The Creole Princess (22 page)

He hesitated. Maybe he should forget the whole thing and return to the party. One more dance with Lyse—

Then out of the darkness came a growled half-curse, followed by an indistinguishable answer in a deep, Creole-accented voice. That second voice—Lyse’s brother Simon. He’d met Lanier only once, and that nearly a year ago, but a musical ear for voices was perhaps his greatest gift. He continued toward the water, angling south toward the second pier.

The voices grew louder, amplified by the water but distorted by distance. Now Rafa distinguished two dark figures moving around on a midsized vessel. One man was bullish, with big shoulders hunched under a large head, the other tall and lithe, the build of a healthy young man in the prime of life.

Rafa slowed and slouched into a boneless, drunken meander perfected while watching the court cards of Madrid when he was at university. He began to whistle the first thing that came into his head, the air from “Love in a Village.”

The argument onboard the boat halted.

“Who’s there?” demanded Lanier.

The Bull sneered, “Just some redcoat wandering the wrong way back to the fort. Pay him no mind.”

“Shut up,” Lanier said. “Wait until he’s gone by.”

“Whatever you say.”

Rafa staggered past a stack of empty kegs and lurched into them.
They fell with a rattle and boom of empty wood, rolling under Rafa’s feet. With an exclamation he fell heavily and lay supine. After a moment he began to snore.

He could hear the men on the boat laughing.

“See, nothing to worry about,” the Bull snickered.

The two men continued to shift some cargo across a gangplank. From his vantage point among the tumbled kegs, Rafa counted some twenty crates they moved from the pier to the hold of the boat, apparently heavy ones, judging by the grunts and swearing. Consumed with curiosity, he listened, trying to determine what exactly was being transported, and where.

When the last crate had been hauled over and disposed of, the two stood panting on the pier. Lanier gave the Bull a jingling handful of coins and said, “There’s more if you can keep this quiet. I’ll be back in a few months, depending on how long it takes me to disperse this.” He paused, his tone darkening. “Not a word to anybody, hear me?”

“This is more than I’ve made in months, Chazet,” the Bull growled. “No need to threaten me.”

It was all Rafa could do to keep from sitting straight up. He had heard that name before—in reference to the pirate in the Gulf who had absconded with the king’s gold.

Several pieces fell into place.

But a multitude of questions rose to take their place. How much did Lyse know of her brother’s clandestine activities? Where had Simon been keeping the gold to this point? Where was he moving it now? And why? What did Major Redmond have to do with it, if anything?

Of course Rafa wanted it back. He
must
have it back, because the American cause depended on its delivery to purchase arms, uniforms, food, and other necessities. But perhaps there was a way to obtain it without bloodshed, maybe even deliver it to General Washington without further expense to the Spanish crown.

Think, Rafa.

He must get a message to Gálvez in New Orleans, because he was going to need help. Perhaps one of his brothers could meet him—but again,
where?

Acting on instinct alone, he sat up with a snort and loud groan. He was still rubbing his eyes when he felt cold, hard metal press against his temple.

“Make a move and I will blow your head off, Spaniard.”

He opened one eye and squinted up at Lanier—Chazet the pirate, Rafa reminded himself. Lyse’s brother. The Bull stood right behind him, a second musket aimed at Rafa’s midsection. “
Hola
, my dear señor,” he said, grimacing at Lanier. “Someone, as you see, left a very untidy pile of barrels right in my path. Sorry if I disturbed you.” He extended a hand. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind—”

“I wouldn’t mind pitching you into the river,” Lanier said grimly. “What are you doing here, and why are you following me?”

Rafa sighed. “I would be happy to tell you, but I confess the gun in my face is upsetting my already queasy stomach.”

Lanier glanced at his companion, who shrugged, and both men stepped back. As he pushed to his feet, however, Rafa noticed that neither gun wavered.

