Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1)

by Muir, L. L.

  She had enjoyed playing the tyrant of course, putting an apron on one man and a feather duster in his grip. She had ordered him to dust something for each time he had checked on her that day. The next day they hid from her. They became so stealthy in their watching, it only served to make her nervous. Just yesterday, she’d developed a tic in her eye and went to bed until she was rid of it.

  She would have called them all together and had a good hearty scream if her father were not about. For some reason, the man was at his best when Ashmoore was in the room, but being at his best was also taxing for him. After consideration, she had decided Ashmoore’s company had to be rationed, like an addictive drug.

  In addition, Livvy had had enough of the dark earl’s brotherly advice to choke a horse. He told her how she might better get along with The Rat, and he had had a number of theories for her to try. Of course she tried them on Ashmoore instead. He was so slow to catch on that one afternoon she placed his tea and crumpets on the floor, then sat next to them, perfectly willing to chatter pleasantly while he ate them.

  He was not amused.

  She was amused. She was bloody amused until The Rat ran through the room and snatched a biscuit. She lost her temper and leveled another at his disappearing tail, only to watch the treat hit her mother’s cuckoo clock. It flew right through the little door.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning crumbs out of small corners of the poor little contraption. When she failed to note the time, the bird would startle her and she would gasp. Eventually, she gave the little bird a very unladylike name.

  Ashmoore’s laughter traveled well no matter how many rooms separated them.

  She put a dozen crumbly biscuits in his bedsheets. The next day, they were still there. She had no idea where he had slept.

  With no one at hand to torment, she finally allowed Stella to have a go at her hair.

  “My hair need not be perfect, Stella. Someone will have nailed the doors and windows shut. Just you watch.”

  Thank goodness Stella ignored her and made her look fabulous, because, as it so happened, there was no crisis that evening. Her father gifted her with her mother’s pearls. They were the perfect complement to her new gown of russet velvet. Stella quickly added the broach to her hair, above one temple. She fought to keep the tears from her eyes.

  “Lovely color, my dear. Best you stay away from red, do you think? Scarlet would give you away.” He kissed her on the cheek, winked, then whistled as he walked away.

  The tears could not be helped.

  “I will kill whichever man made you cry tonight,” Ashmoore offered as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “I beg you not to, as I am rather fond of my father.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, then, cry on. But try to finish before we arrive or Northwick will pummel me as soon as the lights go down.”

  “Northwick’s going to be there?” Immediately, her heart got into the spirit of the evening. “I thought he was not allowed to see me.”

  “Isn’t allowed to speak with you. Not at length, anyway. And I have ordered him to show no interest in you. It will all be an act, of course. The man is going quite mad not seeing you.”

  “He is?”

  “He is.” He closed his eyes at the last. Was he attempting to convince her, or was he prevaricating?

  “How do you know? You are always here.” She pulled her hand away and stopped.

  “I get reports.” He lifted his elbow again.

  “Hmph.” She took his arm but she did not believe a word. At least she tried not to believe a word. Her mind did not seem to want to let the matter go. The carriage was well warmed, but she got goose pimples imagining Northwick waiting at The King’s Theatre, remembering the last look he’d given her at Stanley’s.

  Unfortunately, when the nightmare of Lord Gordon came to an end, so would her fairy tale. She would have to give up her new friends, like a set of lovely furniture she could no longer afford. It would all have to go back. The women of London needed a champion, and unless another champion presented themselves, they had only The Scarlet Plumiere. She must not forget it. It would be so easy to let the city take care of itself, but she could not bear the possible consequences.

  From now on, however, she would trust no one; she would make doubly sure of a man’s guilt before reporting it, the fiction section notwithstanding.

  “I am sorry, but it looks to be a crush.” Ashmoore dropped the curtain and gave Livvy a pained smile.

  “Even better, my lord. If I misstep, no one will see my feet. And if I trip I will just hold tight to your arm until I regain my footing with no one the wiser.”

  She took a deep breath before leaving the comfort of the warm carriage. Once outside, however, the cold air never reached her. The throng pressing into the theatre left little room for air. Ashmoore’s hand was warm and his tight grip reassuring. Her whole arm was locked beneath his elbow so that if someone were to snatch her out of the crowd, the earl would easily be able to save the limb at least.

  There was no use looking down; she could not see her feet, let alone where to step next. After a second glance, she recognized the tall man ahead of Ashmoore, knew the back of his head very well in fact. It was Peter, the largest of her guards, the one she had bullied into wearing an apron and dusting her mother’s figurines.

  She looked to her right; Ian.

  The man bumping along to her left was Everhardt. She guessed without looking that Milton was just behind her.

  How dashing they all looked in their tails. Although their faces would not be identified by the gentry, they certainly fit in well enough. And they glided along so smoothly they did not seem to be protecting her, but they were. A little push here, a shove there kept the crowd from affecting her protective cocoon. A dozen pardons and half as many apologies later, they were inside the building.

  A waving fan caught her attention long before she heard her name. It was Anna, tip-toing above the crowd, as un-ladylike as could be.

  “Olivia!”

