Fascination -and- Charmed (60 page)

“I should imagine they
are
unwell,” Pippa said matter-of-factly. “I should imagine they hardly know which end is up, so to speak.”

“If this don’t beat all,” Struan said in a low tone. He elbowed Calum, who sat beside him on one of the damnably uncomfortable benches in Christie’s auction rooms.

“Not
now,
” Calum said. London’s premier auction house had never paid particular mind to the comfort of its patrons. A small fire spitting to one side of the large room did little to soften Spartan surroundings. Calum moved forward on the bench. “The Reynolds should be up next. Arran’s been lusting for this piece. If we get it, he’ll have to hide it. Grace will say it’s a boring waste of money.”

A wave of muttering arose around them, and more than a few exclamations of awe went up.

“Calum—”

“There it is,” Calum said as one of Reynolds’s distinctively rococo-style portraits was hoisted onto a high easel for the edification of the well-heeled crowd. Light from the square, glassed-in dome overhead lent a golden glow to the subject’s painted face. Calum leaned forward for a better view. “I must say I’m glad Arran decided to return to Scotland—not that I don’t enjoy his company, of course.”

Struan’s strong fingers, digging into his arm, finally captured Calum’s attention. “Don’t look now,” Struan whispered, “but London’s most celebrated coward is, as we speak, approaching. And the
boy
in green is on his arm.”

“Don’t
mention that,” Calum said through barely parted lips.
“Ever.”

“Damn me,” Struan said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s actually hunting you down, old chap.”

“Can’t be.” Not turning to look at Pippa—and Franchot—tested Calum’s will beyond endurance. He had been unable to keep those intelligent, dark blue eyes, or the touch of full, tremblingly soft lips, from his mind for anything but brief periods in the four days that had passed since the “duel.”

“He
is
, I tell you. He’s coming this way. He must have gone to Hanover Square and been told you were here. Boy—sorry—lady-in-green is on his arm, with La Hoarville bringing up the rear in the company of one Henri St. Luc, if memory serves.”

“Face the auctioneer,” Calum commanded. “For my sake.”

Dutifully, Struan did as he was asked and said, “As you will,” in a tone that left no doubt as to his reluctance. “This is a good time to mention that I returned to Whitechapel last night.”

“You what?” Calum turned sharply sideways on the bench—and looked into the troubled, dark blue eyes of Lady Philipa Chauncey. Instantly he leaped to his feet. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he said, avoiding acknowledging Franchot.

The memory of their last meeting was instantly between them—and the knowledge that he had asked her to leave Franchot for him but that she had refused. She lowered her eyes and allowed him to take her hand. He bent to touch his lips to her fingers and felt her tremble. Surely Franchot must feel that quaking in the woman on his arm.

“You’re a difficult man to confront, Innes,” Franchot said. “I’ve been sending messages for days.”

This time Calum looked the man in the face.
“I
am a difficult man to confront, Your Grace?” He heard the offering for the Reynolds begin.

“It is absolutely imperative that we speak,” the duke said. His face was not quite as Calum remembered. He appeared haggard, with purple smudges beneath his eyes, and his clothes might almost have been intended for a slightly larger person. “It was not…I was too incapacitated to come myself before today. Please, Mr. Innes. This is a very delicate matter. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me fiancée and meself—and our companions—for a short promenade along the Mall?”

“Viscount Hunsingore and I are engaged in a piece of business for his brother, the Marquess of Stonehaven.” Even as he spoke, Calum heard the auctioneer finish his impassioned description of the portrait and open the floor for bids.

Lady Hoarville clung to a cadaverously thin and definitely demonic-looking man whose French blood showed through his skin. She dimpled at Calum and drew her companion forward. “Have you met Henri St. Luc, Mr. Innes?” To her companions she said, “Mr. Innes and I have made a prior acquaintance, haven’t we, Mr. Innes?”

“Good day to you, Lady Hoarville,” Calum said stiffly. “And to you, Monsieur St. Luc.”

“A pleasure,” St. Luc said in flawless English.

“Henri is a
connoisseur,”
Lady Hoarville warbled with apparent rich appreciation for her companion. “He has the most exquisite taste in everything. Furnishings, paintings, sculpture, garden arrangements—and dress. Henri’s taste in the matter of dress is incomparable.” Today the lady’s own taste was revealed in the cunningly situated circle, cut from the bodice of her garnet-colored pelisse, that allowed her white breasts to press into view.

