Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (23 page)

In the evening, Telly wandered into the drawing room and the look on his face gave nothing away. Was he having a good day, or was he confused as to whom all these men were decorating his furniture?

North stood and bowed, preparing to make any explanation necessary and pasting a pleasant smile on his face that felt more like a grimace.

“What is wrong with you, North?” The older man waved at the rest to stay seated.

He felt himself redden as he confessed. “Olivia will not come out of her rooms, my lord.”

“What? And you have not sent in the beaters?”

North shook his head. “Stanley tried to convince her—”

“Convince her? You did not go to her door and threaten to break it down?”

“No, sir. I gave you my word, last night, that I’d never again see the inside of that particular room.”

“Oh? Oh, I see. Well. No worries. She’ll be down in a trice.”

“You’ll summon her, my lord?”

“I’ll do better than that.” He turned a shoulder. “Hopkins!”

His butler appeared. “Yes, my lord?”

“Go inform my daughter that there is a room full of gentlemen who are at this minute deciding what she will or will not do for the rest of her life.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Talented beater, that one—except when he is siding with the quail.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And North? You may kiss her once when she arrives. No more. If she allows it, that is.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Telly turned to Ash. “Well, it is not as if I could have stopped him.” He lowered himself into his usual chair.

“But
she
may,” Ash said. “Have you read the papers today, my lord?”

“Yes, I’ve been told. Terribly tragedy. My condolences, Forsgreen.”

Stanley bowed and went back to watching out the window.

“And the letter?”

Telly laughed. “I believe you are correct, Ashmoore. He may not get that kiss. Would you be willing to make a little wager? I’ll take my daughter’s side, of course. A crown he is disappointed.”

“Done. But fair warning, I’ve been in the pen with the bull all afternoon, my lord. I do not like her chances.”

They all turned in their seats to watch for the imminent arrival of Livvy. North had not a care for his friends or their wagers. He was going to scoop her up the second he saw her and give her absolutely no chance to protest until after he had his kiss and his say.

A figure came to the doorway and he took a quick step before he realized it was a footman.

“Lord Northwick? There’s a young man named Chester asking for you. He insists his matter is urgent, my lord.”

“Show him in here.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Chester hurried in and bowed. Livvy arrived just behind him. They both were flushed and out of breath.

North looked from her to the boy and back again. “Livvy, come here,” he said.

She clutched her throat and stepped around the boy, looking at Chester as if he had arrived with ominous news, which he likely had.

North took her arm and pulled her against him.

“Just a moment, Chester.”

He turned to face her and slipped his right hand behind her head. She had only enough time to gasp, and barely that, before he pulled her to meet his kiss, to show her all the emotions he had endured that day in his worry for her. The room stayed absolutely still for him until both his breathing and hers became a bit audible.

Throats cleared. Many throats cleared.

He pulled back slightly and soaked in the sight of her heavy eyelids and parted lips.

“Ashmoore? Help Livvy to a seat.” He felt her pulled from his grasp as he turned back to Chester. “I’m sorry, Chester. What is it?”

Chester shook himself and tore his eyes from Miss Reynolds.

“Mr. Callister wanted you to know, my lord, there is a Bow Street Runner hanging about the kitchen. He claimed to have come to see you this evening, but when he heard you were not at home, he just made himself comfortable and started telling stories. Only he stops now and then to ask questions.”

“Mister Wilbur T. Franklin, no doubt. What is he trying to discover?”

“That’s his very name, my lord. He wondered if you and your friends would be at that murdered woman’s funeral. He also wondered if Miss Reynolds will be attending. Says he only wants to offer his services to help protect the lady, since dangerous men might be attending as well. He is there still, sir. Callister doubts the man will leave until someone feeds him some supper.”

“Very good, Chester. Give us a minute to decide just what we want this fellow to know.”

“I’ll just be in the hall, then, sir.”

North turned to face the room.

“Tell Chester whatever you like,” Livvy announced. “I will be attending the funeral.” She slipped from her seat and moved behind her father, as if she expected no argument while she used him for a shield.

“Surely you see how dangerous it would be.” North took a step toward her, but she cocked her head in a manner that stopped him in his tracks. She was angry with him? How could she possibly? He had just freed them from all impediments. They could marry just as soon as Gordon has been put in his place.

“Actually, the funeral might be a very safe place.” Ashmoore stood next to the fireplace, resting one arm on the mantle, staring into the flames. “If he uses the funeral as his alibi, he can hardly harm her in a public setting. We wondered if he might throw a party. Perhaps this is it.”

“So he’s hoping this Wilbur fellow will scare her away from the funeral. Perhaps he means to have someone else attack her while he surrounds himself with witnesses.” North glanced at Livvy and tried not to imagine the possibilities.

