Fascination -and- Charmed (77 page)

“Come and see Papa,” Justine said. “You will understand what I mean about the Franchot men then.”

The spell that had surrounded Calum and Pippa slipped away. The deep breath he took matched hers, and side by side, they followed Lady Justine.

“Here he is,” she said, stopping in front of a rather small painting of a man seated at a desk. Depicted in profile, he sat with his right hand spread on his thigh and he stared ahead whilst his quill point rested on a sheet of paper.

For the second time in the same unforgettable morning, Calum felt an overwhelming blow. “You would appear to be right,” he said carefully. “A man of letters.” A man with dark, curling hair tied at his nape. A man with flashes of red in that dark hair and a set to his face that was so familiar to Calum that he felt as if he were looking at a painting of himself.

Lady Justine’s father.

His
father.

“And next to Papa is Grandpapa,” Justine said. “They might almost be the same man. Except for the clothes, of course.”

Calum studied the second, much larger portrait and scarcely knew how to contain all that he felt. It was as if the artist for the smaller painting had copied the pose from this second, older work.

“Handsome men,” Pippa said, and her voice sounded as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. “So dark and lean.”

“Mmm.” Lady Justine smiled—a smile more of contentment than of pride. “I wish you could have met them.”

“You look like them,” Pippa said. “The duke must resemble his mother.”

“Not really,” Lady Justine said. “She—Oh, my goodness!
Grandmama!
She’s here. And she’s using the
cane.”

Wondering at the great significance of the
cane,
Calum stood in a cluster with his companions and observed the slow progress along the rush matting of a diminutive, white-haired woman dressed in black. Her back was rod-straight, but she used a cane and punctuated each step with a hard
thwack
on the wooden floor beside the matting.

“Oh,” Lady Justine said, as if remembering herself. “Grandmama, let me help you.”

“Stay where you are, gel,” the woman said. “You are the lame one who needs help. I am quite capable of walking alone.”

And this, Calum thought, was his beloved grandmother.

“I’m glad to see you are improved, Duchess,” Pippa said.

“I am
not
improved,” the dowager responded. “I am simply forced to attend to my duties despite my indisposition. Duty comes first in all things. That is a rule you would do well to learn quickly, gel.”

The Dowager Duchess of Franchot came to a halt a few yards in front of Calum and his companions. Her nostrils narrowed when she looked at Pippa. Lady Justine received no attention at all.

“What
do you think you’re wearing?” the dowager said to Pippa. “An opera dancer’s vulgar garb?”

“Grandmama—”

“Silence!” the old lady snapped, cutting off Lady Justine. Then she raised her eyes to Calum’s and he saw her withered lips slacken.

“Good morning, Duchess,” he said, offering her a formal bow. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance at last.”

“I was not aware that you had been waiting a long time to do so,” she said in a voice that rose with each word. “You are that young man who caused Lady Philipa to disgrace herself at the Esterhazys’, aren’t you?”

“I am—”

“Mr. Innes danced with me, Your Grace,” Pippa said. “As I remember, neither of us was disgraced. The duke invited Mr. Innes and his friend, Viscount Hunsingore, to—”

“I know all that,” the woman said, waving Pippa to silence.

“And I do not understand a bit of it. I also do not understand what he is doing here.”

“I brought him, Grandmama,” Lady Justine said tightly. “I thought he would enjoy meeting some members of our family.”

“Don’t talk
posh,
girl,” the dowager said. She had sharp eyes that glittered out from draping folds of papery wrinkles. “This is
my
gallery. And these are
my
relations. I do not choose to have strangers
gawping
at them.”

All the time she spoke, she stared at Calum. Her hands rested, one atop the other, on the ivory head of her cane and he noted how her fingers wound tightly together.

“Please forgive me,” Calum said. “I wouldn’t wish to disturb you in any way, Your Grace. Please excuse me.”

Before he could take his leave, the old woman shot out a bony hand to grasp one of his. “I shall excuse you when it pleases me.”

