The Bride Wore Scarlet (8 page)

Though he generally gave no thought to his attire, choosing instead to throw on whatever his new valet had laid out upon the bed, today Lazonby had dressed with care in shades of charcoal and gray. He blended into the fog and stone like a wraith.

Jack Coldwater, however, had worn his usual dun-colored mackintosh. The conniving little bastard came round the corner of the church, literally feeling his way past the last of the gravestones as he squinted into the gloom.

“I don't like the looks o' this, Jack,” Hutchens complained when he neared. “Graveyards give me the shivers.”

“Given what you're costing me, you can bloody well shiver till hell freezes over,” said Coldwater tightly. “What have you got?”

Lazonby watched as Hutchens rammed a hand into his pocket. “Dashed little,” he said, presenting a fold of paper. “He's to go to Quartermaine Club tonight—a regular bacchanal they're having, I hear. And I saw his valet brushing out his second-best coat, and that likely means another little pump-'n'-tickle at Mrs. Farndale's, but whether late tonight or sometime tomorrow I couldn't say.”

“The man has the sexual inclinations of a panting mongrel,” gritted Coldwater, snatching the paper. “And after that?”

“After that what?” said Hutchens defensively. “I told you when we started this, Lazonby don't keep to much of a schedule. You're lucky to get that.” He paused to thrust out a hand, palm up. “Now where's my money?”

Coldwater stuffed the paper into his own pocket, then extracted his purse. “For this, you get half,” he grumbled, poking through it.

Hutchens opened his mouth to complain. In the gloom, Lazonby leaned forward and dropped a few coins into the outstretched hand.

Hutchens shrieked and jumped, flinging the money into the fog.

“Bloody hell!” shouted Coldwater as coins rained down. “What the—!”

“That's what you're owed since Lady Day, you Judas.” Lazonby glared at the footman, now cowering behind a small marble monument. “Spend it wisely, for you'll get not another ha'penny—nor a character—out of me.”

“M-m-my lord?” croaked the footman.

“Indeed,” said Lazonby coolly. “The fog can cover a multitude of sins, can it not? Now take yourself off, Hutchens. If you run all the way back to Ebury Street, you might be able to snatch up your things before the street urchins carry them off. You'll find them in a heap out by the mews.”

The footman hastened into the gloom, the coins forgotten. Lazonby turned to see Coldwater edging backward. He followed, one hand fisted at his side, ready to plant him a facer.

“As to you, you scheming little blackguard,” Lazonby said, backing the reporter up another foot, “two can play at your game. And unlike Hutchens, your clerks down at the
Chronicle
can be had for a warm pie and a pint.”

Fleetingly, Coldwater was speechless. Eyes wide, he backed up another pace, but caught a heel on the base of a headstone that had nearly found its own eternal rest. The marker rocked precariously, sending Coldwater backward, arms wheeling.

Lazonby lashed out, seized his upper arm, and jerked the lad physically against him. “Now listen to me, and listen well, you little shite,” he growled down at him. “If ever I hear of you so much as looking cross-eyed at one of my servants, I'll have your job. I'll
buy
your bloody newspaper, and make sure you never work again. Do you hear me?”

Coldwater was trembling, but not cowed. “Oh, aye, you and your St. James Society think you can own the world, don't you, Lazonby?” he spat. “Well, I'm on to the lot of you. I know something's going on in that house.”

“You don't know a damned thing, Coldwater, save how to stir up gossip and innuendo,” Lazonby snarled.

“Oh, no?” said Coldwater. “Then who was the big Frenchman at the Prospect of Whitby? The one you didn't want me to see?”

“If there was a Frenchman, you'd do well to forget it.”

“Oh, I don't forget anything,” said the reporter silkily. “I already know the man sailed into Dover on a French clipper carrying at least a dozen armed men. And he carried something else, too—forged diplomatic papers in a folio marked with that strange symbol of yours.”

Rage and a strange mix of emotions were beginning to swim in Lazonby's head. He drew in a steadying breath. “You . . . you don't know what you're talking about.”

“That mysterious mark,” the reporter insisted. “The one etched in stone on your pediment. I know it means something, Lazonby. You led me a merry chase for reason.”

“What the devil is your problem?” Lazonby yanked the lad so hard his teeth clacked. “For whatever reason, you seem determined to make my life hell.”

Coldwater's eyes narrowed. “Because you, sir, are nothing but a murderous thug in a fine silk waistcoat,” he rasped, “and it is the newspaper's responsibility to pursue you if the government cannot—or is afraid to.”

