Rogue's Mistress (33 page)

She lowered her eyes. “I thought
you meant someone like yourself.”

He nodded slowly as comprehension
dawned. “Ah, yes. So that was your fear.”

“I must tell you,
maître
,
that Justine and I did not pursue our feelings until after you were married to madame,”
Henrí interjected.

Julian glanced from one friend to
the other. “It does not matter when you pursued your feelings,
mes amis
.
The point is, you had every right to.” He smiled at Justine. “I wish you both
only happiness.”

“You do?” she asked.

He squeezed her hand. “Of course I
do,
chère
.” Then he frowned, smoothing down her wrinkled collar. “But
you must know that Henrí is right. You must not become ill and lose this child.
Arnaud”—he paused to clear his raspy throat—“Arnaud would not have wanted that.”

“Oh, Julian,” she sobbed. “You’re
too good to us both.”

He patted her hand, then stood,
nodding to Henrí. “The two of you must marry as soon as possible. I’ll help you
in every way I can.”

“Thank you,
maître
, ” Henrí
said gravely.

“But we must first see to Arnaud,”
Justine added, dabbing at tears as she gazed up at Julian.

He nodded soberly. “Of course.”

Henrí cleared his throat. “Maitre,
I will now go fetch the undertaker. And your mother should be informed, no?”

He sighed heavily. “Yes, she’ll
want to know. Thank you, Henrí.”

Once Henrí had left, Justine said
to Julian, “My dear, I’m so sorry. I mean, I know our news must have been a
shock to you.”

He moved back to her side, sitting
down and smiling at her. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. This is a small
breath of hope on such a grievous day. I’m glad that you and Henrí will be
having a child.”

“No child can ever replace
Arnaud!” she cried.

“I realize this,” he said
tenderly. “But you’re young and you should have another baby—many babies.
Arnaud will never be forgotten by any of us. He’ll always hold a hallowed place
in all our hearts. But perhaps in time, the anguish will lessen a bit.”

She nodded. “And what about you,
Julian?”

He stared at her with a haunted
emptiness in his eyes. “There’s nothing left for me.”

“Not even Mercy?”

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he
repeated in a barely audible whisper.

She clutched his sleeve and spoke
passionately. “Julian, if I must try for a new life with Henrí—for Arnaud’s sake—then
you must also try with Mercy. Arnaud wouldn’t have wanted you to be miserable
either. And I know Mercy loves you.”

Julian blinked convulsively and
glanced away.

“Julian, promise me you’ll at
least try!”

He sighed resignedly. “Very well,
dear. I’ll try. For Arnaud’s sake.”

Justine stared anxiously at the
hallway. “Now we must go wash Arnaud, prepare him—”

“I already have, love.”

She gazed at him with tear-filled
eyes. “Then we’ll sit with him, until—”

He slipped his hand into hers.
“Yes, we’ll sit with him.”

***

It was early afternoon by the time
Julian returned to the Quarter—this time, in the company of Madelaine Devereux,
who had met him at the funeral parlor.

Julian had expected his mother to
be upset over his son’s death, but he hadn’t expected Madelaine to be utterly
disconsolate, which she was. He hadn’t realized how fond she’d become of Arnaud
over the years. “My poor lost little angel,” she repeated endlessly, crossing
herself and weeping against her son’s shoulder. “My beloved grandson . .

When they arrived at his town
house, Madelaine was still so prostrated with grief that Julian had to assist
her across the patio. They walked among the fragrant flowers and past the
tinkling fountain, through the brightness of midday that seemed to taunt them
now.

As soon as Julian had his mother
safely ensconced in the parlor, he hurried upstairs to break the news to Mercy.

But his wife was nowhere to be
found. Julian searched for her, wild-eyed, only to discover that her armoire
and her bureau were empty, her portmanteau missing.

Back in the parlor, Julian
summoned his wife’s maid. Risa awkwardly informed him and Madelaine that madame
had left very early that morning, in the company of a stranger.

