Rogue's Mistress (34 page)

“Thank you, Grand-père,
Grand’mère,” Mercy replied awkwardly.

Hélène seemed to remember Anton
then. She inclined her head toward him with a smile. “Oh, Anton, thank you so
much for bringing our Mercy home to us.”

“You’re most welcome, aunt,” he
returned gallantly.

Hélène turned back to her
granddaughter, taking both Mercy’s hands and beseeching the girl with her fine
brown eyes. “Oh, my sweet child. When I think of your dear, departed mother . .
.” Choking back a sob, she continued plaintively, “Gaspard and I were so
terribly wrong. Can you find it in your heart to forgive us?”

For a moment Mercy was unnerved.
She hadn’t expected this question so quickly, so directly.

Indeed, she had half expected to
hate her grandparents. Yet how could she hate this frail, vulnerable old couple
who now stared at her so anxiously and expectantly, especially when her
grandparents had obviously already suffered a lifetime for their
transgressions? They were her family after all, the only family she had known
in over nine lonely years.

“Well, dear? Will you forgive us?”
Gaspard now asked with desperate hope in his voice and tears in his eyes.

“Yes,” Mercy whispered, and with
an anguished cry, both grandparents fell into her arms.

Huddled together, the three
climbed the steps to the house. Anton followed discreetly, a sly,
self-satisfied grin curving his lips.

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“My dear, you must tell us all
about yourself,” Hélène Dubois said.

At noon, Mercy, her grandparents, and
Anton were seated in the Dubois’ opulent dining room for luncheon. Gaspard and
Hélène occupied opposite ends of the Hepplewhite table, while Mercy and Anton
sat across from each other toward the center. All four were sipping white wine
from Baccarat goblets and sampling oyster stew served in bowls of finest Sèvres
china.

Mercy set down her silver spoon
and smiled at her grandmother. “There’s really not a lot to tell. After Mama
and Papa passed away when I was nine, I became the ward of Julian Devereux. He
sent me to school at Ursuline Academy, and later on to St. Mary’s Convent. I
finished my studies there last spring, and this summer M’sieur Devereux and I
were married.”

Both grandparents frowned at her
account. “How did you come to be acquainted with this Julian Devereux?” Gaspard
asked.

“He was a friend of my family’s,”
Mercy replied awkwardly, demurely raising her linen napkin to cover her lie.

“And this man—your guardian—later
became your husband?” Gaspard pursued with a deep scowl. “How very odd. I would
think M’sieur Devereux would be far too old for you, for one thing.”

Surprisingly, Mercy felt feelings
of loyalty stirring toward her husband at her grandfather’s critical words. “On
the contrary, my husband is still a young man. He’s a wealthy cotton commission
merchant, and hails from a socially prominent family.” Her eyes gleamed with
some bitterness as she glanced first at Gaspard, then at Hélène. “Let me assure
you both that Julian had nothing to gain by marrying me, as I was penniless at
the time.”

At Mercy’s forthright words, both
grandparents glanced away in acute embarrassment and guilt—Gaspard coughing
into his napkin and Hélène stirring her tea with nervous motions of a beringed
hand.

Finally, Hélène flashed Mercy a
conciliatory smile. “My dear, we do not wish to speak ill of your husband.
However, we are most concerned for your welfare, and we cannot help noticing
you came here to Natchez without your spouse.”

Mercy tightened her jaw; her pride
was somewhat affronted by her grandmother’s bluntness. While she no longer
harbored hatred toward the Dubois, neither was she sure that she completely
trusted these strangers, or that she wanted to become permanently associated
with them. “This is my husband’s busiest time of the year at the Exchange,” she
assured her grandmother coolly. She glanced for support toward Anton. “Besides,
Anton was kind enough to escort me here—”

“And Mercy is being far too kind
to her husband,” Anton finished grimly. Even as Mercy glowered at him in
warning, he held up a hand. “The truth is, Aunt Hélène and Uncle Gaspard,
Julian Devereux is a cad who forced Mercy into the marriage and now lacks the
honor to live up to his vows.”

“Anton!” Mercy glanced crestfallen
at him even as she heard both grandparents gasp in horror.

“Is this true, Mercy?” Gaspard
demanded. “Did this man force you to become his wife?”

Mercy bit her lip and stared down
at her plate. “I consented to the marriage willingly,” she said at last. “But
Anton is right that I made a mistake.”

