Luck of the Wolf

“Did you always know he wasn’t human?”

“Yes.”

His grimly amused expression made Aria shiver. After she had eaten all her shrunken stomach would accept, she struggled with a fresh wave of exhaustion. She might have risked sleeping with Cort present, but she could not feel comfortable doing so with Yuri in the room. She retreated to the couch, settled in one corner and wrapped the blanket tightly about her body.

She had given her word. And it was true that she had nowhere else to go, and no real understanding of this country and the people in it. But still she watched the door, half anticipating and half dreading Cort’s return.

CHAPTER THREE

THE MAN WHO CALLED himself Hugo Brecht stared unseeing at the curtains that separated the private dining room from the peasants outside and sipped his wine. It went down sour and bitter, though it was said to be of the finest French vintage.

He had lost her. After years of fruitless searching, she had escaped him again.

Hugo swallowed the last of the wine and set down the glass. He remembered every day, every hour, of those years of seeking the lost princess. He had gone through hell and crossed the world to find her. Alese di Reinardus—the sole surviving heir to the throne, daughter of Hugo’s cousin twice removed, the King of Carantia—spirited away from her enemies in infancy and transformed by her protectors into Lucienne Renier of the New Orleans werewolf clan.

When at last he had found her in New Orleans and taken her captive, he had been patient, waiting for the day when she would be old enough to marry him. She would become his bride and give him the throne he had coveted long before he had engineered the coup against Carantia’s king.

Alese’s escape had altered all his meticulous plans. It was as if she had vanished from the face of the earth. All the rogues and investigators and lawmen he had hired to find her had returned empty-handed. Even he had begun to lose hope.

Until he heard of the tournament and the beautiful girl—golden haired, with eyes the rare blue-green of the finest turquoise. Subtle inquiries had convinced him. It had to be Alese. He’d been sure of it once he’d seen her.

How she could have been overpowered by humans and become a prize in San Francisco’s most notorious underground poker tournament he couldn’t guess. What had she been doing since her escape? Why hadn’t she returned to New Orleans? Had she been too ashamed? Afraid he would find her there?

The fact was that it made no real difference what had happened to Alese during the past four years since she had escaped his custody. He had her at last.

Or so he had believed.

Hugo’s hands clenched and unclenched on the tabletop. He had not dreamed it possible that Cochrane could fail to win the match. The man was said to be the best in the city, perhaps in all the West, and yet he had lost to a common gambler.

No. Cortland Beauregard Renier was very far from common. He was werewolf, and that was the one circumstance Hugo had failed to prepare for.

Cortland Renier. A man of great skill—or luck. By all accounts an inveterate gambler, one of that class of men who considered themselves gentlemen but haunted the Coast seeking the easy life they hoped to acquire by the most dubious of means.

But this one, they said, could be very dangerous if crossed. That was hardly a surprise, given his inhuman nature.

Still, it was not his nature that troubled Hugo at the moment. The name Renier was not uncommon in parts of the United States. It was held not only by the most powerful werewolf clan in the country, but by lesser breeds scattered through the South and West.

The question was which clan and family claimed the man who had stolen Hugo’s prize, and whether or not his being here at such a time was more than mere coincidence. Most of all, Hugo had to find out whether Renier knew he had just taken custody of his own missing relation.

Hugo rang for another bottle of wine and scowled at his empty glass. If the New Orleans Reniers had heard of the tournament and the girl who stood as one of the prizes, it was not so incredible that they would have sent a family member to see if she could be the missing Lucienne. Discreetly, of course. The New Orleans Reniers had not widely advertised Lucienne’s kidnapping, and Hugo suspected that few in the family actually knew her true name and origins.

The name “Cortland” was not one Hugo recognized from his time in New Orleans. Even if the man was one of the Western Reniers, unconnected with the aristocratic lineage, he must quickly have realized that the girl was a werewolf.

Such females were not easily acquired in the West, especially not by lone wolves, and lust could be a powerful motive.

