Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  “And I am sure twenty thousand pounds has nothing to do with your interest,” the countess said. He spun around, suddenly furious.

  “Hang the money!” he spat violently.

  She studied him for several long moments before putting the paper aside. “Very well. I wish I had not learned of it from these vulgar gossip pages, but if you are sincere, I would hear it now.”

  And so, he told her. Not about their first meeting nor their bargain. But he did tell his mother of the way he felt taking her in his arms for that first waltz, of how much he admired Calliope, her intelligence and wit, her wish to do good in the world, the way she carried herself like a queen through rooms full of people that despised her.

  The countess sighed, a heavy, tired sound. At last, she reached out to pat his hand. Fitzwilliam noticed that her fingers were sporting fewer jewels than usual.

  “You are a good son and loyal to your family. I had worried…”

  “That I might toy with a woman’s affections to save our family from ruin?” he interjected bitterly. His mother grimaced.

  “You do have a reputation, my dear.”

  That he knew too well. He felt it now, a yoke around his neck. From arrogant youth to full-grown cad, he now loathed that his libertine past cast a shadow over this new tenderness he fostered in his breast. Of course, had he not had such a reputation, would Cal have ever approached him? Would she have gone to some other, less honorable rake, who might have taken full advantage of her situation? The thought made his stomach boil.

  “I can assure you, Mother, my intentions are entirely honorable,” he said, realizing it was true. There was only one solution, only one way forward. He would marry Calliope Campbell. The moment he realized it, the weight disappeared from his shoulders, the burden of lies lifting. He knew exactly how he would ask, though it might take time and some careful planning.

  “Tell me, Mater, does Pater still attend those tedious meetings in Greenwich?”

  * * *

  The carriage came to a stop around the back, where a tall figure, distinctly feminine despite the cloak that obscured her face, waited outside of the servant’s entrance. Fitzwilliam leaned out of the carriage, his hand outstretched. A moment later she took it, climbing in. Her eye seemed to glitter when it caught his, a bemused smile on her full lips.

  “You are very mysterious,” she said, holding a square note that simply read:

  * * *

  Servants’ entrance. Midnight— F

  * * *

  “You wanted adventure,” he said with a smile, rapping on the roof. The carriage rolled forward. “Tonight, you shall have it.”

  Her face colored. “Do you remember everything I say?”

  He put a hand over his heart. “Like you carved it here yourself.”

  “You are too much. How many times must I tell you not to pretend to like me when it is just you and me?”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. Instead of replying to her maddening statement, he reached into his coat and produced a dark, silken bit of cloth.

  “Lean forward.”

  Smiling gamely, she obeyed. He reached up, winding the fabric across her eyes and tying it into a firm knot at the back of her head. Her lips opened in surprise, making him feel a hot stab of desire. Ever so lightly, he traced the tip of his ungloved finger up the long column of her neck. She startled at first, then stilled. He took his hand away for a moment, waiting to see if she would rip off the blindfold, try to escape. Instead, to his delight, she leaned forward, tilting her head slightly. Offering herself to his touch.

  Once more he traced the line of her throat, up along the underside of her chin, skimming her fine cheekbones, around the bow shape of her still-parted lips. He felt a keen sort of desperation to kiss her, but did not, resuming his light touch along her face, neck, wandering bravely down, where his fingers made quick work of the ribbons that tied her cloak closed. He was gratified to see gooseflesh rise across her skin as he skimmed his fingers along her collarbone. His fingers came up to trace the shape of her mouth. She made a little sound of frustration, and it nearly undid him. He leaned forward, bringing himself close enough to her that he could feel the tickle of her breath across his face. Reaching up, he plunged his hands into her hair, feeling some of her pins come loose. Her hands came up, grasping his arms in a surprisingly tight grip. Keeping her head still, he leaned forward just enough to brush his lips against hers. It was not a kiss but a touch he felt all over his skin, down to the bone. She inhaled and pressed closer, wanting the kiss. It took all of his strength to pull back, needing to savor this sensation a moment longer.

