Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (9 page)

“Lord Ashmoore to see you, my lady.” The housekeeper hesitated, gave her a popping sort of curtsy, then scurried away. Hopkins moved behind her, ready to come to her aid should she need him.

The looming shadow moved forward and bowed. When he lifted his eyes, The Scarlet Plumiere knew he had heard every word.

“Have you harmed the boy?” She kept her voice low, hoping her surprise guest would do the same.

“What boy would that be, my lady?” He did not smile. Was he disappointed The Plumiere had not turned out to be someone more exciting?

“The boy who followed my hack. I presumed he was the only one who could have identified me.”

“Ah, that boy. I assure you, he keeps your secret still, my lady.” Finally, the man smiled. “You quite won him over.”

“Then how did you and Lord Northwick find me out?”

“Oh, but he has not. Not yet.”

“So I have just given the game away.” She let her head drop forward, took a slow breath, then looked up. “I suppose you have no choice but to tell him.”

The man only stared at her. It was quite unnerving—the way the bright light of morning did not seem to reach his face, although it shined brilliantly through the windows above the front door and reflected through the hallway. It might have something to do with how his hair hung over his eyes. Perhaps the black of his clothes. He might have seemed quite imposing, intimidating actually, had it not been for those remarkable eyes...and the way he had smiled. She had the impression he did not smile often enough. She had heard him laugh before, but of course that had been nearly a decade ago.

“Have we met before?” He seemed embarrassed to have to ask.

“You tipped your hat to me at the park yesterday.”

“Before then?”

“I am sure not, my lord. I spied on you and your friends once, when we were all much younger. Nearly ten years ago, at a party in the country.”

“Ten years ago? Oh, dear.”

“Not to worry, my lord. You were all rolling down a hill, squealing like girls, laughing yourselves silly. It was quite entertaining. Lord Northwick was...” She stopped and shook her head.

“You meant to say he was handsome, even then?”

“He was quite...full of life.”

“Yes, I remember. We all were. Then.”

“And now?”

“And now, we are mostly full of brandy and of ourselves.” He looked away for a moment.

“I have been terribly rude.” She stepped to the side and made a sweeping gesture toward the drawing room. “Be my guest, Lord Ashmoore. Let your celebration begin.”

“Nothing for you to celebrate?”

“I am afraid not, my lord. I will not celebrate the demise of The Scarlet Plumiere, nor my own imminent murder.”

“You will be in danger, to be sure.”

She was relieved to find someone else could see it.

“Yes. And yet you still searched for me.”

“Lads playing at being heroes, I am afraid.”

“The lads from the hill will not be able to protect me, sir.” She clasped her hands and looked at the floor.

“We are no longer the lads from the hill, my lady.” He lowered his voice and took her elbow, moving them further away from the drawing room. She searched his face for a reason, but found no emotion there. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking.

“I stand corrected. At least one of you is the deadliest gentleman of the
ton
.”

He grimaced. “I did not know ladies heard that kind of talk.”

“We just pretend we do not.” She gave him a wink and it won her a genuine smile.

“I understand how you won the boy over.” He shook a dark curl from his eyes, the one soft detail among a dozen harder ones. “I would like to offer you my services, my lady. Consider me at your beck and call. You need only send word and I will come as quickly as my horse can bring me.”

She nodded. How does one respond to such an offer?

“I apologize, but I am afraid I have remembered an urgent engagement. Please give my apologies to Northwick—or better yet...
do not
.” There it was again, that amused smile. He bowed, then spun on his heel. A moment later, Hopkins was closing the door behind him and the hallway lightened.

Now, to see if Lord Northwick was as clever as he seemed to think.

North and Lord Telford had settled into a comfortable silence when a small person coughed. Or it had sounded like a small person.

A beauty stood in the doorway. He jumped to his feet. When Telly sat down his cup and struggled to follow suit, the beauty rushed forward.

“Heavens, Father. Please sit.”

The man looked closely at the pretty bird fluttering over him and smiled. "It is a very good day today, Livvy.”

She tried to tuck a shawl about the man’s knees, but he kept pulling it off, first one side and then the other. Finally, she put her hands on her lovely hips and leaned close.

“Yes, Father, it seems to be a very good day indeed.” The smile she gave the man could have brought tears to a softer man’s eyes. "Suit yourself,” she said sternly, but then winked at the old man, who winked back.

“Lord Northwick, may I introduce my daughter, Olivia Reynolds? Livvy, I give you Mr. Lott.”

The bird had dipped into a curtsy, but popped up quickly and stared, open-mouthed, at her father.

“Oh, now. You know I read the papers, Livvy.”

North found his voice. "Indeed. Your father is possibly The Scarlet Plumiere’s most devoted fan.”

Since he finally had her attention, he inclined his head.

She blushed as if he were standing before her bare-chested.

