Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (32 page)

Their path was blocked, however, by Marquardt, but the man took no notice of them as he was backing from the land-bridge, facing a mob of servants armed with pitchforks, among other things. And at the head of the mob, advanced Hopkins, sword in hand!

At least she thought it was Hopkins.

Marquardt chose that moment to turn away from his pursuers, but stopped moving altogether when he saw the pair of them cutting off his escape. He glanced at the cloud of smoke billowing into the heavens, then back at the cane now in Northwick’s hand.

Expecting an attack of some sort, Livvy braced herself. Northwick stepped in front of her, but Marquardt gave them a wide berth as he ran around them and back toward the cottage. After a stunned pause, Northwick followed.

“Stay here,” he shouted, but of course she could not.

The broken door was ablaze, as was the rest of the dwelling. The heat made it impossible to approach; the men could not possibly have gone inside. By the time she and the mob of servants reached the other side of the small island, Northwick was standing on the shore, at the edge of the ice across which she and Marquardt had made their frightening journey in the dark. Looking upon it now, it was yet another miracle she had survived. The traces of their original crossing wove across the expanse of ice not four feet wide. Half a step in either direction would have led her to a watery grave.

A third of the way across the lake, staying carefully upon the footsteps from the night before, went Marquardt.

“He is getting away,” cried a woman.

Northwick glanced at the crowd, then at Livvy. “No. He is not.” He looked at the sunny sky and so did she.

“Warm day,” she whispered.

Northwick nodded at her, then turned his attention back to the lake.

Marquardt was nearly halfway across, but he’d stopped. His feet stood wide apart. His arms flung out. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he stepped back. A few steps more and he turned.

“Ho,” Northwick called. His voice traveled clear and strong across the water.

Marquardt looked up, grinning.

Northwick tossed the cane straight up, then caught it round the middle. The heavy knot dipped low over his back just before he threw it, like a javelin, toward Marquardt. Livvy thought it would run the man straight through, but it missed him; the tip of the thing seated itself deep in the ice between his feet, the sound of it ricocheting to shore and back again.

He laughed. “If I were a fatter man, Scarlet, I would have been dead by now! Your fault again, I’m afraid!” He wrenched his cane free, then turned toward shore. Holding his weapon out for balance, he hopped along the path he’d tried to take before, but this time, he did not pause.

But even as they watched, the ice began to shift beneath the villain’s feet.

Northwick pulled her to his side. “Do not watch, Livvy.”

She lowered her head, but watched just the same.

Marquardt lunged for a more sturdy piece of ice, but it shattered at his touch and he sank completely. His cane flailed wildly for purchase but only served to destroy what it touched. Marquardt resurfaced, gasping, laughing, only to disappear again.

A rather large man stepped up to Northwick, nodded, then lifted Livvy into his arms. A woman covered her feet with her shawl and she was born away from her nightmare, her eyes closed against the brightness of an unusually sunny February sky.

Northwick simmered in frustration and dread all the way back to London.

Due to his injury, he was unable to wrap both his arms around His Livvy while the coach carried them home, thus his frustration. What he dreaded was informing her of her father’s encounter with Lord Gordon. It was a fact he’d left Telford’s home without checking the old gentleman’s bed. Drugging the butler had been a resounding success if the sounds from his quarters had been any indication. He knew not if Hopkins had been successful at drugging his lord.

And so, rather than confess his oversight of not checking on her father, North decided to wait until they were but a block from her home before telling Livvy anything. And so he did.

She could hardly keep her seat, of course, proving he’d been right to put it off.

“Lord Northwick! I asked you nearly three hours ago how my father fared! You lied to me!” She glanced at the woman assigned by Lady Marquardt to be their chaperone, then blushed.

