Mercy realized that, by now, Philippe had surely challenged her guardian, Julian Devereux, to a fight to the death. The two might be dueling even now. More likely, however, the event would occur sometime tomorrow, as the necessary time had to elapse for the seconds to make the arrangements.
Mercy was well aware that Julian would never decline Philippe’s challenge. To do so would mean that he would be publicly posted a coward. Indeed, Mercy had seen such notices in the New Orleans Crescent—neatly boxed advertisements proclaiming some local or the other a “craven” for refusing to duel. To back away from an affaire d’honneur meant social ruin. Creole men were a hot-blooded lot who took their pride and their honor most seriously.
At last, Mercy tossed off her covers, got up from her narrow cot, and began to pace her small room in the wide beam of light slanting in through the window. Her bare feet were soundless on the old, scarred floor, and her lush red curls caught silvery highlights as she swept to and fro in her plain linen gown.
She clenched her fists and ground her jaw in helpless frustration. How she wished her schoolmates were still here to offer some comfort or advice. But since the term had just ended, the other boarding students at St. Mary’s School had gone home to their families at plantations along St. John’s Bayou, or at mansions along River Road to the north of the city. Mercy particularly missed her three best friends—stouthearted Lavinia, who had the unfortunate face of a horse, but possessed a stalwart spirit to match; beautiful Clarisse, with her wild laughter and mischievous ways; and sweet little Emilie, with her kind eyes and ready smile. All of Mercy’s friends were far, far away, and she suddenly felt like a lost, lone child faced with a woman’s agonizing, life-and-death dilemma.
What was she to do? She mustn’t let Philippe die, yet she well knew that Julian would have no qualms about killing him. Asking for the nuns’ help was out of the question, since they would never let her interfere in a matter between men. Besides, Julian had Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle totally intimidated; the sisters had perpetually bowed to his every whim regarding her upbringing.
Yet unless she did something, and soon . . .
She would have to go to Julian’s town house and beg him not to duel Philippe.
The instant the reckless, desperate thought sprang to Mercy’s mind, she shuddered in horror. Had she completely taken leave of her senses? She knew she had already thoroughly provoked her guardian by meeting with Philippe without a chaperone—not to mention by planning for her own marriage without Julian’s counsel or consent. Now he would surely boil her in oil if he discovered she had taken to the dangerous streets of New Orleans alone at night.
Yet Mercy quickly realized that she had no choice. As much as it rankled, she knew she would have to go to Julian, humble herself to him, do anything necessary to save Philippe.
She did know where he lived. Several times in the past, when she and Sister Clarabelle had run errands in the Quarter, the nun had pointed out Julian’s stylish town house on Royal, not far from the parish house. Invariably, Sister Clarabelle would say, “That is where your guardian, M’sieur Devereux, lives. You are indeed fortunate to have such a fine gentleman sponsoring you, Mercy.”
Fortunate! Fortunate to be at the mercy of the madman who had killed her father and might well shortly murder her fiancé?
Mercy sighed heavily, chiding herself for her useless anger. She must act, and act quickly.
***
Moments later, Mercy hurried to the west along gaslit Chartres Street. She wore a plain dark frock and soft-soled slippers; a gray scarf bound her bright hair. She crossed herself and uttered a supplication to the Holy Virgin to give her safe conduct. The streets of New Orleans held danger—pickpockets, drifters, drunks, and sailors looking for a fight or a comely miss. Two blocks down, she navigated safely past a brightly lit bordello and a noisy grogshop. When she spotted a staggering, rough-looking character emerging from an eatery, she ducked into an alleyway until the coast was clear.
Mercy continued on past the Place d’Armes, which was flanked on either side by the new Pontalba buildings, their iron-lace balconies glittering in the moonlight. She headed north on St. Peter, glancing at the lofty three-spired cathedral ahead of her, watching the quicksilver light dance on the mansard roofs of the Cabildo and the Presbytere on either side. Then she turned onto Royal Street and hurried past a long row of stucco town houses.
At last she stood before Julian’s Royal Street address, her hand hesitating on the bell next to the gaslight. How would he react when she barged in on him, and he discovered that she had sneaked out of the parish house and walked the streets alone? He would surely become more enraged than ever. Had she bungled everything? Were all her efforts for naught?
