Fascination -and- Charmed

by Stella Cameron

“Pippa,” he said, lifting her chin, “you are right. I am not who you thought I was. But I cannot tell you more now and I may never be able to tell you.”

  “Did someone here do something to you when you were a child? You’ve said you were born in Cornwall.”

  “We will return to the castle,” he told her. “Remember only what the fortune teller said. If I do not let go of the past, it may kill me.”

  “She said,” Pippa whispered, “that it would kill you.”

  Charmed Twenty-Two

  Saber strained to hear any sound of footsteps on the stairs. He’d been wrong to tell Max to send Ella to him. He should pray she had the sense not to come. And if she did come, he must remember she was scarcely more than a child.

  The space beneath the stairs in the wing that housed the nurseries was dark, and he could not see to read his watch. Surely an hour or more had passed since Max ran upward with Saber’s message.

  There was something in Ella, something he felt, that made him want to protect her. In the blackness, he pressed a fist into a rough stone wall and swore a silent pledge that he would do no more than offer her his friendship—and he felt with his heart that she needed that more than anything else he might offer.

  And he would wait until she was of an age for him to pursue her in quite another manner.

  A year, two?

  A lifetime.

  Soft scratchings sounded, then stopped, then came again. Saber leaned out from his hiding place and narrowed his eyes to see.

  A blue-white shape drifted down the staircase, stopping from time to time until it hovered just above him.

  “Ella?” he whispered, knowing his own indiscretion.

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Max told me you wanted to see me.”

  “I was wrong to ask you to take this risk.”

  She descended further and with her came the scent of meadow flowers that seemed part of her. “I wanted to come,” she said, stepping to the floor in the small hallway. “I ’ad—I had looked forward to seeing you at the fair.”

  “Then why did you come back to the castle?”

  Rather than answer, she touched his arm.

  Saber stood quite still. That simple touch was as if she had smote at something deep within him.

  Her fingers felt their way until she could slip them into his hand.

  She held onto him like a trusting child. She was a child. And he could be trusted with her.

  “Who watches over you here?” he asked.

  “The maids take turns,” Ella said. “But they sleep in a room separated from mine by a cupboard where clothes ’ang—hang. They never come to check on me before morning.”

  He would not think of how many hours there might be until morning. “I wanted only to know that you are well and safe.”

  “I am,” she told him.

  Saber found that he held her hand very tightly, but could not make himself release her. “Should you care to come into the air outside? I have my cloak and it is pleasant enough.”

  “I’d like that.”

  And he should not take her from safety in the middle of the night.

  He swung his cloak around her shoulders—and held her hand once more.

  The nearby door opened into a small, walled courtyard where roses grew in heady, flamboyant profusion. Saber led Ella to a stone bench and seated her. The moon afforded him a shaded view of her astonishing face.

  She was a child and he must wait.

  “Why didn’t you stay at the fair?”

  “Thank you for caring about me. I’m…Lady Philipa is teaching me to speak like a lady.”

  He bowed his head. “To me you are a lady. You will always be a lady. Do not concern yourself with silly conventions. Soon no one will ever know you were not born a princess, at the very least.”

  She giggled a little at that.

  A child. “Think of me as the older brother you do not have,” he said, trying not to clench his teeth. Less than eight years separated them, but they were years that made him a man with a man’s urges. “I do not know the exact nature of what your childhood has been, but I have felt sadness in you. Your father isn’t here, and in his absence I would like to help if I can.”

  “I trust you!” Her voice caught.

  “Hush,” he warned. “We must not be discovered.”

  “I wish I could tell someone all about us—Max and me. And I wish I wouldn’t have to worry that if I did, we’d be sent packing from ’ere—here—at once.”

  “Whether you tell me or not, I shall protect you. If anyone troubles you, you are to come to me directly. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  With her head bowed, her hair shone blue-black. Hair restrained in childish braids.

