Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1)

by Muir, L. L.

  He caught her, lifted her, held her up while he continued. She sighed as she had never done before. He laughed quietly against her skin, then straightened.

  “Forgive me, Livvy. That was quite unfair of me.”

  “Hmm?” She could think of not a word to say, or a muscle that might help her say it. With chills down the front of her and Northwick’s warm form behind her, she felt quite content to remain that way until she woke in the morning. For the mist covering her brain had to be a dream. Only in her dream would Northwick choose her over his precious Plumiere.

  “Livvy?”

  “Shhh.”

  “Livvy,” he growled in her ear.

  Chills began their waterfall all over again.

  “Livvy, listen to me. Are you listening?”

  “Mm. Yes.” She began rocking slightly, pleasantly. Side to side. Side to side.

  “When Ashmoore kisses you, I wanted you to have something to compare it with. I want you to remember me, standing here, holding you this way. I want you to remember how you are trembling.”

  “You made me cold. Clearly not my fault.”

  “No, Livvy. It is all my fault. I did this to you. I will be the only one to make you cold and make you hot. Only me. I cannot stand by and smile, Livvy darling. You are meant for no one but me. Remember that, when Ashmoore takes your hand—”

  She shook off the mist, pulled her shoulder out from beneath that waterfall of chills, and turned toward the darkness.

  “Just a moment, Lord Northwick. Just what are you demanding from a woman you do not plan to marry? Were you not speaking of your lady love less than an hour ago? Arranging for her wedding gown? Just what do you think I will mean to you after you have walked her down the aisle? So pray, do not tell me in whose arms I am meant to be!”

  His arms pulled her forward. His lips searched and found her own, pressed his argument into their flesh, demanded that she return the kiss. But she knew not how. She could only mimic his movements to keep from looking a complete fool.

  She wanted him to remember this kiss as well, for it was the only one he would ever have from her.

  He growled into her mouth and she knew she had succeeded. He would remember. God knew she would remember. And remember. And wish she had never kissed him back. She would wish she would have screamed—wish she had not driven him to desperate actions with her teasing.

  “Cherie!” Roxelle’s voice carried from down the hall.

  “Tell her you will be right there,” he whispered against her lips.

  She turned her head and obeyed.

  “Miss Reynolds!” Ashmoore’s voice boomed. “Are you quite all right?”

  “I am fine, my lord. I will be with your directly.” She called to the ceiling, hoping her voice would carry over the curtain rod. Then she whispered, “Good-bye, Lord Northwick. And happy hunting to you.”

  He found her hand, pulled her back again. His other hand pulled her face around. Their noses touched. “Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me, Livvy?”

  “Not until now.”

  How she got disentangled from both him and the curtains, she would never know. But a heartbeat later, she was walking into the light and toward the dark form of the Earl of Ashmoore. There were no white teeth, no smiling eyes to greet her, and as she neared, she realized the man held a long knife in his right hand. He must have had it hidden on his person.

  Suddenly she realized why Northwick had said Ashmoore was the best man for the job.

  They had whispered. Surely the man had not heard Northwick’s voice! Was it possible the man was angry enough to hurt his friend?

  She stepped up to him, smiling, gently placing her hand upon the glove that clutched the knife.

  “You can put that away, my lord. I am in no danger, I assure you. However, I promise to scream myself sick if I see so much as a spider.”

  He relaxed not a whit. His eyes remained on the corridor behind her. She dared not look back for fear of appearing as guilty as she felt.

  Roxelle stood at the counter, wrapping some underthings in paper, nattering on about something. Livvy dared not spare any attention for her words.

  “Lord Ashmoore. I beg you, be at ease.” She glanced at Roxelle. The man’s eyes followed and he nodded. Then his head shot up at the same moment his body tensed, his arm raised. He saw something behind her, then he relaxed and looked at her face.

  Not able to bear what he might read there, she closed her eyes and dropped her chin.

