Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1)

by Muir, L. L.

Dear SP,

  Regarding my claim of this morning, dear writer, I beg your patience as I will be spending a bit of time tidying up some unfinished SP business. It seems a fine young lady had been rescued by a mysterious writer, but then left by the roadside with no transportation back to Society. After I ensure the lady is well on her way, I will have time to collect you.

  Stanley jumped into North’s carriage before it had come to a complete stop, for which he was grateful. He was in no mood to dawdle.

  “Which lady did you call upon this morning, Stan?”

  His friend shook his head. “Ursula. But it was of no use.”

  “She refused to see you?”

  “Not at all. She was more than happy see me, if only so I would see how well she is getting on without me. She has taken on Lewiston.” Stan rubbed his hands together, then stuck them under his arms. North had not thought to have the brazier filled since his own excitement had kept him over-warm all day.

  “Oh? I heard it was Landtree.” He had not wanted to mention it before.

  “I believe she has taken on the pair of them.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Stanley grinned. “But it is flattering, I think, that it took two men to replace me.”

  They both laughed.

  North sobered first. “She would not say, though?”

  “No. She said if I were a woman, I would know exactly how to contact The Scarlet Plumiere. What the devil does that mean?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Ash would be waiting at Harcourt’s residence which was next on the route to Lord and Lady Stevenson’s anniversary party. The couple had wed twenty years ago and their wedding was still touted as the Season-opening soiree to which all openers would be compared. There would be enough champagne to drown a coach-and-eight. And every woman present would have weddings on their minds and tongues.

  The carriage stopped again.

  “Harcourt.”

  “North. Stan. Any luck?” The Marquess asked it before he landed on the seat.

  “Nothing,” said North. “The women we called upon claim not to know who she is.”

  “Same here. I called on Cynthia Stark—now Lady Grey. Same story.”

  Stan perked up. “Was not it Marquardt who—”

  “Yes.” North and Harcourt interrupted in unison. Before she had become Lady Grey, Miss Stark had been engaged to Viscount Marquardt—a man The Scarlet Plumiere exposed as a villain who had disposed of two of his maids after he had gotten them with child. To prove the writer wrong, the man had but to produce both maids hale and healthy. The man could not be bothered with such nonsense, as he was preparing an extended tour of the Mediterranean.

  “She was right about that one.” Harcourt pulled his feet in to let Ashmoore climb aboard and get settled.

  “Who was right about what?” Ash demanded once his arse was no longer the center of attention. Once the door closed, the carriage began to warm quickly with little room for cold air.

  “The Plumiere was right about Marquardt,” said the Marquess.

  “She did not know the half of it, I would say. She was lucky the man did not come after her.” Ash turned and looked at North.

  His gut clenched. He knew what his friend was about to say before he opened his mouth.

  “North, I want you to consider that we might be putting this woman in much more danger than we realized.”

  He agreed with a nod and concentrated on keeping a tight rein on his secret. “What have you learned?”

  “Nothing. I spoke to three of her worshippers today. All have the same story. Nearly verbatim.”

  Harcourt grinned. “Well, gentlemen. I believe we should consider the possibility that the women of London have a secret network all their own. How else could she have arranged for so many ladies to show up on Sunday afternoon with willows in hand?”

  “Ursula said something odd to Stan this morning,” he said, preferring not to discuss branches for fear of it leading the conversation to include small boxes and scarlet ribbons. It truly was killing him to keep a secret from his friends, but what really worried him was that they would smell the lie on him and worry at him until he confessed. After all, he had not been able to keep the damnable lot to himself, had he?

  “She spoke with you?” Harcourt’s shock was plain.

  “Yes. I think she misses me.” The viscount’s grin returned.

  Harcourt rolled his eyes. “She does not have time to miss you, Stanley.”

  “I know, Lewiston and Landtree.” Stan rolled his eyes in return.

  “I heard it was Pierce Lange.” The marquess said it a bit too innocently.

  “Perhaps she is taking on all the ‘L’s at once then,” Ash suggested with a straight face.

  Stan shook his head and turned to the window. “See if I ever speak to you lot again.”

  Ash and Harcourt turned to North. As usual, they expected him to bring Stan back around.

  “Come, Stanley. They are only teasing,” he chided, but the white head would not budge. “Ursula told Stan that if he were a woman, he would know exactly how to contact The Plumiere.”

  “What does that mean?” Harcourt demanded.

  “That is what I said.” Stan’s words fogged his window.

  Ash looked out his own. “Interesting. We need only to think like a woman, and we will have her. But what then? If we learn her name, what then?”

  “I had a nice chat with Lord Telford’s daughter this morning.” He could at least admit that.

  Harcourt looked interested at least. “I hear she was a handful in her day,” he said. “What is she now, nineteen? Twenty?”

  North’s instinct was to rise to the woman’s defense, but he had to tread carefully. He had to act as if he could not possibly suspect her of being The Plumiere.

  “You must be thinking of someone else. This woman, Olivia, was quite lovely and refined. Her manners were a little rusty, but that was to be expected. She has not been out in Society for two years, and I would believe they have few visitors. The entire staff seemed a bit rusty, actually. But I discovered why.”

