Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (11 page)

She took the letter and opened it.

The butler continued to gasp. “Forgive me, my lady, if I have alarmed you for no reason...”

North grasped her elbow, certain she might collapse otherwise. Her face was drained of all color as she handed the note back to her butler and watched him wide-eyed while he read it. The butler then walked to a bench and sat down!

What the devil?

“
Forgive me, your lordship,” said Hopkins. “I’m a bit out of breath at the moment.” He tried to rise.

“Sit, man!” North released the woman and rushed to the old man’s side. He took the note before anyone thought to stop him.

“No!” Miss Reynolds held up a hand, but was obviously still reeling from a blow and was forced to sit.

“Forgive me, Miss Reynolds.” He opened the paper and read.

How fares your father?

That was all.

His Cinderella had one arm wrapped around herself and was trying to cover her face with her other hand.

North pulled back his lips and gave a shrill whistle in the direction of the house and waved an arm. Surely someone was watching from the windows. A heartbeat later a large fellow loped toward him from the direction of the carriage house.

“John!” Miss Reynolds smiled weakly.

“John, is it? Could you assist Hopkins into the house? He is not feeling well. And have some tea delivered to...” He looked at her and raised a brow. Surely she understood he was not going to leave without an explanation.

“The study will do,” she said, but none too happily.

John nodded and did as he was asked. North waited for the men to reach the doors before turning back to the lady and she nearly got away from him. Had he not caught her hand, she likely would have run into her house and locked him outside.

“I insist you take my arm, my lady. You were unsteady yourself but a moment ago.” He tucked her hand into his elbow and walked her to the house, careful to slip inside first so she could not repeat her earlier trick.

They walked down the hallway as if strolling along the Serpentine. She was obviously in no hurry to explain the note. He was happy to spend the day in her company if need be.

A maid was waiting in the study when they entered, so North closed the door. After tea was poured, he began.

“Do you know who sent the note?”

She started to shake her head but then frowned and nodded.

“Lord Gordon?”

Her eyes widened in surprise, then she nodded again.

“Tell me. And I beg you not to prevaricate. I will not leave without the truth.”

Livvy was finding it difficult to concentrate, so she took a sip of her tea. Then another. Then she wondered if she might drink the cup dry before Lord Northwick pressed her for details. The man was far too patient. She would never outlast him.

What would it hurt to tell him?

Besides her pride? Nothing. In point of fact, it might be a relief to share her burden with a man whom God had gifted with shoulders broad enough to carry more than his share.

But to whom else could she turn? The Scarlet Plumiere could hurt Gordon no more than she already had. And as Olivia Reynolds, she had only her servants and her wits to save her. She should have been spending more time learning swordplay.

“Miss Reynolds?” Lord Northwick leaned forward and squeezed her hand upon the desk. “Please allow me to help you.” He released her and sat back. “I promise whatever you share will go no further than the Four Kings.”

Perhaps she would live to regret it, but for the life of her, Livvy could think of no argument against confiding in him, other than the fact he was, after all, her enemy.

“I shall try to be brief,” she said.

“Take all the time you need.”

“Very well. Two years ago, when Lord Gordon asked for my hand, I felt flattered enough. I found him handsome. Compelling, even. But at our engagement party I found him... I heard him telling another man of some horrible plans he had for me...”

“I can only imagine. Go on.”

“He discovered me then, listening.” She would hardly share how worthless he made her feel that night. “Later, he pulled me aside and threatened my father’s life if I did not go through with the marriage.”

“And you did not go to your father for help?”

“I did not. Father was...not himself. He loved my mother very much, you see. His mourning went beyond the norm. I could not add to his burden. After The Scarlet Plumiere came to my rescue, I simply told my father Lord Gordon and I did not suit. I had no idea he might be reading the gossip sheets. Perhaps that was more than he could bear...”

“I do not understand.”

She shook her head. Her father’s condition was no longer relevant. “Lord Gordon came to me again, before he left the city with his tail between his legs. He blamed me for sharing his secret with The Plumiere. He vowed when he returned that he would kill me, slowly, but only after I watched him kill my father.”

“He is a monster!”

“He told me when my father goes missing, I will know he is back in London. This is why I stay at home, my lord. I have little care for my reputation, but my father is everything to me.”

“And will you tell your father now?”

She shook her head frantically. “No! His condition is...delicate now. I can tell him nothing.”

