Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (2 page)

Monday evening all the most eligible bachelors currently in London, Torreys and Whigs alike, gathered for the lottery on the second floor of White’s Gentlemen’s Club. Corralling such a group was the unattainable dream of every match-making momma of the
ton,
but this was no time to have a woman about.

Of course the younger bachelors were excluded from entering their names; it would have been unbelievably cruel to expect the more innocent among them to participate. North and his friends had deduced that if the winner, or loser rather, were over the age of thirty, there was a better chance the chap deserved his fate in some way. Those young men who had not received invitation were in attendance of course. It would be too good a show to miss.

“I wish we would have been able to do this more privately,” Stanley murmured next to North. “There’s not a chance of keeping this a secret with so many witnesses.”

“Sorry, Stanley.” Ash stood to the other side of
Viscount F
. “You came to us for help and this was the best we could think of on short notice and tall whiskeys. I am rather regretting it myself.”

North was nauseous, but for a reason all his own. The suggestion of a lottery had come from his own tongue and now his friends were in jeopardy of paying the price. His mind raced for a way to stop the madness, as it had been racing all day, since he had awakened with a pain in his head and a piece of parchment in his hand. It was nothing less than a copy of the missive he’d sent to many of the gentlemen present—a call to arms.

And the fools had come.

He could tell them it was simply a grand joke, but judging by the sober faces before him, they were in no mood to believe it. And considering the turnout, many must view The Scarlet Plumiere as serious a threat as he had, at least while deep in his cups.

Harcourt joined him and the others. Forsgreen and Ashmoore to his right, Harcourt to his left—The Four Kings, as they liked to call themselves—facing a mob of nervous and determined goats, waiting to see who among them would be sacrificed.

Harcourt snorted. “Perhaps our chances will be better on this side of the table, eh?”

Like North and every man who had received the missive, Harcourt had paused at the head of the stairs and written his name on a lot to be added to the barrel, and North feared for his odds of losing a friend today. If one of them were chosen, he would never forgive himself. If his own name were pulled from the pile, he would surely be forced to live out his years in the country, or hiding from Society altogether in a secluded cottage in Scotland. Either way, his friends would be lost to him, and that was entirely unacceptable. Not a thing in this world could drag the four apart—certainly no woman had yet managed it, nor had his weakness in France—but with one flippant suggestion of a lottery, he had placed their brotherhood in jeopardy.

Sweat broke out on his forehead and he dabbed it away, but he was hardly the only one doing so.

The Count Germaine stepped forward. White hair, steel eyes. Mustache nearly large enough to conceal a weapon. No doubt the man had hundreds of little secrets he would like to keep safe from The Plumiere, not to mention polite society.

“I would like to clarify a few things before the lot is drawn,” he said. “The chosen man must only marry the chit if she is a relatively young gentlewoman in good standing, correct?”

“Correct.” North’s voice showed none of his nerves. The thought of Count Germaine getting his hands on his clever little writer made him angry.

“And if she is not?” The count smiled a greasy smile.

North’s stomach turned. He had never imagined his writer to be anything but.

“I suppose,” sober Ash offered, “we simply threaten her with exposure in order to still her pen.”

Stanley nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. The goal is to stop her from writing. That’s all. I will not have the woman harmed, no matter what she might have done to my current plans.”

“Well said,
Viscount F
.” North gave Stanley a hearty slap on the back. “I pledge one thousand pounds to the man whose lot is drawn, to offset the cost of wooing the lady.”

“Doubt she is a lady,” someone murmured.

Heads turned, but whoever had given the insult was wise enough to slither away.

What if the offender were chosen?

North’s cravat tightened of its own accord. He resisted dabbing his forehead again.

“If my lot is not chosen, I will throw in a yearling from my racing stock in York.” The Earl of Strothsbury grinned.

Harcourt laughed. “Very generous, Strothsbury, but you realize such a gift will not miraculously remove your name from the barrel.”

“I have a small property in Scotland I will donate!”

North shook away that earlier image of that Scottish cottage and laughed along with most of the crowd. The Marquis of Landover had been trying to lose that very property in card games for over a year, but had found none foolish enough to risk the winning of it. Now the Marquis had managed to make the most dreaded of lotteries even more distasteful; even if the woman proved a lovely surprise, every man among them feared what Landover’s dubious property held in store.

“Too generous of you, Landover,” North said as sincerely as he could manage.

