Rogue's Mistress(14)
Mercy held up a hand. “Thank you, m’sieur, but I’d prefer to have a word with him myself, if you have no objection.”
When Broussard reluctantly responded in the affirmative, Mercy started off, the sister dutifully trailing behind her. Stifling a groan, Mercy touched the nun’s sleeve. “Sister, please. It is imperative that I speak with Philippe alone.”
The sister hesitated, her thin lips pursed with disapproval, while M’sieur Broussard looked on with a curious frown. At last, the sister sighed. “Very well, Mercy. But make the visit brief. And, mind you, keep the door ajar.”
“Oui, Sister.” With each step she took down the narrow, somber hallway, Mercy’s heart thumped louder in her ears. Her gloves were now so damp that, with a disgruntled sigh, she tore them off and thrust them inside her knitted reticule. A moment later, she rapped on the door at the end of the corridor.
The door opened and a rather startled Philippe appeared at the portal. He wore a black frock coat and matching trousers. A blotch of black ink marred the usual perfection of his lace cuffs. “Mercy! What are you doing here?”
She nodded meaningfully toward the front desk. “I must speak with you at once, Philippe. Alone.”
He regarded her with grim suspicion. “It’s about the duel, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Philippe. Please, we must talk.”
“It won’t do any good, Mercy.” But as she cast him a beseeching glance, he added wearily, “Very well. Come in.”
He ushered her inside the small office. Watching him turn to shut the door, Mercy warned, “Leave the door slightly ajar, or Sister Clarabelle will shortly descend on us.”
He did as she bid, then escorted her to a fraying armchair which flanked the narrow desk cluttered with account books and papers. Once she was seated, he took his own seat in the worn leather chair behind the desk. “Well, Mercy? If you’ve come to beg me not to duel your guardian, let me assure you that your mission is futile.”
She leaned toward him intently. “Do your parents know of your plans?”
“Of course not. They would never allow me to fight Devereux.” His brow knitted in suspicion. “Nor will I ever forgive you if you tell them.”
Nor will I ever forgive you . . . Wincing at his words, Mercy twisted her fingers together miserably. “Philippe, you’ll never forgive me when I tell you what I must.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Her gaze bravely met his. “You must withdraw your challenge.”
“Never!” he scoffed. “I’m flabbergasted that you would even suggest such treason after that scoundrel insulted us both.”
Mercy bit her lip until she tasted blood. Blessed Mother, why must everything be so difficult? Not knowing how else to proceed, she blurted, “That scoundrel is . . . Philippe, I’m going to marry him.”
Philippe’s pale brows shot up. “Him?”
“Julian Devereux, my guardian.”
“Mon Dieu!” Philippe shot to his feet, his expression incredulous, his voice little more than a stunned whisper. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Now she was standing, too, tilting her chin defiantly. “Non. I shall marry him.”
“But why?” Philippe’s features suddenly shifted from stark bewilderment to murderous suspicion. “Aha!” he declared, wagging a finger at her. “I should have known! The blackguard wants you for himself, doesn’t he? No wonder he denied my suit. And, no doubt, he forced his favors on you, didn’t he?”
Mercy hastily glanced away to hide a hot, guilty blush, appalled at how close to the truth Philippe had strayed.
He gripped her shoulders, shaking her slightly. “Didn’t he?”
Staring up at Philippe’s outraged countenance, Mercy gathered every reserve of inner strength. She longed to tell him the truth—after all, he was but an innocent pawn in Julian’s deadly game. Yet she fully realized that to be honest with Philippe now would only make the duel—and Philippe’s subsequent death—a grim and certain reality.
Thus, she tossed her curls and forced a reckless, defiant tone. “Non. Julian did not attempt to force my hand in any way. I made the decision of my own free will.”
Abruptly, Philippe’s hands dropped from her shoulders, and his features blanched. “Why?”
Mercy turned away from the helpless anguish in his eyes. She strode over to a small window in one corner of the office, staring out at a squalid alleyway teeming with garbage and black flies. The stench drifted in through the sheer curtains as if to mock the shabbiness of her own charade.
