The Harlow Hoyden

by Lynn Messina

  “Really? Only a girl whose head isn’t on straight goes down to the wine cellar in order to escape hearing about her sister’s ride through the park.” Vinnie giggled.

  A thought struck Emma. “You did it on purpose!”

  “If you can’t torment your lovesick sister, then who can you torment?”

  Emma couldn’t quite raise the proper amount of outrage. It had been she who cast the first stone when she’d formulated her plan to have Trent seduce Vinnie. The clock on the wall struck ten and Emma rolled off the bed. “I’m thoroughly exhausted, my dear, and want nothing more than to sleep for hours and hours.” She kissed her still laughing sister on the forehead. “I will see you tomorrow, and we’ll talk more about this torment you imposed on me. I’m suddenly suspicious of a whole host of incidents.”

  “As well you should be,” Vinnie called after her.

  Barely able to keep her eyes open, Emma climbed into bed, blew out the candle and was asleep mere moments after her head hit the pillow.

  Emma thought she was reliving the nightmarish moments when Windbag almost ended her life in that little hovel in Dover, but when she tried to wake herself up from the dream she realized with terror that she was no longer asleep. The hands around her neck were very real. The room was completely dark, and she could barely see the outline of the figure standing above her trying to squeeze the life out of her body.

  She tried to scream for help, but when no sound issued forth she realized she would have to alert her family to danger another way. Struggling to free herself of his hold, she reached blindly to the side of the bed. Surely there had to be an object there that when thrown against the wall would shatter loudly. Her hand connected with something cool and hard. A silver candlestick.

  She clutched the candlestick in her grasp and struck her attacker on the back of his head. The blow was not delivered with enough force to dislodge the assailant, but it did surprise him. He loosened his grip for a fleeting moment and Emma eagerly swallowed. Feeling considerably stronger, she thrashed him again.

  He muttered angry curses and in a fit of temper slapped her hard across the cheek. The pain tore through Emma, but she took no notice. His rage had given her the advantage, and as soon as he removed his hands from her throat, she screamed as loudly as she could. He realized his mistake instantly and put a muffling, sweaty hand over her mouth. She bit his palm. He pulled away his bleeding hand and tried to regain his grip on her throat but could not. Emma bashed him with the candlestick for a third time. The strike fazed him for a moment. She screamed again. Where was help? Vinnie’s room was right across the hall and Roger’s was only five doors down. Surely they didn’t all sleep that soundly!

  Emma was about to raise the candlestick again when she felt something cold and sharp at her throat. It was a knife.

  “Don’t move,” her attacker said, revealing his identity for the first time, “or I shall slice you from ear to ear.”

  It was too dark to see his features, but she knew it was Windbourne. “How?” she asked, unable to understand his presence in her bedchamber. Why wasn’t he locked up in a Dover gaol?

  He laughed, an awful sneering, mocking sound with little humor. “Colonel Rivington is a fool. After you left, Le Penn convinced him that you and Trent were impostors who work for the French. It wasn’t very hard. Le Penn wasn’t home when the soldier got there, but his mother had the presence of mind to be lying in bed sick. And the soldier whom the colonel sent to the docks was a man Le Penn often paid to do chores for him. He alerted him to the troubles, giving Le Penn the chance to find a doctor and return to his home. Rivington was inclined not to trust either of you. He thought your story was rather suspicious. Once Rivington was assured that Le Penn and I were patriots, he let us go.”

  “You’re very stupid, Windbourne,” she said, wishing the room weren’t quite so dark. If only there was some moonlight to see by. “You were free and yet came to London to enact petty revenge. You will hang at Whitechapel when you could have been safe in France.”

  “The revenge, which is in no way petty, I assure you, my dear, is merely a convenient aside to a more complicated, more encompassing plan. Le Penn and I were returning to London regardless.”

  “Le Penn is with you? Then he hasn’t passed along the information yet? The French do not know the names of the English spies?” Emma laughed hysterically. “You are stupid and a bad operative.”

  “France will get the information as soon as we settle a debt with McEnvoy. He made certain promises that we’re going to give him a chance to deliver on a little earlier than planned. And if he doesn’t….”

  “And if he doesn’t?” she asked, though she could well imagine that he, too, would feel the cold steel of Sir Waldo’s knife.

  “That’s no concern of yours. Indeed, I’m very happy to report that in a moment you’ll never have another concern ever again, you interfering bi—”

  “That pressure you’re feeling on the small of your back is the barrel of my pistol,” Vinnie said calmly. “It’s silver with a faintly pink-tinted mother-of-pearl handle. I give you a detailed description lest you think I’m holding something harmless like a candlestick or butter knife.”

  Emma’s shock, which was considerable indeed—who knew Vinnie could move with such stealth—was nothing compared with Windbourne’s. He began to sputter, a rather ridiculous sound that unaccountably made Emma want to giggle. She controlled herself. She wouldn’t do anything that might possibly disturb Vinnie’s concentration.

