Rogue's Mistress(52)
He could only stare at her in wonder. “You truly want my happiness, don’t you?”
She laid her hand on his. “Of course.”
He shook his head slowly. “God—whatever did I do to deserve a friend like you?”
Justine lowered her eyes. “It is most definitely I who should be asking that question,” she murmured in a strangely choked voice. Before he could comment, she squeezed his hand and forged on. “Mon ami, I have another suggestion—”
“Yes?”
“I think it’s high time for you to tell Mercy the truth about her father’s death—and how he killed your lady friend.”
His incredulous gaze flashed to hers. “Have you gone mad?”
“You need to tell her, Julian.”
“And shatter her father’s image in her eyes forever? The girl has suffered enough already.”
“And what about your suffering, Julian?” Justine asked passionately. “You’ve protected her for far too long. It isn’t fair that she go on blaming you as she does. She needs to know that you weren’t at fault, that you experienced anguish, too.”
He drew a hand to his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Her father died at my hands. Telling her the truth now would only make matters worse.”
“Oh, Julian. I think you’re very wrong.”
He was on the verge of commenting when a child’s voice called out from the portal, “Papa?”
Arnaud stood in the archway, wearing a nightshirt and clutching a colorful rag doll of a Mardi Gras clown. He looked wan, his dark hair disheveled.
“Arnaud!” Justine scolded. “What are you doing out of bed at this hour?”
The child took a tentative step into the room. “I heard Papa.” He flashed an eager smile at his father, then turned back to Justine. “And I feel queer, Mama.”
Justine slanted the child an admonishing look. “Arnaud, I think this is only a ploy so you can spend time with Papa.”
Julian waved her off. “Oh, let him stay up a while.”
Arnaud needed no further encouragement. With a grin, he hurled himself across the room and tumbled into his father’s arms.
Julian laughed, cuddling the boy and ruffling his hair. He placed his hand on Arnaud’s forehead and glanced at Justine. “He looks pale, but he doesn’t feel feverish.”
“He’s fine,” she told Julian. “My son is simply well aware of which parent spoils him outrageously.”
Julian chuckled. “Would you like a bedtime story, poppet?”
“Oh, yes, Papa!” Arnaud cried in delight. “Mama bought me a new storybook just yesterday.”
With a proud grin, Julian carried his son from the room. Watching the two, Justine shook her head.
***
A moment later, Henrí stole quietly into the room and came to sit beside Justine on the settee. She smiled at him radiantly and slipped her fingers into his. They stared at each other, with only the tick of the mantel clock breaking the silence.
At last, Henrí cleared his throat. “You did not tell him?”
“Oh, Henrí.” Justine squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure how Julian will feel about our desire to wed.”
“You still fear he won’t approve? That he would want you to wait until later?”
She nodded. “I don’t think either of us can bear the thought of disappointing him. And what if he feels threatened regarding Arnaud?”
Henrí frowned. “I’m aware of these concerns, but things are different now. Now that we know you’re with child, ma petite, we have no choice but to tell him. And soon.”
She sighed. “I know. But Julian is already so deeply troubled over his marriage. I hate to add to his burdens right now. It would help if he would tell Mercy the truth about her father’s death, but he refuses to do so.”
Henrí’s eyes gleamed with fierce determination. “I know. That one needs to grow up, to quit acting so spoiled and self-centered. I’m tired of her assuming maître is some kind of monster. Someone needs to set her straight.”
Justine’s eyebrows flew up. “Henrí! You’re not thinking of—”
He drew himself up proudly. “Actually, I am. We both know that Julian will never tell the girl the truth. And it’s high time she stopped punishing him for something that was not his fault.”
Justine bit her lip. “I suppose you have a point.”
“I intend to speak with her as soon as possible.”
“Oh, Henrí! Be careful. Julian will be angry at you when he finds out.”
“Oui, but he’ll get over it—especially if the girl can at last be persuaded to start acting like a real wife and not a cold-blooded martyr.”
