The Passion of the Purple Plumeria

by Lauren Willig

  Gwen backed away, knowing herself to be superfluous. They would never even notice she was gone. Whatever William might have said, in the aftermath of a rather active night, this was his real life, and no matter how he protested, her place in it was done. She had brought him to his daughter. The quest was ended.

  She ought to have been triumphant, but she wasn’t. Instead, she felt like a week of wet Wednesdays. Better for all concerned if she slipped away here and now, saving awkward good-byes and protestations that wouldn’t be meant. It was the coward’s way, she knew—she, who had always prided herself on staring danger in the face. But the muzzle of a pistol was one thing. To look in William’s eyes and see nothing but kindness—or, even worse, pity—was quite another matter entirely.

  It was his pity she feared the most. She remembered, with an uncomfortable twist of the heart, the story he had told her last night, of Jack’s mother. He had taken her with him because he felt responsible, because she had nowhere else to go.

  Well, then. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t anyplace else to go. She would go back to France with Jane, and that was all there was to it.

  And if she didn’t feel quite as thrilled about it as she should, that was nobody’s business but hers.

  Selwick Hall wasn’t so very far from the coast. With any luck, they could be on a boat in time for the next tide. Gwen twisted around, looking for Jane. Agnes was with the Reids and the Selwicks with the Dorringtons, but Jane was nowhere to be found.

  A tingle of unease penetrated Gwen’s distracted mind as she threaded her way through the ground-floor rooms, looking for her missing charge. Something felt not quite right. And it wasn’t just Jane. The windows in the front had been clumsily barricaded, but the ones on the sides had been left unguarded, even unlatched. If the attackers hadn’t concentrated all their energies on the front . . .

  And why had they? Selwick Hall wasn’t exactly fortified. There were French doors around the back and any manner of welcoming windows on the sides. There were trellises that might be climbed and balconies for the taking. If they had scattered, they could have gained entry to the house in any one of a dozen places, and there would have been nothing the hard-pressed defenders could do to stop them.

  As it was, they had conducted their attack in the most idiotic manner imaginable, shooting into the woodwork, flinging stones at windows, and then breaking and running at the first sign of reinforcements, as if . . .

  As if they hadn’t really been trying to gain entry in the first place.

  At least, not that way. With everyone at the front of the house, fighting off the motley mob of attackers, the rear was left undefended. It wouldn’t be hard for one man, alone, to sneak in and take whatever it was he wanted.

  Gwen’s steps quickened. Through the window of the music room, she could see a horse tied hard by the old tower, far from the rest of their mounts. There was a man, running lightly through the garden, vaulting the boxwood hedge. He shoved a small packet into the saddlebag, making haste to unloop the horse’s reins from the door of the old tower.

  Lifting her skirts, Gwen started to run, making for the long salon that ran along the back of the house, with its door onto the gardens. But someone else had preceded her. The door hung ajar, wafting back and forth in the breeze as Jane hurried down the steps, the trailing skirt of her riding habit looped over one wrist.

  Jane paused on the steps that led down to the gardens. “Leaving so soon, Chevalier?”

  Her voice rang clear and true across the dry fountains and shrouded statues. From the folds of her skirt she withdrew a pistol, shiny with mother-of-pearl. It sparkled in the sunlight as she leveled it at the man who was hastily swinging onto the back of his mount.

  “Or should I say . . . Monsieur le Jardinier?”

  When the Chevalier lifted his hand, there was a pistol in it as well, a much larger, deadlier-looking pistol. “As we are in England, a simple ‘Gardener’ will suffice, Miss Wooliston.” He cocked a brow. “Or should I say . . . the Pink Carnation?”

  Gwen skidded to a stop behind the French doors, hastily turning over possibilities. She could call for the others, but he was already on horseback; all he had to do was turn and run. By the time she had assembled the others and dragged their weary horses from their happy grazing, he would be long gone. She could try to get behind him, but the same problems applied; if he saw her, he would be off like a shot.

  A shot . . .

