Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (12 page)

As it turned out, Olivia Reynolds appeared to be a prophetess.

The only thing dampening spirits at the Stevenson’s anniversary party was the Earl of Northwick. Not one woman was available to dance with him that night. He was a bit of dirty lamp oil dropped into a pristine bowl of water. No one could leave his side fast enough.

“Do you suppose a communication was sent out through the female spy network that no one was to speak to us tonight?”

He looked up to find Harcourt bending over his shoulder. As he looked about the room with tables arranged for card playing, he noted Ashmoore and Stanley were entrenched in games of their own. It was a balm, actually, to know his friends were being snubbed as well.

“I think you are right, Marquess,” North said. “Perhaps if you take a moment and try to think like a woman, you will find a way to lure someone onto the dance floor.”

North’s elderly partner gave him a strange look across the card table.

“A private joke. Forgive me.”

The man continued to glare at him for the rest of the set, and when he could bear the man no longer, North went in search of some fresh air.

It was bitterly cold and dark on the second story balcony, so even if someone chose to glare at him, there was little chance he would see it. There was also less of a chance of interrupting couples who were intent on stealing a chilly kiss on the veranda below.

He leaned over, to see if such couples had braved the temperature, but found only a trio of women hovering with their shoulders close to keep warm. Were they mad? Why did they not find a quiet alcove inside in which to share their little secrets?

“You must place your letter beneath her potted azaleas. She will make sure it gets to The Scarlet Plumiere.”

“Do you think she will really have time to help me, what with that odious man searching for her? Perhaps she is in hiding and will not find my letter. What if someone else finds it?”

“How silly. Who would be poking around under potted plants in the middle of winter? I would think summer would be much more dangerous.”

“True! But how in the world will I recognize an azalea plant if it is not in bloom?”

Silence.

“I have not the slightest. I suppose you will have to ask a gardener.”

“I can stand it no longer. I do not care who you have to marry. It is not worth catching our death.”

A second later, the orchestra grew loud as the ballroom doors were opened, then the music cut off once more.

Potted azaleas? How many women in London had a potted azalea plant, he wondered?

Likely all.

He did not wish to get ahead of himself, but Mr. Lott thought he might have just discovered the mode of communication for the London Women’s Secret Network. And if anything could keep his friends busy while he decided how to handle The Scarlet Plumiere, it would be keeping watch on the azalea pots of
The Great City
.

He rushed back inside to find those friends and share what he had just learned. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Ash and Stanley were just emerging from the card room. A small cloud of smoke escaped with them before the door was completely closed.

“Is Harcourt inside?”

“He is not.” Stan looked around. “There. On the dance floor.”

North looked across the entry to the room beyond where their jovial friend had indeed found at least one woman willing to forget with whom the marquess had arrived. The music ended, the man grinned at them, then took his time walking the woman back to her companions. For a moment, North’s excitement was overshadowed by curiosity.

“How did you manage that?” he asked when the marquess joined them.

“I give you full credit, Northwick. You told me to try and think like a woman, and it worked.”

He would demand more details later. At the moment, he was more interested in sharing his own news.

“I have just overheard the most interesting conversation. Shall we adjourn to Ashmoore’s residence, or did you wish to enjoy a few more dances?”

“Oh, no. I have been dancing a’ plenty. Lead on.”

If he could keep his friends busy trying to track down The Plumiere, he could spend some time getting to know Miss Olivia Reynolds before Ashmoore was aware he was losing the game. If he could win her heart, his friend would not stand a chance.

***

Lord Telford passed his most difficult night yet, waking up and wandering through the house for who knew how long before his valet found him, terrified and barely clothed in the study, about to escape into the garden. In winter! The possibilities frightened her so, Livvy sat outside her papa’s door for the rest of the night. They had bundled him up nicely and convinced him he would feel more himself on the morrow. He had eventually gone to sleep, snoring late into the morning.

Livvy felt terribly guilty climbing into her own bed when she should see how her father was faring with his breakfast but was confident she was on the brink of collapsing. She was merely choosing a soft surface upon which to do so.

It was afternoon when she woke, thanks to the staff who had closed her curtains against the warmth and light of the afternoon sun. It was her father’s voice that woke her, in fact, coming from the garden. She listened closely for a moment, to hear it again, but heard another man’s voice instead.

Lord Northwick!

She flew to the curtains and flung them apart, then did the same with her terrace windows. There was no time for thought. If her father suffered another episode like the one the night before...

She burst out onto the balcony and ignored the cold.

“Stop!”

And they did. All four of them.

Her father was dressed finely, as she had not seen him in a year. His hair had been trimmed. His greatcoat made him look a bit more robust than he had been of late, and there were roses in his cheeks. Hopkins had outdone himself. And what a day to have done so—a day when more gentlemen had come calling. The old man appeared to be reveling in their attention and she sighed in relief.

To her father’s right stood Northwick, imposing as ever, wearing nothing more substantial than his morning coat, as if the chilly February air gave him a respite from the heat he emanated no matter the weather.

The man standing at her father’s left shoulder was Ashmoore. No other man could have cast such a shadow in bright sunlight. His clothes, though fine even from her vantage point, were as dark as before—grey as ashes, black as coal. He was smiling, though barely. Then he looked away.

The gardener stood to one side, looking down, shaking his head.

Northwick grinned up at her and a chill went up her spine—and another up her sleeping gown.