And in that instant, Lazonby wanted to kill him. To wrap his hands round the man's neck and do . . . Good God, he didn't know what he wanted to do to him. Those vile, appalling emotions were surging inside him again.

Was he always to feel like this every bloody time he spent an instant in Coldwater's company? The air seemed suddenly thick with the young man's scent—fear mixed with soap and something almost familiar.

Lazonby swallowed hard, then forced his hand to let go. “No,” he said quietly, stepping back. “No, this is no longer about the follies of my youth, Jack. This is about something personal.”

Coldwater shrugged his coat back into place. “Perhaps I simply think the reading public has a right to know how a man who was sentenced to hang for murder is now strolling around free, hobnobbing with the rich and powerful of London.”

“And by that you mean Ruthveyn and Bessett, I suppose.”

“Do they any come richer or more powerful?” Coldwater returned. “By the way, I hear Ruthveyn has taken half a deck on the
Star of Bengal
. Care to tell me what the St. James Society is up to in India?”

“Oh, for pity's sake, Coldwater.” Lazonby bent over and snatched a shilling from the ground. “Don't you even read your own society pages? Ruthveyn got married. He's taking his bride home to Calcutta.”

But there was nothing but silence.

Lazonby straightened up to see he spoke to no one save the dead. Jack Coldwater had melted into the fog.

Chapter 5

The general who wins the battle makes many calculations in his temple before the battle is fought.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

T
wo days after Anaïs's little contretemps at the St. James Society, a small but intrepid party set off before daylight on the first leg of their journey to Brussels. They traveled by private carriage as far as Ramsgate—which was to say Anaïs went by carriage, with Lord Bessett's footman and coachman upon the box. The earl himself rode alongside, mounted upon a great, brown beast of a horse with a nasty temper and a tendency to bite—all of which put Anaïs rather in mind of its master.

For the sake of preserving their ruse, Anaïs had insisted that no servants accompany them for the crossing. Her philosophy agreed with the Iron Duke's—in for a penny, in for a pound—and no lady's maid was going to be enough to save her from the impropriety of what she was about to do.

After a long argument, Bessett finally yielded, and wrote ahead to Mr. van de Velde to ask that he employ a maid and a valet to meet them in Ostend. And so it was that Anaïs spent the whole of one day alone in Bessett's well-appointed traveling coach with nothing save a pile of magazines for company.

Given that she'd just spent a great many days journeying from Tuscany, the travel was mind-numbing. It also forced her to admit that she had secretly hoped for Lord Bessett's company—merely to lessen the boredom, of course. She hadn't a thought to spare for his shock of gold-streaked hair or strong, hard jaw. And those glittering eyes—well, she scarcely noticed them now.

But the weather held fine, the roads remained dry, and Bessett did not deign to dismount save for their occasional stops. He seemed intent upon keeping his distance.

They arrived at a ramshackle inn near Ramsgate's port to find that a stiff breeze had kicked up. Anaïs watched the inn's sign swing wildly in its bracket, and began to dread the crossing.

In keeping with her new role as a dutiful wife, she waited impatiently in the carriage until Bessett returned from having made their arrangements. In the inn yard, he helped her down, his ever-present scowl already in place.

“You do not know anyone in Ramsgate?” he asked for the third time in as many days.

Anaïs looked up at the inn's entrance. “Not a soul,” she answered. “How is the kitchen here?”

“Passable, I think,” he said. “I'll have dinner sent up to you at seven.”

“You will not dine with me?”

“We are still in England. And I have things to do.”

“Very well,” she said evenly. “Just something light. Soup, perhaps.”

He narrowed his gaze against the afternoon sun, and scanned the empty inn yard for the fifth time. “I chose this inn because it's not especially popular—which means it isn't the best. But they have a small suite of rooms, so Gower can sleep in a chair in your parlor.”

Anaïs tossed a chary glance at Bessett's fresh-faced young footman, who had begun to unstrap the baggage. “I'm sure you mean to be kind,” she said, “but mightn't it be better if
I
slept in the parlor to look after Gower?”

Bessett insulted her with a blank look.

Anaïs poked out a foot, and tugged up her skirts a few inches. The barrel of her small pistol winked up at him in a shaft of sun. “I think I'll manage.”

Bessett drew his gaze back up slowly. Perhaps a little too slowly. And those eyes—eyes she'd long ago realized were ice-blue—had the oddest way of glinting both hot and cold all at once, and sending an odd frisson down her spine.