Her action shocked him. The slightest move on his part would free him from her, yet he found himself rooted in place. “Who are your people?” she asked him.

He schooled himself to breathe slowly and deeply. “None that you would know, Your Grace.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I was a foundling.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How old are you?”

“I believe I am thirty-four. Possibly almost thirty-five.”

“Where are you from?”

“Scotland,” he told her automatically.

“You were born there?”

“No.”

“Where then?”

This was no idle curiosity. “In Cornwall,” he said. “I believe.”

She flinched and looked at the painting of her husband.

“He appears to have been a thoughtful man,” Calum said, needing, without wanting to admit why, to reach out to this brittle creature.

The dowager turned back and moved closer to Calum, peered more closely into his face. “Leave me!” she said abruptly. “Get away, I tell you. All of you.”

Lady Justine touched her grandmother’s arm but was flung aside. “Take him away from here,” the dowager told her. “He does not belong among my loved ones.”

“Grandmama—”

“Go
now.
And make certain I never see him again.”

“Do not overset yourself, Your Grace,” Calum said, while the sound of his heart thundered in his ears. “I can find my own way, ladies. Good day to you.”

He strode away, certain Lady Justine and Pippa would be circumspect enough to let him go without further comment.

Once out of earshot of the long-room, he broke into a run, seeking a way outside.

At last he found a door that opened into a courtyard facing the northern hills on Chauncey land.

Calum leaned against the castle’s cold stone and allowed himself to accept what had just happened.

He did not believe he was merely inventing some source of proof for the claim he intended to make.

He believed he had shaken the Dowager Duchess of Franchot to her frail old bones.

He believed she had seen her husband and her son in his face and that she was afraid he might have the power to sully her precious family name.

Calum bowed his head. Either the woman thought him a bastard son of her dead offspring come to demand his portion in return for discretion, or she had been part of the plot that stole his heritage.

For two nights and two days I have listened to you tell this tale,” Struan told Calum.

“But it’s true.” He trotted his bay hack a little ahead of Struan’s gelding. “It happened that way.” They had ridden out from Franchot after breakfast and put in an hour on the cliffs before turning for home once more.

Struan caught up and passed Calum on the final approach to the castle. “Have I suggested it didn’t happen that way?”

“As God is my witness, that woman knows I am her grandson.”

“I believe she reacted strangely to seeing you.”

Calum reined in his horse and sat at ease with his hand resting on one thigh. “She said she never wanted to see me again,” he said, to himself rather than to Struan. “Why would she say such a thing to a stranger unless she felt threatened by him? And now Pippa doesn’t come out of her rooms.”

With a clatter of hoofs, Struan returned. “Lady Justine has said that Pippa is indisposed.”

“I don’t believe a word of it and neither do you.”

“Give it up, Calum. For God’s sake,
give it up.
”

“I can’t.”

Struan leaned to clasp Calum’s arm. “You mean you
won’t.
”

“I do mean that. There can be no going back now. I don’t expect you to understand. How can you? But I do ask you to accept and support my wishes.”

Struan sighed gustily. “I support you in all things, my friend. And although I’d rather not, I accept your wishes in this matter. So with that established, what do you propose to do next?”

“Prove it.” Calum looked at the broad approach to the castle, at the noble oaks and giant sycamores that flanked the way, and on to the white fortress that shimmered even on an overcast afternoon. “I shall prove it. And I shall have Pippa as my wife.”

“Would you want her if she were not already destined to become the next Duchess of Franchot?”

Calum eyed Struan sharply. “What are you asking me?”

“Simply, what drives you in this business with the girl. Think, man. Why do you want her so?”

Calum wheeled his horse past Struan’s mount and said, “She was meant to be mine,” as he urged the hack into a trot.

“Is that all?” Struan asked, catching up. “The ownership? The drive to possess everything you believe is yours?”

“I don’t think I care for your tone,” Calum told him. The air he breathed, air fresh from the English Channel, was cold in his throat.

