Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (28 page)

Not yet. She would not have had time to reach the doors yet
.

“Lord Northwick.” Gordon stepped into his path as if he had not noticed his hurry.

“Another time, Gordon.” He stepped to the side, but so did the other man.

“I was under the impression you would not be attending today.”

“Did Mister Franklin misinform you? He is in my employ, you know.”

Gordon’s eyes lit with rage, but it was quickly hidden. Good. Perhaps Mr. Franklin would receive his just desserts from the hand that fed him.

Over Gordon’s shoulder, he saw the feather of a peacock bobbing up the aisle. He looked to his left where Ashmoore stood searching the crowd. His friend looked over and shook his head.

“Pardon me, Gordon.” North feinted to the right, then to the left, then easily stepped around the bastard. “Whatever has been done to her, Gordon, will be paid back a hundred fold!”

“I do not know who you mean.” Gordon’s denial was followed by a guttural laugh that stopped North’s heart. Luckily, his feet were still able to move.

Finally he and Ash broke through the side door and into the hallway. The stage door was open, but blocked by a steady stream of female mourners—none of them overly tall. He sidled through at the first chance, then ran up the steps to the stage.

Lady Malbury stood fretting near the heavy red curtains.

Livvy and Harcourt had disappeared.

He ran out again. Ash was already heading down the hall toward the dressing rooms. North searched every shadow as he ran, then noticed the large door leading outside.

“Ash!” He pushed through the door and saw a hack exiting the alley. He charged after it, willing the ground to move faster beneath his feet. He reached the corner but his momentum got the best of him and the snow he stepped upon gave way to mud. He went down on one knee. The hack had already turned again and was gone.

North threw his head back and bellowed his frustration against the lowering clouds. The street before him quieted. Somewhere, Livvy was moving further away from him.

He closed his eyes and almost hoped the darkness would take him, but it did not.

Someone tapped his shoulder and extended a black gloved hand.

“You cannot despair. She still has Harcourt,” Ashmoore said.

His friend hauled him to his feet and together they ran back to the theatre door. They found Stanley and Anna leading a shaking Lady Malbury from the stage. Stanley raised a hand to stop them.

“Gordon is gone, but we know where he is headed. Milton followed.”

At least he could take a moment to catch his breath and discover what the blazes had happened on that stage. He fought the image of that hack moving further and further away, then he realized the idea of it reaching its destination was even more frightening. To keep his fears in check, he imagined the single horse plodding slowly down the lane.

Once they found a quiet room, Stanley found the distraught woman a chair.

“I got a letter under my...” Lady Malbury bit her bottom lip. “That is to say, I got a letter Saturday evening through Livvy’s usual means. Of course I assumed it was from her. The hand was a bit different, but I supposed she had written in a hurry. I had no reason to think anyone else would use...our usual means.”

“And what did the letter say, my lady?” Anna was the epitome of patience.

“That she wanted all the ladies of the ton to come to the funeral, to line up and place a red feather on the coffin, as a tribute to The Plumiere—like they had done with the willow branches at the park. She suggested it might help them stop leaning on her and begin standing up for themselves. When she came on stage, I asked her if she was pleased her feather idea had been such a success. She said she had no idea what I meant!”

The woman covered her face dramatically with a handkerchief. Anna opened the woman’s black fan and tried to give her a bit of air, but Lady Malbury dropped her dramatics and frowned. She looked at Anna’s morning suit, her subdued curls, then rolled her eyes. She took her fan from the girl’s fingers and applied it to herself for a moment before she continued.

“I realize someone else must suspect her, to have written that letter. I will never forgive myself if I have been the one to give her away.”

“Nonsense.” Stanley gifted the woman with one of his most charming smiles. “You have been brilliant, Lady Malbury. Truly. We shall find Miss Reynolds and send word when she is safe and sound. Will that do?”

Lady Malbury only smiled and nodded, then left the room in the traditional Stanley-induced daze.

Stanley grabbed North by the arm. “I’m so sorry I failed you.”

North clapped the man on the shoulder, then shook him a little.

“Nonsense. No one can stop her. You know that. And she should have been safe enough, stepping up on the stage for only a moment.”

Stanley nodded, though his frown showed no relief.

“It seems Gordon is not our only problem,” Ash said. “If he arranged all this, he must have known Livvy was The Plumiere. So why would he kill Ursula? They hardly moved in the same circles.”

North nodded his agreement. “Someone else killed her then. Even after we’ve dealt with Gordon, we will have some hunting to do.”

Stanley sighed. “Poor Ursula.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, all staring at the floor.

Ashmoore cleared his throat, then gestured toward the door.

“Well, North? You still want Livvy then, warts and all?”

North grinned, remembering the message she’d been trying to send him when she placed that feather—a veritable nail in The Plumiere’s coffin.

“Warts and all,” he said.

“Thank God,” Ashmoore said with a sigh. “So let us go find this warty, troublesome female.”

North stepped into the hallway and paused.

What is that noise?

Someone moaned. It came from the stairwell to the left, from the steps that led beneath the stage. Even before he looked, he knew in his strangled heart, it would be...