“So I see,” he finally said. “But—”

“But?” Anaïs looked at him impatiently, and dropped her voice. “Look here, Bessett, do you think I'm qualified to do this or not? If we begin this mission by
your
worrying about
me
at every turn, I will be a hindrance, not a help.”

“I only meant that—”

“I know what you meant,” she said firmly. “Thank you. You are every inch a gentleman. But I am not much of a lady, and I can assure you poor Gower has seen nothing of the world compared to me. Now, I have a flick-knife in my reticule, a stiletto up my sleeve, and the hearing of a well-trained watchdog. But poor Gower—frankly, he looks like he just fell off a Dorset farm cart. Besides, there isn't apt to be trouble in Ramsgate.”

A hint of color rose across his hard cheekbones, and Anaïs could literally feel Bessett fighting down his temper—and his concern. “Very well,” he snapped. “But if you get yourself killed, I'm not waiting for the funeral.”

“I should hope not,” she returned. “Your only concern—and mine—must be Giselle Moreau.”

Just then, Gower handed down her portmanteau to the coachman. Anaïs moved as if to cross the inn yard. “Come, walk in with me,” she ordered. “I want to know where you are going and when you mean to return.”

Bessett followed, his color deepening. “Playing the role of overbearing wife already, are we?”

Anaïs kept moving, but tossed him a frustrated glance. “No, I am acting like your partner in this business,” she whispered. “We must both of us know what the other is doing at every turn—beginning this moment. To do otherwise is to court disaster, and you know it.”

He did know it. She could see the reluctant acknowledgment in his eyes. “I'm going down to the port to check out DuPont's clipper and make sure of his men,” he finally answered. “I'll be back before dark.”

“Excellent. I'll get us situated here.”

Bessett said no more. As they crossed through the shadowy portal and into the inn, the aproned innkeeper came eagerly across the room toward them. “Mrs. Smith, welcome!”

“Why, thank you.” Anaïs tucked her arm through Bessett's. “I was just saying to my dear Mr. Smith what a charming little hostelry he has found us.”

With Anaïs's smile plastered firmly in place, Bessett left matters in her hands and vanished. After directing the disposition of all their baggage, then having the innkeeper's dubious-looking sheets stripped and replaced with her own, Anaïs leaned out the window and looked over the rooftops of Ramsgate.

In the harbor below, she could just make out a few bare masts, and beyond them the lighthouse at the end of the west pier. But nearer to hand, on her left, Anaïs could see Bessett's bedchamber window, for the inn was built round a stable yard, and their rooms were set at right angles to each other. Ever the gentleman—cool and restrained though he might be—the earl had insisted upon the smaller single room for himself.

On a sigh, she withdrew from the window and pulled the thin underdrapes shut. After bathing and replacing her travel-stained clothing with something fresh, she shuffled through the wilted pile of magazines one last time. Then, with a final glance at the window, Anaïs gave in to her impulse.

The walk down the curving High Street was not long, and though the shopkeepers were sweeping their doorsteps for the evening, their windows were filled with all manner of goods designed to catch the eye. Anaïs passed them by. At the edge of town, she made her way gingerly down to the quay. A steam packet was churning its way through the harbor entrance as a small black dog ran along the pier, barking madly.

Looking about amidst the small trading vessels and ketch-rigged trawlers, Anaïs saw but one ship sleek enough to be DuPont's—a small, slender clipper with sharply raking masts that looked as if it was designed for gunrunning. Her sights set, Anaïs picked her way past the fishermen offloading the last of the day's catch, and made her way out the pier, which was devoid of tourists this late in the day. Halfway along, she paused, turned, and set a hand above her eyes to block the sun.

Yes, that was the ship. Even from this distance, the mark of the
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis
—the Brotherhood of the Golden Cross—could be seen carved into the decoration on its bow, did one but know what to look for.

The ancient symbol consisted of a Latin cross with a quill and sword beneath.
By my Word and by my Sword, I will defend the Gift, my Faith, my Brotherhood, and all its Dependents, until the last breath of life leaves my body.
Those were the words, equally ancient, that traditionally accompanied the symbol. The words Anaïs had been refused the opportunity to finish speaking.

In the British Isles, the gold cross was most often overlaid on a cartouche in the shape of a thistle. But in France and the rest of the Continent, the plainer version was more common, unless one's family had Scots blood. Anaïs had seen both forms of the symbol often during her travels—carved into pediments, painted onto ceilings, even etched onto gravestones.

