Barbara Pierce (6 page)

As a boy, he had practiced swordplay and self-defense with similar primitive weapons. With practice he had gradually moved on to the foil, épée, and saber to refine his deadly skills in the fighting arts. For the sake of protection, Fayne still practiced with ash rods when sparring. Be that as it may, in the right hands, an ash stick could be just as lethal as a honed blade, especially if the end of the rod split during a match. He removed two wicker pots from the phaeton’s box and tossed them at his friend.

Ramscar caught them and chuckled. “One might say the same about you, Solitea.”

Fayne took pride in not visibly jolting at his new title. The dukedom and all its perquisites were chafing him like an ill-fitting collar. His father was the Duke of Solitea. Not him. Claiming the title bothered him more than he would ever reveal to anyone.

He discarded the woolen wrappings in the box. “Why? Because I have refused every challenge delivered by Hollensworth and his seconds? I thought myself rather tolerant considering the circumstances.”

Nor was he a fool. Fayne sensed that if he had accepted the baron’s challenge, the odds would have been against him that the duel would have been conducted fairly. He could just imagine Hollensworth’s pistol discharging prematurely, leaving Fayne the victim of an unfortunate accident. If the baron succeeded in killing Fayne, his triumph would be short-lived. Ramscar, Cadd, and Everod would make certain of that.

“Tolerant?” Ramscar gaped at him, his expression a mixture of bemusement and exasperation. “Your father has been dead for how long? A fortnight?”

Fayne cleared his throat. “Twenty days to be precise.”

Ramscar dismissed the correction with a wave of his hand. “In that time, you have spent most of those nights blinding yourself with drink.”

Now his friend was being insulting. “There is a difference between drinking and being drunk, Ram. I have had the distinct pleasure of being both.”

“You have been out every night since his death,” his friend said, determined to speak his thoughts aloud.

His actions were hardly criminal. He rarely stayed at home in the evenings. The duke’s death had not altered Fayne’s habits. “You should know, since most nights you were by my side.”

“Someone had to look after you,” his friend retorted, unmoved by Fayne’s misplaced humor. “Regardless, having Cadd, Everod, and me close at hand has not kept you out of trouble.”

“I recovered my losses,” he said stiffly. Two nights after his father had been laid to rest at Westminster Abbey, Fayne had settled down for some deep play at Moirai’s Lust, a gaming hell with a well-earned reputation for its tantalizingly plump purses and the notorious losses incurred by many of the establishment’s noble patrons. A
night of drinking and careless betting had cost Fayne what most considered a staggering fortune. Indifferent, he had returned to the gaming hell the following evening. By morning he had recouped his losses and had added a hundred thousand pounds to it. “My actions hardly qualify as reprehensible. In fact, I recall a night or two when your losses hurt worse than your sore head the next morning.”

“Carlisle,” Ramscar said, briefly forgetting Fayne’s new title. The lapse of protocol hinted at the extent of his concern. “Your behavior of late has been oddly volatile, even by your standards. You have refused Hollensworth’s challenges, and yet you have fought four duels in the past eight days over trivial affairs.”

Ah, this was the source of his friend’s upset. Ramscar’s father had died from a wound he had acquired while dueling. Although the man had fought several duels himself, it was not a resolution he accepted lightly. For that reason alone, Fayne had asked Cadd and Everod to be his seconds.

“The gentlemen who issued the challenges hardly thought them trivial,” Fayne said mildly. He selected one of the ash rods and extended it outward, checking the length for imperfections. Finding it acceptable, Fayne switched it for another.

“Lord Pengree accused you of kicking his favorite hound.”

Ramscar had been listening to the gossips. “Utterly false. The bitch attempted to urinate on my boot. I simply encouraged her to move.” He had not believed the audacity of the dog or her owner for calling him out over the matter. Pengree was lucky Fayne had decided before their appointment to shoot over the man’s shoulder instead of shooting his offensive animal.

“And what of Mr. Crynes? What was his transgression?”

“Crynes is a coward and an opportunist. He and I have
been tossing veiled insults back and forth for years. It is no secret that I have challenged him in the past. Instead of facing me on a dew-drenched common, he has always sent his seconds with his apologies. When he learned that I had been refusing Hollensworth’s challenges, Crynes erroneously interpreted my refusal as a sign of weakness and leaped at the chance to defeat me.”