“My wife left with Philippe
Broussard?” Julian demanded furiously.

Risa shook her head, lowering her
eyes. “No, m’sieur. Madame, she leave with a gentleman from Natchez, a M’sieur
Gerard.”

Julian received this news in
flabbergasted silence. As Risa slipped from the room, he heard his mother’s
horrified cry.

Julian whirled to face Madelaine’s
guilt-ridden countenance. “Do you know something about my wife’s
disappearance?”

“Oh, Julian,” she whispered,
wringing her hands. “I fear this is all my fault.”

“What do you mean?”

She bit her lip miserably.
“Several weeks ago, I wrote to a friend of mine in Natchez, asking her to get
in touch with Mercy’s people.”

“What?” he cried. “Why?”

She flung a hand outward in
anguish. “Oh, Julian, it was my own stupid pride. When I first started taking
Mercy around and introducing her to my friends, there was some gossip about her
humble upbringing. I thought of inviting her grandparents down from Natchez, to set the gossips straight—”

“Damn it, Mother!” Julian cut in
explosively. “Why did you have to interfere?” Before she could answer, he went
on angrily, “And you think this Gerard character is a representative of the
Dubois family?”

“Most likely, yes.”

“And Mercy simply left with the
man.”

Julian issued a vivid curse and
strode across the room, savagely kicking a basket of wood. He slammed his elbow
down on the fireplace mantel and raised a trembling hand to his eyes. “Damn the
little baggage to everlasting hell anyway, for walking out on me without a
word, even as my son was dying.”

Watching him, Madelaine Devereux felt
her heart aching. “Julian, I know you’re very hurt, but you can’t be thinking
clearly right now. Didn’t you say you spent the entire night at Justine’s
house, sitting with your son? Mercy can’t have known that Arnaud was
desperately ill. She doubtless thought you were sleeping with—with that woman
again—”

He whirled on her, his eyes
brilliant with rage. “Her name is
Justine
, Mother. And Mercy should have
trusted me.”

“Sorry, son, I meant no insult,”
Madelaine humbly replied. “As for Mercy, I’m sure this is all just a
misunderstanding. We’ll get it straightened out in time—”

“I don’t give a damn if we ever
get it straightened out,” he countered vehemently. “To think that she simply
ran off with the man, without benefit of a chaperone even. She can rot in Natchez—or in hell—for all I care.”

He turned away, banging his fist
on the mantel; then he sagged against the fireplace.

Wincing at her son’s pain,
Madelaine went over and placed her hand on his trembling shoulder. “Julian, I
know that this is all too much for you to bear right now. We’ll get it resolved
in time, son. I’m sure there is some perfectly logical explanation for your
wife’s—er—behavior. In the meantime, however . . . we must see to Arnaud, my
love.”

He turned to her with crazed
anguish. “I suppose you’ll suggest a discreet burial?” he asked, his mouth set
in bitter lines.

Madelaine drew herself up with all
the pride and dignity in her slim body. “My grandson—your son—will be eulogized
at the Cathedral, in the full light of day. All our friends will be in
attendance—as will his mother, of course. Afterward, Arnaud will be laid to
rest in our family plot at St. Louis Cemetery, next to your beloved father—”

Madelaine was not allowed to
finish. Julian had thought he had no tears left. He was so wrong. With a
rending cry, he pulled his mother into his arms and wept.

Back to Contents

On a warm mid-August morning,
Mercy Devereux stood on the high promenade of the
River Princess
. Tall
and slender against the railing, she was dressed in her blue serge traveling
frock and matching bonnet, her flame-red curls cascading down about her neck
and shoulders.

The steam packet was chugging
upriver, approaching the metropolis of Natchez. On either side of the wide
river, the banks were heavily forested; Mercy could smell the dusky scent of
the wet soil and ripe vegetation, and she could hear birds calling from high in
the trees.