“Your servants are obviously loyal, but you and your father lack real protection. I will see to it. It will mean a few others, beyond my circle of friends, will have to be told about Gordon. They need not know the whole of it.”

“I know not what to say, my lord. I cannot express the relief I feel.”

“It is only right. It was my lottery that likely drew the man’s attention back to London. But in honesty, I cannot regret it if it brought me to your door.”

***

The Scarlet Plumiere!
Damn him if he had not found her the very day his message reached her.
I have you now.
Later, when her pride had healed and Gordon was dead, he would inform her he’d discovered her secret that very day. They would laugh about it with their children, perhaps their grandchildren.

It had been a close thing. Her warring personalities had not tipped him off. The ribbon and the way she had avoided the word ‘scarlet’ would have done it, surely, if he hadn’t already recognized her laugh—just as he’d imagined.

He was so pleased, he allowed himself to relax for the first time since the hunt had begun. The carriage squabs had recently been replaced, he remembered, as he leaned back against them and let out a loud breath. Why did he not take his carriage more often? It was so private, watching all of London pass by his windows while those looking his way wondered who might be inside. He loved the anonymity of it, avoiding being the subject of random conversations.

Except when people spoke of Mr. Lott and The Plumiere.

His little stunt at the gentlemen’s lottery guaranteed that Stanley did not suffer the spotlight for long. He had accomplished that at least. In fact, Stanley’s name had fallen from the gossips sheets rather quickly. The lottery had been held so soon after The Plumiere’s attack the tongue-waggers had never heard about the gift of spectacles from the cheeky writer. The whole of London was having a hearty laugh over the joke in the park, but she had gotten no credit whatsoever for the little box tied smartly with a red ribbon. Correction,
scarlet
ribbon. Quite like the one Olivia Reynolds had used to torment that dog.

In his mind, he saw her waving the thing, scaring the little creature into running away once and for all. He heard, once more, the way her shameless laughter filled the garden like the first breeze of spring. It was a wonder her pear arbor had not burst into bloom.

That laughter, the search for which had him stalking about the dance floors of the
ton
with a bent ear.

Would you care to take a turn about the garden, my lord?
She had meant to send him out there alone. That innocent persona was only an act. And she had nearly given herself away when he spoke of slander. Her nostrils had not flared due to her attraction to him. She’d been livid! And he’d loved every tense moment. Baiting her
was
just like baiting The Plumiere, and now he understood why.

The truth struck him again. Olivia Reynolds was The Scarlet Plumiere! He had bloody well found her! He wanted to jump about and bellow the news to the world. He wanted to go back and kiss her. He wanted to rush to each of his friends’ houses and give them the news, but they were all out doing reconnaissance. They were still looking. He would not see them again until he collected them all for that evening’s party.

He had half expected to find Ashmoore joining him in Telford’s drawing room and thanked God that he had not. Who knows how the meeting would have progressed. He might never have guessed. And worse, Ash might have. The man had been overly interested in Telford’s daughter. Had he deduced The Plumiere was most likely the first one spared by the writer? That the woman, out of desperation, might have discovered her own way out of a doomed engagement?

Of course Ashmoore would have wondered. The man was as clever as he was dangerous. And North pitting himself against his dark friend in a race to find The Plumiere could be added to the long list of the most foolish things he had done in his life. But he’d won!

So there he sat, boiling in a sea of excitement, and able to tell no one. If he did, Ashmoore would take a keener interest in his future bride. Of course Stan and Harcourt could keep a secret, but not from one of their own. And he would never ask them to do so. Nothing was worth the risk to the brotherhood.

Callister? The poor man would burst his buttons trying to keep his secret, but no good would be served. No need to torment the man.

The only news he would be sharing was the note from Gordon and what it meant. He’d already sent a message to Ashmoore’s men so that Lord Telford’s home would be watched around the clock, until they had a solid plan.

But for The Plumiere’s identity, he was destined to bite his tongue and keep his own council. Perforce, he would need to do a bit of dissembling himself. He only hoped he was better at it then Miss Olivia Reynolds.

The Capital Journal, February 9
^th
, Evening edition, Personal section.

To Mr. Lott from The Scarlet Plumiere

Dear Mr. Lott,

I am afraid your boast of yesterday had me quite excited. All day I sat out on my balcony, overlooking the drive. But alas, you did not come. Perhaps you should retire to your newly acquired Scottish property and leave The Great City in my capable hands.

