The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  "Perhaps you won't care for the answer, m'dear,” he said with complete indifference. “Perhaps I considered you to be one of those women who prefers to remain blissfully ignorant of her husband's late-night activities."

  Her heart sank, but what had she expected him to say? There was another woman, of course. No wonder he never came to her bed.

  She thought of railing indignantly against him, of accusing him of cold neglect and heartless adultery and even of ruining her life. All were apparently true. But she didn't want to rail against him—she wanted answers.

  "I thought you loved me, once,” she said calmly.

  Maximillian didn't move. She waited for a wide smile and flippant answer, a false face and an affected voice, but neither was forthcoming. “So did I,” he finally whispered.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  The sketches no longer satisfied her, and Penelope paced the parlor restlessly. This was her place, the one room in the house—other than her bedchamber—where she felt somewhat secure. The dining room and separate kitchen were Beck's domain, and Dalton was likely to accost her if she were bold enough to venture into the library or Maximillian's study.

  Only once had she had the urge to explore the third floor, and that black-eyed Garrick had appeared out of nowhere to advise her to keep herself to the first two floors of her own house. She hadn't had the nerve to argue with him, and she hadn't had the urge to explore the third floor since.

  But here in the parlor they left her alone. She read, she painted, and she brooded. She socialized with no one other than Mary. It seemed everyone in Charles Town had condemned her for a betrayal of which she was innocent.

  Mary had been living in this house almost a week, and Penelope didn't see her much more often than she had when her cousin had been living in William Seton's Charles Town house. She slept here, and ate breakfast and sometimes supper with Penelope, but for the most part she kept herself entertained with teas and parties and shopping expeditions with her friends.

  Penelope stared at the blank wall before her. The creamy expanse was broken by a single oil painting, a plain landscape in a gilded frame. The painting was competent but unexciting, and suddenly Penelope found it irritating.

  She left her seat on the sofa and walked straight to the bothersome painting, taking it from the wall with a heave and a wave of satisfaction. Nothing at all was better than mediocrity.

  She stared at the blank wall. Her life was as mediocre as the creamy area she faced, and she didn't know how much longer she could stand it. Her husband did not love her, those she had considered friends condemned her without asking for an explanation, and she was surrounded by a houseful of men and women who merely tolerated her. It was unacceptable, but she didn't know what to do.

  Return to Uncle William's plantation? She found an appeal in that prospect. The plantation, her comfortable room and the people there, were more home than this cursed house would ever be.

  But after defying Uncle William to marry Maximillian, how could she return to him that way?

  She couldn't.

  Penelope rummaged through her art supplies and returned to the blank wall. She penciled in a few plants first, the native plants of Charles Town that grew outside her window. Palmettos, wisteria, wildflowers took shape on the wall. She moved down the wall, impatiently moving a side chair out of her way. Here she sketched the dangerous swamplands they'd passed on the road from the plantation to Charles Town: cypress trees and still water, Spanish moss and lily pads.

  By the time she was penciling in a bay view on the opposite wall, there was a smile on her face. How long had it been since she'd truly smiled? Ages, it seemed, though she knew it had only been weeks. The weeks had passed so slowly since her wedding to Maximillian.

  When she stood back to survey the newest section, a gruff throat was cleared behind her, and she turned to find Dalton waiting in the open doorway. Even his surly appearance couldn't wipe the smile from her face.

  "Dinner will be served in half an hour, madam,” he said, his eyes taking in the sketches on the walls.

  "I'm not hungry.” Penelope turned to survey her work, to decide what she needed to add next. With a raised hand she turned slowly, envisioning the possibilities. The mural would eventually encompass the room, one scene melding gently into another.

  "Should I call a physician, madam?"

  She turned to find that a puzzled Dalton remained in the doorway. He'd taken a step into the room and squinted at the sketches on two walls.

  "Of course not,” she said with a smile. “But would you see about purchasing more paints? What I have won't be nearly enough for this task."

