Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (6 page)

“My lady!” John stuck his elbow in front of her, giving her little choice but to take it.

She sighed. "He was a handsome boy. I should have kissed him on the lips.”

From the sounds he was making, she thought John might have swallowed his tongue. She released his elbow to pound him on the back.

“I was jesting, John. Only jesting.”

But of course she had not been jesting at all. It might have been her only kiss and she had gotten it wrong! She may as well have been kissing her own hand.

When the carriage arrived home, Stella was huddled in a thick shawl, standing at the window. She opened the front door before Livvy reached it.

“My lady, Mr. Hopkins said he would like an audience as soon as you returned, if it is convenient.”

“Oh? Of course.” She handed her mantle to Chester, then followed Stella. John followed her. No doubt the big man was eager to tattle on her for the reckless kissing of a street boy. But he had not been a street boy at all. He had been dressed well enough. Not liveried, but dressed well. Was his master the Earl of Northwick? Would the boy be bullied into telling her identity? Would he tell his master about the kiss?

Oh, dear heavens, what a fool she would appear in the papers tomorrow.

She shook her head. Better not to lose faith in the boy before he had had a chance to prove himself. He had nodded. That was as good as a promise. Either way, she would know in a day or two, as soon as Mr. Lott responded.

She passed her father in the hallway. He nodded but did not stop chattering to the maids at either side, telling them the tale of how he had met his bride. It was his favorite story, always leaving him in a fine mood. She smiled, wondering if the maids had encouraged the recitation or if it had come to him on his own.

Stella preceded her to her father’s study where she found Hopkins sitting behind the desk. It was unusual, to be sure, especially when the butler rose a bit slowly when she entered.

“What is the meaning of this, Hopkins?”

John came in and closed the door. Stella moved to the other side of the room, joining the gardener, the cook, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Wheaton. Hopkins rolled his eyes and shook his head, then he moved to one side and indicated the chair he’d occupied.

“Please, my lady. Sit.”

Stella took great interest in her own boots. No help there.

“Very well.” She took her seat and tried not to look as confused as she felt. "I have had a rather tiring day, Hopkins. I hope this will not take long.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, my lady, but it will take as long as it must needs take.” The man lifted his chin and rested his fingertips on the desk. Had he raised his voice? Hopkins? His face was a bit redder than usual. His nostrils flared.

“Why, Hopkins! You are angry with me!” She laughed. "You have not been angry with me since I was, what, twelve?”

“Fourteen, actually.” He cleared his throat. “But that is neither here nor there.” He cleared his throat again. Stella poured him a glass of water, but he shooed her away. "You left the house.”

“Yes. I did. And before John is forced to tell you what transpired, I will confess all. I forced him to stop and hire a hack for me, and then proceeded to mysterious places without him.” She lowered her voice for effect. “When I returned, I had been followed by a young man. I demanded that John allow me to speak with him, then I kissed him and he went away.”

“You kissed
John
, my lady?” Hopkins turned to find the driver trying—and failing—to blend in with the mahogany-paneled wall.

“Not John. The young man. I only kissed his cheek.” She stood. "If there’s nothing more...”

“Sit.”

Hopkins had not ordered her to sit in a good ten or twelve years, but she had been trained well by that tone of voice that said,
I do not care who your father is. You will behave as a lady
.

She sat.

“So, you felt so compelled to run your errand that you left the house without a chaperone, then abandoned your only protector behind with the carriage and galloped into town.”

“We could not gallop,” she mumbled.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“I said, we could not gallop. There were too many rigs on the road. That is why the boy was able to follow.”

“Ah. I see. So we can place the blame squarely on the shoulders of all those who chose to drive on Shetland Road this morning.”

Livvy felt as though she’d just been struck in the stomach.

“How could you possibly know which road I chose?”

“You went to the offices of The Capital Journal did you not?”

“Were you having me followed Hopkins? Truly?”

Hopkins closed his eyes and took a patient breath. "No, my lady. There is no need to have you followed. Correct me if I am wrong, but there is only one place The Scarlet Plumiere might be tempted to go these days.”

She suddenly experienced a dozen prickles inside her nose, then behind her eyes. It was no wonder tears filled her vision.

“You
know
?”

“Yes, my lady. Only those of us in this room.”

Stella and the others beamed and nodded.

“And you have told no one?”

“Of course not, my lady.”

“Thank you, Hopkins. Thank all of you.”

“Not at all. Not at all.” He took that glass of water from Stella then, and took a long drink. "Now, who is this young man you kissed, and where is your next letter?”

The Capital Journal, February 5
^th
, Evening Edition, Fiction Section,

And so, in The Great City, a certain Mr. Lott publicly slanders a writer, insinuating not only her lack of virtue, but also the lack of proper supervision by a husband who may or may not exist, and then only until Mr. Lott hunts him down and ceases that existence. What then, Mr. Lott? Will you take the place of this deceased man and beat his wife in his stead?

