Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (20 page)

“I suppose it is inevitable. I was prepared to last another week at best.” He hadn’t meant to say the last aloud but was relieved to find his friends nodding their agreement. It was reassuring to know he was not the only one tiring of the game.

Harcourt raised his teacup into the air. “To protecting The Scarlet Plumiere!”

“To protecting The Scarlet Plumiere!” They each repeated.

“Whomever she may be,” Harcourt said, then drained his glass.

Stanley did the same. Then Ashmoore.

The last bit sounded about as sincere as a toast to the Sherriff of Nottingham.

“Damn you all. You know who she is!” His roar echoed against the ceiling.

Stanley choked. Harcourt’s eyes doubled in size, and Ashmoore collapsed into the chair behind him.

North turned to Stanley. “How long have you known?”

“My dinner party. I admit to tricking her into confirming it. My smile distracted her, I believe. I told no one.”

“And you?” He stepped up to Harcourt.

“You are the one to leave me on that blasted azalea watch. The young man only checks under two pots—those of Lady Malbury and Miss Reynolds. I told no one.”

“And you, Ash?”

“The first day you went to see her, I arrived soon after you did, but heard her discussing it with the servants. I asked her not to tell you I had been there. I told no one else.”

“So she
knows
you know?”

Stanley raised his hand. “She knows I know.”

Harcourt grinned. “She does not know
I
know.”

“Your turn, old boy,” Ashmoore said. “How long have you been keeping the same secret from us? I notice you didn’t immediately ask for her name.”

“I knew the day I met her. She was a veritable Jekyll and Hyde, trying to act the timid bird incapable of leaving her father’s side one minute, then tormenting her late mother’s dog the next.” He laughed at the memory of the little rat side-stepping away with its lip curled. “And the ribbon with which she tormented the animal matched that scarlet ribbon on Stanley’s gift.”

“The Rat. I do believe it thinks I can protect it from her. Hides beneath whichever chair I choose. So I sit as close to Livvy as possible, just to disappoint it.” Ash laughed.

North suddenly sobered.

“Livvy now is it? And just how close to her do you sit?”

His dark friend raised his arms in defense, then lifted a knee across his seated body when North advanced on him.

“I will have you know she has been driven insane with jealousy! Damn me if she has not.”

North stopped. “I am not an unreasonable man. I will let you say what you have to say before I pummel you.”

“It is not the intensity of her jealousy that drives her mad,” he said in all seriousness. “It is the fact that the woman of whom she is jealous is herself.”

North smiled. It might have been the only thing to save Ashmoore a bit of blood-letting that day. Any denials would have fallen on a deaf ear, but jealousy he could understand. He had been turning green for weeks!

For the remainder of the evening, they fought over which of them was best capable of protecting Livvy. It embarrassed him to admit to his friends that he was, indeed, afraid he might black out at an inopportune moment—as he often had while a captive in France—and wake to find her gone, or worse. He pled with Ash to maintain his guardianship. Ash, in the end, could not deny him.

Stanley gave his reason for allowing North to learn the truth for himself. Harcourt and Ashmoore admitted to the same. He tried to imagine what he might have felt had one of his friends come to him with the news. They had been correct, of course. It would have dealt his confidence a mighty blow. He so prided himself on being clever enough, at least, to be worthy of her.

Harcourt frowned. “Oh, we did not say you were
worthy
of her, just that we wanted you to
believe
you were.”

The marquess’s chair flew backward and the wind was knocked from his lungs.

“What’s that, old boy?” North returned his foot to the floor and lifted a hand to his ear. “You apologize? Well, certainly I forgive you.”

“All joking aside, gentlemen,” said Ash. “I think it is time Mr. Lott sent The Scarlet Plumiere another message.” Then he clasped his hands behind his back and grinned at North. “We need to give him someone to watch besides Livvy.”

The Capital Journal, February 16
^th
, Morning edition, Fiction section

Once upon a time in The Great City, a certain Mr. Lott became unreasonably besotted with a certain witty writer, a woman possessed of both a clever wit and a scarlet pen. But one night he came to his senses and understood the danger he had invited to her door. He had paid no heed to those hounds of Hell who watched and waited for his clever writer to be unmasked. But he is paying heed to them now.

My dear writer. Come to me. Allow me to protect you from those I have brought to your door. Let me make amends. Show yourself to me. Show pity. I admit I cannot find you and should in all reason, leave you be. But there are those hounds, you see. I cannot leave you to them. And I have gone quite insane trying to find you myself, but you are far too clever for me.

Touche, Mademoiselle. Unmask yourself to me at least. Collect my white flag...and all my red ones. –Mr. Lott

Chester brought it to him while he sipped his coffee. North could not even glance at the newpaper without feeling gut-punched. Callister did not force breakfast on him. He was left in absolute, miserable peace.