  "Whatever you wish, madam,” he said softly.

  "Blues and greens,” she said as she stepped to Dalton's side to survey the sketches from a distance. “Reds and yellows, and I'll need new brushes, too."

  For once, the odd butler didn't frighten her. In spite of his size and the fact that he looked more like a pirate than a servant, he didn't disturb her at all.

  He continued to stare at the walls. “May I ask, madam,” he said softly, “exactly what it is you're doing here?"

  She looked up with her smile fixed, her heart steady, and her eyes locked to his. “I'm taking my life back."

  Penelope was so intent on her sketch that she didn't hear the knock at the front door. She didn't know she had a visitor until Dalton, with his usual bad humor, announced Victor.

  And just when she'd decided how to lead the wisteria up one corner.

  Of all the residents of Charles Town, Victor Chadwick was the last person she wanted to see.

  "Good afternoon, Victor.” She climbed down from her footstool and grudgingly put her pencil aside. “Dalton, bring us some coffee, would you?"

  Dalton was hesitant to leave, but he backed away slowly and eventually left Penelope and Victor alone.

  Victor studied the walls as Dalton had earlier that day, with a healthy dose of skepticism. “What on earth are you doing?"

  "Painting a mural,” she said, turning her back to Victor to survey her work. “What do you think?"

  "I'm sure it will be lovely,” he said dubiously.

  She didn't care what he thought, didn't care if no one but she ever saw the finished project.

  "Why are you here?” she turned around slowly to face him. “Surely this is not a social call. I did my best on our last meeting to make it perfectly clear that we have nothing to discuss until you're ready to clear my name."

  "Can't I pay a call on an old friend?” he said with a false smile.

  Part of taking her life in her own hands had to be refusing to believe everything she was told. She had to be as cynical and untrusting as Victor and Maximillian were, if she were to survive. “No,” she answered with a smile as false as her guest's.

  "All right,” Victor said, his grin widening with true amusement. “I've come to ask you a favor."

  "Surely not."

  "Have you still not forgiven me?” he asked as if he had truly expected a warm reception. “Dear Penelope, I told you I did what I thought was best. Besides, everyone's put the incident from their minds but you."

  "What do you want?"

  He came closer and lowered his voice. “I'm hot on the trail of the Indigo Blade,” he whispered.

  "Not that again!” Penelope took a step back, stopping when the back of her leg brushed the footstool. “I told you I have no intention of spying for you. Not that I could even if I wanted to. Thanks to your deception and my resulting reputation, I've found it advisable to refuse most invitations to balls and other social events. I've been seen in public only twice since the wedding, Victor."

  "You don't even have to leave the house."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Victor smiled widely. “A couple of weeks ago the Indigo Blade delivered a shipment of arms to rebels on the outside of town. One of my men was nearby, and he followed. He followed the Indigo Blade to this street and th
en lost him."

  "That doesn't mean..."

  "I think one of your servants is the Indigo Blade. What a perfect setup that would be. No one looks at servants, no one pays them any mind when they come and go. Listening, hiding around every corner,” he whispered. “It might even be that man who directed me to you just now."

  "Dalton? Don't be ridiculous!” But was it truly ridiculous? She herself had observed on many occasions that the servants in her husband's employ were out of place in their positions. Were they using her dim-witted husband for their nefarious purposes?

  Even if she did suspect that was true, she wouldn't tell Victor. She had developed a quiet admiration for the man who fought for what he believed in, who rescued rebels and assisted villages the British Army harassed. She'd heard the stories, of outrageous disguises and brave deeds, mostly from Mary, who got the gossip from her friends.

  "I suppose I could just arrest the entire household and interrogate the lot of you until someone confesses,” Victor said sourly, “but that might not be wise at this time.” His narrowed eyes were calculating and somehow dead. “There are those in power who are still perturbed with me over the Lowry affair, and it seems the council president himself is rather taken with your foolish husband. I'd rather not take such desperate measures ... if there's an alternative."

