To Love a Spy

by Aileen Fish

  “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, 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 the 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.

  “Lord Ashmoore to see you, my lady.” The housekeeper hesitated, gave her a popping sort of curtsy, then scurried away. Hopkins moved behind her, ready to come to her aid should she need him.

  The looming shadow moved forward and bowed. When he lifted his eyes, The Scarlet Plumiere knew he had heard every word.

  “Have you harmed the boy?” She kept her voice low, hoping her surprise guest would do the same.

  “What boy would that be, my lady?” He did not smile. Was he disappointed The Plumiere had not turned out to be someone more exciting?

  “The boy who followed my hack. I presumed he was the only one who could have identified me.”

  “Ah, that boy. I assure you, he keeps your secret still, my lady.” Finally, the man smiled. “You quite won him over.”

  “Then how did you and Lord Northwick find me out?”

  “Oh, but he has not. Not yet.”

  “So I have just given the game away.” She let her head drop forward, took a slow breath, then looked up. “I suppose you have no choice but to tell him.”

  The man only stared at her. It was quite unnerving—the way the bright light of morning did not seem to reach his face, although it shined brilliantly through the windows above the front door and reflected through the hallway. It might have something to do with how his hair hung over his eyes. Perhaps the black of his clothes. He might have seemed quite imposing, intimidating actually, had it not been for those remarkable eyes...and the way he had smiled. She had the impression he did not smile often enough. She had heard him laugh before, but of course that had been nearly a decade ago.

  “Have we met before?” He seemed embarrassed to have to ask.

  “You tipped your hat to me at the park yesterday.”

  “Before then?”

  “I am sure not, my lord. I spied on you and your friends once, when we were all much younger. Nearly ten years ago, at a party in the country.”

  “Ten years ago? Oh, dear.”

  “Not to worry, my lord. You were all rolling down a hill, squealing like girls, laughing yourselves silly. It was quite entertaining. Lord Northwick was...” She stopped and shook her head.

  “You meant to say he was handsome, even then?”

  “He was quite...full of life.”

  “Yes, I remember. We all were. Then.”

  “And now?”

  “And now, we are mostly full of brandy and of ourselves.” He looked away for a moment.

  “I have been terribly rude.” She stepped to the side and made a sweeping gesture toward the drawing room. “Be my guest, Lord Ashmoore. Let your celebration begin.”

  “Nothing for you to celebrate?”

  “I am afraid not, my lord. I will not celebrate the demise of The Scarlet Plumiere, nor my own imminent murder.”

  “You will be in danger, to be sure.”

  She was relieved to find someone else could see it.

  “Yes. And yet you still searched for me.”

  “Lads playing at being heroes, I am afraid.”

  “The lads from the hill will not be able to protect me, sir.” She clasped her hands and looked at the floor.

  “We are no longer the lads from the hill, my lady.” He lowered his voice and took her elbow, moving them further away from the drawing room. She searched his face for a reason, but found no emotion there. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking.

  “I stand corrected. At least one of you is the deadliest gentleman of the ton.”

  He grimaced. “I did not know ladies heard that kind of talk.”

  “We just pretend we do not.” She gave him a wink and it won her a genuine smile.

  “I understand how you won the boy over.” He shook a dark curl from his eyes, the one soft detail among a dozen harder ones. “I would like to offer you my services, my lady. Consider me at your beck and call. You need only send word and I will come as quickly as my horse can bring me.”

  She nodded. How does one respond to such an offer?

  “I apologize, but I am afraid I have remembered an urgent engagement. Please give my ap
ologies to Northwick—or better yet...do not.” There it was again, that amused smile. He bowed, then spun on his heel. A moment later, Hopkins was closing the door behind him and the hallway lightened.

  Now, to see if Lord Northwick was as clever as he seemed to think.

  Chapter 12

  North and Lord Telford had settled into a comfortable silence when a small person coughed. Or it had sounded like a small person.

  A beauty stood in the doorway. He jumped to his feet. When Telly sat down his cup and struggled to follow suit, the beauty rushed forward.

  “Heavens, Father. Please sit.”

  The man looked closely at the pretty bird fluttering over him and smiled. “It is a very good day today, Livvy.”

  She tried to tuck a shawl about the man’s knees, but he kept pulling it off, first one side and then the other. Finally, she put her hands on her lovely hips and leaned close.

  “Yes, Father, it seems to be a very good day indeed.” The smile she gave the man could have brought tears to a softer man’s eyes. “Suit yourself,” she said sternly, but then winked at the old man, who winked back.

  “Lord Northwick, may I introduce my daughter, Olivia Reynolds? Livvy, I give you Mr. Lott.”

  The bird had dipped into a curtsy, but popped up quickly and stared, open-mouthed, at her father.

  “Oh, now. You know I read the papers, Livvy.”

  North found his voice. “Indeed. Your father is possibly The Scarlet Plumiere’s most devoted fan.”

  Since he finally had her attention, he inclined his head.

  She blushed as if he were standing before her bare-chested.

  “Lady Olivia, I am sure you must have guessed why I am here, and why I insist on speaking with you.”

  She side-stepped, behind her father’s chair, then shook her head once, glancing at her father, then back up again. Finally she spoke.

  “Of course, Lord Northwick. Would you care to take a turn in the garden?”

  “I am at your service.” He bowed and excused himself. “Will you not need a wrap at least?

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “Be careful with my daughter, Lord Northwick, or I am sure we shall read about it in the papers.”

  “I have no doubt, sir. It has been my greatest pleasure making your acquaintance.”