  “Come,” he said. “Let me find you a fine meal before I meet Northwick at Jackson’s.”

  She shook her head, but did not look up.

  “I am sorry, my lord, but I must decline. I have seen quite enough excitement for one morning, and must return and see to my father.”

  Once in the carriage, with parcels sliding about on the seat to either side of them, she had plenty of excuses not to meet his gaze. Her hands darted here and there, pushing at the packages, catching them before they slid off the seat. Stella finally piled some of them on the floor and contained them between her skirts and the door.

  Livvy eventually thought of something to converse about other than Lord Northwick.

  “Lord Ashmoore, since your friend is no longer with us, I would like to ask your opinion on a matter.”

  The man took a deep breath, then nodded.

  “You have now witnessed my father’s condition,” she began. “I assure you, he is usually much worse.”

  “I am sorry.”

  She shook her head. “What I need to understand is the reason my father seems so much improved the moment other gentlemen walk into the room, while I seem to have the opposite effect upon him.”

  There. She had finally said it aloud. Although she teetered on the brink of tears, it was a relief, truly, to unburden herself. After also unburdening herself about Lord Gordon, she was beginning to believe that having friends with whom one could share one’s concerns was highly underrated.

  Ashmoore leaned forward and took her hands in his. His smile all but begged her tears to fall, but she would not let them.

  “My dear Miss Reynolds, your father adores you. The condition of which you speak is sometimes known as “King of the Hill.”

  “Like the game I watched you and your friends play all those years ago?”

  “The very same. You see it in nature, of course. When one male comes upon another, he puffs out his chest, or something similar, to show himself at his best. When one boy sees another standing triumphantly at the top of a hill, his natural instinct is to run up the hill and fight for that place.”

  “So my father is a peacock, or a boy?”

  “Absolutely both. All men are. So whatever it is that makes him react so—to fight his way to the top of the hill—also sharpens his mind. He would have no control over it, of course. So as much as he might wish to be his best while with you, his wishes have no bearing.”

  “If this is true, then I am not the reason for his episodes.”

  “Decidedly not.” He released her hands and sat back.

  The relief of it nearly dried her tears.

  “And he does love me.”

  Ashmoore nodded, “As does another gentleman, I’m afraid.”

  She lowered her chin, trying to hide her face beneath the brim of her new capote.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmured. “Please, Miss Reynolds, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Northwick was in the wrong, not you. And I will be happy to explain that to him this afternoon. Not in so many words, of course.” He laughed. “In fact, I will use no words whatsoever.”

  She looked at him then and neglected a slippery box to place a hand on his glove.

  “You would not hurt him?”

  “Not permanently, I promise.”

  She looked for his blade but saw no sign of it. “He was right, was he not? About you being the best man to protect me?”

  “Actually, no. He thinks I am. It is a long story. Not one I should be telli
ng. Not one I am proud of.”

  “About his experience in France?”

  “No. Mine.”

  “Were you tortured?”

  “Every day, my lady. Every blessed day.” With his eyes, he dared her to ask for more, but she was not so foolish.

  “I fear I am feeling a bit tortured as well at the moment.” She said it lightly, to try and lift his mood from the dark place to which he seemed so smoothly to retreat. If his ensuing laughter was any indication, she was better with levity than she had thought. “I am sorry if you find my comparison amusing. I assure you—”

  “Stop. I beg you.” He held up a hand. “I assume you feel tortured by the fact that Northwick is pursuing you while he also claims to be enchanted with The Scarlet Plumiere.”

  She nodded, realizing what he had found so humorous. “It is quite silly, is it not? And yet, I do feel tortured, nonetheless.”