  Saber braced a foot beside her on the bench and rested his hand on top of her head. “There. I’ve said what I came to say. I’ll watch while you return to your chamber.”

  “My mother was not married to my father.”

  Saber frowned. “Viscount Hunsingore—”

  “He’s not our father. He took us away from London when we were in terrible trouble.”

  “I see.” He did not see at all.

  “Max and me—we’re bastards.”

  Saber smiled wryly in the darkness. “That is not so shocking, little one.”

  “I don’t know who my father is. When Max and I were younger, we were kept by a family with a provisioner’s business. Our mother paid them and we worked. But they were kind enough and we were safe.”

  He opened his mouth to say she did not need to tell him this, but decided he must be the listener she craved. “I’m glad they treated you well,” he said.

  “Then our mother got sick. She didn’t have the money to pay for our keep, so she took me to live with her. Max was sent somewhere else. I didn’t know where he was for a long time. First we traveled around a lot, till my mother was too sick to travel anymore. Then we went to London, and…” She made a noise that was a muffled sob.

  Saber stroked her hair and the back of her slender neck. “It’s all right now. You’ll never have to be unhappy again.”

  “In London I was kept with my mother to help pay for what we needed. I found out poor Max was with an ’orri—a horrible man in Covent Garden who sent boys and girls out to pick pockets. If the viscount hadn’t been a kind man, Max would still be there, and I don’t know what would have happened to him.”

  “Then I’m grateful to the viscount,” Saber said. “But what of you? How did you live?”

  He felt her shudder beneath his hand. “In a house,” she muttered, so softly he had to strain to hear. “In a house with my mother.”

  “Your mother’s house?”

  Ella wrapped the cloak tightly about her. “No. It belongs to someone else what—who runs—who runs a business there. I had to do what I was told.”

  With an effort, Saber stopped himself from taking his hand from the girl’s neck. “I see,” he said. God, he was so cold. He was cold to his bones—to his heart.

  “I wanted to get away. Every night I ’oped—hoped I’d find a way to escape. Then the viscount came, and now there’s a chance for Max and me.”

  A chance to turn from a life of prostitution and crime.

  She was only a child, Saber intoned within his soul. A wronged child. He had offered to be a brother and he would not turn back from that. “Come, little one,” he told her. “Let’s return you to your bed before someone misses you.”

  Shivering, she went with him back inside the castle. At the bottom of the stairs, she removed his cloak and gave it to him. “Thank you,” she said. “I thought all men were monsters. Now I know the viscount…You mustn’t let on that he’s not our papa!”

  “I’ll never—let on.”

  “I know you won’t. I know the viscount and Calum and now there’s you. There are good men, aren’t there?”

  “Yes, there are good men.”

 
“My mother always said there weren’t—except for her brother. He was all right, but he only cared about my mother. They’ve stayed together forever. When I traveled with them, they taught me to help them.”

  “Help them do what?” Saber couldn’t stop himself from asking.

  “Make potions that cure people’s ills.”

  When he’d finally secured Cloudsmoor and dispatched his dear sister and grandmother to live in the house there, he’d be free to carry on the activities that satisfied him most in the comfort of his own rooms.

  Etienne staggered a little as he approached his apartments and paused, leaning against the wall, while he waited for his head to clear.

  Creeping around, visiting Henri and Anabel in places where they would not be discovered, was becoming a bloody bore.

  He rolled to rest his back against the wall. He felt weak, drained. Grinning, swaying, he let himself into the small sitting room off his bedchamber. He was drained. Anabel and Henri had taken every ounce of the juices he’d poured forth for them for hours.

  And they’d enjoyed the taking.

  And he’d relished the giving.

  And they would play again on the morrow, when they would devise fresh entertainments. At the fair, a young girl from the village had been offered to him by her father. Yes, he’d have to consider that offer very seriously and soon—by the morrow.

