Rogue's Mistress(72)
No, all she could do with Anton would be to persuade him that fighting her husband would not help him accomplish his goals, that if, indeed, he harmed Julian, she would turn her back on him forever.
***
While Mercy was mulling over her options, Julian stood in the small tobacconist shop he’d bought for Henrí near the Exchange. His former manservant was now standing behind the counter, politely helping a middle-aged customer.
Julian looked about the shop with satisfaction—the high shelves were lined with tins of tobacco and snuff, boxes of cigars, and custom-made pipes. The establishment smelled marvelous.
Julian had been a customer in this shop for many years, and recently, when the elderly proprietor had mentioned that he planned to retire, he had decided to buy the store for Henrí. Julian felt proud that Henrí was now a free man of color as well as an independent businessman. The customers liked his respectful, soft-spoken manner.
Julian had much on his mind this afternoon, including the duel he would fight tomorrow. However, his feelings were most focused on his earlier argument with Mercy, an incident he now regretted. In truth, he did not really believe she had slept with Anton Gerard, although he did not hold her entirely blameless, either. Part of him couldn’t forget that she’d left him with Gerard—although her reasons had been compelling ones at the time. Still, he’d become insanely jealous when he’d spotted Gerard kissing her an hour ago. He wished he could take back some of the terrible things he’d said to her afterward; but as far as his challenge to Gerard was concerned, he had no regrets. No man could attempt to steal Julian Devereux’s wife and escape unscathed! Indeed, Julian suspected that Gerard had possessed an ulterior motive with Mercy all along. Thus, the duel would proceed as planned; Julian had already asked his business partner, André Beaufort, to act as his second. He hated the thought of shedding the other man’s blood—yet Gerard had given him no choice.
Julian had no intention of telling Henrí about his current plight, for he had an entirely different purpose in mind in visiting his friend today.
Now, as the middle-aged customer left the shop with a wrapped box of cigars tucked under his arm, Julian stepped to the counter. “Business is good?”
Henrí grinned. “It has been booming, maître. ”
Julian waved him off. “Enough of this maître business. I should have insisted long ago that you dispense with such nonsense. It’s high time for you to call me Julian, my friend.”
But Henrí only shook his head. “To me, you’ll always be maître.”
“You’re a lost cause,” Julian said with a chuckle.
Henrí began dusting off the counter with a cloth. “So, are things going well with madame? Justine and I were so relieved when you told us you had brought her home.”
Julian nodded, forcing a casual voice. “As I mentioned, Mercy wanted to see what her mother’s people were like. Can’t say I blame her for being curious. Now she’s where she belongs.”
“Bien,” Henrí returned with a smile. “I am most pleased for you both. Is there anything I can do to help you?”
Julian harrumphed. “Of course not. As a matter of fact, I’m here to tell you in no uncertain terms that it’s high time for you to proceed with your plans with Justine.”
Henrí chuckled. “You do not like her idea that we wait until after All Saints’ Day before we marry?”
“Of course not.” Glancing about, Julian spoke in a low awkward tone. “Let me be frank, man. I went to see Justine again yesterday, and her pregnancy is showing. She may want to wait a while longer, but that is most unwise under the circumstances, n’est-ce pas?”
“I agree.” Henrí frowned. “But what is it you want me to do?”
“Why, marry the woman, of course.”
Henrí sighed. “Justine feels very reluctant to wed me so soon after Arnaud’s death. And she does want to know that your situation with madame is resolved—”
“It’s resolved,” Julian cut in brusquely. He was silent for a moment, avoiding Henrí’s eye. “As for the two of you . . .” He grinned sheepishly, pulling an envelope from his breast pocket and handing it to Henrí.
With astonishment, Henrí opened the envelope and pulled out an official-looking document. “What is this?”
“Your marriage license, of course,” Julian replied. “Paul Rillieux helped me secure it quickly. I also spoke with a priest at St. Mary’s Church on your behalf. He is expecting the two of you at two p.m. tomorrow.”
Henrí whistled. “My, but you are determined, maître.”
