CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE DUKE WAS DRESSED FOR RIDING. His clothes were travel-stained, his boots splattered with mud. He carried his hat and a riding crop in one hand. And his face was stamped with a cold fury.
“Then it is true!” he snarled.
Stepping forward, he smashed his fist into Bromwell’s jaw. Bromwell staggered backward and fell through the wide double doorway into the drawing room.
“Sinclair!” Callie shrieked. “No!”
She ran to Bromwell to help him up, but he shrugged off her hand as he rose lithely to his feet. His eyes glittered silver as he looked at Rochford, and he reached up to wipe away a trickle of blood from his cheekbone, where Rochford’s knuckles had smashed into him.
“You want to fight?” Bromwell asked in a dangerously soft voice, and a corner of his mouth quirked up.
“Brom, no!” Callie cried.
“I want to kill you,” Rochford replied shortly, tossing his hat and crop onto the bench in the foyer.
“Sinclair!” She whirled toward her brother in exasperation.
Neither man paid her the slightest attention as they began in unison to pull off their jackets and toss them aside, then roll up their sleeves.
“Would you two stop for just a minute?” Callie asked. “Please? Would you listen to me? Sinclair, I am all right. There is no need—”
“There is every need,” her brother told her shortly, not even looking at her.
“Callie, stay out of this,” Bromwell told her at the same moment.
“Stay out of it!” Callie stared at him. “How can I stay out of it? You are going to fight my brother? How can I possibly stay out of it?”
But it was clear to her that they were going to continue to ignore her no matter what she said. She glanced around the room, searching for inspiration as the two men moved closer together, warily circling each other, their hands up and curled into fists.
Then, like lightning, Bromwell jabbed with his left hand, but Rochford as quickly moved aside so that the blow fell on his shoulder rather than his face. Bromwell followed with an overhand right that landed flush on Rochford’s jaw and sent him backward into a tall cabinet. There was a crash, and a porcelain figurine toppled out and smashed on the floor behind him.
Bromwell came rushing after him, but Rochford neatly twisted away and, grabbing Bromwell’s arm, threw him against the cabinet in turn. Bromwell charged back, punching, and the two men came up hard against the sofa and tumbled over its back onto the seat and then down to the floor, still grappling and punching, the fine rules of pugilism discarded.
Callie screamed at them to stop, but to no avail. She ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker, then turned back to the men. They were rolling across the floor, knocking into the tables and chairs, and she ran to them, poker raised. But she could not bring herself to hit either of them with it.
She was standing there indecisively, the poker still held up in her hand, when a cool female voice behind her said, “Really, Rochford…brawling in the drawing room? Before breakfast? How terribly primitive.”
Callie swung toward the direction of the voice and stared, her jaw dropping. There stood Francesca at the foot of the staircase, looking calm and unruffled in a pale blue frock.
Callie could think of nothing to say, so stunned was she by the unexpected vision. Apparently Francesca’s appearance had been enough to halt the men in the midst of their fight, for they, too, had stopped and were staring in equal astonishment at Francesca.
“Really, Rochford, do get up. You look exceedingly foolish there on the floor. As do you, Lord Bromwell. I must say, I would think you men could find something better to do than break up the furniture. I am sure whoever owns this charming house will be most upset at the damage you have caused.”
When no one answered her, Francesca strolled forward, stopping in the doorway and looking down at the men.
“Both members of the ‘Fancy,’ I presume?” she went on as the two men got to their feet, looking bewildered. “It does seem to me that you could have pursued your interest outside. You made such a dreadful amount of noise that you woke me up. Now I shall have great dark circles under my eyes, I am sure, especially after the late night that Callie and I had, driving here through the dark.”
Francesca paused, then added magnanimously, “I am glad, however, to find you all in one piece, Rochford. I did not think you would like having a broken leg and ribs overmuch.”
The duke at last found his voice. “What the devil are you prattling about, Francesca?”
