When Strangers Marry (8 page)

Among those whom Claiborne wisely considered a danger were Edward Livingston, a New Yorker who had come to New Orleans to make his fortune, and General Wilkinson, the ranking officer of the army and newly appointed governor of the Upper Louisiana Territory. Both men had more or less allied themselves with Aaron Burr, who was encouraging them to stir up strife among the most powerful residents of the territory.

Max had many doubts about Claiborne’s ability to weather the events that were taking shape. Although clever and determined, Claiborne was still grieving over the loss of his wife and only daughter to yellow fever the year before. The press attacked him ruthlessly, alleging he was a gambler, a reprobate, and had treated his wife cruelly before her death. Worse still, Claiborne’s attention was frequently distracted from the Burr problem by the increasing number of pirates infesting Barataria Bay and the bayous to the south of New Orleans.

“The problem,” Claiborne said ruefully to Max as they sat in heavy mahogany chairs and discussed the latest events in the city, “is that the bandits know the swamps better than my own police force, and they are far better supplied and organized. President Jefferson has promised a number of gunboats
to help combat the pirates, but I fear they will not be in suitable condition. Nor will there be a great number of enlisted men to choose from.”

Max smiled wryly. “I should point out that most Creoles will not be in favor of strong measures to oppose privateering. The local merchants will cause quite an uproar if you remove their access to duty-free merchandise. The fortunes of many respectable families have been founded on smuggling. Here it is not always considered a dishonorable vocation.”

“Oh! And which respectable families are you referring to?”

The question, asked in a tone of suspicion, might have caused many to recoil in unease. Max only laughed. “I would be surprised if my own father had not contributed to the pirates’ cause,” he admitted.

Claiborne looked at him sharply, startled by the bold revelation. “And with whom do your sympathies rest in this matter, Vallerand?”

“If you’re asking whether or not I have a hand in smuggling, the answer is…” Max paused, drew on his thin black cigar, and blew out an even stream of smoke. “Not at the moment.”

Claiborne was torn between annoyance and amusement at the man’s insolence. The latter won out, and he chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder, Vallerand, if I should count you as friend or foe.”

“Were I your enemy, sir, you would have no cause to wonder.”

“Let us talk of
your
enemies for a moment. What is this my aides tell me of the rivalry between you
and Etienne Sagesse over some woman? And some ridiculous talk of a duel? Merely a rumor, I hope?”

“All true.”

Surprise appeared on the governor’s face. “You would not be so impetuous as to duel over a woman? A man of your maturity?”

Max’s brow arched. “I am five-and-thirty, monsieur—hardly in the doddering years of infirmity.”

“Not by any means, but…” Claiborne shook his head in dismay. “Although I haven’t known you long, Vallerand, I consider you to be a sensible man, not a wild-blooded youth who would sacrifice all in the heat of a jealous rage. Dueling over a woman? I would have thought you above such behavior.”

Max’s lips twitched in amusement. “I am a Creole. God willing, I will never be above such behavior.”

“I have no hopes of understanding the Creoles,” Claiborne said with a slight scowl, thinking of his brother-in-law, who had recently been killed in a duel while defending the memory of his sister. “With your women, and dueling, and hot tempers…”

“You will discover, Governor, that dueling is an inevitable aspect of life in New Orleans. You might someday find it necessary to defend your own honor in such a way.”

“Never!”

Like all Americans in New Orleans, Claiborne did not understand the Creoles’ penchant for dueling over what seemed to be trifling matters. Rapiers were the preferred weapon, and the art of fencing
was taught by a flourishing group of academies. The garden behind the cathedral had absorbed the lifeblood of many gallants who had sacrificed their lives merely to avenge an imagined slight. Sometimes a single misspoken word or the tiniest breach of etiquette was enough to result in a challenge.

“My God, man,” Claiborne continued, “how can you involve yourself in something like this, when you may still be of use to me? You know it is imperative that I avoid antagonizing the population of this city, and if the Creoles’ hatred of me worsens—”

“The Creoles do not hate you,” Max interrupted matter-of-factly.

“They don’t?” Claiborne began to look mollified.

“They are largely indifferent to you. It is your own countrymen who hate you.”