“Not at all.” The Marquis beamed and rocked up onto his toes.

North could not help but rock him right back on his heels. “Of course, you may well have just donated the property to yourself.”

Landover was suddenly the only one
not
smiling. The man’s luck was terrible where that property was concerned. It was an Australian boomerang of which he could never rid himself. Perhaps he had sealed his fate in the offering. Perhaps his lot was, at that moment, waiting to jump into North’s hand.

North looked hard at the barrel and the room fell silent.

The woman’s fate lay before him, through no fault of her own. What in the bloody hell had he done to her?

Stanley slapped the back of his shoulder and held. Whether his friend was offering support, or needing some, he did not know. Likely a bit of both.

He reached forward, laid his fingers on the rim, and took a deep breath. His hand moved into the opening, but Harcourt reached out to stop it.

North looked to his friend.

Harcourt nodded at the back of the room where two out-of-breath gentlemen were signing their names to lots. “Wait but a moment and our odds will improve.”

Only when his own heart resumed beating did North discern it had stopped in the first place. He then realized his dread had not been for pulling his lot from the barrel nor for winning Landtree’s property—he’d dreaded drawing out anyone’s name
but
his own!

He needed to sit down. He needed a brandy. He needed time to think.

But there was no time for consideration. The two tardy gentlemen found a spot in which to stand, and Gibson, the doorman, was making his way toward the barrel with their lots in hand. North had the ridiculous urge to fold his arms over the opening and tell Gibson their lots were not welcome, as if The Scarlet Plumiere was inside that barrel and he wanted her all to himself, as if his band of brothers was secondary.

Did he want her all to himself? Were a few clever lines in a newspaper all it took to pique his interest? To risk his friends?

And do not forget the spectacles
, prodded some devil on his shoulder.

In a flash of light from the chandelier above the table, North realized he had gone utterly mad. As poetically just as it might be for Landover’s name to be drawn, or as relieving as it might be for some mild acquaintance to be chosen, there was not a man in the room or in the building for that matter, whom he could trust to treat his Scarlet Plumiere fairly.

His friends could fend for themselves when necessary. Surely this woman could not.

Miraculously, a small grain of bravery lying dormant in his chest somehow got splashed with a drop of rain, or whiskey as the case may be, and started to sprout. A delicate tendril of hope stretched tentatively for the light. If nothing else, he owed the mysterious woman for that.

He would not leave her fate to chance.

He nodded at Gibson and allowed the man to drop two white tiles in with the rest. Then he reached for the opening again.

“Stir the lots!” More than one man suggested it.

And so he stirred them...

The Capital Journal, February 3
^rd
, Morning edition, Fiction section

A wild tale is spreading like the black plague through ladies’ drawing rooms at this very hour. Supposedly, the men of The Grand City (or at least those allegedly eligible for marriage), held a meeting in the honor of a particularly talented writer and drew lots. The ‘alotted’ is to be the lucky so-and-so who must not only ferret out the identity of said writer, but must marry her in order to control her...uh, plume...thereby removing the threat to his fellows’ reputations. These gentlemen fail to comprehend that said writer’s reporting might very well be the last resort for some women to find justice in this world.

Bravo, Mr. Lott! Did you think of this scheme by yourself or with your fellow Kings? I cannot imagine a sweeter justice than for the man who imagined such a lottery to be its first selected victim. I say “first” because after you wave your white kerchief in surrender, undoubtedly there will be a few boisterous fools who think they can succeed where you are about to fail.

However, I will be sporting and wish you bon chance! —The Scarlet Plumiere

North’s first reaction, besides smiling into his breakfast coffee, was relief that his family name had miraculously escaped the papers, even though its readers would by now know full well the identity of Mr. Lott. Another favor he owed the mysterious woman.

His second reaction was to berate himself, yet again, for the stupidity of his actions. What if he ultimately failed to unmask her? What if the entire city bore witness to his utter humiliation at being thwarted by a female?

He could never allow that to happen. He was already the unworthy remnant of his line, and if it was the last thing he accomplished, he would ensure that name did not die in disgrace. It was the very least he owed his parents after they had lost their lives trying to reach him, to save him from his kidnappers in France. And all the while, he had wallowed in the darkness, cursing them for failing him.

What he really owed them was a better son.

He shook off his dark thoughts and read The Plumiere’s letter once more. By the end, he was smiling again.

“Callister!”

