Chapter 15
The inn was far from the house where Lochranza had been held.
It was called ?le de Ponterson. Ponterson Island.
Whether such an island actually existed was a mystery.
Captain Crabbe certainly had never heard of it.
Not that having previous knowledge of the name of an inn in any way influenced his drinking habits.
Light from dripping candles and the odd oil lamp suffused the old place with a warmth lacking during daylight hours.
‘Crabbe! A game of cards?’
Normally he would have risen to the challenge. But not tonight.
‘I have business to attend to.’
‘A drink then?’
‘No drink either.’
‘This must be serious business you are about, my friend Crabbe.’
Captain Crabbe dismissed the man, the card game, the drink and the inn with an indifferent wave of his hand. There was money in his pocket, but that money was destined for a particular transaction, one he could not afford to dismiss.
He did not look back at the man in the darkest corner of the inn who had given him instructions and the money in his coat.
He had things to do before carrying out his assignment and the first thing was that he had to change his clothes and generally make himself more presentable.
Tonight, he was to be a gentleman. The very thought of it made him chuckle.
By the time he arrived at the place where he was destined to fulfil the lucrative assignment, the chateau, white by day, flickered with the borrowed light from myriad torches set on iron spikes driven into the ground.
Smart carriages, some emblazoned with gold-lettered coats of arms, deposited their occupants before being directed by black slaves to a square area of hard-packed earth adjacent to a field.
New Orleans had been in a state of siege for days, but nothing had yet happened. People drilled in daytime and by night resorted to the pastimes it had always indulged in as though the British weren’t coming after all.
After leaving the vicinity of the ?le de Ponterson, Crabbe had made his way to a certain address, where he changed into the best-cut clothes he had ever worn.
He knew the address as being an upper-class whore house.
The woman who provided his clothes had Spanish eyes and wore a red dress.
She was quite stunning, but he doubted he could afford her.
She also told him where to collect the carriage he was to use.
Before heading that way, he had instructed his men what to do and where to wait for him.
‘Expecting trouble, Captain Crabbe?’ The crew member had asked the question whilst sharpening his cutlass with undisguised enthusiasm.
‘Could be. If you’ve nothing else to do, you can watch my back.’
Zola grinned. ‘Don’t I always?’
The long line of carriages trickled forward until it was his turn to alight.
A slave opened the carriage door for him. Another asked for his name.
‘Sir Peregrine Rotherhithe,’ he said. The man back at the inn had furnished the name.
Captain Crabbe had to admit he rather liked it.
The hardest bit was adopting an English accent.
He thought back to his childhood and the sound of his father’s voice – which wasn’t entirely helpful.
His father when drunk tended to swear a lot.
On reading a list he was furnished with, the slave frowned.
For a moment, Captain Crabbe was unsure he would be admitted. The name was not his but had been deemed most suitable for what he was about to do. This, he decided, would be a lucrative evening – if he was allowed in.
On rechecking his list, the slave smiled, apologised and bid him enter.
‘Of course I’m guaranteed entry,’ Captain Crabbe murmured to himself. ‘I look like a bloody dog’s dinner!’
A few gentlemen glanced in his direction, nodding in acknowledgement even though they’d never met. Such is the welcome for the wearer of well-tailored clothes, he thought, smiled and moved forward into the motley crowd.
A single chair had been placed in the middle of the room, though not any ordinary chair.
This one had extravagant carvings of naked nymphs and climbing vines.
It shone so brightly one would think it were made of gold.
Blue brocade had been used to upholster the seat and back of the chair, the material glistening with gold thread.
When Lochranza entered, all eyes turned in her direction. Conversation ceased and for a moment it was as though everyone was holding their breath.
To everyone there, she looked decidedly dazed, her eyes gazing into the distance as if seeking a familiar face.
A satin mantle had been draped over her shoulders. Its long train made a rustling noise as she walked regally into the room, her shoe heels sinking into a thick Turkish carpet.
Murmurs of approval plus gasps of astonishment flowed through the crowd as she was led into the centre of the room and helped to sit in the throne-like chair.
Captain Crabbe bowed his head as he bit the end off a cigar while his eyes remained fixed on the extraordinary woman.