“Why, your injuries, of course,” she replied sweetly. “We came as soon as we received the letter saying how badly you had been injured. You can imagine our surprise when we arrived, and you were nowhere to be found.”
“You—you mean you were here with Callie?” Rochford asked, astonished.
“Yes, of course, we came posthaste as soon as she received the note from—what was the name, Callie?”
“Mrs. Farmington,” Callie supplied, struggling to suppress the smile that wanted to spring to her lips.
“Yes, Farmington, of course. Well, I could hardly allow Callie to make the trip all by herself. We were most puzzled, of course, not to find you here, but Lord Bromwell was kind enough to allow us to put up here for the night. It was excessively late, you know, and I rather think the inn was not the sort of place where I would feel comfortable.”
“I don’t understand. What note are you talking about? Why are you here? And why is he?” He scowled over at Bromwell.
“I live here,” Lord Bromwell offered. “Or, at least, I am staying here for a week or so.”
“And Callie and I were brought here by the note. I just told you this, Rochford. Do you still have it, Callie?” Francesca asked. “Why don’t you run up to our room and fetch it, dear, so you can show it to your brother? Mayhap it will make more sense to him.”
Callie nodded and hastened to up to her bedchamber. In her absence, Rochford looked suspiciously from Francesca to Lord Bromwell, who crossed his arms and stared back at him arrogantly. Francesca simply regarded him with the same cool, faintly derisive gaze.
When Callie returned a moment later, she handed the note to her brother, and he read through it quickly, frowning. When he was done, he looked up at her and then at Francesca.
“But what does this mean? Who sent this to you?” He swung toward Bromwell, scowling. “Was this a trick of yours?”
“No!” Callie exclaimed quickly. “He knew nothing about it. He was quite as astonished as I was. Or Francesca,” she added quickly.
“We were quite tired, so we decided to go on to bed and try to clear the whole matter up this morning. But then you came in howling like a madman.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Francesca was here?” Rochford turned to Callie.
“I tried to!” Callie exclaimed, crossing her arms combatively. “If you will remember, you refused to listen to anything I said.”
“Oh.” The duke looked somewhat abashed.
“Now it is your turn, Rochford,” Francesca said. “What are you doing here?”
“I received a letter also,” he replied. “It said that my sister was here with Lord Bromwell. That they had eloped.”
“I see.” Francesca’s normally warm blue eyes turned to chips of ice.
“Yes, I think we all do,” Lord Bromwell said heavily. He turned away and busied himself with picking up an overturned chair and table, and setting them aright.
Francesca’s gaze was locked with Rochford’s for a long moment. Then she turned to Callie. “Come, my dear, shall we get our things? Perhaps Rochford will escort us back to London.”
“That reminds me,” Rochford said, his voice once again suspicious. “Where is your carriage? I did not see it when I rode up.”
“Why, in the stable, of course,” Francesca replied, looking at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “Where else would it be?”
In the silence after her words, they heard the sound of horses outside. The four of them glanced at each other in surprise, and Bromwell started toward the door.
At that moment there was a sound of feminine voices and laughter, and Brom stopped abruptly. The door swung open, and Lady Swithington stepped inside, accompanied by another woman. She was talking gaily to her friend, but she stopped in midsentence when she saw her brother standing before her, his face like stone.
“Why, Brom!” she exclaimed, looking surprised. “I did not expect you to be up yet. And Lady Calandra…what an unexpected pleasure.” Her eyes went on to Callie and the duke standing beyond him. “And Rochford. Whatever are you doing here?” Her voice was as rich and smooth as cream, obviously pleased despite her attempt to look surprised.
“Hello, Daphne,” Francesca said.
Daphne’s gaze snapped over to Francesca, and her eyes widened in a much more natural expression of shock. “Francesca! What the—well, this is indeed a surprise.” She stood for a moment, seemingly nonplussed, then turned to the woman with her. “I am sorry. Please allow me to introduce my friend, Mrs. Cathcart. Do you know Mrs. Cathcart, Lady Calandra? Lady Haughston?”