“Oh, no!” Hélène lamented, her
slim hands fluttering to her face. “You poor darling.”

“I’ve been urging Mercy to seek a
divorce as well as a Church dissolution of her marriage,” Anton put in
importantly.

“I think you should proceed with
both, dear,” Hélène concurred. “Oh, if only Gaspard and I had known of your
predicament!” She reached out to pat Mercy’s hand. “You can start over here
with us.”

Mercy sighed, gently removing her
fingers from Hélène’s grasp. “Grand’mère, I’m glad to be able to meet you and
Grand-père, and to get to know you both. But I’m not promising that I’ll stay
here permanently with you.”

Hélène and Gaspard exchanged an
alarmed glance, then Hélène amended quickly, “But, darling, you don’t have to
stay here with us if you’d prefer to establish independent lodgings in Natchez.”

“There is your mother’s trust,”
Gaspard offered magnanimously. “We’ll see that it is put at your disposal now.”
He flashed a sagacious smile at his granddaughter. “Only your grandmother and I
would prefer that you remain here in Natchez.”

Mercy’s chin came up a notch.
“Meaning that if I don’t stay in Natchez, the money will be withheld?”

Gaspard colored, shaking his head.
“
Non
, my dear. We’re attaching no conditions to our gift. The trust will
be yours to do with as you please, regardless.” He inclined his head toward
Anton. “I’ll have Anton see to the legalities at once.”

As Anton beamed at Mercy, she was
still frowning. “But you did attach conditions regarding the trust with my
mother?” she challenged Gaspard.

Gaspard and Hélène exchanged
another uneasy glance, then Gaspard sighed, offering his granddaughter a
gesture of supplication. “My dear, Hélène and I have already admitted that we
behaved foolishly with regard to your mother.”

“I want to know everything that
happened,” Mercy insisted. “How the estrangement between you and my mother came
about.”

Gaspard scratched his jaw. “We had
great hopes for Corrine. She was most devout, and, at an early age, she
committed herself to the Church. We were so proud to have her studying at Ursuline Academy in New Orleans.” His eyes grew moist and he drew a heavy breath. “Then, as a
novice, Corrine became a volunteer at Mercy Hospital. That’s where she met your
father and helped nurse him back to health. Subsequently, as you know, the two
fell in love, and Corrine forsook her final vows to marry the man.”

“Did you ever meet my father?”
Mercy asked.

“Yes, dear, we did,” Hélène
replied. “When Corrine wrote us that she intended to marry O’Shea, Gaspard and
I departed at once for New Orleans.”

“And you did not approve of my
father?”

Hélène shook her head sadly.
“Frankly, dear, we did not. Brendan O’Shea was a young, rough, boisterous
Irishman.”

“And he was poor,” Mercy added
defensively.

“It wasn’t just his poverty,”
Gaspard argued. “Pardon my indelicacy, dear, but the man was untamed and
uncouth, and
le bon Dieu
only knows what appeal he must have held for a
gentle creature like our Corrine. Hélène and I were sick with fear from the
moment we met him. There were signs even then of problems with drink and
gambling, as well as a propensity toward violence.” He clenched his fist on the
tabletop. “Hélène and I even suspected on one occasion that the man may have
struck our daughter.”

Mercy raised a hand to her mouth
but didn’t comment.

“Still, Corrine was hopelessly in
love with O’Shea,” Hélène went on morosely. “Given her sheltered upbringing, I
suppose she made an easy target. There was no making her see reason, no getting
across to her that she was making a fatal mistake.”

“So what did you do?”

Gaspard’s troubled gaze met hers.
“We threatened to disown your mother if she didn’t break off her engagement to
O’Shea.” Watching Mercy’s eyes glitter with anger, he quickly added, “We were
convinced that the ultimatum would bring Corrine to her senses, or that O’Shea
would abandon her once he learned that she was no longer an heiress.
Unfortunately, we were wrong on both counts. It was a foolish gamble we took,
and we lost.”

“That’s because my father really
loved Mama—as she loved him,” Mercy put in proudly. “Even though they did have
their problems.”

“So it appears,” Gaspard conceded.
“Still, all I can tell you is that your grandmother and I had your mother’s
best interests at heart at the time.”

“Afterward, we would have tried to
effect a reconciliation with Corrine, but our pride got in the way,” Hélène
added through tears. “Now it is our most fervent hope to make amends to you,
Mercy. Please allow us to do so.”

