Lorenzo and the Turncoat Page 3

  The man seemed sincere, and Charles believed him.

  “Can you read and write?”

  “Yes,” Charles said, wondering what that had to do with his headache.

  “Show me.” The doctor handed him a piece of paper. “Write ‘Dr. Bannister can cure headaches.’ Or whatever suits your fancy.”

  Charles dipped a quill in ink and wrote with swift, sure strokes. He glanced up to find the doctor’s easy smile had returned.

  “Congratulations. You spelled Bannister correctly. Most people leave out the second n.”

  “I saw it on your door.”

  “You’re an honest man, Mr. Peel.”

  “Call me Charles.” He liked this indecently cheerful fellow but wasn’t sure why.

  “Take off your shirt, please.”

  Charles obeyed.

  A frown flitted across the doctor’s face.

  “Bullet wounds,” Charles said to explain the scars on his chest, arm, and stomach.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I got them in the war.” Charles felt he needed to let the doctor know he wasn’t a highwayman.

  The doctor smiled sadly. “I have a couple of war wounds myself.” He moved his fingers deftly over Charles’s ears, eyes, throat, and neck with a skill that inspired confidence.

  The doctor pulled down Charles’s lower eyelids and grunted. He did the same with the upper ones, then paused to make notations in the ledger.

  “Do you know what’s causing my headaches?”

  The doctor tapped Charles’s chest and back with his fingers. “Sometimes when we move to a new area, it takes a while for the humors to adjust themselves.”

  “In other words, you have no clue.”

  The young man looked amused by the remark. “I have a couple of ideas.”

  “Do they involve bleeding?”

  “No. I trained under my father. He was a physician who never put much stock in that, and I tend to agree with him. Are you eating some new kind of food? Something that wasn’t available where you lived before?”

  Charles thought about that. “I’m eating more seafood.”

  “What kind?”

  “Mainly oysters and shrimp.”

  “For the next week, let’s avoid seafood, unless it has scales and fins. That may clear up the headaches.” The doctor again bent over his ledger and made notes.

  While he waited, Charles studied the plants growing on the windowsill, each marked in a neat hand. The window looked out on the main plaza. Charles could see a number of people in the square, on the street, by the wharf. One man in particular grabbed his attention.

  All the blood rushed from Charles’s head. That certainly looked like Colonel Hawthorne, but it couldn’t be. He was in Philadelphia. What would he be doing here? He had no business in New Orleans, unless … unless he had been sent to bring him back. Charles choked on the thought. No, it couldn’t be Hawthorne, only someone who looked like him.

  Lorenzo noticed his patient’s sudden change of expression and followed his gaze out the window. Something had clearly upset him, but everything looked normal. A loose pig rooted through garbage. On the opposite sidewalk, a chimney sweep whistled a cheerful tune. A tall man, pale like an Englishman, walked against the wind.

  Only the approaching storm caused Lorenzo some concern. Rain-swollen clouds had swallowed sun and sky and turned the street a dismal gray.

  Lorenzo lifted Charles’s wrist and pressed two fingers to the underside to take his pulse. It was galloping. What had frightened this man?

  “If you’re looking for a position in New Orleans,” Lorenzo said, trying to sound casual, “I may be able to help. When I first came here, I didn’t know a soul. I got a job with a man who ran an import-export business. He always looks for extra help around this time of the month, but needs someone who can count and write. It’s only for a day or two, though. You should be able to find him on the docks. Mr. Pollock’s a big, barrel-chested Irishman with a booming voice. Tell him Lorenzo sent you.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said in a dismayed voice.

  Lorenzo noted that the man’s pulse was slowing. He didn’t know why this happened, but for some reason it was universal. When people were under stress, their blood quickened. When they were calm, their pulse slowed.