Directly below read another note.

To The Scarlet Plumiere from Mr. Lott

Dear SP,

Regarding my claim of this morning, dear writer, I beg your patience as I will be spending a bit of time tidying up some unfinished SP business. It seems a fine young lady had been rescued by a mysterious writer, but then left by the roadside with no transportation back to Society. After I ensure the lady is well on her way, I will have time to collect you.

Stanley jumped into North’s carriage before it had come to a complete stop, for which he was grateful. He was in no mood to dawdle.

“Which lady did you call upon this morning, Stan?”

His friend shook his head. “Ursula. But it was of no use.”

“She refused to see you?”

“Not at all. She was more than happy see me, if only so I would see how well she is getting on without me. She has taken on Lewiston.” Stan rubbed his hands together, then stuck them under his arms. North had not thought to have the brazier filled since his own excitement had kept him over-warm all day.

“Oh? I heard it was Landtree.” He had not wanted to mention it before.

“I believe she has taken on the pair of them.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Stanley grinned. “But it is flattering, I think, that it took two men to replace me.”

They both laughed.

North sobered first. “She would not say, though?”

“No. She said if I were a woman, I would know exactly how to contact The Scarlet Plumiere. What the devil does that mean?”

“I have no idea.”

Ash would be waiting at Harcourt’s residence which was next on the route to Lord and Lady Stevenson’s anniversary party. The couple had wed twenty years ago and their wedding was still touted as the Season-opening soiree to which all openers would be compared. There would be enough champagne to drown a coach-and-eight. And every woman present would have weddings on their minds and tongues.

The carriage stopped again.

“Harcourt.”

“North. Stan. Any luck?” The Marquess asked it before he landed on the seat.

“Nothing,” said North. “The women we called upon claim not to know who she is.”

“Same here. I called on Cynthia Stark—now Lady Grey. Same story.”

Stan perked up. “Was not it Marquardt who—”

“Yes.” North and Harcourt interrupted in unison. Before she had become Lady Grey, Miss Stark had been engaged to Viscount Marquardt—a man The Scarlet Plumiere exposed as a villain who had disposed of two of his maids after he had gotten them with child. To prove the writer wrong, the man had but to produce both maids hale and healthy. The man could not be bothered with such nonsense, as he was preparing an extended tour of the Mediterranean.

“She was right about that one.” Harcourt pulled his feet in to let Ashmoore climb aboard and get settled.

“Who was right about what?” Ash demanded once his arse was no longer the center of attention. Once the door closed, the carriage began to warm quickly with little room for cold air.

“The Plumiere was right about Marquardt,” said the Marquess.

“She did not know the half of it, I would say. She was lucky the man did not come after her.” Ash turned and looked at North.

His gut clenched. He knew what his friend was about to say before he opened his mouth.

“North, I want you to consider that we might be putting this woman in much more danger than we realized.”

He agreed with a nod and concentrated on keeping a tight rein on his secret. “What have you learned?”

“Nothing. I spoke to three of her worshippers today. All have the same story. Nearly verbatim.”

Harcourt grinned. “Well, gentlemen. I believe we should consider the possibility that the women of London have a secret network all their own. How else could she have arranged for so many ladies to show up on Sunday afternoon with willows in hand?”

“Ursula said something odd to Stan this morning,” he said, preferring not to discuss branches for fear of it leading the conversation to include small boxes and scarlet ribbons. It truly was killing him to keep a secret from his friends, but what really worried him was that they would smell the lie on him and worry at him until he confessed. After all, he had not been able to keep the damnable lot to himself, had he?

“She
spoke
with you?” Harcourt’s shock was plain.

“Yes. I think she misses me.” The viscount’s grin returned.

Harcourt rolled his eyes. “She does not have time to miss you, Stanley.”

“I know, Lewiston and Landtree.” Stan rolled his eyes in return.

“I heard it was Pierce Lange.” The marquess said it a bit too innocently.

“Perhaps she is taking on all the ‘L’s at once then,” Ash suggested with a straight face.

Stan shook his head and turned to the window. “See if I ever speak to you lot again.”

Ash and Harcourt turned to North. As usual, they expected him to bring Stan back around.

“Come, Stanley. They are only teasing,” he chided, but the white head would not budge. “Ursula told Stan that if he were a woman, he would know exactly how to contact The Plumiere.”

