by Muir, L. L.
“First of all, Miss Reynolds, had the gentlemen of the ton known you were here, hiding behind your door, they would have beaten the thing down by now. I assure you, Society awaits, and I can ease your return to it if you will allow me. And secondly, I would be sure to bring another gentleman upon whose arm you might safely lean.”
She considered the sky for a moment, then looked straight into his soul.
“I am sorry, my lord. I cannot accept, but you are gallant to have offered. After all, you would hardly be helping me to serve your own purposes.”
He waved away the compliment and her piercing gaze. Unable to look her in the eye, he wandered down the path to the right and took great interest in the denuded branches of an actual trellis. Miniature roses, no doubt. He wondered what color they would be in summer rather than examine the guilt lying heavy in his stomach. None of his motives could be considered selfless.
“I would like to tell you the identity of The Scarlet Plumiere, my lord. I would give you that gift, to help you in your suit for her hand...” Her voice sang through the garden.
He hurried back to her side. The prize! She was about to hand him the prize... But his first thought was whether or not it might be improper to thank her with a kiss. What the devil had come over him?
“That is, if I only knew.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But alas, I have no idea whom she may be. One day I was engaged and worrying myself ill over the rumors I had heard concerning my future husband, and the next I was free, Society demanding that I be released from any promise and assuring me of my clear reputation. It is entirely my fault I have not dared trust that reputation.”
He gave her his back to avoid showing utter frustration. But was he more disappointed she could not give him the woman’s name or that he had lost a reason to kiss her? The pretty little bird could not have teased him more painfully if she had tried!
That barrel popped into his mind again.
A small dog began barking. The barking grew nearer and around the edge of a leafless shrubbery, propelled by its inappropriately short legs, flew a pretty little dog with a red bow around its neck. Without slowing in the slightest, it flung itself at Olivia Reynolds. North smiled, expecting to see an unabashed display of affection, but soon realized the little beast was attacking the woman! No biting, however, just barking and rolling its eyes as if it were furious and trying desperately to convey it.
North stood at the ready to rip the animal away if necessary.
“Get off me, Rat!” The sweet voice of Olivia Reynolds had changed so completely, he expected another woman to be seated on the bench when she lowered her arms.
The dog flew sideways, landed on the bare branches of a hedge, and bounced back at the woman without so much as a yelp. Having little momentum, however, it failed to make the jump to her lap.
Then Telly’s daughter began to laugh. Hysterically.
The little dog did not seem to be in on the joke and attacked her slipper, pulling it nearly off her foot. And still she laughed.
It was the kind of laughter he had listened for Saturday night. Well, without the hysterical edge of course. And then it struck him, like a club to his belly—
Here sits Cinderella.
The beast growled and thrashed his head from side to side, determined to damage something at least. The sharp little teeth began to slide through the satin.
“Fine,” she said, composing herself. “Fine, I will take it off.”
The beast stopped thrashing about but held the slipper hostage while it watched the woman’s hands coming at him.
She untied the bow and pulled it free. The dog barked and snapped at her hand; she pulled back just in time. Still growling, the little monster walked away, sideways, keeping its eyes fixed on the woman who seemed intent on chasing the thing away with her laughter alone. Finally, she shook the crimson bow at the wee beast and it turned tail and ran.
“Serves you right, Rat,” Miss Reynolds mumbled. When she turned back to North, she paled before she could blink.
He could see her reverting back to the timid woman as if she had reached for a mask and was sliding it into place. Gone was the harrier of poor little dogs. Back was the pretty little bird. But he would hardly pounce on her. He would continue the game, pretending innocence. An unconsidered move with the clever Plumiere would be unwise.
“I must apologize,” she chirped. “My late mother’s dog hates me unconditionally. Sometimes I must revert to childish pranks to keep The Rat—that’s to say, the dog, from taking over the household entirely.”
“She dislikes bows?”
She grinned, tried to suppress it, but failed. “He.”
They laughed together for a moment, then he realized he was laughing alone. She was looking at him in an odd manner. He felt the need to apologize.
“I beg your pardon. I seldom laugh like that without my friends about. I quite forgot I was in the presence of a lady.”
“You flatter me, sir.” She did not look flattered at all as she reached down to shake her skirts over her damaged slipper.
“Oh, dear. I see what you mean. Perhaps I should take a lesson from the dog and attempt to stay in your good graces.”
“Or perhaps you will wake up from a nap with a scar—a crimson bow around your neck.” She turned a strained smile to the frozen flower bed to her right, as if admiring the ghosts of flowers past.
Surely she he had intended to say ‘scarlet’, but he pretended not to notice.
“How did you manage it? I have never known a dog that would sleep through such a thing.”
Her smile turned genuine once again. “The Rat is fond of sherry. Oh, he would never take it from my hand, of course, but if someone happened to spill a little in his water bowl...”
“I see. That explains why his own barking appeared to cause him pain. Remind me never to imbibe in your presence.”
