Swept Away (35 page)

He opened his eyes and studied her a moment before reaching over and plucking a strand of long chestnut hair off her shoulder. He twined it thoughtfully around his fingers until the pressure drew her lips over to his but stopped her just shy of touching him. “When this is over--”

He was not permitted to finish the thought. A sudden clatter in the outer hallway preceded a loud thumping on the door and in a series of movements so swift Anna could barely follow them, Emory had leaped out of bed, had snatched up his pistols from the bedside table and was pressed against the wall, both guns cocked and held tight to his body, the snouts pointed at the ceiling.

He put his ear to the wood and listened a moment, then looked over at her and nodded.

“Y-yes, who is it?” she asked.

“Me, Miss. It be Fysh. I brung ye breakfast: ‘ot biscuit, cheese pie an’ mutton bits, some beef toady, an’ a nice pot o’groat puddin’.”

Emory kept the hammers on his flintlocks cocked until he verified it was Fysh standing in the hall and there were not a troop of soldiers crouched in readiness behind him.

“Dropped a plate o’ tarts an’ one o’ the cups on the way up,” he said, explaining the noise. “I’ll go back an’ fotch ‘em if ye think ye mout still be peckish wi’ this lot an all.”

Unabashedly naked, Emory stalked the scent of the food like a bloodhound, barely waiting for Fysh to set the tray down before he was after a piece of the steaming hot pie. He set his guns aside and ate with his fingers while Annaleah watched and tried valiantly to keep herself covered to her chin with the bedding.

“Any news?” Emory asked, his mouth full.

Fysh puckered his lips and gazed up at the ceiling, trying equally hard not to look at Anna’s white shoulders and streaming dark hair. “W-a-all now, there be a stirrin’ in the eaves about Old Boney. Word is, they’re fixin’ to move ‘im from Torbay to Plymutt next week, an’ from the
Belly-ro-phon
to the
Nort’umberlan
’, with six brigs as escort.”

“The
Northumberland
? She’s a seventy-four gun ship of the line.”

“Aye. Figger they need a mess o' big guns to take ‘im where ‘ee’s goin’.”

“And where might that be?”

“Dunno, but they be takin' on provisions fer a two month sail, I ‘ear. Decision were made late last night not to ‘ang him, but not to coddle ‘im none either. They want ‘im well out o’ reach o’ any Frenchies, an’ there’ll be ‘arf an army goin’ along to see ‘ee stays put this time.”

“Good citizens don’t know ow’t yet. Won’t know ‘til he’s on board the
Nort’umberlan’
an’ she’s under sail.”

Anna was burning to ask how
he
knew, but the contents of the tray were suddenly far more important than the fate of a defeated French general. The glands under her tongue were flooding her mouth and she could only watch as Emory helped himself again and again to savory chunks of bread and meat, letting crumbs and juices flow freely down his hand.

Emory caught her eye and gave his brow a little crook as if inquiring if he should send down for linens and cutlery. There were two large splatters of butter on his chest and a look of careless disregard in the smile he sent her way, and it was with some trepidation--and not a little annoyance at his mockery-- that she stretched out a bare white arm and broke off a piece of pastry. It was delicious, oozing hot cheese, and all traces of annoyance vanished under Emory’s approving gaze when she licked every crumb off her fingers. She tried everything, even the groat pudding, the composition of which was a complete mystery to her. But she followed Emory’s example and tore off a round of biscuit, dipping it into the buttery gray mass, and was rewarded with a delectable mouthful of oatmeal and currents sweetened with honey.

“Any word on Le Couteau?” he asked Fysh.

“Yer Corsican friend? Nuthin’.”

Emory stopped chewing and set his unfinished biscuit aside. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth with a thoughtful frown. “Nothing?”

“N’owt. Narry a peep. If ‘ee’s dead, they ain’t found ‘is corpse yet. Word o’ that would spread faster than the second comin’.”

“Then he’s not dead,” Emory said grimly. “If they found the coachman--and he would have wakened screaming bloody murder in spite of the twenty pounds I stuffed in his pocket--they would have searched the house and found the body.”

“Well why the fuck--ah, beggin’ yer pardon, Miss--why the sweet- good-jaysus-wi’-daisys-up-‘is nose didn’t ye kill ‘im when ye ‘ad the chance? Ee’ll be ripe pissed now.”

A carriage rolled up in front of the tavern door at half past ten o’clock the following evening, a large elegant vehicle with an enclosed box drawn by a fine pair of bay geldings with jaunty sprays of ostrich plumes in their bridles. The locals stopped and gawked open-mouthed as two masked, caped figures darted out of
The Jolly Tar
and climbed quickly into the coach, whereupon the liveried driver wasted no time snapping the horses to a brisk trot. The locals then gawked at each other, wondering if they had just seen what they had just seen.

“I feel like a blithering idiot,” Emory grumbled hearing the whistles and catcalls that followed the coach away from the waterfront.

"
Your
request? This was your idea?"

Anna ignored the glowering look in the dark eyes and merely smiled.

They rode in silence through the London streets, weaving their way towards the west end and Pall Mall. When they arrived, there was still a queue of carriages lined up at the gates, waiting to enter the forecourt of Carleton House. Anna had not been at the regent’s residence for a year or more and could not help but wonder if the prince, who was gaining a reputation for renovating the entire premises each time a new architect came into fashion, had changed the interior décor yet again.