Lone wolf or New Orleans Renier, Cort was not likely to be an easy mark. Hugo’s clear advantage was that Cortland Renier, whoever he was, would not be likely to recognize him.

Hugo allowed his thoughts to simmer as the waiter brought another bottle, held it for his inspection and poured the wine. When the human was gone, Hugo’s mind was a little clearer. Assuming Cortland Renier was a free agent and didn’t recognize his prize as “Lucienne Renier,” she might be desperate and frightened enough to disclose her name.

How would Renier respond? Would he choose to help her? That would be only a little less problematic for Hugo than if he were a direct agent of the New Orleans Reniers.

Slapping a few coins down on the table, Hugo rose. It was only a question of getting the facts and making his plans accordingly. He would get Alese back. There was no question of that. He would set his men to watch the boardinghouse where Renier lived, and the gambling halls and dives he frequented. He would send a telegram to his contacts in New Orleans. By tomorrow or the next day, he would know if Cortland Renier had the backing of the clan.

If he did not, Hugo would approach Renier directly. He might simply take her by force, which would seem to be the easier path, but there was always a risk in using violence against a fellow werewolf. Alese might escape again.

No, Hugo thought as he walked toward the saloon door, he would take the somewhat lesser risk of offering Renier a substantial reward for the girl’s return.

One way or another, Alese would become his bride, the bride of Duke Gunther di Reinardus. The weakling cousin who now held the Carantian throne, ruling at the whim of the noble houses, would be far more easily deposed than Alese’s parents had been. And those who would change the ancient Carantian way of life, the human-lovers and rebel egalitarians who wished Carantia to become part of the corrupt modern world, would suffer the fate they deserved.

IT COULDN’T BE.

Cold logic told Yuri that the girl in the other room couldn’t possibly be the one she so vividly resembled. It had, after all, been eight years since the duke had stolen her from New Orleans, and there was no guarantee that a woman grown would resemble the child of twelve she had been then. Especially a woman who had so clearly suffered since her abduction from a pampered, aristocratic life.

He paced the narrow boarding-house hallway, shaking his head with every step. What were the odds that she could have escaped Duke Gunther di Reinardus, the ruthless traitor, the very man responsible for the deaths of her parents, and ended up in San Francisco at the very same time he and Cort were here? And she must have escaped, because the Gunther he had known eight years ago would never have let her go.

Yuri sat down on the steps and fiddled nervously with the unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers. It must be the same woman. He had seen the birthmark below her shoulder blade when her blanket had slipped. As fantastic as the whole thing seemed, he had never been one to doubt his senses. That very pragmatism had originally allowed him to accept the existence of werewolves and join the duke in his scheme to claim the Carantian throne.

A scheme that, apparently, had failed at some point in the years since he had left the duke’s service. Given the way di Reinardus had abandoned him in New Orleans once he’d taken the girl, Yuri couldn’t help but take a great deal of satisfaction in that fact.

He pushed the cigarette between his lips and tried to strike a match. His fingers trembled too much to keep it steady.

Think. If this girl had in fact lost her memory, it might explain why she hadn’t gone straight back to New Orleans. Perhaps she’d been on the run ever since.

But when had she left Gunther? Weeks ago? Years? Gunther would have begun grooming her for the throne as soon as he took her, and that would not have been a difficult task, given her upbringing among the New Orleans Reniers. Raised to be accomplished and cultivated, accustomed to every luxury due a girl of breeding, she would have needed little refining.

Where had that refinement gone? The way this girl had eaten, spoken, behaved … none of that suggested an aristocratic background. What had Alese di Reinardus, also known as Lucienne Renier, become?

And where in God’s name was Gunther?

Casting an uneasy glance toward the door, Yuri finally managed to light the match and nearly burned his fingers. He threw the blackened stick to the floor. Unless Gunther’s death or complete incapacitation had set Alese free—and Yuri didn’t believe anything short of the wrath of God himself could kill the bastard—the duke must be looking for her. Perhaps the girl’s amnesia was merely an embellishment to a desperate masquerade.

