Rogue's Mistress (31 page)

Clearing her throat, she said
bravely, “Julian, last night, there was something else I meant to tell you . .
.”

He laid down the paper and
regarded her skeptically. “Indeed?”

She bit her lip, knowing he would
not make this easy on her. “We both know the truth now,” she said, raising her
chin with bravado. “I am finished blaming you. I think we’ve been hurting each
other long enough. You have no need to atone to me. I’m willing to release you
from our vows. I know your heart lies elsewhere—”

“As does yours?” he cut in
savagely.

Mercy winced at his reference to
Philippe Broussard. “Julian, I’ve told you before that I never loved Philippe—”

“And that’s why you were
entertaining him in our parlor?”

She sighed heavily, clenching her
fists in her lap. “I just think it would be better if . . . we parted company.”

Julian was broodingly silent for a
long time. At last he asked softly, “Even after last night?”

“That was . . .” Miserably, Mercy
stared at her lap and blinked back tears; her heart felt as if breaking. “That
was not love.”

Across from her, Julian reeled at
this outright rejection by his wife. The girl had made love with him like a
wanton all night, and now she was coldly scoffing at what they’d shared and
casting him aside? This cruel denouncement only reinforced her previous,
cutting claim that their moments in bed were the only thing about the marriage
that pleased her. Certainly their marriage had nothing to do with love—not for
her. She had only exploited his feelings—again.

Well, if she was determined to be
mercenary, then he could be too.

“Release you from your vows?” He
regarded her with scorn. “But that is something I am not willing to do. Have
you forgotten so soon the investment I have made in you? It seems I no longer
interest you now that I am no longer ‘Julian the Terrible.’ Now that I am worthy
of your mercy, you have none for me. Well, neither have I any for you.”

Appalled, Mercy reached for his
sleeve. “Julian—”

He wrenched free from her touch
and stood. His mouth curled bitterly. “Redefine your opinion of me, dear wife.
You were right all along.”

Before she could comment, he
turned and strode from the room.

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Later that morning, Julian had
much on his mind as Henrí drove him toward Justine’s house. His son had seemed
somewhat out of sorts when Julian had visited him the other night, and he
wanted to check on the boy before going on to the Exchange.

The weather today was overcast and
muggy, and seemed a grim reflection of his own dour mood. Aside from his
worries regarding Arnaud, his mind was consumed with thoughts of Mercy, after
the turbulent, passionate night they’d shared. His wife now knew the truth
about her father’s death, although the revelations had not really helped
matters. Julian had not admonished Henrí regarding his disclosures, since he
realized that the manservant’s motives had been well intentioned.

Still, his marriage remained in a
terrible quandary. Julian did not want his wife to stay with him out of guilt
or pity. Yet he was not willing to let her go—as evidenced by his vigorous,
possessive bedding of her all night. He sighed heavily. He could touch her body
so deeply that she cried out in passion—yet he could not melt her cold little
heart. And when she tried to reject him—as she had again this morning—fear made
him cling to her, and pride forced him to say cruel, unforgivable things. It
was an untenable situation. He wondered how much longer they could go on
destroying each other this way . . .

Soon, Henrí pulled the coach to a
halt before Justine’s cottage. As Julian alighted, he was surprised to see a
small black buggy parked ahead of them. Alarm dogged his steps as he hurried up
the pathway with Henrí following.

His knock was promptly answered by
a white-faced Justine, who stood with handkerchief in hand. “What is it?”
Julian demanded.

“It’s Arnaud,” she whispered
urgently. “The doctor is with him.”

Julian rushed past her, grabbing
her hand and tugging her with him down the narrow hallway toward their son’s
small bedroom. In the archway, Julian paused, his eyes fixed with terrible fear
on the scene before him.

Arnaud lay thrashing about on his
small bed, his cheeks bright with fever. A light rash coated his face and neck.
The doctor stood nearby, his expression resigned as he shut his bag.

At last, Julian gathered the
presence of mind to stride into the room, pulling Justine with him. “What’s
wrong with my son?” he demanded.

The thin, balding man turned to
Julian with a sigh. “M’sieur, I’m not certain. Given the rash on your son’s
body and the coating on his tongue, I suspect scarlet fever. It’s a bit early
in the season for it to strike, but I’ve recently seen a case or two over near
the Canal.”

Justine gasped and crossed
herself. Julian wrapped an arm about her waist as both of them stared anxiously
at their sick child.

Julian turned back to the doctor
and spoke in a whisper. “Is he badly taken?”

“I’m afraid so. Your son’s fever
is high, and his lungs are congested. The situation is grave.”

Releasing Justine, Julian went
over to the bed. He felt Arnaud’s forehead and listened to his shallow
breathing. The boy stirred briefly, flashed his father a wan smile, and then
drifted back to sleep.

Frantically, Julian turned back to
the physician. “
Mon Dieu
! He’s burning alive! Shouldn’t we take him to a
hospital?”