“Dammit, I know that.” The governor gave him a dark look. “Much help you’ll be to me if Sagesse wins the duel.”

Max half smiled. “That is unlikely. However, if I prove unsuccessful against Sagesse, my absence will not make as much of a difference as you seem to believe.”

“The hell it won’t! Colonel Burr is in Natchez at this moment, plotting to stir Louisiana to revolt and wreak havoc on God knows what other portions of the continent. He’ll be here in a matter of weeks looking for supporters. By that time you’ll most likely be buried at the foot of a tree instead of doing what you can to verify the reports I’m receiving. And if Burr succeeds, your property will be confiscated, your family’s wealth plundered, and your
desire to see Louisiana attain statehood will never be realized.”

A gleam of malice appeared in Max’s brown eyes. “Yes, they’ll alight over the territory like a flock of buzzards. No one can scavenge and pillage quite like Americans.”

Claiborne ignored the observation. “Vallerand, the duel can’t really be necessary.”

“It has been necessary for ten years.”

“Ten years? Why?”

“I must go. I’m certain you can find someone willing to help you,” Max said, standing up and proffering his hand on the short businesslike shake the Americans seemed to prefer to the Creole custom of kissing both cheeks. A strange lot, the Anglo-Saxons—so squeamish, solitary, and hypocritical.

“Why must you go?” Claiborne demanded. “I have more to discuss with you.”

“The news of my presence here will have circulated by now. I’m expecting to receive a challenge on your very doorstep.” Max gave him a slight, mocking bow. “At your service, as always, Governor.”

“And what if you are dead by the morrow?”

Max gave him a saturnine grin. “If you require advice from the netherworld, I’ll be pleased to oblige.”

Claiborne laughed. “Are you threatening to haunt me?”

“You wouldn’t be the first to encounter a Vallerand ghost,” Max assured him, replacing the wide-brimmed planter’s hat on his dark head and striding nonchalantly away.

As Max reached the outer door of the run-down Governor’s Palace, he was approached by a small crowd of men. The air snapped with excitement, for the Creoles had been roused from their leisurely routine by the prospect of a duel involving Vallerand.

“Gentlemen?” Max prompted lazily. “May I be of assistance?”

One of them stepped forward, breathing fast, his gaze riveted on Max’s dark face. In a sudden jerking movement, he whipped a glove against Max’s cheek. “I challenge you on behalf of Etienne Gerard Sagesse,” he said.

Max smiled in a way that sent chills down the spine of every man present. “I accept.”

“You will appoint a second to arrange the details of the meeting?”

“Jacques Clement will serve as my second. Make the arrangements with him.”

Clement was an agile negotiator who had twice been able to reconcile a dispute before swords were crossed. This time, however, Max had made it clear to him that negotiations would not be required. The duel would be fought to the death, with rapiers, on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. More privacy would be afforded there, as well as fewer distractions.

“And the doctor?” the second asked. “Who will choose—”

“You appoint him,” Max replied indifferently, caring about nothing other than the fact that his revenge was finally at hand.

*   *   *

Excited by the rumors flying through the city, Justin and Philippe tore through the house barefoot, staging mock duels with walking sticks and brooms and upsetting small knickknacks from their perches as they bumped into tables, bureaus, and shelves. Neither of them entertained any doubt that their renowned and fearsome father would best Etienne Sagesse. As they had boasted to their friends, Maximilien had proved himself without peer, whether the weapon was pistols or swords.

Irénée had taken to her room, praying feverishly for the safety of her son on the morrow, and asking forgiveness for his ruthlessness and unholy desire for vengeance. Lysette sat in the salon, bewildered and tense, trying to convince herself she did not care what happened to Maximilien Vallerand. She stared out the window at the hazy sky which gleamed with an opalescent shimmer. In New Orleans, the moisture in the air was never completely burned off by the sun, making the twilights lovelier than any she had ever seen.

Where was Maximilien now? He had appeared earlier in the day, then left without partaking of supper. Noeline had hinted archly that he was visiting his mistress. The idea had caused a perplexing emotion to spill inside Lysette’s chest. “I don’t care if he has a hundred women,” she said to herself, but the words sounded false to her ears.