  “I pray you, dear lady.” The Chevalier smiled at Jane. With the sun lighting his face, he looked like the gallant from one of Fragonard’s fêtes galantes, charming and free of care. “Don’t insult my intelligence by telling me you have no idea what I mean.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” said Jane, her wrist steady. “I was going to tell you to drop those jewels and step away from that horse.”

  “Ah, but why should I? My pistol, darling flower among flowers, is bigger than yours.”

  “Size isn’t everything,” said Jane coolly. “Would you back your aim against mine?”

  “I should never make the mistake of underestimating so formidable a lady.” The Chevalier’s voice was disconcertingly warm, almost tender. As if realizing he had betrayed himself, he added mockingly, “You slay me with your eyes alone.”

  “Yes,” said Jane, “but a bullet is far more effective.”

  Gwen tended to agree. But how to get a clear shot? Jane was between her and the Chevalier, and none of the windows yielded the proper angle.

  Cocking her pistol, Gwen edged closer to the door.

  “It seems,” said the Chevalier, “we are at a standoff. I am sure I do not need to tell you how very much I wish the circumstances might have been otherwise—Jeanne.”

  “It’s no use to presume intimacies that cannot be,” said Jane, sounding far more rueful than Gwen considered seemly. Hadn’t the man just admitted to being the Gardener? Jane raised her pistol. “I cannot let you leave. You know that.”

  “I would happily dwell in your heart forever,” said the Chevalier, “but I fear I have a boat to catch. Unless—you care to come with me? Think what a partnership we might have. Bonaparte is generous to those in his service.”

  This, thought Gwen indignantly, was how the devil swayed souls to his purpose.

  “Not,” said Jane, “unless you change your politics.”

  “In that case,” said the Chevalier resignedly, “I imagine you’ll just have to shoot me.” He tucked his own pistol into his belt and gathered up his reins. “Such a pity.”

  “Give yourself in,” said Jane desperately. “I can arrange terms for you.” Their eyes locked across the field. “Don’t make me do this.”

  “You won’t,” said the Chevalier softly. “You can’t shoot me any more than I can shoot you.”

  That, decided Gwen, was quite enough of that.

  Kicking the door open, Gwen burst out onto the balcony.

  “She might not,” said Gwen, brandishing her pistol with a flourish. “But I have no such qualms.”

  As the others stood frozen in shock, Gwen leveled her pistol and fired.

  William breathed in the scent of his daughter’s hair, marveling at the fact that she was safe and well, even if she couldn’t aim an arrow to save her life.

  Hard on the heels of relief followed a blaze of paternal indignation. “What the devil were you doing, running away from school like that?” he demanded. “You had us half scared out of our wits!”

  “I didn’t know you were coming back,” said his daughter cheerfully. “And we really didn’t think it would take us this long to get here. Agnes said it was four days—”

  “It usually is,” said the much-put-upon Agnes defensively. “By coach.”

  “Yes, but we weren’t going by coach,” said Lizzy. “We dressed ourselves up as boys—rather convincing ones, really—and took to the side roads.”

  The great relish with which she related their exploits gave William reason to believe that the experience had not, in fact, been an
overly onerous one for her. In fact, she seemed dangerously close to enjoying it.

  William gave his offspring a narrow-eyed look. “But why did you run? Do you know the state you had us all in?”

  Lizzy wafted that away. “Don’t worry,” she said, giving him her best look of wide-eyed innocence. “It was all quite necessary. Once Jack sent me that letter—”

  William held his daughter out to arm’s length. “And what letter might that be?”

  “Jack said he’d made some changes in his employment and it might get a bit sticky for me at the school,” said Lizzy blithely.

  “Sticky?” William repeated. He made a mental note to give his second son the dressing-down of his life. If he could find him. Somehow, he doubted he’d have much success with trying to send him to his room. That hadn’t worked with the scamp even before he’d become a master of espionage.

  “If someone decided to use me as a hostage for his good behavior,” explained Lizzy matter-of-factly.

  William gaped at his daughter.

