A Free Man of Color - Barbara Hambly [7]
“I must see her,” repeated Madame Trepagier levelly, and there was a thread of steel in her voice. “I must.”
The door opened behind them. Madeleine Trepagier’s eyes widened in shock as she stepped around Froissart’s desk, as far from January as the tiny chamber would permit. January’s mind leaped to the soi-disant Cardinal Richelieu, and he turned, wondering what the hell he would do in the event of another assault—in the event that someone guessed that Madame Trepagier was white, alone here with him, to say nothing of the woman she was seeking.
But it was only Hannibal Sefton, slightly drunk as usual, a wreath of flowers and several strings of iridescent glass Carnival beads looped around his neck. “Ball starts at eight.” His grin was crooked under a graying mustache, and with alcohol the lilt of the well-bred Anglo-Irish gentry was stronger than usual in his speech. “Like as not Froissart’ll fire your ass.”
“Like as not Froissart knows what he can do with my ass,” retorted January, but he knew he’d have to go. He’d been a performer too long not to begin on time, not only for the sake of his own reputation but for those of the other men who’d play in the ensemble. Managers and masters of ceremonies rarely asked who was at fault if the orchestra was late.
He turned back to Madame Trepagier. “Leave now,” he said, and met the same quiet steeliness in her eyes that he had seen there as a child.
“I can’t,” she said. “I beg you, don’t betray me, but this is something I must do.”
He glanced back at Hannibal, standing in the doorway, his treasured fiddle in hand, and then back at the woman before him. “I can leave,” offered Hannibal helpfully, “but Froissart’ll be down here in a minute.”
“No,” said January, “it’s all right.”
Madeleine Trepagier’s face was still set, scared but calm, like a soldier facing battle. She’d never survive, he thought. Not if La Crozat guessed her identity.…
“Listen,” he said. “I’ll find Angelique and set up a meeting between you at my mother’s house, all right? I’ll send you a note tomorrow.”
She closed her eyes, and some of the tension left her shoulders and neck; she put out a hand to the corner of the desk to steady herself. She too, realized January, had heard everything there was to hear about Angelique Crozat. A deep breath, then a nod. Another black cock feather floated free, like a slow flake of raven snow.
“All right. Thank you.”
They left her in the office, Hannibal checking the corridor, right and left, before they ducked out and hastened up the narrow, mildew-smelling flight of the service stair. In the hall January retrieved another cock feather from the bare cypress planks of the floor, lest Richelieu happen by and be of an observant bent. With luck once the music started everyone would be drawn up to the ballroom, and Madame Trepagier could slip away unnoticed. It shouldn’t be difficult to hire a hack in the Rue Royale.
Didn’t I tell myself fifteen minutes ago, ‘Let’s not do this again’? An interview with Angelique Crozat—spiteful, haughty, and so vain of the lightness of her skin that she barely troubled herself to treat even free colored like anything but black slaves—a clout in the mouth from Cardinal