The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  "How noble of you."

  "Ask her, and then look at her as she answers. You will know if she's lying or telling the truth."

  That said, Dalton passed Max on his way to the staircase that curved to the first floor.

  "Dalton,” Max said darkly, turning to follow the man's progress. Dalton stopped at the top of the stairs and waited. “Are you in love with my wife?"

  Dalton glanced over his shoulder, a wicked smile on his face. “No. Are you?"

  Max turned his back sharply on Dalton and retreated into his chamber.

  She knew now what she had to do.

  Penelope sat before the mirror dressing her hair, wearing only her corset and petticoat as Helen gathered together the gown and shoes she would wear today.

  It had been just past dawn when she'd wakened to find herself alone in a tumbled bed. Alone, and still warmed by the night's encounter with her husband.

  She'd met the morning clearheaded for the first time since Victor had delivered his ultimatum, and the plan had come to her as she lay there wondering where her husband was and when he had left her bed.

  This plan would take all her strength, all her convictions.

  "Helen, I have something to ask of you.” The words were quick, but sure, an order not a request. Helen obviously cared for her mistress no more than the others in the house, and they usually passed their time together silently.

  The older woman left her chore and turned to face Penelope with her normal sour expression on her face. “Of course, madam."

  Penelope was well aware of her maid's political leanings. It hadn't taken much conversation to discern that fact. With a comment beneath her breath, a snort at the mention of the British, Helen had most definitely shown that she was no loyalist. As a servant and an obvious opponent of the British, if the Indigo Blade was living in this house, Helen would likely know who that man was.

  "I have an important message for someone, and I believe you can help me get that message to him."

  "A message for whom?” Helen asked suspiciously.

  Penelope took the sealed letter from the drawer before her and stood to present it to Helen. “It is imperative that the man known as the Indigo Blade receives this as soon as possible."

  Helen's hazel-brown eyes widened in surprise. “Madam, I don't know what makes you think—"

  "I don't care how you do it,” Penelope interrupted, offering the message to Helen, refusing to drop her hand and the offered note. Now was not the time to be timid, or kind, or reasonable. Tyler's life was at stake. “Just see that this is in the Indigo Blade's hands before Friday."

  Helen took the sealed paper with trembling hands. “I'll do what I can, madam,” she said softly.

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  Chapter Seventeen

  Perhaps Dalton's suggestion had merit, and he should just ask Penelope about her part in Heath Lowry's capture. He'd almost done just that yesterday, after she'd fallen into his arms and a brief kiss had caused him to lose his senses. There were moments Max was certain he could look into Penelope's eyes and know if she spoke a truth or a lie—and there were other, more desperate moments, when he thought her to be most cleverly false.

  There were too many doubts in his mind to ask her outright. How would he justify his interest after all this time? The devil-may-care Maximillian Broderick wouldn't be troubled by her actions, and had, in fact, insisted many times that he was bored by the subject.

  What if she looked him in the eyes and admitted with cold indifference that she'd willingly turned Lowry over to Chadwick?

  What if she lied, and he saw the falseness on her lovely face?

  Max picked at the lace cuff that hung from his royal-blue velvet sleeve. The truth or a lie. He didn't know which would be worse.

  It was true that since the Lowry incident Penelope had done nothing to display any loyalist tendencies, nor had she shown a mercenary side to her nature. But he couldn't forget that the accusation had come from Lowry's own mouth, and a dying man had no reason to lie.

  Had Lowry wondered as the lash struck his back again and again why a woman he'd called friend had turned against him? Jamie, with his romantic's heart, had surely wondered why the woman he loved would betray him. Had they both died with an unanswered why? on their lips and in their hearts?

  He made his way to the open parlor door. Penelope had moved to another section of the wall, and dabbed absently with green paint at a penciled cypress tree. There was no need for the footstool at the moment, so if he startled her with his curiously doting presence there would be no need to catch her.

  What a shame.