  The carriage rolled to a stop, startling them both. He peered out of the window and saw that they had reached their destination. When he looked back at Calliope, her breath was labored, her wonderful bosoms straining against her gown.

  “We’re here,” he whispered, fingers still curled into her silken tresses. He did kiss her then, lightly, almost perfunctorily, before releasing her and setting her cloak back to rights. Her hair was coming loose, spilling across her shoulders.

  “Can I take this off now?” she asked in a shaky voice, touching the blindfold.

  He took her hand, kissing the tips of her fingers. “Not just yet.”

  “Am I expected to walk without eyes?” she asked testily.

  He hopped out of the carriage, turning back to her. He reached inside the carriage and took her hand, pulling her towards the door and placed his hands around her waist. “Of course not.”

  She hesitated, making him sigh.

  “Cal, do you trust me?”

  The next second, she was in his arms. Wild joy surged through him. A virile, manly sort of joy. Her arms came up to circle his neck.

  “Am I very heavy?” she asked in a small voice.

  “When I am holding you, Goddess, I have the strength of ten men.”

  She laughed and, to his delight, rested her head on his shoulder. “You are impossible.”

  Once they were safely inside, he reluctantly put her back on her feet and at last removed her blindfold. He smiled gently as she blinked, saw him and—remembering what had just transpired in the carriage—blushed most becomingly before turning to look at their surroundings. They were in a large receiving room that was cool yet welcoming. The walls were stone, painted white. A servant greeted them with a bow and asked that they follow him, leading them through a door and to a stone staircase. At the top of the stairs, they were led through another door, out onto a flat rooftop cut in a rough hexagonal shape. Above them, the night sky glittered like jewels scattered across black velvet.

  Calliope gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Behind them, the servant that had led the way retrieved a small object and stepped inside the open door, just out of sight. A moment later, the sweet sound of a violin floated out onto the rooftop. Calliope turned back to him, eyes wide with shock.

  “This is…”

  “The Royal Observatory, yes.” He held out his arms. She walked to him, still stunned. Her breath fogged in the cold air.

  “How?”

  He put one hand on her waist, the other taking her hand as he led them into a dance.

  “It’s all in who you know. And, as you see, I do remember everything you say,” he said in a low voice. “You wished for adventure. For passion. To dance among the stars with a divine man.”

  This last seemed to break through her surprise. She looked up at him, a little laugh escaping her. “You do think highly of yourself.”

  He grinned. “Depends on how you interpret the word, I ken. You’re Calliope, yes?”

  She nodded, never breaking her steps. They waltzed. Of course, it would be a waltz, he thought happily. He decided then that they would always have waltzing.

  “Calliope was the lover of Ares, yes?”

  She blushed. “So the legend goes.”

  “Remind me, who was the Roman version of Ares again?”

  “Mars.”

  He stopped, releasing her lo
ng enough to give her a deep bow. “Marcus Henry Fitzwilliam. At your service. Marcus, derived of Mars. I’m afraid you shall have to do with secondhand divinity, Cal.”

  A startled laugh bubbled up from her chest as they resumed their waltz. “Marcus? How is it that in all this time you never told me your name?”

  “You never asked. And besides, there are many things I have yet to tell you,” he murmured, his words for her alone.

  She leaned in close. His hand pressed more insistently on the small of her back. “Such as?” she asked, the undertones of her voice making him shiver. That voice was for dark rooms, soft beds, and endless kisses.

  “I never told you how much I adore you, or that Harrington’s greatest crime is that he only sees you for your money, or that somewhere along the way, I forgot about our deal.”

  She was sharp now, her attention holding him at knife point. “What do you mean?”

  He stopped the dance again. At some point the violin-playing servant had departed, and there were no sounds but their own breath and the biting winter wind slipping through the trees below.