“This is—so difficult, Philippe,” she said at last, in a small, strained voice.
Philippe’s bitter laughter drifted over her. “I find that hard to believe, considering the relative ease with which you have just cast me aside.”
She turned to him wretchedly. “Philippe—”
“So tell me,” he cut in angrily, thrusting his arms across his chest, “how did M’sieur Devereux winnow his way into your heart?”
His sarcasm cut her to the quick. Nonetheless, she took a deep breath and began to pace the small room, spouting the speech she had concocted on the way over here. “Philippe, please know that when I met you, I was greatly taken with you. But I also felt trapped at the convent, and this may have prompted me to act . . . impetuously. I wanted to break away from the nuns, as well as from my guardian. You see, I had always hated Julian, because—”
“Because he killed your father,” Philippe finished.
She nodded, recalling how, on several occasions, she and Philippe had discussed the matter of her father’s death and Julian's role in it. “Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Well, as I said, I wanted to break away from Julian. But as the weeks passed and you and I discussed marriage, I began to realize that I was only running away from my own feelings.”
“Feelings? What feelings?”
Oh, holy saints, it would kill her to say this, Mercy thought. Somehow, she managed to face the contempt and suspicion in Philippe’s eyes and say evenly, “I’m in love with Julian.”
“What?” The hoarse exclamation was followed by a barrage of curses in rapid French. Afterward, Philippe stared at Mercy in utter horror. “You must have lost your mind! How can you say you’re in love with the man who murdered your father?”
Mercy winced as if from a physical slap. “That . . . was an accident . . . and I’ve decided it’s time to bury the past.”
“Bury the past?” Philippe cried. He gestured with extravagant cynicism. “What a heartwarming attitude.” Drawing closer, he drew a hard breath and spoke intensely. “But I know you, Mercy. You’re not charitable or forgiving. And you’re lying through your teeth right now.”
Mercy glared up at him with rising panic and desperation. “I tell you, I love him! Do not doubt it, for ’tis true!”
Philippe’s features twisted in uncertainty; the outrage in his eyes mellowed to bewilderment. “By the saints, I think you must believe this madness.”
“Of course I believe it,” she declared, closing in swiftly and aggressively on his vulnerability. “And you must withdraw your challenge at once. It is unthinkable that you would try to kill the man I am to wed.”
Philippe shook his head, staring at her with the fatalistic eyes of a drowning man. “Mercy, tell me none of this is true.”
“Non.”
He gestured beseechingly. “Tell me he made you do this.”
As she studied Philippe’s tortured expression, hot tears stung Mercy’s eyes at what she knew she must say. She tilted her chin to an imperious slant and forced a tone of hauteur. “The truth is, I only showed an interest in you to lure Julian in. It is he I have wanted all along—his wealth, his position.” She glanced around the room and gestured dismissively. “Did you really think I would be happy as an innkeeper’s wife?”
Philippe’s expression mirrored the soul of a man who was utterly shattered. “It seems I’ve misjudged you,” he said, contempt now glinting like ice in his eyes.
“So it seems,” she agreed, hating herself for destroying his illusions.
“And I must say that you and M’sieur Devereux seem to deserve each other,” he added with stinging acrimony.
Mercy answered straight from her hellishly guilty conscience. “Perhaps so.”
Philippe strode over to face her, drawing himself up with dignity. “Tell M’sieur Devereux that the challenge is withdrawn,” he snapped. “I hope you’ll be very happy with him.”
Before she could respond, he stormed from the room.
***
As Jacob drove the two women away from the Hotel Broussard, Mercy felt intensely guilty for her cold, callous words to Philippe. Nonetheless, she realized that everything she had said had been necessary to save his life. Far better that he be angry than dead, she rationalized. Surely he’d get over her in time.
She also felt stunned by her own daring in telling Philippe that she loved Julian. That had been a lie, of course.
Hadn’t it?
Mercy shuddered as she thought of their next planned stop—at Julian’s town house. She had every intention of telling the hateful scoundrel in person that she had committed his treason.