  Penelope's hand stopped moving and fell to her side, but she continued to stare at the wall before her. Back straight, shoulders squared, she faced the wall as if it were an enemy. He waited for her to lift the brush and continue her work, but she did not.

  He could ask her the damning question now, look into those telling eyes and ask her why she'd sent Lowry to his death. But he wouldn't like the answer. Heaven help him, he didn't want to hear the truth or a lie pass those lips.

  Instead of walking away, he stepped into the parlor, surveying the walls, studying the project that absorbed his wife so completely. It would be magnificent when finished, he could tell already.

  "Whatever possessed you?” he asked softly, and Penelope spun around as if she'd been caught in yet another lie.

  "Maximillian,” she said breathlessly, bringing her hand to her chest. “I thought you were gone for the day."

  Ah, she was hiding something.

  "Can't a man spend a few days at home now and again?” He gave his lovely wife a tired smile as he absently fluffed his lace cravat. “My horses are wearied, my tailor is fatigued, my bootmaker is haggard...” He waved an indolent hand and sighed for effect. “So I decided to give them all a holiday and spend some time with my wife."

  Penelope didn't like the idea, obviously. She twisted her hands and briefly bit her bottom lip. He made his lovely wife nervous. “You haven't spent many days at home. Whatever will we do to pass the time?"

  She hadn't been so reticent last night. In fact, she hadn't been timid at all. Surely she knew he wanted to pass the time in her bed. Loving her, laughing the way they had before the wedding and the betrayal.

  "You said you needed a friend, m'dear."

  "I do,” she whispered.

  Heaven above, he loved her to the point of pain, craved her smile and her touch, felt betrayed that she was not the woman he'd thought her to be. Was it fair to expect perfection, even from Penelope?

  This turn of events astounded him. He had survived a barely tolerable childhood, storms at sea, war with the nawab of Bengal. He'd been attacked with blades of every length and breadth, firearms great and small, winds that would carry away the house above his head—only to discover that a woman held the power to deliver the greatest agony and the greatest joy.

  "Oh, you're early.” Her eyes went past him and to the open doorway, and Max turned to see Dalton and Chadwick entering his wife's domain.

  "I came as soon as I received your note,” Chadwick said with a tight smile.

  Max turned his back on the guest and faced his wife. “But it appears you already have a friend, m'dear."

  He didn't wait for them to ask him to leave, not today, but turned and sauntered past Chadwick and a sullen Dalton. He couldn't help but notice how smug and satisfied Chadwick was—or how tense his lovely wife had become. Something was definitely afoot, and it wasn't good.

  As he pulled the door closed on Penelope and Chadwick, he turned angry eyes to Dalton.

  "Innocent, is she?"

  Dalton did not defend Penelope this time, but held forth a sealed note. “The meeting might have something to do with this."

  Victor made himself comfortable on the sofa, but Penelope found she couldn't be still. She paced before him.

  "You've found him already,” Victor said with a satisfied smile.

  "No,” Penelope said soft
ly. “But I have a plan."

  "A plan,” Victor said skeptically. “That wasn't part of the agreement."

  She didn't allow his skepticism to stop her. “I've set up a meeting with the Indigo Blade for Friday night. Eleven o'clock in the garden."

  "What makes you think he'll come?"

  She spun on him, gathering all her courage. “What makes you think he won't?"

  He laughed at her, and she wanted—more than anything—to reach out and slap his complacent face. But she didn't, of course.

  "There's a gazebo at the end of the garden path,” she continued undaunted.

  Victor's laughter and even his smile faded. “I know."

  "Be there at eleven o'clock Friday evening, and you'll have your Indigo Blade."

  The last person she wanted to see, as she came down the stairs, was Victor Chadwick. If she'd come down a few minutes earlier, she would have been safely in the dining room having coffee and one of Beck's marvelous breakfasts; if she'd come down a few minutes later he would have been gone. But as it was, she stepped from the stairs just as Victor left Penelope's parlor.

  "Mary,” he said, trying and failing to summon concern in his voice. Why had she not seen his insincerity before? “I've been so worried about you."

