The Scent of Betrayal (22 page)

‘Well, brother,’ said Harry, pointing to one particularly fine mulatto girl, ‘this seems to be your sort of place. Shall we go in?’

Pender eased a long-bladed knife in the sheath on his belt.

‘After you, your honour.’

THE WALL
of warm smoky air hit them as they walked through the door, with the sound of music barely discernible above the numerous voices. A tall grey-haired black man, dressed in a striped silk coat and tight black breeches, came from behind a desk, his approach slow and measured. Harry could see his eyes ranging over these new arrivals, sorting them out with a professional eye. Pender had dropped back slightly, but the reaction he produced when he saw their exceedingly muddy boots owed nothing to heirarchy. Harry asked him for a table, in French, and was a touch put out when the man addressed them in flawless English.

‘Welcome to the Hôtel de la Porte d’Orléans, gentlemen. Might I be allowed to send you someone to clean your footwear before you enter the public area?’

‘Thank you,’ said James, having looked down at his feet for the first time. He’d been aware that his shoes were dirty, but not the extent. ‘I’m afraid we got rather lost.’

‘So easy to do, sir, on such a well-illuminated road.’ James looked up to see the full white smile of the elderly Negro. The man was pointing to a long bench which stood off to one side. ‘If you care to take a seat, gentlemen, I will send a boy to attend to you.’

Harry nodded absent-mindedly. His attention was taken up with scanning the room. They could be in this one tavern for days given the warren-like nature of the place and the number of customers crammed inside its walls. The tables on the ground floor were arranged around an open space with a great gas flame in the centre, smack in the middle of a fountain. Several people, again a mixture of races, were dancing lively reels. Other small rooms
seemed to serve different groups of serious drinkers. The balcony, apart from that section occupied by the musicians, was full also, with people of every colour in groups of various size, drinking, eating, and talking at the top of their voices. There was a separate section towards the back of the building, nearly as large as the main ballroom. Through the heavy smoke Harry could see a long crowded bar, full of oddly dressed men, noisily swigging drinks.

‘I see our host caters for all tastes,’ said James, pointing in that direction. ‘He even provided a facility for the roughest portion of the populace.’

Harry looked closer, noticing the mode of dress, and straining to hear he picked up the sound of what he took to be frontier English.

‘I think they are the riverboat men, brother. And from what we’ve heard from both Pollock and McGillivray, separation would appear to be sound common sense.’

Having given his instructions to another servant, the silk-clad Negro returned. ‘I must ask you, sirs, to deposit any weapons you may be carrying with me. If you lay them on the desk, I will label them with your name and return them to you when you depart.’

Harry took off his sword and Pender surrendered both his club and the long-bladed knife. James, who’d only bought a stick, shook his head.

‘Is that really all you carry, gentlemen? No knives tucked in boots, for instance?’

‘None,’ Harry replied, allowing himself to be led, like the others, to the long bench that lined one wall.

‘Then you are clearly strangers to the Crescent City. Now what name shall I place them under?’

‘Ludlow.’ The old man’s grey eyebrows shot up, which made Harry add a quick explanation. ‘We were invited to come here by El Señor de Fajardo de Coburrabias. He said we should ask for Mademoiselle Feraud, and present his personal compliments.’

The old man who’d recovered his poise, stiffened at the name, like a soldier coming into the presence of an officer.

‘Certainly, gentlemen. I will inform Mademoiselle Hyacinthe that you are here, Captain Ludlow.’

‘What a wonderful name,’ said Harry, as a small Negro boy began to work on their boots with a damp cloth. ‘Hyacinthe.’

‘Don’t raise your hopes, brother. I’ve been in such places in Paris. They are, without exception, run by ladies of advanced years whose ugliness is only surpassed by their avarice. The “Mademoiselle” is not a voluntary state.’

Harry laughed. ‘It’s not just in Paris, James. Such creatures are to be found in every port I ever visited.’

‘Did I detect a hint of recognition in that old man’s face?’

‘I think so,’ Harry replied. ‘He called me Captain. I take New Orleans to be as gossipy as every other anchorage. News has obviously got out about us, and our predicament. The question is, how much and how accurate.’

‘Would it be an idea if I was to get down among the rivermen, your honour? Who knows, with them being English-speakers I might pick up something.’