“Harcourt!”

John brought the carriage ‘round to the stage door and they got Harcourt inside. Thank heavens he wasn’t harmed nearly as badly as Peter. He pulled off his black bonnet and found a devil of a goose’s egg on the back of his skull.

“Three men. One of them waved us over, then told us we would have to go along with them if we wished to see Lord Telford alive. Apparently, they decided to rescind my invitation before we got out the door.”

“We will take you to Telford’s. Doctor Kingston may already be there, and we can discover if Telford has been taken. Perhaps the good doctor might have an efficient method for extracting confessions.” He turned to Stanley. “Where is Gordon? He delayed me on purpose. Even if someone else is involved, he will know where to find Livvy.”

Stanley shook his head. “That will be much easier said than done. He has surrounded himself and announced he’ll be holding a wake for the remainder of the day.”

“At Merrill’s? Surely we can slip an unconscious man out through that hall of smoke.”

“No.” Stanley shook his head and grimaced. “White’s.”

“Damn!” Everyone would be on their best behavior at White’s. Gordon would have to tread carefully. And so would
he
.

***

Lord Telford was entertaining company.

As relieved as North was at finding the man home, hale and healthy, he was frustrated beyond bearing that Stanley’s fiancée had come to call. They had no time to pay Irene any heed, and so she hovered over their shoulders as they carried Harcourt up the stairs and got him put to bed across the hallway from Peter. North sent Everhardt to collect the doctor, and told the man to encourage Kingston to bring along anything that might help get a confession from a criminal. Of course he was not to mention that criminal might be a Peer of the Realm.

Finally, when they began stripping off Harcourt’s clothes, Stanley took Irene by the shoulders, removed her from the room, then closed the door.

“Listen to me, gentlemen,” said Harcourt as his dress was removed carefully over his damaged head. “I am perfectly capable of keeping myself alive until Kingston arrives. Go find Our Livvy.”

“I wish everyone would cease calling her that,” North mumbled, then cast the trousers aside with disgust.

“Would you rather we called her
Our Plumiere
?”

A gasp sounded from the hallway, then the door flew open. Irene stood with her mouth agape, her face quickly turning an emphatic red.

“What? What?” She shook her head, frowning in confusion. “Olivia is The Scarlet Plumiere? Olivia is The Scarlet Plumiere!” A vein suddenly protruded down the center of her forehead, warning of an impending fit.

Stanley went to her, reached for her, but she recoiled.

“Why did you not tell me?” Her volume forced Harcourt to cover his ears. “How could you have let me believe that Ursula woman was The Plumiere? I could have forgiven her for crawling into your bed, or I could have forgiven her for being The Plumiere, but not both! Not both!” She turned to Ashmoore, her hands up, beseeching. “You understand. She could not ruin his soul, then turn around and ruin his name as well. She went too far!”

North’s stomach turned as he realized Gordon was not to be the first making a confession that day. Irene had murdered Ursula!

Ashmoore stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the woman. She curled into him on a sob.

“She went too far,” she whispered again and again. Her knees began to give way, but then she recovered herself and pushed away from Ash. She then turned to North and the ferocity in her eyes made him take a step back. “But it wasn’t Ursula after all! And it was your fault! You gave her the letter. You practically waved it under my nose!”

She flew at him, fingers clawed, digging into his lapels. He caught her as gently as he could.

“You were just trying to trick me, so your precious Olivia would never be punished for her sins! But she will be punished now, Northwick. Whoever has her will be able to make her pay more dearly than Stanley’s whore.”

“Enough!” Telford stood at the door, shaking with rage. “Stanley, go collect Lord Goodfellow. Ashmoore, take this woman from my sight. Keep her safely away from me until her father can deal with her. Northwick.” The man closed his eyes and swallowed, then looked for North’s soul. “Go find my daughter. Do whatever you must, but allow me to send the man to Hell.”

Livvy woke to pain.

Her head hurt so intensely it actually caused a noise—a droning, maddening noise. Through that noise, she sensed a sharper pain near her left temple. She remembered that man bringing his morbid cane down upon her as soon as she’d been forced into the hack. She remembered the horror of watching the enormous stick descend, knowing it would hurt, fearing it might be the last thing she might ever see.

But before that, just a flash of the man’s face—the blond man who had limped away from Gordon’s table at Merrill’s that night. Familiar, but not familiar enough.

Now the pain in her neck and shoulders demanded her attention. Her arms were tied behind her. She’d lain in the same awkward position for far too long. She moaned before she could think better of it.

A boot kicked her in the belly! How could a man do such a thing? How would she ever breathe again? But eventually, she did breathe, though it hurt to do so. In fact, the stabbing pain combined with a screaming soreness told her he’d kicked her before. She thanked God she’d not been awake for it all.

Her stomach turned. She swallowed bile, swallowed again, then she remembered no more.

***

North sat on the side of the large card room opposite Gordon. It was the safest place, really. Any nearer, and he would be forced to listen to Gordon’s incessant chattering, be driven beyond endurance, and be forced to strangle the man in front of all and sundry. It was bad enough he had to endure the laughter that reached him from time to time.