Gunther would certainly never rest until he found her. But if he had tracked her here to San Francisco, Yuri would soon know. The duke would quickly have learned the name of the man who had taken possession of his missing prize.

He would be on this doorstep momentarily, if he were not here already.

Sucking in a deep lungful of smoke, Yuri closed his eyes. Perhaps, for once, the duke had failed. Perhaps Alese had well and truly eluded him. And that left a whole wealth of opportunities for Yuri and Cort. Dangerous ones, perhaps, but if they acted quickly.

Without even knowing who she was, Cort was fully prepared to find her people and restore her to them for a price. Once he knew the girl was Lucienne Renier, he would see the beauty of Yuri’s scheme. There was little the New Orleans Reniers wouldn’t pay to get their lost “cousin” back.

And if or when Gunther discovered what had become of her, Yuri and Cort would be long gone.

Yuri dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his boot. Timing was everything. They needed to get the girl out of the city, just in case Gunther tracked her to San Francisco. And there were other things that would have to be done. It wouldn’t be necessary for Cort to know all the details to play his part in the plan.

Especially now that they had a princess on their hands.

Knees creaking, Yuri got to his feet, painfully reminded that he was no longer young. Soon he would need the money he had as yet failed to acquire and keep. This might be his final chance, and he was determined to take it. And if he got his revenge on Duke Gunther di Reinardus in the meantime, so much the better.

CORT WAS JUST APPROACHING the door to the rooms he and Yuri shared, precariously balancing several boxes in his arms, when the Russian walked into the hallway.

A jolt of alarm shuddered through Cort like an unexpected earthquake. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“Inside, asleep.”

Cort relaxed. “She’s well?” he asked.

“The devochka has many questions, but she shows no signs of distress.” He grabbed Cort’s arm and pulled him back along the narrow hall. His eyes were bright and calculating.

“What are you up to, Yuri?” Cort asked, recognizing that look all too well.

The Russian lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you not recognize her?”

Cort set the boxes down. “What are you talking about?”

“The girl!” Yuri shook his head impatiently. “She resembles Lucienne Renier in every detail, even given the difference in age from the time she was abducted.”

Lucienne Renier. The name startled Cort, and it took another moment before he remembered the story. He hadn’t known the child stolen away from the grand manor of the New Orleans Reniers eight years ago. He had courted Madeleine in secret and had never visited her openly at Belle Lune until the last time he had seen her. If he had ever glimpsed Lucienne Renier, it had been briefly and at a distance.

Yuri, however, had been for a time a guest at the Renier plantation just outside New Orleans—an exotic but impoverished nobleman who, despite his human nature, was of interest to the Reniers because of his aristocratic bloodline. Though the Reniers had not widely advertised the abduction, Yuri would likely have heard about it firsthand.

It was his connection to the Reniers that had brought the two of them together at a French Quarter tavern shortly after Cort had won enough money to leave Louisiana. The Russian had taken Cort’s side in an after-game brawl, and once Cort learned that Yuri had recently parted ways with the Reniers himself, they had fallen into earnest conversation.

That, in turn, had led to a mutually beneficial agreement: Yuri would teach Cort to be a gentleman equal in every way to the Reniers of New Orleans, and Cort would support them both with his gambling skills. But if Yuri had spoken of the abduction when they’d met, Cort hadn’t been listening. He’d had far more personal things on his mind at the time.

“They never learned who took her?” he asked.

The Russian snorted. “Obviously they did not.” He rubbed his hands like the disciple of Midas he was. “Eight years. It is a long time. But I swear it is the same girl. No other could have such eyes.”

Cort sat heavily on the stairs that faced the building entrance. It seemed too incredible to be believed, and the implications were staggering.

Lucienne Renier. A girl who bore the same surname he did, but only the most distant connection by blood. Like Madeleine.

Yet this girl was nothing like Madeleine. She had none of Madeleine’s refinement or manner of speech, and for all her radiant beauty, her behavior was as rough as an uncut diamond. Could the offspring of such a family forget everything she had been taught before her abduction, all the graces, mannerisms and expectations of her station?