  "You needn't worry about me,” she said calmly. “I'm doing quite well. How's your lovely bride-to-be?"

  Victor had never been one for subtleties. Without another word, without asking for her permission, he strode to her, took her arm with strong, thin fingers, and led her forcibly to the front door.

  "I need to talk to you,” he said when she finally mustered the strength to protest meekly.

  Outside, in the cool of a spring morning, Victor led her to the side yard of the Broderick mansion. Here they could not be seen from Penelope's parlor window, or the stables, or any of the windows from the oft-used rooms.

  "Why have you not answered my letters?” he asked harshly, pressing her back against the brick wall and placing his body too close to hers. “Why did you leave me waiting in the gazebo?"

  "I told you I don't want to see you again,” she said firmly. “Now, let me go."

  "You didn't mean it,” he said softly, and then he pressed his lips to hers, rough and forceful, cold and demanding. She moved away until the back of her head was against the wall, and still he persisted, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth.

  She wanted it to stop.

  Victor wasn't prepared for the hand that pushed him away, and while he was surprised, he didn't move far.

  "I did mean it,” Mary whispered.

  "But you love me,” he insisted with a self-satisfied smile. “I'll expect to see you tonight,” he added. “In the gazebo."

  "No."

  "Promise me you'll be there."

  "No!"

  His mouth moved toward hers again, his hand fell intimately to her hip, and Mary felt the panic rising in her. He wasn't listening to her, didn't care what she wanted or did not want.

  "Promise me,” he whispered.

  "Miss Seton?” She recognized the gruff voice on the other side of the wall, heard the approaching footsteps through the grass. Victor cursed under his breath as he stepped away from her.

  "There you are,” Dalton said as he rounded the corner. Victor had taken several steps back, and Mary herself had moved away from the wall. She'd never in her life been so glad to see another human being. “Mrs. Broderick has requested your presence in the parlor. Immediately."

  Dalton kept his eyes on her, didn't even glance at Victor. But he knew. There was a barely restrained anger in his eyes, a fury in the blue depths she read so well. Somehow, the man knew he was rescuing her.

  "Miss Seton will be in momentarily,” Victor snapped, dismissing the servant with his haughty voice and a wave of his hand.

  Dalton looked at Victor then, and gave him a scorching glance that was not at all humble.

  "I'll escort you,” Dalton said, still staring at Victor. “The ground's soaked, and there are nasty puddles to watch out for."

  Without hesitation, Mary hurried to Dalton's side. When he offered his arm, she gratefully took it, and when Victor asked her, again, if she wouldn't agree to his invitation, she looked over her shoulder, smiled, and told him “no."

  It felt good.

  They were inside the house, the door closed behind them, before Dalton opened his mouth again. “Are you all right?” He led her through the foyer to the foot of the stairs.

  She released his arm. “Yes, thank you. Tell Penelope I'll be right there. I would like to..."

  "Mrs. Broderick didn't ask for you,” Dalton said lowly.

  "You lied?"

  "I did."

  Mary smiled up at Dalton, who always looked more a rogue than a butler, with his neatly trimmed small beard and piercing blue eyes. “Then I thank you,” she said.

  "Should I kill him for you?” His tone and expression stayed the same: stoic, harsh ... beautiful.

  "Would you?” she whispered.

  "Yes."

  For an angry moment she actually considered what Dalton offered, but then she placed an easy and stilling hand on his forearm. “No. I wouldn't want you to get into trouble, and I'm afraid you would if you actually killed Victor."

  "No one would know it was me,” he assured her.

  She shook her head. “There's been enough death,” she said, thinking of Heath.

  He nodded as if he understood, and perhaps he did.

  "But I am indebted to you,” she insisted. A moment ago she'd been frightened and alone in her battle with Victor. Now, she looked at Dalton and felt warm and safe and ... good heavens, for the first time in her life, she was truly not alone. “How can I thank you?"