She thought of how her life had
changed in the last few days. After the cruel morning when she had spotted
Julian with Justine, she had gone home and packed her bags. Shortly after dawn,
she had sent Rubin to the St. Louis Hotel with a message for Anton Gerard,
telling him that she was willing to depart immediately with him for Natchez.

Within an hour, Anton had called
for her. The two had left at once for the levee, and were fortunate enough to
claim the last two empty cabins on the
Princess
, just as the vessel
prepared to depart.

That had been three days ago; now,
they would soon dock at Natchez-Under-the-Hill.

Mercy thought of the time they had
spent together coming upriver. Anton had proved to be a true gentleman as well
as a marvelous confidant. At his patient prompting, Mercy had gradually spilled
out the basic facts concerning Julian and their troubled marriage, including
how Julian had betrayed her with Justine. Feelings of loyalty toward her
parents had restrained her from telling Anton about the true, shameful
circumstances of her father’s death, and Julian’s role in it; instead, she’d
told him that Julian was a friend of the family’s who had become her guardian
following the deaths of both parents.

Nevertheless, Anton had been
stunned to learn that Julian had forced Mercy into the marriage, and even more
shocked to discover that her husband was now continuing to consort with his
mistress. He had urged her to seek a divorce as soon as they arrived in Natchez, and had offered to handle the legal aspects himself. He had also assured her that
the Catholic Church would grant her an annulment, since the circumstances of
her forced nuptials to Julian had comprised a deficiency of consent on her
part, which was grounds for dissolution of marriage according to Catholic
doctrine.

Now, Mercy soberly considered the
prospect of divorce. Did she truly want to dissolve her marriage to Julian? Her
fingernails dug into the weathered railing. Every time she remembered watching
him embrace Justine over Arnaud’s bed, jealousy and anger stormed her heart
anew. She knew now that Julian would never love her, could never be faithful to
her. After all, hadn’t he shunned her bed all night long to sleep with his
mistress? What greater insult could be hurled at a wife? Perhaps she should
seek a divorce now and start a life of her own.

Yet it angered her that every time
she considered this possibility, she wanted to burst out crying. It infuriated
her even more that, despite Julian’s heartless betrayal, she still loved the
cad. Indeed, she loved him almost as much as she hated him.

Would he come after her? she wondered
in a moment of poignant weakness. No, she quickly answered, fighting tears.
He’d doubtless be delighted to learn that she’d fled to Natchez, since this
would give him the freedom to live openly with Justine.

Still, for Mercy, starting over in
Natchez would mean depending on her grandparents, the Dubois—and this idea
chafed her pride. Certainly, on the voyage from New Orleans, Anton Gerard had
tried his best to convince her of the sincerity of her grandparents’ regret
over the way they had treated her mother. In due course, Mercy had found
herself wavering in her feeling toward them. Still, she felt great reluctance
and anxiety at the thought of meeting them. If necessity had not forced her to
leave Julian, she wondered if she would have come to Natchez at all . . .

“My dear, how lovely you look,”
came the sound of a deep masculine voice.

Mercy turned as Anton Gerard
approached. He looked quite dapper in his gold velvet frock coat, buff-colored
trousers, and stylish top hat.

He paused beside her, resting his
arms on the railing and smiling at her amiably. All in all, he was quite a
dashing gentleman, she mused; yet to her chagrin, his presence stirred no
feelings of excitement in her, as Julian’s nearness always did.

“Are you packed?” she asked.

He nodded. “We’ll be rounding the
bend and approaching Natchez at any moment now.”

“I see,” she murmured, biting her
lip.

“Dear, are you still feeling
anxious about meeting your grandparents?”

She shrugged and tilted her chin
proudly. “I’ve told you repeatedly, Anton, that I’m not promising I’ll forgive
them.”

He flashed her a kindly smile. “I
realize that. But you are willing at least to hear their side of the story?”

“Yes.”

He nodded in satisfaction.
“They’re going to love you, you know. I saw a portrait of your mother once, and
I must say that you’re the exact image of her, except for your red hair.”