Mercy nodded slowly. Her
grandparents’ heartfelt words had given her much food for thought.

***

After luncheon, Anton invited
Mercy to walk with him about the grounds. Once they were safely outside,
strolling beneath a lofty oak, she confronted him.

“Why did you tell my grandparents
about my troubles with Julian?”

He sighed, leaning over to pluck a
wildflower from the verdant lawn; he handed the small bloom to her with a
contrite smile. “It’s time for you to start over, Mercy, and forget about that
villain. Your grandparents are willing to help you in every way they can.”

She frowned as she twirled the
small white flower in her hands. “I realize this,” she murmured as they
continued walking. “Still, I should have been the one to tell them about
Julian.”

He nodded. “If I spoke too
hastily, I apologize. I’m just so glad you’re finally here with your grandparents
and away from that scoundrel.” He smiled eagerly. “Gaspard and Hélène love you,
Mercy. And they’re consumed with guilt. At this point, they’ll give you
anything you want.”

She glanced at him sharply. “I
have no desire to take advantage of their feelings.”

He chuckled. “But I’m not talking
about taking advantage, merely about accepting what is rightfully yours. Why,
your mother’s trust alone contains more than half a million dollars.”

This revelation staggered Mercy,
and she stopped in her tracks. “Half a million dollars? Surely you’re jesting!”

“Not at all. The Dubois have
accumulated a massive fortune from their various cotton plantations and lumber
mills. All you must do now is to reach out and take what they’ve offered you.”
He fondly squeezed her hand. “Just think, you’ll be an heiress, financially
independent from your husband.”

This news gave Mercy pause; it was
an appealing prospect, she had to admit. Still, despite her grandparents’
reassurances to the contrary, she had to wonder what kind of obligations would
be attached to this huge purse.

“And the next thing you must do is
to proceed with the divorce, as well as with the Church annulment,” Anton
continued sternly, leading her past the perfumed rose bushes.

She frowned. “I’m not going to make
any hasty, rash decisions regarding my marriage.”

“What a generous attitude,
considering how your husband deserted you so hastily. Mercy, you can’t want to
remain with that cad!”

She drew herself up with pride.
While she realized that there was little hope for her marriage, she resented
Anton’s trying to take charge of her life this way. “Let’s say I take my vows
seriously enough that I want to give the matter sufficient thought.”

“Very well, dear, take your time. However,
have you considered the possibility that the scoundrel may come after you?”

Her gaze hardened with bitterness.
“He won’t come.”

“I wish I shared your faith,” he
acknowledged with a rueful laugh. “At any rate, may I at least investigate the
matter for you? Dissolving a marriage can be a protracted process, you know.
May I make some inquiries with the Church, for instance?”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Yes, you
may, but only if you’ll promise to take no official action without my consent.”

“Of course, dear. And Mercy—”

Abruptly, Anton gripped her arm,
restraining her. His handsome face gleamed with animation as he stared down at
her, and his brown eyes burned zealously into hers.

“Yes? What is it?” she asked
tensely, trying to disengage his strong fingers from her arm. “Shouldn’t we
head back?”

“Please know that my goal is only
to help you, Mercy,” he whispered intensely. “I hope that you and I will have a
truly long and rewarding association.”

“Thank you, Anton,” she replied
with dignity, successfully escaping his touch. As she turned toward the house,
she wondered why her cousin’s eagerness so troubled her.

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Four weeks later, on a mild
mid-September night, Mercy stood on the back veranda of Dunleith, the
magnificent Natchez home of the Charles Dahlgrens. She made a dazzling picture
in her full-skirted ball gown of pink satin, with her red curls dramatically
upswept and interlaced with white camellias. Her expression was pensive as she stared
out at the moonlight-sprinkled grounds behind the house. A delicate gazebo
glittered like a spray of fine lace next to the duck pond. The
honeysuckle-scented air throbbed with night sounds—frogs croaking, crickets
sawing, owls hooting, and night birds calling.

Behind her in the elegant double
parlor, the dinner guests—among them some of Natchez’s most esteemed
citizens—were mingling freely, drinking champagne, and sampling oysters on the
half shell and snails bourguignon. The elegant strains of a Mozart minuet,
played by violin and piano, spilled out.

Mercy supposed she should have
remained inside with the other guests, but she’d soon tired of their curious
stares as well as the heated political discussion—which tonight centered on the
recent Unionist victory at the state convention. Anton had told Mercy that,
ever since Congress had passed the Compromise of 1850, which failed to
designate slavery in several new territories, debate over secession had
consumed the conversation of Natchez citizens. The community seemed soundly
divided on the issue.

