Rogue's Mistress(74)
“Good evening, Mercy,” he drawled.
“Good evening.” She tore off her cloak, bonnet, and gloves and threw them onto a chair. “What are you doing here?”
He feigned amazement. “This is my home.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “A home to which you’ve been a stranger recently. So why appear at this late hour?”
His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I felt we should have a little chat.”
“Now? When we’re both so tired?”
He shrugged. “Why prolong the uncertainty?” He drew closer, looking her over in her long-sleeved dress of crisp blue muslin. “So, how fares your lover?”
At once, her hackles were raised. “Anton is not my lover.”
“Indeed?” he mocked. “He’s the one you ran to after the duel.”
“He’s the one who was wounded!”
“Are you so sure?” he asked ironically, downing the rest of his brandy.
She scowled at him. “If you’re interested,” she muttered, “Anton will live—no thanks to you.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “So our fine M’sieur Gerard will survive to fight another day. That makes everything so convenient for you, doesn’t it, my dear?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Julian’s voice rang with chilly disdain. “He’s asked you to return to Natchez with him, hasn’t he?”
“As a matter of fact, he has.” Her chin came up. “And he may need my help—considering his wound.” Reeling with hurt at his coldness, she added spitefully, “I do have my own life—and my own money—there.”
“Ah yes,” he agreed bitterly. “So you’ve informed me previously. Well, then, ma chère, now you have what you’ve always wanted, don’t you? Your independence. Obviously, you don’t need me anymore—have never needed me.”
“And you don’t need me,” Mercy retorted with equal acrimony. Watching him stride to the sideboard to pour himself another drink, she chided, “What, Julian? No more threats to force me to stay?”
He slammed down the brandy decanter and whirled on her. “You don’t want to stay,” he accused, pointing a finger at her. “I guess we both know by now that our marriage was a mistake, that it was based on all the wrong things. Threats, guilt, pity—”
“Never love,” she cried, stepping forward to face him, despite the hot tears that stung her eyes.
“I suppose not,” he conceded ironically. “Though we did have a remarkable substitute, didn’t we, chère?”
If Mercy hadn’t been so exhausted, she would have clawed his eyes out. “You’re despicable,” she snapped, turning and walking from the room.
Chapter Thirty-six
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Mercy packed her bags, leaving Julian a terse note informing him that she would be staying at St. Mary’s Convent for the next few days. The nuns accepted her back with obvious reluctance; while they didn’t criticize her action openly, the message in their eyes clearly bespoke the fact that they felt her place was with Julian.
If only he wanted her! Mercy still loved her husband and yearned for him terribly, but he seemed to have no feeling left in his heart for her.
Mercy did assure Mother Anise that she would only stay for a week or so. She told the sister she needed the time to reexamine her life and plan her future. “Think well, child,” the wise sister advised.
Each day, Mercy went to Charity Hospital to visit Anton. Her cousin’s health was steadily improving, and he constantly urged her to return with him to Natchez. She hesitated to commit herself to making the journey, but she also felt reluctant to remain in New Orleans, when Julian seemed so very unwilling to meet her halfway on anything.
As the days passed, Mercy received no word from her husband, no hint of encouragement. Her spirits sagged and she bemoaned the gnawing hunger for him that refused to be quelled. She wondered with wild jealousy if he were again spending his time with Justine. And there was the disheartening matter of Justine’s second pregnancy—what if Julian was again the father?
Then something happened which shook Mercy’s resolve. The dizziness that she’d experienced on the morning of the duel returned for several days in a row; then, early one morning, she awakened feeling nauseous. When the same puzzling nausea returned for three subsequent mornings, Mercy at last realized that she might be pregnant.
Of course she was pregnant! she decided that propitious morning. She’d been so preoccupied with her troubles with Julian that she’d neglected to note that her monthly time was late. All at once, she knew she had conceived that wild, passion-filled night she’d spent with him in Natchez.
Mercy rubbed her still-flat belly and blinked back exultant tears. The idea that Julian’s seed had taken root inside her filled her with fierce joy. Wouldn’t he love a child? A tiny son who was a miniature of his handsome father? Or perhaps a daughter with her mother’s green eyes and red hair?
Such was Mercy’s delight that she was halfway out the door, intent on sharing the news with him, when logic brought her up short. Would Julian really welcome this baby? Or was he still so devastated with grief over Arnaud that he wouldn’t want to risk loving another child?
And what if Justine already carried his second child?
She also recalled her husband’s recent cruel accusations regarding Anton, and her doubts multiplied. What if he again accused her of infidelity, and assumed that Anton was the father of this baby? Oh, she could not bear it!
Still, she could not withhold news of pregnancy from him; this child was half his, after all.
Mercy was still agonizing over her dilemma when Sister Clarabelle came to her room and announced that she had a visitor—André Beaufort. Startled and confused, Mercy went downstairs to meet André.
The small, wiry Creole stood as Mercy entered Mother Anise’s office, nodding respectfully to her.
“M’sieur Beaufort,” she murmured, offering her hand. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
André bowed, briefly kissing Mercy’s hand. “Madame Devereux, I must apologize for intruding when you are obviously on—er—a spiritual retreat here. However, I must speak with you on a matter of great urgency.”
A smile tugged at Mercy’s lips at André’s chivalrous tact. “I see. Won’t you sit?”
The two took seats in the matching French armchairs flanking Mother Anise’s desk. André coughed nervously. Mercy asked, “How did you know that I was here?”
He avoided her eye. “Your husband mentioned it.”
“I see.” Her voice grew noticeably cooler. “You’re here on Julian’s behalf, then?”
“Oui, though he did not ask me to come,” André replied, shifting in his chair. “I’ve come entirely of my own accord.”
“Have you?”
“Oui, madame.” He cleared his throat noisily. “I’ve debated this matter endlessly, and I finally decided that I must discuss it with you.”
“Discuss what?”
His reluctant gaze met hers. “The duel.”
Mercy couldn’t repress a startled laugh. “The duel? What about it?”
“To be specific, have you not wondered why your husband allowed himself to almost be killed that day?”
“Allowed? What are you saying?”
André leaned toward her. “Madame, Julian Devereux is the best marksman I have ever known. If he aims for a man’s heart, I assure you, he does not miss.”
Mercy felt all the color drain from her face. “Then you’re saying that he—”
“I’m saying that out of deference to you, your husband aimed for your cousin’s shoulder and not for any vital organ.”
Mercy’s eyes grew huge. “Then Julian risked—”
“He risked death itself by not shooting to kill,” André finished. “Had M’sieur Gerard not missed his aim on his subsequent round, your husband would now be dead.” As Mercy gasped, he added grimly, “Also, according to the Code Duello, your husband, as the affronted party, had every right to demand additional satisfaction after the first shedding of blood. Under the circumstances, he could not have failed to dispatch M’sieur Gerard on a second round. However, as you’re well aware, Julian declared the matter settled—thus sparing your cousin.”
Mercy shook her head, her expression stunned. “And Anton claimed that Julian had tampered with his dueling pistol.”
André laughed dryly. “That would have been impossible, madame. You see, although the dueling set belongs to your husband, M’sieur Gerard was given first choice of the weapons. Need I say more?” He shrugged. “Actually, I am not surprised that M’sieur Gerard missed his aim at a distance of sixty feet, especially since he was wounded on his firing side.”
Trying to absorb these revelations, Mercy walked over to the window. Here, all the while, she had assumed Julian was the villain in the duel, when ultimately, he had risked his own life to spare Anton’s. Why? Her husband was certainly a strange and baffling man.
She turned, perplexed, to André. “Why are you telling me these things?”