The Passion of the Purple Plumeria (9 page)

Put that way, it sounded rather ridiculous.

“Jack wouldn’t do anything that might hurt Lizzy,” said William. “He’s that fond of her.”

As much as Jack was fond of anyone.

“Yes,” said Kat flatly. “Everyone is fond of Lizzy.”

Miss Meadows rose, drawing her gloves up over her wrists. “We’ll have to go back to Bath. There’s nothing else for it.”

“The other family might have heard something from their daughter,” said Kat. She turned to her father. “If there’s any word from Lizzy, I’ll send to you immediately.”

William looked with concern at his daughter, his firstborn, and said, “Would you like to come back to Bath with us, lass? I can take another room at the inn.”

“But there’s Gammy,” said Kat. “I can’t leave her.”

“We could take her with us.”

“No,” said Kat. “She gets so easily confused. She’s comfortable here.”

Comfortable? How could anyone be comfortable like this?

“How long has she been like this?” William asked. He had thought it had been bad when Maria had died, but this—this was what it felt like to know one’s heart was breaking.

“Four years now,” said Kat dispassionately. “My grandfather’s death did something to her wits. Losing the house finished it off. Sometimes she thinks I’m my mother. Sometimes she thinks I’m
her
mother.” She smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s all right. It’s easier for her this way, I think. Half the time, she thinks she’s in India and you and Mother are just courting.”

William’s eyes stung. From the smoke of the hearth; that was all.

“Once I find Lizzy, I’m coming back for you,” said William. “We’ll take your gammy with us.”

Kat smiled. “Of course,” she said.

He felt like a monster.

It was a good thing Miss Meadows knew the way, because William was largely oblivious to his surroundings, walking in a daze down the narrow, odiferous alleys. The light was already beginning to fade behind the tops of the ramshackle houses. This was what he’d sent Kat to, the underbelly of Bristol, gin and mud and other people’s washing.

If he’d known . . . But would he have kept them at home with him? Could he have kept them at home? At the time, it had seemed like a recipe for disaster. There had been a cholera epidemic; little Annie Lennox had been raped by a bunch of arrogant junior officers; his regimental duties were taking him farther and farther afield.

And there was that house, with a garden . . .

“I had no idea.”

“Yes, you’ve said that,” said Miss Meadows, picking her way along with her parasol for a walking stick.

“I couldn’t leave my regiment.” He had to remind himself of that. “I’d have come sooner, but there was no help for it. I’d no way to earn a living here. My only fortune is my sword.”

“In other words”—Miss Meadows’s voice cut into his reverie—“you like playing soldier.”

William rounded on his companion. What did she know of it? “I wouldn’t call it playing. Those weren’t toy swords on the other side.”

Miss Meadows sniffed. “I should think not. What would be the amusement in that?”

“It wasn’t
amusing
—,” William began, and broke off.

Only, it had been. He’d loved his regiment. He’d loved the camaraderie, the politics, the rush of it all. It was the only employment he’d had and the only one he’d ever wanted. He was a soldier already when he’d met and married Maria. He’d never stopped to consider what it might mean for a family. By the time he had a family, willy-nilly and higgledy-piggledy, there was no going back.

“I sent them money back.” William hated how defensive he sounded, how mewling.

It had been precious little he’d sent back, at that, little bits and pieces, scrounged here and there, hardly enough to pay for his girls’ room and board. It didn’t matter, Mrs. Davies had said; she’d more than enough. It was a comfort to have her Maria’s daughter with her, and she liked that scamp of a Lizzy.

William had accepted with gratitude and a minimum of questions. Money had never been thick in his pocket. Mess fees kept rising every year. There was the boys’ schooling to pay for, their kit, a commission for Alex, a substantial bribe to the Begum Sumroo to take George into her retinue. His horse had gone lame; the price of feed had gone up. There was always something, something that made the coins drain out through the hole in his pocket as fast as it came in. The salary of a colonel in the East India Company’s army was far from munificent. It was enough to keep a man in comfort in India, not enough to spread towards multiple households on two continents.