Beware, any young ladies who might have imagined to find happiness at the side of anyone known as such, for Mr. Lott will no doubt beat his wife and children regularly and with the support of his fellows! —The Scarlet Plumiere

Soon after the evening edition arrived at Northwick’s residence, Viscount Forsgreen sent word that he had news to impart and for North, Ash and Harcourt to await him at White’s Gentlemen’s Club. A short while later, North sat in a comfortable chair in a private corner, sipping on a brandy and marveling that he could not, for the life of him, remember his ride across town. Had he walked? Ridden? Flown?

Flying would not surprise him in the least, as hopeful as he was that his search was at an end. In fact, if he had not stuffed himself into a rather over-stuffed chair, he might at that moment have been flitting about the room like a bird looking for access to the sky. The large establishment had hardly enough room to contain his excitement. And there was little or no space available for worry; the fact that Stanley had not hinted whether the news might be good or bad hardly registered.

Ashmoore and Harcourt arrived, followed soon after by a disappointingly sober
Viscount F
. North’s hopes took one look at Stanley’s face and promptly fled through the front window. When they plummeted to the street below, North winced.

“We have a problem,” the viscount announced as he joined his fellows and signaled to a footman. “Four brandies.”

North raised his glass. “Already have one, thanks.”

“You will need another.” Stan nodded to the footman and chose the seat to North’s left.

“You have found her?” North could not put off the question another second.

“Is she disfigured?” Harcourt whispered. “Married? Actually a man?”

North glared at the Marquess now seated to his right. He had not considered the last.

“Oh, she is a
she
no doubt about that.” Stanley still looked none too pleased about it. To North he warned, “Drink up,” and went so far as to put a finger to his glass and lift the bottom.

He swallowed to keep from getting drenched in liquor for the second time that week. Perhaps the act of choking started his heart again. He damned Stanley in any case.

“You will thank me.” His helpful friend took the fresh brandies from the footman and passed them around.

“Bottoms up.”

North did not touch his glass. His tongue was not the one needing to be loosed.

“Spit it out,” he demanded.

“All right then. She went to the newspaper offices this morning.”

“Then we have her!” Harcourt jumped out of his seat.

“Not so fast,” Stan said. “I had three men on the place. A hack pulled up. She must have been spooked, somehow. When the driver tried to hand her out, she told him to take her back.”

“Back where?”

“To her own carriage, as it turned out. My lad tried to get a look at her through the window. He even tried to pull the door open before they drove away, but the clever chit held it shut!”

“So he followed her.” Ash picked up his glass and took a distracted sip, but North knew the man was far from indifferent.

As for North, he had to concentrate on breathing. On keeping his heart from giving out. On refraining from screaming at his friend to get to the end of his tale before he, too, went out the front window!

“Yes, he followed her. He was about to give up when the hack stopped. Her carriage was waiting. Her driver started after my lad, but she stopped him, said he was not to harm the boy, then insisted she be allowed to speak with him.”

“Your boy...spoke with her?” North’s voice broke, but his friends pretended not to notice.

She was real—not a figment of his mind, not an apparition conjured by his lonely soul.

“Yes, he spoke with her.”

“What did she say?”

Stan looked him in the eye. “I have no idea.”

“Why? The boy was not killed?” North could honestly think of no other reason for the tale-telling to stop short.

“No. He was not harmed.” Stan smiled.

“Did he suddenly fall mute?” Harcourt asked.

Stan shook his head, then faced North. “Now listen. The boy’s not talking. He will not say a word. He recognized the carriage, but he will not tell me to whom it belonged. I do not know what the woman said to him, but it won him to her side. I am afraid there is no budging him.”

“We can get the boy to talk, if you insist upon it.” Ash’s voice implied so much more than his words.

“You know me well enough not to make such an offer.” North scoffed.

“Do I? I know Ramsay Birmingham, Earl of Northwick. I do not know Mr. Lott so well. Mr. Lott in love is another man altogether. This love of yours has made you...unpredictable.”

“Blarney. The both of you.” Harcourt sighed. “I refuse to believe love can change a man that much. In spite of all that happened in France, we still know each other inside and out. A little infatuation cannot do more damage than that. Especially if an infatuation with someone they have never met. Eh, North?” Harcourt slapped him on the shoulder. “Besides, if anyone has changed since this farce began, it is you, Ash. All that smiling. Laughing like a hyena at the zoo.” He nudged Ash’s knee with his own. “You sure you are not just as smitten as North?”

Ash’s eyes flashed at North for the length of a heartbeat, then flashed back to the drink he coddled between his hands.

What the devil was that?

“
Do not be ridiculous, Harcourt,” said his dark friend. “
I
would have to see her first.”

Their eyes met again. This time, Ash did not glace away. And he was smiling.

North lifted his glass to accept the challenge, grateful his hand did not shake when he did so. It was a race then.

He turned to Stanley. “I would still like to speak to the boy, if you do not mind.”

Stan finished off his drink and slapped his empty glass onto the small solid table between them.

“I thought you might. He is outside, waiting in my carriage.”

