Julian Devereux
Julian reread the note, cursed vividly, then crumpled it up and tossed it to the floor. He buried his face in his hands. Ah, perhaps he should fetch his pistol now and blow his brains out, as he would surely kill young Broussard on the morrow. As inept as the lad was, the duel would be little better than glorified murder. Perhaps it was better that he go, and let the boy live.
Yet Julian realized at once the absurdity of his morose thoughts. He couldn’t, of course, take his own life. Too many people depended on him—Justine, Arnaud, his mother . . .
And Mercy O’Shea, damn her eyes!
Where was the answer to this madness?
Then Julian’s head snapped up as he heard Henrí’s voice at the portal: “M’sieur, Mam’selle Mercy O’Shea is here to see you.”
Chapter Six
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“What are you doing here?” Julian demanded.
Standing in the doorway with Henrí, Mercy gulped as she watched her guardian approach with a murderous gleam in his eyes. Julian appeared to have been drinking. He was not dead drunk, but just inebriated enough to be dangerous. Several stray dark curls fell rakishly across his forehead. He looked ferociously handsome and as lethal as a black panther ready to spring.
Mercy realized that she could not possibly have come at a worse time. Somehow she managed not to wring her hands. “M’sieur, I must speak with you.”
Julian turned to Henrí. “Leave us, please,” he said.
Henrí bowed and ducked out, closing the door behind him.
As soon as the servant was out of earshot, Mercy stepped forward. “M’sieur, I have come here to—”
He held up a hand and glowered at her. “First, you will tell me what in the hell you are doing out on the streets of New Orleans, unchaperoned. I should take you over my knee.”
Mercy bit down the righteous anger that rose up in her at Julian’s arrogant words. You must secure his cooperation, she reminded herself. You must. “M’sieur, I apologize,” she forced herself to say evenly. “I know I have behaved recklessly, both today at the school and tonight.”
He regarded her dubiously. “That’s eminently true.”
“The fact of the matter is, I knew the sisters never would have allowed me to come here. Still, I had to speak with you. The situation is—despéré.”
“Desperate?” he repeated. Abruptly, he smiled, and his smile was frightening. “Ah, yes, the situation is desperate.”
Mercy swallowed hard, foreboding prickling on her nerve endings.
Julian strode to his desk and picked up the decanter of brandy and his glass. “A drink, Mercy?” he asked recklessly.
She shook her head, baffled by the strange and alarming state he was in.
He turned to her. “So you’ve come on behalf of young Broussard?”
She nodded.
“To beg me not to duel him?”
She nodded again.
“Certainly, you’ve not come on behalf of me,” he added ironically.
Her chin came up. “I don’t understand, m’sieur. It’s well known that you’ve never been defeated on the field of honor.”
“So why worry?” he asked insolently. “At any rate, it’s obvious that my death would hardly put you in a decline.”
Mercy bit her lip, feeling quite ill-at-ease. “What is it you expect me to say?”
“Ah, to hell with it,” he muttered, downing his drink. He set down the glass and strode forward, his bright, piercing gaze seeming to cut holes in her. “You’ve come on a mission of mercy, then? Strange, coming from a creature who seems to have none in her heart for me.”
Mercy reeled at his words. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” He continued toward her, picking up a ball of crumpled parchment from the rug. He unfolded it slowly, carefully, and handed it to her. “Is this what you came for, sweet Mercy?”
She scanned the letter quickly, then looked up at him. “Oui. But it is crumpled.” She forced a forthright tone. “You must write it again.”
Her imperious tone raked across Julian’s strained nerves. “Write it again?” He lifted an eyebrow in feigned amazement. “It is not satisfactory?” He bowed elaborately from the waist, then took the parchment from her hand, ripped it into several dozen small pieces, and let them flutter to the floor. “Happy now?”
Mercy was barely able to contain her urge to claw the mocking grin off his face. “Why did I even come here? As always, you are an arrogant cad!”
He whistled, feigning amazement. “Not a very conciliatory attitude from one who has come to beg for mercy.”
