Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (8 page)

North paced while his horse was saddled. He had dressed rather quickly. The poor stable lad had needed a moment more, but rather than insult the boy by finishing the job for him, he paced—as far away from the stable doors as he could stand. It would not do to make the boy or the horse nervous too.

Harcourt arrived at twenty of twelve. The cloud from his breath mingled with that from his horse. The tips of his ears were pink, the rest of him was safe from the cold morning air by a handsome new greatcoat collared with fur.

“Has your stable lad got an extra bridle do you think?”

North spared a glance at his friend’s tack. It all looked sound.

“Of course. Is there a problem?”

“I do not need one, actually, but
you
may. There is no controlling you, I fear. I might ask the lad for a lasso, in case you bolt for the park without your mount.”

North did not trust his tongue, so he merely ignored the man.

“Do you believe she will be there?” Harcourt continued, undaunted.

“Of course. She said she would. To all her readers, she promised to be there.” And he was one of her readers. “I doubt she is the type to be afraid of the cold.”

“I think she will be sitting across the road, huddled in a carriage, watching you make a fool of yourself so Society will have plenty to laugh about in the morning edition.”

North froze in his tracks.

Was she purposefully making sport of him? Of course she was. It is what their little dance was about. But surely she would keep her word. And if she did not, well, perhaps she was not the woman for him after all.

That’s what he had come to; building up bitter feelings toward The Plumiere just in case he was disappointed yet again. He worried his rusty heart might not be up to her toying with it.

The lad brought ‘round his horse and he mounted in a much more controlled fashion than he had been capable of just a moment before. It was better this way, more dignified. If he entered Rotten Row, anxiously bouncing in his saddle, he would be fodder for more than one newspaper.

Sedately, they made their way to Hyde Park. A patch of snow remained here and there, but the winter had been a mild one thus far. Although the air was frigid at the moment, the sun pierced the middle of a clear sky and promised to make mud out of the frozen paths before much longer.

Two blocks from the park entrance, Ash and Stanley waited. Together, in thick brown coats, they looked like four fashionable bears.

“What the devil took you so long? I would have expected you to be early this morning, of all days.” Stanley adjusted his seat, then adjusted it again, his jostling demonstrating just how ridiculous North would have appeared had Harcourt not tossed cold water on him.

He turned to the latter. "Thank you, my friend.”

“Not at all.” Harcourt had also taken note of Stanley’s fidgeting and apparently knew why he’d been thanked.

They moved on and finally Stanley settled. A block further and North’s stomach tied itself into knots, but he kept his attention straight ahead. Was she watching him even now?

“I suppose we must make a circuit, make damn good and sure you are seen.” Ash was not the most gregarious of men. That he had agreed to march in yet another parade said much about his loyalty—or else it said much about his interest in The Plumiere. North would be damned before he would ask which.

They rode by twos and when they headed through the gate, Stanley and Harcourt reined in. North and Ash nearly collided with them, but it had been no one’s fault; the park was packed to bursting with carriages. In fact, he would not have been surprised if every carriage in London were attempting to crowd onto the lane.

There were plenty of people afoot as well. Mostly women, he noted, and unafraid of muddying their skirts. They all carried what looked to be willow branches. Every last damned one of them! Even a few carriage drivers were using a thin branch to control their teams!

Harcourt turned and grinned. "Rather like sending Stanley a pair of spectacles.”

North had no time to be amused. No time to be disappointed. He had to act quickly. He had to find her! Somehow.

“All right, gentlemen. We split up. Try to remember every woman you see!”

He divided the park and gave his friends their assignments, then headed down the center of Rotten Row.

She was here. She had kept her word. Now, by hell he was going to keep his.

As the sun warmed the winter scene before him, he felt inspired to search, not for The Scarlet Plumiere, but for his own heart. She would be the one holding it.

***

“Damn her to hell!”

“Now, North. Do not be so bitter.” Stanley got up from the dining table and headed to the sideboard to fill his plate. Again. He had only done so half a dozen times that afternoon.

The dining room had become the war room out of necessity. For some silly reason, his friends refused to work long hours without food. And of course the table was needed for all their reconnaissance.