‘Good idea,’ said Harry, after a brief pause. ‘But don’t get into any fights. They have a fearsome reputation.’

Pender laughed. ‘You can say what you like about ’em, Capt’n, but they ain’t no different to what you’d find in a Portsmouth tavern any day of the week.’

He stood up, which produced a slight hint of panic in the shoeshine boy’s face. He’d finished Harry and was halfway through James. Pender grinned at him and patted him on the shoulder.

‘Don’t you fret, nipper. I don’t need no clean boots where I’m a’going.’

It was doubtful whether the boy understood. But the tone of Pender’s voice made him smile, white teeth that gleamed against his flawless, almost polished black skin. Harry saw a trace of a shadow cross Pender’s face, and wondered if he was thinking of his own children, far away at the Ludlow family house in Kent.
His servant never mentioned how much he cared for them. But then he didn’t have to say anything to men who’d seen the happiness he displayed when he received a letter from his eldest daughter. Both brothers followed his progress across the smoky room. Only when they looked back did they become aware of the lady standing before them. The major-domo who’d taken their weapons stood beside her. When they looked at him, which was several seconds later, he favoured them with a low bow.

‘Captain Ludlow, may I present to you the head of this establishment, Mademoiselle Hyacinthe Feraud.’

Neither Harry nor James gasped as they jumped to their feet. But if such a sound had burst from their breasts they would have been forced to admit it to be deserved. The lady that stood before them was an outstanding beauty, and what’s more one who, judging by the smoothness of her skin, could not be more than twenty years of age. A half-caste, her features combined the best of the races that had contributed to her creation. That skin, smooth and glistening, was a dark coffee shade, but the nose and mouth were European. Her eyes, lively and large, were a deep, deep brown in colour, with the whites very obvious against the tone of her complexion. Dressed in a pink silk garment that showed the curves of her body, they were aware of the outlines of the willowy figure it contained. It was trimmed at throat and wrists by sparkling white lace, the
décolletage
cut low enough to reveal a handsome bosom. On her head she wore a matching pink and white scarf, piled high so that it added several inches to her perceived height, this decorated by silken ropes of pink, set with pearls. Even in the smoky atmosphere, the smell of her musky perfume wafted towards them.

‘Captain Ludlow,’ she said, smiling. When Harry nodded she held out a hand and stepped forward. ‘Then you must be Monsieur James Ludlow.’

‘I am indeed, Mademoiselle,’ James replied, bending over the hand. ‘
Enchanté
.’

‘Cayetano came by on his way to Fort St Jean. He said that I should expect you, though not this very night. Were I to announce
you to this assembly you would be the object of much attention.’

‘In what respect, Mademoiselle?’ asked James, with an innocent air.

‘Let us just say that when a ship receives such a welcome as yours, tongues begin to wag.’ An elegant hand was waved at the room behind. ‘Would you consent to take wine with me at my table?’

‘Dear lady,’ said Harry, who hadn’t once taken his eyes off her, ‘the whole Spanish Armada could not restrain us.’

That made her laugh, which, being deep and throaty, only added to the stunning impression she was making on both her guests.

‘Such gallantry,’ she replied.

‘I was just about to make that observation myself,’ said James, wickedly. ‘My brother is more often noted for being forthright than gallant.’

There was a sudden commotion down at the lower level of the bar, with raised voices and loud cursing. She glanced towards the noise, but neither Harry nor James, either through good manners or natural inclination, followed the look.

‘I admire that,’ Mademoiselle Feraud replied, craning to see what was causing the fuss. ‘Though dalliance has its place. I shall ask Bernard here to show you to my table. I must see to one or two things before I join you.’

‘That was uncalled for, James,’ said Harry, as Bernard led them through the closely packed tables. Behind them the noise was increasing in volume. ‘I attempt a little flattery and you immediately set out to undermine me.’

‘I think you’re being oversensitive, brother,’ James replied, his eye twinkling.

Harry grunted. He wasn’t the jealous type, but he did consider James to be far more handsome than himself. His brother was slim and elegant while he, with years at sea to coarsen him, was of a much heavier build. Likewise, a sailor’s rough life, combined with his combative nature, had led him into many a scrape
and shaped his speech and manners. Not so James, a scion of the London salons, educated at school, at university, and in the drawing-rooms of his artistic patrons. The family likeness was there for all to see, but in James it had a classical dimension that Harry had forfeited years ago.