Even so, if he had known, he would have found a way, skimped somehow, borrowed, begged. “Why didn’t they tell me?”

“The school fees at Miss Climpson’s select menagerie can’t come cheap,” said Miss Meadows.

William cleared his throat painfully. “It’s not that.” They’d told him that Lizzy had won a free place at the school. The details were hazy, but it was a scholarship of some sort. He’d never known his Lizzy to have the slightest academic inclination, but he wasn’t inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth. “The fees were forgiven. She’s a charity girl.”

The words galled him, evidence, if he needed further, that he’d done a miserable job taking care of his family.

Miss Meadows gave him a sharp look. “I didn’t think Miss Climpson took charity girls. Her academy is a strictly for-profit institution.”

“Well, she did this time,” said William shortly.

Instead of pressing the argument, Miss Meadows regarded him quizzically. “How many children do you have, Colonel Reid?”

“Not enough to render any of them expendable.”

Miss Meadows looked at him, both brows raised.

“Five,” he said heavily. There was no call to behave like an ass, as much as it helped to relieve his feelings. “Three sons and two daughters. Kat’s the oldest, Kat and her twin brother, Alex. George and Lizzy are the youngest. Then there’s Jack in the middle.”

“Jack and his opium trade,” said Miss Meadows musingly.

“It was only the once,” said William hastily. “As far as I know.”

Jack kept himself private. It was only by chance that William had learned that it was Jack who had been funneling opium to that group of idiots who were running a Hellfire Club in Poona—and overcharging them for it, too. Given that those were the men responsible for Annie Lennox, it was hard to hold Jack to account for either.

But that was the least of it. His son had hired out his sword to the Maratha leader, Scindia, in his uprising against the British, and, when that had failed, he’d turned mercenary, fighting for this petty princeling, then that. As long, of course, as they were fighting against his father’s people.

What was Jack about now? He’d like to think that the parcels to Lizzy and Kat were by way of conciliation. The baubles for Lizzy—that sounded like a peace offering, right enough. As for Kat and the bundle of bazaar rubbish—well, Jack had never been able to resist riling his older sister. The two were chalk and cheese and always had been.

“Ouch!” William rubbed his arm where Miss Meadows had poked him with the tip of her parasol.

She gripped his forearm, hard. “Did you hear something? No, no, don’t stop walking! Keep going on as before. Do you hear that?”

William shook the cobwebs from his brain. “Yes,” he said. Footfalls. Behind them. More than one person, unless he missed his guess. His hand went automatically to where his sword should have been.

“They’ve been following us since we left your daughter’s,” said Miss Meadows in an undertone. “I had thought at first that it was coincidence, but they’ve been coming steadily closer.”

“Footpads?” he said.

“Most likely.” Miss Meadows was remarkably composed.

William took a swift appraisal of their surroundings. The alley through which they were walking was far from inviting. Many of the houses had blocked or broken windows. There’d be no help from those who lived inside.

“We’re five minutes yet from the posting inn,” he said. “Possibly more.”

Miss Meadows looked at him from under the truncated brim of her bonnet. “Too far to make a run for it.”

“Too far for both of us to make a run for it.” The footsteps were definitely getting closer, speeding up. William swallowed a hearty oath. There was no way but to fight it out. “If I hold them off, can you go for help?”

“And let you have all the fun?” Miss Meadows said.

He realized, with amazement, that she meant it. Her color was high and her eyes were bright with anticipation. She pressed a button on her parasol and eased the casing forward, revealing a glimpse of a long, slim blade.

“Your brawn, my sword. What do you say?”

There was no time to say anything. There was the pounding of feet on the pavement and a hoarse cry. The brigands were upon them.

As one, they whirled to face their assailants.

There were three of them, all clad in tattered, dirty garments, kerchiefs covering their faces. But there was one thing they hadn’t reckoned with. They hadn’t expected their prey to fight back.

William saw Miss Meadows fling the casing of her parasol aside and heard the snick of her thin, wicked blade.

“To me!” she cried, and lunged forward.

“Hark!” said Plumeria. “Do you hear? Those footfalls portend some fell pursuit!”