“No doubt Chester was followed, to ensure the message was delivered,” said Harcourt.

“Then let us not disappoint the man. Let him know Livvy will not be attending, when in truth it may be the safest place for her.”

“Then you’ll allow me to attend?” Livvy frowned from Ashmoore to North.

North caught a twinkle in her father’s eye, and took a breath.

“Livvy, darling, you know full well you will do whatever the devil you want, forgive my language. Just keep us informed so we can protect you. When this crisis is over, you will have no need to do even that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Damn him if she didn’t sound a bit disappointed. He tried to suppress his smile.

“You have done an admirable job taking care of yourself until I came along. No doubt you can do so again.”

He turned his back on her, only to find Ashmoore’s eyes jumping from his head. He winked at his friend, to let him know he was only teasing Livvy. He had no intention of leaving her side when the danger had passed. Ashmoore shook his head and buried his face against the mantle.

“Hopkins!”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Step inside and close the door, if you will.”

Hopkins did as she asked. North held steady, trying to concentrate on the fire.

The silence was palpable.

“So. Just how many of you know I am The Scarlet Plumiere?”

He spun ‘round, then wished he had not. The look she gave him was not unlike Ashmoore’s battlefield grimace and for a flash he imagined that Ursula was not the only one who might be in need of a church service—and not a wedding.

He stepped back until his shoulder butted up against the mantle opposite Ashmoore. His friend’s eyes were closed. The man did not turn, but he raised his hand.

Telly’s hand raised, as did his butler’s. Stanley turned from the windows, smiling and joining the ranks of confessors. Harcourt, seated upon the piano bench, propped up an elbow and waved.

North was the only hold out. Then carefully, slowly, he raised his hand, but in a more defensive manner. Damn him if he didn’t feel as if he was the only man in the room who erred in knowing her secret.

“Now wait a moment, Livvy.” He raised his other hand to the fore as well since she began stalking toward him. “Why am I the only man in trouble here?”

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t speak. She kept coming.

He would try a different tone.

“Livvy. Stop this.” He took a step sideways toward the door.

She took two quick ones to head him off. The light from the fire lit her face from below giving her decidedly sinister demeanor.

He laughed. She did not. He stopped smiling.

“Blame The Rat, Livvy. He gave you away that first day. And the scarlet ribbon of course.”

She stopped. “You have known since that
first day
?” She looked horrified by the news. “But not before you tried to kiss me.”

“Correct. I started falling in love with you before I knew. Does that aid in my defense?”

She shook her head and started walking again, until her skirts covered his shoes. His heart jumped with hope that she might kiss him. He even lowered his head, to make it easier for her.

She tipped her head back. Dark curls fell behind her shoulders.

“Lord Northwick?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I am sorry, but I am freeing you from any obligation you might feel for me.”

“I do not love you out of obligation, Livvy.”

“That is beside the point. You are free to do as you please.” She was smiling. He finally felt safe smiling back.

“Then it pleases me to marry you, Livvy.” He could dive into the depths of her eyes.

“I worry you do not understand what is going on here, sir.”

“What? Fine. Explain it to me. What is going on here?” He wished their audience would be so kind as to slip from the room, but his sneaking into her room recently made such kindness unlikely.

“Ahem,” Ashmoore intruded. “May I?”

She smiled and nodded at the man, then stepped back.

North frowned at his amused friend.

“North, old man?”

“Yes?”

“She is setting you aside.”

He looked at Livvy, now two steps away. “You would not. You love me.”

“I am afraid it is already done, Lord Northwick.” She turned toward the doors. “Hopkins can inform me if there is anything special I need to know about the funeral.”

Hopkins opened the door for her, then closed it again.

North looked around the room. Stanley and Harcourt were standing before the windows performing pantomime in the light from the sconces. Harcourt was pretending to pick up someone by their shoulders only to turn and set them down again. The shoulders, he noted, were a bit broader and higher than the first time he had done such a thing.

Stanley was playing the part of a fish, being pulled about by his own hooked finger, then removing the finger and grinning at him.

Ashmoore slid onto the couch and leaned forward to put his face in his hands.

Telly frowned at Stanley and Harcourt as if they’d lost their minds. Once they noticed his concern, they stopped their miming, but continued to giggle like girls.

Telly then looked at him and shook his head.

“Almost had her, young Birmingham. Yes, almost had her.”

The Scarlet Plumiere climbed the stairs, feeling quite satisfied with how fate had delivered her enemy into her hands. He had set her aside with the morning paper. She had taken his heart and handed it back to him, tied up with a scarlet ribbon. All in all, she felt completely vindicated. And on a day like today, vindication was a balm for her soul.

