A still place formed in the center of all her hot, whirling wanting. “Left?” Surely he was funning her. “Me? I cannot leave.”
His grip on her bottom slackened. “This is not a good place for you. The man you are engaged to marry is not a good man.”
“No…” What was she saying? “The duke is my fiancé.”
“Yes. And I’m asking you to leave him and come to me.”
Cold reason doused every vestige of warmth within Pippa. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing very firmly on his chest. “What can have happened to me? What can I be thinking? Please, I beg you, step away from me.”
Moonlight showed her the play of emotions on his handsome face. “You were thinking that you feel something for me, Pippa. That is what you like to be called by your friends, isn’t it? Pippa?”
“Yes,” she murmured, beginning to shiver. “Please. Leave at once by the side gate and do not make any sound. The duke must not know you have been here.”
“Why?” He laughed aloud as if to thwart her warning. “Because he may hurt me? I am not afraid of your dashing duke.”
“He is not dashing,” Pippa said in a small voice. “He is not nice at all. But he is the man my father has told me to marry. The choice is not mine. We both know as much. What I have done here tonight, with you, has been wrong. The fault is mine and I beg your forgiveness.”
“My forgiveness?” he snorted. “That’s rich. You are an innocent. You know nothing but the natural yearnings of your own passionate body and soul. There is no fault. If there were, it would be mine. Leave him.”
“He would hunt you down and kill you.”
“I want you to be my wife.”
She gasped, and the beating of her heart was so furious she was certain he must hear it. “You are rash, Calum. And you are a danger to yourself, which is all that truly concerns me. Leave me, I beg of you. And never try to see me again. Leave London this very hour and return to Scotland.”
He grew quite still. “Return to Scotland? You mean, turn and run from your proud betrothed because I should fear him?”
“I mean,” she said, each breath searing her throat, “that I cannot have what I want, but I can implore you to make sure the duel does not take place in the morning.”
“You deny my proposal?”
“I am already promised to another.” Her speeding heart would surely break.
“You will not reconsider and come with me?”
Never could she have imagined a man such as this caring for her, caring for her so much. “I will not consider coming with you,” she told him. She would not consider placing him in the mortal danger such folly would surely draw in its wake.
“I see,” he said quietly. “Will you tell me one thing? In complete honesty.”
Pippa nodded.
“Have my attentions caused you pain?”
She bowed her head. They had caused her joy that was agony—and pain that was an unbearable pleasure. “No,” she told him. “No pain.”
“And you will not regret sending me away without you?”
“I—” She must say what was necessary, then deal with what must be done once she had dispatched him. “I am much enamored of you, Calum, but I am a sensible female. I shall not dwell on what might have been.”
“I see.”
She knew he did not see at all. “Will you do as I ask and leave England?” she asked.
“No.”
Her fists clenched against her middle. “Please.”
“Never. My honor is greater than that man’s. I shall never run from him unless it is with you at my side.”
And if she were at his side, the duke would surely track them until he could destroy Calum and “forgive” Pippa, who would have been “lured away against her wishes.” The words might be different, but she knew that whatever words he used, the duke would find a way to keep what he considered his. After that and with Calum dead, Franchot would magnanimously marry her, and her life would be every bit as empty as it would be in a few moments when Calum walked away from her.
“Pippa?” he said.
She pulled the hood over her hair once more and wrapped the cloak tightly. “Go,” she told him, shaking with the effort of holding back tears. “My destiny was made before my birth. Obedience to my father demands that I fulfill that destiny.”
“Is that your final word?”
Pippa raised her chin. “It is.”
“As you will, then,” Calum said. “I’ll take my leave of you, my lady. And I’ll look forward to meeting your future husband with the dawn.”
Through a film of tears she watched him leave. At the sound of the door to the alley closing, she started after him. “Calum,” she whispered urgently.