Sir Magnifico drew forth his sword. “’Tis they who shall fall! Fell shall be their fall, my lady, never fear.”

“Do you think me so faint of heart as that?” Plumeria whipped back her cloak, revealing the slim, silver blade strapped to her side. “I fear only that there shall not be sport enough for us both. To me!”

—From
The Convent of Orsino
by A Lady

“T
hey never said they’d be armed!” complained one of the ruffians.

“Stop whining and get on with it,” hissed one of his fellows, pushing him back into the fray. It was hard to tell through the kerchief, but his voice seemed less rough than that of the others.

Two of them made a rush at Colonel Reid, who sent one flying back with what Gwen believed was popularly termed “a leveler.” It certainly sent the man reeling to the ground, spitting blood and a loose tooth.

Gwen pinked the second man in the backside, just enough to make him release his grip on the Colonel. That left the third ruffian, who was so importunate as to make a grab at her while her sword arm was otherwise engaged. She was made aware of this by a low bellow from the Colonel, who elbowed his own assailant out of the way and swept the feet out from under the man who was attempting to draw her out of the fray. The miscreant landed with a most satisfactory thump and a curse, but there was no time to gloat. The second man was back, his temper hardly improved by her sally against his posterior. A fist narrowly missed Gwen’s nose.

She resented that. She rather liked her nose. It was excellent for looking down at people.

She retaliated with a lunge that clipped a button off the man’s loose jacket. She wasn’t aiming to kill, just to deter. Unfortunately, it appeared to have the opposite effect. The man leapt back and came up with a knife in his hand. It was a rather nasty-looking piece of work.

“Don’t even think of it,” said Gwen sharply.

In front of them, the man the Colonel had leveled was rising, blood dripping down his chin. He was missing two teeth and he looked angry. Very angry. His knife looked even larger and nastier than the other.

“Back to back!” commanded the Colonel in a low voice.

Gwen had never stopped to consider what his title indicated; for the first time, it was borne in on her that this was a man who knew his way around a battlefield. She found herself obeying as the ruffians circled nearer, knives in their hands.

“You have no sword.”

“It could be worse,” said the Colonel philosophically.

Gwen tilted her head towards him, while keeping an eye on the men circling around them. “There could be four of them?”

“No.” She could hear the laughter in the Colonel’s voice. “They could be Gypsies.”

If he thought writing a novel was easy, he should try it.

There was no time, however, to give him the set down he so richly deserved.

Launching blood and spittle through the new gap in his teeth, the man in the middle uttered those immortal fighting words: “Let’s get ’im!”

The brigands were upon them. They all converged on the Colonel, leaving Gwen waving her épée in the empty air.

That wasn’t sporting.

Gwen flung herself on the brigands from behind, rapping one smartly on the head with the butt of her parasol, pinking another in the calf, and then, when he jumped back, jabbing him neatly in the toe. That should keep him sneaking up on anyone for some time.

Near her, a knife clattered to the ground as the Colonel twisted the arm holding it. Gwen kicked it out of the way before the brigand could dive for it, and then kicked the brigand for good measure. She aimed her kick even better than she had intended. The man doubled over, clutching himself and howling in a high-pitched note that would have elicited envy from a professional countertenor. It was a very impressive high C, especially given the tears streaming down the man’s face.

“Enough,” he gasped. “Away!”

“I’m going as fast as I can!” protested his companion, hopping on one foot, while lopsidedly cradling his right arm with his left. It made for a rather erratic progress.

They lurched away, followed by their toothless companion, who gave Gwen a look over his shoulder that could best be described as malevolent.

Gwen brandished her sword parasol at him. “Let that teach you to set upon innocent citizens!”

Retrieving the parasol portion, she rammed the casing back down over her épée. It slid back into place with a professional click. Really. Villains never stopped to consider these things.

Turning to the Colonel, she said with satisfaction, “Well! We certainly sent them— What’s wrong?”

Colonel Reid staggered as he tried to walk. His hand was pressed to his left side, but even against the dark fabric of his coat, Gwen could see the blood beginning to seep between his fingers.

“Nothing,” he grunted. “Nothing. Just a scratch.”