The drawing room door flew open and she spun about on the landing, expecting North to come flying up the steps to demand she take him back.

It was North, all right. But he gave the stairs not a glance on his way through the foyer. He didn’t so much as pause or look over his shoulder before stepping into the darkness and slamming the front door.

Chester stood at attention, staring forward. Hopkins summoned the boy back to the drawing room.

The Scarlet Plumiere continued on her way, finishing her grand exit in solitude. Unfortunately, she was merely Olivia Reynolds by the time her bedroom door closed behind her. She was too tired to cry, however, and let a numbness settle over her instead. It was done. All the frivolous paths were now closed to her. No more temptation. Just the path she had always intended to travel.

She spread her skirts and seated herself before her mirror but did not look in it. She had no interest in who might be looking back at her. Instead, she examined her mother’s jeweled brushes, ensuring the beads were secure before brushing out her hair. The strings were discoloring with age.

A long quarter of an hour later, a movement caught her eye. A shadow crouched at her balcony door, fiddling with the lock.

Feeling too vulnerable by half, she dared not stay lest North persuade her to remove the chair Stanley had wedged against the handles. So, since she was still dressed, she rose and left the room.

Without North there, she felt no need to avoid the drawing room, so she slipped inside to see what grand ideas her would-be heroes had come up with.

Ashmoore was seated on the couch with a man leaning nearby. She knew that head. It belonged to Northwick.

Northwick!

Her heart burst inside her chest.

“But! But! But you are not here!”

He looked up, unsmiling. “I did not get far before I remembered about Wilbur T. Franklin.”

“B...but the man on my balcony! I thought it was you!”

“What?” Ashmoore and the rest jumped to their feet.

“There is a man trying to break into my room!” She said it to their backs as they were already flooding into the hallway.

“Stay in this room, with your father and Everhardt,” said North as he passed her.

She locked the door behind him. Everhardt moved a heavy chair in front of it. Her father slipped a sword from inside his cane.

“Seat yourself at the piano, Livvy. If someone gets in, you make as much noise as you can.”

She obeyed and prayed the King of the Hill was not about to lose his life trying to protect her.

***

After ten minutes of torture, they heard shouting in the hallway. The handle rattled.

“Lord Telford, it is I, Northwick. You can open the door now.”

Everhardt moved the chair and her father unlocked the latch, then opened the door.

A disheveled Earl of Northwick stood in the doorway. She had never been so relieved.

Her father replaced his small sword. “Who was harmed, sir?”

Northwick dropped his eyes. “Peter was struck on the head. We’ve sent for the doctor and took the liberty of putting Peter in one of your guestrooms.”

“He survived it then?”

“Thus far.”

“Thank God for that. Did you catch the devil?”

“We did not. We saw no one. Someone damaged the lock on your daughter’s balcony door. She should sleep somewhere else tonight.” Northwick barely glanced her way, then bowed and disappeared.

She ignored the pain of his indifference and hoped it would only prove to strengthen her resolve. There were preparations to make, for the plan she’d formulated while cowering behind the piano, but she wished to check on Peter first. She found Northwick and Ashmoore hovering at the foot of Peter’s bed. The injured man’s eyes were closed, oblivious to the cook wrapping cheesecloth beneath his chin.

Ash looked up and gave Livvy a brief smile. “North? I propose we move to the study and let our brave friend sleep until the doctor arrives,” he said.

North noticed her, then looked away as he walked past her and out the door. It felt as if he’d taken with him all the warmth from the room considering the cold, painful chills that filled her lungs. She thought she might be able to manage only a few breaths more before she shattered.
Harden your heart, Livvy. Hard, then harder still.

“How can I help?” she asked Ashmoore.

“Take care of your father, Livvy. He has endured a difficult evening; he will need you tonight. Have a cot taken to his room. You will be safe in there.” He winked and left her.

Cook finished her task and sat beside the bed, her hands kneading at her knees as if restless for a bit of busy work. Mrs. Wheaton patted the woman on the shoulder and also quit the room.

Livvy could not take her gaze from Peter’s still, large form. If Lord Gordon were capable of taking down such an opponent, what might be in store for the rest? She visualized the line of people standing between herself and the villain. First, Ursula, the woman he believed was The Plumiere—the only person the man feared. Next, Peter, the first man in his way. Who would be next? Her father, so intent on protecting her? What chance had Papa against a foe that could best Peter? How could she bear to stand by while the men she loved were sent toward Death’s door, or through it?

She told herself Northwick was merely one of many men standing in that line. Just another man she would not allow to be murdered in her stead.

It was time to remember who she was, time for Lord Gordon to come face to face with the real Scarlet Plumiere.

As soon as the lion emerged from his lair, the prey would go hunting...and the lion would die.