Lysette began to storm out of the room, and then, lightning-swift, reappeared at the doorway. “And while you are considering your options,” she added, “you might think about the fact that by now I am very likely pregnant. Our child will need a father! And if that doesn’t perturb you…” Her eyes slitted. “Then I swear by all the saints that if you stay here to be hanged, I’ll still go to France, and find someone else to marry! Does that motivate you to come with me?”
As she left and hurried upstairs, Max sat heavily in his chair. Despite his grim worry, he couldn’t suppress a rueful grin. He could search the world over and never find a woman who understood him half so well. In a few concise sentences, Lysette had managed to hit him in every place he was vulnerable.
———
The house was still as a tomb, except for the sounds of Lysette’s hasty packing. Heavily veiled and grief-stricken, Irénée had taken Noeline with her to the cathedral, where she spent several hours taking counsel from an old, familiar priest, and praying brokenly for forgiveness for her son. She had not been able to speak to Max, or even look at him, as she left the plantation.
Of course, Max reflected, it had not crossed Irénée’s mind that he might not have killed Etienne Sagesse. For years she had lived with the belief that he had ended Corinne’s life. He wondered bleakly how Irénée could still love a son she thought to be a cold-blooded killer.
Prowling in and around the house until early evening, Max pondered the idea of escape and rejected it. Long ago he had acquired holdings in Europe, in case his property in Louisiana was ever jeopardized. If forced to flee, he had the means to keep himself and Lysette in comfortable style for the rest of their lives. But the years of exile, being haunted by his reputation, always looking over his shoulder in fear of retribution from the Sagesses or their kin… he and Lysette would never be happy. And the vendetta the Sagesses would declare would be extended to his children. His sons’ lives would be in danger, until someone paid for the crime Max was accused of. He had to stay and fight to prove his innocence.
Halting at the foot of the double staircase, he glanced at the second floor. Philippe had closeted himself in his room. After returning home and be ing told about Max’s imminent arrest, Justin had left on some mysterious errand. A maid scurried by Max and went up the stairs carrying a leather valise, while Lysette urged her to hurry. Max shook his head ruefully. No one could fault the woman he had wed for lack of spirit. He set his foot on the first step, intending to go up and put a stop to the useless packing.
He stopped at the explosive sound behind him, as Justin threw open the front door and burst into the house like a madman.
“Father!” he shouted. “Fath—” The boy skidded to a halt in front of Max, all tense, trembling energy. The drizzling mist from outside had soaked into his clothes and hair, and he stood there dripping on the rug.
Automatically Max reached out to steady him. “Justin, where have you—”
“F-following…” Justin stammered, clutching at Max’s arms, “Following U-uncle Bernard.” He tugged impatiently. “He is in town, drinking and gaming at La Sirène.”
Max was hardly surprised. “He has his own ways of dealing with family misfortune, mon fils. God knows he’s had to suffer through enough of it. Let him be. Now—”
“No, no!” Justin pulled at him tenaciously. “You have to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“There are some things you must ask Bernard.”
“Such as?”
“Ask him why he resents Lysette so much. And why he was willing to let her fall from the attic. Ask him why he stood on the gallery, watching her with Sagesse, and didn’t try to help her! Ask him where he was last night!”
“Justin,” Max said impatiently, “it is obvious that, for whatever reason, you and Bernard have quarreled. But right now there are more important—”
“No, nothing is this important!” Justin clung to him obstinately. “Ask him how he felt about my mother! And then ask what Etienne knew that made him so dangerous to Bernard!”
Max shook the boy roughly, startling him into silence. “No. Stop it!”
Justin closed his mouth.
“I understand that you want to help.” Max’s hands bit into the boy’s wiry arms. “You don’t want me to be blamed for the murder. But that gives you no license to cast accusations at others, especially members of your own family. You may not be fond of Bernard, but—”
“Come with me,” Justin begged. “Talk to Bernard. If you do, you’ll see what I’m trying to tell you. It is the only thing I will ever ask of you. Damn you, don’t try to claim you haven’t the time! What else were you planning to do tonight? Wait to be arrested?”
