What was to be done?
When Henrí, as head of the staff, braved the hostile climate of his master’s retreat to find out what was wrong, he was rewarded by a torrent of blue curses and a hurled Dresden vase that narrowly missed his head.
Henrí promptly decided it was time to summon Madelaine Devereux.
When the regally gowned Madelaine appeared in the portal of Julian’s study an hour later, she glanced askance at her son, and the scene. Julian was pacing like a caged tiger, wild-eyed, unshaven and unkempt, his wrinkled shirt gaping open. His hair was unruly, as if he’d thrust his fingers through it countless times. He seemed oblivious to her presence as he stormed about angrily and muttered invectives under his breath. The room was disheveled, papers strewn about, chairs overturned, and expensive gewgaws shattered.
“What is the meaning of this, Julian?” Madelaine demanded. “Where is your coat, your cravat? Why are you in this bleary-eyed, unshaven state? Why are you destroying your own home?”
Julian whirled on his mother, glaring at her for so rudely invading his inner sanctum. He finally decided it wouldn’t do to fling a cigar box in Madelaine Devereux’s face. “What is the matter, Mama?” he repeated with biting fury. “Why don’t you go over to my desk and see for yourself!”
Frowning, she proceeded warily to the desk and briefly examined the official documents tossed about carelessly. She glanced crestfallen at her son. “Divorce papers?”
“Indeed, divorce papers!” he retorted with extravagant cynicism. “Sent to me by the very miscreant who stole Mercy off to Natchez.”
“Oh, dear! This is most distressing.”
Julian laughed bitterly at his mother’s understatement. “Perhaps I should just sign the damned things and be done with that conniving little baggage once and for all.”
Madelaine was aghast. “Julian, you can’t mean that!”
“Bloody hell, I can’t!” he bellowed back. “And why not, may I ask?”
Madelaine rolled her eyes at her son’s lack of reason. “Because she’s your wife!”
With a furious gesture, Julian knocked a brass ashtray off his desk. Madelaine grimaced at the resulting crash, as Julian gritted back, “Not if she has her way, she won’t be.”
While Madelaine’s heart ached for her son, she knew it was not sympathy Julian really needed now. “Julian,” she said sternly, “you simply cannot put up with this balderdash. I know you’ve been distraught over Arnaud, but enough is enough. You cannot allow the girl to make a fool of you with this divorce nonsense. You must go to Natchez and fetch her home at once.”
“Fetch her home?” he repeated incredulously. His mouth curled into a bitter line. “And what if my fine young wife chooses not to be fetched?”
“Then you must bring her to her senses, take her over your knee if necessary.” Watching him pace off, she demanded, “What ails you anyway? I’m stunned that you’ve put up with this blatant misconduct for so long. Mercy’s recalcitrance makes it abundantly clear that she needs a firm hand. Don’t let yours fail you now.”
Julian paused, resting his trembling hands on the back of a chair. He drew a ragged breath. “Perhaps I’m just tired, Mama. Tired of it all.”
At his poignant words, Madelaine again felt a welling of deep sympathy for him. “Julian, I know you’re eaten up with grief over precious Arnaud, as I am. Nevertheless, are you simply going to let these Dubois people, and this Anton Gerard, have Mercy? Are you going to give up your own wife without a fight?” When his only response was a surly stare, she challenged, “Well, are you?”
“You really want me to go after her?” he half shouted.
“Of course!”
He strode toward her, his eyes gleaming with a violent, determined light. “If I do go after my wife now, Mama, you’d best take pity on her hide. I’ll bring her home, all right, but suffice it to say, I won’t be acting in her best interests. She’ll rue the day that I find her.”
But Madelaine merely waved him off with a laugh. “Oh, Julian, don’t posture so. You men and your silly pride. I know that the girl will be in good hands with you.” With a sly smile, she added, “And I must admit that I have something of an ulterior motive in mind.”
He scowled. “Oh?”
