by Muir, L. L.
She affixed her calmest smile and raised her brows.
“Good heavens, Father. Why are you entertaining in the cold garden this morning?” She kissed his beloved cheek.
“Lord Ashmoore, may I present my daughter, uh...”
Livvy’s heart stopped. Please remember me, Papa.
“Miss Olivia Reynolds. Livvy? The Earl of Ashmoore.”
The dark man moved forward and lifted her hand. She could not help but meet his gaze. She knew she was blushing over what the man might have seen before he had looked away, but she refused to be ashamed. She had been doing whatever necessary to protect her father, even if he did not currently need protecting.
Her chin went up a notch.
So did his. In fact, his lids lowered a bit as he studied her. Then he smiled. What that smiled meant, she had not the foggiest. Had he told her secret after all?
Northwick cleared his throat.
“And you remember Lord Northwick of course. He is the grandson of Alexander Birmingham, an old acquaintance. Is he still among the living, son?
“I am sorry, my lord, but he is not. I am all that’s left of my family, I am afraid.” A dark shadow seemed to move over the Earl of Northwick then, or perhaps it was just his large dark friend moving closer to him, then whispering something in the man’s ear.
Northwick shook his head and looked up. The shadow was gone. His smile returned.
“We have just been debating, Miss Reynolds, on what an azalea plant looks like in winter. Since I had planned to call on your father today, I thought to bring Ashmoore with me so we could put the question to your gardener and put the discussion to rest, as it were. Do you mind?”
“Of course I do not mind.” The devil with the plant. “May I ask what your business with my father involves?”
“Nothing serious, my dear, I assure you. She is awfully protective of me in my old age you know.” Her father moved forward and pulled her hand through his elbow, then patted her. It was the most wonderful feeling. “Mr. Lott just came by to tell me the latest news on The Scarlet Plumiere. He remembered my infatuation with the woman.”
Infatuation? Did her father recognize something of her mother in the way she wrote her posts?
She smiled as innocently as she could. “I am afraid I have not read the paper this morning. Perhaps he can enlighten me as well.”
Ashmoore inserted himself back into the conversation, demanding her attention, his shoulders pushing Northwick slightly behind him.
“The Scarlet Plumiere is strangely silent this morning, my lady.”
She put her hand to her throat. “Oh, I do hope nothing has happened to her.”
Northwick came around his friend and stood beside her.
“Fear not, Miss Reynolds. I promise you we are just as concerned about The Plumiere’s safety as you are.”
For some reason she was unable to tear her gaze away from Ashmoore. He seemed to be trying to communicate with his eyes alone. A strange man, to be sure.
Then suddenly, he looked away. “We have bothered these good people long enough, I think. We have satisfied our curiosity about the plant, have we not?” He moved swiftly to the pot where Juris, the gardener stood guard. “Do these azalea things thrive with wet roots, do you know? Or do they prefer the water to drain through?” He swiftly pushed the edge of the pot forward, toward Juris. The bottom came up, off its plate and Livvy could not stifle her gasp.
But there was nothing there. Nothing on the plate, at least. But beneath the plate, the smallest edge of an envelope peeked out.
She looked up at Ashmoore. He had been watching her, not the pot. Just how did this man know so many of her secrets? Perhaps he had known her identity before he overheard her conversation with Hopkins.
He glanced down, seemed to not notice the little paper from his angle, then allowed the pot to settle back into place.
Juris was unearthly pale.
“Well, man?” Ashmoore asked it kindly, but Juris jumped.
“Sorry, my lord?”
“Does the plant prefer to drain?”
“Drain? Oh. Oh, yes, my lord. Lots of water, but they do not like to soak in it.”
“Thank you. North?”
“Right. Well, we will take our leave now. No need to go back through your lovely home. We will just walk ‘round to the front.” He stepped up to her father and shook his hand. “It has been a pleasure seeing you again, Lord Telford. I so enjoyed our conversation the last time I was here.”
He turned to Livvy.
“Miss Reynolds, I beg you to reconsider my invitation to take you shopping. Not a lady in London would dare be seen with me now, especially The Scarlet Plumiere, so it stands to reason that anyone caught on my arm could not possibly be her.”
“Shopping? I think it is a splendid idea,” said her father. “Would you mind if I came along?”
For once, Livvy wished her father had not understood the conversation!
“Of course. We will make a day of it. On Thursday?” Northwick was taking complete advantage, the rat.
Livvy fought as strongly as she dared without making her father suspicious. Ultimately, they agreed to make a morning of it at least. She knew her father was best in the morning. If God was in his Heaven, her father would last until they were safely home again.
As Ashmoore led Papa away, Lord Northwick offered his elbow, then held her to a slower pace.
“Miss Reynolds?”
“Yes?”
“Do you see me as an awkward man?”
“Awkward? I would not think so, my lord.”
“Well, do try to remember it when you read the next installment from your writer-friend. I fear she will not be kind to me.”
“Indeed? Have you committed such an unpardonable sin since last you were here, my lord?”
He grimaced.
