Nobody mentioned Lady Justine’s limp.
“Look here,” the duke sputtered. “Kindly remove yourself from my sister’s presence. At once. Dashed impertinence, asking personal questions of a lady. Embarrassin’ questions, too. Come with me and we’ll finish arrangin’ our business.”
“It happened at Franchot,” Lady Justine said, as if her brother hadn’t spoken. “Franchot Castle. It’s in Cornwall. On the coast. We used to go with our nurse to the beach.”
“No need to drag all that up now,” the duke said loudly.
Pippa studied him and felt sick. His face was red, his eyes puffy. She had seen gentlemen of her father’s acquaintance appear thus. Papa had always been most disparaging after their departure, speaking about the evils of strong drink and what he termed “careless living.” Pippa wasn’t sure what “careless living” was, but she suspected the Duke of Franchot indulged in it to a considerable degree.
Using Mr. Innes’s hands to steady her, Lady Justine got to her feet. “My leg became trapped between rocks. The tide was coming in. The more I struggled, the more trapped I became.”
“All over with now,” the duke said.
“Yes,” Lady Justine agreed. “All over with now. My leg was broken in that complicated way young children’s limbs break, and it did not heal well.” She gave Mr. Innes’s hands a firm shake and removed her own. “But I did not drown, so all is well, you see.”
Mr. Innes was very quiet. He continued to study Lady Justine intently, and Pippa had the strangest feeling that he liked her, too.
“Very well,” the duke said. “Since you ladies seem determined to turn a serious event into some sort of polite circus, I shall simply have to finish business here. Name your seconds, sir.”
“I believe I feel much better,” Pippa said. Rapidly and not particularly gracefully, she scrambled to her feet and addressed the duke. “Your Grace, there has been a misunderstanding. Mr. Innes came here because he was concerned about the events of last evening. Isn’t that so, Mr. Innes?”
Calum’s gaze shifted to her. “That’s so.”
Pippa stood beside him and rested a hand on his arm. She knew her mistake when the mere warmth of him made her feel a little numb all over. “Um, Mr. Innes is a most reasonable man.” Her eyes met his and she swayed toward him a little. He covered her hand on his arm.
“Look here!” the duke said. “I don’t know what kind of man you think you’re dealing with, but I’ll have no more of it. You are trifling with the affections of the woman who is to become my duchess, and I demand satisfaction.”
“And you’ll have it,” Pippa said, silently beseeching Mr. Innes to cooperate. “Won’t he, Mr. Innes? You’ll explain how you came to—”
“To apologize,” Lady Justine announced, also on her feet. “Mr. Innes came to apologize for any offense he may unwittingly have committed, Etienne. Isn’t that a sensible gesture?”
“Very sensible,” Pippa agreed. She could not help staring at Mr. Innes’s mouth—and remembering how it had felt and tasted upon hers. “Lady Justine has the entire episode exactly right. Mr. Innes came to ask you to forgive and forget, Your Grace.”
“Above his station,” the duke muttered. “But under the circumstances, I can be a generous man. Just be certain I never set eyes upon you again, Innes.”
Mr. Calum Innes gently disengaged himself from Pippa and moved across soft, rosy silk carpet to stand before the duke. “I intend,” he said, “to be certain that you lay nothing but your eyes upon me, sir. Ever. I believe dawn is the preferred hour. Tomorrow. In the absence of another, Viscount Hunsingore will stand as my only friend. Since the choice is mine, we shall use pistols.”
Charmed Four
“I knew I should never have agreed,” Struan said morosely. He sat huddled in a corner of the shabby hackney carriage Calum had secured to drive them in anonymity to Whitechapel.
Preoccupied with the events that lay ahead this night and at dawn, Calum barely heard Struan’s lament—one of a stream of laments kept up since Calum’s return from Pall Mall in the early afternoon.