‘Am I being sensitive?’ Harry asked. ‘We have met two interesting people tonight. The first was informed that I am devious, and the second you tell I am forthright, which is a polite term for being downright rude.’

‘And which do you care about most?’

Harry sat down in the chair Bernard had pulled out for him, his face angry. ‘Does it matter?’

James sat too, and waited while another servant, who’d appeared behind Bernard, poured him a glass of wine.

‘From the table of Monsieur Patrice Saraille.’

‘Where away?’ asked Harry. The servant pointed to a fat man, round of face and pink, sitting at a table with two exquisitely dressed black women. The man raised his own glass to the Ludlows.

‘He is the editor of the French-language newspaper,
Le Moniteur
,’ said Bernard.

‘How does he know who we are?’ asked James.

‘Monsieur. Everyone who is anyone in New Orleans knows who you are.’

Harry lifted his glass in response. He knew Bernard was not being entirely truthful. No one else in the crowded tavern was paying them any attention. Only the fat fellow who’d bought their drinks. Which implied that the major-domo was employed, no doubt for a fee, to keep the owner of the newspaper informed of any interesting arrivals.

‘If we are going to compete for Hyacinthe’s favour we’d better establish the rules now,’ said James.

Harry had to practically shout. The musicians had increased their volume to try and cover the noise emanating from the lower taproom.

‘Who said anything about that!’

James laughed and shouted back. ‘I rather think you did, brother – if not in so many words, certainly by your face. But I must caution you. A woman like that tends to be spoken for. I doubt that El Señor de Coburrobias would take kindly to any attempt by either one of us to oust him.’

‘Just don’t offer to do her portrait,’ Harry growled.

‘My, my, brother, you are smitten.’

Harry, facing the direction of the noise, saw Pender pushing his way through the throng. He waved to him to join them.

‘What a bunch of rogues, an’ no error,’ he said, as he sat down. Then he threw back his head and laughed. ‘I reckon your Mr Pollock had the right of it. I’ve never seen a set of men so willing to scrap as that lot down there. There’s challenges flying about all over the place. For cockfights, dogfights, boat races, shooting contests, wrestling bouts, and fisticuffs. And drink! They got that heathen brew whiskey instead of a decent drop of rum.’

‘Perhaps that is the catalyst for their bellicosity,’ said James. ‘The Scots, who are famous for the short fuse, are wont to drink the stuff, and Johnson says that in their heathen tongue they claim it to be the very water of life.’

Suddenly the band stopped playing, which left James sounding as though he too was shouting. Not that it was noticeable to an excessive degree, since the noise from the lower taproom seemed to be heading their way. The dancers, who’d been strutting in front of the table, suddenly scampered off the floor. It was easy to see why: a huge, scarred individual, with a flaming mass of red hair, was heading in their direction. His ruddy, vinous face was fixed in a fearsome scowl as he barrelled aside those who impeded him.

‘Stand aside for King Kavanagh!’ shouted a voice from behind him. ‘The best damned bareknuckle west of the Ohio.’

‘Damned right,’ growled the object of this veneration, ripping at his stained shirt to reveal an impressive hairy torso. ‘An’ that’s only cause I ain’t been east of the Ohio.’

‘What have we here?’ said James.

‘A fight by the look of it,’ Pender answered. Then he shot to his feet as Hyacinthe Feraud appeared. Harry and James did likewise.

‘Forgive me, Messieurs. Two of the riverboat Captains are set to fight. This will lead to much betting on the result. It will also mean that this table will become a dangerous place to sit. Might I invite you to retire to the balcony?’

‘Who is the other contestant?’

‘As usual, Thankful Tucker.’

‘As a name, that is even more colourful than Hyacinthe,’ said James.

She laughed. ‘He is a colourful man. And this has become a nightly occurrence since they opened the river to the Kaintucks. A while ago I decided that instead of them wrecking the salon I provide for them they should come onto the floor and fight properly. In that way, at least, they entertain my customers.’

‘Who supervises them?’

‘Bernard.’ She gestured to the floor, and sure enough, there was the old elegant Negro, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, with a bell in one hand and a vicious-looking club in the other.