Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (7 page)

The Scarlet Plumiere sat at her dressing table searching the mirror before her for any sign of her mother. The slant of her nose, perhaps. Something similar there. And a look about her eyes.

Papa always told her there was a bit of her mother in her eyes when she laughed.

Summoning a false smile, she could not see it. Nothing mischievous. Nothing cunning in her eyes this morning. Perhaps if she had enjoyed a more successful night of sleep, she would look a bit more intelligent. But how could she expect to sleep when her fate might be revealed in the next edition of The Journal? As soon as she could get a paper in her hands, she would know if the boy had kept her secret.

The suspense kept her mind from settling ‘til nearly dawn. Had she remembered how early the paper would arrive, she would not have been able to sleep even then. But she’d forgotten, then she’d slept like the dead, and now it was too late.

If she did not get up earlier than her father, she had to wait for the man to finish with his morning read before she could have her turn. Sometimes it took him all of the morning, depending on the news of the day. And worse, sometimes the man forgot he had read the thing and started over once again.

But it was not the waiting that most concerned her, or even her fate, it was the reminder that her father’s mind was slipping further by the day.

Stella toed the door open, breakfast tray in hand and a grin on her face.

“Hopkins thought you might enjoy your own copy of The Capital Journal today, my lady.” The maid quickly placed the tray before her.

And so he had! There, next to her usual fare lay a lovely, crisp copy of the paper. But she restrained herself. First, she took two sips of tea and two bites of a warm roll, fortified herself with a bite of sausage, then chased it all down with a larger mouthful of tea. If the tray were returned to the kitchens untouched, she would be served enormous amounts of food all day. Best not to insult the cook or concern Mr. Hopkins. Since the butler had confessed his knowledge of her clandestine deeds, he had been a bit more bossy than usual. But she knew it for the affection it was.

She could wait no longer and pushed the tray to the side. The nosey staff would just have to face the fact that the morning was a bit too tenuous to include the cleaning of one’s breakfast tray.

With shaking hands, she picked up the paper. She leafed through the pages and could not find the personal section!

“It has to be here! They have never let me down before.”

She started again, from the beginning. It was right where it always was, directly after the fashion page. She sighed in relief.

Stella leaned over her shoulder.

“I do not see why they do not put it right there on the front page. I am sure it is the first thing everyone will be reading this morning.”

“Nonsense. Only gossipy women read my articles, and the men who get exposed.”

Stella snorted. "Surely you do not really believe that, my lady. Common and gentlemen alike go after the newsies like the last fish in the basket. When you are after someone, the paper does triple their business to be sure.”

The Plumiere had never considered what affect she might have on the newspaper. Still, it was flattering to know she was the source of entertainment for some. She had thought herself quite clever at times, but a quick look around at her situation humbled her soon enough.

If she were so clever, why had she not found a way back into society? Why was she not dancing at balls, invited to dine with clever people, taken to the Opera on the arm of a handsome gentleman? Why was she resigned to her father’s home with only his company, and only when her appearance did not upset the man...or his rat?

No. She was not clever. She was lucky.

She almost regretted finding the personal section so soon. One last letter from her might-have-been pursuer—that was all she would have. No matter what the man had written, she would not respond. Until another young woman needed her help, The Scarlet Plumiere would go silent. She had realized, for her own health, it would be far too risky to indulge any longer in her cat-and-mouse play with Northwick. If he found her, she was as good as dead. Truly.

And then, what of her father? If Lord Gordon hunted her down and put her head on a pike, her father would not last for long, whether Gordon got to him or not. The staff would be able to keep the truth from him for a while. But sometimes, when they least expected it, her father would become completely lucid. What then? What if he read in the papers that his daughter had died? Perhaps he would only remember her as the girl who so resembled his wife. But what if he did remember? What if he remembered over and over again?

The blow would be too much. Lord Gordon will have killed two birds with one stone.

The Plumiere shook off her morbid thoughts and reached for that one last thrill. One final dessert on the tray that was her life.

It was there. A note from Mr. Lott. But why had he made this, of all notes, so terribly brief?

No matter. At least there was something.

The Capital Journal, February 6
^th
, Morning edition, Personal section

My Dear SP,

You tempt me to be just as you have painted me. Pray, bring a switch and meet me in Hyde Park Sunday afternoon, if you dare. –Mr. Lott

The boy had kept his word! He had not revealed her to the earl! She was safe!

She took just a moment to enjoy her relief before reading the message once again. And again. Then a slow smile curled her lips that caused her maid to take a step back.

There were a few times in The Plumiere’s life when inspiration struck her like a lightning bolt from Heaven itself. Sometimes she had known, instantly, what to write in order to help a young woman. She experienced such inspiration as she read Mr. Lott’s short, but rousing note.