They were on their way to see a brother and sister he had tracked during his search for his true identity. These two followed the fair circuit around the country, selling preparations “guaranteed” to accomplish all sorts of marvelous results, from curing the ague to rendering an ugly nose a thing of beauty. Milo and Miranda—they denied any other names—could very well hold the key to what Calum sought. That they would readily give him that key was gravely in doubt.
“When will I learn to follow my own very good judgment?” Struan persisted. “After all, I’m a man to whom others have been known to turn for advice. And I’ve given it and been congratulated for my level head. A reasonable man. A reliable man. A—”
“A man who is about to be throttled if he doesn’t keep his sermons to himself,” Calum interrupted. “A man who seems to have forgotten that only last year he returned to Castle Kirkcaldy pretending he was still a priest.”
“But that was—”
“That was what many would have called sacrilege. You came home and allowed Arran to believe the entire responsibility for producing an heir and maintaining the estates in the family continued to rest upon his shoulders. You tricked him into marriage.”
“I?” All trace of apathy left Struan and he pushed forward to sit on the edge of the seat. “I tricked him? By God, that’s rum. You came to London and secured a bride for Arran. You tricked him into believing she fully understood what an impossible recluse he is. And you’d already tricked her into believing she was marrying an old man who would want nothing from her other than a cool hand on his brow and a few soothing words to ease him through the remaining days of his life.” Struan paused for breath before continuing. “And you told poor Grace that Arran’s remaining days would be short.”
“Finished?” Calum asked pleasantly.
“Yes.”
“I tricked no one,” Calum said. “I merely worked a little magic—more by what I didn’t say than by what I did say—and I brought two wonderful people together. Do you deny that Grace Wren was the perfect choice as Arran’s wife?”
Struan mumbled something, then said, “No, I don’t.”
“Do you deny that Arran and only Arran could have made the perfect husband for Grace?”
“Enough of this,” Struan snapped. “Let’s get back to the business at hand.”
“Is Arran a good husband to Grace and an admirable father to their daughter?”
“He’s been a father only for a few weeks. But yes. Yes, Arran and Grace bring me as much pleasure as they bring you. Not that I see what this has to do with the fiasco you have brought upon us. A duel, in God’s name. A duel!”
Calum grimly resolved to avoid that topic at present and said, “You made an accusation.”
“I? It was you who called my behavior sacrilegious.”
“And so it was, but enough of that.” Calum peered through soot-coated windows at the jumble of mean buildings they passed. The night streets were as busy here in the city’s East End as they’d been up west, but there was little similarity between the nobs coming and going around Hanover Square and the present ragtag company.
“I do not regret visiting Pall Mall this morning,” Calum said, thinking aloud. “I would do it again.”
“If only you’d said something. I would have found a way to stop you.”
Calum did not bother to argue that no one could have stopped him. “Lady Philipa is beautiful.”
Struan beat a tattoo on his thigh with his fingers. “I think there is some wisdom that suggests that beauty is a subjective issue. You should never have gone there.”
Duel aside, his encounter of the morning had left Calum more shaken than he could have imagined possible. “She cares nothing for that man,” he remarked.
A disgusted grunt was Struan’s only response.
“I believe she hates him.”
Another grunt.
“He needs
her. Without the security her dowry brings to his affairs, his fortune would eventually begin to dwindle.”
“This is nothing to me or to you.”
“It may become a great deal to me,” Calum said curtly. “Clearly the lady does not hate me.”
Struan’s face came up. “What are you implying?”
What was he implying? That he could and would take Franchot’s place with Lady Philipa? “I was merely voicing my thoughts,” he said finally. Franchot needed Lady Philipa; he did not want her, of that Calum was certain. The possibility of taking what the man needed held great appeal.
“I must find a way to turn you from this folly,” Struan said.
Calum barely heard his friend’s words. Could he bring himself to use Lady Philipa Chauncey? For the pleasure of having an advantage over Franchot? A huge advantage?
“With your death arranged for the dawn, we now go in search of your so-called witnesses,” Struan said. “I cannot believe I allowed you to trick me into this little escapade.”
“I did not trick you. I told you I was leaving. You did not want me to go alone. I said you might come also, and here you are—to my discomfort.”