She had pride enough, true, but it wasn’t the sort the Reniers displayed. There was no arrogance, no pompous expectation of fealty from lesser beings, human or loup-garou.

How could she have lost so much? Where could she have been all this time?

She doesn’t remember. If she had been alone on the streets for any length of time, she would have had to fight for survival. It could have changed her beyond all recognition.

And yet …

“She was only a cousin, of course, not one of the central line,” Yuri said, “but she was regarded as a daughter by Xavier Renier.”

“What of her real parents?”

“I presume they were dead, though nothing was ever said of them. Regardless of her relationship to the New Orleans clan, they would have spared no expense in searching for her.” Yuri paced from one end of the hall to the other, his breathing sharp with excitement. “You spoke of finding the girl’s family and claiming a reward. This could not be more perfect! Of course we must make careful preparations. We will—”

“What if you’re wrong?” Cort interrupted.

Yuri stopped as if he had walked into a wall. “I cannot be. I would know if she—”

“Memories can deceive.”

A calculating look replaced the exultation on Yuri’s face. “Not only my memories. The Reniers remember her as she was. They will not expect to see what she is now—a wild, unschooled guttersnipe fought over by gamesters. You and I, however … we can make her into what they do expect.”

Cort rose and gathered up the boxes. He understood Yuri completely. The Russian recognized that he might be wrong, that the girl might only be a fluke of nature, a perfect duplicate no more real than the reflection of a face in a pond.

But it didn’t really matter. Yuri’s plan could work. The Reniers could be persuaded to accept her if they wanted her badly enough. So many, human and werewolf alike, lived in a world of dreams, blind to what they didn’t wish to see.

Just as he had lived, once upon a time.

“You must see that it’s worth the gamble,” Yuri said. “Their gratitude would be immeasurable if they were convinced of her identity. She—”

“You forget one thing, Yuri,” Cort said. “She may refuse. If she regains her memory …”

“Her memory will prove us right. You will see.” Yuri smiled, sly as a fox. “And what a coup for you. They may not even recognize you as Beau Renier, at least not at first. And when they do.” He rubbed his hands together. “The swamp wolf will have the pleasure of restoring a child of the noble Reniers to those who spurned him.”

After all their years together, Yuri knew exactly where Cort was most vulnerable to persuasion. Cort hadn’t forgotten a single humiliation, a single curse, a single blow he had suffered at the hands of the New Orleans Reniers. He’d been no more than a temporary amusement for a bored girl in search of adventure, briefly titillated by the prospect of rebellion against her autocratic father.

Because of her—because of all of them—he had transformed himself into the very image of the gentleman Madeleine might have accepted. When he made his fortune and could look her father and brothers in the eye, equal in every way, then he would go back and show Madeleine what she had cast aside.

His fortunes had proven more fickle than he had anticipated, and he had almost given up on the idea of returning. Now he had the opportunity that had eluded him.

And what if she has another family searching for her? He would be robbing her of a life she might have forgotten, but it would still exist, waiting for her return.

There was no earthly reason why he couldn’t make other inquiries, as he’d promised the girl. Such an investigation might take weeks, if not longer. But he could set it in motion immediately, and in the meantime make whatever preparations were necessary to groom her for her role as Lucienne Renier.

Oh, she might resist at first. She certainly had a mind of her own. But more than once he’d seen yearning and sorrow in her eyes, especially when he’d spoken of other loups-garous in San Francisco or speculated about her family. She wanted to belong to someone.

Perhaps he could win that sense of belonging for her as he had never been able to do for himself. And profit in the winning.

“It is a reasonable plan,” he said to Yuri. “But you must contain your eagerness, mon ami. She is like a wild animal who must be coaxed into the cage little by little. We must begin by discovering what she does know. With rest, safety and careful cultivation, whatever she was before may emerge on its own.”

“We can’t keep such a girl hidden long,” Yuri said, “even if Cochrane makes no attempt to steal her back.”

“Then we’ll keep her confined until such time as we can find a safer place to put her.”