The doctor shook his head.
“Actually, m’sieur, I feel Arnaud will do much better here. Taking him to a
hospital now would likely expose him to additional contagion. We can try
bromides or laudanum, but it’s mainly a matter of keeping him quiet and sponged
off, and trying to get some liquids down him. ” He glanced with mild annoyance
at Justine. “His mother refused to allow me to bleed him—”

“As will I,” Julian cut in
adamantly. “Our son is sick enough as it is without your draining off his
lifeblood.”

“As you wish, m’sieur.”

Staring at Arnaud, Julian tried
unsuccessfully to swallow the hard lump in his throat. “How long before we—”

“In three to four days, we should
know if he will pass the crisis,” the doctor pronounced. “I’ve left some
medicines on the dresser, and I’ll come back to check on him whenever I can.”

Julian nodded. “Thank you, doctor.
Justine and I shall see to his every need.”

“Then I’ll bid you both good day,
m’sieur.”

As soon as the doctor stepped from
the room, Justine fell into Julian’s arms, trembling and sobbing. “Oh, Julian,
I’m so worried!”

He drew back, brushing a tear from
her frightened face. “Why didn’t you summon me at once?”

“Arnaud seemed fine yesterday,”
she explained, twisting her damp handkerchief in her fingers. “He was just a
bit peaked, his appetite a little less than normal, and he complained that his
throat was sore.” She glanced at the child and uttered a low cry. “Then, this
morning, he awakened coughing and feverish, and so weak that he couldn’t get
out of bed! That’s when I noticed the rash on his body. By the time the doctor
arrived, he was delirious. It all happened so fast . . . But I was going to
send a neighbor to summon you just as soon as the doctor left.”

He nodded, pulling her close again.
“It’s all right. I understand.”

“But scarlet fever is so serious.
Arnaud could die!”

“Shhhh!” Julian admonished,
pressing his fingers to his mouth. “He might hear you.”

“Oh,
mon Dieu
,” she cried,
glancing horrified at the child, then collapsing into sobs against Julian’s
chest.

Feeling a deep, aching
helplessness, Julian patted her back and comforted her as best he could. He
spotted a flash of movement, and turned to watch Henrí stride into the room.
The servant’s features were tight with worry.

“
Maître
, I overheard. Is
there anything I can do?”

“Take Justine to the kitchen and
get her some breakfast and hot tea.”

“No!” Justine cried. “I won’t
leave my baby!”

Julian caught her face in his
hands. “You haven’t eaten this morning, have you,
chère
?”

“No, but—”

“Then you must do so now. You may
come back directly, but first you must rest a few moments and take some
nourishment. You’ll need your strength to care for Arnaud, and there’s no sense
in your becoming ill as well.”

“He’s right, Justine,” Henrí concurred
solemnly.

Justine nodded. Giving Arnaud one
last, anguished glance, she left the room with Henrí.

With a troubled sigh, Julian went
to sit in the chair next to his son’s bed. Watching Arnaud thrash about and
throw off his sheet, Julian reached out to cover him. His heart ached at the
pain his tiny son must be feeling, and he would have given his life to make the
child well.

There was a bowl of water and a
cloth on the night-stand. He wrung out the rag and began sponging off his son,
his features creased with terrible apprehension.

***

While Julian was ministering to
Arnaud, Mercy was sitting in the parlor of their town house, feeling anxious
and depressed.

Her attempt to apologize to Julian
last night had gone horribly awry. For some reason known only to him, he’d
scorned her offer of a reconciliation and had accused her of feeling only pity
for him.

Pity! As if she could ever feel
anything for him but endless confusion, and the most hopeless love! She moaned
aloud as she remembered how he had bedded her so passionately all night long.
Mon
Dieu
, the shameless things he had made her feel, and do!

Still, this morning, he had
cynically informed her that last night had meant nothing to him, that he’d only
taken advantage of her feelings, that her opinion of him had been right all
along. Oh, how could he be such a cad, to take her that way when he had no
feeling for her? How could they go on wounding each other this way?

“Madame, you have a visitor. He’s
waiting in the courtyard.”

The sound of Risa’s soft voice
interrupted Mercy’s anguished musings. She looked up to see the black girl
standing in the open doorway leading to the patio.

“Who is this guest?”

“A M’sieur Gerard from Natchez, Mississippi,” the girl replied.

“I know nothing of a M’sieur
Gerard.” As Risa stared back at her in confusion, she waved a hand in
resignation. “Very well. Send the man in.”

A moment later, a brown-haired
gentleman strode in. He looked resplendent in a teal-blue velvet frock coat and
cream-colored trousers. One beautifully manicured hand held a black silk top
hat, while the other clutched an elegant ebony walking stick with a gilt tip.
Mercy’s eyes were drawn to his face—the angular, handsome lines, and the
intelligent eyes of light brown. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and was
studying her with a speculative smile.

