in a cutaway coat with a watch chain like a steamboat hawser. "Sharp practice," the fiddler commented in English. "Making them sign a contract."
The man spat a stream of tobacco juice in the general direction of the sandbox in the corner. "Got to be sharp to stay in business, friend." The ballroom was hazy, not only with the mosquito-smudges burning in the windows but with cigar smoke, and stank of both it and expectorated tobacco.
"Mrs. Redfern's a better businessman than poor Otis was, if you ask me," added another man, stepping close.
He had a weaselly face and an extravagant mustache, and spoke with the accent of an Englishman. "Of course, the same could be said of my valet. Pity her father's no longer with us. Damn shame, her being sold out like that, but it would have happened anyway."
"Anyone know what's being done with her slaves?" asked somebody else. "She had a few right smart ones." "Like the one ran off with the money Otis got from selling those six boys in town two weeks ago?"
The American spat again.
"Damn fool, Otis, insisting that money be paid him cash, not a bank draft or credit-but that's the man for you! Hubert Granville tells me-"
"I hear she didn't get but four-five hundred for good cane hands. Damn shame." The American looked at January, and said to Hannibal, "That your boy? Looks like a prime hand. They're paying eleven, twelve hundred apiece for good niggers up in the Missouri Territory. I could give you a good price for him."
"My friend," said Hannibal gently, "is a free man. We're here with a message for Mr. Viellard."
"Oh." The American shrugged as if the matter were of little moment. "No offense meant." He was still looking at January as if calculating price. January had to lower his eyes, and his hand closed hard where it lay hidden in the pocket of his coat.
"None taken." The softness of his own voice astonished January, as if he listened to someone else and thought, How can he be so docile? What kind of man is he?
Again he wondered why he had left Paris, except that to have remained there would have cost him his sanity from pain and grief.
Evidently some compromise was reached among Mrs. Redfern; her lawyer, Mr. Fraikes; and Madame Viellard.
Henri Viellard escorted his mother in queenly dudgeon toward the ballroom door, and Mrs. Redfern bustled importantly back to relate the results, whatever they were, to the committee of widows basking in the radiance of the Reverend Dunk. January noticed how the Reverend clasped Mrs. Redfern's mitted hands and bent his head close down to hers as they spoke, like an old friend.
He guessed that money had changed hands somewhere.
Hannibal touched Henri Viellard's sleeve as he passed, and drew him aside in the carved square arch of the ballroom door. "Monsieur Viellard?" said January. "I've come from Mademoiselle Janvier's house."
He did not mention that he was Madamoiselle Janvier's brother. He'd met Viellard before but wasn't sure the man remembered him, or remembered that he was Minou's brother. It wasn't something a protector wanted to know about his pla??e.
But Viellard turned pale at his words, gray eyes behind the heavy slabs of spectacle lenses widening with alarm. "Is she all right? Has she...? I mean..."
"She's started labor, yes," said January softly. "I don't anticipate there being real danger, but it's going to be difficult for her, and she's in a good deal of pain. I'm going back there as quickly as I can. And if something does go wrong, I think you should be there."
"Of course." The young planter propped his spectacles with one chubby forefinger-their lenses were nearly half an inch thick and the weight of them dragged them down the film of sweat on his nose. "It's..
. it's early, isn't it? Does she seem well? I'll be-"
"Henri." His mother's voice spoke from the hall. "Do come along. Our guests will be waiting."
Henri poised, frozen, lace-edged handkerchief clutched in hand, eyes flicking suddenly back to January, filled with indecision, grief, and fathoms-deep guilt. Then he looked back at his mother.
"Come along, Henri." Madame Viellard did not raise her voice, and though no woman of breeding would have held out hand or arm for any man, even her son, merely the gaze of those protruding, pewter-colored eyes was like the peremptory yank of a chain.
Viellard dabbed at his lips. "I'll be there when I can." His eyes, looking across at January's, begged for understanding. "You'll tell her?"