***

Two men stood before the carriage door bearing the ducal crest of Stanley’s father. North recognized one of them as the viscount’s driver.

“You do not have the boy tied up inside, do you Viscount?” He asked it lightly, but he was worried. For the first time in his life he felt as if he did not know his friends so well after all. In the name of friendship, Ash was willing to torture the boy, or so he’d offered. If kind-hearted Stanley Winters had the poor lad tied up in his carriage, then he would never take another thing for granted. The Marquess of Harcourt might confess to be an imposter and North would not be surprised.

“Is he still inside?” Stanley asked his driver.

“Aye, sir.” The men stepped to the side.

Stan opened the door. A lantern lit the interior. It took a bit of maneuvering, but the four of them managed to fit inside. Stanley and Harcourt sat on one side with the blanket-wrapped boy wedged between them—no telling yet if the lad’s hands were tied. North and Ash faced them.

Stan clapped the boy on the shoulder. “I gave you my word you would be in no danger. I am pleased you did not run.”

“No need to run, sir.” The boy lifted his chin. “What would you like to know, my lords?”

Ash went first. “Did she bribe you?”

“No, my lord.”

“So you choose not to reveal her identity?”

“Yes, my lord.” The boy smiled as if he cared not whether his answer displeased his audience.

Harcourt elbowed the witness. “A kiss is as good as a bribe, you know.”

The boy stiffened. It took North a moment to understand what that meant.

Damn it! What kind of a lady was she to go about kissing boys?

He took a deep breath and considered his emotions. Was there a chance the woman had done the deed in hopes of tormenting him? He pictured her in his mind, sitting at a delicate writing desk, the end of a red quill caught between her teeth and her bottom lip while she wondered how best to vex Mr. Lott.

Of course she had planned it. No doubt in his mind. And with his emotions back in check, he dared speak.

“I assume she kissed you then?”

The boy’s chin held steady and high, as did his blush. “She did, my lord. But it was only to thank me.”

“For?” Ash’s voice was controlled as always.

“For agreeing not to rat her out, my lord.” The boy’s eyes darted to Ash, then away again.

“But you have already ratted her out, have you not?” Ash’s voice was smooth, hypnotic.

The boy laughed and a hand, free of bindings, worked its way out of the blanket to shake a finger at Ashmoore. “Oh, no, my lord. You may be clever, but she is doubly so.”

“And she is...?”

“The Scarlet Plumiere, my lord.”

“The daughter of...?”

“Her father, I would think, my lord.” The boy was unable to stifle his grin for long.

“Clever lad.” Ashmoore shrugged and leaned back.

North could stand it no longer.

“Look here. Did she ask you to keep secret the fact that she is beautiful...or not?”

The boy considered, then nodded. “She is beautiful, my lord. I will give you that.”

Ash shook his head. “I would not put much trust in that. He has been kissed by her.”

“I beg your pardon, my lords, but I thought her most beautiful before she kissed me, or spoke to me, or told her man not to harm me.”

Harcourt nodded. “I believe him.”

The boy seemed pleased by it.

North tried to hide just how pleased he was. It was a wonder he did not jump out of his seat and knock himself unconscious on the low ceiling. He distracted himself by thinking of something else to lure the lad out.

“Ashmoore here bet the gentlewoman would be a blonde. My guess was a brunette.”

The lad looked at the dark earl and swallowed. He lowered his chin a bit, but his words remained bold.

“I have forgotten the lady’s hair, my lords.”

Harcourt laughed. North forged on, no longer trying to hide his enthusiasm. The boy was too clever by half.

“Unmarried?”

“Last I heard, sir.”

“What of her height, then? You can tell us if she is short or tall, surely.”

“Who is to say how tall is tall?” The boy winked, damn him.

“Did she have to rise up to kiss you? Or bend down?”

“Neither.”

“So she is of a height with you, then?”

“Yes, my lord.” The boy’s grin widened while North looked him over.

Damn!
His teeth clenched, but he managed to speak through them. “I do not suppose you would like to step out of the carriage.”

“Aw, no my lord. I have taken a chill, I have. And Lord Winters here did promise me a carriage ride home.”

Half an hour later, the Four Kings sat ‘round a table playing Whist. They had lost a battle, that was all. They had yet to lose the war.

It was not the
tête-à-tête
in the carriage that disturbed North. It was the boy’s parting words, given sincerely.

“
Give up the game, Lord Northwick. Please. For her.”

So, The Scarlet Plumiere would be in danger if he found her out? Was it just an impression she gave to a smitten young man to persuade him to keep her secret? Or would she truly be in danger? Of course there were many gentlemen who held grudges. But as the wife of the Earl of Northwick, would she not enjoy complete protection?

He resisted the thought, but it came anyway;
would Ash be better able to protect her?

“
Well,” came Harcourt’s voice, through a haze of cigar smoke swirling around his head. “We at least know my plan worked. We provoked her, and she appeared.”

With all the commotion, North had completely forgotten about the plan.

“Well, then,” he said. “Let’s do it again.”