Rogue's Mistress Read Online Free PDF Page A

washed and dressed, her hands folded
over her chest. She looked angelic and peaceful in death. He sighed. He would
have to arrange for burial, and see to it that the servants were provided for.
    Most critical, of course, there
was the child. What on earth was he to do about her?
    At the sound of a knock at the
front door, the black woman slipped past Julian to the parlor. He watched her
admit the magistrate, Paul Rillieux.
    “Julian!” Paul called, spotting
his friend.
    “Come in, Paul,” Julian whispered.
He chided himself, wondering why he was being so quiet. The woman was already
dead.
    Paul—a small, wiry Creole with a
large mustache—handed the servant his hat and cloak, then crossed the ratty rug
and came to stand beside Julian in the doorway. “I figured you might still be
here, mon ami . A good thing I secured the Irishman’s address before you
left Madame Sophie’s.”
    Julian nodded tiredly. “Is
everything taken care of?”
    “ Oui . The incident will go
down officially as an accident. I thought that for the sake of your family—and
the Irishman’s—it would be best to say that the incident occurred at a
grogshop. Otherwise, the details will remain the same. The Irishman pulled his
pistol on you, and you had no choice but to defend yourself.” He withdrew a
sheet of folded parchment from his pocket. “All I need is your signature on
this statement, and I’ll consider the matter closed.”
    “Of course,” Julian whispered. But
his gaze was still riveted on the dead woman on the bed beyond them.
    Paul followed his friend’s gaze;
he paled, crossing himself. “The wife?”
    “Dead,” Julian confirmed dully,
stepping farther into the room.
    Paul followed him, whistling under
his breath. “ Nom de Dieu ! You mean the miscreant was out debauching,
while his wife was—”
    “Yes,” Julian finished. He nodded
toward the far bedroom. “There’s a child, too—a daughter aged nine. Still
asleep, I presume.”
    “This is horrible, mon ami ,”
Paul said passionately. Setting the statement down on the dresser, he touched
his friend’s sleeve. “But not at all your fault.”
    Julian laughed bitterly, his eyes
full of guilt. “Not my fault! Whatever way you put it, man, it was my hand that
killed Brendan O’Shea!”
    Both men were so involved in the
conversation that neither had seen the small child stealing into the room.
“Papa!” Mercy O’Shea exclaimed. “Papa is dead?”
    The two men whirled, both wearing
stunned expressions. Mercy was glaring at Julian with all the vengeance of hell
gleaming in her green eyes. “Dear, I must explain,” he began lamely.
    But Mercy was already enraged, and
beyond hearing him. “Papa is dead and you killed him, m’sieur?” She whirled to
the bed. “Mama, this man has—” And then, in horror, she screamed, “Mama!”
    The scene that followed was the
stuff of Julian’s nightmares for many months to come. Young Mercy raced to her
mother’s side and beseeched the dead woman piteously, hysterically, demanding
to know why she wouldn’t answer, why her hand was so cold, why she wouldn’t
wake up. When Julian tried to pull her away, Mercy lashed out at him, kicking
and screaming and calling him a murderer.
    At last, Paul Rillieux took the
child from Julian. The magistrate staggered under the weight of Mercy’s
surprisingly strong blows. “What are we to do with her, Julian?”
    Julian’s crazed eyes met his
friend’s. “Take her to the Gray Ladies at Ursuline Academy. I’ll assume all
financial responsibility. And while you’re gone”—his anguished gaze shifted to
what remained of Corrine O’Shea—“I’ll see to things here.”
    “ Bien, mon ami ,” Paul
replied, carrying the flailing, sobbing child from the room.
    Julian would never forget Mercy’s
small fist waving over Paul’s shoulder as he carried her out, or the hatred and
the tears shining in her bright green eyes as she screamed out at him again,
“Murderer! I hate you,