afternoon to you, suh."

"Could you tell me, who was that man who was just speaking with Mr. Horan?"

"Dat's Mistuh William Darcy, suh. He's a long time friend of the massuh's."

Darcy! The man who, according to Jacob Bledsoe, had tried to deliver Horan's challenge the day after he and Jeremy had left St. Louis. A notorious character, Bledsoe had said. A riverboat gambler by trade, and a duelist of some note, besides.

Why had Horan come to town to meet Darcy? Perhaps just to have a friendly drink or two in the Planter's House barroom. But supposedly Horan seldom left Blackwood these days. And he was certainly in no condition to make the trip. Delgado admitted to himself that he had felt relatively safe knowing that Horan was essentially confined to the plantation by his illness. That sense of security was now proven false. Delgado felt he needed to know what Horan was up to.

"Thank you," he told the old man and followed Horan and Darcy inside.

The barroom of prestigious Planter's House was no ordinary saloon. Dark polished wood, gleaming brass, maroon and dark green upholstery, a thirty-foot pier glass above the back bar, ornately framed oils of seductive nudes, the best labels, the aroma of the finest cigar tobacco—even the spitoons were kept at a high polish. Only gentlemen were allowed in this establishment, and there was quite a few of them present at this hour, enough to keep four bartenders hopping behind the fifty-foot mahogany bar. Delgado had been here before, with Jeremy, who frequented the place when he wasn't off fighting in a war.

Delgado found a spot for himself at the end of
the bar near the street entrance and scanned the room, locating Brent Horan and William Darcy at a table beneath one of the stained glass windows depicting a white plantation house at the end of a tree-lined drive. They were staring at someone farther down the bar, unaware of Delgado's presence. Delgado hoped he could keep it that way.

"Name your poison, sir," said a barkeep.

"A cognac."

The man nodded and poured a dollop of the amber liqueur into a glass.

"Are you a guest in the hotel, sir?"

"No." Delgado paid for the drink.

"My good man, have you heard the news?" A middle-aged gentlemen had bellied up to the bar next to Delgado. He was flushed and bleary-eyed; obviously he had overindulged.

"What news are you referring to?" asked Delgado pleasantly, trying to scan the faces along the bar.

"Why, about General Winfield Scott, of course. Ol' Fuss and Feathers himself. He's captured Vera Cruz. Why, by this time, his army must be on the march for Mexico City. He'll whip that devil, Santa Anna. Mark my words, sir, the war will soon be over."

"Splendid," said Delgado. "Now, if you will excuse me . . . "

He stepped away from the bar, studying the men collected at the far end of the mahogany. If he moved deeper into the room for a better angle, Horan and Darcy could not help but see him. Quite possibly, Horan would let him alone in this public place. But Delgado didn't want to take that chance. If it was at all possible, he wanted to avoid the man altogether.

Then he saw Jeremy Bledsoe separate himself from a crowd at the far end of the bar. A belligerent cast on his features, he moved, unsteadily, toward Horan's table.

"It has come to my attention that you two gentlemen are staring at me," he said, putting a caustic slur on the word
gentlemen
.

Smiling coldly, Darcy glanced at Horan.

"We were discussing your sister, sir," said Horan. "We have heard she is involved with a ring of criminal abolitionists who help slaves escape their rightful owners. The rumor is that she does not charge a fee for the nigger bucks, as long as they consent to sleep with her."

The silence started at the tables adjacent to Horan's and spread like a highly contagious virus across the room.

"Did you hear that?" one man near Delgado whispered to another.

Delgado moved. "Jeremy!"

Jeremy glanced at him. So did Horan. But Darcy was watching Jeremy like a hawk.

As he neared the table, Delgado said, "Jeremy, don't do this. Remember the promise you made to your father."

Jeremy looked at him as though he did not know who Delgado was. Then he leaned over the table and backhanded Brent Horan.

