Fascination -and- Charmed (46 page)

“Ah,” Struan, Viscount Hunsingore, murmured thoughtfully. He draped a heavy arm around Calum’s shoulders and said, very low, “Shall you want that life back, d’you suppose?”

Calum regarded the strapping blond man who strode through the parting crowd in the blue-velvet-and-gilt room at Chandos House. “That remains to be seen,” he said, although until this instant he had been almost certain his only interest was in observing in the flesh just once—the man who had taken his place when they were both infants. “He is a prancing ass,” he added, none too softly.

Struan chuckled. He flipped the backs of his fingers across Calum’s chest as if brushing some minuscule annoyance from the perfectly fitted black evening coat. “Have a care,” he said for Calum’s ear only. “The man is known to be dangerous, and you cannot be certain you are right about this so-called discovery of yours.”

“I
am
certain.”

“You have no proof.”

Calum raised his chin. “I shall get it. Look at him. He goes directly to the prince, as if his arrival must be the only one awaited.”

“Esterhazy seems not to mind,” Struan commented, studying the jewel-bedecked Austrian ambassador. “I’d say this isn’t their first meeting. No doubt they’ve a deal in common—great men together, hmm?”

“I fail to see any humor here,” Calum said, stiffening his back. “The man’s a strutting cockerel and I hate him.”

“You
want
to hate him,” Struan amended. “But I doubt you want to hate the lovely Lady Philipa. Such abundance, hmm? Abundant hair, abundant eyes, abundant lips. Abundant white flesh. Ah, yes, such flesh. Breasts such as those might be more than most men could…handle?”

“For an ex-priest, you are remarkably free with your assessments of the female form.”

“Ex-priest. Yes, indeed,
ex.
Let us not forget that I was a priest for a short time and that I ceased to be a priest some time ago.” Struan’s dark eyes glittered with laughter. “I acknowledged my fleshly weaknesses. When will you confront yours, my friend?”

Calum deliberately looked away from the viscount’s clever, handsome face and concentrated instead upon the man known as the Duke of Franchot—and the voluptuous blond woman who clung to his arm. “Popinjay,” he said of the duke.

“Come, now,” Struan said. “Do not evade what may be the more important question here. What think you of his fair fiancée?”

“Garish,” Calum remarked shortly. “Too free with the paint pots.” But he continued to study the woman. He’d like to say she was nothing to him. That would be a lie.

“That may well be,” Struan agreed. “Yet a man’s bed would be the warmer for her presence there. And if her thighs are as white and round as her breasts, well, one can imagine the delights a man’s ship might find in such a harbor.”

“I liked you better as a priest,” Calum said curtly, but he felt the quickening between his own legs nonetheless.

Franchot spoke with Prince Esterhazy as the equal he clearly considered himself to be. Whilst he spoke, he looked around, inclining his head at men whose eyes he caught, and assessing women with insolent openness.

The orchestra burst forth afresh and dancers surged to the floor, their shimmering finery vying for supremacy. Plumes swayed and jewel-studded turbans winked. Silks and satins and sumptuous brocades swirled together. For each splendidly adorned female, a richly dressed gentleman, frequently noble, directed the progress.

“Now you have seen him,” Struan said, staring straight ahead, “no doubt we may leave?”

“Not quite,” Calum said, still studying the object of his interest. “She clearly adores him. But he is not attentive to her.”

“He behaves like a man who has tasted the fruit and knows he may continue to sample at will.”

Calum frowned.

“Ah, yes,” Struan said. “That troubles you, doesn’t it? You are thinking that the man has taken something else that should have been yours.”

Calum could not bring himself to answer.

“Odd,” Struan said. “I’d have expected a man like Franchot to choose a more elegant female as his duchess. One with a more subtle grace.”

“She has no grace at all,” Calum replied darkly. “And he did not choose her.”

“No, no, of course not. What am I thinking of? The betrothal took place at the time of Lady Philipa’s birth. And she comes with a huge dowry, I’m told.”

“Absolutely huge, my dear fellow,” said a man who stood nearby. A mincing creature corseted into a ridiculous pigeon-breasted silhouette, he turned his powdered and rouged face upon Struan. “Have we met? I am Wokingham. I’m sure I remember you from somewhere or other.”

“Hunsingore,” Struan said, unsmiling. “I doubt if we’ve met. Kirkcaldy is our seat.”