She drew a hard, seething breath. “You would—kill Philippe—”
Now he was angry, too, his hand slashing the air. “No, damn it! Your precious suitor would kill me. He is the one who issued the challenge, as you’re well aware.”
Mercy fought back hot, stinging tears. “You know you’ll kill him tomorrow. I overheard Sister Clarabelle saying once that—that you’ve killed three men beneath the Oaks.”
“Ah, yes, my formidable reputation,” he said cynically. “’Julian the Terrible’.” He drew a step closer, his gaze hard. “And you’re right, Mercy. I am terrible, and I likely will kill Broussard tomorrow.” Even as she gasped in horror, he went on. “Why have you come to me, then, fully aware of the blackened state of my heart? Why not entreat young Broussard?”
“Because he won’t back down,” Mercy acknowledged miserably. “I know him. He just won’t.”
“Indeed, it is a most serious matter, an affaire d’honneur between two gentlemen.”
“But you could stop it—”
“Renege?” he asked in disbelief. “And be publicly posted a coward? It simply is not done, dear Mercy.”
She gestured in entreaty. “Then send Philippe the note. Let the two of us marry. Pour l’amour de Dieu—why are you being so stubborn about this?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I think he’ll make you a poor husband.”
“He’ll make me no husband if he’s dead.”
“Quite true,” he uttered agreeably.
Mercy struggled to hold on to her patience. “There’s an alternative—”
“Yes?”
She drew herself up proudly. “I could take the veil.”
Mercy’s pride was at once deflated as Julian threw back his head and laughed. “You—a nun?”
Mercy bristled. “Is the idea so absurd to you, m’sieur?”
“Utterly.” He looked her over in an insulting way that could only be called a leer. “You’re far too earthy and ravishing a creature to become a nun.”
Mercy’s eyes grew enormous even as she inwardly burned with indignation at Julian’s affront. Enough was enough, she realized. Julian was clearly drunk. There was no getting through to the man, and she might as well leave. Perhaps he was right, anyway, and she should try to change Philippe’s mind.
She stared at him coldly. “M’sieur, I have had quite enough of your insults. As always, you are a black-hearted, insufferable scoundrel, and I bid you good night.”
That’s when something snapped in Julian. Perhaps it was Mercy’s cold departing words, or the contempt that had been building between them for nine long years. Perhaps it was the unspeakable passion the girl inevitably spurred in him. But suddenly, he became fiercely determined to penetrate her icy façade, to discover if the girl possessed a heart at all.
Even as she turned to leave, he grabbed her arm. “Not so fast, Mercy.”
She turned to glower at him, trying to wrench herself free. “This is taking us nowhere, m’sieur.”
“On the contrary. There is a solution.”
She paused, arrested. “Yes?”
“Obviously, you need a proper husband, and young Broussard needs to survive to his twenty-first year.”
“What are you suggesting?”
He looked her over again. “You could marry me.”
“Have you lost your mind?” she gasped.
“Undoubtedly. Still, the match might prove . . . interesting.”
“Lethal,” she amended. “How could you think I could ever—”
“Stop hating me?” he supplied. “Stop blaming me?”
Even as guilt stabbed her, she cried, “Yes!”
He loomed closer, the look in his eyes chilling her, his breath hot on her face. “Do you actually think you are the only one who has known loss in all of this?”
“I—don’t know what you mean—”
“Don’t you? Come now, dear Mercy. You can’t possibly be that thickheaded. Your eyes alone have been impaling me for years, like a knife in my heart—”
“I never meant—”
“Didn’t you?” He laughed, but it was hollow, humorless. “Do you actually think you’re the only one who has felt regret, or recrimination?”
“Regret over what?” she cried.
“Do you know what it’s like to have someone hate you, year after year?”
She was utterly confused. “How could I think of you any other way?”
“But of course!” he exclaimed bitterly, flinging a hand outward. “Never mind what the magistrate said. Never mind that I’ve provided for your every need for nine years.”