  “Now, if you don’t release Emma, I’m going to shoot you with my silver pistol with the lovely mother-of-pearl handle.” In the almost complete darkness of the room, Emma could barely make out the figure of her sister. “Although I don’t have much experience with guns, I have taken one or two shots in my lifetime and know very well that I’m quite accomplished at pulling a trigger, especially one like this, which easily gives way under the slightest pressure. Do you understand me, Sir Waldo?”

  “Vinnie, my darling, you don’t understand what—”

  “Waldo, my dearest, I understand very well. Now, tell me, do I shoot you? It will make a bloody mess, but I don’t suppose Dobson will mind very much. We’re not an impoverished family and can afford the purchase of new blankets.”

  The cold way in which her sister spoke gave Emma chills. She never suspected that dear, sweet Vinnie could face a murderer with such steel in her shoulders.

  “I’m putting the knife down,” he said bitterly. “Don’t shoot.”

  Windbourne lowered the knife, and Emma let out a breath she had been holding for an intolerably long time. Now that the fight was over, her heart was pounding with painful swiftness and her knees felt weak. But she knew she had to remain strong. Until she beheld him for herself behind bars in Newgate, she would consider him a threat.

  She was about to get to her feet when she saw him move with sudden speed in her sister’s direction, the outline of the knife horrifyingly distinct. “Vinnie!” she screamed a split second before she heard the gun discharge.

  Emma lit a candle. In the gentle glow, she could see Windbourne’s lifeless eyes staring up at her. Vinnie, pale and shaking like a leaf, was staring down at him. Tears pouring down her face, Emma ran to her side and pulled her into her arms. “Don’t look, dear,” she said, pressing Vinnie’s face against her shoulder. “Just don’t look.”

  Vinnie held on to her with all her strength and although her body was trembling, her voice was steady. “It’s all right, Emma. I’m here and everything’s going to be all right.”

  Emma laughed hoarsely. “I’m supposed to be comforting you.”

  Just then Sarah came running into the room, followed closely by Roger. Upon seeing Windbourne’s corpse on Emma’s bed, Sarah screamed. Roger soberly covered the body with an already bloody blanket and suggested in his calm, even voice that they let Ludlow handle the cleanup.

  Emma and Vinnie agreed with alacrity, and they followed Sarah and Roger into the drawing roo
m, where soothing tea was ordered.

  Roger called for an explanation, and Emma had barely started her recitation when a loud pounding sounded at the door. Everyone froze. Roger told his family to remain where they were and went into the foyer to answer it. He looked through the peephole and said, “Good God, it’s Trent.”

  Emma jumped to her feet and ran to the door, pushing Roger aside. There stood Trent on the doorstep, a wild and uncharacteristic look in his eyes. He stared at her for a moment as if not seeing her. Then with a strangled cry he dragged her into his arms and held her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

  “I’m all right,” she whispered over and over again, running her hands through his soft hair.

  After a while, Trent nodded and kissed her neck. He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. “He told me you were dead.”

  “Le Penn?”

  “Yes, he told me you were already dead, that there was nothing I could do. He said he came here first and made short work of you.” He pulled back and stared into her beautiful eyes. “I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Of course not,” she said, running a comforting hand down his cheek. “Nobody makes short work of me, Alex.”

  “God, no!” he said, brushing his lips gently against hers before kissing her passionately. They would have stayed like that for a great many minutes if Sarah had not coughed discreetly over their shoulders.

  “It’s not that I don’t think the actions are warranted,” she explained, “it’s just that it’s not quite the thing to behave so on the front doorstep. Shall we take it into the drawing room?’

  Emma laughed, recalling that they were indeed outside. However, the late hour ensured that few passersby would witness their improper behavior. Still, she took Trent’s hand and led him inside.

  “We’ve had an eventful evening,” said Roger, “as it appears you have as well.” The duke’s presentation was not impeccably flawless as usual. His jacket was torn, his hair thoroughly disheveled, and there seemed to be dried blood on his lip. “Why don’t you tell us what happened to you, and then we’ll return the favor.”

  Although this plan had merit, the duke would rather have talked first about Emma. He could not miss the swollen red bruise on her cheek. “I was attacked by Le Penn, who is, as you know, Windbourne’s associate from Dover. He came upon me in my bedchamber with a gun, and had I not been still awake, he surely would’ve killed me without my ever being the wiser. Fortunately, sleep had eluded me and I was able to dodge the shot. A fight ensued. Rest assured, Le Penn will not be bothering us in the future.”

  “He is dead then?” asked Roger.

  “No, he’s not dead, but I will make sure that this time he doesn’t escape, even if I have to guard the prison gates myself.”

  “He never went to prison,” Emma said, launching into an explanation of what had happened to her.

  When she was done, the duke turned to Vinnie. “My dearest friend, I can never thank you enough.”

  “Pooh,” she said, dimples in both cheeks. “Just hand over a cutting of your Quisqueya fuertesii and we shall call it even.”

