Spears of sunlight were breaking through the dense trees as they approached the Dueling Oaks. Mercy leaned forward tensely, spotting a small group of men standing beneath the two massive trees. Three of the men were huddled off to one side; Mercy recognized André Beaufort, as well as a physician with his black bag. The third man Mercy had never seen before, although she assumed that he was Anton’s second.
Glancing beyond the men toward the clearing, Mercy gasped; Julian and Anton, both in shirt-sleeves, stood back to back with pistols raised.
Mercy frantically ordered Rubin to halt the barouche; she hopped out of the conveyance before it even stopped and tore off toward the trees.
“Stop! Please, you must stop!” she called out.
All five men turned to stare at her in consternation. Julian appeared the most alarmed and angered. Holding up a hand, he yelled out to M’sieur Beaufort, “A moment here!” Then, tucking his pistol in his waist, he started grimly toward his wife, while Anton stood watching him through narrowed eyes.
Mercy met Julian at the edge of the clearing. They stopped within inches of each other—each warily eyeing the other—but they did not touch. As time hung frozen, Mercy watched the breeze ripple Julian’s shirt and tug at his thick black hair. Her gaze roved hungrily over his tall, lithe body and sculpted face, as if trying to commit his image to memory forever. Never had he looked more handsome, never more fierce. The thought that his vibrant light might be snuffed out forever was unbearable to her.
Before she could think of anything to say, he snapped, “What in the hell are you doing here, Mercy?”
She bravely touched his sleeve, oblivious of the stares of the others. “Julian, please, call off this madness.”
“That’s out of the question. Go home, Mercy.”
“No. You can’t force me to leave.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it, my dear.”
Ignoring his ominous tone, she demanded, “Where were you last night?”
He sighed, and she noted with some satisfaction that he had the grace to look embarrassed. “I stayed with André, because I knew you’d try to persuade me from the duel. How in the hell did you find out where we were meeting, anyway?”
“That’s not important.” Her fear-crazed eyes met his. “Just call off the fight before it’s too late, I beg you!”
“No.” Watching Rubin approach, he gripped Mercy’s gloved hand. “Take madame home,” he instructed the slave.
Yet even as Julian tried to hand Mercy over to the man, she wrenched free from her husband’s touch. Her gaze held the panic-bright desperation of a cornered animal. “You can’t make me leave with him!”
“Damn it, Mercy!” he warned, his face darkening as he advanced on her.
“If you insist on following through with this duel, then I’m staying!” she insisted half hysterically.
They glared at each other in a fierce battle of wills. Then Mercy reached out and again touched his hand. He didn’t pull away, and, even through her glove, she could feel a tremor of emotion pass through his fingers.
This time, she made no effort to conceal her love and terrible fear. “Please, Julian. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”
At last her husband’s harsh features wavered just slightly, and her heart leaped as she spotted a brief softening in his eyes. She was suddenly, poignantly aware of how tired he looked, how oddly vulnerable.
He reached out and touched her cheek. “This is insane.”
Her gaze held his boldly, and she lifted her chin a notch. “I agree. And I’m staying.”
At last, he shook his head in defeat. “Very well. Later, then. Now get yourself well out of the line of fire, before I decide to take you home myself and settle this matter afterward.”
She nodded. “Julian, I—”
She was about to say she loved him, but he was already striding away.
With a cry of anguish, Mercy hurried to join the others. She watched in terrible anxiety as Julian and Anton again positioned themselves back to back and raised their pistols. Going wild with fear, Mercy started to rush forward again, but this time M’sieur Beaufort gripped her arm.
“Madame, you must not interfere at this stage,” he warned in an ominous whisper. “What if you should distract your husband from his aim? The consequences could be disastrous.”
Mercy swallowed hard, knowing that André spoke the truth. The two men were determined to fight, and she might well do more harm than good by interfering.
Thus, she stood on the sidelines, going mad with helpless frustration as the horrifying vignette unfolded before her. M’sieur Beaufort gave the signal to begin and called off the paces. The men strode steadily away from each other, and Mercy’s heart crashed louder in her chest with each step they took. At the count of ten, when the men were about sixty feet apart, both turned, cocked their weapons, and aimed. Mercy stifled a scream.