  Damn these people who meddled in his pleasures. He should be in his bed with his faithful friends, not falling about, awaiting the ministrations of his damnable man who was nowhere around.

  Etienne screwed up his eyes.

  No. Nowhere about.

  “Belcher!”

  Not a sign of the lazy bounder.

  “Belcher!”

  “Belcher is not here, Etienne.” A tall, dark-haired man rose from a wing chair near the fire. The back of the chair faced Etienne, which accounted for his not having noted that he had a visitor. Perhaps he was about to be offered another little virgin.

  “I say,” he said. “Bit late for visitors, ain’t it? Or is it a bit early?” He giggled at his own jest.

  “There would never be a good time for this visit,” the man said. His voice scratched and Etienne decided he did not like it at all. Not at all. This was not a fellow of any culture.

  “You’d best seat yourself,” the man said. “You’ll soon find your legs a deal less strong. Not that they’re strong now, by the looks of things.”

  “The devil you say.” Etienne made careful steps across the Aubusson carpets and fell into the leather chair behind his writing table. Position of authority. Table between the nobleman and the serf. Impertinent, vulgar peasant. “State your business here and get out. Where’s Belcher?”

  “Belcher was told you would not need him tonight,” the man said. “You wouldn’t want him to be here for our little talk.”

  “Don’t wish to talk with you.”

  The man was exceedingly tall. His black hair was straight, overlong and dull, and his sharp silvery eyes hid beneath the hairless, jutting bones of his brow. “It’s time for you to pay your accounts, Your Grace,” he said, resting big-knuckled hands on the writing table.

  A shred of clearheadedness threatened Etienne’s warm haze. “Accounts?” He sat straighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who sent you?”

  “Someone who knew you’d be willing to pay handsomely for the information I can give you. And for my silence.”

  Etienne gripped the edge of the table. Sweat broke out on his brow. He must keep calm. This could be any sort of foolery. Nonchalance would win out over this oaf. “Get out,” he said, as imperiously as his thick tongue allowed.

  “Get out?” The man’s thin lips parted in a grin that sent deep lines into his sunken cheeks. “You wouldn’t want me to do that. I might tell someone else what I know about you.

  There’s someone else as would pay a great deal for the information, and then you’d have nothing left to pay anything with.”

  Etienne blinked to clear his vision. There was something about the man…Yes, he’d seen this creature before. “Where do I know you from?” he demanded.

  “You don’t know me at all. But then, maybe you know me very well. Who can tell? The answer depends on what you mean by knowing.”

  “I’m in no mood for riddles.” Etienne swallowed bile, but the drink’s effect was waning. “Speak your piece.”

  “I want half of everything you own,” the man said. “I’ve chosen an estate north of Cloudsmoor. From there I can be certain you never forget to provide my portion.”

  Etienne stiffened, then collapsed back in his chair. He laughed, wiped the back of a hand over his mouth and laughed again. “A madman. Belcher! By God, I’ll have his hide for sleeping when I need him.”

  “Miranda is ill,” the man said. He stood and walked around to sit on the edge of the table—close to Etienne. “You do remember Miranda? Milo’s sister?”

  Etienne swallowed. He was sober now. “No,” he said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I thought you would remember,” the man said. “Miranda can’t work. I’m going to have to look after her. Make sure she’s in a safe place where she won’t be tempted to tell what she knows in order to get the money she and Milo need to live.”

  The horror that had haunted him since his wretched…This horror had haunted him since the appearance of the wretched woman who had told him she was his mother. He had never ceased to fear that someone, somehow, knew about him and would come to torture him.

  “Miranda knows all about you, but that doesn’t surprise Your Grace too much, does it?”

  Etienne stared unseeingly ahead.

  “You did guess it could be true. Cora Bains, Lady Hoarville’s mother, knew, and she was friendly with Miranda.”

  He could try to reach a weapon.

  “Your own dear mother told Cora, and Cora told Miranda.