Every now and then, Callister would slide a small plate of sustenance past North’s elbow and hover about until he ate the last bite. He might have collapsed on top of the lists and been absorbed into the heap otherwise, so he should be grateful. But at the moment, he was not capable of feeling gratitude.

“Cold tea, sir.” Callister was at his elbow again. "It might help to revive you.”

“Better pour it on his head, then,” suggested Harcourt from his left.

“It is no use,” said Ash. "Everyone I can think of now has already been added to the list.” He pushed aside the peerage register. "I am beginning to believe every woman in London was in that park today. Even Lord Telford’s daughter was there, and she has not been seen in public for nearly two years.”

“I would wager young lads were minding their manners today. All those women about with switches in their hands.” Harcourt laughed.

“She has made it rather difficult to find a lead, has not she?” Ash smiled. "She is a clever, clever woman.”

North sat up. No cold drink needed. His friend’s frightening smile did the trick.

“Cannot have her, Ash.” Harcourt tossed a balled piece of parchment toward the far end of the table. "North will lose all respect if he fails to woo and win her now. No one will believe a recant.”

“True.” North tried a sober nod, but Ash narrowed his eyes. Better to change the subject of the conversation and do it quickly. “But I cannot very well woo and win her if we cannot find her lads.”

“Have you an idea?” Stanley returned to the table and North reached across and relieved him of a cross-bun.

“We know she is somewhere on this list.” And damn if it was not all they knew.

“Then how do we eliminate names?” Stanley asked the question for the tenth time.

North pushed back his chair and rose. It was maddening, knowing her name was there, on his table, waiting for him to pick up the right bit of parchment and read her identity. He paced around the table once, twice, then reached out and took up the nearest list. Mimicking Harcourt’s game with the globe, he looked away, pointed at the list, then looked to see what name lay nearest his finger.

Whether or not he had been divinely led to the name, it gave him a brilliant idea.

“If the daughter of Lord Telford was there, The Plumiere’s other liberated women had to have been there as well. The poor, showing up to support their Robin Hood, as it were.” North smiled.

“If we take her rescued damsels from the list, we will eliminate less than a dozen,” Stanley pointed out.

“We do not eliminate them. We eliminate everyone
but
them. We will do whatever we must to get these women to confess.”

“Including seduction?” Harcourt laughed.

“Why not?” He threw his hands in the air and caution to the wind. Finally, he had a solid plan.

“You had better be very, very careful, North.” Stanley appeared genuinely concerned. “Some young lady might one day need saving from you.”

After spoiling The Plumiere once with her own copy of the paper, Hopkins must have realized he could never turn back. The morning edition peeked over the edge of her breakfast tray as Stella strode into her room. Not realizing her mistress was already awake and waiting, the maid placed the tray on an ottoman while she went about opening the curtains.

“Good morning, Stella,” Livvy sang.

The maid nearly jumped from her skin. "Cor! Good morning, my lady.”

Stella scooped up the tray and hurried to the bed.

“No need to rush this morning. It is my own letter I will be reading today. Tomorrow should be much more exciting.”

“Yes, my lady.” The maid stood fidgeting next to the bed in any case.

The Plumiere let the breakfast wait for a moment and opened the paper. She found the fiction section, then noticed Stella straining her neck to read what she could.

“Would you like to read something?”

In answer, the maid scooped up the remainder of the paper.

The Plumiere laughed. Then, in case Stella was anxious to hear what she herself had written after the episode at the park, she read it aloud.

The Capital Journal, February 9
^th
, Morning edition, Fiction Section

And so it happened in The Great City that a certain Mr. Lott was unable to locate the writer he sought at Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon. Perhaps the man suffers from the same poor eyesight with which his dear friend, Viscount F, suffers. Or perhaps his long evening of the night before affected his ability to see the woman with the switch who was right before his eyes.

Speaking of which...Was it terribly devastating this writer wonders, when Mr. Lott and his fellows found they were not as fashion-forward as they presumed? It seems they were upstaged by The Great City’s own Lord B whose valet—or possibly Lord B himself—lent a much more talented hand to the tying of His Lordship’s scarlet cravat.

In short, Lord B’s ensemble was stunning, I am afraid Mr. Lott and associates merely stunned.

