Underground Captive (10 page)

    
             
Jared shook each one of their hands.  "'Tis a pleasure to see ye gentlemen again."

    
             
“Again?”  Louis flushed.  "Forgive me,
Monsieur
Fleming.  I did not realize you knew them."

    
             
"An understandable mistake,
Monsieur
Aupre.  Ye've been out of the city for so long ye couldn't have known."

    
             
"
Monsieur
Fleming, the pleasure is all mine, suh," Allain Deveraux said.  "I've had the occasion to meet you only once to discuss a consignment for one of your carriages.  I must say your work is sheer craftsmanship.  I have the pleasure of owning a Fleming Barouche."

    
             
"I'm pleased,
Monsieur
Deveraux, that ye've found satisfaction in my workmanship."

"But,
Monsieur
Fleming, you are a craftsman?  As I recall you said you were a soldier of fortune."

    
             
Jared met Louis’s surprised gaze and grinned slyly.  "Did I?"

    
             
Louis laughed.  "
Monsieur
, you were pulling my leg.  Of course, you are the respected carriage maker that my parents speak so highly of.  They, too, own a Fleming carriage.  A landau, I think.  I like you, Jared Fleming, and I would like to be counted among your friends."

    
             
"Consider yerself counted, Louis," Jared said with a smile.

    
             
"
Monsieur
Fleming, you don't own slaves or have any blacks working at your warehouses," Christian Falgout grumbled from the table next to him, narrowed beady blue eyes at Jared.  "Tell me what is it you have against slave owners?"

    
             
An ominous silence fell over the room at once, undivided attention on Jared.  He turned his head slowly to the sound of the voice, locking his glare with Falgout's.  "
Monsieur
Falgout," he said, chillingly calm, "who I choose to work for me is of no concern of yers.  I happen to think there are poor whites who also need to eke out a living for themselves and their families.  I'm not adverse to hiring them."

    
             
"You seem rather defensive,
Monsieur
Fleming," Christian persisted, his face a glittering mask of fury.  "Is it because you have a grievance against slave owners?  Or are you in league with the Black Rider as rumor suggests?" 

    
             
"Christian!  It seems to me that you are trying to provoke some kind of confrontation with Jared," Louis interrupted, his voice hoarse with irritation.  "You pompous ass, you insist that
Monsieur
Fleming had connections with the Black Rider, which I consider absurd.  No matter how he feels about slavery, I know he'd never deal with the likes of the Black Rider."

"Stay out of this, Louis," Christian blazed, ignoring the

disapproving stares of the other planters.  "The provocation is with
Monsieur
Fleming, himself.  He is the only one here who does not own slaves and the only one who has nothing to lose when one of them runs away."

    
             
"Tread carefully, Falgout.  Don't let yer bristling tongue lose yer head for ye," Jared warned in a low voice that held an undertone of cold contempt.

    
             
"Lose my head, indeed," Christian spat.  "Not by the arrogant likes of you,
monsieur
.  You need to be brought down from your high faluting hill!"

    
             
"I take it ye're challenging me to a duel, Falgout?"

    
             
"You take it correctly,
monsieur
.  And when I kill you, I think the runaways will cease.  My seconds will call on you."

   
             
Jared stared at him for a moment.  "Very well,
Monsieur
Falgout.  'Tis yer life.  I'll pass on the traditional slap in the face."  He turned and walked through the door to the restaurant and crossed to the entrance, his back stiff with pride.

    
             
"Christian, what have you done?" Louis demanded, censure in his tone.  "Your father will not be pleased to hear of this.  You could get yourself killed and you're his only son."

    
             
"Louis, my father will understand," Christian sneered.  "It's because of people like Jared Fleming that those Blacks begin to think of uprisings.  The sooner we're rid of scum such as he, the better."

    
             
"Don't be an ass, Christian," Charles snapped, his lips thinning with anger.  "After the last attempted uprising more than several decades ago the offenders were caught and made examples of.  That quelled any more thoughts of such nonsense.  I think,
monsieur
, you can come up with a better excuse than that for your foolhardiness."

"Louis, will you be one of my seconds?" Christian asked, ignoring Charles's reprimand.

    
             
He almost made it sound as if he were doing him a favor by asking Louis to be one of his seconds.  Christian and his father, Edmond, abused their slaves and had those poor creatures living in constant fear of them.  Both Falgout men had quadroon mistresses and a number of babies they'd fathered from their female slaves at the Falgout plantation, New Hope.  Louis liked Jared.  He didn't wish to offend him and have him for an enemy.  But it was an honor to be called upon in such a matter by a childhood friend.  Even if that friend was a man like Christian Falgout.

    
             
"
Oui
, I will be one of your seconds," he said somberly, bowing his head.

    
             
"Then let's not hope that we'll have to take up Christian's and Jared's battle, Louis.  I'd hate to kill or maim one of my friend's sons."

Christian pointed a disbelieving finger.  "You,
Monsieur
Duplantier, will stand

as one of Fleming's seconds?"