Such concerns had little meaning
for Mercy. Her soul was deeply troubled. She’d been gone from New Orleans for
over a month now, and still there had been no word from Julian.

What had she expected? she asked
herself bitterly. Julian was doubtless delighted that she’d left, and was now
having a grand time bedding Justine.

Still, to her everlasting shame,
her heart hungered for him. She tossed and turned at night, yearning for his
embrace. She awakened before dawn, feeling unrested, unsettled, bereft . . .
Without him, she was like a lamp without a flame, cold, empty, and alone. It
did not matter if people were around her, as they so often were. The wrenching
loneliness was ever-present in her heart.

She glanced down at her left hand,
watching the soft light gleam over her wedding band. Why she still wore the
ring, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps a small, foolish part of her was unwilling to
give up hope.

Not that she wasn’t urged, daily,
to dissolve her marriage, both by Anton and by her grandparents. All three had
done everything in their power to make inroads into Mercy’s heart and to
convince her to divorce Julian and remain in Natchez.

She thought over the past weeks.
Her mother’s trust had been put at her disposal. The Dubois had proved
themselves marvelous hosts and devoted grandparents; they had taken Mercy
around to numerous social gatherings, proudly introducing her to one and all as
their granddaughter. No mention of her husband was ever made; indeed, Anton
often served as her escort.

The thought of Anton brought a
frown to her lips. While her cousin was forever gallant and solicitous, she had
found he was becoming too aggressive of late—insisting that she proceed with
the divorce and Church annulment, trying to take charge of her decisions and
threatening her independence. He was also becoming too friendly for her tastes,
constantly assuming that he would be her escort, and taking every opportunity
to kiss her hand or cheek, to touch her arm or waist. For Mercy, it was hard to
protest such casual and seemingly harmless intimacies, especially since they
were cousins; still, the oft-spotted zealous gleam in his eyes disturbed her
greatly. And, unfortunately, she had no support for her doubts from the Dubois,
since they encouraged Anton’s attentions toward her. She’d assumed long ago
that her grandparents must be plotting an eventual marriage between her and
Anton, once she was divorced from Julian.

If
she could ever persuade
herself to divorce him. Mercy realized that, even if she could, remarriage
would be impossible for her. No one could stir her as Julian did.

“Mercy!” came an exasperated male
voice. “What on earth are you doing out here all alone? I’ve been looking for
you everywhere.”

Mercy turned to watch Anton emerge
from the rear parlor through the opened Jeffersonian door. With his thick brown
hair and chiseled features catching the light behind him, he appeared quite the
dashing gentleman tonight.

“Are you all right, dear?” he
asked worriedly, stepping closer.

“I just needed some air.”

He glanced out at the grounds. “It
is a lovely night. Did you tire of all the political rhetoric inside?”

“Oh, yes.” She laughed.

He chuckled. “A number of our
planters are up in arms at the threat of losing their cheap system of slave
labor. Secession fever is definitely in the air. However, I have a feeling that
if war comes, it won’t be for many years.” He patted her arm reassuringly.
“Don’t fret now. Dinner will be served soon, and I’m sure Mrs. Dahlgreen will
keep the conversation on more neutral grounds.”

She nodded, but did not reply,
staring out at a distant chimney swift as it arced across the diamond-dotted
sky. It was a romantic sight, she had to concede; yet she had no one with whom
she could share this poignant moment.

Observing her pensive expression,
Anton scowled. “You don’t seem quite yourself tonight, dear. Is something
troubling you?”

Her fingers dug into the soft
satin folds of her skirt. “I’m thinking that perhaps I should return to New Orleans.”

“What?” he exclaimed, his features
aghast. “But Natchez is your home!”

She shook her head sadly. “I’ve
enjoyed my visit here, but I’m not sure I can ever think of Natchez as my
home.”

“Then you’re contemplating
crawling back to that cad you married?” he demanded.

Mercy turned to him in anger. “I’m
not crawling back to anyone. I just think perhaps it’s time I confront Julian
and then get on with my life.”

He shook his head incredulously.
“You’re deluding yourself, Mercy. You may think you want to denounce Julian
Devereux, but if you go back to him now, I wager you’ll end up right back in
his bed.”