Madelaine drew herself up proudly. “Robert Townsend just wrote me a letter, asking me to marry him and come live with him in the East. He offered to come fetch me, but I don’t think that this would be wise so late in the year. Accordingly, I’ve written him back accepting his suit, and telling him that I intend to sail for New York within a fortnight.” With regal firmness, she finished, “I’d appreciate it if you could have this debacle with Mercy resolved before then.”
To Madelaine’s surprise, Julian grinned at her announcement. He strode closer and kissed her cheek. “Congratulations, Mama. I’d been hoping wedding plans were brewing between you and Robert. He’s a fine man, and, of course, I wish you both every happiness.”
“Thank you, son.” She frowned at him in mock outrage. “Now, will you kindly go wash and make yourself presentable before you take off after your wife? You smell like a brewery and your face is rough as a prickly pear. I swear I’ll have a rash on my cheek for at least a week.”
Julian chuckled. “As always, Mama, your tact is so reassuring.”
But after his mother left, Julian again paced. He knew his mother was right—he must go at once to Natchez and confront Mercy, if only to throttle the girl. He had tolerated her treason far too long, and he would know no peace until he took action in her regard. He’d hesitated before due to deep worry over Justine, as well as shattering grief over the loss of his son; both concerns had not diminished, but he still knew that now was the time to act.
To think that the girl had sent him divorce papers, even as he was reeling with grief over Arnaud! Well, if she could not be content as his wife, then perhaps he could still thwart her happiness a bit . . .
“Maître? Will you be leaving for Natchez now?” came a concerned male voice.
Julian turned to see Henrí standing in the doorway. “You overheard my conversation with Mama?” he inquired cynically.
Henrí nodded. “Do you wish me to accompany you on your journey?”
“Hell, no!” Julian snapped. Then he flashed his manservant an apologetic smile. “God knows you’ve suffered enough already due to my abominable temper. Besides, you must stay and look after Justine. Tell me, why haven’t you married her as yet?”
“Justine wants to wait a suitable period, out of respect to Arnaud,” Henrí replied soberly. “And frankly, maître, we are also most concerned about you. We would prefer not to marry until madame is safely home with you.”
“Pour l'amour de Dieu!” Julian raved, gesturing his frustration. “Do you want your child to be born out of wedlock?”
Henrí smiled patiently. “When madame is home, we will marry. There is still plenty of time.”
“I wish I shared your faith,” Julian grumbled. He forced a more pleasant expression. “At any rate, my lawyer is preparing your manumission paper. As I’m sure you know, I arranged for Justine’s freedom many years ago. I’m also in the process of buying you a tobacconist shop near the Exchange—”
Henrí had listened in shock, his eyes wide. “Maître, you must not do all this for us—”
Julian held up a hand. “Nonsense. This is the very least I can do. I’ve promised both you and Justine that you’ll be free to seek your happiness, and you must support your new family, n’est-ce pas?”
“I suppose so. Still, you’re being far too generous—”
“Not at all,” Julian assured him. “You have both been most devoted to me over the years. Now you must marry Justine—and quickly.”
“When madame is home,” Henrí repeated obdurately. “Justine and I cannot marry until we’re sure your situation is resolved.”
Even as Julian rolled his eyes in consternation, Henrí slipped from the room.
Julian righted the chair behind his desk and collapsed into it. Raking a hand through his hair, he stared grimly at the divorce papers. So much depended on his bringing Mercy back—his mother’s happiness and now, it seemed, even Henrí’s and Justine’s. What if he couldn’t successfully fetch the girl home?
And did he really want her back? When he’d made the decision moments earlier to go to Natchez, he hadn’t really asked himself if he was playing for keeps.
Now Julian realized that he was. Mercy might view him with utter contempt, but he’d be damned if he’d let some Natchez dandy like Anton Gerard steal her away. As much as he hated the girl for her betrayal, he loved her still more. He missed her with an intensity that all but ate him alive. His arms ached to hold her, his lips hungered to kiss her. He dreamed endlessly of making love to her, of driving deep into her tight warmth until she moaned in pleasure and her eyes misted with surrender . . .
He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He and Mercy might well be doomed, but he knew now that she would soon be back in his life—and in his bed—once more.