Fascination -and- Charmed (57 page)

“Listen well, Arran. And Struan knows this as surely as I do. I found Milo and Miranda, the brother and sister who sold remedies, the pair who were remembered by Robert Mercer’s father—and by the father of Grace’s maid. And Miranda spoke of an infant brought to camp at a fair held near Franchot Castle thirty-five years ago. Brought by the snake man’s assistant—who had not been increasing. This occurred a matter of days after a son was born to the Duchess of Franchot. Miranda said the mysterious infant was noble.”

“Noble?” Arran swept wide an arm. “And how would one know a noble infant from any other?”

“Do not scoff.” Very deliberately, Calum tore the paper in half and let the pieces drift to the carpet. “I am not the snake man’s child. I am the Duke of Franchot. If I had ever doubted it, the sight of my sister’s face has quelled such a doubt.”

Arran jerked forward suddenly and planted his forearms on the desk. “If I were to consider that you are who you think you are—if mind you—then who in God’s name is the man who took your place?”

“When we know that, we shall know everything,” Calum said. “We must pray that these traveling players do not alert whoever committed the crime against me.”

Struan had been silent for a long time. He muttered an oath and strode to stand beside his brother. “What have I been thinking of? Whoever did this must never know of your suspicions, Calum. They obviously have everything to lose if they are unmasked.”

The satisfaction Calum felt at this change of tune was poor comfort, but it was something. “Agreed,” he said. “This false Duke of Franchot did not begin the travesty. Someone else placed him in my stead, and that person stood to gain greatly by having me removed. If whoever the villain is finds out about me too soon, my life will be in grave danger. I shall not reveal myself until I have absolute proof of my identity and can announce it to the world.”

“Very wise,” Arran said. “And you will be certain to make every effort to look after the health of the current holder of the Franchot title? You understand that there are—if you are correct—many elements about which you know nothing. But you do know that his death would doubtless force a desperate hand.”

Calum understood very well. “I will meet the man tomorrow,” he said. “And somehow I will satisfy my honor
and
spare his life.”

“And our task,” Struan remarked, “is to keep watch for the man behind the duke. There
is
someone who will become an obvious culprit if we observe carefully.”

“How right you are,” Calum observed.

“And finally you realize that, regardless of your identity, I am afraid for your safety.” Arran smiled grimly. “We will manage the business of the duel. Then you will tread very carefully, my friend—and we will all watch your back.”

At dawn, they were a company of three.

Calum rode, flanked on his right by Arran and on his left by Struan. Their horses’ hoofs rang dull on streets where only those about the business of their betters ventured forth at so unkind an hour.

There had been no conversation since Arran, with Struan his echo, had made a final plea for Calum to change his mind and avoid this duel. Then they had left Hanover Square, riding out beneath a pall of smoky, mauve-tinged fog.

They approached the Park by the way that led past Gloucester House, and Calum noted its bulk only as a great, pale marker that stared over what might become the last landscape his eyes ever gazed upon.

Arran took the lead now, for all the world as if he were in a hurry to be done with the business at hand—regardless of the outcome.

Wordlessly, Struan and Calum fell in behind. The houses of Mayfair were swallowed by the livid fog, and the trio moved onto earth packed hard by the prancing mounts of the privileged. A dozen hours would pass before the next daily parade of impeccably garbed riders.

By then, Calum thought, he might be in his last, long, cold sleep.

“For God’s sake!” Arran wheeled around and cantered back to head them off. “Once more I beg of you, Calum, give up this foolishness.”

Struan caught at the bridle of Calum’s horse. “Listen to him,” he implored. “There is no shame in refusing to satisfy an idle fool with a murderer’s cowardly heart.”

“And why pistols?” Arran asked.

“It would appear that even I know more of the times than either of you.” Calum laughed without mirth. “Franchot is rumored to be the only man alive who still chooses the sword. That, and the fact that he has made each of his kills with the sword, may have swayed me toward pistols.”

“You never even cared for the shoot,” Struan argued. “I cannot remember you ever with a weapon in your hands.”

“It’s true I have no stomach for blood sports,” Calum admitted. “But you insist I am a Rossmara in all but name, so is it any wonder I prefer to bow a fiddle than shoot an arrow—or a musket? You are both men of music and peace, and so have all your family been. Come. Dawn is upon us.”