“I suppose,” he confessed, “there are those who might look upon clumsiness as a sin.”
“Oh, dear.” She tried not to laugh. “What happened?”
“Truly, I have no idea what tripped me, but trip I did. On the dance floor.” He closed his eyes tightly, then opened one. “At the Stevenson’s Anniversary Party.”
She laughed then. He opened the other eye and grinned back.
“So you won’t think too badly of me? You’ll still be my friend once I’m outed?”
She sobered. “Oh, I shall need to consider, my lord. That is a bit much to ask. After all, the Stevenson’s Party? All the important people in my circle would have been in attendance. I must match my reaction to that of my friends.” She burst out laughing again. He grinned down at her.
“I shall just have to hope your friends are a tender-hearted lot.”
She bit her lip and shook her head, as if to say there was no hope for him. And they laughed again.
“You know, some call The Plumiere a Robin Hood in a ball gown. Perhaps she is capable of pity.”
“I suppose that was apt in my circumstance, my lord.”
“I believe she is very brave. I think she will be able to handle herself well, no matter what happens next.”
“I hope so. But if you, sir, believe I might be able to contact her in some way, that I might sway her hand. I assure you, I cannot. “
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Capital Journal, February 10th, Morning edition, Personal section
To Mr. Lott from The Scarlet Plumiere
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
And oh, how his heart soared.
There was no doubt now. After picking apart his arguments for believing her to be The Plumiere, his reasoning had sounded a bit shaky, but no longer. Only Olivia—Livvy—had been told he had stumbled. If she had told The Plumiere, the latter would have corrected her, if she were active in Society, as The Plumiere claimed to be. If he had fallen, all of the city would have known—all but one poor woman who was holed up in her father’s home.
Callister stood by waiting to dress him. He needed to show a different reaction to The P
lumiere’s message, or he would feel the need to explain. After all, his staff was involved in his hunt as well as his friends. He pretended to search through the paper again, then return to the notice.
“That is all? Nothing in the fiction section? What is that supposed to mean?” Oh, but his acting needed work.
“I have no idea, my lord.” Callister managed to get him dressed while he ranted and raved about his lack of satisfaction with The Plumiere. His acting improved by the minute. The excitement over catching his little writer red-handed was easily transformed into outrage.
“I waited two days to hear from her and this is all she gives me?”
“Just like a woman, my lord.”
“What?” He turned to Callister and tried to discover whether or not the man was mocking him. The old man looked deadly serious. Not mocking then. Excellent.
He considered his butler for a moment. The man was getting on in years. North really should allow the man to remain below stairs and stop expecting him to also serve as his valet. Would the man welcome a change, or would he be offended by it?
Chester stood in the hallway, waiting for Callister.
“It is all right, Chester. Come in. What is it?”
“The Earl of Ashmoore is waiting in your study, my lord.”
“Stand straighter,” snapped Callister.
North put his shoulders back and grew an inch before he realized his butler had been speaking to the young man. “You too, Chester.”
The boy giggled, then bowed, then giggled down the hallway.
“Please do not encourage him, my lord.”
“And why not? You are grooming the lad to be your replacement someday, are you not?”
Callister paused. “Yes, sir. If that is all right with your lordship.”
“Then we may as well train him to be as much like you as possible.”
“My lord?”
“Cheeky.”
Callister stiffened, bowed, then backed into the hall. After the door was closed, North was certain he heard the man giggle.
***
Ash sat behind the desk, scribbling away.
“You did not even notice me enter. What have you got there? A brilliant response to The Scarlet Plumiere’s elaborate message this morning?”
“No. Just thinking on paper is all.” Ash sprinkled a bit of sand on the ink, dumped it off, then folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.
“You afraid you will forget those thoughts?”
“Precisely.” Ash’s grin was unsettling in any case, but his current smile made North consider hurrying out the door. “I have an idea and a proposition.”
“Which one am I going to like?”
“The idea.”
“Then tell me that one first. Will I need a drink before I hear the proposition?” He walked to the decanter and started to pour.
“Probably.”
“That means definitely. Give me a moment.”
Stan walked in unannounced as usual, noticed North pouring whisky. “It is early.”
“Drink!” Ash bellowed.
“Anyone else suffering deja vu this morning?” Harcourt leaned on the doorframe.
North raised a glass in question.
Harcourt shook his head in answer. “It seems to me that all morning drinking can be attributed to The Scarlet Plumiere these days.”
“Here, here.” North downed the contents of his glass, gasped, then sucked in a breath. “Ash is about to tell me his idea, then depress me with a proposition. Go on, old boy.”
“Thanks, old boy. My idea is simple. We think of the five or six places we might catch The Plumiere and assign men to watch their azalea pots.”
“Azaleas again?” Harcourt found a seat and slumped into it. Apparently flowers did not impress their merry friend.
“Since Miss Reynolds happened to have a letter beneath her pot yesterday morning, I believe it is our best lead.”
“You did not tell me you saw a letter! I saw nothing.” North added a dram more to his glass. If this was the likeable news, he needed to be prepared for the other.
