When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(70)

“There is no need to make excuses for her,” Justin said. “I’m glad she’s dead.”

“No, Justin. Pity her, but don’t hate her.”

“Did Etienne Sagesse kill her?” the boy demanded.

“No, I don’t believe he did.”

Justin’s chin trembled. “Then you did?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Max seemed to find it difficult to speak. “No, I found her, already dead. I don’t know what happened to her.”

A mixture of anger and disbelief crossed Justin’s face. “But you have to! You must know.”

“I wish I did,” Max said. “And most of all, I wish you had not grown up in the shadow of all this. I would do anything to change that, Justin. I want your happiness above all else.”

Justin closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the pillow. “Isn’t there anyone you suspected? Isn’t there anyone who might have wanted her dead?”

“Years ago I talked to Etienne Sagesse, thinking that he might be able to reveal something.”

“And?”

“He believes that I killed Corinne out of jealousy.”

“You should have finished him off in that duel,” Justin muttered.

“Look at me.” Max waited until Justin’s eyes opened. “You must choose your fights carefully. I would rather you be branded a coward than have you jump every time some little bantam throws a challenge at your feet. The more fearsome your reputation, the more others will try to provoke you— and the more you use your sword, the more you’ll have to. I don’t want that for you, or your brother. You mean too much to me, Justin. You must walk away the next time… for me. Please.”

Justin swallowed hard and lifted himself away from the pillows, leaning toward him. “Je t’aime, mon père,“ he said in a muffled voice. Max put his arms around him carefully, ruffling Justin’s hair, murmuring softly to him. Lysette noticed Philippe taking a halting step forward, then stopping as he realized the moment belonged to Justin and his father. How unselfish Philippe was, she thought, and reached out to take his hand, her fingers curling around his palm. The boy looked down at her, his frown disappearing as she stretched up to kiss his cheek.

———

Having accomplished all that he intended in New Orleans, Aaron Burr headed back to St. Louis to plot with General Wilkinson. His journey began overland toward Natchez, on horses furnished by Daniel Clark, the most influential and well-established merchant in the territory. Burr’s trip westward had been tremendously successful. By his reckoning, it would not be difficult at all to lead the populace against the Spaniards in order to secure west Florida and Mexico.

Burr was certain he had blinded the Spanish officials, especially Yrujo, as to his true intentions, and had successfully reassured them he had no designs on their lands. In less than a year, Burr reasoned, he would be able to launch an expedition and bring all his ambitions to fruition. And those who had tried to impede his plan— Maximilien Vallerand, for example— would beg to be in favor.

———

The messenger departed from the residence of Don Carlos, the Marquis de Casa Yrujo, early in the morning. As he headed southward out of the city at a circumspect pace, he was forced to rein in his horse suddenly. Two men on horseback, armed with pistols, were blocking his way. Turning pale with fright, the messenger began to splutter in Spanish. Certain they meant to rob him, he protested that he had no money, nothing to offer them. One of them, a large, dark-haired man, gestured for him to dismount.

“Give me the letters you’re carrying,” the dark-haired man said, his Spanish rough but serviceable.

“N-no puedo,” the messenger stammered, shaking his head emphatically. “They are private, highly confidential… I— I have staked my life on delivering them without—”

“Your life,” came the gentle reply, “is precisely what is at stake. Hand over the letters if you wish to preserve it.”

Fumbling in the inside of his coat, the messenger withdrew a half dozen letters, all bearing the official seal used by Yrujo. He wiped his sweating brow with his sleeve as the man leafed through them. One of them seemed to catch the man’s interest, and he kept it while handing the others back.

Max looked at Jacques Clement with an ironic half smile. “It’s addressed to a Spanish boundary commissioner who has lingered in New Orleans for unexplained reasons.”

“Perhaps he likes it here,” Clement remarked diffidently.

Max opened the letter, ignoring the faint cry of protest from the messenger. He scanned the contents, his smile fading quickly, then looked at Clement. The golden eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “I love the way the Spanish officials have of wishing a friend a fond farewell, and then— ever so politely— knifing him in the back.”

Not understanding their conversation, the messenger watched them anxiously, then dared to interrupt. “Señor, I cannot deliver the letter with a broken seal! What am I to do? What—”

“You’re not going to deliver the letter,” Max replied, “because I am going to keep it.”

A stream of volatile Spanish greeted this statement. It was too fast for Max to follow, but the man’s unhappiness was clear.

“He’ll probably be imprisoned when they find out,” Jacques commented. “They won’t pardon him for letting the letter be stolen.”