Rogue's Mistress (5 page)

Justine shifted restlessly and
avoided his eye. “Julian, you do not need to concern yourself with finding me
another . . . protector.”

The uncomfortable moment ended as
Henrí entered the room. He glanced with admiration at Justine, nodding to her,
then turned to address his master. “
Maître
, pardon the interruption, but
you asked me to remind you that you have an appointment at noon at the
Exchange.”

“Damn,” Julian said, glancing at
the clock on the fireplace mantel. “You’re right, and we’re late already.
Justine, my apologies, but—”

“Please, don’t apologize,” she
said.

“Perhaps I’d best say good bye to
my son.”

“Of course. Arnaud!” she called.

The child bounded back into the
room, clutching a half eaten rice cake. Seeing his father standing near the
door with hat in hand, he cried, “Papa, no! You cannot leave already!”

Julian set his hat down and swept
the child into his arms. Taking out his handkerchief, he brushed several crumbs
from Arnaud’s chin. “I’m afraid an appointment draws me away, poppet. But don’t
worry—tomorrow I’ll come get you and we’ll spend the entire afternoon together
at the park. We’ll take an excursion ride on Smoky Mary—”

Arnaud whooped with joy. “The
train to the lake, Papa?”

“Indeed. Afterward, you may do
your worst at the Cafe du Monde.”

“Promise?” Arnaud asked with eyes
gleaming.

“Promise.”

Arnaud beamed and hugged Julian's
neck. He knew that his father never broke a promise.

Holding Arnaud close and kissing
his mop of soft curls, Julian glanced poignantly at Justine, with a look that
said,
I’m sorry . . . so sorry that what we have can’t mean more
. Her
answering look told him she understood.

Then Arnaud asked his father
another question, and Julian returned his attention to his son. In his
preoccupation, he didn’t see Justine turn to gaze at Henrí, or the look of
tentative curiosity they exchanged.

***

“He refused! This can’t be!”

Back in the courtyard of St.
Mary’s Parish House, Philippe and Mercy were again meeting near the same
crabapple tree. Mercy had just relayed the news that Julian Devereux had denied
his suit. Philippe was pacing in a murderous temper, his boots wearing a groove
in the soft earth.

Mercy watched him with distress.
While Philippe was generally mild-mannered, she was well aware that he
possessed a Creole temper and more than an average dose of manly pride—both of
which had just been affronted to the hilt. “Philippe, I’m sorry,” she said.
“We’ll find a way to get around Julian.”

Philippe shot her a heated glance
as his boots continued to pummel the earth. “What reason did the blackguard
give for denying my suit?”

Mercy wrung her hands. “Philippe,
please. It made no sense and perhaps it’s better left—”

“What reason?” he demanded.

Mercy sighed, lowering her eyes.
“He said you were—unsuitable.”

“Unsuitable!”

“Shhhh!” Mercy admonished, her
eyes wild with fear as she motioned toward the parish house. “The sisters.”

Philippe continued to pace.
“Unsuitable! Why, the cad!”

“The devil with Julian then,”
Mercy said passionately. “He only denied your suit to be cruel. He’s always
hated me.”

Philippe pivoted to face her, his
features tight. “Can the sisters do nothing on your behalf?”

Mercy’s green eyes grew stormy and
she shook her head. “I’ve already spoken with them, and they’ve taken Julian’s
side, as always. He’s the one who pads their palms with silver, after all. I
guess we’ll just have to elope, Philippe.”

He rolled his eyes. “We can’t.
You’d be ruined.”

“Then what?”

Philippe drew himself up stiffly.
“Your guardian has besmirched my honor and that of my family. I have no choice
but to challenge him.”

“Challenge him?” Mercy repeated in
disbelief. Her eyes grew huge. “Oh, Blessed Mother! You can’t mean a duel.”

“Of course.”

“Philippe, no,” Mercy pleaded,
feeling genuinely frightened. “Why he’s—” She shuddered involuntarily. “Julian
is formidable.”

Philippe bristled, blinking
rapidly in an expression of chafed pride. “And I’m not?”

“Well—well, of course you are.
It’s just that—he’s so much older and more experienced than you. I’ve heard the
sisters gossiping—frightful stories—something about previous duels he’s fought.
They say he’s a crack shot.”

“I’m well aware of Devereux’s
nefarious reputation—which makes his affront to me all the more intolerable.”

She extended both arms to him in
entreaty. “But, Philippe, you mustn’t. Why, he could kill you.”

But Philippe was already
hopelessly puffed up with righteous indignation. “It is a matter of honor,
Mercy. A gentleman has no choice under these circumstances, and I’m shocked
that you would even consider otherwise.”