Struan scowled. “How much farther do we have to go?”
“We’ll be there soon enough. I hope I’ve calculated the dates correctly.”
“I hope you haven’t,” Struan muttered. “It isn’t too late to turn back.”
Calum thought for a while, then said, “It was too late when it first began. And that was before you were even born.”
“If only you would abandon all this, Calum. The pieces seem to fit, but you cannot be sure of these stories you have been told.”
“So you say,” Calum replied. “Yet I am sure. And after you hear them for yourself, you will not be so quick to put them aside.”
“We shall see,” Struan said. “Are you finally prepared to tell me what passed between you and the Hoarville woman last night?”
“Whitechapel High Street lies ahead.” Calum didn’t want to think about the proposition Lady Hoarville had made.
“Dash it, Calum, you are a sly dog. First you spend years secretly gathering all this information on your so-called beginnings—”
“They were my beginnings.”
“Perhaps. Then you run off to God knows where, following fairs and traveling players. Hell and damnation, man, how can you expect us to take the word of some witch-doctoring pair seriously?”
“They aren’t witch doctors. They make charms and…and spells,” he finished under his breath.
“Exactly. Witch doctors. Look here, old chap, you’re obviously very keen for any story you can believe. These mountebanks ply their trade by feeding the desperate needs of others.”
Making fists on his thighs, Calum turned his attention entirely upon Struan. “Damn you,” he said furiously. “I owe my life to the Stonehavens, but I don’t owe you the right to call me a fool.”
“I didn’t call—”
“That is exactly what you have called me.”
Struan bridled. “You are entirely too defensive. And it is that defensiveness which convinces me I am right. You have been duped by these charlatans, and unless someone intercedes, the road you are choosing to follow will lead to dire consequences.” He took off his hat and tossed it down beside him. “Deadly consequences, even. If you insist upon going through with this dueling madness in the morning, you may be fortunate enough to escape with nothing more than a wound. But if you then insist upon confronting Franchot with some outrageous announcement about the circumstances of his birth, the man will call you out again.”
“Let him.”
“In God’s name! Think, man. Franchot’s reputation is legendary. He’s said to have killed three men and wounded too many others to count. If you force his hand a second time, you may depend he’ll add you to his list of deceased enemies. And this supposes you would not merely be gathered up—wound and all—and tossed into a madhouse with nothing but screeching lunatics as companions.”
Calum swallowed with difficulty. “I am perfectly sane.”
“You know you are. I know you are. But a man who has lived his life as a duke, accepted by all as a duke, would doubtless get an audience for his view that you were not in possession of your senses if you demanded to take his place.
“These people we supposedly go to see, how much did you pay them for their little story?”
“I…” Damn Struan. He had the ability to make even Calum doubt what he knew to be true. “I gave them a small token of my thanks for their help. Nothing more.”
“I knew it,” Struan exclaimed. “And I’ll wager they are rubbing their hands this night while they wait for the next installment from their latest fat pigeon.”
“They do not know I’m coming,” Calum blurted out.
The carriage wheels bounced into a deep rut, throwing Struan forward. Calum caught his arm and shoved him upright.
“You told me,” Struan said, altogether too calmly, “that this Milo and Miranda had rooms on the Whitechapel High Street and that they would be there this evening.”
“Yes. I didn’t say they knew I was coming to see them.”
“How do you know they will be there at all?”
Calum filled his lungs while he thought about his next announcement. “They live in a certain lady’s house. I visited there several days ago and ascertained that she expected them to return today. Evidently they use their London rooms to prepare the—er—preparations they sell at fairs and markets.”
“You do not think it might have been more appropriate to send word and arrange a meeting?”
“No.”
“So adamant?”
“They might not have agreed to see me.”
Struan made an exasperated noise. “You speak in riddles. First I understood that you were all but expected, then that you were simply playing a game of chance as to whether these creatures will be available. Now you lead me to believe that they may have some reason to refuse to see you at all.”