‘Monsieur?’
Someone was offering him a light. He thanked the man, the glow of the other man’s favoured smoke igniting the end of his own.
‘Merci.’
In one swift glance, he had assessed the man as some kind of official – perhaps a military man.
And French speaking of course. A great many rich New Orleans residents were French.
Despite the Louisiana Purchase back in 1903 by the virgin American government, they continued to dominate, though more Americans, Irish and Germans were moving in.
Some of them were his friends, some his enemies.
‘The woman is beautiful, yes?’
Captain Crabbe adopted the salacious leer of a man who collects women as others might collect hounds. It wasn’t difficult to do. He did like women, but the man had asked and he was required to act the part.
‘Quite a beauty,’ declared Captain Crabbe, eyes narrowed against the smoky atmosphere. Slaves in white britches offered humidors. Half their number held trays of brandy and whisky. ‘I take it the bidding will be brisk, but the price will be high,’ said Captain Crabbe.
‘Very high.’
There was something purposeful about the way the Frenchman spoke, as though nobody else attending the auction had a chance of matching what he was prepared to pay – which begged the question, why?
The way the Frenchman had looked him up and down was telling. Captain Crabbe knew he looked every inch the wealthy planter, typically a man of rough origins with the guts and determination to get to the very pinnacle of New Orleans society.
The French Creoles did their best to hold on to their domination of New Orleans society, eyeing the newly arrived Americans with a mixture of fascination and distrust. They were right to do so, thought Captain Crabbe, though now it was him being distrustful. What was this man up to?
The woman was described by a black-haired man with a goatee beard and very short legs. His jacket was red, his pants of dark blue satin and he was wearing Turkish slippers with turned-up toes encrusted with jewels.
Captain Crabbe realised he was looking at a dwarf, one of exceptionally dramatic appearance and a huge voice that defied his smallness.
‘A titled lady of blue-blooded ancestry, great beauty and enormous potential…’
To Captain Crabbe’s eyes, she looked drugged.
‘Gold coin only!’
The bidding started high and went higher.
‘Fifteen thousand!’
‘Twenty.’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Thirty…’
On and on it went, up and up.
Captain Crabbe concentrated on both the price and the bidders. He had been to one of these ‘meat auctions’ in the past, where there had been more than one woman for sale – or indeed a pretty boy; the tastes of New Orleans gentry were far-ranging.
He had not heard of an auction where only one item – namely Lady Lochranza Kildare – was on offer. It struck him as strange. Yes, she was a stunning beauty. Any red-blooded man would welcome her to his bed. But was that all that this was about?
Narrowing his eyes against the fug of cigar smoke, he left off watching the bidding and instead regarded the men gathered.
There were the usual lecherous ‘gentlemen’ known to buy women for their personal use, their faces red with sweat, their eyes already reflecting the fantasies the sight of the woman aroused in their minds.
Yet there were other men, more sober-looking types with a glint in their eyes that could not be fully explained by lust.
The bidding had reached an astronomical sum: fifty thousand.
He’d never heard of anyone paying that much for a woman.
The feeling of unease stayed with him. Now, more than ever, he entertained the belief that something else was going on, that this woman’s value wasn’t purely because of her beauty or indeed the fact that she was titled – if that was true.
Many women adopted a title simply as a means of getting on in the world.
Captain Crabbe had already lodged a bill of credit, and it had been checked at the bank for authenticity. The money was there. He didn’t need sight of gold-filled boxes to know that.
The Frenchman who had given him a light was winning. He had hawklike features, dark hair tied at the nape of his neck.
An elbow nudged Captain Crabbe’s left side, the opposite side to where the Frenchman stood.
‘I wonder what he wants her for.’
He spoke in English and looked decidedly effeminate.
‘She’s a comely woman,’ remarked Captain Crabbe. ‘And perhaps to him worth her weight in gold.’
The man’s wide mouth curved into a sardonic smile. ‘The man is cousin to a marshal of France. He hopes to be one too when his work here is done.’
‘So perhaps he requires a wife likely to further his career?’
The man shook his head and spoke quietly out of the side of his mouth. ‘He is married to France. Military secret service, I believe.’