The voice that answered her came not from the alley but from the potting shed. “Pippa, Pippa, come quickly.” Looking around, Justine hurried toward her. “He’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“Praise be. We must hurry.”
Pippa took the hand Justine offered and allowed herself to be led back inside. “Has something happened?”
“I think it’s about to. Nelly said she heard Etienne calling for you. She said he sounds…Oh, Pippa, he announced that he was going to visit his bride.”
Pippa smiled in the gloom. She had never considered herself particularly brave before, but tonight she had courage to rival a lion’s. If the duke tangled with her tonight, he would regret his actions.
In fact, whether or not he tangled with her was of no moment at all. By the time she finished with the Duke of Franchot, he would regret not only his actions, he would regret the moment his future had been linked with hers and every subsequent act of his that had caused her to hate him!
Charmed Seven
“Seconds?” Arran Rossmara, Marquess of Stonehaven, thudded back and forth across the study in his Hanover Square house. “Bloody hell! I knew something was wrong. I knew the two of you couldn’t be trusted not to do something bloody crackbrained without my guidance.”
Still reeling from the shock of arriving back from Pall Mall to be confronted by Arran, Calum bristled at his old friend’s tone. “Some things are beyond your control,” he retorted. “Evidently Struan has mistakenly told you too much about my affairs here.”
Arran’s mouth became white-rimmed with rage. “Wrongheaded buffoons,” he growled. “Where were you when I arrived? Answer me that. What fool’s errand are you returned from now?”
“That is my business,” Calum said, shooting Struan a stare that warned him to say nothing about the “rash” visit to Franchot House.
“I demand a full explanation,” Arran said, his nostrils flaring.
“Steady on, old chap,” Struan said mildly enough, although his lips were thinned against his teeth. “We aren’t children and you aren’t our parent.”
“And this is no affair of yours, Arran,” Calum put in, feeling anything but mild. “I asked Struan to act as my second tomorrow, not you. I had no idea you intended to descend upon London in the middle of the night. You are not supposed—”
“Don’t presume to tell me what I’m supposed to do,” Arran bellowed. His dark hair, as ever constrained in the unfashionable but roguishly dashing tail at his nape, had a wild, windswept appearance. “If you’d told me the truth of what you were about, I’d have stopped you from leaving Kirkcaldy.”
“You could not have stopped me,” Calum said.
Arran breathed loudly. “And you, Struan. You should have informed me directly you knew what was afoot here. Of course, I blame myself. Grace was right. I should have listened to her earlier.”
Calum raised his brows at Struan and said to Arran, “And what did our fair little Grace say that was right in this instance?”
“She said that only something dire would keep the two of you from being present to dote upon your new niece. And she said her otherworldly instincts told her there were influences at work that could do you harm. She spoke of you in that regard, Calum.”
“Oho,” he said, walking to the desk with exaggerated steps. “Grace’s otherworldly powers are now the approved wisdom at Kirkcaldy? That blond elf of yours has you wound around her pretty fingers, Arran. Your love for her has poached your brain. Not that I don’t think a brain thus poached might not feel exceedingly well treated, but the condition could interfere with logic.”
“Have you finished?” Arran asked, advancing. “Poppycock. In case you didn’t hear that, I’ll repeat: poppycock. You know as well as I do that Grace has a gift for sensing things that most others do not sense. And you know that when she says there is something afoot, she is almost invariably right. And she was right this time. Thank God I listened to her at last. And thank God I chose to finish my journey here tonight rather than bedding down at an inn until morning.”
Struan turned away and waggled his head. It took little imagination for Calum to visualize him soundlessly parroting Arran’s words.
“I think you are annoyed with us for being absent during little Elizabeth’s first weeks of life and that you are come to demand that we leap to heel and return to Scotland at once,” Calum suggested. “What else would induce you to leave your adored wife and baby—and your music?” Arran’s brilliant secret life as a musical composer had been his driving passion—until the intrusion of Grace Wren into his strange, and insular, nocturnal existence.
