Barbara Pierce (3 page)

Everod stooped down and snatched the decanter off the floor before Ramscar could. He poured more brandy into Fayne’s glass. At the earl’s silent command, he filled that glass, too.

“A toast,” Everod announced, holding the decanter up. “To the duke. May we all be so fortunate.” He wobbled slightly as he brought the rim of the decanter to his firm lips and swallowed.

Cadd punched Everod in the arm, causing him to take a step back to keep his balance. “Arse! Have some bloody respect.”

“Hands off.” The viscount sneered, his pride bruised because Cadd had caught him unawares. The pair had a precarious friendship that usually erupted into violence at the least provocation. “I meant no disrespect. The duke was a fine gent. I’m sorry that he’s dead an’ all.” He nodded at
Fayne while he made his apology, his amber gaze eloquent with unspoken emotion. “I was referring to
how
he died, not that he’s dead. The others might not have the bollocks to speak it aloud, but there isn’t a man in London who doesn’t wish that death came to him so delightfully wrapped.”

Damn, the duchess was not going to be pleased if that particular rumor reached her ears. The family had taken steps to keep the last hours of the duke’s life private. “I do not know what you mean,” Fayne smoothly lied. “My father died because his heart failed him.”

“Come on, Carlisle, don’t be coy,” Everod said, refusing to back down. “Rumor has it that the old man was enjoying his mistress when his pump failed him. Oh, don’t give me that look. Honestly, you should have realized that you couldn’t silence everyone in the know. Gossip like this is too irresistible to contain.”

“Most of us have the sense to keep our bloody opinions to ourselves the eventide of the funeral,” Cadd muttered, pointedly glancing at Fayne. “Especially when Carlisle, here, is within arm’s length.”

Fayne’s green eyes glittered with suppressed humor. While his family might be considered a trifle odd, he doubted his mother would forgive him if he were the instigator of a fight this evening. He could not deny the need for violence humming through him. Since he had learned of his father’s death, he had been edgy and hurting, a veritable powder keg of dark fury just waiting for a proper ignition.

“Everod might on occasion be an uncouth oaf,” Fayne said, ignoring the viscount’s growling protest. “Regardless, I agree with him. I cannot imagine an ending more befitting the Duke of Solitea than to expire betwixt the soft thighs of his mistress.” He refused to confirm or deny the
ton’
s speculation.

He lifted his glass in the direction of his father’s portrait and saluted him. His friends made concurring toasts after
him. Fayne glanced down at his hand, fiercely concentrating on the brandy in his glass as the unwelcome moisture filled his eyes. A Carlisle male never succumbed to the weakness of tears. If his eyes burned, it was due to the lack of proper ventilation. There were at least a hundred candles lighting up the room, fouling the air.

“The duke certainly had an eye for beauty, and I am sure his last mistress was no exception,” Ramscar said, his expression becoming thoughtful. “Speaking of beauties, did any of you meet Lady Kilby Fitchwolf?”

Fayne choked on his brandy. He wondered if his friend’s high opinion would change if he learned that Lady Kilby Fitchwolf was the lady his father had dallied with the night he had died. He grimaced.
Not likely.
“No, I have not had the pleasure.”

That was not quite true, but it was all Fayne was willing to reveal to his friends. While he had not been formally introduced to the lady as Ramscar had been, he had seen her.

He had also met the lady’s incompetent chaperone, Lady Quennell. The night his father had died, Fayne had listened to the viscountess’s tearful plea for the Carlisles to quash the impending scandal by not revealing the details of the duke’s death or his lover’s name. He did not give a damn about Lady Kilby Fitchwolf’s impressionable age, beauty, or reputation. He had swiftly agreed to remain silent on the matter because he did not want his mother to suffer any humiliating comparisons by the
ton.
It was not the duchess’s fault some ambitious chit parted her thighs too easily, and that her reckless husband was unable to control his baser instincts.

Unaware of Fayne’s inner turmoil, Ramscar continued. “I was briefly introduced to her several weeks ago at a card party. I believe she had mentioned that she was enjoying her first season.”

Fayne had been surprised that his father had bothered
with Lady Kilby Fitchwolf. Lady Quennell had mentioned that her charge was nineteen. The lady looked even younger. It was unlike his father to choose a lady so young or innocent if the viscountess’s assertions could be believed.