  Heath Lowry had died for his beliefs. Penelope would always wonder if she could have done something differently, if she could have kept Heath alive. Willing or not, she wouldn't have a hand in seeing that injustice happen again.

  Before she could give Victor her answer, Dalton returned with a silver tray and two fine china cups brimming with hot coffee. He placed the tray on a piecrust table, and then positioned himself in the doorway.

  "You may leave,” Victor said, cutting a glance to the man in the doorway. Dalton, after a moment's hesitation, took a single step back.

  "Dalton,” Penelope said softly. “Come here."

  The butler narrowed his eyes. He didn't like taking orders from anyone, not Victor and certainly not her. He wasn't deferential, or meek, or even competent. Was it possible that he was the Indigo Blade? He didn't care for orders of any kind, but he did step into the room only a moment after her softly spoken command.

  "I'm thinking of adding people to my mural. What do you think?"

  Dalton lifted a large, capable-looking hand to his breast. “Are you asking for my opinion, madam?"

  "Yes,” she answered with a smile. Her guest was fuming. “Victor, have your coffee before it gets cold. Dalton and I won't be a minute."

  "I only have a minute, Penelope,” Victor said sternly. “And I'm already late for a meeting.” She supposed that was her clue to send Dalton on his way so he could try to persuade her to spy for him.

  "Then you'd best drink your coffee.” She turned her back on Victor and studied the mural that was slowly taking shape. “So, Dalton, what do you think?"

  She heard Victor stride from the room, cursing beneath his breath. After the front door slammed, she looked up at Dalton. “I don't believe he cares for your coffee."

  She witnessed something then that she'd never seen before, something she was certain few had observed. Dalton smiled.

  "What do you want?” Mary asked haughtily. She didn't want Victor to see that her heart pounded and her blood roared and she wanted to cry and scream and hit him.

  "I've missed you."

  Of course he'd missed her. That was the plan, wasn't it? Soon he would realize that he needed her, that he couldn't live without her. Love wouldn't be far behind. “Well, I understand you'll be getting married in a few months. I'm sure Suzanne wouldn't approve of you meeting me like this."

  The gazebo at the far end of the Broderick garden afforded them a little privacy—the darkness of night even more. Penelope and Maximillian had retired to their separate chambers hours ago, silent and dismal.

  "Suzanne doesn't have to know.” Victor sat beside her and placed a possessive arm around her shoulder.

  If she gave in to him now she would be lost. If Victor thought he could come to her whenever he wished and she would give herself to him, he would have no reason to forget that milquetoast Suzanne and make her his wife. It was what Mary wanted more than anything, what she'd dreamed of for the past year—to be Mrs. Victor Chadwick.

  "I can't,” she whispered.

  "Then why are you here?"

  He tipped her face up so she was forced to look into his eyes. Surely he loved her, just a little.

  "Because I've missed you, too."

  Victor kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth, pressing his lips harshly to hers. His breath came heavy and unevenly, his body tensed. She liked it when he lost control this way, when he moaned deep in his throat and trembled in her hands.

  His hand slipped beneath her skirt, and that's when Mary drew away from him. “No,” she whispered hoarsely.

  "What kind of game is this?"

  Mary shook her head. “It's not a game, Victor.” That was a lie, and she knew it. Sex was a game, one she was just beginning to learn to play. “Before, I thought ... I believed you loved me."

  "I do love you,” he whispered into her ear, nibbling on the lobe and trailing his lips down her neck. “I love you so much, Mary. Don't turn me away."

  Those were the words she'd longed to hear. In her heart she'd believed from the beginning that if she played this game right Victor would come to love her, but she'd begun to doubt the plan.

  "Say it again,” she insisted softly.

  "I love you."

  She didn't protest this time when he slipped his hand beneath her skirt, didn't object when he gently lowered her to the floor of the gazebo.