“Miss Reynolds, I am sure you must have guessed why I am here, and why I insist on speaking with you.”

She side-stepped, behind her father’s chair, then shook her head once, glancing at her father, then back up again. Finally she spoke.

“Of course, Lord Northwick. Would you care to take a turn in the garden?”

“I am at your service.” He bowed and excused himself. “Will you not need a wrap at least?

She smiled and shook her head.

“Be careful with my daughter, Lord Northwick, or I am sure we shall read about it in the papers.”

“I have no doubt, sir. It has been my greatest pleasure making your acquaintance.”

“Mine as well.” The man waved from his seat.

The pretty bird led him to the French doors and opened one, then insisted he precede her.

“Enjoy yourself,” she sang. "I shant be terribly long.” And with that, she shut the door before he could protest.

He paused only long enough to pick up his chin and close his mouth before turning toward the garden. Poor thing. She had been out of society for so long, her manners were rusty. That was all. And a pretty thing, too. It was no wonder Ash had wanted to call upon her. His friend had obviously noticed her beauty when he’d seen her in Hyde Park, but had kept that detail to himself. And so it was no wonder the man wished to be the one to call upon her. But it had been the name
Olivia Reynolds
that struck North with inspiration. He felt strongly that the trail leading to his future wife would begin at her door.

Finding The Plumiere soon was imperative or he would look a fool for the note he had placed in the personal pages. But how could he resist taunting her when she rose so consistently to the bait? If he flustered her enough, she was destined to make a mistake. Absolutely destined.

He glanced back at the house.

Miss Reynolds was another matter. It was a lucky thing he had not chanced upon her before now. Otherwise he might have been intrigued in an entirely different direction. Could his reaction to her be attributed to the fact he’d been more concerned with mourning his family than ensuring the family name be carried on? Had it been so long since he’d noticed the women around him? Was Miss Reynolds only a sample of what had been dancing beneath his nose for the past two or three years?

Surely not. One look into her dark eyes and he would have paid very, very close attention.

And yet they’d just met. Only a sentence or two between them—not unlike his relationship with The Plumiere herself. Good lord, was he going to fall for every female in sight? Perhaps it hadn’t been his soul stirring to life, but a more primitive instinct.

Perhaps I’ve been lonely long enough
.

That was it. He had finally lost his senses. He’d only recently decided to allow a woman into his life; he certainly did not need two. What he did need was to learn The Plumiere’s identity, then he would likely never see Miss Reynolds again. Unless, of course, she might prove helpful in distracting Ashmoore. The man was far too fascinated by North’s
bride to be
—enough so to make North a bit nervous. So perhaps he might have been wise to have allowed the man to come meet with Miss Reynolds after all. His dark friend would have forgotten all about hunting down another man’s woman.

He would simply arrange for the pair to meet.

***

Livvy hurried back to her father’s side and sat on the floor at his knee. No matter if the Lord God Himself were waiting in the garden, she was not about to miss a moment of her father’s good day.

He beamed down at her while Hopkins lowered her heavy white cloak around her shoulders.

“Take it easy on the man, Livvy. Will you? He seems an awfully decent sort.”

“You are referring to Lord Northwick, Papa?”

“I am. Poor man—tortured man, even after he returned from France.”

“I did not realize you knew him so well.”

“I knew his grandfather.” He waved his hand and frowned. “There was something I wanted to tell you, Livvy. Something important.”

The frown faded, then returned with a vengeance, like a wind dying down, then intensifying in an entirely new direction.

“What?” Her father pulled back from her then, and just that quickly, the good day was gone. The gleam in his eye was gone. The man seated before her was confused, frightened. "Where’s my wife?” He peered closely at her. "You are not my wife.”

“No, my lord. I will see if I can find her, shall I?” She rose and walked stiffly to the garden door.

“She will have a small dog with her. She has lovely dark hair, like yours. Very like yours.”

“I understand.” She paused, hoping her father’s bad spell might have been only momentary this time, but the man in the chair paid her no mind, captivated as he was by the miniature he had pulled from his pocket. He frequently asked about the woman in the painting. She hadn’t the heart to tell him it was only a portrait of his daughter.

Livvy could not indulge in the luxury of grieving for her father’s illness at the moment; the devil was likely melting the snow in her rose garden.

I must act frightened and timid.
Even if Northwick was sure she was The Plumiere, she had to create doubt.
Life or death. Life or death.

She made her way slowly down the path.

He stood with his back to the house, his hands clutched behind him. Such a tall man. Such wide shoulders. He had barely fit through the door when she had ushered him outside. His boots had brushed her skirts. He had smelled of...well, he had smelled quite different from her father. And even in the wintery garden, he gave off a warmth she could sense as she neared. Perhaps depicting him as the devil was not so far afield.

She stopped, took a silent step backward, then another. When a carriage could have fit nicely between them, she broke the silence.

“Ahem.”