“Perhaps I’ll be an unpleasant
reminder to them of Mama,” Mercy interjected defensively.

“Not at all, dear,” Anton hastily
assured her. “The Dubois really did love Corrine, although they acted
imprudently.”

“Indeed they did.”

The two fell into silence as the
steamer rounded a bend and approached the high bluffs of Natchez. Studying the
pillared mansions atop the hill, contrasted with the squalid debauchery of the
port beneath, Mercy couldn’t help but recall her honeymoon, when the riverboat
had paused at Natchez-Under-the-Hill and she had turned herself into the safety
of Julian’s arms, telling her husband fiercely that she never wanted to see her
grandparents.

How close the two of them had been
back then. And how radically and tragically their lives had changed. Now Mercy
glanced at Anton; he was her friend, but she could never see herself rushing
into his arms for comfort. Hell that is was, she could never see herself loving
anyone but Julian Devereux, the very villain who had broken her heart.

She turned again toward Natchez, swallowing the painful lump in her throat. Perhaps she would find a new life
here—although hers would be only an existence, with no true serenity or peace.
After enduring the heartbreak of her marriage, life would never be the same for
her.

Anton, too, was immersed in
thought as the Princess prepared to take its place in the long line of vessels
docked at the port of Natchez. He had designs on Mercy Devereux, and while he
realized that discretion was in order, he very much intended to have the girl.

Anton was a working-class lawyer
in Natchez, a man who existed on the fringes of aristocratic society. All his
life, he had resented being a poor relation of the powerful Dubois family. His
mother, a shop girl from Natchez-Under-the-Hill, had died soon after his birth;
his father, a local saloon keeper and the half-brother of Hélène Dubois, had
been killed ignominiously in a bar fight when Anton was only ten. Thereafter,
the Dubois had taken him in and reared him, sending him off to fashionable
boarding schools and later on to eastern universities to study law. But he knew
that in their eyes he would always be a poor relation, an inadequate substitute
for their beloved, long-lost Corrine, the heir who had betrayed them so long
ago.

Having the Dubois ask him to go to
New Orleans and fetch back their granddaughter had been a godsend for Anton.
Now, Mercy Devereux offered him his chance at last—a golden opportunity to
achieve great wealth as well as true entree into Natchez society. For he knew
that with just a little persuasion, the Dubois could be induced to award
Corrine O’Shea’s substantial trust to their granddaughter. Anton was well aware
that there was over half a million dollars sitting in that trust now, money he
felt was rightfully his. After all, he was the one who had taken care of the
affairs of the Dubois for so long; their worthless daughter had foolishly
deserted them to marry a penniless Irishman.

Now Mercy Devereux was going to
obtain the trust for him; he would convince her to divorce her cad of a husband
back in New Orleans, and then the two of them would wed. Since they were but
distant relations, there would be no impediment to the marriage. Even the
Dubois could not object, he reasoned, since the marriage would bind Mercy to Natchez, and to them.

He glanced at the girl
surreptitiously; she was gazing out at the port of Natchez-Under-the-Hill, her
green eyes filled with both pride and fear. He hadn’t expected her to be such a
lovely creature; truth to tell, he would have willingly married a pit-faced cow
in order to gain control of Corrine’s fortune. But this girl . . . Ah, yes!
Given Mercy’s pride and passion, she would be a pleasure to bed. Indeed, the
mere thought of claiming her lush body sent hot arousal through his loins.

And bed her he would, after they
were wed—or perhaps even sooner, to ensure that her honor was compromised and
her cooperation secured.

***

Half an hour later, Mercy and
Anton departed the stable in Natchez-Under-the-Hill in his stylish folding-top
curricle. Anton worked the reins and clucked to the handsome chestnut horse;
the little beast could only plod laboriously through streets of deep red mud.

