Charles paused, clutching his side where a sharp pain had gripped him as he ran. He cursed the cold, thick air and tried to catch his breath. Perspiration clung to his face like a chilled, wet blanket.
Straightening up, he once again began to walk briskly through the streets of the French Quarter, looking desperately for any sign of the woman who had taken the baby from Adrienne.
As he searched, his mind raced with myriad thoughts. The face of his brother, Giovanni, flashed before his eyes repeatedly. Though the man was a butcher, a thief and a rogue, he was still Charles’ brother. The agony with which Robert had announced that he’d wounded Giovanni haunted Charles. He couldn’t decipher he was feeling guilt over the turn of events or fear that Giovanni was not dead, but rather lurking somewhere and waiting to exact his revenge.
Charles thought, also, of Barbara Allen. Their acquaintance had been brief, but he felt something for her that he’d never felt for another person. Certainly, she was beautiful and refined. But, still, there was more to it than just physical attraction. He was drawn to her strength and determination. What would his mother have said of such a union? Not only was Barbara married, but she was a soiled dove who had born a child out of wedlock and who sold her body to men for their pleasure. She had denounced her family, betrayed her country and stolen from the very people who only wished to help her. Was she not unlike Giovanni? However, she, unlike Charles’ brother, was eager to admit her sins and made no mistake about her knowledge of what she’d done. Certainly that was enviable. Yet, it didn’t erase to enormity of her crimes.
Charles thought, too, of Mr. Punch. The poor man—simple in his own way. Yet, he wasn’t the fool that most people took him for. Of course, Charles thought, Mr. Punch isn’t a man at all, but rather a voice and a manner affected (whether by choice or not) by the Duke of Fallbridge—another poor soul, but also possessed of a keen loyalty and affection which also inspired the same from others. A man such as Robert Halifax would not have been so devoted to a soul that was utterly devoid of sense. Nor, in fact would Charles himself, he considered. For, truly, he did feel a special loyalty to the Duke with his bifurcated personality and unusual ways.
If only, Charles wondered, if only he could find the missing child—snatch it from the grip of the woman who had stolen him and return him to the Duke of Fallbridge. Then, Charles considered as he walked into the mist, Dr. Halifax and the Duke could return to England with the boy. Surely they’d take their dedicated staff. Yes? Surely, they’d take Marjani and Gamilla and, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Halifax with them. And, Barbara. Would the Duke allow the child’s true mother to be a part of the boy’s life? If so, would he wish to take Charles? Once again in England, perhaps Barbara would be restored and her sins would melt away. Perhaps, they could be together—not as a Lady and a footman, not as a whore and a servant, but simply as two people united in making a life.
How could he think such things, he wondered. How could he dare to think?
Something caught Charles eye as he approached the river. A woman was being carried—struggling—by a dark-skinned man. “Damn this city,” Charles said aloud as he shuddered at the thought. He winced as he considered what he’d do if he found Barbara Allen in such a situation. He clenched his jaw and knew he’d kill the man for Barbara’s honor—such as it was.
And, then, as the couple grew closer, Charles saw the face of the wriggling woman and realized that it was, in fact, Barbara.
Charles’ hands curled into fists as he sprung forward.
Meanwhile, Mr. Punch—still within the body he shared with Julian, the Duke of Fallbridge, paced inside of the phantom room in front of his new acquaintance, Guignol.
“You’re ill-at-ease.” Guignol demurred.
“You think so, do you?” Punch spat. “Well, how should I feel, then? Should I be pleased as…well, pleased as me…to know that me master’s got others of us in him what’s takin’ up space and usin’ up the thoughts?”
“There’s no limit to the amount of thoughts that a man can produce. It’s not as though we need to ration them. We’re all capable of our own thoughts without sapping the Duke’s strength. If it were otherwise, would Scaramouche or Mr. Ketch or even I have been able to have dwelled amongst you undetected for all this time?”
“I don’t know, I don’t.” Punch frowned. “How many more of us are there?”
“How many emotions does one man have?” Guignol shrugged.
Punch screeched and waved his hands in the air in frustration. “Again with the questions! I’m askin’ the questions. You’re answerin’! Here, you’re supposed to be the rational one, ain’t ya? Is that what you consider steady and thoughtful? Is that how a body is sensible? By not answerin’ questions, only askin’ em?”
“How else are we to think if not by asking questions. So few questions have one answer that it definite. Most questions desire further investigation and that passion can only be quenched by exploring them further.”
Punch sighed. “I don’t like you.”
“I didn’t expect that you would.” Guignol smiled. “Nor is it necessary that you do.”
“How many of us are there?” Punch repeated slowly and pointedly.
“The number is variable.” Guignol shook his head thoughtfully. “We come when needed. Just as you were seemingly unaware of my presence, perhaps I am unaware of the existence of others. Perhaps others have not been born yet, and perhaps others have died before my creation and they’re just waiting to be resurrected.”
“See this.” Punch asked, pointing to his curving cap.
“I do.” Guignol nodded.
“What color is it?” Punch smirked.
“Red.” Guignol replied.
“See, there’s a question with one answer.”
“Is it?” Guignol grinned. “How many names have you in your language for red? How many in mine? How do we know it’s red? A blind man would not know.”
“You are…” Punch began ferociously. “You’re just. Oh! I don’t know. You’re infuriating, you are. I hate you.”
“Then, if you hate me, Mr. Punch, make me go away. But, if you do, there will be a severe price to pay.”
“I’ll take me chances.” Punch grumbled.
“Is that advisable?” Guignol asked. “If I’m gone, will another less desirable force take my place? We must continue to think of the consequences.”
“Listen to me, you long-haired Frenchman,” Punch snapped. “I want to know where me master is. I want you out of here and I want you to take Scaramouche and Jack Ketch with you. Me master and I were doin’ fine when it was just the two of us what were sharin’ the body.”
“Was it ever just the two of you?” Guignol asked.
“Sure it were!” Punch growled.
“Let’s consider for a moment what that would be. Should His Grace’s mind be restored what have you? Anxiety. With just the two of you, what have you? Anxiety and bravado? Is that a wise marriage?”
“Be gone!” Punch screamed.
And, as instructed, Guignol disappeared.
Punch nodded and looked around, then, he began to panic. “Wait!” Punch called out. “Guignol! Where’s me master?”
Did you miss Chapters 1-288? If so, you can read them here.
