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.
Carefully he blotted the letter, folded and sealed it, then held it in his hands with exceeding lightness, as if it were a delicate weapon. For just an instant a long-forgotten softness appeared in his turquoise eyes, while old memories danced before him.
“Etienne?” His older sister Renée Sagesse Dubois entered the room. She was a striking woman of unusual height, admired for her self-contained ways, respected for being a dutiful wife and the mother of three healthy children.
For years she had worried over Etienne every bit as earnestly as their own mother had, and although she turned a blind eye to his misdeeds, she could not help but be aware of his true character. “What are you doing?” she inquired.
He gestured with the letter in response. “In case events do not turn out as I wish tomorrow,” he said, “I want this to be given to Maximilien Vallerand.”
“But why?” Renée asked with a frown. “What does it say?”
“That is only for Max to know.”
Renée came to stand by his chair, resting her long hand on the back of it. “Why must you duel over that creature?” she asked, her voice for once impassioned.
“Many reasons. Not the least of which is the fact that Lysette Kersaint is the only woman I ever wanted to marry.”
“But why? She is not even pretty!”
“She is the most desirable woman I’ve ever known. No… I am not jesting. She is vibrant and clever and unique. I will enjoying killing Vallerand for taking her.”
“Will you be able to live with yourself if he dies?”
An odd smile shaped Etienne’s lips. “That remains to be seen. I can be certain, however, that Max will not be able to live with himself if he emerges the victor.” He set the letter down on the desk. “If that happens, do not forget this note. I will be watching from the grave while he reads it.”
Renée’s blue eyes crackled with anger. “I have never understood your attitude toward that cruel, embittered man. Maximilien Vallerand is not worthy of a single moment of your time, and yet you insist on risking your life to indulge his need for vengeance!”
Etienne appeared to have only half heard her. “Remember how he was?” he said absently. “Remember how everyone loved him? Even you.”
A blush edged up to her hairline, but Renée was too straightforward to deny it. Like so many other women, she had been in love with Maximilien back in the days when he had possessed a boyish gallantry that had set her heart beating all too fast.
“Yes, of course I remember,” she answered. “But that was not the same man, Etienne. The Maximilien Vallerand whom you go to duel with is beyond redemption.”
———
Lake Pontchartrain was a shallow body of water, perhaps sixteen feet at its deepest. Nonetheless, the seemingly tame lake could turn dangerous. Sometimes a strong wind would flail the surface until the waves grew violent enough to overturn vessels and take the lives of many men.
This morning, however, the water was a glassy gray mirror poised against the pale dawn sky. Only the hint of a breeze skimmed the lake and touched the shore. The duel between Max and Etienne would take place away from the beach, on the edge of a pine forest where the ground was firm and even.
While the seconds and the group of onlookers stood by, Max and Etienne drew aside for a private meeting.
The men were similar in height and reach, both experienced and well trained in the art of swordsmanship. None of the witnesses present would dare to choose which opponent they would rather face, though several had noted that an excess of fine living would soon begin to take a toll on Sagesse’s agility, if it hadn’t already. He indulged too often in the rich wines and cuisines the Creoles loved, and led a dissipated life that would not long allow him his current preeminence as a duelist.
Etienne Sagesse confronted Max with a faint smile on his coarsely handsome face. “Vallerand,” he murmured, “you could have found some other excuse years ago. Why did you use my little fiancée to provoke the duel? There was no need to deprive me of such a sweet tidbit.”
“It seemed appropriate.”
“I suppose it might have seemed appropriate to you, but it was hardly an equal exchange. Lysette was chaste and modest, of far greater value than your harlot of a wife.”
Max drew in his breath. “I’m going to kill you.”
“As you did Corinne?” Etienne smiled casually. “I never had the opportunity to tell you what a relief that was. She was so tiresome.” He seemed to enjoy the sight of Max’s darkening face. “Careful,” he murmured. “You’ll give me the advantage by letting your emotions get the better of you.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Max said gruffly.
They exchanged one last look before turning to take up their weapons. Max pushed away an unwanted memory that hovered entreatingly on the edge of his awareness, a memory of childhood. He wondered if Etienne had given a thought to a fact few people in New Orleans remembered— that once they had been inseparable friends.
Chapter 5
Max had often pondered why Sagesse had slept with his wife, and realized the deed had been inevitable. They had been boyhood friends, had sworn to be blood brothers, but even then Etienne had also been Max’s greatest rival.
Because they were friends, Etienne struggled to subdue his jealousy. Eventually, however, as they grew into manhood, their friendship was overshadowed by too many arguments and increasing competition, and for a number of years they kept a careful distance from each other.
When Max fell in love and married Corinne Quérand, it had not taken long for the idea of seducing her to take root in Etienne’s mind. Once Etienne had succeeded, it became clear Corinne’s charm had worn off quickly. Now that Max had repaid the debt by ruining his betrothed, Etienne was determined to settle the score once and for all. He had fancied himself half in love with Lysette Kersaint, and Max would pay for taking that away from him.
———
Lysette walked down the stairs after a sleepless night. The house was still, the hour too early for the twins to have awakened. There was a heavy feeling in her heart, and she could not pretend it was anything other than concern for Max. Just why she should care so much about what happened to him was impossible to explain.
Going to the morning room, she peered through the window and saw that dawn had arrived. Perhaps at this moment Sagesse and Max were dueling, rapiers scissoring and flashing in the pale light.
“By now it is over,” she heard Irénée say behind her. The older woman sat at the empty breakfast table. “It seems I have been through a hundred mornings such as this,” Irénée continued, looking haggard. “This is hardly the first duel Maximilien has fought. And he is not the only son of mine to have taken up swords. No one understands the grief a woman bears when the life of her child is threatened.”
“I do not think he will fail, madame.”
“And if he doesn’t? How much more will his heart be blackened when he tries to live with Etienne’s death on his conscience? Perhaps it would be better for him to… to lose this duel than to become so embittered.”
“No,” Lysette said softly.
The minutes seemed to drag at a fraction of their usual pace. Surely if Max were all right he would have returned by now. Lysette tried to make conversation
, but after a while she fell silent and stared blankly at the cooling liquid in her cup.
“Madame!” she heard Noeline exclaim. Irénée and Lysette both turned with a start. The housekeeper stood in the doorway, her wiry arms bracketing either side of the doorframe. “Retta’s boy just ran up to say that Monsieur is coming down the road!”
“He is all right?” Irénée asked unsteadily.
“Just fine!”
Irénée jumped to her feet with surprising alacrity and hurried to the entrance hall. Lysette followed, her heart pounding with some inexplicable emotion.
Abruptly the tension was severed as Max burst through the house, his expression harsh with frustration. He slammed the massive door, scowled at the two women in front of him, and strode to the library. Irénée followed at his heels, while Lysette stood frozen in the hall.
“Max?” she heard Irénée’s muffled plea. “Maximilien? What happened?”
There was no reply.
“You won the duel?” Irénée pressed. “Etienne Sagesse is dead?”
“No. Sagesse isn’t dead.”
“But I don’t understand.”
Lysette stood in the doorway as Max went to a bookcase and stared at the colored spines of the leather-bound volumes. “Soon after the duel began, I had Sagesse at my mercy,” he said. “His reflexes have gone soft. He couldn’t best anyone but the rankest novice.”
Max looked down at his right hand as if he still held the rapier. “Child’s play,” he continued with a curl of his lip. “I gave him a scratch, barely enough to draw blood. Then the seconds conferred and inquired if honor had been satisfied. Sagesse said no, that honor required us to fight to the death. I was about to agree, but then…”