“The young lady has become . . . quite beautiful,” Henrí went on.
“Quite,” Julian conceded ironically.
“It is good of you to provide for her as you have, maître.”
Julian laughed bitterly. “Now those are words I’ll grant you’ll never hear from the young lady’s lips.” He drew out his finely carved gold watch and flipped it open. “Shall we go?”
***
Mercy O’Shea stood in the walled garden before St. Mary’s Parish House, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Philippe Broussard. Seeing him thus was forbidden—but then, Mercy delighted in breaking the rules the Sisters of Charity had imposed on her at St. Mary’s School.
Standing next to a blooming crabapple tree, Mercy prayed that she wouldn’t be spotted by nosy Mother Anise or well-meaning Sister Clarabelle. She glanced toward the imposing French Renaissance building beyond her. Noting that no one was about, she quickly crossed herself and prayed that the nuns would remain busy with matins.
Mercy’s drab gray uniform with white pinafore blended in well with the natural backdrop, but it could not mask her blooming beauty. At eighteen, she sported the willowy curves of young womanhood. She was of above average height, long-waisted, with full breasts and shapely hips. Her finest feature was a long mane of thick, striking, curly red hair—which Mercy, in defiance, wore unrestrained, without the traditional, required schoolgirl’s hat. Mercy’s eyes were the vibrant Irish green of her father’s, her features the classical perfection of her mother’s. Her nose was delicate and beautifully boned, her mouth full-lipped and naturally pink. Her eyelashes were long and richly brown, her brows delicately curved; a rosy glow colored her high cheekbones. Her perfect oval face was tilted toward the sun, her ears perked, listening, the lovely, slender column of her throat standing out in satiny relief.
Hearing a buggy rattle by in the street beyond the brick wall, Mercy twisted her slender fingers together in impatience. Oh, when would Philippe arrive? The two of them had been holding hands at Mass for months now, and when he had proposed a few days ago, Mercy had cheerfully accepted. Now she couldn’t wait to marry him and get out from under the rule of the Sisters of Charity. But to do so, she would surely have to secure the permission of her arrogant, black-tempered guardian, Julian Devereux—or so Mother Anise had informed her.
Mercy’s jaw tightened in anger as she thought of Julian. She had never been able to figure out why the man had taken her under his wing nine years ago—aside from the obvious guilt he must have felt for killing her father. Even though Mother Anise had long ago explained to her that Julian had been found blameless in her father’s death, Mercy would always believe otherwise.
She would never forget that horrible, cold night when she lost both parents. She would never forget the conversation she had overheard between Julian and the magistrate, and Julian’s blood-chilling confession: “Not my fault! Whatever way you put it, man, it was my hand that killed Brendan O ’Shea!”
Even now, the words made her shudder. Julian’s confession. Julian’s labeling himself a murderer. She knew that he was from a prominent Creole family, and she had long ago concluded that his parents must have bribed the local officials to cover up his perfidy. Indeed, he had always struck Mercy as a man with a secret; and she was almost certain that dark secret concerned what had really happened to her father.
True, Mercy’s memories of Brendan O’Shea were not good ones; her father had been bad-tempered, frequently drunk, and sometimes even abusive. But Mercy refused to think of her father as the villain. Surely that terrible night, Brendan O’Shea had simply been seeking some brief solace in a nearby bar when Julian had accosted him; surely, if not for Julian Devereux, her father would have spent the balance of the night at his dying wife’s side.
Ever since the time when the court had appointed Julian her guardian, Mercy’s relationship with him had been little better than an armed trace. They had brief, perfunctory meetings once a month or so, usually with one of the nuns in attendance.
The dialogue between them seldom varied: “You are well, Mercy?”
“Oui, m’sieur.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“No, m’sieur.”
“Sister Clarabelle has mentioned that you’re not applying yourself as you should be.”
“I shall try harder, m’sieur.”
For Mercy, the sessions were ones of rigid courtesy that masked a deeper, utter contempt. Occasionally, when the nuns had called upon Julian to admonish Mercy for her recalcitrant behavior, there had been flare-ups of both their tempers, and even hot-blooded arguments between them. Their personalities were about as compatible as oil and water. More often, though, both of them managed to exercise restraint, and a coldly formal atmosphere prevailed.