Julian was the first to fire his percussion pistol. The loud retort split the silence, and an instant later, Mercy gasped as she watched Anton totter on his feet . . .
But he did not fall! Within a second, he regained his balance. Relief flooded her.
But her joy quickly turned to horror as she watched her cousin grin in vindictive pleasure and aim his own pistol squarely at Julian’s heart.
“No!” she screamed, lurching forward. M’sieur Beaufort again caught her arm, even as the second shot shattered the dawn.
Mercy glanced at Julian in frantic despair. Her husband was still standing! Indeed, he hadn’t been hit at all! So great was her relief that the world began to spin around her and she almost fainted from sheer gratitude.
Wearing a look of alarm, André Beaufort steadied the young woman on her feet. Thankfully, Mercy’s dizziness was only fleeting. The instant Beaufort released her, she tore off toward Julian, her features wild with joy. Then she became distracted as from the corner of her eye, she caught a brief, harrowing image of Anton staggering. She froze in her tracks, turning toward her cousin in terrible uncertainty; she uttered an alarmed cry as she watched him crumple to the ground. Then compassion forced her to rush to the fallen man.
Though Anton was as pale as death, he was starting to come to even as Mercy dropped to her knees beside him. He blinked dazedly and she eyed his oozing shoulder with concern. One side of his shirt was already soaked with blood.
She squeezed his clammy hand. “Anton, are you all right?”
“Damned pistol,” he muttered disgustedly, trying to sit up. “Something wrong with it.”
Mercy had little time to digest this confusing bit of information as the doctor rushed up. “M’sieur, do not attempt to sit up,” he ordered Anton. He knelt and yanked open his bag. “It looks as if you’ve already lost much blood.”
Now Julian, André, and Anton’s second joined the small group. Julian dispassionately watched his wife hold Anton’s hand and wipe away her tears. She glanced up at him and their gazes met.
When Julian saw the anguish and fear in Mercy’s eyes, he knew all he needed to know. Anger, hurt, and disappointment lanced his heart. Then, at the sound of the surgeon’s voice, he tore his gaze away from hers.
“Sir, M’sieur Gerard cannot continue,” the physician grimly informed Julian. “I presume you will declare this matter settled?”
Julian stared straight at Mercy and replied coldly, “The matter is settled.”
He turned on his heel and walked away from her without even looking back. Mercy felt as if a door had just slammed shut on her marriage.
***
Mercy rode with Anton back to the city and helped the doctor settle him at Charity Hospital. While he wasn’t badly hurt and the bullet had passed straight through his shoulder, the physician remained concerned. Anton had lost much blood, and there was always the possibility of infection setting in.
Mercy held Anton’s hand and endured his moans as his wound was washed and dressed. Afterward, she spent much of the day by his side, listening patiently to his many complaints. Again and again, he insisted that the duel had been rigged, that Julian had somehow tampered with the pistol he had used.
Mercy could not believe this of her husband, and attributed Anton’s pettiness to his injury. Anton also insisted that, due to his wound, Mercy would need to accompany him back to Natchez. Somehow Mercy managed to dodge the issue of another trip to Natchez without actually giving Anton an answer either way. Late in the day, when her cousin at last fell into a peaceful sleep, she headed home, taking a hansom cab.
Mercy endured the ride in the drafty, uncomfortable conveyance. She was exhausted, and dreaded the prospect of confronting Julian. She knew he was furious at her for going to Anton after the duel. But what choice had she had? Anton was her relative, and he had been badly wounded.
Besides, she thought grimly, with any luck, Julian wouldn’t even be home.
Unfortunately, luck was not with her. To her surprise, she found Julian in the parlor. He was seated on the settee, sipping a brandy, looking tired and careworn.
He glanced up as she entered the room, and for a moment, she was tempted to abandon her pride and rush across the room into his arms. Yet the cynical gleam in his eyes stopped her cold.
He rose. He, too, had felt a blinding moment of joy when he’d first spotted his wife entering the room. But his happiness had quickly turned to anger and hurt as he remembered how she’d spent most of the day—at Anton Gerard’s side. He recalled watching her at the Dueling Oaks, when she’d held Gerard’s hand so tenderly and wept over his plight. Something had died in him then. Obviously, his death today would not have made a whit of difference to her, her protestations to the contrary. It was obviously Gerard she had wanted to save all along.