Moreau waited several seconds for the woman to calm down, her breaths coming in rapid huffs and her light-blue eyes darting from side to side like a cornered animal. She gave him an enraged look, and Moreau felt relieved that she had not bitten his fingers. He leaned close and spoke in a hushed voice. “I will withdraw my hand, if you agree not to scream.”
Her expression did not change, and he pressed his hand tighter. “Yes?”
She held her breath, glaring up fiercely, until finally she exhaled with a single curt nod. Raising his eyebrows in warning, Moreau lifted his hand an inch or two, waiting for the scream he was sure would come. When she made no noise, he slowly lifted it higher until he could see her face clearly. It was indeed the woman from the tavern two nights prior—before Araza had sauntered in with his toughs and held a knife to Moreau’s throat.
Moreau’s features eased into a snide grin but quickly turned into a grimace as the woman drove herself up from the floor and shoved him off with surprising strength. Taken aback by her quickness, Moreau shifted his weight to regain his balance, crossing his arm over the woman’s chest and forcing her back onto the floor, where he laid on top of her. She struggled for several seconds, gripping and poking with her fingers, but Moreau’s frustration gave him renewed energy, and his strength advantage allowed him to hold her in place. She did not scream or cry out, but it took all of his effort to keep her pinned, and he began to worry what impression the sounds from the scuffle would make on the people downstairs. With a quick glance behind to make sure no one had entered the room, he turned back at her with a glare, his flaring nostrils inches from her face. “I do not wish to harm you,” he growled, placing a knee on her abdomen, “but if you continue to struggle, I may have to.”
They glared at each other for several seconds, and eventually he felt her arms go limp as the resistance went out of her. Wary of another trick, he eased his grip a little but did not release her. Eventually the woman whispered in a husky voice, “If you’re not going to get off me, I may have to rethink my word not to scream.” Moreau finally eased his hold and rose up to his feet. With a shake of his head, he reached his arm down to help her up.
Rolling onto her side, she pushed herself upright with a quiet groan. When she looked back at him, her hair was disheveled and her features had relaxed into a smile, but her eyes still smoldered. She blew a strand of hair from her face and looked around the room. “Not only have you forced yourself into my business, but you’ve surely made a grave mistake skulking about in here. When Araza finds out you’ve barged into his office…” She looked at him and shrugged.
Moreau straightened his jacket and walked to the door, peering out to make sure no one was within earshot. He closed it, wincing slightly as it creaked and groaned on old, rusty hinges, then turned around and took a few slow steps forward. His disappointment at finding Araza’s corsairs absent from the tavern was quickly fading, and his thoughts now turned to exploiting this chance meeting. With a grunt, he gestured for the woman to have a seat in the chair beside the table. She responded with a roll of her eyes and a derisive chuckle. “For an alleged stranger to this city, you’ve managed to make quite a first impression.”
Moreau watched her warily but said nothing.
“If the pirates don’t kill you,” she continued, “I wonder what those boys playing soldier outside will think of you. One can’t walk two blocks here without talk of…spies and troublemakers.” Her lips curled and her eyes lowered. “You could be both.”
Walking over to the table, he picked up the candleholder. “I’ve been called worse.” Keeping his eyes on her, he stepped slowly toward the pile of documents she had been rummaging through when he entered. “What exactly are you doing here?”
The woman let out an exasperated sigh. “What am I doing here? What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m here regarding Celeste de Beaumais.”
“This is the second time you’ve brought up that name in front of me. What do you want with her?”
Had he still possessed both his hands, Moreau would have rubbed them together. Instead, he settled for an idle roll of the fingers on his right hand. The smile he’d heard referred to as “wicked” appeared on his face. “I presume you know Monsieur and Madame de Beaumais?”
She turned aside with a scornful mutter. “Of course I know them. What I wish to know is how you know them.”
Moreau met her protective glare with a look of equal intensity.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Marcel Moreau,” he said quietly. “I’ve come to collect Mademoiselle de Beaumais and return her to France. To her parents.”
“Moreau. I’ve heard Araza, perhaps one of his men, refer to a prowling Frenchman called ‘Lenoir.’”
Moreau’s expression hardened. “I gave a false name to keep anyone who might be searching for the girl from identifying me. My connection to the de Beaumais family comes from a nobleman outside Rouen. Valière. He does not wish to scandalize the family.”
“I’ve heard the name,” she replied, peering at the candle. The flame had melted away half of the candlestick, and white wax pooled in milky rivulets in the hollow of the candleholder. “But if you’re so determined to find her, could you not have found a safer place to conduct your search than the office of her lover?”
“I found you, didn’t I?’
She scoffed. “Lucky for you. If Araza had been here, you may have had to fight your way out.”
“I was counting on it.”
She pursed her lips, and her quick glance at his missing left arm left little doubt as to who she thought would get the better of such an encounter. “Well then, what do you want from me?”
“As I said, I need to find Mademoiselle de Beaumais. You can help me.”
She folded her hands. “Trusting a man like you does not seem like the foolproof proposition you make it sound. And even if I decided to help you…it is not so simple.”