Darcy shot to his feet. Horan remained in his chair, touching his jaw where Jeremy's knuckles had left a red welt. Triumph blazed in his eyes. He glanced at Darcy.

"Would you do the honors, Mr. Darcy?"

"I consider it a privilege, Mr. Horan," replied the gambler.

"Any time, any place," hissed Jeremy.

Darcy turned to Delgado. "Am I to assume that you will represent Mr. Bledsoe in this affair?"

Sick at heart, Delgado nodded. He wanted no part of this madness, but Jeremy was his friend, and he could not forsake him now.

"Bloody Island," said Darcy. "Tomorrow at dawn. Pistols will be Mr. Horan's weapon of choice. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly," said Delgado.

Horan got to his feet.

"Why are you doing this, Horan?" asked Delgado. "Is it because I refused to fight you?"

"Oh, you will, McKinn, you will. No, this is unfinished business between Jeremy and me. It has nothing to do with you. I don't want to leave any loose ends. Good day, gentlemen."

He walked out of the barroom.

"Bloody Island, at dawn tomorrow," said Darcy and followed Horan.

Delgado realized everyone in the place was staring at him and Jeremy. "Let's get out of here," he said.

They reached the crowded sidewalk as Horan's surrey pulled away. Darcy was seated beside Horan. Neither man looked around.

As he watched the surrey go, Delgado said, "You're a fool, Jeremy. They planned this whole thing."

"Horan is right. We have unfinished business."

"What kind of business? Damn it, Jeremy, what will I tell Sarah? And what will you tell your father?"

"You didn't have to involve yourself."

"I'm as big a fool as you are."

"Fine. I'll find someone else to serve as my second."

He started to walk away. Delgado caught up with him, took him by the arm, and spun him around.

"I haven't forgotten how you stood at my side that night in Taos, when Archuleta's men were after me and my family. I'll stand by you tomorrow. But I want to know why. I want the truth, Jeremy. Why is this happening?"

"Darcy's been watching me ever since we got back. Every day I've come here at this hour. I established a routine so Horan would know where to find me. I didn't want this to happen at my own house, in front of my father."

Delgado shook his head. "How considerate! So you never meant to keep that promise."

"It had to happen."

"But I want to know why. Why this bad blood between you and Horan?"

"I'll tell you in the morning. On the way to Bloody Island."

Delgado let go of his arm. "Jeremy, my friend, he will kill you."

"Probably. If
I
don't get him, though, it will be up to you, Del."

"I am not going to fight a duel. I have too much to live for to throw my life away."

"I don't," said Jeremy, and turned away.

3

Early the next morning before dawn, Delgado found himself in a surrey rattling through the sleeping streets of St. Louis. They had slipped out of the Bledsoe house, walked a couple of blocks along Laurel Avenue, and found the rented con
veyance waiting for them, as Jeremy had arranged. The driver was perceptive enough to know that something was afoot that he would be better off knowing nothing about, so he kept his mouth shut and attended to the business of delivering his passengers to Maple Point, which Jeremy informed him was their destination. Delgado still wanted to know the reason for the long-standing feud between his friend and Brent Horan, but Jeremy did not want to talk in the presence of the driver, so Delgado was forced to bide his time.

They had left Jacob and Sarah ignorant of the dark mission upon which they were now embarked. Jeremy insisted that no good could come from telling his father in advance, and on that score Delgado had to agree. But he had wanted to tell Sarah the whole truth. Most of all he wanted to explain to her, before the fact, why he was involved in an affair which in all likelihood would result in the death of her brother. He was afraid she would hate him for it—and hate him all the more for keeping it a secret from her. But Jeremy begged him not to speak to Sarah, and in the end Delgado agreed not to. How could he refuse Jeremy this? It would be like refusing the last wish of a dying man. Through it all ran Delgado's strong conviction that nothing on earth could deter Jeremy. This was the moment Jeremy had been living for. The question remained—why?