Rousing, because she had no choice but to act, and inspiring, because she knew precisely what action she must take. It was plain as the type with which the note had been set.

A dignified but silent withdrawal was not possible now. If she did not RSVP to his invitation, The Plumiere’s reputation would suffer, she reasoned. And the one weapon she possessed in her war against the dishonorable gentlemen of the
ton
would become but a dull-edged sword. If she were mocked, she had no power.

And if anyone was going to be mocked in the papers this season, it was going to be Ramsay Birmingham, Earl of Northwick.

“Do you need to answer straight away, my lady? John could see to it your missive is delivered to The Journal in time for the evening post.”

She considered for only a moment, then reached for her breakfast once again. She would need her strength for this day.

“I believe it might serve me better to let Mr. Lott stew, at least until morning.” Besides, she had other correspondence to write.

The Capital Journal, February 7
^th
, Saturday edition

Let it be known throughout The Grand City that a certain writer will present herself and her switch at Hyde Park on Sunday, noon. Come rain. Come shine. Come the Lord.

Saturday evening, North could not contain his excitement. When a knock was heard at the front door he scurried down the stairs to answer it himself and flung the door wide. As usual, his friends were prompt. Stanley and Harcourt laughed in surprise and Ash, being Ash, frowned.

“You are not dressed,” Stanley said as he entered.

“And neither are you!” North fidgeted like a school boy while their hats and coats were taken by Callister, then he led them up the stairs.

“What are you talking about?” Harcourt trotted up behind him.

North reached his own rooms and urged them inside. "We are going to set a new fashion, gentlemen.”

“We are?” Stanley lined up with the other two and Chester came from the dressing room with a pile of red clothing.

“Yes,
we
are.”

Harcourt laughed as he was handed a red cravat and kerchief. "You could not have made this fashion statement on your own?”

“Let’s just say I wish to make a louder statement than one man can make.”

Ash sighed but made no complaint as he began tugging off his own cravat.

After passing the scarlet items around, Chester retrieved a package from the dressing room and set it on the bed.

Stanley pointed with his elbow while his hands were busy working a stickpin through the fabric at his neck.

“What’s that?”

“Another set.” North grinned and lifted his chin while Callister made a smarter shape of the red stuff beneath.

“For whom?” Harcourt met North’s eyes in the mirror.

“Beau Brummel.”

Of course he’d been prepared to share Brummel’s participation in order to gain his friends’ cooperation, but his fellow Kings had capitulated without fuss. Their sudden inability to speak was rather gratifying, however.

Finally, Ash spoke. “I would never complain, of course, but might I ask why we are making this fashion statement?”

“To make her laugh,” he explained.

“The Plumiere?”

“Of course.”

Harcourt snorted. “I will bet you a crown she will not be the only one laughing.”

North sighed. “Does it matter?”

“Not really, no.”

Ashmoore studied North a bit too closely. “There must be something you are not telling us. You cannot seem to look me in the eye. A bad habit you have lately acquired.”

North tipped back his head and grimaced. “Fine.” He looked at his dark friend. “I suppose I was hoping I might somehow recognize her laugh. Are you satisfied?” He then braced himself for ridicule.

His three friends exchanged looks, then Ashmoore turned back to him. “We will accept that.”

“You will?”

“Of course,” said Harcourt, heading for the door. “It is not unlike the Cinderella story. Only you will search with a certain type of laughter in mind, instead of a shoe in hand.”

Stanley followed next. “Your romantic side is showing, Harcourt. Beware not to let a woman hear you speaking of Cinderella and her slipper. You’ll be discovering shoes on your doorsteps every morning.”

A moment later, they were descending the wide staircase when a footman came to the door—likely the most smartly dressed footman in all of England, actually. North handed the man the parcel.

“Please be sure His Lordship understands how incredibly grateful I am for his participation tonight.”

“I will, Your Lordship.”

Callister held up Stanley’s coat for the viscount to don, obviously trying not to stare at the man’s necktie. While it did not clash with the black and white of his evening clothes, it did nothing whatsoever to improve it. But North wanted it that way. The more shocking the better.

A brilliant idea, but it was hardly his own. Rather the credit belonged to both Brummel and Cookie. As unlikely as it seemed, it appeared the two thought along the same lines, that North should done his Scarlet finery and strut about the city. He was already prepared to wear the red stuff that night, but Brummel had called upon him with the same idea, adding an offer to join in the prank. North had merely allowed the famous man believe the idea had been his own.

Resembling bandy roosters more than Kings, the four climbed into Ash’s carriage and headed off to the first of many events that evening.