Ashmoore did not come to tease with tales of The Rat. He and the men he kept at his beck and call were part of Telford’s household now. All the world assumed his friend was courting Livvy. Any hounds from Hell should have taken note that a very dangerous man now watched over Miss Reynolds. To approach her was folly. Scandal be damned.

Stanley and Harcourt were off making a show of searching for The Plumiere, in hopes they were being watched and could lead any sniffing hounds on a merry chase.

North was left to man the distraction. The house was being watched. The watchers were being watched. Any woman fool enough to cross his threshold was asking for very real trouble. It was the longest week of his life.

By Thursday, when he had worn the spots off his playing cards and the pattern from more than one carpet, a message came from Ash.

Livvy is going to kill The Rat and feed it to her father for supper if she is not allowed out of the house and away from all these “men.” We will be going to the opera tomorrow night, or Livvy will be going alone—or so I have been informed. Yes, you may greet her. No, you may not sit in the same box. You may not touch her hand, swoon as she walks by, or pull her into a dark alcove. You keep your bloody eyes to yourself or do not allow those eyes within a block of the place. –Ash

Post Script. No, she does not know that you know, or that Harcourt knows, so yes, she is still painfully jealous, though she would cut off her tongue before she would admit it.

Poor Olivia!

Surely there was something he could do.

***

Sarah stood on the London dock. Her heart thundered as men and beasts bumped into her in the swirling mist of morning. She might be pushed into the water at any moment, but she dared not move. This is where Maude instructed her to stay and even though she feared drowning, she still feared her aunt a little more.

The woman had refused to leave the ship until the captain returned the fares she’d paid for passage. She’d doctored the leg of his bosen and demanded free passage in return, but the captain insisted he’d only agreed to the terms thinking she meant
return
passage to France. So all morning, while the ship was unloaded, Maude made a nuisance of herself, hoping the man would simply pay her to go away. Sarah was to stand in the center of the dock and cause trouble as well. She’d been capable of only the first half of her instructions.

If the woman weren’t her last living relative, Sarah would happily run off into the fog and never see the frightening woman again. She’d had a brief taste of the streets of London, however, and she would never willingly return to them. If Lord Ashmoore was displeased with the trouble they were about to bring to his doorstep, she might find herself alone once again. But at least she would be on home soil. Finding herself alone in Paris would have meant the death of her, she was sure.

***

Livvy had waited all day for something horrible to come along and force them to change their plans. It was not possible that her prison doors would open for her that night. It was just a cruel joke; everyone went on acting as if she truly needed to prepare for an evening at the opera.

She had not attended anything public for years. If she did indeed escape through the front door on Ash’s arm, she hoped she still remembered how to act. The little dinner party at
Viscount F’s
house had been a simple gathering of friends. Tonight she would need to walk gracefully across foyers, climb stairs without a misstep, smile and say the correct thing to the correct people, and with many of the
haute ton
looking on.

Perhaps she did not wish to leave the house after all. She had laid claim to a small sitting room in the center of the house that boasted only a small window, then refused admittance to anyone without bosoms. For a precious hour, here and there, she had been able to pretend there weren’t a half dozen men listening to her breathe and routinely checking to see if she had moved from one room to another.

She had enjoyed playing the tyrant of course, putting an apron on one man and a feather duster in his grip. She had ordered him to dust something for each time he had checked on her that day. The next day they hid from her. They became so stealthy in their watching, it only served to make her nervous. Just yesterday, she’d developed a tic in her eye and went to bed until she was rid of it.

She would have called them all together and had a good hearty scream if her father were not about. For some reason, the man was at his best when Ashmoore was in the room, but being at his best was also taxing for him. After consideration, she had decided Ashmoore’s company had to be rationed, like an addictive drug.

In addition, Livvy had had enough of the dark earl’s brotherly advice to choke a horse. He told her how she might better get along with The Rat, and he had had a number of theories for her to try. Of course she tried them on Ashmoore instead. He was so slow to catch on that one afternoon she placed his tea and crumpets on the floor, then sat next to them, perfectly willing to chatter pleasantly while he ate them.

He was not amused.

She
was amused. She was bloody amused until The Rat ran through the room and snatched a biscuit. She lost her temper and leveled another at his disappearing tail, only to watch the treat hit her mother’s cuckoo clock. It flew right through the little door.

She spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning crumbs out of small corners of the poor little contraption. When she failed to note the time, the bird would startle her and she would gasp. Eventually, she gave the little bird a very unladylike name.

Ashmoore’s laughter traveled well no matter how many rooms separated them.

She put a dozen crumbly biscuits in his bedsheets. The next day, they were still there. She had no idea where he had slept.

With no one at hand to torment, she finally allowed Stella to have a go at her hair.

“My hair need not be perfect, Stella. Someone will have nailed the doors and windows shut. Just you watch.”