  "I love you, too,” she whispered as he freed his manhood and spread her legs wide. “Oh, Victor, I've always loved you."

  He pushed inside her, roughly and without so much as another kiss. Mary closed her eyes, knowing it would be over soon, knowing that she was about to have everything she'd ever wanted. Love, Victor, a happy life.

  In moments, he shuddered above her, emptied his seed into her, and then collapsed over her body. At least this time she wouldn't wait and worry until her monthly flow came. It didn't matter, since Victor had finally realized his love for her and would surely make her his wife soon.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Say it again,” she whispered with a wide smile on her face.

  "Say what?” Victor's words were muffled against her hair, but he raised up slowly to look down at her.

  "Tell me again that you love me.” She lifted a hand to stroke his warm cheek, to brush her fingers over his damp, swollen lips.

  "Really, Mary, don't be so naive."

  "Naive?"

  "You know the way the game is played.” He withdrew from her and left her cold and empty. “I tell you what you want to hear, and you give me what we both want."

  With a distant precision he straightened his clothing, tugged his suit back into order, and combed his hair back with both hands until he displayed no sign that a moment earlier he'd been heaving and sweating above her.

  Mary saw everything with painful clarity as she watched Victor right his clothing. Her life was falling apart before her eyes, and she had no one to blame but herself. She knew, better than anyone, what he was capable of.

  "You've never loved me, have you?” she whispered.

  "No.” Victor took a seat on the bench where they'd been sitting minutes earlier. “If it makes you feel any better, I have never loved anyone else, either. It's an emotion that becomes a crutch or a burden, and I have no room in my life for either."

  There was no room in his life for her, she knew that now. No room but for this—a few unpleasant minutes when he used her body. Used her, not loved her.

  "I don't ever want to see you again,” Mary whispered hoarsely.

  "Of course you do."

  Still lying on the floor of the gazebo, lost in darkness, she shook her head slowly. “No. I don't want you to touch m
e, ever again. If you do I'll scream, and I'll tell everyone who will listen what you did to me."

  His smile faded. “I never forced you."

  "No,” she acknowledged softly.

  "If you tell you'll only be spreading the word that you're a jade, and as guilty of fornication as I am. Don't play the innocent with me now."

  "I'm not. But I thought..."

  "You wanted everything I gave you, don't deny it. I knew from the moment I kissed you in the Lowrys’ garden that you had a great passion to share. Even in the dark I could see the fire in your eyes, and I could certainly feel the vitality and passion that radiated when I touched you. You're a natural-born slut.” He stood slowly. “You won't turn me away. The next time you receive a note asking you to meet me here, or in the carriage house, or on the front lawn, you'll do it, because you need me as much as I need you.” He reached down and took her hand, and jerked her to her feet. “Don't deny who you are, Mary."

  A slut. Was it true? Her knees wobbled as Victor released her. She liked the kissing, sometimes, but the sex act itself was uncomfortable and unpleasant. She liked the power she felt when Victor came apart in her arms, but did that make her a slut?

  He left her there to consider her options. She'd loved and wanted Victor for as long as she could remember—for as long as he'd been courting Penelope. She had sworn she'd do anything to make him love her ... and she had done anything ... and he didn't love her.

  The tears started as she walked the dark path toward the house. What did she have awaiting her now? No decent man would have her as his wife. No one would ever love her, Victor would surely never love her—he probably despised her. At the moment, she despised herself.

  It was dark, her eyes were filled with tears, and she tripped over some unseen hazard in the dark. She fell to her knees and caught herself with her hands in the soft earth. She was at the very edge of the path, and her hands were palms down in the soil of Penelope's garden.

  For a few long moments she stayed there on her hands and knees, shaking uncontrollably, unable to find the strength to stand. She sobbed aloud, and tears fell from her burning eyes. She ached everywhere—her head, her heart, her knees—she ached especially where Victor had touched her.