  Ashmoore turned toward the sound. After a fierce battle against the flow of the crowd, she found herself in a new cocoon made entirely of friends. Peter and the others were suddenly gone, like ghosts, fading into the walls, their faces replaced by the dinner party from Stanley’s. She instantly noticed Northwick’s absence, however.

  But she’d been wrong, she realized, when Northwick stepped around her. It had not been Milton behind her after all. The realization sent chills up her spine and into her intricately arranged hair.

  “Miss Reynolds.” He bowed, then maneuvered his way over to Aunt Winnie’s end of the circle. He bumped into Stanley’s shoulder and an envelope poked out from his jacket.

  “I hope you are not bringing love letters to the opera,” said Ashmoore.

  “Oh!” North tucked the envelope inside his vest. "Letter for The Plumiere.”

  Irene pushed on his shoulder to gain his attention. "How are you going to give her a letter if you do not know who she is?”

  “I will find a way,” he said with a smile. He and Ashmoore exchanged a look, but North shook his head.

  Other than a glance at her shoes when he had greeted her, North did not spare her another look. He was clearly enjoying himself, grinning at Winnie and laughing heartily at her little quips. Only when he paused to listen to someone did she notice his intense surveying of the crowd. His head was never down. When he leaned this way or that, his eyes were always up, always moving, just never in her direction.

  She knew, somehow, that he was aware of her—just as she was aware of him. If she closed her eyes and he began moving through the crowd, she believed she would be able to point in his direction, so acute were her senses where he was concerned. So attuned was her heart.

  By not assigning a name to her feelings, she’d hoped they might dissipate. As long as she did not call it love, it would not be love. And her life would go on, enriched by the memory of friends, but it would go on, as planned. Straight forward. I
t was the only caper left on the plate.

  “We have to split up into two sets of four, I am afraid,” Stanley was saying.

  Someone grabbed her arm in a tight squeeze. Stanley looked in her direction, noticed who had claimed her and laughed. "Looks like Anna and Livvy are inseparable. Northwick, you and Mother with Irene and me.” He passed tickets to Ashmoore and Harcourt.

  “Oh, thank heavens,” Anna whispered in her ear. "If I had to sit with Miss Goodfellow, someone would get her eyes scratched out and I am afraid it might have been me.”

  Livvy swallowed her disappointment. Who knew if she would get a chance to see Northwick again before she returned to her cage? But she consoled herself with the pleasure of finally being in the company of another woman. She was also grateful she would not be forced to listen to Irene Goodfellow abusing The Scarlet Plumiere. If that came to a cat fight, Irene might not come out the winner.

  She checked the length of her nails and laughed when she realized what she was doing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The first act of the opera buffa was not long, but it seemed so. There was no libretta for translating the words, and the patter song was so fast and so poorly articulated, she would not have been able to follow along in any case. It was all just an excuse to complain to herself, of course. When one dearly wanted to turn and look at someone in another box, it did not matter what was happening on stage. Mozart himself could have been leading the musicians and she would not have given a fig.

  Face forward, she told herself a hundred times before intermission.

  “You are missing a terrible comedy, my dear. Someone on your mind?” Anna looked over her shoulder at her, then beyond her. Then she held a fan innocently before her mouth. "Would you like to know what North is doing at the moment?”

  She clutched Anna’s hand. "Is it so obvious?”

  “Only to me, because I was one of those to witness your last farewell, my dear. Remember?” Anna gave her hand a squeeze. "No one would suppose I am watching him. He is just past your ear.”

  Olivia’s hand rose and checked her hair just where Anna seemed to be looking.

  “Lovely pearls, by the way.”

  “They were my mother’s.”

  “And he just looked our way when you moved your arm. You mustn’t do it again. He really needs to avoid watching your every move.”

  “What is he doing now?”

  “He is being lectured by Winnie. Smiling now. Nodding. Now he is frowning and folding his arms.” Anna laughed discreetly. "Winnie just winked at me. She was a witness too remember? We are all here to help.”

  “Help what?”

  “Help you and North marry, of course.”

  “Marry!” She closed her eyes to block out the image of herself and North standing at the altar in St. James’, but she failed miserably. "He will have to find someone else to marry. I am not available.”

  “Oh, but we were afraid of that.” Anna began to ply her fan in earnest.

  “Of what?”

  “That you have fallen for Ashmoore.”

  “She has done no such thing.” Ashmoore bent forward and whispered harshly. "And if I can hear you, others may hear you as well. Anna, turn ‘round and give these singers their due, would you? And leave poor Livvy alone.”

  Anna gave him a fierce frown, then whispered, "We will finish this at intermission.”

  “Anna!” Ashmoore tugged on the woman’s hair and she turned back to the stage. Apparently the dark earl had adopted more than one sister.

  She fought the urge to giggle and tried to focus on the entertainment. A tenor was having a difficult time remembering his words and signaled to another man to come replace him.

  It only reminded her of Northwick, how he was only too happy to let Ashmoore protect her in his stead. She was sorely tempted to tug on Anna’s hair herself and demand to know what the man was doing at that moment, if he might be staring at her. Then suddenly, the music ended. The audience broke into applause, probably showing more gratitude for the reprieve than the actual performance, or an enthusiasm for possible refreshments.