  “I can only imagine what it is like, my lady...to be incredibly jealous...of one’s self.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Paris, France

  Sarah Mason huddled in the center of her French aunt’s large bed, afraid of what she might hear through the wall at her back, afraid to sleep, afraid of staying awake. For the past three nights, since she had arrived on Aunt Maude’s doorstep carrying everything she owned, she had been left alone while her aunt went off with anyone who might come knocking on her door, in need of the woman’s doctoring skills.

  Sarah covered her ears to keep from listening to the sounds of a dangerous city going about its business in the dark. She’d been told to open the door to no one, not even to say Maude was not at home. She was not to make a sound or light a candle. If the landlord discovered Sarah spending the night, the rents would be raised.

  And so she rolled herself into a tight, shivering mass of bones and covered her head with a pillow. If she could only sing, she could chase away the images that formed in her mind to explain the noises from the streets—the laughter, the screams, the moaning. She prayed her thanks to God that the gentleman in the room above had a loud and constant snore, but that could only drown out so much. A few times in the night, the snoring would cease and she would hold the pillow tight against her ears.

  The night wore on, the hours dragged by, like the light of the moon sliding slowly across the curtains. But there was plenty of time to sleep in the morning, when her aunt would also sleep, when the noises and voices outside were less frightening. But every night she feared her aunt would not return. Sarah was fourteen, old enough to imagine Paris to be the sort of city in which people disappeared with regularity. Hopefully her aunt’s skills would give the woman some sort of protection. Perhaps Sarah should learn such skills herself...if she could but understand half of what her aunt mumbled to her in French.

  The woman had married her uncle, an Englishman. Had she learned nothing from him?

  The man upstairs shifted in his bed. The wood bounced against the wall. She had identified the noise the first night. She waited, lifted the pillow, straining to hear, but the snoring did not start again.

  A black shadow moved across the curtains. Something thudded against the door!

  She sat up, scooted her back against the cold, damp wall, and clutched the pillow to her chest. She could not pretend to sleep, could not merely hold a pillow over her head and wait for morning—whatever had been placed before the door was still there! The moonlit outline of the door remained interrupted by shadow.

  And between Sarah and the street, something breathed.

  Panting, strident breaths sneaked their way around the door and into the room, as if a man or animal were standing, invisible, before her.

  “Aidez moi,” it whispered. Help me. “Aidez moi.” Then it whimpered. “Dear Lord, help me!”

  An Englishman!

  Sarah flew off the bed and flung the bar from the door before she considered the danger, that it might be the landlord playing some trick to ferret her out. But she could not ignore a plea for help from one of her countrymen, misplaced, like her, in a frightening city.

  She dropped the latch and the door was pushed open, throwing her backward. She landed on her bottom and sat staring up at the moon, shivering as the cold air poured past her, filling the room.

  The dark form of a man lay halfway into the apartment. A puddle poured out from beneath him. She hoped it was water. His clothes were soaked as if he had just pulled himself out of the river at the end of the block.

  “S’il vous plait,” he mumbled. “Maude.” His accent was horrible.

  “Fear not, sir. I will help you.”

  His eyes flashed open. “English?”

  “Yes.” She looked out the door, saw nothing but shadows, but she had no time to worry what or whom they might be. She picked up the man’s feet and swung his legs out of the way, then shut the door.

  How had he survived being wet outside? She must be turning blue herself.

  She picked a small blanket off the bed and put it over his chest. She would save the clean ones for later, after he was out of his wet things. Then she took out Maude’s last lump of coal. If she had to beg on the street all day to replace it, she would, but there was no other way she knew of to get the man warm. He might be near death even now.

  Sarah determined God was indeed watching over this man when she found a warm ember still glowing at the back of the stove. She reached inside, to place the large fresh lump beside it, but the door burst open and she snatched it back.

  The dark figure in the doorway was well protected from the cold in a greatcoat, thick scarf, and hat. The brim lifted, revealing her aunt beneath. A man stood to one side holding a lantern aloft.

  “What in zee bloody hell are you doing?”

  Sarah smiled. Her aunt could speak English just fine!