Mercy was appalled, her cheeks
flaming. She automatically drew back her hand to slap him. “Why, of all the—”

But Anton caught her wrist in a
grip of steel, and his eyes burned avidly into hers. “Mercy, listen to me. I
don’t mean to be crude, but I’m a lawyer, and I know something of these
matters. You may claim to hate Julian Devereux, but I’ve seen the look in your
eyes when you speak of him. If you go back to him now, you’ll be caught in his
web. He’ll just go on exploiting your feelings—and betraying you at will with
his mistress.”

Bitter tears stung Mercy’s eyes as
she realized that Anton had spoken the truth. Still, she faced him proudly.
“Let go of my wrist, please.”

“Of course.” At once, the passion
in him died, and he regarded her contritely. “Mercy, forgive my rashness of
word and deed. But as I’ve told you numerous times, there’s no need for you to
return to New Orleans. I can handle the divorce for you from here—”

“I’m not going to hide behind you,
Anton,” Mercy insisted, rubbing her sore wrist.

“You won’t be hiding, only
protecting yourself from that villain,” he reasoned. As Mercy merely glowered
at him stubbornly, he added, “Why must you insist on seeing him?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps because
I’ve never been a coward—until now. Perhaps because I feel I owe him a
hearing.”

He threw up his hands in
exasperation. “After what he did to you?” With an explosive sigh, he nodded.
“Very well, then. Let me know when you come to your senses and want to proceed
with the divorce.”

As he turned for the archway, she
felt feelings of sympathy stirring at his obvious frustration. She caught his
sleeve and smiled. “Anton, I’m sorry. You’ve been very patient, and kind.”

“And I have every intention of
becoming much more to you, darling,” he whispered with sudden intensity.

Before Mercy could protest, he
caught her close and kissed her. She was stunned and outraged, not at all
stirred by the assault of his wet, fleshy lips. She squealed and pushed against
his chest, struggling mightily. After a moment, he released her; but his eyes
held a fervent, victorious light.

“Don’t you ever do that again!”
she warned, her eyes shooting sparks at him. “I’m a married woman.”

“Not for long, you won’t be,” he
murmured with a smug, disturbing smile. Then, with greater tact, he added,
“Mercy, surely by now you must know what you’ve come to mean to me.”

She was anything but appeased.
Indeed, she was again tempted to slap him for his effrontery. But at that
moment, Gaspard emerged from the parlor, motioning impatiently to them both.
“So there you are! Hurry, now. Dinner is served.”

Anton bowed deeply and offered
Mercy his arm. “May I have the honor?”

She would have cut him dead,
except that she could not stoop so low as to create a scene in front of her
grandfather. She had to be satisfied, instead, with tossing Anton a mutinous,
warning look. With great reluctance, she perched her fingertips lightly on his
sleeve. Her eyes were icy with hostility as she swept back into the parlor on
his arm.

Meanwhile, Anton was smiling to
himself. Mercy had better grow accustomed to his kisses, for soon she would be
tolerating much more. Indeed, it was already growing most difficult for him to
keep his hands off this lush little temptress. Her resistance was meaningless,
of course, for he had long ago discovered that the more a woman fought him, the
hotter she eventually was in bed.

Still, he must be patient. If he played
his role with care, soon Mercy Devereux, as well as her vast fortune, would be
all his.

For, unbeknownst to Mercy, but in
consultation with the Dubois, Anton had already sent divorce papers to New Orleans to be signed by Julian Devereux. If the man were the coward that Mercy
claimed, he would surely sign the papers and return them promptly; that way, he
would be free to go on consorting with his mistress.

Anton had also contacted the
Matrimonial Tribunal of the Natchez Diocese, and they should soon be writing to
Devereux as well, to ask for his signature on a statement regarding the forced
nuptials. With any luck, both the divorce and the Church annulment could be
effected by spring, and Anton Gerard would then spend the rest of his days as
one of the wealthiest men in Natchez . . .

***

In New Orleans the next day, the
sounds of Julian Devereux’s cursing threatened to bring down the walls of his
home.

That fateful morning, the servants
scurried about, crossing themselves and speaking in shocked undertones.
Maître
had been up much of the night, pacing and drinking, as he so often did of late.
Then this morning, when the post had arrived, and an official-looking document
had found its way to
maître’s
desk, the man had gone insane. He was now
in his study, throwing things and bellowing the most foul language. It could be
a seasonal fever, or, even worse, a most dreaded dementia.

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?”