  The duke laughed. “My conservatory is at your disposal. In fact, the entire conservatory is yours. Do with it what you will.”

  “I’m not so gullible, your grace. I’ll install one of my useful drainage systems and then you’ll suddenly reclaim it. No, I will content myself with a Quisqueya fuertesii. And perhaps a Restrepia guttulata as well.”

  Roger stood up. “I should see how Ludlow is getting on. In a few hours I will send a note to Garrison, my boss at the Home Office. He will know what to do about McEnvoy.”

  “Is he very high up?” Emma asked.

  “He is a midlevel secretary who has access to many privileged documents. I expect with a little convincing Le Penn will be willing to inform against him so that it won’t just be your word against McEnvoy. In my experience, these spies never have much fortitude when confronted by determined English soldiers,” Roger said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should help Ludlow. No, Trent, you should stay with the ladies. They’ve had a troubling evening and could use the company.”

  “Actually,” said Vinnie, stifling a yawn, “what I could use is sleep. Do you mind, Emma, if I turn in?”

  “Of course not, dear, only are you sure you’re all right?” Emma asked, fearful that the events of the last hour might be overwhelming to Vinnie. It was still hard for Emma to believe that of the two Harlow misses, Vinnie was the one who had actually shot and killed a man. She seemed remarkably unfazed by it.

  “Yes, I’m quite positive,” she assured her. “Indeed, I’m more worried that you’ll have nightmares. I’m not the one who woke with a man’s fingers around my throat.” On that note, she left the drawing room, indicating to Sarah with a speaking glance that she should do the same.

  “Oh,” Sarah said, because the idea of giving the two lovers a moment alone had not occurred to her, “I suppose I ought to see about having a spare room made up for you, Emma. You can’t possibly stay in your own chamber tonight—or ever again, for that matter. Trent, I trust you won’t stay too long. The extraordinary circumstances allow for leniency but in the end propriety must be observed,” Sarah said, giving Emma a soft kiss on the forehead.

  When they were alone, the duke pulled Emma into his arms and kissed her gently. He meant only to tease her lips with his own before bidding her good night, but once he tasted her, he couldn’t draw back. He drank her in, savoring the life that beat so forcefully within her. His hand grazed her breast, and feeling her nipple harden beneath the soft fabric, he moaned.

  “You’re everything to me,” he whispered, running a hand under her dressing gown. He could feel her heart beating under the smooth, warm flesh. She was so startlingly alive.

  “I’m rather fond of you myself,” she said, her voice low with desire. She knew it wasn’t at all the thing, but she wanted him, here in the drawing room by the fire. Tonight they had both come very close to dying, and she could think of no better way to celebrate life than to make love in the drawing room. So what if they were not yet married? That was a condition easily rectified.

  She extricated herself from Trent’s grasp, walked over to the doors and turned the latch. “There,” she said, a mischievous smile on her lips, “now we shan’t be disturbed.”

  Trent felt the blood pounding in his ears—and elsewhere. “Sarah said I shouldn’t stay long,” he protested, trying to do the right thing. Under normal circumstances they would have never been left alone in a deserted drawing room in the early hours of the morning.

  Emma took off her nightdress and threw it on the floor. She stood before him, her golden skin glowing in the firelight. “Then we won’t take long.”

  Trent groaned. “But propriety, my love.”

  Emma laughed. “I’m the Harlow Hoyden, Alex. The last thing anyone expects from me is propriety.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lynn Messina is the author of nine novels, including the best-selling Fashionistas, which has been translated into 16 languages. Her essays have appeared in Self, American Baby and the Modern Love column in the New York Times, and she’s a regular contributor to the Times Motherlode blog. She lives in New York City with her husband and sons.

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  1

  The Sweet Treat Sofa

  The High-Fiber Breakfast Hour’s Sweet Treat segment kicks off every morning with a flashing red light, a piercing police siren and a dancing pink panda carrying a sign that says, I LOVE HIGH-FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP FLUFF FROM FUNFOODS, across the set. The crowd hoots and hollers because everyone loves a pink panda hopped up on sugar.

  The director points to the host, who smiles into the camera as it cuts to her from the audience. “Good morning and welcome back to The High-Fiber Breakfast Hour. Joining me on the luscious pink sofa today is an extra sweet treat for you: Hattie Cross, author of The Girls’ Guide to Dating Zombies.” Delia Fortune, a former Miss America with a towering strawberry bouffant and sparkling superwhite teeth, turns to me with a searching look. “Hattie, we have lots of ground to cover, but I’m going to get right to the nitty-gritty and say, Zombie sex. Ewww.”

  I laugh. It’s completely forced and fake, but I’m on a national morning show with a pink panda and a strawberry bouffant. If I can’t roll with a few ewwws, then I should have stayed in bed. “Fair enough. The thought makes a lot of women go ewww.” I look to the audience. “Am I right?”

  The response is mixed. Some women clap, but an almost equal number boo. I’m not surprised. Zombie sex has been around for almost as long as variant Y zombies.