  Lizzy appeared completely unaware of the impact she was having. “So we packed up our things and bolted, didn’t we, Agnes? We even left a false trail,” Lizzy added complacently. “Just in case.”

  The thought of the two of them, on the road, on their own, made William’s blood run cold. “Did you realize what might have happened to you, the two of you alone on the roads?”

  “Nothing worse than what might have happened had we stayed,” pointed out his daughter.

  William shook his finger at her. “You might have been robbed, you might have been raped, you might have been—”

  “Sold into a harem?” suggested Lizzy brightly.

  “I don’t think they have harems in Bath,” said Agnes doubtfully.

  What on earth had they been teaching them at this school? “You might have been set upon by brigands,” said William sternly.

  As he had been not so very long ago. He still had the ache of the wound to remind him of it. If it hadn’t been for Gwen, it would have gone even more poorly for him. Gwen and her sword parasol. The thought coaxed a reluctant smile to his lips, which his daughter, misreading, took as encouragement, nodding to her friend to signal that it was all right; the lecture was over.

  “There’s someone I want you to meet,” said William, looking around for Gwen.

  “The Pink Carnation?” said Lizzy eagerly.

  “She’s my sister,” interjected Agnes.

  “No,” said William absently. Where in the blazes was Gwen?

  A cold trickle of fear began to make its way down William’s spine. He hadn’t scared her off with his talk of cottages, had he? He could picture her on her horse, parasol aloft, riding into the sunset, like a knight in an old tale, off in search of new adventure. Alone.

  William straightened. “I’ll just—”

  He was interrupted by the loud report of a pistol.

  “What the—” William felt his body go cold. “Gwen.”

  “Who?” said Lizzy, but William was already off, pounding down the hall in the direction of the sound, the others hard on his heels.

  “This way,” said Lady Henrietta, slipping ahead of him, leading the way through a drawing room and a music room.

  A large harp toppled over with a twang.

  “Sorry!” called Agnes.

  There was a masculine grunt and a sharp discord as Lady Henrietta’s husband tripped and went flying, right into the pianoforte.

  “Oops,” said Agnes.

  William didn’t look back. Why hadn’t they examined the perimeter? But no, he had been too busy exclaiming over Lizzy. And while he was with his daughter, Gwen must have come upon one of the brigands. Either that, or one of the brigands had come upon Gwen. What species of idiot was he? Why hadn’t he demanded that they secure the area before engaging in joyous reunions?

  A pair of wide French doors stood open, giving onto a balcony that led down to a wilderness garden below. And there, standing in the middle of the balcony, feet planted firmly apart, a smoking pistol in her hand and an expression of extreme disgruntlement on her face, stood Gwen.

  “You’re all right!” William pounced on her, eliciting a startled squeak. The pistol dropped, but he didn’t care. He lifted her, swinging her around in a wide circle, sending her skirts flying. “You’re all right. Thank God.”

  Gwen wiggled in his embrace. “Let me down. That . . . that . . .”

  William staggered dizzily to a stop, lowering an impatient Gwen to the ground. He squinted at a man on horseback, trotting blithely away with no apparent feelings of haste. “Is that the—”

  “Yes, and I missed him, blast it,” said Gwen, scrabbling on the ground for her pistol.

  “You,” said Lady Henrietta, in tones of deepest loathing.

  At the sound of her voice, the man wheeled his horse, raising his hat to her. The wind carried his words over to them. “Always lovely to see you, Lady Henrietta. But as you can see, I haven’t time to chat.”

  An arrow sailed over the garden wall, landing about six feet to his right.

  “Farewell, Miss Reid,” the Chevalier called. “I recommend archery lessons.”

  “It was the wind!” shouted Lizzy, but he was already off, leaning low over the neck of his horse, galloping across the fields.

  “Quick! Someone! Follow him!” Gwen dropped her empty pistol and started to run. “He’s getting away! With the jewels!”