He urged his mount around Arran’s and set off. The sounds of hoofbeats were muffled on the damp air and he blinked against moisture that wet his face.

Arran was the first to catch up. “No lord of Stonehaven has ever failed to bear arms when needed,” he said, more forcefully than should have been necessary. “There has never been a suggestion that we are cowards.”

“I rest my case,” Calum declared, lengthening his horse’s stride. “No member of the family—or in my case, no man under the close protection of the family—has failed to bear arms when needed.
I
am not a coward, and therefore, this morning I must bear arms. Fear not; I have held a pistol more than once and I am a fair shot.”

“When—”

“The subject is closed,” Calum said, cutting Struan off. “And the appointed place lies not far ahead. Beyond the beeches.”

“Gad,” Arran muttered. “I don’t like this. Give me a Scottish hillside, the heather and the broad sky any day over this crowded little land inside its cloudy bowl.”

“I’m about to fight for the sport of sparing a man’s life and
he
waxes poetical,” Calum said of Arran, sighing loudly. “One would think my hide was of less interest than
his
comfort.”

“You’ll spare him if he doesn’t
kill
you,” Arran snapped. The heavy stand of trees gave way to a grassy clearing. Calum dismounted, tethered his horse and started steadfastly toward open ground. The fog completely cut off the sky, trapping the fuzzy scene beneath a sulfuric mantle.

His friends joined him, clapping together their gloved hands and turning to search for signs of Calum’s opponent. Minutes passed.

The slightest of breezes tore strips from the fog and threaded them through the trees.

“What hour is it?” Calum asked.

Struan searched beneath his cloak and produced a watch.

“It is time,” he said grimly, scanning the circle of trees. Arran set down a lumpy bag made of rough black fabric. “What’s that?” Calum indicated the bag.

“Nothing,” Arran and Struan said in unison.

Calum walked a slow circle around “nothing.” “Franchot’s seconds are to bring the pistols?”

“Correct.”

“And I shall be the first to choose?”

“Correct,” Struan said.

“So the bag does not contain pistols?”

Arran shook his head. “No.”

“Perhaps you thought to have a feast prepared,” Calum suggested. “No doubt there is a blanket somewhere about you that we shall use to sit upon when we eat our picnic.”

Struan frowned fiercely at nothing in particular.

“It’s just a precaution,” Arran said. “Just in case.”

Calum was almost certain he heard rustling coming from the bag. “There’s something alive in there!”

“Of course there isn’t,” Arran said, laughing. “He’s lost his mind, brother. Completely. Living things in bags. Hah! Insane.”

Struan was quick to agree. “Quite. We should probably subdue him and carry him back to Hanover Square.” He looked at the watch again. “The hour for the meeting has come and gone.”

“Indeed,” Arran agreed. “Definitely come and gone.”

Disquiet climbed icy steps up Calum’s spine. “Franchot’s honor is everything to him. Were it otherwise, we should not be here. He would never risk his reputation by not coming.”

“I suppose not.” Struan didn’t sound a happy man. “But the fact remains that he is not—”

“Someone’s coming,” Calum said, hearing his voice as if it belonged to another.

Arran and Struan swung around in opposite directions.

“Where?” Arran asked.

Calum indicated the trees to his right. “Moving over there. See? Going from trunk to trunk. Watching us.”

Struan swept off his hat and wiped the back of a sleeve over his face. “Probably a damnable footpad. Looking for some fool who can be easily parted from his goods.”

“I see him, too,” Arran said, narrowing his green eyes. “If he’s a footpad, then I’m an Englishman.”

Calum almost smiled. “In that case, we are not looking at a thief, my lords.”

As he spoke, the figure separated from the trees and sidled, head lowered, steps hesitant, toward them.

“What in God’s name is this?” Arran said. “A beggar?”

“His clothing is plain, but I’d not take him for a beggar,” Struan said. “The creature is a boy, not a man.”

“The creature is ignorant or a fool to be here, alone, and approaching three strangers.” Calum walked to greet the newcomer. “You. State your business.”

A hoarse, cracking voice announced, “A message from my master, sir.”

“And your master’s name?” Calum asked.

“The Duke of Franchot.”

Calum heard Arran’s soft oath.

“Give it to me.” Calum held out his hand. The boy had stopped some yards away. “Come along. You’ve no need to be afraid of any here.”

