Rogue's Mistress (10 page)

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Late that afternoon, Julian stood
in the parlor of his mother’s home on Prytania Street at the edge of the
American District. He glanced around at the fabulously furnished room as he
waited for Madelaine Devereux to appear.

Julian well remembered the trip to
Europe his parents had taken nine years ago to buy furnishings for their Greek
Revival masterpiece, which was only then being built. Now, this huge room
sported part of the bounty of that particular treasure hunt: priceless Venetian
crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceilings; white Carrara marble graced the
fireplace mantels; rococo Louis XV desk and chaise, along with elaborately
carved rosewood settees and chairs, added eye-catching elegance to the setting.
His parents had spared no expense to make their home a showplace. Still, to
Julian, this residence had always seemed more a museum than a home. He much
preferred his smaller, cozier town house, which he had inherited when his
parents moved here.

Julian remembered his parents’
trip to Europe for another reason—while his parents had been away, the fateful
events had transpired at Madame Sophie’s bagnio, and Mercy O’Shea had first
come into his life.

At the mere thought of his newly
acquired fiancée, Julian began to pace the fine carpet with his hands clasped
behind him and his features knitted in a formidable scowl. He’d had a memorable
day thanks to his ward—and thanks to his own foolish drunkenness last night.

First, following Mercy’s
astonishing visit, he had been compelled to rearrange his day; he’d hastily
dispatched a note to his business partner, M’sieur Beaufort, entreating André to
handle his appointments at the Exchange. Then he had gone to the convent and
had awkwardly explained to Mother Anise and Sister Clarabelle that he and his
ward were to wed. When Mother Anise had frankly asked him why he wished to
marry Mercy, he had answered stiffly that it was obvious that his ward needed
his continued protection and guidance.

Julian would not soon forget the
meaningful glances the two women had exchanged, or the way Sister Clarabelle
had raised her handkerchief to cover what he was certain had been a snicker. In
no time, however, the two nuns had been overcome by their own ecstasies
regarding the upcoming nuptials, talking incessantly of wedding nonsense. There
had been a lament or two about Mercy having no suitable dowry: Julian had decried
all such foolishness and had even written out a draft so that his bride-to-be
could be suitably outfitted before the wedding day. The sisters had fallen on
the money like beggars at a banquet, and the sounds of their effusive gaiety
had followed him all the way out the door.

Too bad he felt no such joy at the
thought of his upcoming marriage. Indeed, he was in a pickle, for he must now
explain to his mother that he was about to wed a young woman she had never even
met.

To be truthful, Madelaine had a slight
knowledge of Mercy, as Julian had mentioned several times over the years that
he was sponsoring an orphan who lived with the nuns at St. Mary’s Parish House.
Yet Madelaine thought that Julian had become Mercy’s mentor at the request of
the Catholic Charities; she had no idea of the true circumstances of his
association with the girl. Julian had never told his mother of the events which
had caused the deaths of Brendan O’Shea and Genevieve Dupree, and had impelled
him to become Mercy’s guardian. Nor did he intend to tell her now. Still, she
was bound to be astounded when he informed her of his plans . . .

“Julian, dear, pray don’t wear a
hole in my carpet,” came a lyrical but firm female voice.

Julian’s mother stood regally in
the archway. At forty-seven, Madelaine Devereux still exuded a classical
beauty. She was tall and slender, and wore her gray-streaked brown hair upswept
in a sleek bun. Her elegantly cut dress of rose silk organza finely
complemented her lovely, patrician features and bright blue eyes; her fingers
were bedecked with the many fabulous rings Julian’s father had given her over
the years. An elegant ivory and silk fan was clutched in one beautifully shaped
hand.

Widowhood agreed with his mother,
Julian mused; after Julian’s father had died five years ago, Madelaine had
spent the requisite year mourning him, then she had gone about her affairs with
her usual aplomb. For advice in financial affairs, she turned to Julian; in all
other matters, Madelaine Devereux managed her own life quite well, thank you.

Julian hastened over to embrace
his mother, kissing her smooth, slightly rouged cheek. “Mama. You are looking
well.”

“As are you, my son,” Madelaine
answered, looking him over with a mother’s pride. “Well, do come in and let’s have
a seat. I’ve asked Raoul to fetch tea and rice cakes.”