She could not stop her imagination from alighting on thoughts of Max with his mistress at this very moment. What would a man say to a woman
when he knew he might die the next day? Lysette’s eyes half closed as she pictured a woman with an unseen face leading Max to her bed, her slender hips swaying in invitation, her hand caught in his. And Max looking down with a sardonic smile, his head lowering as he stole a kiss, his hands moving to unfasten her clothes.
I had to spend my last night with you
, he might be whispering.
Put your arms around me
…. And as the woman arched up to him, her head falling back willingly, Lysette imagined her own face tilted upward, her own arms stealing around his broad back…

“Ah,
Mon Dieu
, what am I doing?” she whispered, pressing her hands to the sides of her head to force out the wicked thoughts.

“Mademoiselle!” Philippe’s voice interrupted her, and Lysette looked up as he approached. Justin followed at a slower pace, sauntering in a way that reminded her of his father.

“Why so downcast?” Philippe inquired, his blue eyes dancing with exhilaration. “Are you not pleased that
mon père
will be dueling for the sake of your honor tomorrow?”

“Pleased?” she repeated. “How could I be pleased? It is dreadful.”

“But it is the highest compliment that can be paid a woman. Just imagine what it will be like, the clashing swords, the blood, all for your sake!”

“The duel is not being fought for her sake,” Justin said flatly, his blue eyes locked on her pale face. “Isn’t that true, Lysette?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “That is true.”

“What?” Philippe looked puzzled. “But of course the duel is over you. That is what everyone says.”

“Idiot,” Justin muttered, and sat on the sofa beside Lysette, seeming to understand her fear. “He won’t lose, you know. He never does.”

“What happens to your father is not my concern,” she said calmly.

“Isn’t it? Then why are you waiting and watching for his return?”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are. And you might wait all night. Sometimes he doesn’t come back until dawn. You do know who he is with,
oui
?”

“No, and I don’t…” Lysette’s voice trailed off, and she flushed. “Who?”

Philippe broke in angrily, “Justin, do not tell her!”

“He is with Mariame,” Justin said, giving Lysette a knowing smile. “She’s been his
placée
for years. But he doesn’t love her.”

Lysette swallowed back more questions with extreme difficulty. “I don’t care to hear any more,” she said, and Justin gave a jeering laugh.

“You would love to hear more,” he said, “but I won’t tell you.”

Suddenly there was a feminine cry of outrage from upstairs. “Justin! Philippe! Ah, the mischief you have done! Come here immédiatement!”

When Justin made no move to rise from the sofa, Philippe tugged impatiently at his sleeve. “Justin, come now!
Grand-mère
is calling us!”

“Go see what she wants,” Justin said lazily.

Philippe’s blue eyes narrowed with annoyance. “Not without you!” He waited while Irénée called, but Justin continued to sit calmly without stirring. Making an exasperated noise, Philippe left the room.

Lysette folded her arms and regarded the boy in front of her with all the cynicism she could dredge up. “Is there something else you want to tell me?” she asked.

“I wondered if you knew the story of what my father did to my mother,” Justin said idly.

He was a wicked boy, Lysette thought, and yet she felt sorry for him. It must be terrible to live with such a suspicion of his own father, terrible to know that his mother had been an adulteress.

“It’s not necessary to tell me,” she said. “It has nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, but it does,” Justin countered. “You see, my father is going to marry you.”

Her breath was driven out of her lungs in a whoosh. She looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “No, he isn’t!”

“Don’t be stupid. Why else would
Grand-mère
allow him to compromise you, if she wasn’t assured he will make the proper amends?”

“I’m not going to marry anyone.”

Justin laughed. “We’ll see. My father always gets what he wants.”

“He doesn’t want me,” Lysette persisted. “All he wants is revenge. The duel with Monsieur Sagesse.”

“You’ll be a Vallerand before the week is out,” the
boy predicted. “Unless, of course, he is defeated—and he won’t be.”

The scratch of a quill on thin parchment was the only sound in the room as Etienne Sagesse bent over the small desk. Word after scrawling word filled the ivory sheet, while the face above it turned ruddy with effort.