At Maple Point, north of the city, a boat was to be waiting for them. Jeremy had made this arrangement, too. Here they would also be met by a Dr. Loveless. According to Jeremy, Loveless was one of the few St. Louis physicians whose discretion could be relied upon by duelists. Not surprisingly, the good doctor was a Southerner who
believed devoutly in the validity of the affair of honor for the settlement of differences between gentlemen. Loveless had made numerous excursions to Bloody Island. Apart from this, he was a capable physician whose presence on the dueling ground had saved more than one life. Loveless, however, had not yet arrived at Maple Point, and Jeremy took this opportunity to finally share his secret with Delgado. Suddenly, he seemed almost eager to do so.

"Not too many years ago," he began, "I developed a real friendship with Allan Horan, Brent's older brother. The two of them were as different as the moon and the sun. Allan was a decent fellow, well liked by all who knew him. He would go out of his way to help a person in need, be they acquaintance or complete stranger. He never had a harsh word for anyone—except Brent. They were usually at odds.

"It happened that Allan and I fell in love with the same girl. Her name was Annabel—Annabel Christophe. Her father was a merchant. He's dead now. Annabel was as beautiful as . . . as an angel." Jeremy paused. His voice was trembling, and he took a moment to collect himself, staring past Delgado at the river where the dark shape of Bloody Island was silhouetted against the gray eastern sky.

"Allan and I both courted Annabel, but eventually she had to make a choice, and she chose me. Allan accepted her decision with good grace. He bore me no ill will. Our friendship was strong enough to withstand even this strain. Annabel agreed to marry me. But I ruined everything. I was an impetuous fool, then."

Delgado smiled. "I'm afraid you still are, my friend."

"Yes, yes, I suppose I am. You see I . . . we . . ." Jeremy shook his head, his features twisted with powerful emotions. "We made love, Annabel and I. She became pregnant. Needless to say, she was distraught. If her father found out, he would be outraged. He would forbid her to marry me. I would not be allowed even to see her again. Annabel's reputation would be ruined. I begged her to run away with me. We would be married and live where no one would be aware of the truth. But she wouldn't do it. The poor girl. . ." Jeremy's voice broke.

Delgado put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Did your father know?"

"Certainly not. I dared tell no one. Not even Sarah. Well, that's not exactly true. I did tell one person—Allan Horan. I knew I could trust him. He agreed that Annabel and I should leave St. Louis and promised to help us in any way he could. But then . . . then Annabel took matters into her own hands. She was in a fit of despair, Del. She wasn't thinking straight. She went to an old woman who lived on the Creve Couer. The woman gave her a potion that would cause her to miscarry. Only something went wrong, and . . . and Annabel died."

"My God. Jeremy, I'm truly sorry."

Jeremy nodded and took a moment to compose himself before continuing with his story.

"Naturally, the rumors began to spread like wildfire. And this is where Brent Horan comes in. He spread the word that Allan was the child's father. You see, Brent was always jealous of Allan. He didn't like it that Allan was the eldest and
stood to inherit Blackwood. And he knew his brother too well. Knew he wouldn't deny the charge and wouldn't point the finger at me. Of course, I admitted everything. But, oddly enough, almost everyone thought I was just trying to protect Allan, when, in fact, he was the one protecting me. I pleaded with him to tell the truth, to defend himself, expose Brent for the liar that he was. But he was too proud. He wouldn't do it. Instead, he disappeared. He did it for me, you know. He realized that his running away would convince everyone that he was, indeed, responsible for what had happened to Annabel. You have to understand, Del that her death hit him very hard. He loved her as I did. Perhaps even more than I. He went to Europe a broken man. Nothing seemed to matter to him anymore. Nothing except friendship and my good name. He sacrificed everything for me."

"I see."

"One other knew the truth—Sterling, the newspaperman. I don't know how he found out, but Allan made him swear not to tell a soul. He never did. He admired and respected Allan. Everyone who knew him did."

"So that must be why Sterling disliked Brent Horan so."

"He was a very good judge of character."