“It was under the plate. I did not think to lift the plate. And what’s more, the gardener was in on it. He was guarding over that dead plant like an eagle over its fledglings.”
“I did notice that. But Miss Reynolds did not seem terribly concerned.”
“She gasped when I lifted it. I would say it was not there for the gardener.”
“True. True.” Damn but his friend was too observant by half.
“So we watch the pots. Whose pots?” Harcourt tried to get into the spirit, but failed.
“I think we should see if there are any pots around the newspaper building. Then check Lady Malbury’s house for them. Ursula said we should think like a woman. And if I were a woman—”
Stanley snorted.
Harcourt scowled at him. “Do not underestimate the idea, Stanley. I had ladies willing to dance with me the other night. Did you?”
“I say, if I were a woman,” Ash continued, “and I needed to contact The Scarlet Plumiere, I would think of the newspaper first.”
“And there’s only one woman there.” Stanley, at least, was excited.
“Precisely.”
If North were still aggressively searching for The Plumiere, he would have been gung-ho for the plan.
“Next time you see Ursula, my friend, give her a kiss from me,” he said.
“Gladly.”
“If she is not too busy, of course,” Harcourt muttered. One would think he had been up all night watching azalea pots already.
“Shut up, Presley dear.” Stanley threw a pillow. Harcourt plucked it from the air and used it to cushion his head, then closed his eyes. The man must have been up all night to fail to rise to Stanley’s bait; he loathed being called Presley.
Stanley was the only one among them to be called by his Christian name. Since he would eventually inherit his father’s title as Duke of Rochester, his Forsgreen title was temporary. Thus, to avoid a change later, they’d agreed to call him Stanley in private. They’d done so long ago, as boys in fact, just after they’d all found themselves standing on the winning side of a schoolyard fight. It was also that day they began calling themselves the Four Kings.
“So we should have a report back by morning.” Ash steered the conversation back to mysteries and azalea plants.
“Excellent.” North rubbed his hands together, though he felt quite ill. That meant he would not have much time to win fair maiden. “Now, what is your proposition?”
“The whiskey working yet?”
“I believe so.”
“Then sit down. You are going to hear me out before you tell me to go to Hell. Agreed?”
“As long as I get to tell you to go to Hell in the end.”
“Of course.” Ash made no move to vacate North’s chair, so he settled in the empty seat before the desk. Harcourt and Stanley laughed, but did not enter the conversation.
North nodded to Ash. “By all means, proceed.”
“You claim to be in love, or smitten, or vehemently something with The Scarlet Plumiere.”
North nodded.
“And you also admire Lord Telford’s daughter, Olivia. Do not speak, just nod.”
He frowned but nodded.
“You agree that The Plumiere faces sure danger from the men whom she has exposed?”
One nod. That was all he was getting.
“We must find her in any case, so we will know which woman needs protection. Also, your honor as a gentleman is at stake if you fail to marry her and stop her from ruining the lives of perfectly good gentlemen like our Stanley here.”
Stanley’s head inclined to Ash.
North nodded. It was time for the bad news.
“However...” Ash braced his hands on the desk as if he expected an attack, smart man. “In our search for The Plumiere, we have stumbled across a woman who is in real danger from Lord Gordon. If you find and marry our mysterious writer, do y
ou suppose Lord Telford’s daughter would be safe moving about in Society with that man in town?”
North shook his head. “Not at all.”
“So, you must choose which woman you wish to protect. You can let The Plumiere go along her merry way and allow your reputation to suffer a little. But then, if it is your preference, you will be free to pursue Lord Telford’s daughter. Or you can search out your writer and protect her with your life.”
“What is the proposition, as if I need to ask?”
“You must choose between them. I, out of friendship and my duty to you, shall do what is necessary to protect the other woman.”
It was time to tell his friend to go to Hell. He wanted to pull Ash from his chair and heft him over the desk so when he struck the man in the face, the blow would have all his weight behind it. But he also knew the man was correct. Now was his chance to confess the identity of The Plumiere. But what then? What if the woman fell in love with Ashmoore? If she were intelligent, which she was, she would know that Ashmoore was the safest choice. He could protect her like no other.
But North knew in his soul the woman could make him happy. And he was quite sure he could make her just as happy, even if it took him years to prove it. Could he risk all that in order to save his friends a bit of pot-watching? Certainly not. And if he explained it just that way—say, in a month from now—they would completely understand.
But what to say at the moment that would not lead to his destruction?
He had no choice but to pretend they were two different women. Both women needed protection. The wise thing to do would be to hand Livvy’s care over to Ashmoore, but he was not going to enjoy doing it.
He held up his glass. “Take care of Olivia,” he said simply. “And Stanley? Get me another whisky.”
Stan laughed. “What happens if Miss Olivia ends up being The Scarlet Plumiere?”
He let the comment wash over him instead of lifting him from his chair.
“I will just have to kill Ashmoore, and the rest of us shall live happily ever after,” he said.
Ashmoore’s mouth curved into what was surely meant as a smile. “Or vice versa, of course.”