“The bullet the surgeon removed from Crynes’s thigh should discourage him from making the same mistake again.” Ramscar seized the stick, stilling Fayne’s movements. “And Mr. Nicout?”

“Like Crynes, Nicout had hopes of revenging himself over a past misdeed. He has never forgiven me for claiming his prized stallion in order to settle an old debt between us.”

Ramscar scowled in puzzlement. “I recall the incident. The bargain was fair and not uncommon.”

“True. My offense was not my claim on the stallion, but in selling the animal immediately at Tats. Nicout felt my haste in ridding myself of the beast was an insult to his refined taste in horseflesh.”

There was a flash of humor in Ramscar’s gaze. “I assume he was not aware of the outcome of your exchange with Crynes?”

Nicout had arrived at their appointment, too confident in the outcome. Fayne had not even bothered trying to persuade him to reconsider. “If he was unconvinced, I am certain the festering hole in his shoulder is proof that my aim is as accurate as my assessment of his inferior taste in horseflesh.” Seconds after Fayne had discharged his pistol, the man had dropped to the ground and howled in agony. Nicout’s downfall had been a pitiful sight.

His friend sighed. “I suppose Lord Burlton’s reasons for challenging you were just as ridiculous?”

Fayne suddenly grinned, revealing a slight dimple in his
left cheek. “Well, actually Burlton had every right to be a trifle upset with me for bedding his sister. He claimed I had seduced an innocent and demanded satisfaction if I did not marry the chit.”

“Not likely,” the earl said grimly, outraged on his friend’s behalf. “You abhor dallying with innocents and the sticky entanglements of their virginity. I assume the lady was not the innocent Lord Burlton claimed?”

Ramscar was correct. Fayne avoided young virgins like other gentlemen shunned dockside whores. Fortunately, the dear lady had confessed her experience in carnal matters when he had made it clear that her virtue held no appeal to him. The remainder of the evening he had spent with Miss Burlton had been exhausting and exceedingly pleasurable. “Thankfully, no. It was only later that I learned he had made similar demands of two other gents. Afterward, I was only too happy to shoot him.”

“Rightly so,” his friend agreed with vehemence. “Did you hit him in the shoulder or the leg?”

Fayne gestured with his hands, conveying his regret. “My aim was a bit high. The bullet grazed his head. I have been assured he will make a full recovery.”

“This business with Hollensworth has placed you in a vulnerable position. Until you face him, every gentleman who has felt slighted by you will be tempted to call you out.”

This was precisely why Fayne had hoped his encounter with the baron would end the hostility between them. Nevertheless, he was not squeamish about shooting idiots if they provoked him. The duchess and his sister, on the other hand, had some peculiar reservations about how he resolved his conflicts. Fayne doubted he would ever comprehend the female mind.

“If this current trend continues, a dawn appointment with me might become as coveted as a voucher for Almack’s.”

“How can you make light of the situation, Carlisle? Hollensworth is running all over London, vowing to spill your blood, and you have a dozen or more fools who are vying for a chance to precede him since you keep agreeing to these ridiculous duels.”

“Perhaps I am fated to die one morning on the commons. The Solitea men are known for their dramatic demises. Just ask my father,” he quipped, his humor laced with bitterness. “Oh, I forgot. You cannot.” Fayne moved away from Ramscar. He did not want to talk about his father with anyone. A part of him wondered if he would ever be able to think of the duke without feeling the rending pain beneath his breast.

Even now, his father’s deep voice resonated in his head:

“The males of our family are cursed, Tem. The Solitea name will grant your wildest desires. The title and the fortune backing it gives you power. Men will despise you for it. Countless women will beg you to fuck them in hopes of securing a portion of it for themselves. But such good fortune exacts a hefty price. Enjoy the bounty and sire your heir while you can, my son, because no Carlisle male who assumes the Duke of Solitea title lives long enough to count the silver in his hair.”

His father had often mentioned what many had called the Solitea curse. The duke had not been a superstitious man, but apparently he believed the Carlisle males were cursed. While many might have accused him of squandering his wealth and talents on the frivolous, his father had lived his life on his own terms. At age fifty-four, he had lived longer than most of the heirs to the dukedom. He had even collected a full head of silver hair that he claimed no other male in the family had achieved.