Max studied him, his face implacable, while Justin held his breath. Then Max nodded slightly. “All right.”
Justin threw his arms around his father and buried his head against his chest, then jumped away abruptly. “I don’t want to come across any of the Sagesses. We must avoid the main road—”
“We’ll have to use it,” Max said. “By now the other routes have turned to mud.” He strode to the door, while Justin scampered after him.
———
Renée Sagesse Dubois sat alone in the parlor with the sealed letter in her lap, staring at it with redrimmed eyes. It was addressed to Maximilien Vallerand. She remembered watching Etienne write it just before the duel. Etienne had sealed it himself, adamantly refusing to tell her the contents. He had told her to give the letter to Maximilien, if Vallerand proved the victor.
Numbly Renée wondered why Vallerand had spared Etienne’s life then, why he had ended the duel without real bloodshed. Etienne had mentioned it more than once in the months afterward, seeming to have even greater contempt for Maximilien.
Since the duel, Renée had tried to return the letter to Etienne. He insisted each time that it remain in her possession, with the same instructions. Upon his death, he wanted her to place the letter in Maximilien’s hands.
But she could not. In spite of the promise she had made, Renée could not face the man who had killed her brother. “I am sorry, Etienne,” she whispered. “I cannot do it.” Beginning to cry, she knocked the letter to the floor and hunched over in grief.
After a long spasm of sobbing, Renée regained her composure. Her eyes were drawn again to the letter. What could Etienne have written? What were his true feelings for the man who had been his friend, enemy, and ultimately his murderer? Leaning over, Renée snatched the letter up and broke the scarlet wax seal.
She began to read, using her fingers to wipe the stream of tears from her cheeks. The first page was too cryptic to understand. Frowning, she turned to the second. “Oh, no,” she murmured, the letter trembling in her hand. “Etienne… how can this be?”
———
While Max rode along the mist-shrouded road with his son, he wondered grimly what madness had possessed him to head to town with Justin. He would gain nothing by talking to Bernard, who was probably too deep in his cups by now to form a complete sentence.
Why was Justin so determined to involve Bernard in this unholy mess? Max had to grit his teeth to keep from telling his son that he was going to turn back. But as Justin had pointed out, the boy had never asked for anything from him.
Justin increased their pace until the horses’ hooves were slogging a desperate canter through the mud. They came to a curve and slowed, seeing four riders a short distance ahead. The riders fanned out instantly, forming a half circle as they approached the pair.
Max recognized Severin Dubois, Etienne’s two brothers, and a Sagesse cousin. It wasn’t difficult to figure out their purpose— they had formed a lynching party to avenge the death of one of their own. Max’s hand flew instinctively to his side. He swore under his breath, realizing that he had left his brace of pistols at home.
Justin cut his horse sharply to the right, preparing to flee.
“No, Justin,” Max said hoarsely. The riders were too close; it was usele
ss to run. Either not hearing him or ignoring the command, the boy continued on his reckless path. One of the Sagesses held his rifle by the barrel and used the heavy maplewood stock as a club.
A hoarse shout was torn from Max’s throat, and he was seized with panic. “Damn you,” he raged at the Sagesses, jumping from his horse. Running through the mud, he managed to reach his son in time to catch his limp form as it slid from the saddle.
The horses stamped and shuffled. Severin Dubois watched calmly as Max lowered his son to the ground. “Justice is uncertain these days,” Dubois remarked. “We felt it best to take matters into our own hands.”
Cradling his son’s long body, Max turned Justin’s head and smoothed back the damp black hair to view the injury. He shook with violent anger as he saw the gash and the bruise on his son’s temple. The boy groaned and stirred, his lashes fluttering.