“If you do not care for my tone,” Struan responded, “it’s because you do not care for truth in this matter. Answer me. Is Lady Philipa no more to you than the stones in that castle—than the crops in the fields around us? Than the
tin
in Franchot mines?”

“If I choose to claim her, she will be mine. She will have to be.”

“I don’t follow you,” Struan said.

They drew close to the great stone gates in the wall around the base of Franchot Castle’s mound. Peregrines atop each massive gatepost, their wings spread, aimed their carved eyes at the sky.

“Explain yourself,” Struan persisted.

Calum returned the wave of the man who swung open the gates. “The task of claiming Pippa would not be difficult,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “She is an innocent, but there is passion in her—passion for me.”

“You would not force her.”

“I would not have to force her…overmuch.”

Struan snorted. “I know you. This thing would not make you happy.”

Calum looked sideways at his friend. “I believe you may be wrong. This thing might be all my soul needs. If nothing else, my marriage to Pippa would give me a way to bleed that man of a great deal that should be mine.”

They rode beneath the arch that joined the gateposts, and the gates were swung heavily shut behind them.

“The man who speaks isn’t the man I’ve known all my life,” Struan said tonelessly. “That man would never use another to gain his own ends.”

“Perhaps,” Calum said, “you never really knew the man.”

“You are not yourself. But we’ll not waste what time we have together in argument.”

The anger he felt in Struan hung heavily upon Calum. “We have all the time we need together,” he said. “But I agree—we mustn’t waste any of it in disagreement.”

Struan cleared his throat. Calum studied him and noted that he resembled Arran more with each year. The profile was as uncompromising, the bearing straight yet easy, the body less massive than Arran’s but no less imposing. The two brothers were handsome, commanding devils.

“Am I forgiven?” Calum said, cajoling.

“You haven’t done anything that needs forgiveness—yet. I must leave you for a while, Calum. I’m needed in Dorset.”

“Leave?”
Calum pulled up his horse so abruptly the animal reared. “You cannot be serious. You cannot possibly consider leaving me now.”

The wind whipped Struan’s curly black hair. He passed a sleeve over his brow and turned his face away. “I’ve no choice. Surely you know I wouldn’t choose to go when things are so unsettled with you.”

“Unsettled?
My life is a chaos, man.”

“You’ll manage till I can return.”

“Why? Why must you go?”

“I told you. My affairs in Dorset require attention.”

“You told us you’d acquired a small holding there while you were playing at priestly poverty. You said you would retain it because it brought a pleasant income which, although you do not need it, is more than should be easily let go.”

“I’m glad you remind me of my explanation,” Struan said shortly. “All true—except for the fact that I did not acquire Heathsend until after I left the priesthood.”

Calum frowned. “But I understood—”

“Evidently you understood very little. I will return just as soon as possible. I have a good man managing the estate there. He has sent for me and that means I am needed.”

“But—”

“No,” Struan said, inclining his head toward a small, red-haired figure seated on an upturned iron urn not fifty yards from where the two men’s horses stood. “Not now, Calum. I think we must continue our discussion later.”

Calum regarded Max. “I swear he is everywhere,” he said, although he was coming to enjoy the boy. “It will be hard on Ella and Max to have to make another journey to a new place so soon.”

“I intended to speak to you about that.”

Max had popped up from his urn. He ran toward them, his red hair flying as usual.

“What did you mean to speak about?” Calum asked.

“The children. I shall talk to Lady Justine also, of course, but I’d be much obliged if I could leave them in your care while I’m gone.”

“What?”

“Lady Philipa and Lady Justine seem to get along famously with both children. But naturally, you would be the one to take my place in my absence.”

The boy drew near. “And what exactly
is
your place? They’re no relations of yours, Struan. You appropriated them.”

“I’ll not argue that point. But what’s done is done. I can’t send them back.”

“And
I
cannot become a nursemaid to children who are nothing to do with me. What can you be thinking of? To bring them here, then abandon them to me?”

“Quite. Don’t blame you for thinking me outrageous. There doesn’t seem to be another alternative. Hello, Max! And now it is up to us to help set them safely on their way.”