“Scotland!” the man said, pursing red lips. “You must be Stonehaven’s boy.”

“Stonehaven’s brother. My brother, Arran, succeeded. Our father died some years ago.”

“Ah, forgive me. Time rushes away from us. You were interested in Lady Philipa Chauncey?”

Struan cast Calum a brief, warning stare. “I was merely curious. After all, it is supposedly to be the event of the year—this marriage between two such old families.”

“More of an event for Franchot than for the girl, I fancy,” Wokingham said. “The world knows old Chauncey’s Cornish lands march with the Franchots’.”

“And that is of significance?” Calum asked, smelling a man who liked to show himself an authority on the prevailing
on-dit.

“Significance!” Wokingham thrust forward a hip and guffawed. “I thought
everyone
knew.”

Calum restrained himself from saying that he was no one and said instead, “Refresh my memory.”

“Franchot needs the port to get all that lovely tin of his out of Cornwall in a timely fashion, don’t y’know.” Wokingham feigned boredom at this point, but his little eyes glittered. “It’s on Chauncey’s land. All well and good when the Franchots were in the business of protectin’ the Chauncey estate from invaders. The Franchots got free passage overland and the freedom to come and go from the Chaunceys’ port as they pleased. Not much call for protection from invaders anymore. That could change the nature of things, don’t y’know. But the present duke’s father had the wit to suspect he’d best make sure his path to an easy port didn’t pass into greedy hands—greedy hands that owed him nothing.”

Calum waited for Wokingham to continue and, when he didn’t, said, “You mean Lady Philipa’s father made all of his lands her dowry?”

Wokingham staggered under a fresh gale of mirth. “Strike me, no, m’boy! Chauncey’s not about to let go of his Yorkshire holdings. But the Cornish parcel goes with the girl, and that means it goes to Franchot on the day he marries her. He’d probably find a way out of the match—agreement or no agreement—if his future didn’t depend on that port.”

“The terms of the arrangement would not seem entirely onerous from his point of view,” Struan remarked. “She is certainly a memorable creature.”

Wokingham raised a brow. “You think so?”

“I do indeed.” Struan nodded toward Franchot and his companion. “There seems almost more of her than should be remembered by only one man, wouldn’t you say?”

Wokingham followed Struan’s gaze and smiled hugely. “You think that…Oh, no, m’boy, not at all.
That
isn’t the fiancée. She’s Lady Hoarville, don’t y’know. Old Hoarville’s widow. Should be a lesson to older gents who still like to poke a lush young piece. Did for him in short order, I can tell you.”

A flunky removed the potpourri warmer from the fire and held it aloft as he progressed through the guests. Musky sandalwood and the scent of roses wafted heavily on already too-pungent air. Calum began to feel too warm. The crush swayed together and voices soared in a shrill babel over the music.

Calum said, as much to himself as to Wokingham, “You’ll have us believe the…the duke attends a ball in the company of a woman to whom he is not engaged?”

“It’s the truth, m’boy. If you knew Franchot, you’d not be a whit surprised. His father had his wild moments, but there was never a doubt he was a gentleman with a scholar’s soul. This son is a rakehell to the bone. The Chauncey gel’s over there.”

Calum felt a coldness between his shoulder blades. He turned to survey the crowd behind him. “You mean,” he said slowly, “that Franchot’s fiancée is already here and he’s arrived with another woman?”

“I’d lay odds that those two are fresh out of her bed. Makes sense he’d feel obliged to bring her.”

Calum ignored that and asked, “Which is Lady Philipa?”

“Hmm.” Wokingham tapped a beringed finger against his slack lower lip. “Ah, yes, there she is, pretendin’ to be part of the statuary in that window alcove. Evidently Franchot’s grandmother—the dowager—is bringin’ the gel along. I see Her Grace sittin’ with Countess Ballard. Just to the right of the window. Lord Chauncey’s an explorer, when he’s not performin’ some sort of service for our Fat Friend’s lot. Widower. Love of his life—the wife—so the story goes. Wouldn’t think of marryin’ again. Just the one offspring. Another man would consider it his duty to produce a male heir, but not Chauncey. Happy enough to leave it all to the one female and Franchot.”

Calum was too engaged in searching for a lady trying to impersonate a statue to listen particularly closely to Wokingham’s diatribe. “Which particular window alcove?” he asked.

