by Aileen Fish
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 Mr. Brummel 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 don 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 Mr. 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 fianc
ée 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.
Chapter 10
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 an
d 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.”
Chapter 11
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.”