Moreau looked at her thoughtfully. After a few moments of consideration, he took a step closer. “You say she loves Araza, but the feeling is not reciprocated.” He watched for any sign of argument; when he saw none, he continued. “What he does want, however, may still be within his reach: the balas ruby.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Never mind. The only thing I care about is finding the girl. However, I know where he can find the ruby. I could tell him where to find it—if he were to…draw her into the city.”
For a moment the only sound was a faint wind gust rattling the windowpane. At length the woman sighed. “Even if you managed to convince Araza to meet you, and that is quite an if…what kind of servant would I be if I allowed you two to lure her into a trap?”
“I said nothing of a trap. Simply a rendezvous with a family friend from France.” He waited a moment to let her consider the idea. “If you truly thought my intentions malicious, you would not have told me as much as you have. I’m beginning to think you might share my aims, if not my urgency.”
She rolled her eyes but did not offer a rebuttal.
“I’m also guessing you have your own reasons for wishing to remove her from that plantation. No need to look at me like that, it is none of my business.”
“The first sensible thing you’ve said all night.”
“I would not ask you to put your lady in a dangerous position; but if, as you say, she still loves this man, then perhaps he can…induce her to come here. On some pretense. All that would be needed is his summons, and her agreement. You seem the person most likely to facilitate both.” Satisfied with his impromptu plan, he looked at her with as friendly an expression as he could manage; in the past he had not always been successful.
Pulling a strand of hair from her face, she said, “I’m not sure why I’m even considering trusting the likes of you, monsieur. If my lady ever got word of this…” Her nervous look finished the thought for her. With a sidelong glance, she spoke slowly, as if thinking aloud. “Araza wants the ruby more than anything—why I’m not sure; all men have their peculiarities. And she wants to make him sick with envy, because she wants him back.”
“All women have their peculiarities.”
Her expression told him not to interrupt. “So, if Araza could be convinced of your claim, that you know where the ruby can be found, perhaps he could convince her to meet him.”
“I do know where it can be found. Can you pry her from that plantation and get her here?”
The woman considered it, her features taking on an anxious aspect. “She bores easily. And though she spends half her waking hours railing against that ‘pirate rogue,’ she still pines for him. She’ll have my hide if she learns of it before the fact…but I think I can manage it.”
“Good.” Moreau nodded. “A peaceful solution. I had come here to challenge the idiot to a duel.”
The woman shook her head, but her expression showed little surprise. “I’m not sure who the ‘idiot’ is. Had he been here, he would have accepted, if he didn’t have his men slit your throat. Either way, you would have been in trouble.”
Moreau grinned humorlessly. “There’s still time to test that notion.”
With another shake of her head, she raised her eyebrows. “Well, now that we are conspiring together—are you going to ask for my name?”
Moreau looked at her and shrugged.
“Ugh,” she hissed, giving him a cold frown. “You’re no better than he is.”
Moreau took her hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it gently. “It would be my greatest pleasure to have your name, mademoiselle.”
She pulled her hand away and reached to pick up the candleholder. “It’s a bit too late for charm, monsieur. You’ve already showed yourself to be a…dangerous intriguer.”
Moreau spread his arm and bowed his head.
“But,” she went on, “as I myself have had little success thus far in uprooting the girl from her new life at Le Mouton Plantation, I suppose I might tolerate you for a little while. My name is Elyse Pasteur.”
“Charmed, mademoiselle,” Moreau answered as politely as he could, noting that she did not correct “mademoiselle” to “madame.” “I am staying at the inn with green shutters on Dauphine Street. You may leave a note or call on me there.”
With a look that revealed her surprise at having just agreed to a secret plan hatched with a prowling stranger, she gave him a furtive nod—to which he replied with a forced smile. “And then,” she uttered, tightening her cloak around her, “I’ll never have to see you again.”
Moreau ignored her comment as he picked up the candle, motioning for her to lead the way out of the room. “And I’d assumed you were sleeping with him.”
One foot outside the doorway she stopped, rounding on him with an indignant look. “Ugh, no! I would never come between my mistress and her…former lover.”
Moreau shrugged. “Stranger things have come between friends.”
“Mademoiselle de Beaumais is not my friend; she is my superior and I am her attendant. And if I am kept much longer, she will be most unhappy.” Moreau grunted. With an effort she regained her calm and let out a breath. “That man left me and my lady for dead in an alligator-infested swamp; I could never be with him. But, she’s still in love with him, and refuses to think of leaving. So I am here to try and—”
The sound of boots thumping up the stairs forced them to halt. Reaching a hand out, Moreau grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the desk, then dashed into the shadow-darkened corner behind the door. A few seconds later the faint light of a candle appeared in the hallway, quickly followed by the sound of a man’s voice. Moreau peered from behind the door and saw Elyse standing nervously behind the desk, rummaging through a small stack of papers.
“Who’s there?” A deep voice called out, not ten paces away.
Elyse looked up and swallowed. “Is that you, Tadeo?” she called.
Silence.
A few seconds later the sound of boots tramping into the room caused her to take a half step back, and the light from the man’s candelabra blended with that of the candle to illuminate nearly all of the room. Moreau slid tighter behind the door, cursing his lack of urgency while speaking with her.