“Yes, I believe we have met,” Callie answered, forcing herself to smile in greeting. “How do you do, Mrs. Cathcart?”
The sharp-faced blond woman was one of the worst gossips of the ton. Clearly, Brom’s sister had staged this scene so that the scandal she had arranged would be witnessed by someone who was sure to spread it all over London.
Lady Swithington continued with the introductions. The duke had recovered enough to roll down his sleeves and offer Mrs. Cathcart an elegant bow.
“It is a pleasure to speak with you,” he told her, smiling in his gracious way that was at once winning without letting the recipient forget that he or she was in the presence of a duke. “I do hope you will forgive the way I appear, Mrs. Cathcart. I fear I was not expecting visitors.”
“Of course, your Grace,” Mrs. Cathcart said, smiling and blushing, clearly flattered at actually being in conversation with the Duke of Rochford.
“You are rather…mussed, Rochford,” Lady Daphne agreed. “And is that blood on your cheek, Brom? Whatever have you two been up to?”
The two men glanced at each other, and Francesca rushed to fill the silence. “They have been working at righting our carriage. It is no wonder that they are rather disheveled and battered. A wheel went into a ditch, and we overturned. Such a distressing thing!”
Mrs. Cathcart made appropriate noises of shock and dismay, but Lady Daphne looked at Francesca with narrowed eyes and said flatly, “How dreadful. I am surprised that you were not hurt.”
“It was most jarring, I can assure you,” Francesca went on blithely. “Was it not, Lady Calandra?”
“Yes, indeed,” Callie said, joining into the spirit of the story. “I have a horrid bruise on my back. But luckily there were no broken bones.” She gazed steadily into Lady Daphne’s eyes, making sure that her meaning was clear.
After a long moment of silence, Daphne said, “My. You must have had a very trying day—and it is not yet noon. How fortunate that your carriage broke down here, where my brother could help you.”
“Yes, was it not?” Francesca put in sweetly. “Lord Bromwell has been most kind to us. We have all appreciated his help. Haven’t we, Rochford?” She turned to the duke, and only those who knew her well would have caught the iron undertone in her voice.
A muscle jumped in Rochford’s jaw, but he said somewhat stiffly, “Yes. I appreciate his assistance.”
“It was my pleasure,” Bromwell added. “I am sorry that your journey was interrupted.”
“You will understand, then, that we should be on our way,” Rochford put in smoothly. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Mrs. Cathcart, but I fear you must excuse us.”
“Wherever were you going?” Lady Daphne asked. “I had thought that you were in London.”
Rochford turned his most aristocratic gaze upon her, the sort he used to stop impertinent questions, but Daphne did not look in the least intimidated. “We were going to visit friends before traveling on to Marcastle.”
“Oh, really? Who were you going to visit? Perhaps I know them,” Daphne went on.
The duke’s eyebrows rose at this, and he said shortly, “I doubt it.”
“No more questions, Daphne,” Lord Bromwell put in, and there was a harshness in his voice that his sister had never heard. “Our guests must leave now. We do not want to delay them.”
“Of course not,” Daphne agreed, casting a brilliant smile at everyone.
“I shall go out to the stables and tell the driver to bring the carriage round,” Rochford said, his gaze going to Francesca as he said it.
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” she told him, her smile cool and composed.
Rochford made a perfunctory bow to everyone and strode out of the room.
“If you ladies will excuse us, Callie and I would like to freshen up a bit before we leave,” Francesca said, going over to loop her arm through Callie’s.
The two of them smiled at the other women and left the room. Callie carefully avoided looking at Bromwell, afraid that something of what had happened between them would show in her face. She and Francesca went up the staircase, Francesca’s arm keeping Callie to a slower pace.
When they reached the top of the staircase, out of sight of those below, Francesca released her arm, and Callie sagged against the wall.
“Oh, Francesca,” she whispered.
Francesca shook her head and led her farther down the hallway. “Do you have a bag or anything?” she asked quietly.