“Philippe, please—”

“Good day, Mercy.”

As she watched, her jaw dropping,
Philippe turned and strode out the gate. Mercy reeled, leaning against the tree
for support. Oh,
mon Dieu
, what had she done? Through her own reckless
behavior, she had unleashed a monster that would soon be her own undoing.

Philippe would be killed. There
was absolutely no doubt in her mind. He would challenge Julian, and Julian
would shoot him through the heart without a flicker of remorse. And it was all
her fault!

Oh, sweet heavens, this was too
much. Why did she have to be so headstrong, so utterly defiant in choosing her
own husband? Of course, Julian was a black-hearted cad, but she should have
taken more care, rather than thumb her nose at him and at every custom and rule
of her upbringing. Perhaps during all those long years when the sisters had
harangued and rapped her knuckles, she should have listened. Now, remorse came
too late to stop the rising panic smothering her throat as she realized the
catastrophic consequences of her own rebellion.

Yet what made Mercy feel even more
unstrung was the memory of her final encounter with Julian Devereux earlier
that morning—his rage, his ruthlessness when he had hauled her up against him.
Even now, her arms still felt flushed from the heat of his fingers, and her
cheek still seemed to burn from the warmth of his breath. Never would she
forget the sensation of being pressed against his implacable strength, or the
utter lack of pity in his eyes, or even the way his musky scent, his pulsing
nearness, had strangely stirred her senses. For a crazy, exhilarating moment
she had been sure that Julian had wanted to kiss her, and for an equally
demented moment she had yearned for him to do precisely that.

Holy saints! She was depraved! How
could she feel this way about a man who might shortly murder her fiancé?

***

As Henrí drove him home from the
Exchange, Julian sat smoking a cheroot and mulling over his earlier
conversation with Justine. The lavish beauty of the Vieux Carré—with its
iron-lace balconies, lush patios, and pink, yellow, and green stucco
façades—was largely lost on him.

He had to acknowledge it—he did
want Mercy for himself. There was no other explanation for his arbitrary,
arrogant behavior at the convent earlier today. When he had learned that
Broussard intended to wed Mercy, he had reacted as savagely as an ill-tempered
tomcat whose territory had been invaded.

He wondered idly when his feelings
toward her had changed. Was it when she had been sixteen, and had stormed out
of the room during one of their interviews? Was it the day of her seventeenth
birthday, when she had defiantly refused his gift of a stylish new bonnet?

Did it matter? Now he only knew
that he wanted the girl, and probably had for some time. He wanted her spirit,
her pride, her beauty, her passion. He wanted her love—which she would never
feel for him—and her forgiveness, which she would never extend. He wanted the
healing that they could only find together, the healing they would
never
find together.

He groaned. This was insane,
totally unworkable. A marriage based on hate. A strong emotion, Justine had
said. But hatred could never bond Mercy O’Shea to him—it would only tear the
two of them asunder. If she ever learned of his true feelings, she would take
his heart in her uncaring little hands and cheerfully rip it to pieces.

For, from the moment when Brendan
O’Shea had burst into Genevieve Dupree’s room nine years ago, he and Mercy
O’Shea had been doomed. His role in her father’s death would always stand
between them. He might as well give his consent for the girl to marry
Broussard. Indeed, he supposed there was no other recourse open to him.

As the coach stopped before
Julian’s Royal Street town house, he saw Philippe Broussard standing next to
the patio gate, almost as if Julian’s thoughts had caused him to materialize
there. He had to smile ruefully. That was it, then. He would give his consent
to Broussard, and sweet Mercy could plod happily through life as an innkeeper’s
wife.

Not waiting for Henrí to open the
door, Julian alighted from the coach, ground out his cheroot beneath his boot,
and approached the other man. But before he could open his mouth to utter a
greeting, Philippe Broussard lifted his hand and quickly flicked a leather
glove across Julian’s cheek. “My second will call on you, sir,” he said coldly,
turning and striding off down the banquette.

Julian rubbed his cheek and gaped
after the lad in disbelief. Then, at last, he realized that he had just been
challenged.

“
Sacre bleu
!" he
hissed, turning and flinging open the iron gate.

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At midnight, Mercy O’Shea was
tossing and turning in her bed like one delirious. The May night was thick and
cloying, the merest of breezes drifting in the upstairs window of her room at
the parish house. An eerie silence had descended, interrupted only by the sound
of Sister Clarabelle’s snoring, which drifted through the thin wall from the
next room.

Mercy realized that, by now,
Philippe had surely challenged her guardian, Julian Devereux, to a fight to the
death. The two might be dueling even now. More likely, however, the event would
occur sometime tomorrow, as the necessary time had to elapse for the seconds to
make the arrangements.