“I’m to tell it to you, sir,” the crackly voice said. “His Grace wishes you to know he’s thought better of this morning’s affair. It should best be forgotten.”

“Damn me,” Struan said.

“Bloody coward,” Arran remarked, as if disappointed. Calum advanced slowly upon the boy. “Did your master explain this
—change of heart?”

“It was probably because he wasn’t…No, sir. He didn’t explain.”

“I see.” Several more steps took Calum close enough to see a thin neck above a green woolen stock. The youth’s top hat was of best-quality beaver and his jacket was of fine, dark green wool. For one so small, the white doeskin breeches fit extremely snug.

“I’ll be off now, then,” the boy said.

Before Calum could respond, thunderous hoofbeats sounded and a tall man astride a dappled gray broke into the clearing.

“They’re coming after all,” Arran said sharply, and swept up his black bag. “The boy was a deliberate diversion. The bloody blackguard sought to throw us off guard.”

“Indeed,” Struan agreed.

Arran yanked open the bag and shook it. “We’ll show him diversions!” he shouted triumphantly.

Calum fell back before a cloud of flying black creatures that flapped their webbed wings and swarmed skyward in a clotted cloud.

“What in God’s name?” He threw his hands over his head. “
I
am insane?
Bats?
”

“Too soon,” Struan moaned to Arran.
“Not
until they face off. We agreed not to release them until then. Now the effort is wasted.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Calum said, although no one appeared to hear him. “Diversion upon diversion. All the world is filled with fools—except for me.”

Apart from checking his horse’s stride for an instant, the approaching rider hardly seemed to note the ascending host of winged rodents. When he drew close, he called, “Innes?” and pulled up in front of Arran. “Are you Innes, man?”

“I’m Innes,” Calum stated, noting that the boy seemed rooted in place. “Calum Innes.”

“Lord Avenall,” the man said, dismounting. Clearly out of breath and, if Calum wasn’t mistaken, ill, he clung to his mount’s reins as if he’d fall without them. Finally he managed to gasp out, “Thank God I’m not too late.”

“Who are you, sir?” Arran asked. “What is your business here?”

“I am Saber, Lord Avenall. Etienne…the Duke of Franchot, is my cousin and guardian. No matter about that. He…” The young man tried and failed to straighten his leanly built body. With one hand he pushed tangled black hair away from his eyes. “He cannot come. I beg you, sir, do not speak of this until His Grace is able to make his own explanations.”

“Able?”
Calum felt the boy shift, but had eyes only for this Lord Avenall. “What do you mean,
able?
”

With difficulty, Avenall hauled himself back into the saddle. “I must leave,” he said, leaning over his horse’s neck. “Only do as I’ve asked, I beg you. Before the day is out, you will hear more, I promise you.”

“He’s begged off.” Arran’s tone held pure disbelief. “Damn it all, the bloody coward’s begged off.”

“No!” Avenall declared, his handsome face twisted with obvious pain. “No, I tell you. That is not the way of it.”

“Here.” The boy’s sudden, squeaky utterance and his twisted lope toward the horseman surprised Calum into silence. A thin hand shot out to thrust an envelope at Avenall. “Take this to His Grace. I was on my way to do it myself.”

Rid of his missive, the boy thwacked the flank of Avenall’s horse. The beast wheeled away and started into a gallop, its rider clinging to the mane as if foxed. Calum stared after him and thought of the potentially increasing circle of his family by birth.

“I’ll be,” Struan murmured. “Saved by—”

“Not by
bats,
in God’s name,” Calum said.

Arran appeared aggrieved. “We were at pains to gather them from a nearby church tower. They’d have disrupted any duel—”

“If you hadn’t loosed them too soon,” Struan cut in. “No matter. Franchot begged off and all is well.”

“We shall see,” Calum said, pointedly indicating the “messenger,” who was, even as they spoke, hurrying away. “Time to return to Hanover Square, gentlemen. It appears this morning’s work is done here.” In a low voice he added, “I think I should ensure our young messenger’s safe return home, don’t you?”

Arran looked blank.

“Good Lord,” Struan said slowly. “Of course. I see it now. I think you should thank God for your good fortune, Calum. Make sure she…Watch her from a distance. Don’t meddle further.”