Bessett and Lord Lazonby wore the symbol on their cravat pins. She wore the plainer version tattooed onto her hip. The mark of the Guardian. Like the Tudor rose, the Masonic pyramid, and the fleur-de-lis, it was one of those flourishes people almost failed to notice, so common had it become over the centuries.

Anaïs walked another few yards along the pier to better view the deck. From this angle she could see Lord Bessett standing topside, one hand propped high upon the bare mainmast, the other set on his hip, elbow out as he spoke intently with one of the crew. Another man was striking the French colors. Tomorrow, once they were some distance from shore—and the prying eyes of others—the crew would likely run up the English ensign. The
Fraternitas
was nothing if not flexible.

Bessett had again stripped off his coat, doubtless to assist in some nautical task, and now stood in his waistcoat, his white shirtsleeves billowing in the breeze, brilliant against the distant cliffs of Ramsgate. Still, it was clear from the deferential demeanor of everyone around him that he was now in charge.

Anaïs watched in fascination as his hair whipped back from his face in the wind. He wore it unfashionably long, without any facial hair to soften the lean angles of his face. Bessett was tall, too—taller and more slender than any of the men aboard—and Anaïs was surprised by how completely at ease he appeared as he moved about the deck, motioning at various points amongst the rigging. The man who appeared to be the French captain nodded, turned, and bellowed a command at two of his underlings. They would be rigged to run hard on the wind, Anaïs suspected, absently settling a hand over her stomach.

Ah, well. She would live.

Just then, Lord Bessett turned a half circle, his perceptive gaze sweeping round the harbor. Anaïs realized it the moment he saw her. Some inscrutable emotion sketched over his face, then he returned his attention to the captain just long enough to shake his hand.

His business apparently finished, Bessett cut a glance over his shoulder at her, and with a jerk of his head, indicated she should meet him quayside.

Anaïs turned and retraced her steps toward shore.

By the time he approached the quay, Bessett had put on his coat and restored his hair to some semblance of order. He did not chide her as she had thought he might, but instead offered his arm.

“Mrs. Smith?” he said, crooking his elbow. “Shall we walk?”

He looked so very handsome in the falling dusk, even with the lines of fatigue etched round his eyes and the look of seriousness on his face. Oddly at a loss for words, Anaïs slipped an arm through his. She would have been more comfortable, she suddenly realized, had he scolded her.

They wandered through the throng without speaking until they had cleared the quay and the crowds. The silence between them had grown expectant, almost awkward, and Anaïs had the oddest feeling Bessett was searching for words.

Her intuition was borne out when, at the foot of the High Street, he stopped and turned to face her. “I have been thinking,” he said abruptly. “About your complaint.”

Somehow, she managed to smile, but the heat of his gaze was intense and unexpected. “I tend to complain about a great many things,” she replied. “Can you be more specific?”

A ghost of a smile lit his eyes. “At the inn,” he answered, “when you said I had to trust you, or you would be a hindrance. You were right.”

Anaïs drew back an inch. “You need me, Bessett,” she said quietly. “You can't very well send me packing now.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I mean—yes, I need you. But you will have to bear with me. This is not something that comes . . .”

“That comes naturally to a man such as yourself?” she lightly suggested. “Yes, I know your type—the authoritative, take-charge type.”

This time he smiled, but it was wry. “I could say it takes one to know one.”

“And I could say some men are born to authority,” she returned, but there was no ire in her voice. “After scarcely an hour on deck, you were already lecturing that poor captain about his rigging, and having everything put your way.”

“Because if things go badly—if we have any unnecessary delay—Captain Thibeaux will not pay a great price for it,” said Bessett calmly. “But Giselle Moreau might.”

Anaïs looked at him in all seriousness. “This child—her predicament—it troubles you on some deeply personal level, I think,” she murmured. But when he made no response, she continued. “And I agree wholeheartedly with everything you said. You are not accustomed to trusting—or even working with a woman, I daresay.”

“No.” He glanced away, toward the path they had just climbed, one hand set at his trim waist, pushing back the folds of his coat. He looked pensive, as if his mind were running back over the confluence of events that had brought him to this place, perhaps even to this point in life. “No, I am not used to it. But you cannot be a green girl. Or a fool. Were it otherwise, Vittorio would never have sent you to us.”

Anaïs turned her gaze away. “Thank you for that,” she finally said.

After a moment's hesitation, he resumed his pace. She fell into step with him, but did not slide her fingers around his elbow again. Suddenly, the feel of his hard-muscled arm beneath her hand was the last thing she needed. And his kindness—yes, perhaps she could have done better without that, too.