“Over there,” Wokingham said, pointing rudely. “Beige gown. Black hair. Absolutely forgettable—except for the diamonds. Chauncey supposedly gave the gel the family diamonds and told her to get some wear out of ‘em. Dashed strange fellow, Chauncey.

“Word has it the daughter’s been allowed to just about bring herself up. Now Chauncey’s not even in the country. Supposed to get back in time for the nuptials—not that I’d place any money on that.”

“We really ought to be getting along,” Struan put in.

The edginess in his friend’s voice was impossible to miss, but Calum ignored it anyway. “Beige dress,” he said, scrutinizing one female after another. “Black hair. Diamonds…Oh, my word,
diamonds.
”

“Wouldn’t miss those in a crowd, would you?” Wokingham remarked, looking down his immensely long nose. “No man would pass up a chance to put those pretty baubles into the family coffers. ‘Course, everyone knows Franchot’s coffers are already deep enough to drown in. But he needs Lady Philipa’s port. Not that there’s any danger of Franchot not getting the gel
and
the diamonds, I suppose. Disaster for him if there was.”

Calum heard what Wokingham said but found he’d lost interest in a flow of information that should concern him above anything else in life.

Lady Philipa Chauncey was tall and slim, possibly overslim. Her hair was, as Wokingham had said, black. Black and shining and drawn smoothly away from a sharply boned face that appeared entirely devoid of paint.

The diamonds in question formed an astonishing webbed collar with multiple points all but touching the modest neckline of the lady’s simply cut satin gown.

“Bit of a toadeater, what?” Wokingham said on a sigh. “Can hardly blame a fellow like Franchot for preferring La Hoarville, but dash it all—not quite the thing to flaunt it in front of the gel, eh?”

Calum set his teeth together and observed Lady Philipa narrowly.

Lady Philipa observed her fiancé and his companion.

“Looks dashed upset, if you ask me,” Wokingham said. “They say she’s a quiet little thing. Bookish, or some such nonsense. Keeps to herself. But you can tell she’s got eyes for the duke. Oh, yes, she’s all aflutter over him.”

“I wouldn’t have said so,” Struan commented from behind Calum. “I’d have said she was…well, what would
you
say Lady Philipa was, Calum?”

“Animated,” Calum responded, surprising himself. “I’m damned. She looks animated. And
impatient.
”

“My thoughts exactly,” Struan said. “And now we should leave.”

Calum turned so that Wokingham could neither see his face nor hear what he said. “Have patience, Struan. We are barely arrived. Surely it wouldn’t be polite to leave so soon.”

Struan’s chest expanded with his next breath. “I don’t think I like the look in your eye. You promised me that if I could arrange for you to see him just
see
him—you’d be satisfied. You said your quest would be done with.”

“Thank you for securing our invitation,” Calum said, smiling benignly. “But I find I must have lied to you.”

“I
knew
it,” Struan said. “I should never have had any part in this.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Calum reminded him. “I had, on previous occasions, managed entrance to London’s soirees quite nicely. I am not entirely without contacts other than you, m’lord.”

Struan gave a disparaging snort. “ ‘A damnably dangerous rogue’ seems to be the reputation I heard applied to you, my friend. And by more than one sharp-eyed papa, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I was not referring to the rakehell days of my youth,” Calum said, feeling peeved. “I had in mind my bride-gathering adventures on Arran’s behalf. But no matter. Why not go back to Hanover Square and await me there? I promise I’ll get into no mischief in your absence.”

“You are by no means far enough into your dotage for me to trust you in this company. Come with me
—now.”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

Calum crossed his arms and rested his chin on a fist. “I cannot come with you because I was probably mistaken. This may well be only the beginning of what I must do.”

Struan groaned. “Franchot is a villain. He is debauched and depraved. Dueling is but one of his illicit pastimes. I beg of you, do not do anything to capture his attention. Not until or unless we are fully prepared to deal with him.”

“I shall bear your warnings in mind.”

“What am I saying?” Struan moaned. “
We
shall never deal or do anything else with him. You gave me your word that a look at the fellow was all you required. Then, you said, we should leave instantly.”

“I have always had a way with fairy tales,” Calum said, once more looking at Lady Philipa Chauncey.

“You do not and never have had a way with fairy tales.” Struan was clearly incensed. “You are—or have become—the most thoughtful and even of men. You, and only you, kept my brother from allowing his inheritance to pass into our loathsome cousin’s control. You have been our guiding influence since Father died and—”