Arran scowled. “Do not change the subject. You’ve got yourself into a pretty pickle and it’s just not on. Do you understand me?”
Calum had to smile at this man who, even more than Struan, had always been of greater importance to him than his own life. “Still looking after me,” he said. “I’m touched.”
“You are a bufflehead,” Arran said. “There is to be no duel, and that is all that will be said on the subject. Pack whatever you must take. We leave at once. We can be out of London within the hour.”
“No.”
“You, too, Struan. You should not have aided Calum in this foolishness.”
“No,” Calum repeated. “I am not leaving. And I will be in Hyde Park at dawn. I hope Struan will be with me, and it would please me greatly if you would come also, Arran.”
“We can’t let you do it,” Struan said, turning to face Calum. “I don’t like to refuse you anything, but I’m with Arran in this. He’s right. You must leave at once.”
Calum opened his mouth, but couldn’t decide what to say.
“It isn’t only Franchot,” Struan said to Arran. “It’s the man’s fiancée, Lady Philipa Chauncey. Lord Chauncey, the explorer, is her father.”
“Yes.” Arran frowned. “What has she to do with Calum?”
“He met her last night at Esterhazy’s. That’s what this duel nonsense is about. He danced with her. Franchot saw and objected and tried to call Calum out. I managed to stop him.”
“But—” Arran raised one of his long, strong musician’s fingers and jabbed it in Calum’s direction. “Why did you just burst in here babbling about a duel if the whole thing was called off last night?”
“He went to Franchot’s house this morning,” Struan said.
“Why?”
“To see the girl.”
Calum said, “Shut up, Struan. I can answer any questions Arran has for myself.” Another moment and Struan would be babbling about Calum’s latest visit to Pippa. He could scarcely bear to think of it himself. Part of him mourned her denial of him. Another, very strong and quite foreign part of him was beginning to resolve on the side of using Pippa’s obvious attraction to him for his own ends.
“He hasn’t stopped thinking about her since last night,” Struan said, undaunted by the hard stare Calum gave him. “Have you?”
“I…no, dammit. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“You promised me that once you’d had a look at Franchot, you would be satisfied.” Struan was deadly serious now. “You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?”
Calum remembered Miranda’s parting words. “Yes, I’ve changed my mind.”
“Struan has been talking to me about this madness you’ve involved yourself in,” Arran said. “Even if there’s a shred of truth in what you’ve decided to believe, there is no way to prove it. Set it aside, Calum. Come back to the good life you have and forget all this.”
Calum let his head fall back and sighed aloud. “I cannot.”
“It’s the girl, isn’t it?” Struan asked.
He hardly knew what he thought anymore, except that he couldn’t walk away from the life that was truly his. And he knew he was truly the Duke of Franchot.
In a familiar gesture, Arran tugged loose his neckcloth. He shrugged his austerely cut green jacket from immensely broad shoulders and tossed it onto a chair. “We have time,” he said, dropping into an upholstered gilt chair that seemed too small for him. “Whatever help you need sorting this out, you shall have, Calum. I was wrong to try to hurry you through it.”
“Thank you.” Calum didn’t feel grateful. He felt a need to sleep before the trials of dawn, and he felt anxious. More than anything else, he wanted to remove Lady Philipa—and Lady Justine—from Franchot’s clutches.
“I have a sister,” he said simply. “Can you imagine how odd it feels to be confronted with a woman who is your sister when you have lived as a man without a history, let alone a sister? Her name is Justine. She is slender, with a clever face. She limps because of some childhood injury. Wait till you see her. You will know her at once. I expected one of those people to exclaim at the likeness between us. I know she felt some affinity for me.”
Arran pushed himself to his feet. “This is worse than I thought. You are deluded.” Shaking his handsome head, he went to pour cognac into three glittering crystal glasses. “What possible grounds can you have for assuming this woman is your relation?”