Even in the forecourt there was an air of festivity, with lanterns strung from every post and pillar, swagged in the branches of the trees, set into pots in the elaborate formal gardens. The six enormous Corinthian columns that fronted the covered portecochère were draped in silk bunting, hung with lights. A score or more footmen dressed as harlequins were there to greet the carriages as they drew beneath the arched portico and to assist the masked and bejewelled occupants in alighting.

Anna felt an encouraging squeeze and looked down to where Emory’s hand covered hers. She knew her fingers were ice cold. By necessity, they had spent most of the day in the cramped room above the tavern--getting to know one another better, Emory had said. The results of all that knowledge had left her flushed and warm, but she was chilled to the bone now, and her heart was beating like a wild thing in her breast. What had seemed like a good idea right up until the instant the carriage passed through the gates now felt doomed to fail. They would be stopped at the door, she was certain. There were Beefeaters in their scarlet tunics beside the massive entryway, and more of the royal guard in evidence at the gates, in the court. They would be stopped, challenged, questioned, and dragged away like penny thieves without ever having set foot on the bottom stair.

“Breathe,” Emory whispered. “Your own ‘mither’ would not recognize you behind the mask and the paint.”

And there was the crux. They had deliberately delayed, hoping most of the guests would have arrived already and the crush of costumed arrivals in the Entrance Hall would camouflage their own appearance. Her mother was notoriously prompt at all functions and would have sat in her carriage on St. James Street until the exact minute the invitation stipulated. She would have presented the gold embossed invitation upon her arrival, and Anna had to hope her name would be on the list that was being checked at the door. The possibility that it was not, that they would send a footman to fetch her mother or her father to verify her identity, was what terrified her the most. That and the fact she had not yet confessed this tiny flaw in the plan to Emory.

It was their turn beneath the portecochère. Bright flares of light came through the windows as they rolled forward and the door was opened. A white gloved hand was reaching inside and she was grasping it. She was gathering the gossamer silk of her skirts and ducking her head so that the plumes and glittering fairy sprigs woven into her hair would not snag on the frame. She was stepping down onto the wooden coach stair, then onto the paved cobblestones, and she could see the harlequin smiling, extending his arm toward the bottom of the stairs, inviting her toward her doom.

Emory cupped his hand beneath her elbow and steered her forward. She felt light-headed and disorientated. Her skin was clammy and there was sweat beading across her brow. But she took one step, then another, and behind them she could hear the coach door being shut and latched, the driver sent on as another carriage pulled up in its place.

They came to a stone-faced court jester with a leather bound ledger open before him, a man Anna vaguely recognized as one of the regent’s secretaries.

Anna felt Emory’s fingers tighten on her elbow. “Fairchilde,” she blurted. “Annaleah Marissa Sophia Widdicombe Fairchilde. My father is Percival Fairchilde, Earl of Witham, and my mother--”

Another pinch, more eloquent this time, halted her before she recited her entire lineage.

“My mother arrived earlier, but I am certain you will find our names on your list.”

The jester was not moved, was probably not in a fair mood at all having to stuff his rotund figure into a tight fitting suit of red and green diamond checks topped by a cap with bells tinkling off every point. Moreover, he had probably been hearing similar stories from people without invitations attempting to bluff their way through the doors all evening. “Yes, well, I am afraid, Miss Fairchilde, that I must ask you to--”

“I...
we
... that is, Lord Barrimore and I were delayed by the need to search--to no avail, I am afraid--for his own invitation. It appears he gave it to his valet, who then gave it to a footman, who then placed it somewhere where it was carried off by a maid.”

“Lord Barrimore?” The jester looked up with a tinkling of bells. “Yes of course, my lord. I did not recognize you. A fine costume, indeed. You make a very striking...er, elf, is it?”

“Puck,” Anna supplied. “From Shakespeare’s
Midsummer Night’s Dream
. And I am Titania, the princess.”

She picked up a fold of the gossamer gown and executed a little half pirouette on her toes, as if she was just
too
excited to be attending such a lavish affair. The silk twinkled with silver dust and was sheer enough to reveal the shape of her legs, something that did not miss the secretary’s notice as he stared over the top of his pince nez and absently waved his pen toward the stairs.

They passed through the open doors and into the massive, vaulted splendor of the Great Hall. More harlequins were standing attendance, waiting to whisk away capes and cloaks, and for the first time Anna was able to pull a full breath deep into her lungs. There had to be a hundred people milling about admiring the coffered ceiling, the gilded furnishings, the tall Ionic columns that graced the entrances to the two anterooms. Even Anna was inspired to look up, for the huge bronze lamps had been strung with branches and woven with lengths of silk to form a bower that glittered like some fairy cave in a dream.

“It seems we have come dressed appropriately after all,” she murmured, looking over at Emory as he tried in vain to adjust the hem of his abbreviated tunic. His legs were encased in forest green wool woven tight enough to reveal every muscle and sinew in his thighs. Tawny leather boots cross-gartered with rawhide straps reached to his knees, where thin bands of silk were tied, festooned with an assortment of bows, ribbons, and bells. His tunic barely touched the tops of his thighs and boasted short capped sleeves from which more ribbons trailed down over the flared sleeves of his gold silk shirt. A grinning green woodsprite’s mask covered his face and his hair was hidden beneath a riot of orange curls.

“Truly,” she said, “it could have been worse. You could have played the part of Bottom and worn an ass’s head."