But he sat calmly—ever so calmly—thanks to years of studying Ashmoore while the man learned how to control his features. For all anyone could tell, he was whiling away the hours waiting for an annoying relative to quit his house so he might return to it, or any other silly reason gentlemen of the
ton
availed themselves of White’s. Gordon could only guess what torment he was truly going through. North hoped to annoy Gordon into leaving the club and eventually leading him to Livvy. There were men watching Gordon’s only known residence, men scouring the docks, others watching the main roads out of town. He only wished he were one of them so he could at least feel as though he was doing
something
.

Landtree happened by at one point and played a few rounds of
Vingt-et-un
. Now that he no longer sought to lose his Scottish property, the man was a bit more careful of his wagers and took North for five pounds before he moved on. The fact that North played a few casual hands of cards put Gordon in a foul mood, like a child who was not receiving enough attention.

Of course North noticed this all in a mirror on the wall and rarely turned his head in Gordon’s direction.

How he wished he were one of those American cowboys so he might toss a lasso ‘round the man’s torso and drag him from the building. The guns at his hips would deter others from interfering, and he would deal with the authorities after his woman was safe and the coward was swinging from a high branch.

He tried to remember where, in Hyde Park, he’d seen an appropriate branch.

“Lord Northwick?”

He turned to find Gibson standing over him.

“A missive for you, my lord. The man asked that I deliver it to you directly.”

He took the paper from the doorman.

North, return to Telford’s straight away. Three more are now watching the bastard. No word on L, but there has been a development. –Ash

***

The drive in front of Telford’s resembled Drury Lane.

The doctor’s barouche was the lead in a stationery parade, followed by Goodfellow’s coach, and a rather ancient wagon. North’s unmarked coach brought up the rear. Thankfully, Goodfellow’s rig pulled away as he approached the house. Stanley stood at the open door, watching it go.

“I am so sorry, Stan.”

His friend offered a sad smile. “Her father vowed she would pose no danger to Livvy. He will see to it.”

North had not harbored such a worry until Stanley mentioned it. They had never considered Livvy might be in danger from a woman since there were so many men to worry over.

“Do you know why Ash sent for me? I confess I was on the verge of dragging Gordon from the place just as the message arrived.”

“Gordon can wait, I think. Come. The drawing room.”

Gordon can wait? Like bloody hell he can!

Livvy was out there, at the mercy of Gordon’s henchmen, and she had been for nearly three hours! Whatever this development, if it was not a better clue to finding her, he was going to stomp back to White’s and do just as he’d imagined. Only he would see Livvy safe before taking Gordon to Hyde Park. In fact, they may find a perfectly good branch somewhere closer to hand.

Too bad that pear arbor was not a bit taller.

They who waited in the drawing room were a bit of a surprise. He could not fathom how an undernourished urchin and a stout woman in a man’s coat might actually trump Gordon in importance, but he was willing to listen—for perhaps two minutes—before he went in search of a length of rope.

“North! Thank God.” Ashmoore appeared more agitated than he had all day, which made him feel quite ill with dread. “No word on Livvy yet. I am sorry.”

“So you said.” He waved the note still clutched in his fingers. “And who is this?”

Introductions were made. The Frenchwoman in the large coat was named Maude, the girl was Sarah. They’d delivered yet another patient, a Mister Thomas, to Telford’s slap-dash hospital wing—a patient whom Ash employed to follow Marquardt.

“Marquardt? Now we must worry about Marquardt?” North paced to the window and back again. “If that murderer has shown his infamous face in the city, why have the papers not discovered it?”

“Thomas had a hard time finding the man because he’s lost a great deal of his girth. Says he is hardly recognizable,” said Ash.

“Well, that should make things easy.” He noticed
the young girl watching him as she would a mad dog, so he gave her a wink. He also removed the snarl from his tone. “So what do we know of Marquardt?”

“‘E has been injured, Monsieur,” said the Frenchwoman. “I sewed shut his leg nearly twelve days ago, the same day he struck Monsieur Thomas with his terrible cane. It seems he has used that cane upon the other gentlemen upstairs,
n’est ce pas
?”

He realized why Ash had called him back. “You believe it is Marquardt who has Livvy? Not Gordon?”

His friend nodded. “Maude here practices her medical arts in Paris.”

“Gordon was in Paris. They could be working together!”

Ash nodded. “I am sure of it. Thomas said the man had no means until earlier this month.”

“After the lottery.”

“Precisely.” Ashmoore slumped into a chair.

“And so, while Gordon dances about in public, he’ll have Marquardt do his dirty work.”

“I fear so.”

Hopkins entered and bowed to Ashmoore.

“You asked for me, my lord?”

Ashmoore sat forward. “We need the help of the staff, Hopkins. Lord Marquardt is back in London. We must discover where the man might go. Does he have family? His entailed property was seized—”

“Pardon me for interrupting, my lord, but I know where you will find his mother. My cousin serves as butler to Lady Marquardt.”