  "Tell me.” He placed his hand over hers. “Do you love him?"

  She had to think about the question for a moment, and Dalton waited patiently. “I don't know.” Dalton deserved the truth, and so did she. “There was a time when I adored Victor more than anything or anyone, but right now I don't even know what love is."

  "I can tell you what it isn't,” Dalton said darkly. “It isn't craving something you cannot or should not have. It isn't groveling or hurtful, though I do believe it can bring incredible pain when it goes wrong."

  "Yes."

  "Sometimes,” he added, “you have to let love go."

  They were simple words, and she clung to them. Could she let the love she'd felt for Victor go? Looking at the man before her, she suddenly thought it possible. She also thought it possible she'd never loved Victor at all. She'd been enamored by the idea of love, the prospect of taking affection away from Penelope, but that wasn't love.

  "Mary Seton,” Dalton said gruffly, “would you swoon if the butler asked you for a kiss?"

  "Not at all,” she said softly, and then she closed her eyes and waited. Waited for harsh lips and intruding tongue, waited for a cold mouth pressed to hers. And she waited. And she waited.

  The brush of lips against hers, when it came, was soft and warm. Dalton's mouth barely touched hers, but everywhere their lips met she tingled. She was very still, as those lips danced softly over hers, as they tasted and teased until her entire body quivered to her very bones.

  She'd never known a kiss like this, had never known a kiss could be so pleasurable. At times Dalton's lips covered hers fully, at other times they brushed by as softly as a spring breeze.

  He left her as easily and gently as he'd come to her, and she stood there with her eyes closed and her heart racing. Her knees were weak, her blood was racing. “Oh, my,” she whispered.

  When she opened her eyes, Dalton was gone.

  Max settled the black wig over his fair hair, tugging to make certain it was securely seated.

  "I can't believe you're doing this,” Fletcher murmured darkly.

  He couldn't believe it either. It had been two days since he'd received the note from Penelope, two days since he'd seen Victor Chadwick walk calmly into his wife's parlor for what had to be a damning enc
ounter.

  During those two days he'd avoided being in the same room with Penelope for more than a few minutes, afraid that if he found himself alone with her he would either tell all—or strangle her.

  "It's a trap,” Garrick said succinctly. “A sweet trap set by your very own wife, and you're walking into it with your eyes wide open like an innocent babe offering himself up to the hungry lions. You have no idea—"

  Max lifted darkened eyebrows at his friend. “Getting a little carried away, aren't we? I know exactly what awaits me at the gazebo, and I'm well prepared."

  "Are you?” John mumbled.

  "Yes. You're to go about your business normally, and if Chadwick shows up..."

  "When Chadwick shows up,” Lewis and Beck said at once.

  "If,” Max said softly.

  Dalton had been very quiet throughout the entire evening, but he spoke up now. “Let me kill him."

  "Eventually,” Max said as he slipped on the long dark coat that concealed two knives, a short sword, and a pistol.

  "Tonight,” Dalton said softly.

  "No.” Max had already decided that when Victor Chadwick died it would be by his hand. No one else's. “All of you get into the house. There's less than half an hour to the appointed meeting time, and for all we know Chadwick and his men are already waiting."

  He flashed a bright smile, one that made his face feel like it would crack. He didn't feel like smiling; he wanted to run, he wanted to hide.

  At ten o'clock, all his questions would be answered, whether he was prepared or not.

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  Chapter Eighteen

  Penelope pulled the hooded cape tighter about her body as she quickly walked the path toward the gazebo. It was a chilly spring night, and a breeze cut through her lightweight wool cape and to her bones, making her shudder uncontrollably.

  Then again, it wasn't really that cold. Maybe it wasn't the chill in the air that made her shiver, but the awareness of her actions and all that might yet go wrong.

  What if the Indigo Blade didn't show up? There was always the possibility that he'd think this was a trap and stay away, and she couldn't discount the possibility that he'd never even received her note. She could wait out here all night, wondering what she could do next to save Tyler.