That smile fell away. He took a hasty step forward, as if he might catch it before it was too late. How foolish.
“What have I said?”
She looked at her hands and shook her head.
“Please, tell me what I have said to erase your beautiful smile.”
When she looked up, she was the bird again. Two versions. Perhaps one was Olivia and the other was Livvy. Yes, she had worn that honest smile for her father, when he’d called her Livvy. Olivia was the bird.
“I must admit it has been lovely to have met you, my lord. But I am afraid our association must end here. I cannot risk the consequences. I am sure you understand.”
North understood but had no intention of ending their association as she put it. Of course he would keep her close. It was, after all, his duty to protect his wife.
His wife! His Cinderella. His little writer.
He’d done nothing in his life to deserve her. But he would.
Her butler hurried down the walk holding an envelope and gasping for breath. Surely there was someone younger on the staff who might perform the old man’s leg work.
“Hopkins? What is it?” She jumped to her feet.
The man shook his head. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but a messenger just delivered this. He directed me to deliver it personally and said a life hangs in the balance.”
She took the letter and opened it.
The butler continued to gasp. “Forgive me, my lady, if I have alarmed you for no reason...”
North grasped her elbow, certain she might collapse otherwise. Her face was drained of all color as she handed the note back to her butler and watched him wide-eyed while he read it. The butler then walked to a bench and sat down!
What the devil?
“Forgive me, your lordship,” said Hopkins. “I’m a bit out of breath at the moment.” He tried to rise.
“Sit, man!” North released the woman and rushed to the old man’s side. He took the note before anyone thought to stop him.
“No!” Miss Reynolds held up a hand, but was obviously still reeling from a blow and was forced to sit.
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br /> “Forgive me, Miss Reynolds.” He opened the paper and read.
How fares your father?
That was all.
His Cinderella had one arm wrapped around herself and was trying to cover her face with her other hand.
North pulled back his lips and gave a shrill whistle in the direction of the house and waved an arm. Surely someone was watching from the windows. A heartbeat later a large fellow loped toward him from the direction of the carriage house.
“John!” Miss Reynolds smiled weakly.
“John, is it? Could you assist Hopkins into the house? He is not feeling well. And have some tea delivered to...” He looked at her and raised a brow. Surely she understood he was not going to leave without an explanation.
“The study will do,” she said, but none too happily.
John nodded and did as he was asked. North waited for the men to reach the doors before turning back to the lady and she nearly got away from him. Had he not caught her hand, she likely would have run into her house and locked him outside.
“I insist you take my arm, my lady. You were unsteady yourself but a moment ago.” He tucked her hand into his elbow and walked her to the house, careful to slip inside first so she could not repeat her earlier trick.
They walked down the hallway as if strolling along the Serpentine. She was obviously in no hurry to explain the note. He was happy to spend the day in her company if need be.
A maid was waiting in the study when they entered, so North closed the door. After tea was poured, he began.
“Do you know who sent the note?”
She started to shake her head but then frowned and nodded.
“Lord Gordon?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, then she nodded again.
“Tell me. And I beg you not to prevaricate. I will not leave without the truth.”
Livvy was finding it difficult to concentrate, so she took a sip of her tea. Then another. Then she wondered if she might drink the cup dry before Lord Northwick pressed her for details. The man was far too patient. She would never outlast him.
What would it hurt to tell him?
Besides her pride? Nothing. In point of fact, it might be a relief to share her burden with a man whom God had gifted with shoulders broad enough to carry more than his share.
But to whom else could she turn? The Scarlet Plumiere could hurt Gordon no more than she already had. And as Olivia Reynolds, she had only her servants and her wits to save her. She should have been spending more time learning swordplay.
“Miss Reynolds?” Lord Northwick leaned forward and squeezed her hand upon the desk. “Please allow me to help you.” He released her and sat back. “I promise whatever you share will go no further than the Four Kings.”
Perhaps she would live to regret it, but for the life of her, Livvy could think of no argument against confiding in him, other than the fact he was, after all, her enemy.
“I shall try to be brief,” she said.
“Take all the time you need.”
“Very well. Two years ago, when Lord Gordon asked for my hand, I felt flattered enough. I found him handsome. Compelling, even. But at our engagement party I found him... I heard him telling another man of some horrible plans he had for me...”
“I can only imagine. Go on.”
“He discovered me then, listening.” She would hardly share how worthless he made her feel that night. “Later, he pulled me aside and threatened my father’s life if I did not go through with the marriage.”
“And you did not go to your father for help?”
“I did not. Father was...not himself. He loved my mother very much, you see. His mourning went beyond the norm. I could not add to his burden. After The Scarlet Plumiere came to my rescue, I simply told my father Lord Gordon and I did not suit. I had no idea he might be reading the gossip sheets. Perhaps that was more than he could bear...”
“I do not understand.”