Justine’s eyes remained troubled. “We’ll just have to hope the truth will bring her to her senses.”
“Yes, we must hope, ma chère,” Henrí replied fervently. “For only then can we seek our own happiness.”
He leaned toward her, and the two shared a kiss of deep longing.
***
Julian did not return home that night until well past midnight; Mercy was already asleep. When she awakened in the morning, he was gone; only the rumpled bedclothes proved he had been there at all.
She went morosely about her early morning routine, dressing and eating breakfast in her room. She had little to look forward to today. Actually, Charity La Ronde had invited her to a luncheon, but Mercy had politely declined; the thought of playing Julian’s blissful, giddy bride, of spending her morning gossiping with other wives, seemed obscene. And she greatly feared that if she went out in society today, she would wear her heart on her sleeve. Her troubles with Julian might be devastating, but they were also private.
Remembering their argument yesterday, she winced. In a way, she couldn’t blame Julian for feeling resentful about Philippe’s visit, yet she had even greater cause for outrage. Julian had walked out on her again, and had doubtless spent his evening with Justine; this was surely why he hadn’t returned until the wee hours. The very thought made her seethe with anger and jealousy.
How much more of this bitter, angry marriage could either of them endure?
Mercy was at the writing desk in the parlor, jotting down a list of items to buy at the market, when Henrí came in. “Madame, may I have a word with you?”
With a surprised frown, Mercy turned to him. “Yes? What is it?”
He shifted his weight awkwardly. “It concerns maître.”
Mercy hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Very well.” Putting down her pen, she went to the settee and sat, smoothing her pale yellow skirts about her. She nodded toward a chair for Henrí.
Watching the servant take his seat, Mercy wondered for a moment about his relationship with Julian. The two men had often seemed more like friends than master and servant; several times, she’d spotted them engaged in an intent conversation as she passed her husband’s study. Henrí also kept the household books and paid the accounts, which Mercy found quite odd.
Realizing that Henrí was politely waiting for her to speak, she abandoned her musings. Suspiciously, she asked, “Tell me, did my husband prompt you to have this little chat with me?”
“No, madame,” he replied, sitting stiffly in his chair. “I took on the responsibility entirely myself.”
“Oh, did you?” she challenged. “And it never occurred to you that you might be interfering in matters that are none of your concern?”
He lowered his eyes. “Yes, madame, it did occur to me. And I apologize if I am speaking out of turn. It’s just that I’ve noted much discord between you and maître of late.”
Mercy tilted her chin proudly. “And you think you can help?”
He nodded solemnly. “I felt it was time someone told you the truth. And frankly, your husband seems unwilling or incapable of doing so.”
Mercy’s eyes narrowed. “The truth? What truth?”
“Regarding your father’s death.”
Mercy gasped and leaned toward him intently. “How can you know anything about that?”
“I was there, madame.”
She stared at him in fierce doubt, then snapped her fingers. “That’s right—I remember you vaguely from that night. You were Julian’s coachman then, too.”
"Oui, I was. And I was with him the entire night.”
“Then you were with him when he killed my father at a grogshop?” she inquired in a sharply rising voice.
Henrí sighed and regarded her sadly. “But that’s just it, madame. Your father did not die in a grogshop.”
“What do you mean? Of course he died in a grogshop!”
“Madame, he did not. Your husband concocted that story to protect you.”
“To protect me?” Mercy echoed in a stunned voice. “Why, this is preposterous! How do I know you’re not weaving a new lie right now?”
Henrí gestured in entreaty. “Because I have no reason to lie to you, madame. And aren’t you curious to know the true circumstances of your father’s death? Afterward, if you choose not to believe me—well, that’s your choice.”
Mercy sighed heavily. “Very well. You may proceed.”
Henrí cleared his throat and spoke in a strained voice. “Nine years ago, before he ever met you, Julian Devereux was deeply involved with a young demimondaine, Genevieve Dupree. I think he may have been in love with her, for at one time he mentioned wanting to move her out of the bagnio and set her up as his paramour.”