  Fitzwilliam looked down at her, so strong and lovely and brave in his arms. He took her face in his hands.

  “What I am saying, Cal, is that I don’t give a fig about your money. You keep it. I want you.”

  Her face turned crimson in the faint light of the lanterns that had been placed at intervals along the roof. “But you...you don’t do this! You’re a rake! A scoundrel!”

  “Not anymore. I’m completely reformed. Well...I may still be a bit of a scoundrel, but only with you, if you will permit me.”

  “Oh,” she said, stunned.

  “I leave for Hertfordshire tomorrow, to attend Darcy’s wedding. And Bingley’s too I suppose!” He recalled that it would be a double wedding. “Before I leave, I plan to call on your father and ask for your hand, if you will have me.”

  “You are not serious.”

  “I am about to show you how serious I am.”

  “How are you—”

  The words were cut off by his kiss, a real kiss this time. Her lips were soft and firm and tasted sweet. Her breath caught before her arms came up to circle his neck, her fingers sliding into his dark hair.

  “Believe me, Cal,” he spoke against her lips, his words a plea. “Believe that this is real, that I utterly adore you. Tell me you feel the same, that I have not imagined it.”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean...Marcus…” His name on her lips entranced him surer than any spell.

  “Say it again, Goddess.”

  “Marcus.”

  He kissed her again. They repeated this act several times. The only witness to whispered confessions of these young lovers were the stars that twinkled merrily overhead.

  * * *

  The mild weather at last broke on the day of the double wedding. It was a cold morning made warm by promises of devotion and fidelity, and Fitzwilliam was surprised to feel himself filled with sweet contentment, thinking of his own betrothal. He had shown up earlier than was entirely proper the day he departed for Hertfordshire, and after a brief conversation with her father, had secured his blessing to marry Calliope. His future sisters rushed to embrace him, delighted that he would be their brother and not “that other one, the horrible one.” For his part, Fitzwilliam could only agree. Having Cal’s sisters under his protection would do much to dissuade the Harringtons of the world. Clio seemed particularly happy by this turn of events and even managed to put three words together. Fitzwilliam fancied she and Georgiana would get on rather well.

  Most importantly, when he got a few moments alone with his future bride, she did not insist he stop pretending. She accepted his compliments with a knowing smile that promised great reward.

  He longed to tell his family, to tell Darcy, to shout it from the rooftops. The only person who knew, besides himself and Cal and her family, was Mr. Bennet. Two nights before, when he had come with the others to dinner at Longbourn, the older man had taken one shrewd look at him and said, “Not another one! Have you come to ask for one of my daughters? If you have, please do so with haste, for I am growing weary of young men in love!”

  Not knowing what to make of this strange speech, Fitzwilliam had stammered, red-faced like a schoolboy, that he was indeed in love, and that his remaining single daughters were safe from him. Mr. Bennet nodded and said it was just as well, he could only do with so many sensible sons, before ambling off to his library alone. He was an odd man. Fitzwilliam rather liked him.

  The wedding breakfast over and the couples departed for their respective destinations of Netherfield and London, Fitzwilliam hastened back to the inn in Meryton where he had let rooms. He was eager to be gone at first light, back to London. Back to Cal.

  The burly, kind-faced innkeeper ran out to meet his horse as he approached, holding out a letter.

  “An express for you, sir! Only just arrived!”

  Dread certainty gripped him. Fitzwilliam snatched the letter, a sinking feeling making him suddenly ill. He broke the seal. It was but two simple lines:

  * * *

  He has taken her north. Father follows.

  * * *

  A simple c by way of signature told him this was from Clio. He cursed, the paper crumpling in his hand.

  He looked down at the innkeeper. “Can you pack my belongings and have them sent to Fitzwilliam House in London? I cannot stop. Urgent business calls me back.”