“Really?” Calum spared the most fleeting glance for La Hoarville’s
connoisseur
and summarily dismissed him as a self-consciously affected man bent on proving his discriminating flair by wearing outlandish garb and a bored expression.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” St. Luc said with the merest downward flicker of heavy eyelids. A purple velvet cravat drooped in a manner that matched its owner’s apparent ennui, and the man’s deep green coat sagged at pockets from which large, lace-trimmed kerchiefs trailed.

Calum decided that Byron had yet another slavish imitator and returned his attention to Pippa—who stared back at him with anxious eyes that made him want to take her into his arms and kiss away her fears.

From behind Calum, the auctioneer shouted, “You
insult
us all, sir! The bidding opened at a thousand guineas.”

“I must ask your leave,” Calum said to Franchot. He cast another look at Pippa. She was more
striking
than merely pretty, more
memorable
than simply beautiful, and the insipid spring green of her muslin gown and silk spencer annoyed Calum. Her drama would be well served by brilliant hues and daring designs. With difficulty, he shifted his attention from Pippa to Franchot. “Arran—the marquess desperately wants this painting, Your Grace. So if you will excuse me…”

Franchot, visibly hunching, glanced toward the offering and made a sign.

“Now that’s more like it,” the auctioneer roared. “His Grace the Duke of Franchot bids five thousand guineas.”

Calum swung around and met Struan’s questioning gaze. A hush had fallen on the crowd.

The hush stretched on and on, broken only by the occasional tutting of florid Lady Ernestine Sebbel, who was famous for her magnificent disapproval of most things.

Struan, suddenly furiously intent upon the proceedings, made a discreet motion.

“Six
thousand guineas,” the auctioneer announced with relish. “Do I hear seven?”

“Seven!”
he roared a moment later as another bid came from somewhere on the floor. Then:
“Nine
from the gentleman in puce.”

“Gad,” Calum muttered. Arran would never forgive them if he didn’t get his wretched portrait. Calum raised his program a fraction.

“I have
ten.
” The auctioneer rocked on his podium as if about to be transported to a higher plane.

The bidding from other interested parties heated in earnest, and within minutes the plump, smiling face of an undoubtedly dead lady commanded a promise of twelve thousand guineas.

“This is unheard of,” Struan said to Calum. “I don’t even
like
the thing.”

“You are not the one who has to like it.”

“Grace will have Arran’s ears if we pay this kind of sum for something she will undoubtedly consider worthless.”

Calum smiled. “Grace is very singular in her tastes, but she would not do other than see Arran happy.”

“Nevertheless, she will not fail to mention how much good such a little fortune could accomplish for the tenants of Kirkcaldy,” Struan reminded him.

“The tenants of Kirkcaldy want for nothing,” Calum said truthfully.

“We are at
thirteen thousand guineas.
” The man on the podium seemed close to swooning from joy. “Thirteen, once. Thirteen, twice. Thirteen—”

“I have
twenty thousand guineas!”
Absolute silence descended in the big room. “The Duke of Franchot bids twenty thousand guineas. This is indeed a most singular day.”

After a few seconds of observing the faintly shocked faces of the assembly, the auctioneer pronounced, “Twenty thousand, once…twenty thousand, twice…”

Calum barely heard the man announce, “Sold!” before facing Franchot again, the full force of his own hatred so powerful he feared he might take the wretch by the throat here and now.

The duke signaled an auction boy to come close. “My man will deal with the details,” he told the runner. “Kindly arrange for the painting to be transported to the Marquess of Stonehaven. At…?” He raised a brow at Struan.

“Castle Kirkcaldy.” Struan responded like a man whose mouth was operated by strings. “Scotland.”

“Just so,” the duke said.

Calum glanced about him and slowly the uproar that had followed Franchot’s outrageous exhibition came to life for him. “What was that for?” he asked Franchot. “Why in God’s name would you do such a thing?”

“A gesture of friendship.” Franchot, whose face now shone slightly with perspiration, shrugged weakly. “It seemed appropriate. You had a mission you had to dispatch.
I
need to talk to you at once. I bought something to show my esteem for you and your close friends, and dispatched your mission at the same time. Now I assume you will accompany me, sir.”