“You are Mam’selle Mercy O’Shea?”
he asked.

Mercy stood. “I am Madame
Devereux. And what may I do for you, sir?”

He strode into the room. “You are
the daughter of Corrine O’Shea, nee Corrine Dubois?”

“Yes,” Mercy answered cautiously.

The stranger broke into a broad
grin. “Then I am most honored to make your acquaintance, cousin.”

“Cousin?” Mercy gasped.

He nodded proudly. “Actually, I am
your first cousin once removed. I am Anton Gerard, of Natchez, Mississippi.”

Mercy could only stare at the man,
too astounded to speak. At last, she sputtered, “Why, this is . . . quite a
shock, m’sieur.”

“Please—call me Anton.” He glanced
at the settee. “May we speak a moment?”

“Of course,” she said, distracted.
“Forgive my rudeness.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I am pleased
to meet you, m’sieur.”

Shifting his walking stick, Anton
took her hand and leaned over to brush it briefly with his lips. “The pleasure
is all mine, madame.”

“I’m sure,” she muttered
awkwardly. “Won’t you take a seat?”

They sat down, Mercy on the settee
and Anton in the chair flanking her. “So—what brings you to New Orleans,
m’sieur?”

He frowned. “Why, you, of course.
Actually, madame, I thought you would be expecting me.”

Mercy laughed dryly. “I was
expecting nothing of the kind.”

He scowled, stroking his jaw.
“That is odd. You see, several weeks ago, a lady you know by the name of
Madelaine Devereux—”

“My husband’s mother. What does she
have to do with this?”

“Well, it seems that Madame
Devereux wrote to a friend of hers in Natchez. She explained to Beatrice Davis
that you were about to marry her son—”

“We
are
married now,
m’sieur,” Mercy corrected.

He smiled. “Why, of course. Congratulations,
then.”

“Thank you.” She frowned deeply.
“Now tell me what my mother-in-law has done.”

“It seems that Madame Devereux
wrote her friend to inquire about your family in Natchez. And Madame Davis did
her bidding, contacting your grandparents, Gaspard and Hélène Dubois. Hélène is
my aunt, you see, and as their solicitor, I’ve assisted the Dubois with their
legal affairs for some time. So of course they soon summoned me and asked me to
come here to inquire after you.”

“But—how did you find me?”

“After I arrived in town, I
appeared at the convent where I was told you were staying. The gatekeeper
instructed me to come to this address.”

“I see.” As the import of these
disclosures sank in, Mercy clenched her fists in her lap. “Madame Devereux had
no right to interfere that way.”

Anton flashed her a conciliatory
smile. “But, madame, the Dubois were beside themselves with joy to discover
that they have a grandchild.”

“Were they?” Mercy inquired
bitterly. She got up and strolled over to the window. “I find my grandparents’
belated turnaround and newfound devotion rather hard to swallow, considering
how they cruelly disowned my mother.”

With a heavy sigh, Anton strode
over to join her. “My dear, both Gaspard and Hélène have expressed to me their
deep regret over that incident. But you must understand that they had such high
hopes for Corrine. They are devout Catholics, and they were so proud that their
only daughter had decided to give her life in service to the Church. Then to
have her forsake her vows and marry an Irish immigrant laborer . . .” His voice
trailed off.

While Mercy greeted Anton’s
disclosures with a haughty stare, inwardly she had to concede that his
explanation made some sense. Following the devastating things she had learned
regarding her father’s betrayal, she had to admit that her mother had not made
a propitious choice in marrying Brendan O’Shea. Still, familial loyalty
prevented her from revealing her doubts to this stranger.

She tilted her chin at Anton. “Why
are you here, m’sieur?”

“Why, to implore you—and your
husband, of course—to come to Natchez and meet the Dubois.”

“Why, that’s out of the question,”
she snapped. “I have no desire to meet them.”

He gazed at her with kindly
patience. “Madame, please don’t be hasty. Give yourself time to consider my
offer. I must tell you, as well, that’s there’s a substantial trust in your
mother’s name, still sitting in a bank in Natchez.” He coughed discreetly. “I’m
sure that if you will only come to Natchez, the Dubois will turn the trust over
to you.”

“I don’t want their money,” she
cried.

“It was your mother’s money—and by
all rights should be yours now,” he pointed out gently.

Mercy did not reply.

Anton sighed. “Madame, I’ll be in New Orleans for several more days. Will you at least give the matter some thought? Truth
to tell, your grandparents are old and rather infirm. It would mean the world
to them if you would come to Natchez—if only for a brief visit.”

Mercy stared proudly at him. “Very
well, I’ll think the matter over. But that’s all I can promise at this point.”

“And that’s all I can ask.” He
bowed gallantly. “I’ll be staying at the St. Louis Hotel. I’ll eagerly await
your reply.”