When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(61)

“I can’t imagine why,” Lysette said dryly, and glanced at Max with a smile. “Quest-ce que c’est?“ she asked softly, while Irénée and Alexandre became involved in a discussion of the Clements. “Still thinking about Etienne Sagesse?”

Max shook his head, staring at the scenery outside as the carriage sluggishly traveled the muddy road. “No… it has nothing to do with him, but I have a bad feeling. I’m not certain why. But I will be glad when we reach home.”

Unfortunately, Max’s premonition was proven right. As soon as they entered the house, Noeline greeted them, her usually imperturbable face set with worry. Philippe sat on one of the narrow benches in the entranceway, looking haggard.

“Monsieur, Justin has been gone all day,” Noeline told them tersely. “He did not come home to eat tonight.”

Max turned to Philippe. “Where is he?”

Philippe stood to face him with a troubled expression. “I don’t know, Father. The pirogue is gone— Justin has taken it somewhere.”

“When did you last see him?”

“This morning. Justin was boasting that he sneaked out last night after bedtime. He said he had met some of the crew of a flatboat on Tchoupitoulas Street and planned to go with them tonight. But I didn’t think he would actually do it.”

“Oh, my poor Justin!” Irénée cried in distress.

Max cursed quietly. Flatboat men lived, ate, and slept on the deck of their boats with no protection against the outdoors. Their idea of entertainment was to swill rye whiskey, brawl, and wallow in unsavory flesh houses where disease and violence were rampant. When they fought, they bit, kicked, and gouged eyes out, mutilating an opponent without mercy. By now they might have made short work of Justin.

“Which crew?” Max demanded. “Which boat?”

Philippe shook his head helplessly.

Max turned to the door, where Alexandre stood with his mouth open. “We have to find him.”

Alex backed away a step. “Oh, no. I make every effort to steer clear of such fellows. I won’t risk my neck merely to rescue your fool of a son, who doesn’t want to be found in the first place. Just go to sleep. He’ll probably be back by morning.”

“Or end up in the river with his throat cut.” Max brushed past his brother and headed outside.

“You won’t find him,” Alexandre warned.

“Oh, yes, I will. And after I make certain he’s all right, I’m going to tear him limb from limb.”

Hastily, Lysette ran after him. “Max, be careful.” He acknowledged her with a brief gesture of his hand, not bothering to look back. She bit her lip, wanting to call after him again, knowing how terrified he was for his son. Whirling around, she went back to Alexandre, gripping his arm and tugging hard. “You must go with him. You must help him.”

“I’ll be damned if I do.”

“Max needs your help,” she persisted impatiently. “Oh, be of use for once, Alexandre!”

Irénée took up the fight, helping Lysette to urge Alexandre toward the door. “Yes, you must accompany Max, mon fils.“

“I am tired,” he said with a scowl.

“Think of Justin!” Irénée commanded, pulling at his other arm. “He may be in trouble this very moment. He may be suffering!”

“If there is any justice he is,” Alex muttered, shaking off their hands as he hurried after his older brother.

They closed the door immediately, half afraid he would try to come back in.

“That Justin,” Irénée said sorrowfully, “will no doubt be the death of me.” She glanced at Philippe. “Why can’t he be more like you?”

Suddenly Philippe exploded. “Why does everyone have to ask that? I am not the good one. Justin is not the bad one.”

Irénée sighed, her face creased with exhaustion. “I am too exhausted to discuss this now. Noeline, help me upstairs.”

All were silent as the two women left and headed to the curving staircase. Philippe buried his face in his hands, digging his knuckles into his eyes. Filled with sympathy, Lysette sat beside him.

“Justin is different from me,” Philippe said in a muffled voice. “Things are too slow and dull for him here. He has always wanted to run away. Most of the time he feels as if he’s living in a cage.”

“Is it because of what happened to your mother?” Lysette asked. “Because people think that Max killed her?”

“Yes, partly,” Philippe admitted with a heavy sigh. “It’s not easy being a Vallerand. Justin and I know what people think of us. We’ve heard what they say about our mother— that she was mad, or a slut, or both. And everyone in New Orleans believes that her blood is on Father’s hands.”

“I don’t believe it,” Lysette said firmly. “And neither should you.”

“Most of the time I don’t.” His haunted gaze met hers. “But Justin does, and that makes things very hard for him.”

———

Max and Alexandre were gone all night, returning early the next afternoon without Justin. Max was more agitated than Lysette had ever seen him. His thoughts seemed to race faster than conversation would allow.

“No sign of him,” he said hoarsely, downing half a cup of coffee in one swallow. “We found a boatman who claimed to have seen a boy matching Justin’s description on the waterfront. God knows if he was lying. Justin might have signed on with a crew, but I don’t think he would be so damned foolish.”