Batting at the pesky flies that
kept diving at their faces, Mercy glanced about curiously as they left the
loud, cluttered docks behind and proceeded down the potholed expanse of Water Street, with its weathered cotton warehouses sagging on stilts. About them, the boardwalks
teemed with humanity—colorful river men, gaudy gamblers, mean-faced drifters,
flashy prostitutes, and Indians in store-bought clothing. All mingled freely
with the better-dressed merchants and free men of color who ran shops or mills
in the bustling, bawdy community. The air oozed the powerful stench of garbage
and manure, and throbbed with the sounds of revelry spilling from the various
grogshops. Mercy could only shake her head; the area was even seedier than the
docks in New Orleans.

Soon they turned onto Silver Street, passing its dilapidated façades and then angling upward toward Natchez proper.

Natchez-on-the-Hill gleamed in
stark contrast to the misery below. As they crested the bluff, Anton pointed
out the various sights—Clifton, with its stunning white pillars, lush weeping
willow trees, and blooming camellias; the old Spanish parade grounds, spilling
vibrantly out onto the edge of the bluff; the expansive esplanade leading to
the old, jasmine-drenched plaza. The various houses and inns they passed
mirrored the dual Spanish and French heritage of the historic community.

In the central business district
of town, Mercy took note of neat shops, stylish eateries, quaint apothecaries,
and produce stands. Anton turned them onto Jefferson Street and they headed
toward the outskirts of town, gliding down a tree-lined boulevard past
magnificent mansions of Greek Revival, Classical, or Georgian design.

The stately homes took Mercy’s
breath away. Anton had informed her that there were over twenty millionaires
living in Natchez, and, staring at the opulence stretching before her now, she
could easily believe it.

Soon, they turned onto the
driveway of a stately white Romanesque mansion lushly draped with blooming
bougainvillea and crepe myrtle, and shaded by towering oaks and verdant
magnolias.

“This is my grandparents’ home?”
Mercy asked Anton tensely.

He nodded. “Quite a grand estate,
isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” she murmured.

As he stopped the carriage, she studied
the home in greater detail. Squarish in design and two-storied, the structure
was graced by four chimneys, six enormous fluted columns, a stylish portico,
and a stunning cut-glass fanlight over the front door. Dark green shutters and
a gray-blue porch contrasted with the gleaming expanse of white; huge pots,
spilling out bright red geraniums, were lined up along the porch, interspersed
between homey slat-backed rockers.

“Oh—it’s so lovely here,” she
whispered to Anton.

Even as he alighted from the coach
with a grin, a middle-aged black man in livery hurried toward them. “Master
Anton! You back with the child?” he called, grinning.

Anton turned to nod at the servant
as he handed Mercy down.

“Hello, Jerome. I’ve brought
Madame Devereux home to meet her grandparents.”

“Welcome, ma’am,” the black man
said to Mercy, bowing respectfully.

“Thank you,” she murmured with a
smile.

As Jerome led off the horse and
conveyance, the front door opened and an elderly couple emerged. Mercy’s heart
thudded as she stared at the two people she knew had to be Hélène and Gaspard
Dubois.

She was shocked to observe how old
they were—both had deeply lined faces and snow-white hair. Still, they were a
handsome couple, both tall and slender, the man dressed in formal black and the
woman gowned in an elegant frock of dove-gray silk.

“Mercy!” the woman called. “Oh, my
dear, is it you?”

As Mercy waited, too nervous to
speak, the couple hurried down the steps toward her. Hélène at once reached out
and embraced her granddaughter. Mercy inhaled the scents of rosewater and
lavender sachet as she stood stiffly in her grandmother’s embrace.

After a moment, Hélène backed off
slightly. “Oh, Mercy! You’re the very image of your mother.” Dabbing at tears
with a lace handkerchief, she turned to her husband. “Isn’t it so, Gaspard?”

“Indeed,” her grandfather said
hoarsely, staring at Mercy starkly. He stepped forward and gently kissed her
forehead and squeezed her hand, his grip warm but slightly trembling. “Welcome
to Natchez, my dear.”