She shook her head. Her father’s condition was no longer relevant. “Lord Gordon came to me again, before he left the city with his tail between his legs. He blamed me for sharing his secret with The Plumiere. He vowed when he returned that he would kill me, slowly, but only after I watched him kill my father.”
“He is a monster!”
“He told me when my father goes missing, I will know he is back in London. This is why I stay at home, my lord. I have little care for my reputation, but my father is everything to me.”
“And will you tell your father now?”
She shook her head frantically. “No! His condition is...delicate now. I can tell him nothing.”
“Your servants are obviously loyal, but you and your father lack real protection. I will see to it. It will mean a few others, beyond my circle of friends, will have to be told about Gordon. They need not know the whole of it.”
“I know not what to say, my lord. I cannot express the relief I feel.”
“It is only right. It was my lottery that likely drew the man’s attention back to London. But in honesty, I cannot regret it if it brought me to your door.”
***
The Scarlet Plumiere! Damn him if he had not found her the very day his message reached her. I have you now. Later, when her pride had healed and Gordon was dead, he would inform her he’d discovered her secret that very day. They would laugh about it with their children, perhaps their grandchildren.
It had been a close thing. Her warring personalities had not tipped him off. The ribbon and the way she had avoided the word ‘scarlet’ would have done it, surely, if he hadn’t already recognized her laugh—just as he’d imagined.
He was so pleased, he allowed himself to relax for the first time since the hunt had begun. The carriage squabs had recently been replaced, he remembered, as he leaned back against them and let out a loud breath. Why did he not take his carriage more often? It was so private, watching all of London pass by his windows while those looking his way wondered who might be inside. He loved the anonymity of it, avoiding being the subject of random conversations.
Except when people spoke of Mr. Lott and The Plumiere.
His little stunt at the gentlemen’s lottery guaranteed that Stanley did not suffer the spotlight for long. He had accomplished that at least. In fact, Stanley’s name had fallen from the gossips sheets rather quickly. The lottery had been held so soon after The Plumiere’s attack the tongue-waggers had never heard about the gift of spectacles from the cheeky writer. The whole of London was having a hearty laugh over the joke in the park, but she had gotten no credit whatsoever for the little box tied smartly with a red ribbon. Correction, scarlet ribbon. Quite like the one Olivia Reynolds had used to torment that dog.
In his mind, he saw her waving the thing, scaring the little creature into running away once and for all. He heard, once more, the way her shameless laughter filled the garden like the first breeze of spring. It was a wonder her pear arbor had not burst into bloom.
That laughter, the search for which had him stalking about the dance floors of the ton with a bent ear.
Would you care to take a turn about the garden, my lord? She had meant to send him out there alone. That innocent persona was only an act. And she had nearly given herself away when he spoke of slander. Her nostrils had not flared due to her attraction to him. She’d been livid! And he’d loved every tense moment. Baiting her was just like baiting The Plumiere, and now he understood why.
The truth struck him again. Olivia Reynolds was The Scarlet Plumiere! He had bloody well found her! He wanted to jump about and bellow the news to the world. He wanted to go back and kiss her. He wanted to rush to each of his friends’ houses and give them the news, but they were all out doing reconnaissance. They were still looking. He would not see them again until he collected them all for that evening’s party.
He had half expected to find Ashmoore joining him in Telford’s drawing room and thanked God that he had not. Who knows how the meeting would have progressed. He might never have guessed. An
d worse, Ash might have. The man had been overly interested in Telford’s daughter. Had he deduced The Plumiere was most likely the first one spared by the writer? That the woman, out of desperation, might have discovered her own way out of a doomed engagement?
Of course Ashmoore would have wondered. The man was as clever as he was dangerous. And North pitting himself against his dark friend in a race to find The Plumiere could be added to the long list of the most foolish things he had done in his life. But he’d won!
So there he sat, boiling in a sea of excitement, and able to tell no one. If he did, Ashmoore would take a keener interest in his future bride. Of course Stan and Harcourt could keep a secret, but not from one of their own. And he would never ask them to do so. Nothing was worth the risk to the brotherhood.
Callister? The poor man would burst his buttons trying to keep his secret, but no good would be served. No need to torment the man.
The only news he would be sharing was the note from Gordon and what it meant. He’d already sent a message to Ashmoore’s men so that Lord Telford’s home would be watched around the clock, until they had a solid plan.
But for The Plumiere’s identity, he was destined to bite his tongue and keep his own council. Perforce, he would need to do a bit of dissembling himself. He only hoped he was better at it then Miss Olivia Reynolds.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Capital Journal, February 9th, Evening edition, Personal section.
To Mr. Lott from The Scarlet Plumiere
Dear Mr. Lott,
I am afraid your boast of yesterday had me quite excited. All day I sat out on my balcony, overlooking the drive. But alas, you did not come. Perhaps you should retire to your newly acquired Scottish property and leave The Great City in my capable hands.
Directly below read another note.
To The Scarlet Plumiere from Mr. Lott