“I am here, my lord.”

“Dye my kerchiefs red.”

“Red? Sir?” His man’s face froze.

“Yes, red. And die a few cravats as well.” He folded the page carefully and handed it to the butler. “Place this on my desk.”

“Red, sir? You want some red cravats, sir?” Callister failed to reach for the paper, so North dropped it on the table while the butler got hold of himself.

“Yes, just a few. No need to ruin the lot.” He bent to his meal.

“Of course not, sir.” Callister took the paper, then headed for the door, but hesitated.

“What is it man?”

“I was just wondering, sir, if you would prefer them to be dyed, or if you would like me to arrange to have them made from new red cloth?”

“As long as some are available by this evening.” He dismissed the old man with a wave.

“Very good, my lord.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“Sir?” Poor Callister looked as if his eyes might jump from his skull.

“I would like someone to take a letter to The Capital Journal for the evening edition, in say...an hour.”

“Very good, my lord.”

It really was too bad of him not to wait until after the old butler had quit the room before he let out his rush of excitement, whooping like a boy who had just been told he was getting a pony for his birthday. It did rather feel like a birthday, however. He had been given a gift, in a way. The wit of The Scarlet Plumiere was just as sharp as he’d hoped. He had not been misled by one or two clever lines.

Someone knocked quietly on the dining room door, no doubt of two minds about entering if they had heard his carrying on.

“Come!”

Chester, a young footman, poked his head around the door, his eyes wide.

“Mister Callister sent me, my lord. I will be just here in the hallway, when you have your missive ready.”

“Thank you, Chester.”

He finished his breakfast and hurried to his study, rubbing his hands together and gathering his thoughts as he went.

My dear SP...

***

His friends arrived at a quarter of seven. The evening edition of The Capital Journal would be arriving soon after the hour. They set up their watch
in the library as was their habit. Harcourt sat on the arm of the couch spinning a miniature globe, stopping it with his finger, then picking it up to examine the chosen spot more closely, only to set it down and repeat the procedure. Ash sat in the overstuffed chair and inspected the toes of his boots, scuffed them up a bit, then examined them again. Stanley looked out the French windows at the snowy garden beyond, his back to his fellows, his shoulders slumped as if paying some sort of penance by again denying himself a seat.

North sat on the edge of a particularly uncomfortable chair with very little in the way of a cushion—something his late mother had shipped home from the African continent. She was gone now. He was perfectly safe getting rid of the thing, but it did bring a bit of interest to the room, or so he had been told by a woman with a decorating bent.

His elbows rested on his knees, his thumbs provided a shelf for his chin, and his entwined fingers helped hide his excitement. If he managed to keep his brows together, his friends might never know just how miserable he
was not
. The image of a mysterious property in Scotland did a better job of wiping his smile from his face completely, however. And for that, he was grateful.

The minutes ticked by. Chester should have picked up a copy of the paper by now. How long would it take him to reach the townhouse? Might traffic cause a delay?

He could not help but harbor some hope that The Scarlet Plumiere had been warned of his letter and might have added a rebuttal. Of course he tried to brace himself for disappointment. The woman did not live at the newspaper office, after all. Did she?

“Does the owner of The Capital Journal have a daughter do you think?” He asked it of the room at large.

“I have no knowledge of the man,” said Harcourt, spinning the globe again without looking up. “Perhaps his wife?”

Well,
that
was not encouraging. Due to some here-to-fore unknown insanity, he had grown wildly fond of his little writer only now to worry she might be already married and not
little
in the least. A stout woman with a quick wit? Of course it was possible. In fact many stout women he had known through his life had been memorable. Stanley’s mother, for instance, the Duchess of Rochester, overfilled her plate and thus overfilled a chair as well. The only thing quicker than her wit was her understanding of the young male mind; the simple need to catch frogs for days on end; a distraction from the sorrow when all those frogs died in their new cage when left too long in the sun; and lately, the distraction from being a motherless son.

If The Plumiere were stout but unmarried, he supposed the woman might make an excellent choice of mother for his children. That was, if the getting of children were not too difficult...should the visage of his friend’s mother intrude.

"Oh, dear God.” He mumbled into his fingers.

“You are certainly not going to let your imagination run rough-shod, are you North?” Ash tucked his boots beneath him and sat straighter. "Let’s not worry too much until we find out if she is marriageable.”