Mercy was well aware that Julian
would never decline Philippe’s challenge. To do so would mean that he would be
publicly posted a coward. Indeed, Mercy had seen such notices in the
New
Orleans Crescent
—neatly boxed advertisements proclaiming some local or the
other a “craven” for refusing to duel. To back away from an
affaire
d’honneur
meant social ruin. Creole men were a hot-blooded lot who took
their pride and their honor most seriously.

At last, Mercy tossed off her
covers, got up from her narrow cot, and began to pace her small room in the
wide beam of light slanting in through the window. Her bare feet were soundless
on the old, scarred floor, and her lush red curls caught silvery highlights as
she swept to and fro in her plain linen gown.

She clenched her fists and ground
her jaw in helpless frustration. How she wished her schoolmates were still here
to offer some comfort or advice. But since the term had just ended, the other
boarding students at St. Mary’s School had gone home to their families at
plantations along St. John’s Bayou, or at mansions along River Road to the
north of the city. Mercy particularly missed her three best
friends—stouthearted Lavinia, who had the unfortunate face of a horse, but
possessed a stalwart spirit to match; beautiful Clarisse, with her wild
laughter and mischievous ways; and sweet little Emilie, with her kind eyes and ready
smile. All of Mercy’s friends were far, far away, and she suddenly felt like a
lost, lone child faced with a woman’s agonizing, life-and-death dilemma.

What was she to do? She mustn’t
let Philippe die, yet she well knew that Julian would have no qualms about
killing him. Asking for the nuns’ help was out of the question, since they
would never let her interfere in a matter between men. Besides, Julian had
Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle totally intimidated; the sisters had
perpetually bowed to his every whim regarding her upbringing.

Yet unless she did something, and
soon . . .

She would have to go to
Julian’s town house and beg him not to duel Philippe.

The instant the reckless,
desperate thought sprang to Mercy’s mind, she shuddered in horror. Had she
completely taken leave of her senses? She knew she had already thoroughly
provoked her guardian by meeting with Philippe without a chaperone—not to
mention by planning for her own marriage without Julian’s counsel or consent.
Now he would surely boil her in oil if he discovered she had taken to the
dangerous streets of New Orleans alone at night.

Yet Mercy quickly realized that
she had no choice. As much as it rankled, she knew she would have to go to
Julian, humble herself to him, do
anything
necessary to save Philippe.

She did know where he lived.
Several times in the past, when she and Sister Clarabelle had run errands in
the Quarter, the nun had pointed out Julian’s stylish town house on Royal, not
far from the parish house. Invariably, Sister Clarabelle would say, “That is
where your guardian, M’sieur Devereux, lives. You are indeed fortunate to have
such a fine gentleman sponsoring you, Mercy.”

Fortunate! Fortunate to be at the
mercy of the madman who had killed her father and might well shortly murder her
fiancé?

Mercy sighed heavily, chiding
herself for her useless anger. She must act, and act quickly.

***

Moments later, Mercy hurried to
the west along gaslit Chartres Street. She wore a plain dark frock and
soft-soled slippers; a gray scarf bound her bright hair. She crossed herself
and uttered a supplication to the Holy Virgin to give her safe conduct. The
streets of New Orleans held danger—pickpockets, drifters, drunks, and sailors
looking for a fight or a comely miss. Two blocks down, she navigated safely
past a brightly lit bordello and a noisy grogshop. When she spotted a
staggering, rough-looking character emerging from an eatery, she ducked into an
alleyway until the coast was clear.

Mercy continued on past the Place
d’Armes, which was flanked on either side by the new Pontalba buildings, their
iron-lace balconies glittering in the moonlight. She headed north on St. Peter,
glancing at the lofty three-spired cathedral ahead of her, watching the
quicksilver light dance on the mansard roofs of the Cabildo and the Presbytere
on either side. Then she turned onto Royal Street and hurried past a long row
of stucco town houses.

At last she stood before Julian’s Royal Street address, her hand hesitating on the bell next to the gaslight. How would he react
when she barged in on him, and he discovered that she had sneaked out of the
parish house and walked the streets alone? He would surely become more enraged
than ever. Had she bungled everything? Were all her efforts for naught?

No, she reminded herself stoutly,
biting down a rising hysteria. She had to try. It was her pride that had
brought her to this juncture, she reminded herself grimly. How often had Sister
Clarabelle warned her that pride was the most deadly of sins? If she had to
kiss Julian Devereux’s boots in order to save Philippe, so be it. If she had to
forsake Philippe’s suit and take the veil instead, she would. But she must not
let him die.