“Perhaps she was the young minx amusing your father in bed?” Everod interjected with a salacious wink.

Leave it to his friend with indelicate accuracy to hit upon the truth.

Ramscar grimaced at the viscount. “Highly doubtful, I say. Solitea was not the sort to seduce chits barely out of the nursery. When you encounter Lady Kilby Fitchwolf, you will understand how absurd your suggestion is.”

Outward appearances are sometimes deceiving,
he thought, wishing he could warn his friend not to be fooled by the lady’s air of innocence. Fayne was not really surprised by his friends’ speculation about his father’s death. No one in his family doubted the duke had indeed bedded the lady before perishing on her fine carpet.

For generations, the dukes of Solitea were notorious for their illicit love affairs, and his father had not been the exception. While it was apparent to Fayne that his father had adored his duchess, marriage had not discouraged his sire from seeking his pleasures outside the marriage bed.

The duchess had tolerated her husband’s inconstancy with amazing stoicism; although, over the years, there had been one or two of his former mistresses who had noticeably distressed her. Fayne could not blame her for finding solace in the arms of her young lovers. The duke had been aware of his duchess’s affairs, but had not attempted to prohibit her from her discreet dalliances. His sister, Fayre, had always been troubled by their parents’ odd, albeit amicable, arrangement. Fayne, on the other hand, had been totally indifferent.

Perhaps it was because he had understood his father’s reckless inclinations, and that of his predecessors, in a
manner his sister never could. The Carlisle males who claimed the Solitea title were cursed, or at least seemed to be. Family, friends, and the curious had whispered about the Solitea curse for generations.

The origins of this supposed curse were obscured by the passage of time. Some conjectured that amour propre was the family’s sin. The more imaginative wondered if a vengeful mistress had summoned the dark powers of hell and cursed the Solitea heirs. Fayne did not believe in curses. However, he could not ignore the unpleasant fact that the males who inherited the Solitea title always seemed to die young. When a man grew up believing he was destined to die before his time, that man was driven to eagerly embrace all the pleasures his brief life offered—and arrogantly claim the forbidden temptations that were not rightfully his. For his father, Fayne would have definitely categorized the Lady Kilby Fitchwolf as a forbidden temptation.

“My father rarely discriminated against youth,” Fayne said, feeling confident he had buried his sorrow so deep, it did not crack the calm façade he had adopted for the ball. “Nevertheless, I do concur with Ram. Despoiling innocence was not a sport the duke willingly indulged.”

Lady Kilby Fitchwolf had appeared on the surface the epitome of innocence. Days before the duke had seduced her, Fayne had noticed the lady from afar. She was a tiny, slender little creature with long black hair that she had pinned up in an elaborate twist of braids. While the distance separating them had prevented him from noting the color of her eyes, it had not diminished her fresh-faced loveliness. The evening he had first glimpsed her in the crowd, she had been speaking animatedly to a female companion. Fayne, much to his chagrin, had wasted most of the night searching the crowd for glimpses of the enchanting vixen wearing the light green dress.

Even though Lady Kilby intrigued him, he had not
sought out an introduction. Despite all rumors to the contrary, Fayne had no interest in seducing young innocents who dreamed of marriage. He preferred dallying with ladies who had already been relieved of their maidenhead. The temporary lust he felt for the lady in green could be contained, or favored on a more skillful companion, if his needs overrode his common sense. Lady Kilby Fitchwolf was definitely the kind of lady who was off limits for a jaded rake like him. Or so Fayne thought, until he had learned his father had died in the lady’s bedchamber.

“Fitchwolf,” Everod mused aloud. “I believe I have met the lady. She is the dew-faced infant who has a fondness for silver-headed gents. I partnered her in a country dance and barely got three words out of her. Later, I noticed her chatty as a magpie with Lord Ordish. By God, the man is old enough to be her sire!”

Poor Everod. It was apparent he could still not comprehend why the lady had resisted his charms.

“Perhaps she is just particular,” Cadd retorted, rubbing his upper lip with the side of his hand to conceal their bawdy discourse from the other guests. “I wager, five minutes alone in my company and I could convince her that she has been judging a man by the wrong head!”