The two seated themselves,
Madelaine on the settee and Julian in the silk damask armchair flanking her.

“Well, son, what brings you here
today?” Madelaine asked.

Julian shifted uncomfortably in his
chair. “Mama, I’m afraid I have some—er—rather startling news.”

“Oh?” Madelaine was all attention.

“Yes. I have decided . . . to
marry.”

“To marry?” Madelaine cried. She
sat up straight, staring at her son in astonishment. “Well, it’s about time, I
must say. And who is the lucky young woman? Perhaps Marie Dupont, or Gabrielle
Bienville?”

Julian restrained a wince at the
mention of the two giddy young debutantes his mother had been unsuccessfully
trying to foist on him at various functions. “
Non
, ” he replied in acute
discomfort. “Actually, I’ve decided to marry my ward.”

“Your ward!” Madelaine gasped, her
hand fluttering to her breast. “You don’t mean that Mercy McCall?”

“Mercy O’Shea.”

“Whatever.” Madelaine’s blue eyes
grew huge. “You’re planning to wed a child, Julian?”

He bristled. “Mercy is now
eighteen years old.”

Madelaine shook her head in
bewilderment. “My, my, where has the time gone? Still, didn’t you once say that
the girl is the daughter of an Irish immigrant laborer?” She frowned
disapprovingly. “Hardly a suitable match for you, Julian.”

“Mama,” he replied, “have you so
quickly forgotten that your own grandfather was once a
gardien
on a
French cattle ranch?”

“Why, Julian!” Wearing an
expression of outraged pride, Madelaine flipped open her fan and began to wave
it rapidly. “How dare you besmirch the memory of dear Grand-père.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “I’m not
trying to besmirch his memory. I’m simply pointing out that perhaps you should
not be so quick to judge.”

Madelaine shrugged. “Perhaps not.
Still, I can hardly see you paired up with a mealy-mouthed convent bride.”

Julian laughed ruefully. “That’s a
statement I’ll never hear from you once you meet Mercy.” His gaze hardened.
“And it only emphasizes the precipitousness and unfairness of your presumptions
about her.”

“Now, Julian, don’t pout,”
Madelaine scolded. Studying him more closely, she smiled slyly. “Why, son, I do
believe you’re in love with the girl!”

Julian colored to the roots of his
hair.

“You are!” Madelaine exclaimed.

Julian surged to his feet.
“Enough, Mama.”

Madelaine’s mouth was poised to
pursue this delightful subject when Raoul entered with a silver tea service.
The graying family servant set the tray down before Madelaine, bowed
perfunctorily, and quietly left the room. Madelaine’s lips twitched as she
leaned forward to pick up the Sheffield teapot. “Sit down, Julian, and have
your tea,” she cajoled.

With angry, economical movements,
he plopped back down in his chair, and took the tea and rice cakes she handed
him.

Eager to dispel the tension,
Madelaine winked at him. “Well, can you tell me how this happened?”

Julian clenched his jaw. “Mama, if
you’re hinting that there’s been the least hint of impropriety—”

“Of course not. But can’t you at
least indulge your mother’s curiosity regarding how her only son has chosen a
bride?”

He shrugged and leaned back,
crossing his long legs. “I’ve known Mercy for some time, and have visited with
her frequently over the years—with the Sisters of Charity serving as
chaperones, of course. I should think the rest would be obvious.”

Madelaine gestured in
exasperation. “Julian, you’re impossible!” Devilishness danced in her eyes. “At
least you’ll be giving me some grandchildren soon.”

His gaze narrowed dangerously.
“You already have a grandson.”

Madelaine’s features blanched.
“Oh, yes, and I’m most fond of dear little Arnaud,” she put in quickly and
tactfully. “It’s good of you to bring him by to see me every fortnight or so.
I’m just saying that it would be nice to have grandchildren I don’t have to
visit with—well, in secrecy.”

“That’s a self-imposed restriction
on your part,” Julian said.

Madelaine shook her head in
consternation. “Julian, for the love of heaven! You’ve never had any respect
for the constraints of society. You and that Begué woman—”

“I’ll not have you speak ill of
Justine!”