Thank goodness Stella ignored her and made her look fabulous, because, as it so happened, there was no crisis that evening. Her father gifted her with her mother’s pearls. They were the perfect complement to her new gown of russet velvet. Stella quickly added the broach to her hair, above one temple. She fought to keep the tears from her eyes.

“Lovely color, my dear. Best you stay away from red, do you think? Scarlet would give you away.” He kissed her on the cheek, winked, then whistled as he walked away.

The tears could not be helped.

“I will kill whichever man made you cry tonight,” Ashmoore offered as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

“I beg you not to, as I am rather fond of my father.”

“Oh, I see. Well, then, cry on. But try to finish before we arrive or Northwick will pummel me as soon as the lights go down.”

“Northwick’s going to be there?” Immediately, her heart got into the spirit of the evening. “I thought he was not allowed to see me.”

“Isn’t allowed to speak with you. Not at length, anyway. And I have ordered him to show no interest in you. It will all be an act, of course. The man is going quite mad not seeing you.”

“He is?”

“He is.” He closed his eyes at the last. Was he attempting to convince her, or was he prevaricating?

“How do you know? You are always here.” She pulled her hand away and stopped.

“I get reports.” He lifted his elbow again.

“Hmph.” She took his arm but she did not believe a word. At least she tried not to believe a word. Her mind did not seem to want to let the matter go. The carriage was well warmed, but she got goose pimples imagining Northwick waiting at The King’s Theatre, remembering the last look he’d given her at Stanley’s.

Unfortunately, when the nightmare of Lord Gordon came to an end, so would her fairy tale. She would have to give up her new friends, like a set of lovely furniture she could no longer afford. It would all have to go back. The women of London needed a champion, and unless another champion presented themselves, they had only The Scarlet Plumiere. She must not forget it. It would be so easy to let the city take care of itself, but she could not bear the possible consequences.

From now on, however, she would trust no one; she would make doubly sure of a man’s guilt before reporting it, the fiction section notwithstanding.

“
I am sorry, but it looks to be a crush.” Ashmoore dropped the curtain and gave Livvy a pained smile.

“Even better, my lord. If I misstep, no one will see my feet. And if I trip I will just hold tight to your arm until I regain my footing with no one the wiser.”

She took a deep breath before leaving the comfort of the warm carriage. Once outside, however, the cold air never reached her. The throng pressing into the theatre left little room for air. Ashmoore’s hand was warm and his tight grip reassuring. Her whole arm was locked beneath his elbow so that if someone were to snatch her out of the crowd, the earl would easily be able to save the limb at least.

There was no use looking down; she could not see her feet, let alone where to step next. After a second glance, she recognized the tall man ahead of Ashmoore, knew the back of his head very well in fact. It was Peter, the largest of her guards, the one she had bullied into wearing an apron and dusting her mother’s figurines.

She looked to her right; Ian.

The man bumping along to her left was Everhardt. She guessed without looking that Milton was just behind her.

How dashing they all looked in their tails. Although their faces would not be identified by the gentry, they certainly fit in well enough. And they glided along so smoothly they did not seem to be protecting her, but they were. A little push here, a shove there kept the crowd from affecting her protective cocoon. A dozen pardons and half as many apologies later, they were inside the building.

A waving fan caught her attention long before she heard her name. It was Anna, tip-toing above the crowd, as un-ladylike as could be.

“Olivia!”

Ashmoore turned toward the sound. After a fierce battle against the flow of the crowd, she found herself in a new cocoon made entirely of friends. Peter and the others were suddenly gone, like ghosts, fading into the walls, their faces replaced by the dinner party from Stanley’s. She instantly noticed Northwick’s absence, however.

But she’d been wrong, she realized, when Northwick stepped around her. It had not been Milton behind her after all. The realization sent chills up her spine and into her intricately arranged hair.

“Miss Reynolds.” He bowed, then maneuvered his way over to Aunt Winnie’s end of the circle. He bumped into Stanley’s shoulder and an envelope poked out from his jacket.

“I hope you are not bringing love letters to the opera,” said Ashmoore.

“Oh!” North tucked the envelope inside his vest. "Letter for The Plumiere.”

Irene pushed on his shoulder to gain his attention. "How are you going to give her a letter if you do not know who she is?”

“I will find a way,” he said with a smile. He and Ashmoore exchanged a look, but North shook his head.

Other than a glance at her shoes when he had greeted her, North did not spare her another look. He was clearly enjoying himself, grinning at Winnie and laughing heartily at her little quips. Only when he paused to listen to someone did she notice his intense surveying of the crowd. His head was never down. When he leaned this way or that, his eyes were always up, always moving, just never in her direction.

She knew, somehow, that he was aware of her—just as she was aware of him. If she closed her eyes and he began moving through the crowd, she believed she would be able to point in his direction, so acute were her senses where he was concerned. So attuned was her heart.