  Suffering an imaginary illness was also universal. Lorenzo suspected that might be the problem in this case. He recalled one of his father’s patients, a man with physical ailments that changed with each visit. One week, it was back pain; the next, a headache or an upset stomach. Lorenzo’s father always gave the man a bottle of medicine and instructions to take a spoonful every eight hours.

  “What’s wrong with Señor López Portillo?” Lorenzo had asked after the patient left.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Lorenzo repeated in dismay. “But you gave him medicine.”

  “A little sugar dissolved in water makes him feel better and does no harm. All his ailments are imaginary.” Papá smiled sadly. “There is nothing physically wrong with him. It’s all up here.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger.

  Distant thunder rumbled, pulling Lorenzo back to the present. He moved behind Charles to look out the window. His elbow hooked an empty flowerpot labeled bella donna and sent it crashing against the floorboards.

  Charles didn’t look around to see where the noise had come from. He didn’t even flinch.

  That’s peculiar, Lorenzo thought as he bent over to pick up pieces of pottery.

  “Mr. Peel,” he said softly at the man’s back.

  There was no response.

  “Charles,” he said a little louder.

  Still no response.

  Lorenzo slammed a book against the floor.

  Charles glanced over his shoulder.

  “Oops,” Lorenzo said, trying to act embarrassed. Dios mío, he thought. The man is partially deaf.

  Lorenzo took a seat facing him. “For the next week, watch your diet. Avoid seafood. In the meantime, let’s try something.” Lorenzo looked straight at Charles and spoke in a soft whisper. “I’m going to give you some medicine. I want you to take a spoonful every eight hours. Repeat the instructions, please.”

  “I’m to take a spoonful every eight hours.”

  Lorenzo suddenly realized that the man wasn’t looking him in the eye. He was watching his lips move. Not only was the man partially deaf. He could read lips.

  Chapter Six

  Hawthorne glanced skyward. He had never seen clouds move so quickly, as if being swept across the heavens by an invisible broom.

  A storm within the hour would suit his plan perfectly. Bad weather always drove people indoors. Few people would be around to witness what he was about to do.

  He had to work quickly to put everything into place.

  A general store sat across from the Plaza de Armas. He stepped inside. It was empty, except for a weasel-faced man behind the counter.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” the shopkeeper said. On the wall above his head was a handmade sign that read NOTARY.

  Hawthorne rested his arms on the counter, gave his most charming smile, and said, “I need a piece of paper, ink, and a pen, please.”

  While the man got the requested items, Hawthorne picked a ball of heavy cord from a bin of odds and ends. He set it on the counter. “Add this to my bill, please.”

  “Of course, monsieur.”

  Hawthorne bent over the blank page the man provided and wrote out an arrest warrant. Before he sold his military commission and became a civilian, he served as an intelligence officer, ferreting out spies and traitors. Most were men, but occasionally he arrested a woman.

  In the space where he would normally put the criminal’s name, he paused, then wrote “Marie Claire Juppé,” his wife’s maiden name. Hawthorne finished the arrest warrant and glanced over the page. It had no official seal, but looked elegant and impressive in spite of that. He stashed it in his inside coat pocket.

  “That’ll be a pillar dolla
r,” the weasel-faced man said.

  Hawthorne paid and left. He headed to a blacksmith’s shop near the Plaza de Armas.

  A muscular man making nails looked up from his task. “Can I help you?” he asked with a heavy Spanish accent.

  “I would like to buy two horses,” Hawthorne said. “One with a regular saddle, the other with a sidesaddle.”

  The smith laid down his hammer and led him from stall to stall. He had an impressive line of stock from dish-faced Arabians to spirited mustangs. Hawthorne examined them all. None could compete with the thoroughbreds he raised on his estate in England, but he finally found two that would suit his purposes.

  After they negotiated a price, Hawthorne paid the smith in cash and tucked the bill of sale in his jacket pocket next to the arrest warrant. “I need the horses within the hour.”

  The man sucked his lower lip into his mouth. “Can’t have them ready by then.”

