Rogue's Mistress(53)

“What?” Mercy cried. She sat bolt upright, outraged by these disclosures. “What idiocy are you spouting here? What does any of this have to do with my father?”

Henrí held up a hand. “Please, madame, it is a complicated tale and you must hear me out.”

She sighed fiercely. “Very well.”

He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Unfortunately, your father also fancied himself in love with Mademoiselle Dupree—”

Mercy’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon? My father in love with a prostitute? You’re lying!”

“No, madame, I am not,” Henrí replied with strained patience. “Furthermore, Madame Sophie, who still runs her bagnio in the Quarter, will confirm my entire story. Will you listen?”

Mercy glared at him, then waved a hand. “Go on.”

“As I understand it, your father and Mademoiselle Dupree had a”—he paused to cough—“liaison on one occasion. I’m not sure just what happened, but I do know that afterward she insisted that he never return. Evidently, this rejection drove your father mad with jealousy. On the night of your father’s death, Mam’selle Dupree was—er—entertaining Julian.” Henrí paused to flash her an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid there’s no delicate way to put this, madame—the two of them were in bed together. Your father forced his way into the brothel, then burst in on them with a gun.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Your father was overcome with rage and jealousy. He fired a shot, wounding Genevieve in the shoulder, and only maître's quick action stopped him from murdering them both on the spot.”

“What happened?”

“It was very dark, madame. Julian jumped out of bed even as your father was firing another round. I believe that particular shot blew out a window. At any rate, the two men struggled over the gun, it discharged again, and your father fell dead to the floor.”

“Oh, merciful saints!” Mercy cried, shaking her head. “Tell me none of it is true!”

“But it is true, madame—all of it,” Henrí said vehemently. “I would never lie to you on a matter of such grave importance. And I implore you to be honest with yourself now. While you were only a child at the time, surely you must have some recollection of what your father was truly like?”

Mercy gulped as Henrí’s words forced her to confront the bitter truth she had shoved into some dark corner of her mind, devastating memories she had buried as she idealized her father through a fierce need for self-preservation. Now, those harrowing images sprang forth to haunt her: her father spending all of his money on liquor and cards, while she and her mother went without; her father losing one job after another, and always blaming someone else; her father coming home late, drunk and abusive; her father hitting her mother, hitting her . . .

With a tormented cry, Mercy buried her face in her hands. Again, her trembling voice entreated, “Please, say it isn’t true.”

Henrí’s voice was also anguished. “But I cannot, madame.” He paused to cross himself. “I swear by le bon Dieu that I have spoken only the truth.”

Her eyes mirrored her shattered emotions. “You mean that while my mother was dying of pneumonia, my father was—”

“Forcing his way into a whorehouse.”

“Why wasn’t I told?” she cried, beating her fists on the settee.

“Because maître chose to protect you!” Henrí said passionately. “When he went to your home and saw your mother dying, when he saw you—a helpless child—he swore that neither of you should ever know what a true monster Brendan O’Shea was.”

“He did . . . all that for us?” Mercy asked numbly.

Henrí’s fervid gaze met hers. “All that and much more. He had a magistrate cover the true circumstances of your father’s death. Officially, the incident went down as a fight in a grogshop, so that you would never be burdened with the actual shameful details.”

“Julian was . . . generous,” she somehow managed.

“Indeed,” Henrí concurred. “His generosity knew no bounds. He became your guardian, madame. He provided for your every need over the years. He protected you, at the cost of suffering your everlasting scorn.” At Mercy’s wince, he finished ominously, “A most generous attitude, considering everything that happened.”

She stared at him in deepening desolation. “Everything? Don’t tell me there’s more?”

“But there is, madame. You see, Genevieve Dupree died.”

Mercy gasped. “But I thought you said she was only wounded!”

“Oui, it was a simple flesh wound, but it putrefied. She died two weeks later, in my master’s arms. Julian took it very hard.”

“Mon Dieu!” Mercy bit her clenched fist, not knowing how many more of these shattering revelations she could endure. “Did Julian truly love her?”

“I’m not sure—but I do know that something was not quite the same in him after her death.” Henrí sighed, his eyes taking on a wistful look. “I wish you could have known him before, madame. He was so full of life and vitality. But after that one incident—and after Genevieve died—all the idealism in him seemed to fade away, as well.”

Mercy stared miserably at her lap. “Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Because it’s not fair that you go on blaming him.”

“I realize this,” she conceded hoarsely. “But what can you hope to accomplish at this late date? Surely Julian must hate me.”

“No, madame. He does not hate you.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Madame, I think you already know,” he replied wisely.

Henrí got up and quietly left the room.

Mercy stared into space, in a deep state of shock. Then the emotional aftermath of Henrí’s disclosures hit her with such force that she staggered beneath it, thrusting her hands to her face and uttering a low, heartbroken cry.

To think that all this time she had blamed Julian for her father’s death, when he hadn’t been responsible at all! She had flung endless guilt and recrimination upon him, instead of laying fault where it truly belonged—squarely on Brendan O’Shea’s head. Now, she felt deep outrage at her father for his selfish, heartless behavior, and even greater anger at herself for judging Julian so harshly.

She couldn’t even blame Julian for withholding the truth from her, since his motive had been to protect her.

Her pain-filled thoughts drifted back to that first, fateful night when she had met him. She remembered Julian spending the night at her dying mother’s side—and this after her father had almost succeeded in killing him and his lady friend! She realized that her husband was truly a remarkable, compassionate man to minister to the family of a man who had wronged him so grievously.

Because of her father, Julian had lost one woman he loved. And now, because of her—because of the guilt she had heaped on him—he had married her, giving up his own true love, Justine. All this time, he’d been trying to atone for something that wasn’t even his fault!

Wiping away a tear, she wondered what she should do. Perhaps, now that the truth was known, she should release him from his obligation, leaving him free to be with Justine. After all, the two of them had a child together, and what if she could never bear him children?

This thought brought new, scorching tears to her eyes. Oh, merciful heavens, it was too much to be borne!

Yet through the haze of her pain and confusion, one undeniable fact emerged. She knew she must apologize to Julian for blaming him so cruelly. She must release him from the shackles of guilt she had unconsciously used to bind him to her for so long. Then perhaps he would at last be free to choose his own happiness.

Would he forgive her? she wondered achingly. Or was it already too late for redemption?





Chapter Twenty-four


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That night, Mercy stayed up late, determined to speak with Julian alone. In their bedroom, she took special pains with her appearance, donning a lacy, pale pink peignoir set that he had bought her in St. Louis. She brushed her red hair until it shone like a glorious mantle about her head and shoulders, and dabbed on a few drops of rosewater. She turned the lamps down low, then opened the windows, letting the warm, honeysuckle-scented breeze waft in from the courtyard below. She even had Henrí bring up a bottle of wine and two glasses, although she chided herself for her foolishness.

Once all was in readiness, Mercy paced the room and wrung her hands. She had no idea what sort of reception awaited her when Julian came home. While she desperately hoped that he would accept her apology and forgive her, she also knew that she had to be prepared for any contingency. She must set him free from the burden of guilt she had imposed on him. Whether or not his future included her was for him to decide.

Her wait was not nearly as protracted as she thought it would be, for just after nine o’clock, the door to the bedroom swung open and Julian stepped in. Mercy whirled, her heart pounding at the sight of him. For a terrifying moment, she wondered if she could follow through with what she knew she must do. The mere sight of him seared her senses and staggered her resolve.