No, she reminded herself stoutly, biting down a rising hysteria. She had to try. It was her pride that had brought her to this juncture, she reminded herself grimly. How often had Sister Clarabelle warned her that pride was the most deadly of sins? If she had to kiss Julian Devereux’s boots in order to save Philippe, so be it. If she had to forsake Philippe’s suit and take the veil instead, she would. But she must not let him die.
Mercy rang the bell and stood waiting, her stance brave. A moment later, a manservant swung open the iron gate to the patio and stared at her, astonished. Mercy noted that he was very handsome, with fine, cocoa-colored skin, and that he wore the black tailcoat and matching pants of a butler. She recalled seeing the man with Julian several times before.
“Please,” she murmured. “I must see M’sieur Devereux. On a matter of great urgency.”
“You’re Mam’selle Mercy,” the servant replied, frowning.
“Oui.”
“What are you doing out unchaperoned, mam’selle?” he went on sternly. “Maître will not like this. Not at all.”
Mercy stifled a shudder. “Yes, I know. But I must see him. I—I’ll explain everything to him.”
“Very well,” he said skeptically, bidding her enter.
***
Julian Devereux was getting drunk.
He paced his elegant parlor with its Aubusson rug and fine Belter furniture. Given the heat of the night, he had long since discarded his frock coat, vest, and cravat. His shirt was open almost to his waist, revealing the mat of crisp dark curls on his muscled chest. His thick black hair was rumpled, his jaw dark with stubble. With his long-legged strides, and the grim, wild light in his eyes, he appeared rakish, sensual, and very dangerous.
Julian was unable to believe the quandary he had gotten himself into. He remained incredulous that young Broussard had actually challenged him. Was the lad suicidal? Had he no knowledge of Julian’s reputation?
Everyone in New Orleans was well aware of his frightful feats on the field of honor. During Julian’s rakehell days, there had been three duels—and three deaths at his hands. He was not particularly proud of any of the incidents, but all had been affaires d’honneur, unavoidable. First there had been the young libertine who had cheated at cards and had refused to make good on his treason, even after Julian had caught him red-handed. Then there had been the hot-blooded young Italian who insisted that Julian had made a play for his sweetheart at a bal de société. Lastly there had been the craven who had insulted Justine in the park. All three times, Julian had not been the one to issue the challenge. All three times, he had tried to effect some compromise.
All three times, ultimately, he had been forced to kill. “Damn,” he uttered under his breath, thrusting his fingers through his hair. Now history was repeating itself. He thought grimly of his interview with young Broussard’s second, a pimply-faced desk clerk from his father’s hotel. No, M’sieur Broussard was not interested in effecting a compromise, the man had said. Then he had hemmed and hawed, finally adding, “Perhaps if m’sieur were to apologize, and to grant Mam’zelle O’Shea’s hand in marriage to M’sieur Broussard?”
Somehow, pride had forbidden Julian from backing down. “You realize your friend is going to die?” he had hissed at the man.
The unfortunate fellow had gulped. “Oui, m’sieur.”
Julian went to his desk near the window and sat down heavily. He poured himself another glass of brandy and downed it quickly, grimacing at the sting of the alcohol. As things now stood, the duel would be fought tomorrow at sundown, beneath the Oaks. What was he to do? The others had, perhaps, in some way deserved their deaths, but young Broussard . . . All the lad had done was to propose marriage to Mercy. Damn it all, it was his own asinine pride and, yes, his desire for the girl, that had brought them to this appalling pass. Had he been in young Broussard’s shoes, he probably would have reacted in precisely the same manner. Why hadn’t he foreseen the disaster his own reckless actions would bring hurtling down upon them all?
And why was he even considering the possibility of pursuing Mercy for himself? Did he want to heap upon himself a lifetime of hatred and misery? Was he still trying to punish himself for his own unwitting hand in Brendan O’Shea’s death?
Julian plucked his pen from the inkwell, grabbed a sheet of parchment, and began to write:
Monsieur Broussard,
I hereby apologize for my affront in denying your suit with regard to my ward, Mercy O’Shea, and grant you my permission to marry her. I trust we may now consider the affaire d’honneur settled between us.