The duke’s longevity had supported Fayne’s personal belief that there was no Solitea curse. Over the years, he
had reasoned out that the Carlisle males were the victims of their own recklessness. The notion of a curse excused the family for generations of self-indulgence and excess. This knowledge did not mean that Fayne considered himself any better than his predecessors. He could be selfish, obsessed, and violent when provoked, and easily distracted by the superficial pleasures of vice and sin. His temperament had been cast at birth and encouraged by his family. Fayne had grown up daring death to claim him before his time.

Ramscar caught up with him. “This is about the curse, is it not?” The warning in Fayne’s lethal glance sideways made him hesitate before he asked, “I thought you viewed the Solitea curse as histrionic prattle?”

Fayne halted and tapped the length of the one of the ash rods against his shoulder in agitation. “I do. I always have.”

“Then why are you behaving slightly more cracked than I usually credit your volatile nature?” his friend demanded, his irritation showing. “The risks you’ve been taking by accepting those duels—” He gestured broadly at the pedestrians and tents around them. “And now this elaborate staging of a fight with Hollensworth, when you vowed never to accept his challenge.”

“I have no intention of dueling a gentleman grieving his brother’s suicide,” Fayne said plainly.

“So you say,” Ramscar shouted back. “And yet you are preparing to face the man with a weapon in your hands.”

“Consider it merely a demonstration of skill.”

“Then you are undeniably mad. The second Hollensworth has a stick in his grasp, he will do his best to crack open your skull.”

Fayne would have been disappointed if the man did not give it his best effort. “Thank you, my friend, for your confidence in my skill in the fighting arts. As it happens, I plan on walking away from this match relatively unscathed.”

The earl did not seem to hear him. “I vow, your actions of late seem to be taunting death itself.”

“Oh, without a doubt, Hollensworth and Death will both try to leave their mark,” Fayne said, his clear green eyes revealing his unquestionably earnest conviction that he was speaking the truth. “Unfortunately for them, they will both fail this day. I am not ready to die.”

“Accept the inevitable, Lord Darknell, and leave us,” Kilby said in chilling tones. “Your presence is no longer required.” She tilted her chin defiantly and sniffed in disdain. “Or desired.”

She was also lying, not that she foolishly planned on revealing such a weakness to the viscount.
Oh, the impertinence of the man!
How could he refuse such a small request? But he had, blast him. Instead of giving up and returning to her carriage as Darknell had expected, Kilby had seized Lyssa by the wrist and practically dragged the poor woman through the crowd while she sought out Lord Ursgate.

Kilby was not acquainted with the baron. Her interest in the gentleman was purely speculative. She had noted his name in one of her mother’s letters before Archer had snatched the papers from her grasp.

Was the man her father?

Kilby muttered a very unladylike expletive. She was chasing a phantom. This was ludicrous. She had had a father.
A wonderful, loving father! If Archer’s plan was to torment her, he was far more brilliant than she had credited him.

Nonetheless, they were already here. What harm could be done if she just took a look at the gentleman?

It had been Lord Ordish who had discreetly pointed the gentleman out to her one evening, when she had casually mentioned that he had been acquainted with her mother. If the earl had been curious about her interest in Lord Ursgate, he had been too polite to ask. Besides, it was hardly a secret that Lady Quennell was seeking a husband for her. Kilby was immensely grateful for the earl’s assistance—
unlike
a certain gentleman whose name she refused to utter.

“Damn it all, Fitchwolf!” Darknell cursed and charged up behind them. “Be sensible. This is for your own good.”

Breathless, Lyssa was also beginning to tire of their fierce pace. Twisting and testing Kilby’s firm grip on her wrist, she said, “I was not aware you had signed us up for a race, Kilby. For the next one, I am insisting on a horse.”

Full of remorse, Kilby halted abruptly, face pinched with concern. “Forgive me, Nunn. It is not fair that I have placed you in the middle of this. I just—”

Darknell grabbed hold of Lyssa’s free arm to ensure they would not escape again. He glared at Kilby. “Stubborn chit! Put aside your harebrained notions for once, and use the good sense I know you possess.” He took a deep breath and tried to lessen the anger in his voice. “You and Nunn cannot be traipsing through the fairgrounds unescorted. There are undesirable aspects to these amusements that only invite trouble.”