Callie nodded, answering her in the same hushed voice, “Yes, it’s in here.”
She thought in that instant of what had happened in that room the night before, and a blush stained her cheeks. Brom’s discarded clothes were still scattered about the floor.
“I will get it,” she said quickly, and hurried into the room.
She was back in a moment, carrying her bag. “How will we explain this? Perhaps I should just toss it out the window or stuff it in a closet here.”
Francesca shook her head. “We shall brazen it out. That is usually the best policy.”
She took the bag from Callie and started down the stairs. About halfway down, she began in a carrying voice, “I am so glad, Callie, that we thought to bring in one of my bags. It is so difficult to put oneself in order without one’s brush and hairpins. Do not you agree?”
“Yes, very much,” Callie agreed, hiding a smile. Trust Francesca.
“This is such a charming abode, Lord Bromwell,” Francesca went on as they stepped into the foyer, not giving anyone else time to speak. “Has it always been in your family?”
“It is my sister’s,” Bromwell said. “It belonged to her late husband.”
“Ah, I see.” Francesca turned toward Daphne. “How kind of you, Lady Swithington, to lend it to him. But, then, you are always thinking of others.”
The gaze Daphne turned on Francesca was full of venom, but Francesca merely smiled at her and turned to Callie. “We had best be on our way, lest the duke grow impatient.” She cast a droll look toward Mrs. Cathcart, adding, “Men so dislike having their plans interrupted, I have found. Do you not agree, Mrs. Cathcart?”
“Indeed, Lady Haughston,” the other woman replied. “That is invariably the way. I am sorry to see you leave so soon, before we have had a chance to chat, but I quite understand.”
“Just let me get my pelisse, and we will be out of your way,” Francesca said, and walked back through the house to the kitchen.
She returned a moment later, carrying her reticule and wearing a dark blue pelisse over her dress. Callie quickly snatched up her cloak from the bench where Brom had dropped it the evening before, and the two women turned toward the door.
“I will walk you out,” Lord Bromwell said, coming up beside them.
“There is no need,” Callie murmured, forcing herself to look at him and hoping that there was nothing in her face that reflected the emotions whirling around inside her.
“I insist,” he said shortly, stopping all argument, and offered her his arm.
Just looking at his face made her want to smile and weep, all at once. She wanted to reach up and soothe his cheek where Rochford’s blow had cut him. She ached to kiss his lips one last time and to throw her arms around him. Tears burned at the backs of her eyes. But here in front of the others, she could do none of the things she wanted to. For all their sakes, she must keep up the charade they had started. All she could do was smile politely and take his arm, as if he were nothing more than an acquaintance.
They bade goodbye to the other two women. Mrs. Cathcart was clearly quite pleased at their encounter, for she was not one who normally moved in the elite circle that Lady Haughston and the Lilles family occupied. Lady Swithington appeared far less pleased. The smile she gave them looked as though it might break her face, and the blue eyes above it were charged with resentment. Callie’s feelings toward her were, frankly, quite as unfriendly, and her nod and farewell to the woman were as brief as possible.
They walked out the front door, leaving Lady Swithington and Mrs. Cathcart behind. Callie was supremely aware of Bromwell’s large body beside her; her hand trembled a little on his arm. Francesca’s carriage was emerging from the barn, the duke walking beside it, and Francesca began to move toward it, discreetly leaving Callie alone with Lord Bromwell for a moment.
“Callie, I—” he began.
“No, don’t, please,” she said in a choked voice, turning her face up to gaze at him. She was afraid that she would begin to cry, but she had to take a last look at him. Deep inside, where the cold, hard knot in her chest resided, she knew that she would not see him again.
Despite what his sister had done, she feared that he would never turn his back on Daphne. She was his flesh and blood, whereas Callie was…indeed, she did not even know what she was to the man. They had shared a night of incredible passion, but he had said no words of love or commitment. And she was the sister of a man he had despised for years, a man with whom he had been exchanging punches less than an hour ago.