Yuri fingered his short beard. “A safer place,” he murmured. “It should be outside the city. Leave it to me.” He nodded to himself. “She will need a complete transformation, and you and I cannot do it alone. I have thought of someone who would be ideal to teach her subjects on which you and I are not qualified to speak.”

“Is that not somewhat premature?” Cort asked.

“Not if we wish to move quickly.”

“Who is this person?”

“An old acquaintance from New Orleans, from a time before you and I met. She is well educated, has excellent taste and is familiar with New Orleans Society.”

“How familiar?”

“She is not loup-garou, but she has had frequent dealings with the leading families in the city. She knows your kind exist.”

“And you trust her?”

“As much as I have ever trusted anyone.”

“How do you expect to pay her? Until I’ve won a few more games, we’ll have barely enough funds to cover the girl’s basic necessities.”

“Babette has fallen on hard times. She is widowed and currently resides in Denver in a state of near poverty. I am certain she will settle for a modest salary and a cut of the reward.”

“How much do you suggest we tell her?” Cort asked.

“She can’t do her job unless she knows as much as possible,” Yuri replied.

“Say nothing of my previous association with Lucienne’s family.”

“Naturally.”

“How long will it take to get Babette here?” he asked.

“I can telegraph her immediately. She could be here in a few days.”

“Then do it.”

“At once.” Yuri examined Cort from under half-closed lids. “You’ll have plenty of time alone with the girl while I’m gone. Are you certain you have no. personal interest in her?”

“My tastes hardly run in that direction,” Cort said with a cynical lift of his brow. “And even if they did, I would not act on them. The girl claims that no one touched her. She may or may not be a virgin, but she must be guarded from anyone’s amorous intentions from now on.”

With a curt nod, Yuri removed a silver case from inside his coat, tapped out a cigarette and left the boardinghouse. Cort felt the uncomfortable weight of the half-truths he’d told Yuri, pretending he’d never felt any physical attraction to the girl.

But the fact that he had felt such attraction in the past hardly meant he couldn’t ignore it in the future. He shifted the packages, returned to their rooms and walked through the door.

The girl was bundled up on the sofa, her chin on her knees, her body taut under the mantle of her deceptive calm. Her nose twitched. Cort set down the packages and bowed.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I trust rest and a meal have improved your health.”

She glared at him from under the mane of blond hair that had fallen over her face. “I am very well, Cort.”

“Did you enjoy your visit with Yuri?”

“I don’t like him.”

It surprised Cort that Yuri hadn’t tried to make himself agreeable, given his ambitions. “Perhaps you will like this better,” Cort said. He unwrapped one of the packages to reveal half a ham and another that held a loaf of bread, butter and jam.

The girl’s nose twitched again.

Cort set the food on the table. “You are free to eat as much as you like,” he said.

“I can get my own food.”

“By stealing it? That would be unwise, ma chère.”

“Stop calling me ma chère.”

“As yet you’ve given me no alternative,” he said.

Pretending to ignore his comment, she eyed the other packages. “What are those?” she asked.

“Clothing for you. Proper attire for a lady.” He put one of the boxes on the table and began to untie the ribbon.

“A lady?” she echoed.

Her voice held a note of scorn that surprised him. “Certainly. Is that not what you are, mademoiselle?”

She tucked her chin against her chest. “No. And I don’t want to be one.”

Cort let the half-untied ribbons fall back onto the lid. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve seen many ladies. They can barely move in the clothes they wear, and they act as if they are weak and helpless.” She sniffed. “I don’t have to be like them. I don’t want to be.”

The contempt in her voice startled Cort into silence. The situation was far worse than he had imagined. She had not only forgotten that she had been raised as a lady, but she felt no desire to become one. What in God’s name had given her such a low opinion of her own sex?

In truth, was his opinion any better?

“When did you decide this, mademoiselle?” he asked.

“Before I came to—” She stopped, looking at him warily from under her lashes.

Before she came to San Francisco? Had she begun to remember? “If you were not a lady, what were you before?”