“I’m sorry,” Max whispered, kissing his pale cheek. “Je t’aime, Justin. You’ll be all right. Don’t move, mon fils.” He stripped off his cloak and wrapped it protectively around the boy.
“He won’t be harmed any further,” Severin said. “Unless, of course, you try to make things difficult.”
Max stared at Dubois with cold hatred, and he gently lowered Justin to the ground. Standing, he did not resist as one of the Sagesses began to bind his wrists.
———
Etienne Sagesse’s sister was the last person Lysette had expected would call that evening. Still, she welcomed her with irreproachable politeness. She was sorry for Renée’s loss, even though she had no liking for the woman.
“Where is Monsieur Vallerand?” Renée demanded without preamble. Lysette could not help staring in amazement. From what she remembered during her brief stay with the Sagesses so many months ago, Etienne’s sister had possessed an icy composure that had been unshakable. At the moment she seemed to be an entirely different woman, flushed and trembling with emotion. “I must speak to your husband,” Renée said rapidly, refusing to go into the parlor. “Immédiatement.”
“I am afraid he is not here,” Lysette said.
“Where is he? When will he return?”
Lysette gave the older woman an assessing glance, wondering if the Sagesses had sent her for some malicious purpose. “I do not know,” she said truthfully.
“I have something for him. Something from my brother.”
“What is it?” Lysette did not bother to hide her mistrust.
“A letter. Etienne wished it to be given to Monsieur Vallerand when he died.”
Lysette nodded coolly. No doubt the letter was some last bit of insulting nonsense. Only Etienne would find a way to taunt Max from the grave. “If you wish to leave it with me, I will see that my husband receives it.”
“You do not understand. It tells everything, all about the past… the affair…everything.”
Lysette’s eyes widened. “Let me see it.” She hastily snatched it from the other woman’s hands before it could be offered. Turning away, she read the scrawling lines rapidly, a few of them seeming to leap from the page.
What a blind fool love makes of you, Max. I understand you well enough to know you would rather shoulder the blame for a crime you did not commit than believe your own brother was capable of such betrayal.
… I gave you what you wished… I watched you wallow in self-delusion, while I …
Lysette broke off and looked at Renée. “Bernard?” she said wildly.
Renée regarded her with reluctant pity. “So the letter claims. After Corinne’s affair with Etienne ended, she began a liaison with Bernard. She admitted as much to Etienne, and also told him of her plans to expose her affair with Bernard, if Bernard did not agree to run away with her.”
Lysette scanned the rest of the letter frantically.
… there is no doubt that Bernard found the idea of doing away with Corinne much more appealing than enduring her companionship in a lifetime of exile. Given the same choice, I might have strangled the bitch myself. But making it appear as though the cuckolded husband had done the deed… that was a master touch worthy only of a Vallerand.
“Etienne writes that your husband was a fool for not considering the possibility of an affair between Corinne and Bernard,” Renée said. “Etienne scorned Maximilien for ignoring what he could have seen, if he’d only cared to look.”
“But Max believed that Bernard was very much in love with someone else.”
“Yes, an American girl.”
“Bernard made her pregnant, and she ran away— oh, what was her name—”
“Ryla Curran,” Renée interrupted. “In the letter Etienne makes a different claim. Bernard was interested in the girl, but never had an affair with her.”
“How did Etienne know?”
“Because it was Etienne, not Bernard, who seduced her.” Renée smiled bitterly. “Unfortunately she wasn’t the first young girl Etienne ruined— or the last. But it served Bernard’s purpose to pretend that he had been Ryla’s lover— people were less likely to suspect the true nature of his relationship with Corinne.”
Lysette went cold, wondering what it would do to Max to discover what his brother had done. Her mind reeled. “Bernard killed Etienne,” she said.
“I believe so. Of course, there is no proof, only—”
“He did!” Lysette insisted. “Bernard must have been convinced the night of the Leseur ball that Etienne would not keep his silence much longer, not with his drinking, and… yes, Bernard must have killed him! Only, for this second murder, Max will pay in full measure.”