“You are right, of course.” North had had enough of the African chair, and he found himself on his feet, pacing behind Stanley.

“But on the brighter side, if she is already married, he is off the proverbial hook. Her looks would not matter.” Harcourt pointed out the obvious.

“So really,” Stanley turned away from the window, "her looks do not matter one way or the other.”

He stopped his pacing. Of course her looks mattered, but he was not about to debate the point with his friends. No doubt it was why they had come, to distract him. But he did not want to be distracted, blast it!

The opening of the front door echoed down the marble hallway. North marched over to Ash and tilted his head. The earl nodded, stood, and moved to the couch. North was grateful his friend understood. Coherent thoughts were suddenly impossible, let alone a coherent sentence. He had just settled his equally grateful behind into the softer chair when Callister entered with four copies of the paper. Four. If he remembered, he would give the old man a nice raise for his quick thinking.

“The Capital Journal, my lords.” Callister handed them around then walked to the sideboard and began pouring drinks. The sweet smell of brandy mingled with that of leather and fresh ink. The only thing missing was the aroma of his father’s pipe. If he leaned close to the leather, he would likely smell that as well.

He found the personal section and set the remainder of the paper aside.

The Capital Journal, February 3, Evening edition, Personal section

My dear SP,

You cannot imagine my pleasure at reading your latest installment of fiction. It gave me hope you will run and hide and not allow yourself to be caught too soon, now that you know the name of your hunter. If you were to swoon at my feet, I would be sorely disappointed. So run, my dear. Give me a merry chase, even though the ending may not be so ‘marry.’ –Mr. Lott

That was all. Nothing from her. He sought out the fiction section. Nothing there either. He could not stifle a sigh of disappointment.

The room was surprisingly quiet. Surely his friends were not slow readers. He looked up.

Ash’s glower rivaled his battlefield demeanor. Above the earl’s shoulder, the chronically jovial Harcourt glowered as well. Stanley’s mouth hung open, his arms still holding up the paper.

“Would you care to explain this?” Ash nodded at his paper. "I assume yours reads the same as mine.”

“What?” He did not understand what he might have written that offended his friends so. He even stuck his nose back in his paper and read his own words again.

“So you wrote this?” Harcourt shook his head, still frowning.

“Of course I wrote it. What’s wrong with it?”

Stanley moved forward and leaned against the couch. "There’s nothing wrong with it, but...but...”

Harcourt helped him. "But it hardly sounds as if you are unhappy about the situation.”

“Unhappy?”
What the devil did he mean?

“
Yes. Unhappy.” Ash folded his arms and leaned back as if expecting the kind of confession Stanley had made just days before.

“Do you want me to be unhappier about it? I assure you I can find a thing or two about which to complain.”

Callister cleared his throat and passed brandies to all, then slipped from the room, as if he weren’t even tempted to hang about and listen. And North decided the raise in wages was not necessary after all. The man had likely ordered more than just four copies of the paper and was scurrying off to read his own.

He raised his staff’s wages too often as it was.

Once the door was closed, Ash tisked. "You owe our
Viscount F
an apology.”

“Really? Why?” North gripped the sides of his chair. He honestly could not understand why his friends were displeased with his note to his...prey.

“He has been downright despondent,” Harcourt nodded in Stan’s direction.

North looked up at his too-blond friend. "Have you, Stanley? Because you think all this is your fault?”

“Actually, yes.” The viscount’s bottom lip stuck out a bit further than usual.

“Well, that is completely silly.”
Wasn’t it?

“Yes, it is silly if you are happy about your new situation,” said Ash.

“Of course I am not happy about it.”

Harcourt stood. "Oh, I think you are. In fact, I have not seen you so enthused about anything since...France.” The other men nodded rather vigorously.

Nosey, overly-observant friends! Why on Earth was an improvement of his mood a bad thing?

“I have just been...bored, that is all. You must admit she is anything but tedious.”

Ash suddenly jumped to his feet. "Where is it?”

Harcourt swung wide to the left. Stanley came around the end of the couch, though he was frowning at Ash. Stan did not know what was going on either, but regardless, joined Ashmoore’s side of a battle.

“Where is what?”
Devil take them all.

“The lot.” Ash grinned. At least it resembled a grin, and it was not the most pleasant of grins either. He really must refine his smiling techniques if he was going to make it a regular habit.

“What lot?” North concentrated on not sweating. The library fire was...ah, not lit.

Damn
.