  Such a pity. Florence always was such a chatterer.”

  “Don’t mention that woman’s name!”

  “Florence Hawkins,” the man said casually. “A beautiful creature when she was young. So sad the way she died. And right after you’d been so kind as to arrange another meeting with her. A fever, the doctor said. Cora said it was poison and so did Miranda, but who would listen to them? Must have been a shock, finding out you were a whore’s bastard son.”

  “No!” Etienne clawed at the nearest drawer, where a slim steel knife lay. He found the drawer handle and pulled.

  A big, hard hand closed over his and clamped it atop the table. “A whore’s bastard son, placed in an infant duke’s cradle because the whore hated the infant duke’s father and intended to get her hands on what was his. Through you. Clever of her, wasn’t it?”

  Etienne panted and felt spittle bubble from the corner of his mouth.

  “Too bad she told you everyone who’d known was dead—except her. Silly, that. Thinking that when she told you she was your mother, you’d keep her safe. You killed her for it. But the snake man’s assistant wasn’t the only one who knew she had taken the duke’s rightful heir and left you in his place. She was gone, all right, but not Cora and not Miranda.”

  “Cora’s dead now.” Etienne whimpered.

  “We’ll not speak about that. Miranda’s not dead and neither am I, and you’ll pay for our silence.”

  “I’ll kill you both.”

  The man laughed, and it was a sound that made Etienne cast up his accounts.

  When he’d finished soiling his clothes and the polished desk and the Aubusson carpets, he peered up into the impassive face above him. “I’ll kill you both.”

  “No, you won’t,” the man said. “Because we have taken precautions. I have taken precautions. You’d do well to watch the Hoarville bitch. She may become a problem.”

  Anabel? Anabel must never know what had happened here tonight. “I can deal with Anabel,” he said, scarcely able to draw a breath. He fumbled for a kerchief and pressed it to his bitter-tasti
ng lips.

  “Listen to me and listen well. You have something else to deal with. When it is done, I’ll return to make the rest of our arrangements.”

  The man stood and Etienne’s burning eyes followed the unfolding of the tall, thin body.

  “Innes,” the man said. “You must dispose of him. And of his friend if he knows.”

  “Knows what?” Etienne asked. “Chauncey? Is Innes Chauncey’s man?”

  For a moment there was question in the man’s small, light-colored eyes. “Chauncey? Forget Chauncey, you fool. There’s no problem there. Innes is your problem.”

  “Because he’s sniffing around after my fiancée? He’ll never manage—”

  “Shut up! And listen to me. You will deal with Innes before he deals with you.”

  “I’ll tell him to leave and that’ll be an end of it.”

  The lipless mouth pressed briefly shut. “You will kill him, and that will be an end of it. You will kill the rightful Duke of Franchot.”

  “The…” Etienne’s tongue refused to make any more words.

  “He is the man who should sit where you sit, bastard. Move carefully. Take enough time to ensure there is no other witness against us; then do it.”

  Etienne could only nod.

  “I’ll leave you now. But I’ll never be far away.”

  “Your name?” Etienne choked out, tearing at his already loosened shirt. “Tell me your name and where I may find you.”

  “I shall find you. My name is of no interest. Think of me simply as your father.”

  Charmed Twenty-Three

  Autumn. Pippa felt its impatient sting at the edge of the morning’s scant warmth.

  Her imagination only. August was yet with them.

  Mist rose from the lawns like a drifting sheet of muslin. Pippa was glad of the light cloak she’d thrown on before coming in search of Calum. She felt autumn. And with autumn would come her wedding.

  He had not eaten breakfast, so the dour servant in attendance revealed. And Max, who always knew where Calum was, did not know this morning.

  There he came, head down, walking slowly up flights of steps between the castle’s terraced gardens.

  Pippa hugged the cloak of fine gray wool closer. Anyone looking from this side of the castle would see them clearly. No sign of the urgency she felt must be visible.