“I must stay and talk to Daphne,” he told her.
“I know.” She turned away. Her brother was watching them as he walked toward them. She could not talk any longer to Brom. She was too near tears, and if Sinclair saw a tearful goodbye, she was afraid that all Francesca’s inventive story-weaving would be for naught. And the one thing that she absolutely could not bear was for the two men she loved to fight each other again.
“Callie, wait, do not go yet,” Bromwell said, starting to reach for her.
“No. Pray, do not.” Callie looked at him. She knew her eyes were welling with tears, but she could not help it. “I must go. Goodbye, Brom.”
She closed her mouth firmly, swallowing the rest of the words that fought to surge up out of her: I love you.
Callie turned and hurried toward the carriage door. She saw with gratitude that Francesca had gone up to Sinclair, so she was able to walk past him and get into the carriage without his looking at her or speaking to her.
The duke saw his sister walk past, but his attention was all on Francesca at the moment. He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her, then nodded toward the team pulling her coach.
“I found the driver inside rubbing down the horses. They look rather, um, bedraggled, shall we say, for having spent the night in the stables.”
“Odd,” Francesca commented lightly. “Of course, they are not my horses. We had to change on the drive up, but still, my coachman is generally quite good at taking care of the animals. Perhaps he was tired and fell asleep as soon as we arrived. I know I did.”
“Did you?” The duke’s gaze was penetrating.
Francesca gazed back at him unflinchingly. “Yes, of course, I did. Why else should I say it? You have only to ask your sister. The hunting lodge is small, so she and I were forced to share a bedchamber.”
He gazed at her for a long moment, then gave a small nod. “Very well. Let us go before that blasted woman decides to come out here and plague us with more questions.”
Rochford handed Francesca up into the carriage and strode off to mount his horse, still tied to a post by the driveway. Francesca sat down in the coach beside Callie, turning to her immediately.
“Are you all right, my dear?” she asked, reaching out to take Callie’s hand.
Callie nodded, but when she reached up to wipe the tears from her eyes, Francesca noticed.
“Are you certain? You may tell me anything, you know. I promise you that no one will ever hear of it.”
“There is nothing to tell,” Callie said in a low voice and summoned up a smile. She did not realize how very unconvincing it was.
“Very well, then, you needn’t,” Francesca assured her. “We shall talk of something else, shall we?”
Callie nodded, but then, as if she could not hold it in, she exclaimed, “Oh, Francesca! I love him!”
She had realized it last night when she had looked into Brom’s eyes and known that he was telling her the truth. In trusting him, believing him, she had given him her heart.
“And he will never ask me to marry him,” Callie went on. “I know it.”
“Are you certain?” Francesca asked. “Surely he must realize that his sister arranged that scene. Not only putting you in a compromising position, but making sure that Rochford would arrive and find you that way! And then walking in at that exact moment, with the worst gossip in London in tow. Even I was astonished at the depth of her dishonesty, and I have despised her for years.”
“I know he realizes it, but he does not want to believe badly of her. He is very close to her. He owes her a great deal, he believes. He talked to me last night about how she raised him after his mother died, about how horrid their father was and how she protected Brom from him. No matter what she did, I am not sure that he could break with her. Even if he did, how could he marry the sister of a man whom he has hated for so long? He was beginning to have his doubts about her story about Sinclair. I could see that. But he does not want to believe that she lied to him.”
“She has an amazing ability to deceive men,” Francesca said with a touch of bitterness. “Still, love is a very powerful thing.”
“I did not say that he loved me, only that I loved him,” Callie replied, and tears began to stream down her cheeks. She did not bother to wipe them away.
“I have seen the way he looks at you,” Francesca pointed out.
“That is desire, not love,” Callie retorted. “He has never said he loves me. And I fear that I will never even see him again.”
Her last words ended on a choked sob, and she began to cry in earnest. Francesca wrapped her arm around Callie’s shoulders and pulled her close. Callie rested her head on Francesca’s shoulder and let her tears come.