“The only grounds I need,” Calum said. “She is there in Franchot House and she was introduced to me as the Duke of Franchot’s sister. I am the Duke of Franchot.”
“You think you are,” Struan said.
“I know I am. You heard what those people said last night. What Miranda said. Did you tell Arran?”
“Yes. He isn’t any more convinced than I am.”
“You will both be convinced when she brings me some proof.”
Arran pushed a glass of brandy into Calum’s hands. “What do you think you will gain by dueling with Franchot?”
“I will kill him. That will end a great problem.”
“Good God!” Arran drank deeply of his own cognac. “You are not yourself. Kill him? You are a gentle man who abhors violence.”
“It was not I who called him out…not at first. I simply accepted.”
“And you think that by removing the man, you can make your claims more readily believed?”
Calum laughed harshly. “Unfortunately, no. If I kill him, I’ll likely be accused of doing so to make certain he cannot defend his right to the title.”
“Franchot has killed three men in duels,” Struan observed. “Please, Calum, go with Arran to Kirkcaldy. Now. Forget all this. And think, man. What could that witch woman possibly produce that would prove your right to the Franchot title and all that goes with it? Infant toenails, perhaps? A lock or two of infant hair?”
Calum set his jaw stubbornly. “I know she has proof of my identity. And I feel in my heart that she will decide to find it for me.”
“Reason with him,” Struan urged Arran. “Make him go with you.”
“We will all go,” Arran said.
Struan regarded the cognac in his glass. “I cannot. Not immediately. I will follow as soon as I can.”
Calum strolled to stand between Arran and his brother and looked directly into Struan’s face. “Did you place a card on the lady tailor’s crystal tray?”
A faint swath of color appeared on each of Struan’s cheeks. “This is neither the time nor the place to speak of that.”
“What lady tailor?” Arran asked. “What tray? What is all this?”
“It is a
joke,” Struan said rapidly. “Calum refers to a certain game of chance at an establishment we visited. It is of no importance.”
Calum saw his opportunity and pressed it to the hilt. “We’ll set that aside for a moment. Think again, Struan. Do you not believe, at least a little, that I am the Duke of Franchot?”
“I—” Struan glared. He rested an elbow on the fireplace mantel and let his glass dangle. “Well, I suppose there is some possibility…” He allowed the sentence to trail off.
“Did you tell Arran about my travels? How I learned that the people who were presumed to have left me at Kirkcaldy were not, as we once thought, tinkers? Did you explain that Grace’s maid told me how her father had spoken of talk in the village, about a group of performers in the area who had been seen earlier in the market at Edinburgh?”
Taking his time, Arran refilled his glass and strolled to sit behind the desk. He pulled a sheet of paper toward him and checked the standish for ink.
Calum’s temper rose. “These performers followed the fairs and were on their way north when, for no reason any of the Kirkcaldy people knew at the time, they broke away from the others and set up a small camp near the village.”
“Grace’s maid told you all this?” Arran began to write.
“She did. And Robert Mercer—one of your tenants—told me that his father had spoken to him of the event. The players performed. A snake act. A dancing bear. A brother and sister who dealt in remedies, and a group of acrobats.” When Arran didn’t respond, Calum pounded his fist on the desk. “There was a small boy with them who was kept near the fire. He appeared to be ailing. Robert Mercer’s father said the boy was with the snake man’s assistant.”
“Interesting,” Arran said. He had stopped writing.
“Mrs. Moggach—our esteemed Kirkcaldy housekeeper who has never regarded me as other than an ‘upstarty laddie’—took pleasure in confirming that everyone knew I was a snake man’s brat.”
Arran fiddled with the pen and soon a string of notes flew across the page where, moments before, he’d commenced to write what appeared to be a letter.
“Damn you, Arran!” This had always been the way. When confronted with the world, Arran retreated into music. “I have traced those people back through thirty-five years to find myself. Now that I have done so, I shall never rest until I prove it to the world.”
Fascination -and- Charmed Page 44
