“If you stop looking at him, I’m sure Pan will lose interest in you, my lord,” Charlotte offered, her voice as bright as ever.
“Alexander, please kindly remove that feathered beast.” The duchess’s benevolent tone was marred by a quaver of barely concealed disgust.
“Listen to your mother.” Falcondale spoke with cold assurance that his words would instantly be obeyed.
Pan, however, did not give a fig for ducal commands. He fluttered down from Charlotte’s head and landed on the table. His one eye boring into Matthew’s father, he began a slow hop across the fine linen cloth.
“Not the fish course!” The Duchess of Falcondale shrieked, completely losing her decorum as Pan’s gray talons landed smack in the middle of the expensive sturgeon.
White flecks flew everywhere, but the parrot was not deterred. He continued his march toward Matthew’s father.
Lansberry gave his chair a final push and then stood. “Your Graces. My apologies but I am afraid that I must bid you both adieu. I have urgent matters that I need to attend to.”
“There is no reason for you to depart,” Falcondale said stiffly. “We will get rid of the unexpected guests, including the vermin. There is still much to discuss tonight.”
Matthew’s father did not respond. He was already bolting toward the exit. Unfortunately, he arrived at the open door just as a footman appeared carrying a huge, towering aspic. The servant tried to steady the monstrosity as he skidded to a stop. For a moment, it looked like he might succeed. But Lansberry was not so agile. He crashed into the young man. Layers of artfully arranged quail eggs and sliced vegetables quivered ominously. Then with a squelch, the entire concoction toppled over. Gelatin sprayed the room. Pan gave an excited squawk as he chased after carrot rounds that had been freed of their jelly casing. Lansberry simply fled.
The Duchess of Falcondale stood and surveyed the damage. Her stance did not seem as fluid as it normally did as she turned to Hawley. “My lord, why don’t you take Lady Charlotte for a turn about the garden? It appears it will be a while before the next dish can be served.”
Matthew’s gut clenched as he realized the duchess’s intentions. It was highly inappropriate for a man to walk alone with an unmarried miss, especially in the evening, unless he was about to offer marriage.
“I would be honored.” Hawley shot Matthew a smirk as he rose to his feet.
“In that case, Matthew and I should accompany you both.” Alexander smiled cheerfully. “We wouldn’t want to leave my sister unchaperoned.”
“Thus, I returned to civilization the same way I had reached the wilderness—by canoe. When I arrived at the mouth of the river, I traded in my paddle for a berth on Mr. Stewart’s ship and the power of sail.” Matthew bent close to Charlotte as he spoke, acutely aware of their brothers trailing behind them.
When they’d reached the garden, Charlotte had immediately grabbed his arm, leaving an irate Hawley with Alexander. Although Matthew knew this was all part of the scheme to goad the viscount into personally attacking them in his highwayman garb, Matthew still didn’t like how Charlotte was purposely courting his brother’s ire. When she’d begged Matthew to tell her about his adventures in America, he had felt the rage rising from Hawley like a palpable force.
“My baby brother is weaving fantasies,” Hawley huffed out.
Charlotte only pulled Matthew’s arm more tightly against her body—a gesture that could not be missed by Hawley, even in the gray evening light. “Let’s walk a little faster, Dr. Talbot. Hearing your stories just imbues me with vigor.”
When they’d walked a little distance from their siblings, Charlotte pretended to whisper conspiratorially to Matthew, eventhough she fully intended his brother to hear. “You are ready for the Duke of Blackglen’s ball tomorrow night, then? A certain Queen Elizabeth will be looking for her Sir Francis Drake.”
This was the final part of the trap they were laying tonight. They needed to present Hawley with the perfect opportunity to attack them. At Charlotte’s request, Lady Calliope had asked her half brother to host the masquerade. In doing so, Charlotte had created a lure that she could control and that Hawley would never pass up. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t without danger.
A burning sensation shot through Matthew’s shoulder as he was unceremoniously yanked away from Charlotte and bodily spun to face Hawley. His brother’s flint-gray gaze bore into him. The hate in it had long ago ceased to sear Matthew, but that didn’t mean he failed to recognize the warning. He’d become his brother’s target. Again.
But this time Matthew wanted the rage directed at him.
“Jesters don’t play at being pirates, Mat.” Hawley stuck his nose close to Matthew’s and said the lasttwith such violence that spittle hit Matthew’s cheeks. “You’re not going to Blackglen’s, especially dressed as the infamous Drake, and certainly not with my fiancée.”
Bitter irony filled Matthew, almost causing him to laugh. He wasn’t actually a buccaneer, but he had sailed with them. He was damn well closer to being a real pirate than Hawley was to being an actual highwayman. His brother was merely a spoiled coxcomb using a mask to terrorize.
In response to Hawley, Matthew only uttered one word. “Privateer.”
“What?” Hawley huffed out, his voice low with menace.
Matthew affected a nervous throat clearing, as he would’ve when he’d been a child vainly attempting to use his brain against Hawley’s adolescent brawn. “Sir Francis Drake had letters of marque from Queen Elizabeth, so that means he was acting withinthe law—English law, of course, not Spanish, yet still legal—and thus was not technically a rover—”
Hawley’s meaty fist closed around Matthew’s throat. “Shut up, Mat. Nobody asked for a bloody history lesson, you prig.”
Charlotte and Alexander both started to step forward, but Matthew signaled with his eyes for them to stay back. Hawley must have registered the flicker but mistook it for panic. His lips twisted into a triumphant sneer. The pressure against Matthew’s windpipe increased. “That’s right, Jester. ’Bout time you remembered your place, right under my boot heel.”
“Lord Hawley,” Charlotte said nervously, and the concern in her voice nearly wrecked Matthew. “I am sure your brother meant no harm.”
“He’s a whelp, and I don’t acknowledge him as a true sibling.” Hawley turned and smiled at Charlotte as if his words not only excused his actions but made them valiant in some twisted way. His fingers remained pressed against Matthew’s larynx as he continued talking to Charlotte in a conversational tone. “Father believes Mat is a changeling. A maid on our Scottish estate tried hanging iron tongs by his bed and did all sorts of things with eggshells—boiled water in them, sometimes milk, even made bread in them once. We asked Father if we could devise our own trials, and he showed us every book on changelings in the library. Those examinations were jolly good fun, weren’t they, Mat? Much more interesting than watching an eggshell filled with water in the hearth. Remember when you were sleeping and Henry and I stabbed your leg with a hot poker? Or the times we’d dunk you over and over in the lough? You used to cry and beg us to stop, but your fairy brethren never came to save you, did they?”