“Do not panic,” Renée said. “There is time. All that is necessary is to show the letter to the authorities when they come for your husband.” Her lips thinned. “Unless Maximilien has already fled the territory. Has he?”
Lysette responded with a scathing glance.
Renée began to ask something else when they were distracted by a sudden intrusion.
“Max?” Lysette asked, whirling around. “Where—” The words died away on her lips.
Justin was leaning against the doorframe, gasping and panting, having run for miles without stopping. His face was bluish white under its tan, and his forehead was bruised and bloody. Every inch of him was soaked and spattered with mud. “I need help. Where is Alexandre?”
“With Henriette and the Clements,” she answered automatically. “Justin, what—”
The boy interrupted her with a hoarse call toward the stairs. “Philippe! Philippe, come here!”
Philippe appeared at the top of the stairs, took one look at his brother, and began to hurry down. Justin glanced beyond Lysette to Renée Dubois. “How neighborly of you,” he said, his mouth spasming with hatred. “Keeping my stepmother company while your husband and your brothers butcher my…” Dizziness overtook him, and he sagged against the doorway, holding his head. “My father,” he finished with a gasp, and reached out to Lysette as she went to support him. He held her tightly, oblivious to the mud on his clothes and hands. “They took him,” he gasped, struggling to stay conscious. “I don’t know where. They’ll kill him. Oh, God, they might have already.”
———
The small group led Max’s horse off the main road and through mud-bogged side avenues. The Sagesses were determined to punish the man they were certain had murdered Etienne. In this territory, where power seemed to change hands almost monthly, the definitions of right and wrong were variable. In their minds the only certain means a man had of extracting justice was to rely on his own family.
Hands bound behind him, Max waited tensely while they took his horse’s reins and rode to a remote corner of the Sagesse plantation, out among fields left to lie fallow for the season. When they stopped near a grove of trees and began to dismount, Max took action, kicking his horse into a sudden leap sideways, hoping the reins might be yanked out of Severin Dubois’ grasp.
Dubois took the end of the rope binding Max’s wrists and pulled, toppling him to the ground. Max landed on his side with a grunt of pain. Th
ere was no laughter or jeering at the ignominious descent. This was a serious business, and the Sagesses were acting not out of petty vengeance but moral obligation.
Although he knew it was hopeless, Max struggled as he was lifted to his feet. The first strike came with blinding force, whipping his head back and sending a burst of pain through his skull. Before he could draw breath, he was battered with a torrent of blows that cracked his ribs and drove the breath from his lungs. His head was snapped to the side, and he felt his body begin to sag. Dark and light swirled around him, and all sound dissolved in a roar.
———
Renée looked blank with surprise. “You say my husband has taken him?” she asked. “Severin and—”
“Yes!” Justin snarled at her. “Your entire accursed family!”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know. Half an hour, perhaps.”
Renée came forward, lightly touching Lysette’s shoulder. “I didn’t know about this.”
“Like hell you didn’t,” Justin muttered.
She returned his glare. “Your insolence won’t help anyone, little man.” She returned her gaze to Lysette. “I might know where they have taken him, but I am not certain. My carriage is just outside.”
“Why would you want to help me find him?” Lysette asked woodenly, barely taking notice of Philippe as he joined them.
“It was wrong of Etienne to keep silent all those years, when he knew that Maximilien was innocent. No one can make reparation for what Etienne has done, and no one—”
“Perhaps,” Justin interrupted icily, “we could make speeches later, and try to find my father before your family stretches his neck.” Grunting with pain, he pushed open the front door and gestured to the carriage.
Philippe escorted Lysette outside, and Justin took Renée’s elbow in a hard grasp. She glared at him. “You are ruining my gown with your dirty hand, boy!”
Justin did not let go of her, using her to maintain his precarious balance. “Tell me where we’re going and why you think my father is there,” he said as they went down the front steps. “You’re probably leading us on a merry chase to keep us from finding him.”