The landlady who had once done everything in her power to keep M. Christian Reynaud as a tenant through the autumn months was no longer so dependent on his custom. In fact, she could hardly disguise the fact that she was glad to see him go.

He stood with her in the narrow parlor of the little hotel, counting coins into her gloved palm. Her small, thin face creased itself in an attempt not to look pleased, and Kit understood exactly why. She would triple the rent on his modest rooms before he was out the door, and find a new tenant before an hour was out. “I hope you will remember us when next you visit New Orleans, M. Reynaud.”

Kit inclined head and shoulders to save himself the trouble of lying. When he came back to this city he would have his choice of accommodations, as would all of the English officers and their families, who waited on Cat Island planning victory and Yuletide balls. Of course he must get out of the city first, before Jackson declared martial law. Once that was done—and no doubt it would happen during the grand review scheduled for this very afternoon—every lane and street out of the city would be blocked, and every able-bodied man would be in one kind of uniform or another.

He made his way to the stables across the way, weaving through the crowded street. People were already gathering for the parade. They would provide cover for his departure, as they had when he came back to the city.

Inside the cool, dim stables there was no sign of Stadler or any of his slaves. No doubt the parade explained the quiet in a place of business that was normally very busy. Stadler did a great deal of business because he kept his stables in meticulous order and his horses were healthy and groomed and properly fed.

He called, and got no answer.

Kit swallowed down his irritation and considered. He could find a different public stable, or he could help himself to a horse and saddle here. That would mean going back into the hotel to leave money for Stadler, but he could see no alternative that didn’t involve a great waste of time. He walked deeper into the shadows along the stalls, looking for the bay mare he liked best and finding her at the very end.

“There you are,” he said. “Come, old girl, we’re off.”

The mare nickered at the sound of his voice and shifted on her feet.

“Not today,” said an unfamiliar voice from the shadows. And: “Leave your hands where I can see them, Captain Wyndham. I have a musket aimed at your back.”

Many things went through Kit’s mind in a great tumble, but loudest of all was the echo of his name. Captain Wyndham. Captain Wyndham. Captain Wyndham.

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said in his best local French.

“No mistake,” said the stranger behind him, keeping to English. “Christian Wyndham, an officer in His Majesty’s forces on the North American continent. Turn around.”

Kit forced his breathing to calm, and turned. The man who stood there was a stranger to him. Tall and broadly built. Mixed blood, mostly Indian. Shorn black hair, and eyes of a strange light color that looked almost silver against the dark skin. His own age, or a little younger.

“Who are you?”

There was a flicker of a smile that disappeared as soon as it came. “Jean-Benoît Savard.”

Savard. Kit tried to make sense of it, to connect this man to the Dr. Savard of the clinic on the rue Dauphine.

“He’s my half brother,” said the man.

“You’re in the habit of reading minds?”

“I can read yours. You’re wondering if you can get to that knife in your belt before I shoot. You can’t.”

“Not at all,” lied Kit. “I was wondering why you are so certain you know me.”

Savard inclined his head. “For a spy you are a very bad liar.”

Kit considered the few options open to him. He said, “Very well, if you are so sure you know me, what are we waiting for? Let’s go to the Cabildo so we can resolve this misunderstanding. I have nothing to fear from the authorities.”

Odd, how he almost believed himself, but Savard clearly did not. He wondered where the stabler was, if Savard had paid him to stay away.

“Let’s get down to business,” Savard said. “What’s your interest in the Indian woman at the clinic?”

Kit drew in a sharp breath, considered lying, and reconsidered. “She is a—was an acquaintance of mine. I heard that she was unwell.”

“Is she one of your spies?”

His tone was unremarkable, as if he had asked about the weather, or which tailor Kit frequented.

“I haven’t spoken to Hannah or been in the same room with her for many months. If you’ve been watching me you know that.”

“You still haven’t answered me directly. I suppose I will have to take you both to the Cabildo.”

Kit felt his pulse leap like a startled bird. “So far as I know she is no spy.”

The stern expression didn’t relax, but there was a flicker of something in the strange light eyes. “And Honoré Poiterin?”

Kit blinked. “Who?”

“The English are in trouble if you’re the best they have. You’ve broken into a sweat. Tell me about Poiterin.”

“I know Poiterin,” Kit said.

“He’s a friend?”

Kit lifted a shoulder. “A social acquaintance.”

“One of your network.”

Silence seemed the only possible response. A long moment passed.

“I’m curious,” said Savard. “That you seem to know nothing of the connection between Poiterin and the Bonners.”