  “Oh?” Ash lifted a brow.

  “Lord Gordon threatened the girl before he left town. He accused her of sharing his secret with The Plumiere and promised to come back and murder her—after he forced her to witness her father’s murder.”

  “And she volunteered this information?” Harcourt shook his head. “After only meeting you this morning?”

  “I gave her no choice but to explain—”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ash sat up straight, his frown enough to cower any other man. “What did you do to Miss Reynolds?”

  “I did nothing untoward, I assure you. We discussed The Plumiere for the most part. There was only a moment or two when... Well, it was as if...as if we had been in a moonlit garden after a heated dance instead of two strangers talking in the cold morning air.”

  “You kissed her!” Harcourt hissed.

  “I did not, but it was a close thing.”

  Ash took a deep breath and settled back, but his jaw flexed. Was the man taken with Telford’s daughter after only seeing her in the park? If so, he had best wash that image from his mind completely. The Scarlet Plumiere was his, and thus Olivia Reynolds was his, he did not care whose name was on the damned lot!

  “Is there more you should be telling us?” Stanley nudged him.

  North tried to swallow, but choked. Good lord! He would be telling them the whole tale if he was not careful.

  “Yes, there is.” He coughed again, still recovering. “While we were in the garden, the butler brought her a note. From Gordon. It read, How fares your father?”

  “Bastard!” Stanley and Harcourt shouted in unison.

  “I sent for Peter and the others, Ash. I did not think you would mind.”

  Ash shook his head. His curls fell forward to cover his scowl. “I have a question.”

  North waited.

  “Are you now willing to end your pursu
it of The Plumiere now that Miss Reynolds has caught your eye?”

  “Absolutely not. The Scarlet Plumiere is mine. I will find her. I will wed her, and damn any man who tries to stop me.”

  “Then Miss Reynolds is available,” Ash pronounced.

  “Perhaps.” It took all his discipline to keep from jumping on Ash to beat him as hard and as long as possible before the man turned the tables, but all it would accomplish would be to make the pair of them unfit to attend the party. He would just have to find another way to discourage his friend. “I had nearly convinced her to allow me to re-introduce her to society, but she will have nothing to do with me. She fears any woman seen on my arm will immediately be suspected as The Scarlet Plumiere. She is sure Lord Gordon would believe it and hurry all the faster to get his hands around her neck.”

  “I thought as much.” Ash said. “On Sunday I sent men off to find him, and Marquardt, and a few others who felt it necessary to leave England altogether. I have men watching at Calais and Dover as well.”

  “You have been busy. Thank you.” Later, he planned to punish himself for not thinking to do the same. Thank goodness for Ash.

  “Would you like a confession?” His dark friend smiled from the shadows.

  “From you? Absolutely not.”

  “It occurred to me that if one of these blokes have a poor aim and murders you, I will need to come to the rescue of our little writer.”

  “Our writer? You mean my writer.” North tried not to sound too emotional about it, but feared he had failed miserably.

  “I am not so sure. Perhaps you have been seduced by Telford’s daughter.”

  The image of Olivia’s lips popped into his mind. Seduction had been far from his plan, in spite of their earlier jest about any means necessary. But how far from hers? Had this Livvy been more cunning than he gave her credit for? Had she been trying to win his sympathies from the start? Then why turn down his offer? Was it just to tease him further, get him well and goodly hooked, like a fish?

  He remembered Harcourt’s mime of Ursula with a hook in her mouth, and of Stanley removing the hook and letting her go. Of its own accord his tongue began searching the bottom of his own mouth.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As it turned out, Olivia Reynolds appeared to be a prophetess.

  The only thing dampening spirits at the Stevenson’s anniversary party was the Earl of Northwick. Not one woman was available to dance with him that night. He was a bit of dirty lamp oil dropped into a pristine bowl of water. No one could leave his side fast enough.

  “Do you suppose a communication was sent out through the female spy network that no one was to speak to us tonight?”

  He looked up to find Harcourt bending over his shoulder. As he looked about the room with tables arranged for card playing, he noted Ashmoore and Stanley were entrenched in games of their own. It was a balm, actually, to know his friends were being snubbed as well.

  “I think you are right, Marquess,” North said. “Perhaps if you take a moment and try to think like a woman, you will find a way to lure someone onto the dance floor.”

  North’s elderly partner gave him a strange look across the card table.

  “A private joke. Forgive me.”

  The man continued to glare at him for the rest of the set, and when he could bear the man no longer, North went in search of some fresh air.

  It was bitterly cold and dark on the second story balcony, so even if someone chose to glare at him, there was little chance he would see it. There was also less of a chance of interrupting couples who were intent on stealing a chilly kiss on the veranda below.

  He leaned over, to see if such couples had braved the temperature, but found only a trio of women hovering with their shoulders close to keep warm. Were they mad? Why did they not find a quiet alcove inside in which to share their little secrets?

  “You must place your letter beneath her potted azaleas. She will make sure it gets to The Scarlet Plumiere.”