  The man agreed. Fitzwilliam dug some gold from his purse and paid him. “For your troubles.” And with that he was off. Meryton was north of Town, so Harrington would have passed by that way on the Great North Road. He doubted the brigadier general had counted on Fitzwilliam having a head start.

  Miraculously, he spotted the carriage thirty miles out of Meryton. He had stopped only once, where a barmaid at an inn informed him that a “high n’mighty officer” had been in with a young woman matching Cal’s description who had loudly insisted on a large meal and many glasses of wine.

  “Good girl,” Fitzwilliam said as he climbed back onto his horse. “Brave, clever Cal.”

  He knew his Calliope was not cowed by Harrington. She was slowing him up.

  He spotted the carriage clattering over the bridge that divided the village of Bedford, over the Great River Ouse. He wondered if Calliope had demanded yet another meal, to buy him the time. Fitzwilliam’s horse crossed the bridge like a flash of lightning. He seemed to have the devil’s own luck, catching them. Fitzwilliam leaned into the saddle, urging his mount faster, faster. Dust and dirt kicked up in clouds under the horse's hooves as they thundered recklessly across the field. He meant to cut them off. The cold air whipped at his face and ungloved hands, but he barely felt them. The carriage was in sight. He could not afford to be careful, propriety be damned. There was no time.

  “Hold on, Cal,” he said through gritted teeth, the words lost in the sound of his pursuit. “I am coming for you, Harrington, you right bastard.”

  He got far enough ahead of the carriage so that he was hidden by a bend in the road. He planted himself in the middle of the lane, his mount breathing heavily, his pistol heavy in his hand. The carriage came around the bend, the driver looking fearful and harried. Fitzwilliam fired his pistol into the air.

  “Halt!” he commanded in a voice that surprised him, drawing on reserves of strength he did not know he possessed. The driver pulled the coach to a stop.

  “Careful!” the driver said. “He is a bit touched, that one!”

  The door to the coach swung open and, to his astonishment, Calliope emerged, looking furious, not a hair out of place. His heart lurched in his chest.

  “What took you so long?” she demanded, her hands on her hips. Fitzwilliam was off his horse in an instant, and in her arms the next, kissing her face, her neck, her hair, every part of her he could reach.

  “Oh, god!” she said, her voice breaking into sobs as he pulled her close to him. “You smell terrible!”

  He laughed. “I’ve
been riding hell-bent for the entire day. Are you alright?” She nodded, tears flowing.

  “I was about to get the carriage to stop. You are lucky he did not run you down, you fool.”

  “What of Harrington?”

  “He would not take no for an answer, so I had to resort to more tactical measures.” She took Fitzwilliam’s hand and led him back to the carriage. Harrington was slumped over, snoring noisily. His hands were tied together by what looked to be a woolen stocking. Another stocking was tied ‘round his ankles, and the two ends of each tied to the other. The brigadier general was properly trussed.

  “The man has no head for brandy,” she said scornfully. “I have been goading him into having some every time we stopped. I told him if I was to marry him, we should at least celebrate this once.” She batted her eyelashes and said in a coquettish voice, “Oh, General. How clever of you. How dreadfully romantic, absconding to Scotland.” The simpering smile disappeared, replaced by a look of cold fury that settled over her like a queen's raiment. Gods, but he loved her. Who but she could have taken such an unrepentant sinner and made him yearn for nothing more than the pleasures of a devoted husband? She was glorious.

  “I ordered wine for myself and brandy for him,” she continued in her normal voice. “Kept talking about what a great lord he would be and continued to fill his glass. He only just fell asleep moments ago.”

  Fitzwilliam shut the carriage door as quietly as he could. Harrington did not rouse. After some instructions to the driver and parting with a few more coins, the carriage began moving again. It turned in the opposite direction, back towards London.

  Fitzwilliam held his horse’s reins with one hand, the other clasped Calliope’s hand. They walked slowly back towards Bedford.

  “That was very, very smart, Cal,” he said at last.

  “Are you surprised?”