“You bet I am. Two o’clock tomorrow, Henrí.”
Henrí glanced about the small establishment. “But what of my shop?”
“I’ll send my clerk down to handle your affairs for the balance of the day.” He sighed. “I wish I could offer you both more, book you into a hotel, or . . . But you know how things are here.” He offered Henrí an apologetic smile.
Henrí nodded wisely. “I know. You’ve done too much for us already.”
“Not so. But you’ll marry Justine tomorrow—even if you have to drag her to the altar?”
Henrí grinned. “Oui. I’ll marry her.”
***
Mercy’s attempt to convince Anton Gerard not to duel Julian was an abysmal failure.
He met her in the lobby of the St. Louis Hotel and listened patiently to her pleas.
After she stated her case, Anton said firmly, “Mercy, your husband has issued me a challenge. I have no choice but to duel him.”
“No choice?” she cried. “Of course you have a choice! Anton, you could kill Julian!”
He shrugged. “Don’t you want to be free of him?”
Mercy shook her head, her expression appalled. “I have no desire to see my husband hurt in any way. And I could never forgive you if you killed him.”
But her words fell on deaf ears. “I’ve told you, Mercy, that you’ll recover from your infatuation with that man in time.”
Mercy’s eyes beseeched the heavens. “I’ll never recover from my hatred of you if you harm Julian!” When Anton still appeared unmoved, she changed tactics. “More likely, though, he’ll kill you. I must warn you that my husband is a crack shot.”
Anton only smiled smugly. “Mercy, I think you’ll find that my talents on the field of honor are hardly negligible.”
Mercy could have throttled him. Her cousin seemed hopelessly puffed up with pride and arrogance, so cocky and sure of himself. “Is there nothing I can do to make you back down?”
“No. There’s nothing.”
Mercy could only throw up her hands in despair and storm out of the hotel.
***
For the balance of the evening and night that followed, Mercy felt like a mouse caught in a maze. First, she went home and waited for Julian to appear, so she might prevail upon him to withdraw his challenge, even though she knew that her chances of success with her obdurate husband were practically nil.
But as the shadows of night lengthened, Julian did not appear. Mercy paced the parlor in a near panic. Where on earth was he? The thought that he might be spending the night with Justine Begué was devastating.
Finally, toward midnight, she succumbed to her suspicions and asked Risa to rouse old Rubin. She met Rubin down in the courtyard. After apologizing to the gardener for waking him, she asked him to drive her to Rampart Street; he trudged off to the carriage house with a shrug. By now, the slave was well used to Madame’s spur-of-the-moment whims.
But when they drove past Justine’s cottage half an hour later, Mercy noted that the bungalow was dark, Julian’s coach nowhere in sight. Feeling at her wits’ end, she asked Rubin to drive her back home.
As they clattered past unlit town houses and businesses in the chill of night, she wondered if there was anything more she could do to stop the duel. It would likely be fought at dawn tomorrow, she realized grimly. She could always appear at the dueling site and once again beg both men not to fight. But where would the duel be held? Mercy had heard of a few spur-of-the-moment duels that had been fought in St. Anthony’s Square, following altercations at Quadroon Balls. Yet she doubted a formal duel would be held within the confines of the city, since Louisiana law forbade such affairs.
More likely, the duel would be fought under the infamous Oaks, which Mercy had heard various people mention in hushed whispers several times before. Indeed, at a dinner party a couple of months ago, Mercy had overheard Nicholas Bienville saying that the Oaks were on the plantation of Louis Allard.
She nodded firmly, her mind made up. She would have to hope Rubin knew the way to the Allard plantation. Though it would anger Julian, she had every intention of appearing there at dawn.
Chapter Thirty-five
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That night, Julian did not come home at all, and Mercy got little rest. Before dawn, she had Rubin drive her to the plantation of Louis Allard on the northern outskirts of the city. The drive was beautiful and eerie in the rosiness of predawn, as they drifted past foggy bayous and dark, massive trees dripping with Spanish moss. Yet the loveliness of the pastoral setting was lost on Mercy; even in the coolness, her palms were sweating.