by Aileen Fish
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.”
Chapter 8
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, 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.
Chapter 9
The Capital Journal, February 7, 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.