He spun. His eyes assessed her face, her hair. She looked away. Her blush was real enough.

“Please forgive my intrusion this morning, Miss Reynolds. I am sure you can understand why I had no choice but to come.”

The best way to remove all doubt was to open her mouth, so she bit her lips and shrugged. The man was so dastardly handsome face to face she worried she might confess all in a moment of weakness and beg him to follow through on his promises. And of a surety, she was weakened, if not by the handsome man before her, then by her heartache for her papa. One of these days he was going to remember that important thing he planned to tell her.
One of these good days.

“Your father seems well apprised of the situation between Mr. Lott and The Scarlet Plumiere.”

She nodded, but frowned. She’d had no idea her father had bothered himself with gossip, though she was pleased he had noticed her—at least that other ‘her.’ Though she could not see it, she apparently resembled her mother so closely, her presence often brought on his confusion. But as The Scarlet Plumiere, she could not disappoint him.

“Come, now. Will you say nothing? Are you so beholden to this woman that you will not give me her name, even if it might be for her own good?”

He does not know I am The Scarlet Plumiere!
The relief drained her of all strength, but only for a heartbeat. Her knees held, but only just. She gave him her back lest he notice the surprise on her face. She took a few steps before she could get her brows to return to their original positions, then she turned to face him. She would rather squeal like a little girl and hurry off to share the news with Stella and Hopkins, but that would have to wait. Besides, it was only a matter of time before Lord Ashmoore would give her away.

“I am sorry, my lord, but I am a bit unpracticed in the art of conversing with strange gentlemen. Pray have pity.” And pray give her a moment to stifle her emotions before she forgot the timid role she was playing. If she was unable to do so, she might just tell him what she thought of men who believed they knew what was best for a woman, especially a woman he’d never met. And to be outspoken in his presence? She might as well be waving a red-plumed pen under his nose.

He hurried forward. “Forgive me. I am a man possessed these days. Please. Be seated.” He led her to a bench. “I blame your friend completely of course.”

She sat carefully, beautifully—she would have rather kicked his shin bone.

The Scarlet Plumiere was responsible for his rudeness? The man was a dolt. If she did not end their meeting immediately she was likely to bite completely through her tongue! Or perhaps she would earn the blame she’d been assigned and drive him completely mad.

He had turned his back once again, so she stuck out her tongue before she responded.

“My friend? I do not understand, my lord.”

He spun on his heel again. “The Scarlet Plumiere of course. I am possessed with finding her.”

She frowned, trying to appear as though thinking caused her pain.

“Forgive me, but did you not say you believe her own good might be served by your finding her? Or did you mean to say
your own
good would be served?”

“Touché, Miss Reynolds. You have me there.”

The pear trees were woven into an arbor creating a tunnel of branches through which one could see the far end of the garden. Northwick stood at its entrance, as if tempted to walk the length of it if only he weren’t so tall. Most men would not have that problem.

He reached a tanned hand to the stark branches and snapped off a small twig, then watched it twist between his fingers, seeing, but not seeing. His voice turned reverent.

“Of course I wish to find her for myself, for my own good. I must confess, only to you of course, that I am fairly enthralled by her and I have yet to see her face.”

Dolt or no, she could not help but forgive him. The man was enthralled with her? How terribly romantic. It would come to nothing of course, but he had given a lovely reason to have laid that blame at her feet.

“I only
hope
that our meeting might prove to be for her good.” He tossed the stick away then moved to the bench and sat down beside her, then looked plaintively into her eyes. “I think she believes herself to be in danger, but I have some rather capable friends who would help until the danger had passed. I would like to boast that I can provide adequate protection for her myself, but surely four are better than one.”

“I am sure every woman in London would love the chance to ask you this, my lord, so I must not waste the opportunity to do so...”

“Ask whatever you will.”

“Do you mean to fulfill the terms of the gentlemen’s lottery?” Surely it was a reasonable question. Of course her life would certainly be easier if he said no, but she found herself praying the opposite.

He scooped up her gloved hands, turned her shoulders toward him. “I do.”

His eyes fell to her lips and remained for heartbeat after heartbeat. She barely breathed. As he exhaled, he seemed to move closer. Then a deep line formed between his brows. His gaze flew to her eyes, then he dropped her hands and jumped to his feet as if her simple white gloves had burst into flame.

She was quite sure it was only her face that had done so. But hopefully any redness could be attributed to the chill in the February air.

“I humbly beg your pardon, my lady. I was but caught up in the moment, thinking of...
her
.”

Well, that was hardly flattering. Perhaps she would not pardon him after all.

“Please, say you will forgive me.” He stood a safe distance away while he begged.

“I do not know what you mean, sir. For what do you beg forgiveness?” Oh, but playing the simpleton was becoming easier by the moment. And to hear him admit what he had been about to do would sound lovely, she was sure.