  “That wasn’t a request. It was a demand.” Hawthorne grabbed the man’s hand and slapped five pounds sterling into his palm. He gave the man the address of a house he had passed on the way into town.

  “The horses must be in the barn within the hour.”

  The man looked him in the eye and his face lost color, apparently realizing Hawthorne was not a man to be trifled with. “Pedrito!” the smith yelled to a little boy mucking out a stall. “Get this gentleman’s horses ready now!”

  Hawthorne stepped into the street and scanned the pewter-gray sky. It grew darker by the minute. Winds whipped around him, almost blowing the hat from his head. He took shelter under a tree with large, waxy leaves. Was Gálvez’s wife still inside the church? There was one way to find out: go inside. The thought of doing that made him feel awkward and uncomfortable.

  Raindrops splattered on the ground and decided the matter for him. Staying dry inside a Papist church was more appealing than getting soaked outside it.

  He dashed across the square and into the church. Blinded by the sudden dimness of its interior, he paused. A feeling of deep discomfort swelled inside him. This was the first time he had set foot in a Catholic church, although he had heard rumors of every stripe about the suspicious activity that went on here. Church services were conducted in Latin, not the language of the common man. Hawthorne wondered why. Truth be known, he didn’t believe in any religion. He had been raised by a father who went to church for marriages and funerals. His mother had been only mildly religious. Between the two of them, they hardly inspired a deep affection for belief in anything.

  Straight ahead stretched rows of box pews. On both sides were paintings of the crucifixion of Jesus, from his trial to being placed in the tomb. The gruesome detail of each painting horrified him, especially the one showing nails being driven into Christ’s palms. He tried not to look at them as he headed toward the front of the church, where Felicité De Saint Maxent De Gálvez chatted with the priest. She tucked a stray wisp of red hair beneath her bonnet.

  Hawthorne’s footsteps echoed abnormally loud in the musty dark. Hat in hand, he half bowed.

  “I am sorry to interrupt,” he said in fluent French to the priest. He turned to the woman. “May I have a word with you in private?”

  “Bien sûr, monsieur.” Of course, sir.

  When they were out of earshot, he said, “There has been an accident. The colonel needs you.”

  Her face went white. “What has happened, monsieur?”

  He put on a pained expression. “He’s been shot. He’s asking for you.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Where is he?”

  “I am to take you to him.”

  She hurried to the door.

  Hawthorne ran to catch up with her.

  “Wait!” the priest called out.

  Hawthorne’s insides collapsed. Had the priest caught on to the deception? Had his plan fallen apart so quickly?

  “Take an umbrella, my son,” the priest said. “Mine is in the stand by the door.”

  “Thank you,” Hawthorne said, amused. Only Frenchmen used umbrellas. The ridiculous custom hadn’t caught on in England and, hopefully, never would.

  “Come!” Madame De Gálvez said impatiently, tugging on his sleeve.

  He stepped outside the church, his foot bracing the door open for her, and unfurled the umbrella. Rain peppered it.

  She looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes as she stepped beneath it.

  This would be easy. So very easy.

  They set out. Slowed by treacherously slick cobblestones, they headed up Orleans Alley. They made a right, then a left on Du Maine.

  The rain became a little fiercer, forcing people indoors.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he had to get this woman past the guard. Would the soldier on duty recognize her? Most certainly! Not only was Felicité De Saint Maxent De Gálvez the governor’s wife, she was the Lorenzo and the Turncoat 31 daughter of the richest merchant in town and had been raised in New Orleans.

  “Where are we going?” Madame De Gálvez asked.

  They were approaching the northern part of the city, where houses began to thin out. Ahead were empty blocks laid out for the city’s expansion.

  “It’s ahead. Just a little further.” He could feel her tense, as if she suspected this was a ruse.

  She drew away from him. “What is this about? Who are you?”