“As I live and breathe,” the deep voice broke the silence. “Mademoiselle from France.”
“Burning the midnight oil, are we?” another man’s voice sounded. Moreau cursed silently. Of course there had to be two.
Elyse smirked, looking briefly down at the papers in her hands then back up at the men standing across from her. Moreau inched his head out from behind the door. The nearest man wore a dirty, dark-green coat and had a black kerchief wrapped around his head. His hands rested on his hips, and to Moreau’s frustration, a sword hilt was visible protruding from his coat. Elyse cleared her throat. “I’ve come with a message for your captain, but I found him away.”
“Uh-huh. And is there anything else you’d like to share with us, mademoiselle?”
Elyse squinted, evidently regaining her equilibrium after being caught so off-guard. “Such as?”
The man in the black bandana folded his arms, his head turning to look around the room. “We heard voices, mademoiselle. Yours…and a man’s.”
Moreau winced, his heart beginning to beat slightly faster at the prospect of what he knew was coming. Once again cursing his lack of a sword, he ran a hand along his belt. Compared to the cumbersome boots in which he’d trudged to Le Marais and back, the pair he wore currently felt nimble, and he wiggled his toes.
“I don’t know what you think you heard,” Elyse droned. “I often speak aloud when I’m deep in thought. For those of us who read, it is sometimes helpful—”
“We know you’re up here,” one of the men cut her off in a loud voice. “If you come out now, perhaps we won’t—”
Without further thought, Moreau shoved the door with all his might, and for a split second held his breath. A loud thump came as the door crashed into the man in the black bandana, and Moreau sprang out from behind it, landing in a crouch, ready to dive to the floor. His instinct had been correct, as the bald man beside the fellow in the bandana held a knife in his hand. Both stumbled as they moved to separate, and Moreau bounced to his toes and rammed his shoulder into the bald man, smashing his back into the nearby cupboard. With a curse, the man in the bandana dropped the candelabra, but by some miracle the candles snuffed themselves out before they hit the floor.
Pulling himself upright, Moreau turned rapidly and saw the other man reaching for his sword. Without thinking, Moreau closed his fist and slammed it into the man’s face, sending him to the floor, his sword several inches out of its scabbard. Elyse, who had stood in stunned silence up to this point, edged toward the window, but as she did so, her arm struck her own candle off the table, sending it to the floor—where it set a scrap of parchment on fire. Staring first at Moreau and then back at the man slumped against the cupboard, Elyse screamed when she saw the paper burning. As the man Moreau had punched began to rise, dazed and his nose dripping blood, Moreau swung his fist again and caught the fellow in the temple, dropping him like a sack of potatoes, his head thumping hard against the floor.
The bald man bellowed angrily behind him, and Moreau braced himself for the inevitable knife attack. Moving with speed and fluidity honed by years of combat, Moreau leaned down toward the unconscious fellow and reached for his half-drawn sword, grabbing it by the hilt and ripping it from its scabbard. Not wishing to accidentally hit Elyse, he did not swing the saber as widely as he might have, but the act was sufficient to force the bald man, now fully recovered, to a quick halt. Squaring his feet beneath him, Moreau stared at the fellow, who looked familiar; surely they had met before. Dismissing the thought, Moreau lowered the sword and pointed the tip at the man’s belly, causing him to jump back hurriedly, banging into the cupboard. Moreau snarled as the man in the bandana rose from the floor, and then turned and dashed out the door.
As he gained the top of the stairs, Moreau heard a loud, angry scream, followed by the bald man’s heavy footsteps thundering on the floorboards of the hallway. With a careless leap, Moreau jumped down perhaps eight or nine steps in a single bound, landing hard close to the bottom of the stairway. His hip took most of the force of the painful landing, and he bounced down the remaining two or three steps without losing momentum. As he paused briefly at the bottom of the stairs, a whirling shape flashed past a few inches from his face, followed a split-second later by a ka-chunk as a dagger thudded into the nearby wall, its handle wobbling back and forth.
Without looking back, Moreau ran through the room, vaguely aware of several faces staring at him as he flew past. Still holding the sword in his hand, he ignored the sound of another blade being unsheathed and burst through the door into the street, where a welcome darkness flooded his senses, contrasting sharply with the light from the tavern. Unsure which way to go, he turned left and sprinted down the street, straining his ears for any sign of pursuit. His racing heart seemed to add speed to his legs, and for a block or two he ran at a dead sprint, not bothering to look at the street signs to get his bearings.
Finally rounding onto Bourbon Street, he slackened his pace a little, until an obstruction in front of him brought him to an abrupt halt. Panting heavily and holding the sword at the low ready, he cursed aloud when he realized what he had stumbled into. Standing not twenty feet in front of him were perhaps a dozen uniformed soldiers, all well-armed and most with their muskets or pistols pointing at him. Alarmed by the sudden appearance of an armed man, they stared at him with wide eyes, which Moreau knew to be dangerous when weapons were involved. From their uniforms they looked to be army soldiers, not militia, but he knew that any abrupt move would mean his death, so he slowly set the sword on the ground and raised his hand above his head.