Madelaine sipped her tea, giving
her hot-blooded son a moment to calm down. At last, she said evenly, “Julian,
if you’re marrying, the only honorable thing for you to do is to give the woman
up.”

“I’ll never turn my back on
Justine—or Arnaud.”

Undaunted, Madelaine raised a
delicate brow at him. “And how does your bride-to-be fit into your grand
scheme? You’d be a fool to tell her about your mistress, you know.”

That barb scored, and Julian
frowned. Stiffly, he admitted, “Mama, Justine is no longer my mistress, and
hasn’t been for many months. The truth of the matter is, we’ve become friends.
However, I still have an obligation to her and my son—a responsibility I have
every intention of honoring.” His gaze collided with hers. “Furthermore, I do
intend to tell Mercy about Arnaud and Justine—when the time is right.”

Madelaine appeared horrified, her
eyes widening. “Julian, have you gone mad? No wife in her right mind would put
up with such an arrangement. Couldn’t you end your association with the woman
and send the boy off to school or something?”

“Mama, you are intruding on areas
that are none of your concern,” he warned.

“But isn’t it the child you really
care about? There must be some way to get him away from that woman. Surely in
time, we can find a way to explain Arnaud to our friends, and to your wife.”
She frowned. “We could always say that he’s a distant relation, and was
orphaned during an epidemic.”

Julian surged to his feet, dumping
his teacup and saucer onto the coffee table. He spoke with choking anger.
“Mother, what you are suggesting is unconscionable. To steal a child away from
its mother? As always, I wonder why I’ve even come here. I bid you good day.”

Madelaine rose too, touching his
arm and flashing him a look of entreaty. “Son, wait. If I’ve spoken
imprudently, I apologize. Please believe that it’s your welfare I have in
mind.”

Julian was silent, glowering at
her.

“When shall I meet this girl?”
Madelaine asked quietly.

He hesitated, thrusting his arms
across his chest. “Actually, the purpose of my visit was to arrange a meeting,”
he informed her in clipped tones. “But it seems we became diverted.”

“Julian—please.”

“Mama, I must warn you that if you
should ever interfere between Mercy and me—suffice it to say, it will not be
like the last time.”

At his bitter words, Madelaine
practically wilted on the spot. She restrained a shudder at the mention of the
argument that had almost torn them asunder four and a half years ago. Realizing
that her son was deadly serious and that she herself was treading on thin ice,
she raised her hand in a gesture of surrender. “Say no more. Now—when do I meet
her?”

He sighed. “Name a date, and I’ll
bring her by.”

“Next Tuesday—for tea?”

“Fine.”

“Does your intended have—er—someone
to sponsor her for the nuptials, to see to her gown and trousseau?” Madelaine
added stiffly.

“The sisters will be taking care
of that.”

“Still, she must be introduced to
society. Perhaps I can be of some assistance there?”

“Perhaps.”

Staring at her son’s forbidding
countenance, Madelaine wisely resisted further comment. “Tuesday, then.”

“Tuesday. Good day, Mama. Stay
well.” Julian pecked her cheek and strode from the room.

***

Watching her son leave, Madelaine Devereux
sighed. She’d been stunned when Julian had announced that he was planning to
marry his ward, a young woman Madelaine had never even met. From her son’s
defensive reactions, Madelaine surmised that there must be an interesting story
surrounding this young woman—and how Julian had become her betrothed. Indeed,
she had always found it odd that Julian had taken the girl on nine years ago.
Rearing an orphan was the very last thing she had expected her hot-blooded,
virile twenty-year-old son to be interested in.

Stranger still, Julian was now
clearly in love with the girl.

Actually, despite Madelaine’s
protestations to the contrary, she had no intention of interfering in this
obvious love match. For she knew that to do so would mean losing Julian.

Four and a half years ago, when
Julian had broached the subject of marrying his octoroon mistress, Madelaine
had taken a stand, and she had won. That stand had been critical, and the
result had been entirely for Julian’s own benefit as far as his mother was concerned.
Yet all her instincts told her that if she took that same intractable position
again, Julian would turn his back on her forever.

Surely it had taken quite a woman
to wrench Julian’s heart away from Justine Begué, Madelaine mused. Indeed, she
couldn’t wait to meet this Mercy O’Shea.