He took the bull by the horns, so to speak, and shoved aside Lanier’s musket, an expensive flintlock of Italian origin. Interesting. “I’m not following you,” he said with less-than-absolute candor. “I came down here on a notion that I might find someone willing to help me move supplies out to my ship.” He paused. “I believe you are in the family transport business?”

Lanier’s frown deepened. “I saw you at Burelle’s, dancing with Daisy—Miss Redmond. There was nothing stronger to drink there than the worst lemonade in West Florida. Cut line, Gonzales. You
were
following me, and you are neither drunk nor stupid. So tell me what game you are playing.”

Rafa blinked. That emotion he saw in the Frenchman’s eyes was
mainly jealousy, mixed with the obvious distrust and puzzlement. Lanier was in love with the major’s daughter. Which explained a lot. “I certainly did dance with the lovely Miss Redmond, and the lemonade is undoubtedly the source of my dyspepsia. Also, I rejoice that you perceive me to be an intellect, though my Latin tutor might disagree with you.” He scratched his head. “Where was I? Oh, yes—I was looking for a man named Chazet, but if I attached myself to the wrong shadow, I sincerely apologize.”

Lanier flinched. “Chazet is no longer here. What do you want of him?”

“He has something that belongs to me, and I should like to have it back.”

Rafa had kept his voice deliberately cool and light, but the words hung between them, a palpable threat.

Lanier said coldly, “You shouldn’t expect him to have retained whatever you lost.”

“That is a great deal too bad.” Rafa shrugged. “You must tell him—should you chance to see him when he returns—that no matter what style of brigand the English have been tolerating in the Gulf, our new governor Gálvez is determined to stop the smugglers using New Orleans as a clearinghouse for their wares.”

“Is it so?” Lanier’s lips twitched. “And what does he propose to do about it? Theoretically speaking, that is.”

Rafa was pleased to note that the musket was now pointing at the ground, and Lanier’s attitude seemed almost amused. Bull had taken to looking back and forth between the two of them, an expression of dumb confusion coloring his blunt features.

“Why—” Rafa spread his hands—“he has authorized and armed his Spanish majesty’s navy with the means to halt, board, and search any vessel which approaches the waters of the city. If her captain does not possess proper documentation for all laden goods, Gálvez reserves the right to seize the ship and confiscate her cargo.”

Lanier’s amusement vanished. “That’s grounds for war!”

“Oh, no, it is all quite within the most recent trade agreement between Madrid and London.” With a subtle flick of his wrist that he was sure would have delighted Lyse, Rafa produced a knife from his sleeve and let its oiled blade gleam in the moonlight. “But, my dear señor, I beg you not to commence waving about that terrifying gun again, because I have a proposition that I think you will like, if you take but a moment to ponder its wisdom.”

“A proposition?” Lanier sneered. “By all means, let’s hear it.”

“Why, simply this. I propose that you and I become . . . partners, shall we say, and enter the port of New Orleans together. If you come in under my aegis, there is likely to be little fuss about such details as documentation and cargo manifests.”

“Now I know you are insane! What do you expect to gain from this—this—partnership?” Lanier spat the word as if it burnt his mouth. “And what makes you think I plan to sail to New Orleans?”

Rafa wanted to laugh. Sometimes, oh, his job was so much fun. “Well, as to that, you are clearly upset by Governor Gálvez’s previously unsuspected backbone. And as to what I hope to gain . . . let us just say that I would like a share in whatever is in your hold.”

Lyse lay awake late into the night, listening to Daisy’s muffled sobs, wondering what her pestilential brother had said to provoke such despair—and touching her lips, where the imprint of Rafa’s mouth still lingered like the taste of blackberries after rain.

What a wanton to have allowed such privilege without mention of one word of marriage. And after all, what did she know about him, beyond surface chatter at the social functions they had attended? That he had a mother and a beloved sister. He liked to fish and pretended not to be good at it. He was a merchant who spoke at least three languages. He had a delightful, whimsical sense of humor and sang like an angel. His clothes were beautiful and he could make a living as a dance instructor.