During the past year, however, Mercy had to admit that the emotional climate between her and Julian had changed somewhat. As she had moved into womanhood, she had been forced to acknowledge that Julian Devereux was terribly, frightfully handsome. The sight of him alone knocked her off-balance lately. Sometimes, when his remote, cynical blue gaze swept over her, she felt an alarming and provocative shiver sizzle down her spine; she had to struggle mightily not to betray her daunting response to him. His visits had grown less frequent of late, and consequently each encounter grew more unnerving to Mercy. This was one reason she had so encouraged Philippe. He represented escape to her—escape from the sisters, from Julian, from her new, disquieting feelings toward her guardian, and from all of her dark, tormenting memories.
Besides, now that she had finished her studies here, her choices were limited—either marrying or taking the veil. Even the sisters acknowledged that the latter possibility was ridiculous for Mercy.
The gate to the conciergerie now swung open, and Philippe Broussard entered. He was a tall, thin, fair-haired man of twenty, stylishly dressed in a brown suit with a brocade vest. His gold watch fob glittered on his chest as he approached.
Mercy heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Philippe!” she called out, gesturing impatiently. “Over here! Quickly, before one of the sisters spots you.”
Philippe sprinted to Mercy’s side, caught her close, and planted a quick, chaste kiss on her cheek. “You have missed me, n’est-ce pas?” he asked with a grin.
Mercy lifted her pouting gaze to his, wishing that his kiss, his hands at her waist, would stir some answering response in her. Oh, well, she mused, surely those feelings would come after marriage. “Philippe, why are you so late?”
“Papa was called away to the French Market—something about an order of bad fish being delivered—and I was required to manage the inn in his absence.”
“At least you’re here.”
“What progress have you made regarding our nuptials?” he asked eagerly.
Mercy moved out of his arms, frowning as she leaned over to pluck a small marigold from the flower bed. “I broached the subject with Mother Anise. She did not seem at all averse to our plans. However, she said she must consult my guardian—and afterward, I presume that you must ask him for my hand.”
Philippe nodded soberly. “Julian Devereux. How do you think he will feel about this?”
Mercy shrugged. “I’m hoping he’ll be delighted to get me off his hands.”
“And into mine,” Philippe added, breaking into a playful grin. He pulled Mercy into his arms again and teased, “Please, ma chère, just one kiss.”
Mercy stifled an impatient sigh and managed to hold Philippe at arm’s length; they’d been arguing about this same kiss for weeks now, and she had put him off again and again. Mercy had no moral qualms about kissing Philippe on the mouth; she had simply discovered, to her dismay, that she didn’t want to.
“No, Philippe,” Mercy now responded primly, pushing at his chest. “It is not proper for a man to kiss a woman on the lips until they are formally betrothed.”
“Ah, Mercy,” Philippe returned with a dramatic sigh. “You know you have my undying devotion and the pledge of my troth. Do not bind me with these technicalities.” But even as Philippe swooped down again to attempt the kiss, the gate swung open and Julian Devereux strode in.
Mercy and Philippe jumped apart like the guilty adolescents they were. The marigold slipped from Mercy’s fingers as she stared, horrified, at her approaching guardian. She realized at once that Julian had entered at precisely the wrong moment, and that his assessing gaze had missed nothing. Now he strode purposefully toward them, his face creased in a murderous scowl, his boots grinding on the stone path. Mercy’s heart skidded into a frantic rhythm as Julian loomed before them.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in his deep, grating voice, staring coldly from Mercy to Philippe.
With a massive effort, Mercy managed not to tremble in the presence of her dark, powerful guardian. As always, Julian was impeccably dressed, every inch of his tall, muscled frame exuding a frightful menace. His blue eyes, slightly shuttered beneath the brim of his planter’s hat, pierced her with chilling disapproval.
Gathering some inner reserve of strength, Mercy drew herself up proudly. “M’sieur Devereux, I wish to introduce you to Philippe Broussard—a—a friend.”