“What does that mean?” Harcourt demanded.

“That is what I said.” Stan’s words fogged his window.

Ash looked out his own. “Interesting. We need only to think like a woman, and we will have her. But what then? If we learn her name, what then?”

“I had a nice chat with Lord Telford’s daughter this morning.” He could at least admit that.

Harcourt looked interested at least. “I hear she was a handful in her day,” he said. “What is she now, nineteen? Twenty?”

North’s instinct was to rise to the woman’s defense, but he had to tread carefully. He had to act as if he could not possibly suspect her of being The Plumiere.

“You must be thinking of someone else. This woman, Olivia, was quite lovely and refined. Her manners were a little rusty, but that was to be expected. She has not been out in Society for two years, and I would believe they have few visitors. The entire staff seemed a bit rusty, actually. But I discovered why.”

“Oh?” Ash lifted a brow.

“Lord Gordon threatened the girl before he left town. He accused her of sharing his secret with The Plumiere and promised to come back and murder her—after he forced her to witness her father’s murder.”

“And she volunteered this information?” Harcourt shook his head. “After only meeting you this morning?”

“I gave her no choice but to explain—”

“I beg your pardon?” Ash sat up straight, his frown enough to cower any other man. “What did you do to Miss Reynolds?”

“I did nothing untoward, I assure you. We discussed The Plumiere for the most part. There was only a moment or two when... Well, it was as if...as if we had been in a moonlit garden after a heated dance instead of two strangers talking in the cold morning air.”

“You kissed her!” Harcourt hissed.

“I did not, but it was a close thing.”

Ash took a deep breath and settled back, but his jaw flexed. Was the man taken with Telford’s daughter after only seeing her in the park? If so, he had best wash that image from his mind completely. The Scarlet Plumiere was his, and thus Olivia Reynolds was his, he did not care whose name was on the damned lot!

“Is there more you should be telling us?” Stanley nudged him.

North tried to swallow, but choked. Good lord! He would be telling them the whole tale if he was not careful.

“Yes, there is.” He coughed again, still recovering. “While we were in the garden, the butler brought her a note. From Gordon. It read,
How fares your father?
”

“Bastard!” Stanley and Harcourt shouted in unison.

“I sent for Peter and the others, Ash. I did not think you would mind.”

Ash shook his head. His curls fell forward to cover his scowl. “I have a question.”

North waited.

“Are you now willing to end your pursuit of The Plumiere now that Miss Reynolds has caught your eye?”

“Absolutely not. The Scarlet Plumiere is mine. I will find her. I will wed her, and damn any man who tries to stop me.”

“Then Miss Reynolds is available,” Ash pronounced.

“Perhaps.” It took all his discipline to keep from jumping on Ash to beat him as hard and as long as possible before the man turned the tables, but all it would accomplish would be to make the pair of them unfit to attend the party. He would just have to find another way to discourage his friend. “I had nearly convinced her to allow me to re-introduce her to society, but she will have nothing to do with me. She fears any woman seen on my arm will immediately be suspected as The Scarlet Plumiere. She is sure Lord Gordon would believe it and hurry all the faster to get his hands around her neck.”

“I thought as much.” Ash said. “On Sunday I sent men off to find him, and Marquardt, and a few others who felt it necessary to leave England altogether. I have men watching at Calais and Dover as well.”

“You have been busy. Thank you.” Later, he planned to punish himself for not thinking to do the same. Thank goodness for Ash.

“Would you like a confession?” His dark friend smiled from the shadows.

“From you? Absolutely not.”

“It occurred to me that if one of these blokes have a poor aim and murders you, I will need to come to the rescue of our little writer.”

“Our writer? You mean
my
writer.” North tried not to sound too emotional about it, but feared he had failed miserably.

“I am not so sure. Perhaps you have been seduced by Telford’s daughter.”

The image of Olivia’s lips popped into his mind. Seduction had been far from his plan, in spite of their earlier jest about any means necessary. But how far from hers? Had this Livvy been more cunning than he gave her credit for? Had she been trying to win his sympathies from the start? Then why turn down his offer? Was it just to tease him further, get him well and goodly hooked, like a fish?

He remembered Harcourt’s mime of Ursula with a hook in her mouth, and of Stanley removing the hook and letting her go. Of its own accord his tongue began searching the bottom of his own mouth.