  “Miss Gwen! Stop!” It was the dark-haired woman who had been introduced to William as Lord Richard’s wife, Amy. She lowered her voice to a carrying whisper. “Those aren’t the real jewels.”

  Gwen skidded to a stop. “What?”

  “Not the real jewels?” William echoed.

  “Wasn’t it a cunning plan?” said Amy Selwick blithely. “We knew someone was after the jewels, so we massed our troops in front and put a decoy bag of jewels in the back—theatrical stuff mostly, but hopefully he won’t check it too closely before he goes. We made sure to make it look as though it were hidden. So you see, it’s really quite all right. He was meant to get away with them.”

  “That’s why I shot so far to the side,” said Lizzy complacently. “Well, that and the wind.”

  Wrapping his arm around his daughter, William threw back his head and laughed, light-headed with relief. “Nicely done!” he said. “Nicely done!”

  “Yes, we thought so,” agreed Lord Richard. “He should be halfway to Paris before he realizes what he snatched isn’t the real thing.”

  He and his wife exchanged a grin.

  “But what if he comes back?” asked Lady Henrietta.

  “He won’t,” said Lord Richard, and there was an air of determination about him that made William inclined to believe him. “We know who he is now.”

  “We’ll have his likeness plastered to every pub wall in England!” said Amy enthusiastically. “He won’t dare show his face.”

  “I hate the idea of just letting him go like that,” muttered Lady Henrietta. “Blast the man.”

  Gwen’s voice rang out above them all. “Has anyone else here recognized the gaping flaw in this so-called cunning plan?”

  Agnes started to raise her hand and then timidly put it down again, recognizing it, belatedly, as a rhetorical question.

  “If,” said Gwen, her hands on her hips, surveying the group on the balcony with impartial ire, “we can identify him, he can also identify Jane.”

  Jane stepped forward. “You mean he can identify Miss Jane Wooliston,” she said quietly.

  Gwen waved a hand dismissively. “That’s exactly what I said. Now, what are we going to do about it?”

  She was a warrior queen, calling her troops to battle, bloodied but unbowed. William felt a deep surge of admiration for her, for her courage, her loyalty, her undaunted spirit.

  It was selfish, he knew, to wish she would toss all that aside and throw in her lot with him instead.

  “It’s not the same.” Miss Wooliston regarded the little group on the
balcony, looking into each face in turn. “The Chevalier can identify Miss Jane Wooliston, of the Shropshire Woolistons, cousin of Edouard de Balcourt. That will do him no good at all should Miss Jane Wooliston fail to return to France.”

  There was a shocked silence.

  In tones of horror, Amy Selwick said, “You’re not retiring, are you? Not when it’s all going so well.”

  Gwen looked the most bewildered of all. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not retiring.” Miss Wooliston’s hands were clasped tightly at her waist, the one betraying sign of nerves. “I will be going back into the field. But not as Miss Jane Wooliston.”

  Everyone’s eyes were on Miss Wooliston. Except for William’s. He was watching Gwen, who looked as though she had been slapped across the face.

  Dropping his arm from Lizzy’s shoulders, he moved closer to Gwen, trying to provide her the silent support of his presence. She looked like someone who had been walking confidently on a bridge over a rapid river, only to see the pieces start to come apart at her feet.

  “It’s too dangerous for everyone to go on as we have,” said Miss Wooliston earnestly. “I’ve put you all in danger—Agnes, my parents. Miss Gwen.”

  “I put myself in danger,” said Gwen gruffly, but William could hear the agitation underlying it. “I chose to be a part of this League. Remember?”

  No one paid any attention to her. Their focus was on Miss Wooliston.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over this past year,” Miss Wooliston said, “it’s that we can’t play at this by halves. The only way to do this properly is to cut all ties, to subsume oneself into the role.”

  She looked up at Miss Gwen, apologetic and a little bit defensive. “Wherever I go next, I go alone.”

  Chapter 24

  “The quest is ended,” said Plumeria. “The hurly-burly is done. The battle is lost and won. It is time for us to turn our separate ways, along the slow and winding path.”