—The Ever-Scarlet Plumiere”

She giggled. Poor Mr. Lott. He would believe she had been present at one or more of the soirees attended by the four ridiculously clad lords the previous night, and all because of a little detail her driver was able to glean from another driver—that Lord Northwick had difficulty keeping his cravat straight all night.

It was a delicious detail to which she had never been privy had her staff not come forward and unmasked her. The little gathering from the study consisted of her most loyal servants, thank heavens, so her secret was completely safe.

Stella gasped.

The Plumiere turned to find the girl white as a sheet, holding out a page as if it were covered in blood.

“My word, Stella. What is it?”

“He’s answered you, my lady, in the personal notices.”

“That is not possible. He could not have known what I was going to write!”

She refused to panic. The maid
must be mistaken. It could not be from Mr. Lott.

She scanned the sheet.

To A Certain Writer from a Mr. Lott

My dearest Scarlet Plumiere,

…I feel it only sporting to warn you, I have you now.

A dozen emotions flooded her body and clashed in the center of her chest. She could not breathe. She had turned to stone, surely!

The man was bluffing. He had to be. It would be impossible for the man to have learned her identity from the farce at the park. Thanks to Lady Malbury’s ability to spread gossip from one end of the country to the other in a matter of hours, she had secretly invited all the women of the
ton
to find a willow branch and come to Hyde Park for a bit of entertainment. Out of so many, how could he have settled on her?

Unless a certain young man had been tortured into confession!

An hour later, she was still fuming at Northwick’s attempt to draw her out. It was obviously the only strategy he had. There were truly no leads to follow. There was no way he would find her out.

“He is bluffing,” she said for the twentieth time since Stella had begun working on her hair. Nothing of her mother in the mirror now. She did not even resemble herself. Pale. Worried. But her hair looked marvelous. Stella had only needed to start over once this time. The new style looked even better on her than it had the first time. Her dark hair held the ringlets naturally. The weaving in the front looked much more like a crown than it had before.

Her gaze dropped back to her own eyes.

“He is only bluffing,” she promised herself.

Stella nodded, a bit too vigorously.

The door burst open. Hopkins stood just outside, catching his breath. He had not knocked. Had he, too, read the personal notices? Or was it—

“My father?”

Hopkins shook his head. “Your father is quite well this morning, my lady. Forgive the intrusion, but you have a visitor.

“Lady Malbury?” That was a frightening possibility. If the woman came to her home, it would put her secret in danger. In order to get the woman’s aid for Sunday afternoon, she had merely left a note for the woman under the pot on Friday night. Reliable as clockwork.

“No, my lady. You have a...
gentleman
caller.”

Hopkins looked at the salver in his hand as if debating the necessity of showing her the card placed ominously on its surface. But if the butler was uncertain, who was she to sway him? So she waited.

Hopkins brought it forward as if it were the calling card of The Prince Regent.

The Scarlet Plumiere found her courage and took the card.

Earl of Northwick
.

The newspaper screamed from her bedside table.
“I have you now!”

“Hopkins,” she tried to do more than whisper, but failed.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Tell His Lordship that I do not accept callers.”

“I have already assured the man you do not.”

“And he did not leave?”

“No, my lady. He asked me to tell you he cannot leave until he has been heard.”

Her maid fainted, rather dramatically in fact. She wondered why she did not do the same herself. And truly, a good look at Hopkins made her wonder if the man had not fainted, then recovered just outside her door. He was still breathing strangely, poor man.

“Well, then. We shall just let him wait until he tires of the futility.”

Hopkins shook his head.

“Hopkins?”

“I am sorry, my lady, but your father is already entertaining Mr.—that is to say—His Lordship is already entertaining Lord Northwick.

The Plumiere jumped to her feet. “My father?” The devil was in her house and alone with her father?

Hopkins stepped in her path and bowed. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but your father is quite himself this morning. He is doing admirably if you do not mind me saying so.”

She exhaled in relief. A good day for Papa meant a good day for her. Lord Northwick be damned.

But how on earth had he found her?
He cannot be that clever. He cannot. What can he hope to find here? Signed confessions? Inky fingers?

“
Stella, I need gloves!”

Stella was blissfully unaware of her needs, so she tossed a shawl over the woman and found her own gloves.

“The only hint of who I am was far back in the first article. Is he that clever? Has he guessed it? If that is where he learned my name, then he cannot be sure. He must be guessing that The Plumiere has something to do with me.”