    
             
"If
Monsieur
Fleming has need of my services,
oui
, I shall offer myself.  If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I must see if I can locate Jared at his home.  I trust that we'll be hearing from you before the night is over."  With that, Charles left the ominously silent room.

    
             
In the furor of the moment, no one noticed the departure of the young man who had witnessed the entire scene from one of the darkened corners. Indeed, no one had noticed his arrival.

    
             
Not long after Charles left, Ricard vacated the premises, knowing the deadly chance he'd taken.  Being tired and hungry from this day's work that began at midnight, he'd taken no regards for the grave results if discovered.

    
             
He retrieved his horse from the stable and thought of Omri, the horse he'd left behind at Crescent Wood.  Thoughts of the family plantation always brought to mind his baby sister.  His heart twisted in his chest whenever images of that vixenish hellion came to mind.

    
             
But for Jared Fleming, whose name he learned tonight, Ricard would have assisted Nicki the day she arrived home.  He'd been on the docks, having just vacated a separate steamer.  Of course he would not have been able to stay, but he would have had a chance to speak to her.

    
             
He wished
Monsieur
Fleming luck with that bloodthirsty fool, Falgout.  Or maybe, he should wish that bloodthirsty fool luck with
Monsieur
Fleming.

    
             
Ricard brought the black thoroughbred, Yvonne's Pride, to a halt on the docks and furtively glanced over his surroundings.

He had taken an unforgivable chance coming here.  His ire roused at his foolery, he turned the horse and started for the levee--anguish, anger, contempt, and guilt his only friends this night.

He wore only tan breeches, an unfrilled, white cotton shirt, black riding boots, and a wide brimmed hat that was brought low to shield his eyes and hair from view.  His expansive chest lent to his flat stomach and narrow hips.  The sinewy muscles of his arms and legs were well defined as the expert equestrian and powerful horse became one graceful being that demonstrated their confidence and sleekness only to the moon.

    
             
Ricard's long, bronzed fingers held loosely to Pride's reins, soon coming to a barely noticeable narrow trail that hid a pathway to the river beyond.  Trees surrounded the area.  Only the foolish, brave, or desperate would venture into the densely shrouded swampland.  The evil darkness and eerie bellows made Ricard wonder just which should he classify himself as.

    
             
His business completed in New Orleans, his goal, until the next time, successfully accomplished, with a heavy heart Ricard quietly boarded the paddlewheeler.  He guided Yvonne's Pride in, then brought the horse to its padded stall.

   
             
As Ricard, with the help of his loyal crew, steered the Magnolia Blossom

upriver, he had a strange premonition that he and Jared Fleming were destined to meet.

    
             
Something told him that Jared Fleming was the last person he wanted to become acquainted with, and Ricard sighed wearily.

7

             
Holding a glass containing scotch, Jared sat alone in the drawing room, pondering the events of the evening.  He had no intentions of killing that fool unless it became absolutely necessary.  Confident of victory regardless of what weapons they used, he would give Falgout a prominent limp for his arrogance.  Jared took a swallow of scotch, thinking that some Creoles, after all these years, still didn't care for Americans living in their midst.  And he knew they considered him to be an American because of his place of residency.

             
Falgout was getting in over his head challenging him to a duel.

    
             
Jared drew in a weary breath, thinking back to before he left Scotland.  He'd begun learning the art of handling swords and firearms at the age of twelve.  And upon his arrival in New Orleans, he'd enrolled in the dueling academy ran by the Spanish ex-patriot, Jose "Pepe" Llula, in Exchange Alley to continue practicing his skill.

    
             
Nay, he didn't wish to murder someone because of their own stupidity.

    
             
Why couldn't these people mind their own blasted business? he thought, ignoring the light tap that sounded on the door.

    
             
The knock sounded a second time, only louder.  Scowling, Jared looked at the door a moment, then barked permission for the tapper to enter.

    
             
"Pardon, master, 'ere's a gentleman by the name o' Charles Duplantier tae see ye," Angus explained.

Jared frowned.  "Charles Duplantier?"

 
             
"Aye.  Sha' I show 'im in?"

    
             
"Well, aye, Angus.  By all means show
Monsieur
Duplantier in," Jared said, getting up, going to the door.  "Charles, welcome to my home.  May I ask what brought ye here?" he asked in a friendly tone.

    
             
"The cabriolet that's waiting for me outside."

    
             
Not finding humor in Charles's remark, Jared remained unsmiling.

"Ahem, er,
monsieur
, I can see you are not in a joking mood.  Under the circumstances I can understand why."

Arching his eyebrows and looking him in the eye, he waited for Charles

to continue.

"Do you have seconds for this unfortunate duel?"

"Only one, Charles.  Angus will assist me for lack of anyone else.

Unfortunately my good friend, Morgan Turner, is at his home in St. Louis."

"I think you know what I am trying to say."

   
             
Jared smiled.  "I would be honored to have ye as a second.  Have ye a clue as to when 'twill take place?"