When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(24)

“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.