“That’s not a scratch.” Gwen moved to shore him up as he stumbled again, sliding an arm around his waist to brace him. “Scratches don’t bleed like that.”

It must have happened when all three had converged on him, knives in hand. A man could fight off only so many at once. It was a move she hadn’t anticipated.

“At least it wasn’t”—Colonel Reid lurched slightly as he tried to move forward—“a Gypsy curse.”

“Stop talking and save your breath for dripping blood down my dress,” said Gwen sternly. She didn’t like the way he looked. His skin was sickly white beneath his tan and his breathing was labored.

“Sorry,” he said, managing a smile that looked more like a grimace. “I’ll try—drip—on the ground.”

“I’d prefer you not drip so much at all,” muttered Gwen. The wound was bleeding freely. She supposed that was a good thing, in terms of cleaning it out. On the other hand, he might need some of that blood.

Colonel Reid must have caught the expression on her face, because he said in a labored voice, “Don’t—fret. I’m an old campaigner. I’ve had worse. ’S just a—flesh wound.”

But he winced as he said it.

“Hold your peace,” said Gwen. “I know it pains you not to hear your own voice, but I’d rather get you somewhere where I can take a good look at that
flesh wound
. Once I’ve got you properly bandaged up, you can expound to your heart’s content.”

“Coaching inn—,” he managed, and caught himself on a wince.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “One more word out of you and I’ll stab you myself.”

The ridiculous man smiled at her. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was a valiant attempt. “Thank you,” he said, and subsided against her shoulder.

After that, the Colonel saved his breath for walking, if walking it could be called. It was more of a sluggish stumble, more and more of his weight resting on Gwen’s shoulder. She was a tall woman, but the Colonel was taller and broader. She knew it was bad when he accepted her assistance. She knew it was even worse when she felt the hand clutching her shoulder start to go slack.

The Colonel slipped and Gwen gripped his waist harder, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. Gwen looked at him with concern. His face had gone a curious greenish color beneath his tan.

“Not far now,” he gasped, giving her what was meant to be a reassuring smile.

Gwen wasn’t reassured.

Five minutes to the coaching inn hadn’t seemed far before, but now, with the Colonel stumbling beside her, it might have been as far as Bath.

“There,” she said with authority. There was a public house in front of them. They would have a few rooms to let, she had no doubt. It wasn’t exactly York House, but it looked reputable enough, as public houses went, and, more important, it was there.

“The coaching—,” began the Colonel.

“The coaching inn is too public,” Gwen said brusquely.

It was better than telling him that she didn’t think he was going to make it another ten yards, much less another ten minutes. If he thought they were getting back on that mail coach tonight, he was crazier than she’d given him credit for. She just hoped those ruffians hadn’t hit him in any sort of vital spot.

No. If they had, he would be on the ground, five streets back, not swaying next to her, trying to redirect her towards the coaching inn.

She took resort in an out-and-out lie. “What if we were seen together in a private parlor at a busy inn? My reputation would be in tatters.”

“Oh,” said the Colonel, brow furrowing. Then, “Sorry to be—bother.”

“Yes,” said Gwen rallyingly, hauling him over the threshold of the Happy Hare. “A great bother. It was the rankest effrontery on your part to get yourself stabbed.”

From the public room, she could hear the sounds of a very loud debate about keelhauling. She grabbed the arm of a woman who was bustling past her from the public room to the parlor on the other side. From her no longer quite so white apron and the tray of comestibles she was holding, Gwen deduced that she was employed by the establishment.

“My husband has suffered a mishap on the road,” Gwen said imperiously. “Do you have a room where I might attend to him?”

She had blood on her gown and no ring on her finger, but her hauteur spoke for her. The maid set down her tray on a table and bobbed a quick curtsy.

“Will you be wanting a room for the night, or just the now?”

“For the night.” Next to her, the Colonel stirred. Gwen squeezed his hand, hard. “Do you have one?”

Someone in the other room was bellowing for his meal. The maid glanced nervously over her shoulder.

“Ye-es,” she said slowly. She was clearly not the brightest flower in the garden.