“Unless the boy confessed, my lady.”

“I refuse to believe it. Unless they tortured him... Surely they would not have tortured him!”

“Please sit, my lady. You cannot allow him to see you so upset. If he does not know already, he might guess if you panic.”

She sat and fanned her face. Hopkins poured her a glass of sherry.

She held up a hand. “No, Hopkins. I will need my wits, thank you.”

She imagined the man conversing pleasantly with her father, unaware he was able to do so only because the older man was having a particularly good day. What would he expect her to say when they met? Would he accuse her in front of Papa? Would he be disappointed she was not more beautiful? Was he there to announce he had no intention of marrying a woman with so sullied a past? Would he expect tears? A duel?

“Hah!”

She thought frantically. No telling how long her father’s excellent day would last. And there might actually
be
a duel if the man hurt her father’s feelings in any way.

“So,” she thought aloud. “If he thinks to find the brave-hearted Scarlet Plumiere here, at my home, he will be sorely disappointed. I will deny it. I will be anything but brave. I will be anything but clever. He will be sniffing in circles until he tires and goes away!”

Inside, of course, she was huddled in a corner of her mind, rocking nervously, waiting for her doom.

***

“Mr. Lott, I presume.”

North should have been prepared for such a greeting, but had supposed the Earl of Telford was above reading gossip sheets.

“I must confess to it, my lord.” He bowed deeply.

The old man simultaneously pounded him on the back and pulled him into the drawing room. "I supposed I have made my own confession, have not I? Read the fiction section first, myself.” The earl gestured to one chair and stood before another, waiting for North to sit first.

“After you, my lord.”

Telford laughed. “Oh, my boy. Please call me Telly. Everyone does.”

North doubted there were many in that circle. From what Ash had learned, the man rarely made an appearance since the death of his wife three years before. Even his attendance in the House of Lords had ceased. So why come to London at all?

Since The Incident with Lord Gordon two years ago, his daughter had been as much a recluse. But she had pried herself out of her home long enough to find a switch and join the parade at Hyde Park.

And if she was willing to make an appearance in public, she could bloody well accept a caller!

“Telly it is then. And you must call me North.”

Telford beamed. "I shall. Thank you.”

A maid fluttered in, looked strangely at her master, then bowed her way back out of the room.

“Josie! Some tea, if you please!” Telford ordered. "Now, North. You must tell me everything. I shant allow you to leave until you share all you know about The Scarlet Plumiere.”

“If you insist.” It was a fact it suited him perfectly—since he did not plan on leaving until he had had a nice long visit with Lord Telford’s daughter.

***

North was shocked at how well he got on with Lord Telford. The man had all sorts of advice for him, as if he were passing down generations of wisdom that he would have shared with a son. But having had a single daughter, he had heaped it all on the head of the first available younger man that came by the house.

The man was obviously still mourning Lady Telford, as the majority of his advice had to do with the proper treatment and respect for one’s wife. And there were times during their conversation when the gentleman emanated a very real desperation, as if he were afraid the information would be lost otherwise.

North listened sincerely, reveling slightly in the temporary facade of a father instructing his son. A Father without a son. A son without a father. Was that it? He suspected there was something else, some current churning beneath the man’s words. And so he listened and watched for some clue, but clarity never presented itself.

Finally, the conversation turned to The Capital Journal and that morning’s edition.

They were laughing nigh to tears when the butler stepped into the room and cleared his throat. He, too, looked strangely at Lord Telford, then announced, "Pardon me, my lords. Your tea.”

The nervous maid returned, but her eyes were down, her nose was high, and there was no sign of her earlier confusion.

“Thank you, Josie. I am sure Lord Northwick has a steady hand.”

“I supposed we shall see,” North said, then reached for the pot.

***

“Well, Hopkins? Do you suppose he knows?” She stood to the side of the stairway, dreading her first encounter with the handsome Mr. Lott.

“I am sorry, my lady. There was no telling, though I doubt they would have been laughing so outlandishly had either of them supposed you were The Scarlet Plumiere.”

Mrs. Wheaton cleared her throat. Her eyes were the size of billiard balls. Only when the shadow behind her shifted, was the source of her alarm made clear.