  Livvy stood gracefully, not popping out of her seat as she wanted to do. By the time she pulled her skirts to the side and turned, Northwick was gone. So was Winnie. She would not have expected the older woman to move so quickly.

  She looked to Ashmoore. He rolled his eyes, then offered his arm.

  “It is a good thing North is a much better actor than you are an actress. Hopefully he is being watched more carefully than you are, but I doubt it. Not in that dress. I do not know what I was thinking.”

  “I am glad you chose the color, my lord. Northwick suggested puce for this dress.”

  He leaned close, since the hallway was filling.

  “Only because he does not wish other men to appreciate you, my dear.”

  “You jest.”

  “I never jest.” He frowned. “That is not true, actually. I rarely jest.”

  “Fie, sir. You have a terrific wit. Your frown is your disguise.”

  “Oh, I hope that is not true. I am trying to live up to my reputation and you are telling me it is all in my frown? The very idea should frighten you.”

  “Yes. It should. Perhaps Lord Northwick might be a better man for the job after all.”

  He looked at her sharply. “I wish he had heard you say that.”

  At the top of the stairs, they stopped. The formally dressed mob had filled the foyer and the flow of the room was clogged at the head of the refreshment table. Twenty men waited anxiously to fetch punch for their companions. Until they had fulfilled their gentlemanly duty, the rest of the crowd would have to sort itself out, or wait. Livvy did not mind. She had quite a view from where she stood.

  Northwick and Winnie must have left their box before the music ended to have gotten as far as they had. In fact, they were nearly back to the area where their little group had gathered before the performance. Was he hoping she and Ashmoore would be able to join them? Would they indeed have a chance for a word or two after all?

  Judging from the crush on the stairs below her, she would never reach the bottom before they would be expected to return to their seats! Was the other staircase as crowded? Alas, it was. They might as well return to their box, but she could not bear to give up a chance to merely watch the man from across the room without the crowd being the wiser.

  A gentleman stood near Northwick with a lovely woman on his arm. The back of her head was a cascading mass of auburn curls. The most prominent of her curves were currently aimed at the earl. There could only be one woman in all of London who looked like that. Livvy was a little surprised to see her at so public a function where most men had their wives on their arms.

  “Ursula.”

  Ashmoore leaned down as she stood on the step below him. “You know her then?”

  “She insisted on meeting. Lady M arranged it.” Quarters were far too cramped to even be discussing such a thing. But as she glanced around, she realized she had been boxed in by Everhardt, Ian and Ashmoore. The railing lay to her right. Peter glanced up from halfway down the steps, but his eyes skimmed the crowd and never actually rested on her.

  “I must say, my lord, that I have not given your friends nearly the respect they deserve.”

  “My friends?”

  “These friends.” She pointed a sly finger at Ian’s back.

  “I am sure they will be delighted to hear it. But what about me? Am I safe to return to my bed?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “And what of the crumbs?”

  “I cannot imagine to what you refer.”

  “Innocent until the end, eh, Miss Reynolds?”

  “Moi?” She batted her eyes and laughed. Then she sobered when she saw Northwick lean down and kiss Ursula on the cheek. In public. He had kissed her in public! And dear Aunt Winnie stood next to him, laughing! With the former mistress of her own son! Had the world gone mad?

  “If it helps,” Ashmoore murmured
in her ear, “he owed her a kiss.”

  She swallowed, looked away. Tapped her foot five times. Looked back.

  “Owed her? She had given him too many and he needed to return one?”

  Finally, she had to turn her back. She hung on to Ashmoore’s hands to control herself.

  “I would like to go home, my lord.”

  “You cannot mean it. Would you like to go somewhere else?”

  She studied him, standing there, all tall and handsome, his lips the first thing she noticed each time she looked up at him.

  “Livvy.” It was a warning she did not care to hear.

  “I want you to kiss me, Ashmoore. Please.”

  “What good will it do, besides create a new scandal for the papers in the morning?”

  “I will feel better for it. I know I will. And he will feel worse. That is reason enough.”

  Ashmoore looked past her.

  “But he is not even watching, Livvy.”

  “As soon as he is, then.”

  “Damn it!” Ashmoore frowned at her, then dipped his head. He tried to pull back quickly, but she pulled on his lapel a heartbeat more. Then another. Then she let him go.

  Ashmoore turned and began pulling one of her hands. She looked over her shoulder, down into the foyer. Just as she found Northwick glaring in her direction, the crowd blocked her view, filling in the wake left by her passing.

  She was wrong. It did not make her feel better at all.

  “Where did you go? We tried to find you.” Anna took her seat, then leaned forward to take a peek beyond Livvy’s stiff shoulder. “Dear lord, Olivia. What have you done to the man?”

  She could only shake her head. The tears came as soon as the lights dimmed. She cried all through the second act. Ashmoore finally took her home.

  The earl insisted on escorting her to her room. For a moment she worried the man had been influenced somehow by their kiss, but refused to imagine the possibilities. The situation was complicated enough. She had been out of her mind to insist he kiss her!