In short, she knew little—except that, with him, nothing was as it seemed. Like one of those beautiful jewel-toned lizards that in the summertime sunned themselves in the Redmonds’ garden, Rafa would take on the color of the closest background. And then disappear without the least notice.

She would be wise to cast her lot with Niall, who could be depended upon to say what he meant and mean what he said.

Father, have mercy on me
, she thought.
I am undone.

She rolled out of bed and slid to her knees beside the bed. She’d always prayed in times of crisis. And her life had been one crisis after another. Surely there were calluses on her knees. And now Rafa had blown like a hurricane across her little island of peace here with the Redmonds, stirring up longings that could never be met. For all she knew, he had gone back to New Orleans without a word of goodbye. After he’d uttered those weak words “depend upon it” and left her
,
she’d seen him work his way to the musicians’ dais. Then, while her back was turned, he had simply vanished.

Prayer would not come. She knelt with her forehead pressed to the counterpane, eyes squeezed shut, knees aching. Daisy was quiet now. Perhaps she had fallen asleep. Or maybe she lay awake as well, trying to form words of self-comfort.

Lyse pushed to her feet, found her slippers and robe, and padded down the hall to Daisy’s room. She opened the door. “Daisy,” she whispered. “Are you asleep?”

“No.” The answer was hoarse, teary. “I just—can’t sleep.”

Lyse slipped inside the room. “Me either. Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Bedclothes rustled as Daisy sat up. “What’s the matter?”

Lyse felt her way to the bed and climbed onto it. “I heard you crying,” she said, pulling her knees up under her chin. She could see the outline of Daisy’s white bedcap and nightgown, a small ghost hunched in the canopied bed. “What did Simon do this time?”

“Nothing.”

Lyse waited, but when Daisy failed to elaborate, she scooted closer. “I saw him leave with the major and come back for you. I’ve never seen Simon dressed like that before. Daisy? Did you refuse him?” Her voice rose with incredulity. “You’ve loved Simon your whole life!”

Daisy’s breath began to hitch. “Of course I didn’t refuse him! He wouldn’t—he didn’t—he said he had to do something for my father first, but he made me promise not to tell!”

“But that’s crazy! Daisy, he loves you, you know he does. Whatever is holding him back is . . . surely not forever. You know how proud he is. He won’t take anything, even from Grandpére. I’m sure he’s still working to earn your father’s favor. That’s it, isn’t it? Your father wouldn’t let him speak to you!” It made sense. Major Redmond would of course want to make sure Daisy was well provided for.

But what about that cache of gold hidden near Simon’s houseboat? Had he used that to buy the fine clothes he’d worn tonight? Had he offered it to the major as a bride gift?

Daisy shook her head. “No,” she said in a forlorn voice. “Simon wouldn’t even ask Papa for my hand. Or, at least . . . I don’t think he did. He just said Papa gave him some sort of assignment that he had to complete . . . but I’m not to wait for him . . . past a year—” Daisy’s voice splintered into a wail as she bent over and grasped the counterpane in both hands. “Oh, Lyse! What am I to do?”

Lyse cupped her hands over the back of Daisy’s head and held her as she wept. “But Daisy . . . what do you mean, not to wait? Did he imply that he might not come back?”

Daisy groaned. “I don’t know. I can’t bear to think about it!”

Lyse couldn’t bear it either. Now both Simon and Rafael were gone, leaving Daisy and her abandoned. She fought her own tears. Daisy would need her friendship more than ever. Indeed, they must bear one another up as Scripture commanded.

Because there was nothing else to do, she bowed her head over Daisy’s shaking body and began to whisper a prayer for comfort.

But if God was listening, his silence was deafening.

When Lyse fell silent, Daisy turned her face. “There’s . . . something else that makes this worse. I couldn’t tell Simon, I certainly can’t tell my father, but Lyse, you’re like my sister. I trust you with my life. Will you promise to keep my secret?”

“Yes, of course.”

Daisy sat up. “Light the candle. Then look under the bed.”