called to pick up his personal belongings and that Monsieur Slade had given his condolences and then departed.
Depressed, Claude walked aimlessly away from the governor's residence. Mon Dieu, what shall I do now? he thought. Monsieur Slade would have been so perfect! Shaking his head sadly, he began to walk toward his favorite cafe, the Cafe des Ameliorations at Rampart and Toulouse Streets, intending to drown his disappointment in brandy.
He never made it this particular afternoon. Claude had not gone two blocks, when he caught sight of a tall, dark-haired young man heading down Royal Street. Monsieur Slade! Increasing his stride, he turned off of Toulouse Street and went in hot pursuit, catching up with the young man just as he was about to enter one of the many popular coffee houses that abounded on Royal Street.
"Monsieur Slade! Morgan Slade! Attendez!" he called out.
The young man stopped and glanced over his shoulder, his face showing no sign of recognition. "Yes?" Ashley Slade asked politely, neglecting to inform Claude immediately that he was not his cousin Morgan. Blue eyes, identical to Morgan's, swiftly summed up the slim, aristocratic old man, guessing to within a penny the cost of the well-cut, striped jacket Claude wore. His voice warmer, he added, "How may I help you?"
Chapter 6
It never occurred to Claude that he was not speaking to Morgan Slade. Ashley could have passed for Morgan's twin, if one did not know either man well. Claude did not, having met Morgan only twice and having been under the influence of alcohol on each occasion. Ashley, of course, decided to hold back his identity until he knew what he might gain from a mistaken impression.
Ashley's foray into the New World had not been pleasant, and he had cursed a dozen times a day the whim that had brought him from England to the North American continent. Money was hard to come by, unless one was willing to work for it, and as Ashley abhorred such an idea, he had drifted from frontier town to frontier town around the Gulf of Mexico, charming credit and hospitality where he could, and gaming and cheating where he couldn't.
Thinking that by now his father would have gotten over the anger that had driven him from England, and determined to return home and to familiar haunts, Ashley had at last reached New Orleans. He hoped to raise the money for passage back to England and escape from what was becoming an increasingly dangerous situation.
He had avoided Natchez out of necessity—Morgan would be certain to stop any scheme he might originate to gain money; he also knew he would find no welcome with his uncle and his sons, so he had not traveled that far up the Mississippi. He had spent some months in the small city of Baton Rouge and it had been upon his arrival there that he had written his father, telling him that eventually he planned to be in New Orleans. Writing his father had been a calculated move—Asheley needed money and he wanted to return home. Casually letting his father know where he was situated would eventually bring relief of some sort.
Ashley might have remained indefinitely in Baton Rouge, for he had charmed his way into the affections of a wealthy widow who was happy to support him if he had not run afoul of her relatives. His liaison with the woman had become blatant, and concerned relatives had decided it must stop. In order to protect his comfortable income, Ashley had challenged one of the woman's nephews to a duel. He had killed the unfortunate young man, and not unnaturally, the remaining members of the family were out for his blood. Ashley had quickly departed Baton Rouge, but not before filching several pieces of jewelry from his onetime love.
The money from the stolen jewels had given him a bit of breathing room, but upon arriving in New Orleans a week ago, he had recognized that time was running out. The money wouldn't last him long, not the way Ashley spent it, and his whereabouts in the city would
Depressed, Claude walked aimlessly away from the governor's residence. Mon Dieu, what shall I do now? he thought. Monsieur Slade would have been so perfect! Shaking his head sadly, he began to walk toward his favorite cafe, the Cafe des Ameliorations at Rampart and Toulouse Streets, intending to drown his disappointment in brandy.
He never made it this particular afternoon. Claude had not gone two blocks, when he caught sight of a tall, dark-haired young man heading down Royal Street. Monsieur Slade! Increasing his stride, he turned off of Toulouse Street and went in hot pursuit, catching up with the young man just as he was about to enter one of the many popular coffee houses that abounded on Royal Street.
"Monsieur Slade! Morgan Slade! Attendez!" he called out.
The young man stopped and glanced over his shoulder, his face showing no sign of recognition. "Yes?" Ashley Slade asked politely, neglecting to inform Claude immediately that he was not his cousin Morgan. Blue eyes, identical to Morgan's, swiftly summed up the slim, aristocratic old man, guessing to within a penny the cost of the well-cut, striped jacket Claude wore. His voice warmer, he added, "How may I help you?"
Chapter 6
It never occurred to Claude that he was not speaking to Morgan Slade. Ashley could have passed for Morgan's twin, if one did not know either man well. Claude did not, having met Morgan only twice and having been under the influence of alcohol on each occasion. Ashley, of course, decided to hold back his identity until he knew what he might gain from a mistaken impression.
Ashley's foray into the New World had not been pleasant, and he had cursed a dozen times a day the whim that had brought him from England to the North American continent. Money was hard to come by, unless one was willing to work for it, and as Ashley abhorred such an idea, he had drifted from frontier town to frontier town around the Gulf of Mexico, charming credit and hospitality where he could, and gaming and cheating where he couldn't.
Thinking that by now his father would have gotten over the anger that had driven him from England, and determined to return home and to familiar haunts, Ashley had at last reached New Orleans. He hoped to raise the money for passage back to England and escape from what was becoming an increasingly dangerous situation.
He had avoided Natchez out of necessity—Morgan would be certain to stop any scheme he might originate to gain money; he also knew he would find no welcome with his uncle and his sons, so he had not traveled that far up the Mississippi. He had spent some months in the small city of Baton Rouge and it had been upon his arrival there that he had written his father, telling him that eventually he planned to be in New Orleans. Writing his father had been a calculated move—Asheley needed money and he wanted to return home. Casually letting his father know where he was situated would eventually bring relief of some sort.
Ashley might have remained indefinitely in Baton Rouge, for he had charmed his way into the affections of a wealthy widow who was happy to support him if he had not run afoul of her relatives. His liaison with the woman had become blatant, and concerned relatives had decided it must stop. In order to protect his comfortable income, Ashley had challenged one of the woman's nephews to a duel. He had killed the unfortunate young man, and not unnaturally, the remaining members of the family were out for his blood. Ashley had quickly departed Baton Rouge, but not before filching several pieces of jewelry from his onetime love.
The money from the stolen jewels had given him a bit of breathing room, but upon arriving in New Orleans a week ago, he had recognized that time was running out. The money wouldn't last him long, not the way Ashley spent it, and his whereabouts in the city would
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