“I did not
lie
to you Livvy, my love. I told you only that your father would be much happier once you are home and hale. You would have fretted yourself ill—more ill than you are already—and I have saved you from that. Another lifetime of gratitude added to your bill will do.” He shook his head when she opened her mouth to speak. “And you will call me North, Livvy. I will hear it from your lips before I allow you out of this carriage. I swear it.”

She smiled at him then. In truth, he knew not whether to brace himself for a kiss or a slap.

“Ramsay, my love.” She looked to be sincere. “A half-truth is a lie where I am concerned. I will teach the same to our children. It would be best if you did not attempt to teach them otherwise.”

Ramsay?
The woman was out of her mind if she supposed he would answer to his Christian name, but he would explain that later. When a kiss from her lips might ease the ache in his arm, it was hardly time to give her proper instruction on how to best please him.

He was unaware they’d stopped. Her borrowed blue skirts were disappearing out into the sunshine before he realized he’d closed his eyes in anticipation of that kiss. He decided to add that to her bill as well.

Livvy stood inside her father’s foyer as if uncertain of being welcomed in her own home. Or perhaps she was merely afraid to hear word of her father. She jumped when North placed his arm around her. If he had to touch her a thousand times to erase the memory of Marquardt’s hands, he would do so and gladly. If she recoiled from him, he would stand at arm’s length for the rest of their lives if need be, but no further.

To his utter relief, she pulled him tighter to her. He could have shouted for joy. Instead, he shouted for Ashmoore.

His friend ran out of the drawing room in stockinged feet, sliding for a bit on the marble floor before changing direction and launching himself at Livvy. No doubt the woman was as shocked by his friend’s appearance as he, for she allowed the man to take what embrace he would.

Northwick cleared his throat and when that failed to end that embrace, he flicked his friend’s ear. “What the devil is wrong with you?”

Ash finally stepped back. His eyes were rimmed in red. He wore no cravat. More than one button was missing from his black shirt, and his curly dark hair looked as if it had never known a brush. All this since last night?

“What is it, Ash? What’s happened?”

Ashmoore looked at Livvy with all the pity in the world swimming in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.

“Good God!” Stanley’s voice rang out from above. North turned to find his other friend collapsing on the stairs. “That runner of yours told us Livvy was safe, but I refused to believe it until I saw her for myself. He also reported that Lord Marquardt died from a sudden gain in weight, so of course I knew he’d gotten his facts wrong.” He waved his fingers. “Welcome home, Livvy. Such as it is.”

“Thank you, Stanley.” Livvy gave him a weak smile. “I take it my father is not at home?”

“Not yet!” Harcourt beamed from the head of the stairs. “I would put nothing past the old man. He is Livvy’s father, after all.”

“That is true, Presley. Thank you.” Livvy’s smile remained sad and North wished he could run back and kill Marquardt all over again.

Harcourt frowned at North in confusion. “Did she just call me Presley?”

“I fear she did,” Livvy said. “Now, where should we look for my father?”

North dropped his chin to his chest. If their children took after their mother, his life would be a constant goose chase—a glorious goose chase, but exhausting just the same.

“I would turn the house upside down. He absolutely must be here somewhere.” Lord Telford stood grinning while a footman took his heavy coat from his shoulders.

“Papa!” Livvy walked delicately toward her father. Her body jerked a bit with each step, but she waved North away when he attempted to support her.

The older man frowned and pulled her carefully into his arms. “Daughter. What have they done to you?”

“I’ll be happy to tell you the whole of it just as soon as you tell me where you’ve been.”

Telford looked none too repentant.

“I was busy slaying your dragon, Princess.” His eyes glistened over a mischievous smile. “I insulted Lord Gordon. He failed to imagine what a marksman an old soldier might be. I quite surprised him. Just before he died, of course.”

“Papa!”

“I’ve been with the constable for most of the day. But I’m afraid it hasn’t been a very good day, Livvy dear.” He winked at his daughter then. “Hard to put a doddering Peer in prison for dueling. Especially when he doesn’t even remember his own name, let alone the duel.”