“Good,” said Gwen. “Take us there at once. We will also be needing a cold collation, hot water, and some brandy. Some clean cloths, as well. Oh, and a pot of honey, if you have it. Well, what are you waiting for?”

The maid looked anxiously from the taproom to Gwen and back again. Gwen glowered. The maid bowed to a force beyond her control. “Yes, Mistress—”

“Fustian,” she said promptly, using a name she had employed as an alias before. “Colonel and Mrs. Fustian.”

“I’ll bring your . . .” The maid looked around, confused. “Baggage?”

“We don’t have any,” said Gwen crisply. “We were set upon by ruffians in the road. They made off with our curricle and all of our baggage. We were lucky to escape with our lives. It was,” she added, “most impertinent of them.”

From beside her, she heard something that might have been a faint chuckle from the Colonel. Just maybe.

“Upstairs with you,” she said briskly. “Now.”

The room into which the maid led them was less than luxurious, but it was private, it was reasonably clean, and it had a bed.

One bed.

The Colonel took one look at the single bed and sagged heavily against the wall. “This,” he said faintly, “is worse than a private parlor. Your reputation—”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Gwen, chivying him forcibly towards the bed. “My reputation isn’t such a fragile thing as all that. Do you really think anyone would believe you intended me a mischief? In such a state as you are? You don’t have the strength to seduce a flea.”

Even in a state of severe blood loss, the Colonel found the energy to quip, “I’ve never—found anything—the least bit—attractive—about the insect population.”

He sat down heavily on the bed. The ancient cording screeched in protest, but it held.

“Am I meant to be relieved by that? Or is that meant to be a crushing set down for the fleas?” Gwen eased him back against the pillow. He had lost his hat somewhere along the road, and his tousled hair, worn longer than the current fashion, was springy against her fingers. It looked very red against his pale face. “With any luck, you won’t be sharing your bed with any.”

The Colonel breathed in deeply through his nose, mustering his strength. “I’ve bedded down in worse places.”

He opened his eyes and looked up at Gwen, his expression stripped of its usual levity. Catching her hand, he squeezed it. His grip was weaker than it should be, but she could feel the press of each finger as though it were branded on her. She made to pull away, but he held tight, his blue eyes fixed on hers.

Without raillery, he said, “Thank you.”

For a moment, she let her hand linger in his, strangely touched by the simple profession, stripped so bare of his usual foolery.

“I suppose if you can flirt, it means you aren’t quite at death’s door just yet,” said Gwen tartly. She slipped her hand out of his weak grasp, wrapping it in the folds of her skirt as she made a show of bustling across the room to the door. “Where is that dratted girl with the hot water? She’s had time enough to heat an entire Roman bath by now!”

The word “bath” had been a mistake. She heard Colonel Reid’s voice behind her. “Once you patch me up—we can go.” She looked back to find him struggling into a sitting position. “Catch the stage—to Bath.”

Gwen hurried back before he could do himself further injury. “Lie down, you ridiculous man!” She pressed down firmly on his good side, forcibly settling him back down among the pillows. He went down with barely a murmur of protest. Gwen leaned over him, pinning him in place. “Do you want to make me tie you to the bed?”

“—can only hope,” the Colonel mumbled.

Gwen gave him an eagle-eyed stare. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” the Colonel said meekly.

“Hmph.” With one last quelling glance over her shoulder, Gwen retrieved her reticule. She removed a pair of tiny scissors. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut your shirt away. Trying to take it up over your head will only hurt you.”

And she wasn’t sure she wanted to grapple with him quite that intimately. She could still feel the press of his fingers against hers.

“Never liked it anyway,” said the Colonel gallantly.

The cloth over the wound itself was deeply crusted and clotted; that would have to wait until she had hot water to soak the cloth away. She feared doing him more injury otherwise. Either way, it was going to hurt like the very devil. She knew. She was nimble, but not always nimble enough.

“I do hope you’re not missish,” she said, mostly to distract him from the sound of the scissors. She began snipping away, the small scissors snagging on the dense fabric. “I’m going to be seeing a good deal of you before this is done.”