  He collapsed the umbrella and threw it aside. Seizing her by the upper arm, he pulled her inside a house under construction. He stepped behind her, pinned her arms to her side, and covered her mouth with his hand. “Be a good girl,” he whispered in her ear, “and no…”

  Somehow she managed to bite the fleshy backside of his ring finger. She gave him a hard kick in the shins.

  Surprised, he cursed in English, whirled her around, and shoved her against the wall. He pinned her there with his body. Whipping out his knife, he laid it to her throat. “Madame, I am armed. I am stronger than you. If you do not do exactly as I want, there will be consequences. And if you ever hurt me again …” He let the threat hang there, knowing it was more effective unfinished.

  Pure hatred shown from her eyes. He had expected to see fear.

  “I think we understand each other.” He took the knife blade from her throat. “I mean you no harm. Obey instructions to the letter, and I will release you in due time. I only wish for a few concessions from your husband. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Give me your bag.”

  Reluctantly, she handed it over.

  He searched through its contents and found a key, loose change, several wadded up bills, a string of beads, and a ring. It was a simple gold band. He tilted it toward the light to read the inscription. “T-E … A-M-O. What does that mean?”

  “It’s Spanish for ‘I love you.’”

  He smirked. “The colonel is richer than God. Couldn’t he afford something a little more expensive?”

  “The colonel …?” Her questioning tone faded. “The colonel is a wonderful man,” she said indignantly. “May I have my ring back?”

  He wondered when she had taken it off. At what point did she think him a common thief and had hidden it in her bag? He had watched her closely from the moment they left the church and had seen nothing suspicious.

  “Here,” he said, shoving it on her finger. “I am not a thief.”

  “No, just a kidnapper.”

  The remark jolted Hawthorne. What a cheeky woman the colonel’s wife was! Why should that surprise him? She had been born rich and had married richer. She was probably accustomed to servants carrying her around on a silk pillow.

  “There is a guard up the way,” he said. “If you betray me, his life will be forfeited and his blood will be on your hands. Understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  He took the ball of heavy cord from his jacket pocket and tied her hands in front of her. Next, he picked up the umbrella and unfurled it. Holding her by the arm, they set out again.

  Eugenie’s mind was awhirl. He think
s I am the colonel’s wife, she thought. She wondered how he had gotten that idea. It was in her best interest not to tell him about his mistake. No doubt, this man had kidnapped her for money and believed the colonel would pay a huge ransom for his wife. He was right. The colonel was madly in love with Felicité.

  The ring on her finger was Lorenzo’s. The day of their wedding, she was going to surprise him with it. He didn’t realize it was to be a double ring ceremony. That was what she had been talking about with the priest when this man showed up.

  Eugenie’s next thought was to attract someone’s attention, either by screaming or running like the devil. With her hands tied, running would be difficult at best. Could she get away before the man sank a knife into her? There was no one around to come to her aid. Her best hope was for the guard to recognize her and realize she was in trouble.

  The rainfall increased, turning the street into a muddy mess.

  They stopped at a barn. Her kidnapper led her inside where two saddled horses awaited. He hoisted her on one and swung up on the other. Taking the reins of her horse, he led her into the storm. Within seconds, they were soaked. Luckily, it was a warm summer day and her bonnet protected her face and hair.

  Her kidnapper took her due north toward the guard shack.

  Did her abductor understand Spanish? He was English and had given himself away when he cursed. His French was flawless, a pure Parisian accent full of idioms and turns of phrases only a Frenchman would know.

  What weapons did this man have on him, other than a knife? How good was he with it? Once, she had seen Lorenzo bury a knife blade dead center in a target. Could this man do the same?

  Fifty paces ahead lay the guard shack. The sentry stepped out.

  Her heart sank. She didn’t recognize the man. He was probably a new recruit from Mexico or the Canary Islands.

  “I am escorting this woman to Baton Rouge to stand trial,” her kidnapper said in flawless French. “I have an arrest warrant.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.