“Oh, do come along, Mr. Innes,” Lady Hoarville cajoled. “Etienne has come to throw himself upon your mercy, haven’t you, darling Etienne?”

Darling Etienne
cast Lady Hoarville a stare that would have destroyed a less self-absorbed creature.

“I’d be much obliged, Innes,” Franchot said.

Struan moved forward suddenly. “My brother will not accept a gift from you, Franchot. Kindly arrange for the painting to be delivered to your own accommodations.”

Franchot waved carelessly. “That is a matter for a later moment.” He concentrated on Calum and said in low, urgent tones, “In God’s name, man, I’m pleading with you. They’re all watching us.
All
of Society’s agog. Walk out with me now and show some sign of comradeship, I beg you.”

A moment made in heaven—for a man bent on throwing another into hell—shimmered before Calum. Blessedly, reason was fast upon the heels of revenge’s lure. “As you will,” he said, smiling thinly and ushering the duke ahead of him toward the doors. “Keep me company, if you will, Struan. Never let it be said that
I
am a man without sufficient honor to be merciful.”

Struan gave the appearance of a man on the verge of apoplexy, but he did as Calum asked and walked beside him as they followed Pippa, the duke, Lady Hoarville and St. Luc out into a sunny afternoon on Pall Mall.

“We are perhaps among the last to enjoy the auction here, since they intend to move their location,” St. Luc said pleasantly enough, his native French audible only in his unusual choice of construction. “I have long admired the quality of what is presented at Christie’s.”

No sooner had they progressed a few yards than Franchot turned abruptly on Calum and thrust an envelope at him. “I cannot accept this,” he said, visibly pained. “For the sake of my good name, I implore you to assist me in a fabrication that will do you no harm, yet will
save
me.”

Calum stared at Pippa until she slowly raised her face. They both knew that the envelope he held had been the one she pressed upon Saber Avenall almost a week before. “Am I to open this?” he said to Franchot.

“Of course. But you already know what it contains.” The duke nodded graciously to passersby on their way to waiting carriages and as he did so, recited: “ ‘I,
Your Grace, am a gentleman. As such, I shall endeavor to forget that you failed to appear for our appointment this morning. Let us put this event behind us.’
It is signed C.I.”

Calum removed the paper from the envelope and read what a hand other than his own had written in his name. “This would seem generous enough, Your Grace,” he said. “Intended to ensure no repeat of the unpleasant event.” He felt Pippa watching him.

“I cannot be thought to have begged off,” Franchot said.

“But you did.”

Franchot’s shoulders heaved and it was Lady Hoarville who stepped forward to slip a steadying hand under his arm. St. Luc, wiping perspiration from his own brow, looked on with a fixed smile.

“I was not able to appear,” Franchot said. “I was…
ill
.”

“So you say,” Calum commented.

“It is so. There was…it would seem that we ate something tainted. And I ask you to help me in this difficulty by saying that I
did,
in fact, appear in Hyde Park at the appointed time.”

“Damn me,” Struan muttered. “Incredible.”

“Incredible indeed,” Calum said.

“It could do you no harm to say that your aim was faulty and my pistol discharged prematurely.”

Calum laughed in disbelief. “No harm?”

“You do not have to consider your reputation as I must mine.”

Such arrogance defied understanding. “No,” Calum said shortly. “No. What you suggest will not be possible.”

Franchot said, “I will make it worth your while.”

What
I
want, you will not readily pay me, imposter.
“No,” he repeated.

“Look, I am yet ill. I came today because you had ignored all my efforts to get you to come to me.”

“True enough.” Messengers had been sent a dozen times a day, imploring Calum to attend the duke in Pall Mall.

“Very well. Let us try a new tale.
Both
of our weapons discharged prematurely.
There.
What more can I offer?”

Hah!
Slowly, an idea took shape. Calum looked to Struan as if searching for approval, then at Pippa, who stared back, her dear face a study in utter misery. “Should I perhaps consider that you are offering me something in the way of a friendship, Your Grace?” This cur had paraded her forth today as part of his spurious public display of personal bliss. “I do not put myself well. Am I to collect that you have had a change of heart toward me? That you wish me to join you in this deception so that we may draw closer as two men of character with the good of our respective reputations in mind?”