Harcourt was the first to laugh. Stanley next. North was sure his outburst was due to relief alone, that the last known danger to His Livvy had been removed. Lord Telford led her into the drawing room and the gathering sobered as they each found a seat—all but Ashmoore who struck a familiar pose, glaring into the fire. North sat far too close to Livvy to be proper,
but the only acceptable alternative
would be for her to sit upon his lap. He was being far too generous to Lord Telford as it was; if Livvy did not need some time to recover from her ordeal, they would have traveled first to Gretna Green before returning to London. It was too bad of him to have asked for her hand while she was so grateful to be rescued, but a man clever enough to keep up with The Scarlet Plumiere had to take advantage where he could.

Hopkins stood at attention near the door looking as if blinking caused him pain. Hung over, no doubt. Poor man. North could not help but laugh, but stopped when Ashmoore glared at him. Was he hung over as well? Then a thought struck.

“Ash? Did you happen to get the drugged tea meant for Telford?”

Telford laughed. “He did not. My tea went in the chamber pot. Hopkins is a terrible actor, if you must know.”

Ashmoore rolled his eyes, then came to stand before North.

“I have been of some service to you these last weeks, have I not?”

North nodded. “You have, and I’m grateful of course. But why do I have the impression you are about to offer me a proposition I will not like? You cannot have Livvy, Ash. She has agreed to marry me. You will have to find another.”

“I would like payment for services rendered.” Ash crossed his arms and waited.

“Payment? Of course, my friend. Name your price. Any price but Livvy.”

Everyone laughed but North. His gut remained clenched while he waited for the guillotine blade to fall.

“The Scottish Property.” Ash lifted his chin as if expecting a challenge.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am certain you heard me correctly.” Ashmoore blushed—before God and man, Ashmoore blushed.

“Do you know something about this property that I do not? Have they perhaps found gold in the fleece?”

“I know nothing about the place, other than it is far away from you lunatics. I need a rest. I cannot remember the last time I truly slept. If the estate is merely infested with The Plague, it will be a welcome change.”

“How soon would you go, Earnest?” Livvy looked at her fingers, which were entwined with North’s.

Ashmoore frowned at her, but ignored her sudden use of his given name.

“I will not miss the happy event, if that is what you ask.”

Livvy raised her head and gave him a generous smile. “And how long will you be gone from us?”

Ash looked at his stockinged toes and put his hands behind him. “A year perhaps.”

“A whole year? But what if... That is to say...” She looked at North for help.

“Worry not, Livvy. We will send him word when... Er...” Dear lord, how did one word such things?

“No!” Ash rolled his eyes and spun away from them. His hands came ‘round to dig themselves into his hair. “Do not send word when you find you are with child, Livvy. I will not return until it suits my purpose.”

Stanley laughed. And he kept on laughing until North was sure the man had lost his senses. Finally, the future duke spoke.

“Ashmoore has been infected, but not with the plague.”

Ash growled in warning. Stanley pointed an accusing finger at him. North worried that finger might not be strong enough to hold the darker man back.

“All this romance has turned his head. He only wants to go to Scotland—”

“Stanley,” Ashmoore warned.

“He wants to find that Scottish lass who stole his heart in France.”

Ashmoore pounced, laying His Grace low, then sitting on him and pounding on his shoulder. They were boys in the dormitory again. Lord Telford laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

When North could breathe again, he took pity.

“Yes, Ash. You can have The Scottish Property. Since it was your lot that was drawn, it rightfully belongs to you. And do not forget the thousand pounds from me, and a horse from Strothsbury.”

“I will take it all, thank you.” Ashmoore grumbled. “I assure you, I do
not
go in search of that Scotswoman who led us to you. She is still in France for all I know. I seek only rest and a bit of diversion.”

North suppressed a smile. “You said she wore a mask?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like another Scarlet Plumiere to me, Ashmoore. Heaven help you if you find her.”

THE END

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