Everod snorted in derision. “Braggart! I have unfortunately laid eyes on your less than impressive equipage, and I must say if the lady requires a stallion, she would do well to choose me. The ladies practically swoon when I mount them.”

The smile Cadd gave the viscount was lacking both humor and warmth. “Their swooning probably has more to do with your forgetfulness to bathe, rather than the size of your rod!”

Fayne shook his head and his green eyes connected with Ramscar’s commiserating gaze. He was relieved to drop the subject of Lady Kilby Fitchwolf. How fortunate that Cadd could never resist an opportunity to ignite Everod’s
temper. If someone did not intercede, the pair was likely to come to blows. Their disagreement was already drawing attention from the other guests.

“Are you prepared to wager on it?” Without breaking eye contact, Everod aggressively stepped closer to the marquess. “A thousand pounds says I can bed any lady here of your choosing.”

There was a challenging glint in Cadd’s black gaze as he replied softly, “Anyone? Are you certain about this, ol’ man? Your arrogance will leave you shamefaced and a thousand pounds poorer come morning, if I accept.”

Belatedly realizing that some boundaries were required, Everod said, “The lady must be out of the nursery and not older than my blessed mother.” He hesitated, and then added thunderously, “And no bloody relatives!”

Cadd provokingly bumped the viscount with his chest. “Perhaps you should summon a footman and order a bath before I accept this wager?” The taunt provoked Everod into raising his fist.

His friends were idiots. They were definitely foxed to be placing wagers at the duke’s memorial ball. Fayne cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. I know I must be drunker than I thought when I sound like the responsible one of us all. However, we are garnering nasty looks from several of the guests. I assure you, the duchess will lynch us all if one of you decides to throw a punch. Do me a favor and leash your damned tempers.”

Normally, his friends’ competitiveness and excessive bickering did not trouble him. There had been a time or two when he had deliberately prodded them toward violence just for amusement’s sake. Fayne privately acknowledged that he was in an odd mood this evening. His father’s death was a logical explanation. Deep down, nevertheless, he sensed his father’s sudden death was merely an excuse for the ennui that had been plaguing him lately rather than the source.

“Damn.”

The oath came from Ramscar. The earl was not referring to their friends’ argument. His attention was focused on the entrance to the drawing room. Fayne tilted his head to the side to see who had caught the man’s regard. His sister, Fayre, stood in the middle of the threshold with her back to the room. She cast him a frantic glance, before turning back to face the source of her agitation.
Who the devil is she arguing with?
Fayne wondered, frowning. Her arms were outspread as if she were trying to prevent someone from entering the room.

Fayne’s curiosity was swiftly satisfied when a gentleman appeared in front of Fayre. The man brushed her arm aside and stepped into the room. Fayne recognized Lord Hollensworth. Four years older than Fayne, the baron had little time or patience for polite society. He preferred farming to politics. Unfortunately, Fayne knew precisely what had prompted the gentleman to leave the countryside.

Unerringly, the baron’s harsh gaze fixed on Fayne’s bemused one. Ignoring his sister’s order to halt, Lord Hollensworth marched toward Fayne and his friends. Instead of following, his sister ran off in the opposite direction. Since Fayre had not been able to reason with their unwelcome guest, Fayne assumed she went to find her husband, Maccus Brawley. Summoning Brawley was hardly necessary. The odds were in Fayne’s favor. It stung that his sister had so little faith in his abilities.

“Good evening, Hollensworth,” Fayne said casually, when the baron shoved Cadd and Everod out of his way. His friends had deliberately stepped in Hollensworth’s path to impede his approach. Whatever their personal differences, the two friends had put their quarrel aside for Fayne’s sake. “You have journeyed far to pay your respects to my father.” If the baron was embarrassed by his ill-timed appearance, he bore it well. Rage and the need for retribution were overriding any sense of civility.

Vance Mitchell, Lord Hollensworth, looked out of place in the drawing room. Several inches taller than Fayne, he had a physique that was the product of the heavy labor his lands demanded of him. Heavily muscled, his wide shoulders appeared to stretch the fabric of his coat beyond its capacity. His face was just as harsh and square as his imposing figure. He did not bother to remove his hat and tufts of pale blond hair stuck out like hay over his ears. The baron’s hazel eyes narrowed menacingly on Fayne.