  “Why do you grin, Sarah? You are about to sacrifice my emergency coal? Not unless your cher prince Regent is coming to call!”

  A clicking noise drew her aunt’s attention to the floor. The Englishman’s teeth chattered.

  “Who is ziss?”

  “My prince Regent.”

  Her aunt waved for the lantern and bent over the Englishman saturating her rug, then filled the air with a bit of French she could not possibly expect Sarah to understand. Another man came inside, listened, then nodded and disappeared again. The one with the lantern gestured toward Sarah and mumbled a question. She thought her aunt said something about sending a child into the cold is ridiculous.

  The woman turned to her. “There is wood beneath that seat. Use it to start the fire, and quickly. Stand near the stove and warm yourself, but turn your back while Marcel tends to your prince.”

  The Englishman moaned and lifted a hand toward Sarah. She bent next to him and lifted his heavy head. His hair was wet and sticky, but she ignored it.

  “You will be warm soon. My aunt will take fine care of you.”

  Maude snorted.

  “Ash,” he whispered.

  “Ash?”

  He nodded. “Ashmoore. Lord Ashmoore.”

  “Did Lord Ashmoore do this to you?”

  He shook his head, but the movement caused him great pain. He winced and lost consciousness. Sarah laid his head gently on the floor and stood. Her hand was covered with blood. Maude grabbed her wrist and took a close look.

  “Fresh. Not good. And he has been in the Siene. Your prince will not live until morning.”

  “Please, Auntie. How can I be of help?”

  “Stoke the fire. Turn your back. Unless I ask for you, do not turn around, no matter what you hear.”

  A few minutes later, she had done as she was told. The small room warmed quickly.

  “You recognized ziss name? Ziss Lord Ashmoore?”

  “Yes. An English earl,” Sarah said over her shoulder.

  Maude spoke in French to the man called Marcel. If she understood correctly, Maude said to cut off the boy’s clothes, that he would have no need of them if he died of cold. To Sarah, she asked in English, “Is he ver
y rich do you suppose?”

  “Lord Ashmoore? Most likely he is very rich. But...”

  “But what?”

  “He is called the deadliest man in England. Do you suppose he did this?”

  “Is he blond?”

  “They call him The Dark Earl.”

  “Then impossible. The man who did ziss is most likely the Englishman I have been with ziss evening, sewing shut his thigh.” Maude laughed. “And he was very generous. Said I could take anything for payment. He will be leaving the city soon and needed little. Did you notice my new coat?”

  “Yes, I noticed.”

  “And he gave me gold as well. Paid me extra, for just such an occurrence.”

  “Occurrence?”

  “That a wounded man might manage to pull himself from the Seine and find his way to my doorstep. He paid me well...to make sure the young man would die of his wounds.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A deep blue gown—the sleeves and hem of which were edged in black and silver braided floss—arrived Saturday afternoon. She did not remember ordering it, but she’d forgotten many details of what happened before Northwick accosted her in the dressing room. And since it was the only thing Roxelle had been able to finish, that was precisely what she wore that evening. Lord Ashmoore arrived alone to escort her to the home of Viscount Forsgreen.

  Lady Irene Goodfellow acted as hostess and stood beside the viscount to greet them.

  “Welcome to my home, Miss Reynolds,” said the latter, bestowing her with the most handsome smile she could ever remember witnessing. He certainly had not yet perfected that grin when she saw him as a younger man, rolling down a grassy hill.

  For a moment, she completely forgot what other men looked like when they smiled, including Northwick and Ashmoore. Surely this man was mobbed at every dance he attended. Perhaps just walking down the street might incite the same effect.

  “Thank you so much for allowing me to join you, my lord.”

  “Stanley, please. You cannot arrive on the arm of one of the Four Kings and call me anything else. I insist.”

  “Stanley, then. Thank you.” She did not intend to sound out of breath. What the devil was wrong with her?