“You did not have to come with me,” Calum said, feeling truculent.
“I most certainly did. Someone must attempt to save you from your own folly, and in consideration of that noble aim, I propose we have the driver turn about and return us to Hanover Square. And then we will arrange to leave London before morning.”
As Struan finished speaking, the hackney rumbled to a swaying stop and the driver yelled, “ ’Ere you are, guys.”
Before Struan could argue further, Calum jumped down from the carriage and paid the fare. “Await our return,” he told the coachman. “You’ll be well compensated for your trouble.”
“Damn foolishness,” Struan said, joining Calum in the rubbish-strewn gutter. “What the hell is this place?”
The place was a narrow, five-story building squished between similar neighbors. Similar in size and proportion, but in no other manner.
The ground floor of Mrs. Lushbottam’s establishment sported two lighted bay windows separated by a gilded front door at which twin bronzed cats stood sentry duty. A sign prominently displayed in one window promised: THE PERFECT SIZE AND SHAPE FOR EVERY GENTLEMAN. OUR LADY TAILORS FIT TO YOUR DEMANDS. WE WELCOME THE MOST SINGULAR DESIGNS. NO REQUEST DENIED.
“Good Lord,” Struan murmured. “A brothel.”
In each of the rosily illuminated windows sat two women, apparently talking over their sewing.
“Innovative, wouldn’t you say?” Calum said, deliberately offhand. “And quite the establishment among a certain set—has been for many years, so I’m told. I understand the resident ladies enjoy challenge. Apparently they cater particularly effectively to the exceptionally large gentleman. So Mrs. Lushbottam told me, anyway.”
Struan twirled his hat on his cane and cocked an eyebrow. “In that case, it’s doubtful we’ll encounter great competition to ascertain our measurements.”
Calum grinned and tipped the brim of his own hat lower over his eyes. “No competition at all, old friend. So
me things are obvious. But I shall as ever be humble when I place myself in the hands of the grateful winner.”
He ducked beneath Struan’s playful swing and dashed to rap at the gilded door. “Observe,” he said. “Even now they clamor about who will best accommodate the astonishing demands my proportions present, to say nothing of the quality of the material a Corinthian like me commands.”
“We shall continue this…” His lips still parted, Struan paused to stare directly into the great brown eyes of an olive-skinned beauty who had risen from her chair to stand next to the window. “Good God,” he murmured. “What an exotic creature.”
Calum rapped again.
“Look at her, Calum.”
He did look, just as the dark-haired female spread a slender, long-fingered hand on the glass. With her other hand she gathered a black velvet cloak tightly together at her neck, all the while staring intently at Struan. Calum swallowed and said, “We are here to attend to business.”
“Indeed,” Struan said, sounding breathless. “How fortunate that part of that business is to enjoy the simple pleasure of looking at scenes along the way.”
“Look,” Calum said, doing so himself. “But do not think of doing anything more. This is no place to tarry for reasons other than that which brought us here.”
Struan wasn’t listening. “Calum, I want to meet her.”
“Meet her?” Calum said, disbelieving. “A man doesn’t meet women like her. She’s a—”
“Don’t say it. Her face is like none I have ever seen. She is a work of art.”
At last the door opened, and Calum all but prayed his thanks aloud. Hooking his arm unceremoniously through Struan’s, he hauled him to confront the overwhelming Mrs. Lushbottam.
“Good evening, madam,” Calum said, bowing and exerting pressure on Struan’s arm to ensure he did likewise. “You will perhaps remember that I called two weeks ago?”
When the woman didn’t answer, he slowly looked up, all the way up to her thin, darkly roughed cheeks, heavily painted brows and mottled nose, a nose that cleared the top of his own head by an inch or more. Mrs. Lushbottam was at least six and a half feet tall. Her shoulders were narrow, her chest concave and her hips nonexistent. She wore a severely cut black silk gown inlaid with gussets of heavy lace. The same lace was employed as a mantilla attached to the black bone comb skewered into dull black hair atop her head.
Fascination -and- Charmed Page 41