Mercy rang the bell and stood
waiting, her stance brave. A moment later, a manservant swung open the iron
gate to the patio and stared at her, astonished. Mercy noted that he was very
handsome, with fine, cocoa-colored skin, and that he wore the black tailcoat
and matching pants of a butler. She recalled seeing the man with Julian several
times before.

“Please,” she murmured. “I must
see M’sieur Devereux. On a matter of great urgency.”

“You’re Mam’selle Mercy,” the
servant replied, frowning.

“
Oui
.”

“What are you doing out
unchaperoned, mam’selle?” he went on sternly. “
Maître
will not like
this. Not at all.”

Mercy stifled a shudder. “Yes, I
know. But I must see him. I—I’ll explain everything to him.”

“Very well,” he said skeptically,
bidding her enter.

***

Julian Devereux was getting drunk.

He paced his elegant parlor with its
Aubusson rug and fine Belter furniture. Given the heat of the night, he had
long since discarded his frock coat, vest, and cravat. His shirt was open
almost to his waist, revealing the mat of crisp dark curls on his muscled
chest. His thick black hair was rumpled, his jaw dark with stubble. With his
long-legged strides, and the grim, wild light in his eyes, he appeared rakish,
sensual, and very dangerous.

Julian was unable to believe the
quandary he had gotten himself into. He remained incredulous that young
Broussard had actually challenged him. Was the lad suicidal? Had he no
knowledge of Julian’s reputation?

Everyone in New Orleans was well
aware of his frightful feats on the field of honor. During Julian’s rakehell
days, there had been three duels—and three deaths at his hands. He was not
particularly proud of any of the incidents, but all had been
affaires
d’honneur
, unavoidable. First there had been the young libertine who had
cheated at cards and had refused to make good on his treason, even after Julian
had caught him red-handed. Then there had been the hot-blooded young Italian
who insisted that Julian had made a play for his sweetheart at a
bal de
société
. Lastly there had been the craven who had insulted Justine in the
park. All three times, Julian had not been the one to issue the challenge. All
three times, he had tried to effect some compromise.

All three times, ultimately, he
had been forced to kill. “Damn,” he uttered under his breath, thrusting his
fingers through his hair. Now history was repeating itself. He thought grimly
of his interview with young Broussard’s second, a pimply-faced desk clerk from
his father’s hotel. No, M’sieur Broussard was not interested in effecting a
compromise, the man had said. Then he had hemmed and hawed, finally adding,
“Perhaps if m’sieur were to apologize, and to grant Mam’zelle O’Shea’s hand in
marriage to M’sieur Broussard?”

Somehow, pride had forbidden
Julian from backing down. “You realize your friend is going to die?” he had
hissed at the man.

The unfortunate fellow had gulped.
“
Oui
, m’sieur.”

Julian went to his desk near the
window and sat down heavily. He poured himself another glass of brandy and
downed it quickly, grimacing at the sting of the alcohol. As things now stood,
the duel would be fought tomorrow at sundown, beneath the Oaks. What was he to
do? The others had, perhaps, in some way deserved their deaths, but young
Broussard . . . All the lad had done was to propose marriage to Mercy. Damn it
all, it was his own asinine pride and, yes, his desire for the girl, that had
brought them to this appalling pass. Had he been in young Broussard’s shoes, he
probably would have reacted in precisely the same manner. Why hadn’t he
foreseen the disaster his own reckless actions would bring hurtling down upon them
all?

And why was he even considering
the possibility of pursuing Mercy for himself? Did he want to heap upon himself
a lifetime of hatred and misery? Was he still trying to punish himself for his
own unwitting hand in Brendan O’Shea’s death?

Julian plucked his pen from the
inkwell, grabbed a sheet of parchment, and began to write:

Monsieur Broussard,

I hereby apologize for my affront in denying your suit with
regard to my ward, Mercy O’Shea, and grant you my permission to marry her. I
trust we may now consider the
affaire d’honneur
settled between us.

Julian Devereux

Julian reread the note, cursed
vividly, then crumpled it up and tossed it to the floor. He buried his face in
his hands. Ah, perhaps he should fetch his pistol now and blow his brains out,
as he would surely kill young Broussard on the morrow. As inept as the lad was,
the duel would be little better than glorified murder. Perhaps it was better
that he go, and let the boy live.

Yet Julian realized at once the
absurdity of his morose thoughts. He couldn’t, of course, take his own life.
Too many people depended on him—Justine, Arnaud, his mother . . .

And Mercy O’Shea, damn her eyes!

Where was the answer to this
madness?

Then Julian’s head snapped up as
he heard Henrí’s voice at the portal: “M’sieur, Mam’selle Mercy O’Shea is here
to see you.”