  “Do you think she will really have time to help me, what with that odious man searching for her? Perhaps she is in hiding and will not find my letter. What if someone else finds it?”

  “How silly. Who would be poking around under potted plants in the middle of winter? I would think summer would be much more dangerous.”

  “True! But how in the world will I recognize an azalea plant if it is not in bloom?”

  Silence.

  “I have not the slightest. I suppose you will have to ask a gardener.”

  “I can stand it no longer. I do not care who you have to marry. It is not worth catching our death.”

  A second later, the orchestra grew loud as the ballroom doors were opened, then the music cut off once more.

  Potted azaleas? How many women in London had a potted azalea plant, he wondered?

  Likely all.

  He did not wish to get ahead of himself, but Mr. Lott thought he might have just discovered the mode of communication for the London Women’s Secret Network. And if anything could keep his friends busy while he decided how to handle The Scarlet Plumiere, it would be keeping watch on the azalea pots of The Great City.

  He rushed back inside to find those friends and share what he had just learned. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Ash and Stanley were just emerging from the card room. A small cloud of smoke escaped with them before the door was completely closed.

  “Is Harcourt inside?”

  “He is not.” Stan looked around. “There. On the dance floor.”

  North looked across the entry to the room beyond where their jovial friend had indeed found at least one woman willing to forget with whom the marquess had arrived. The music ended, the man grinned at them, then took his time walking the woman back to her companions. For a moment, North’s excitement was overshadowed by curiosity.

  “How did you manage that?” he asked when the marquess joined them.

  “I give you full credit, Northwick. You told me to try and think like a woman, and it worked.”

  He would demand more details later. At the moment, he was more interested in sharing his own news.

  “I have just overheard the most interesting conversation. Shall we adjourn to Ashmoore’s residence, or did you wish to enjoy a few more dances?”

  “Oh, no. I have been dancing a’ plenty. Lead on.”

  If he could keep his friends busy trying to track down The Plumiere, he could spend some time getting to know Miss Olivia Reynolds before Ashmoore was aware he was losing the game. If he could win her heart, his friend would not stand a chance.

  ***

  Lord Telford passed his most difficult night yet, waking up and wandering through the house for who knew how long before his valet found him, terrified and barely clothed in the study, about to escape into the garden. In winter! The possibilities frightened her so, Livvy sat outside her papa’s door for the rest of the night. They had bundled him up nicely and convinced him he would feel more himself on the morrow. He had eventually gone to sleep, snoring late into the morning.

  Livvy felt terribly guilty climbing into her own bed when she should see how her father was faring with his breakfast but was confident she was on the brink of collapsing. She was merely choosing a soft surface upon which to do so.

  It was afternoon when she woke, thanks to the staff who had closed her curtains against the warmth and light of the afternoon sun. It was her father’s voice that woke her, in fact, coming from the garden. She listened closely for a moment, to hear it again, but heard another man’s voice instead.

  Lord Northwick!

  She flew to the curtains and flung them apart, then did the same with her terrace windows. There was no time for thought. If her father suffered another episode like the one the night before...

  She burst out onto the balcony and ignored the cold.

  “Stop!”

  And they did. All four of them.

  Her father was dressed finely, as she had not seen him in a year. His hair had been trimmed.
His greatcoat made him look a bit more robust than he had been of late, and there were roses in his cheeks. Hopkins had outdone himself. And what a day to have done so—a day when more gentlemen had come calling. The old man appeared to be reveling in their attention and she sighed in relief.

  To her father’s right stood Northwick, imposing as ever, wearing nothing more substantial than his morning coat, as if the chilly February air gave him a respite from the heat he emanated no matter the weather.

  The man standing at her father’s left shoulder was Ashmoore. No other man could have cast such a shadow in bright sunlight. His clothes, though fine even from her vantage point, were as dark as before—grey as ashes, black as coal. He was smiling, though barely. Then he looked away.

  The gardener stood to one side, looking down, shaking his head.

  Northwick grinned up at her and a chill went up her spine—and another up her sleeping gown.

  “We have stopped, daughter. Did you need something?” Her father called out, all smiles. He was having a very good day, it seemed. And she was missing it!

  “I will be right down,” she called.

  “No hurry, my dear. Do find some clothes first!”

  Northwick continued to grin up at her. What could she have possibly given away? Other than the fact she had danced about with nothing on...in a nightdress he might have been able to see beneath.

  Oh, dear heavens!

  She screamed for Stella, then began brushing out her hair. There was no time for fashion; a chignon would have to do.

  Stella ran into the room, took one look at Livvy’s face and headed for the wardrobe. She pulled out the green morning dress.

  “Not warm enough.”

  The blue?

  “Too pretty. I do not want the man to think I am pretty.”

  Stella snorted.

  The peach? The peach was a fine choice. Warm. Unflattering. Perfect.

  She was downstairs and headed toward her father before they had had a chance to move on. They were still standing around the potted azalea—the pot under which all her correspondence with Lady Malbury waited for her nightly message carrier. Thank heavens there was nothing beneath—unless Lady Malbury had sent a message to her!