In the back of North’s mind rose the ridiculous notion that the lady may not accept him, but he tamped down the thought like a hot coal, a nuisance that would hopefully die out if he left it alone.

“I will believe it when I see it.” Stanley harrumphed out the window.

North feared he had been thinking aloud, but when Ash spoke, he relaxed.

“I would not bet against him, Stanley. If Beau Brummel says he will wear something daring, he will wear it.”

Harcourt nodded. "Too bad he does not know a good spy or two to help us find the chit.”

“So you have had no luck either, hm?” Ash shook his head faintly. "My sources can find nothing.”

“You have to admit,” Stanley interjected. “She smacks of a female Robin Hood. And she must be quite clever about hiding herself. Otherwise, her supposed gentlemen victims would have found her out. Some, I am sure, are more than capable of murder. “

The parting words of Stanley’s young spy threatened to surface, but North tamped them down as well. It was not a night for worries, but a night for making merry.

At Lady Emerson’s they walked through the ballroom like a parade of black and red swans, dipping their heads now and again as they wandered past the ladies. Of course North kept his ear cocked for some magical note of laughter but was not terribly discouraged when he did not hear it. It was only their first party.

They repeated the parade through the second floor of Lady Harper’s fete, pausing here and there for a word of greeting with the gentlemen. The ladies seemed leery of conversing with them rather than being amused by their costumes, dashing all hopes of sampling their laughter. In the ballroom, however, the laughter was free for the listening. Too free, truth be told. Even the orchestra was forced to stop playing in order to catch their breath. Of course all Four Kings laughed along—they had intended for the evening to be a lark, after all—but inwardly, North was cursing himself for not anticipating such a reaction. How in the world could he discern the heartfelt laughter of one woman amidst the guffaws of so many?

Once the hilarity died down, he took heart again and went in search of a dance partner. He rather hoped The Plumiere might turn out to be Natalia Somersby. Such a nice long neck on that one. So elegant when she moved. But when he begged a dance from her, she took one look at his cravat and spooked like a horse. Her mother was quick to apologize, but it was clear the older woman suspected he and his friends were mad.

At Irene Goodfellow’s party, poor Stanley spent an hour in the study with the girl’s father, assuring him that Lord Brummel himself was in on the joke, and all would be made right in the papers. The older man spent the rest of the hour lecturing on the cost of practical jokes, how truly impractical they were in light of the blunt he had paid for his daughter’s party and he would see no peaceful return for the investment.

It was not until Brummel himself stood at the top of Irene’s stairs, proud as a scarlet peacock, that North stopped worrying about the Goodfellow’s tarnished opinion of Stanley. Having the man attend one’s event was the favor of a lifetime, even had the man shown up dressed as a cat with whiskers painted on his face.

What Brummel did wear was shocking enough. The red of his cravat was repeated, perfectly, in the red of his breeches. His waistcoat was of red and puce stripes, and his puce coattails announced to all and sundry that only the most talented of tailors could have constructed the entire ensemble.

North would be damned if his fashionable friend had not taken his little joke and created a furor that would reach Paris, be copied a hundred times, and touted the greatest stroke of Avant Guard since Adam picked up a fig leaf.

North offered to speak to Goodfellow, to take responsibility for making Stanley dress the way he had, but the latter just laughed and shook his head.

“I am afraid if Lord Goodfellow has to spend one more second staring at a piece of red cloth, he will charge like a bull. No. If the wedding is called off because of this, then it is not a family to which I would like to attach myself for the rest of my days. I will be the perfect gentleman for the rest of the evening. That will have to suffice.”

He must have been sincere, too, for Stanley immersed himself in the role of a responsible fiancée for the rest of the night, drinking only punch and the odd glass of sherry.

As the hour grew late, he conceded defeat. Surely he would never hear the honest laughter from any woman in such a public setting where every movement of a fan, every inflection of speech, and every batted lash was watched so closely.

And then he heard it. Off to his left, a woman laughed.

He turned and strode toward the balcony doors. Could it be she? Was The Plumiere, at that moment, watching him from beyond the windows?

A young man stood in the shadows, murmuring in the ear of a young woman as he wrapped his coat about her shoulders. She laughed again. It was the very music he’d been listening for.

She glanced up and gasped, then turned her back to him. There had been no recognition in her eyes, no attention given to his clothes, the color of which was still discernible from the light of the ballroom shining through the windows.

His smile faded when the young gallant stepped forward to block North’s view of his lady.

It was not until the long ride home in the odd blue darkness before dawn that he was actually tempted to give up the chase. How the devil was he supposed to recognize her? By the look of guilt in her eyes? A bit of ink on her fingers? His only chance, truly, was that the woman was foolish enough to bring a switch to Hyde Park.

Please, God. Let her be foolish.