“We have stopped, daughter. Did you need something?” Her father called out, all smiles. He was having a very good day, it seemed. And she was missing it!

“I will be right down,” she called.

“No hurry, my dear. Do find some clothes first!”

Northwick continued to grin up at her. What could she have possibly given away? Other than the fact she had danced about with nothing on...in a nightdress he might have been able to see beneath.

Oh, dear heavens!

She screamed for Stella, then began brushing out her hair. There was no time for fashion; a chignon would have to do.

Stella ran into the room, took one look at Livvy’s face and headed for the wardrobe. She pulled out the green morning dress.

“Not warm enough.”

The blue?

“Too pretty. I do not want the man to think I am pretty.”

Stella snorted.

The peach? The peach was a fine choice. Warm. Unflattering. Perfect.

She was downstairs and headed toward her father before they had had a chance to move on. They were still standing around the potted azalea—the pot under which all her correspondence with Lady Malbury waited for her nightly message carrier. Thank heavens there was nothing beneath—unless Lady Malbury had sent a message to her!

She affixed her calmest smile and raised her brows.

“Good heavens, Father. Why are you entertaining in the cold garden this morning?” She kissed his beloved cheek.

“Lord Ashmoore, may I present my daughter, uh...”

Livvy’s heart stopped.
Please remember me, Papa.

“
Miss Olivia Reynolds. Livvy? The Earl of Ashmoore.”

The dark man moved forward and lifted her hand. She could not help but meet his gaze. She knew she was blushing over what the man might have seen before he had looked away, but she refused to be ashamed. She had been doing whatever necessary to protect her father, even if he did not currently need protecting.

Her chin went up a notch.

So did his. In fact, his lids lowered a bit as he studied her. Then he smiled. What that smiled meant, she had not the foggiest. Had he told her secret after all?

Northwick cleared his throat.

“And you remember Lord Northwick of course. He is the grandson of Alexander Birmingham, an old acquaintance. Is he still among the living, son?

“I am sorry, my lord, but he is not. I am all that’s left of my family, I am afraid.” A dark shadow seemed to move over the Earl of Northwick then, or perhaps it was just his large dark friend moving closer to him, then whispering something in the man’s ear.

Northwick shook his head and looked up. The shadow was gone. His smile returned.

“We have just been debating, Miss Reynolds, on what an azalea plant looks like in winter. Since I had planned to call on your father today, I thought to bring Ashmoore with me so we could put the question to your gardener and put the discussion to rest, as it were. Do you mind?”

“Of course I do not mind.”
The devil with the plant
. “May I ask what your business with my father involves?”

“Nothing serious, my dear, I assure you. She is awfully protective of me in my old age you know.” Her father moved forward and pulled her hand through his elbow, then patted her. It was the most wonderful feeling. “Mr. Lott just came by to tell me the latest news on The Scarlet Plumiere. He remembered my infatuation with the woman.”

Infatuation? Did her father recognize something of her mother in the way she wrote her posts?

She smiled as innocently as she could. “I am afraid I have not read the paper this morning. Perhaps he can enlighten me as well.”

Ashmoore inserted himself back into the conversation, demanding her attention, his shoulders pushing Northwick slightly behind him.

“The Scarlet Plumiere is strangely silent this morning, my lady.”

She put her hand to her throat. “Oh, I do hope nothing has happened to her.”

Northwick came around his friend and stood beside her.

“Fear not, Miss Reynolds. I promise you we are just as concerned about The Plumiere’s safety as you are.”

For some reason she was unable to tear her gaze away from Ashmoore. He seemed to be trying to communicate with his eyes alone. A strange man, to be sure.

Then suddenly, he looked away. “We have bothered these good people long enough, I think. We have satisfied our curiosity about the plant, have we not?” He moved swiftly to the pot where Juris, the gardener stood guard. “Do these azalea things thrive with wet roots, do you know? Or do they prefer the water to drain through?” He swiftly pushed the edge of the pot forward, toward Juris. The bottom came up, off its plate and Livvy could not stifle her gasp.

But there was nothing there. Nothing on the plate, at least. But beneath the plate, the smallest edge of an envelope peeked out.

She looked up at Ashmoore. He had been watching her, not the pot. Just how did this man know so many of her secrets? Perhaps he had known her identity before he overheard her conversation with Hopkins.

He glanced down, seemed to not notice the little paper from his angle, then allowed the pot to settle back into place.

Juris was unearthly pale.

“Well, man?” Ashmoore asked it kindly, but Juris jumped.

“Sorry, my lord?”

“Does the plant prefer to drain?”

“Drain? Oh. Oh, yes, my lord. Lots of water, but they do not like to soak in it.”

“Thank you. North?”

“Right. Well, we will take our leave now. No need to go back through your lovely home. We will just walk ‘round to the front.” He stepped up to her father and shook his hand. “It has been a pleasure seeing you again, Lord Telford. I so enjoyed our conversation the last time I was here.”

He turned to Livvy.

“Miss Reynolds, I beg you to reconsider my invitation to take you shopping. Not a lady in London would dare be seen with me now, especially The Scarlet Plumiere, so it stands to reason that anyone caught on my arm could not possibly be her.”

“Shopping? I think it is a splendid idea,” said her father. “Would you mind if I came along?”

For once, Livvy wished her father had not understood the conversation!