by Muir, L. L.
Ashmoore slid onto the couch and leaned forward to put his face in his hands.
Telly frowned at Stanley and Harcourt as if they’d lost their minds. Once they noticed his concern, they stopped their miming, but continued to giggle like girls.
Telly then looked at him and shook his head.
“Almost had her, young Birmingham. Yes, almost had her.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Scarlet Plumiere climbed the stairs, feeling quite satisfied with how fate had delivered her enemy into her hands. He had set her aside with the morning paper. She had taken his heart and handed it back to him, tied up with a scarlet ribbon. All in all, she felt completely vindicated. And on a day like today, vindication was a balm for her soul.
The drawing room door flew open and she spun about on the landing, expecting North to come flying up the steps to demand she take him back.
It was North, all right. But he gave the stairs not a glance on his way through the foyer. He didn’t so much as pause or look over his shoulder before stepping into the darkness and slamming the front door.
Chester stood at attention, staring forward. Hopkins summoned the boy back to the drawing room.
The Scarlet Plumiere continued on her way, finishing her grand exit in solitude. Unfortunately, she was merely Olivia Reynolds by the time her bedroom door closed behind her. She was too tired to cry, however, and let a numbness settle over her instead. It was done. All the frivolous paths were now closed to her. No more temptation. Just the path she had always intended to travel.
She spread her skirts and seated herself before her mirror but did not look in it. She had no interest in who might be looking back at her. Instead, she examined her mother’s jeweled brushes, ensuring the beads were secure before brushing out her hair. The strings were discoloring with age.
A long quarter of an hour later, a movement caught her eye. A shadow crouched at her balcony door, fiddling with the lock.
Feeling too vulnerable by half, she dared not stay lest North persuade her to remove the chair Stanley had wedged against the handles. So, since she was still dressed, she rose and left the room.
Without North there, she felt no need to avoid the drawing room, so she slipped inside to see what grand ideas her would-be heroes had come up with.
Ashmoore was seated on the couch with a man leaning nearby. She knew that head. It belonged to Northwick.
Northwick!
Her heart burst inside her chest.
“But! But! But you are not here!”
He looked up, unsmiling. “I did not get far before I remembered about Wilbur T. Franklin.”
“B...but the man on my balcony! I thought it was you!”
“What?” Ashmoore and the rest jumped to their feet.
“There is a man trying to break into my room!” She said it to their backs as they were already flooding into the hallway.
“Stay in this room, with your father and Everhardt,” said North as he passed her.
She locked the door behind him. Everhardt moved a heavy chair in front of it. Her father slipped a sword from inside his cane.
“Seat yourself at the piano, Livvy. If someone gets in, you make as much noise as you can.”
She obeyed and prayed the King of the Hill was not about to lose his life trying to protect her.
***
After ten minutes of torture, they heard shouting in the hallway. The handle rattled.
“Lord Telford, it is I, Northwick. You can open the door now.”
Everhardt moved the chair and her father unlocked the latch, then opened the door.
A disheveled Earl of Northwick stood in the doorway. She had never been so relieved.
Her father replaced his small sword. “Who was harmed, sir?”
Northwick dropped his eyes. “Peter was struck on the head. We’ve sent for the doctor and took the liberty of putting Peter in one of your guestrooms.”
“He survived it then?”
“Thus far.”
“Thank God for that. Did you catch the devil?”
“We did not. We saw no one. Someone damaged the lock on your daughter’s balcony door. She should sleep somewhere else tonight.” Northwick barely glanced her way, then bowed and disappeared.
She ignored the pain of his indifference and hoped it would only prove to strengthen her resolve. There were preparations to make, for the plan she’d formulated while cowering behind the piano, but she wished to check on Peter first. She found Northwick and Ashmoore hovering at the foot of Peter’s bed. The injured man’s eyes were closed, oblivious to the cook wrapping cheesecloth beneath his chin.
Ash looked up and gave Livvy a brief smile. “North? I propose we move to the study and let our brave friend sleep until the doctor arrives,” he said.
North noticed her, then looked away as he walked past her and out the door. It felt as if he’d taken with him all the warmth from the room considering the cold, painful chills that filled her lungs. She thought she might be able to manage only a few breaths more before she shattered. Harden your heart, Livvy. Hard, then harder still.
“How can I help?” she asked Ashmoore.
“Take care of your father, Livvy. He has endured a difficult evening; he will need you tonight. Have a cot taken to his room. You will be safe in there.” He winked and left her.
Cook finished her task and sat beside the bed, her hands kneading at her knees as if restless for a bit of busy work. Mrs. Wheaton patted the woman on the shoulder and also quit the room.
Livvy could not take her gaze from Peter’s still, large form. If Lord Gordon were capable of taking down such an opponent, what might be in store for the rest? She visualized the line of people standing between herself and the villain. First, Ursula, the woman he believed was The Plumiere—the only person the man feared. Next, Peter, the first man in his way. Who would be next? Her father, so intent on protecting her? What chance had Papa against a foe that could best Peter? How could she bear to stand by while the men she loved were sent toward Death’s door, or through it?
She told herself Northwick was merely one of many men standing in that line. Just another man she would not allow to be murdered in her stead.
It was time to remember who she was, time for Lord Gordon to come face to face with the real Scarlet Plumiere.
As soon as the lion emerged from his lair, the prey would go hunting...and the lion would die.
CHAPTER THIRTY
North took a seat in the dimly lit study and waited for his friends. Ashmoore entered with Stanley and Harcourt. Milton slinked in behind them, then moved to the window and peered around the heavy curtain.
“Close the door, would you Harcourt?” North did not wish to worry about who might be listening in the hall.
Ashmoore sat in the chair behind the desk, but looked to him to begin the conversation, which was fine by him.
“As soon as Gordon shows himself in public, I’m going to call him out,” he said.
Stanley nodded, bless him. Harcourt whistled dramatically. It was no surprise when Ash shook his head.
“And why not?”
“Because that only works with honorable men, or men who want to be perceived as honorable. That Gordon has come back before rumors have settled shows he no longer gives a damn about his reputation. He wants vengeance and he wants to get away with it, I’m sure. Unlike Marquardt, he still has a fortune and an entailment. Unless he is found guilty of a crime, he can live as he likes—little more than a corrupt officer of the court.”
“So you believe he will not accept a challenge?”
“I am almost certain of it. And if something unfortunate happens to the man, heaven forefend, all of London would know you were recently looking for his blood. That, added to the letter found with Ursula, and the constable would be a famous man. The man to hang Mr. Lott.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“You no longer wish to call him out?”
“No. I see your reasoning. I will
think of an alternative.”
“Good. Then I see no harm in telling you—”
There was a soft knock at the door. If it was Olivia, he was doomed. It had taken all his strength not to take her in his arms when her father opened the door to the drawing room. He’d had to hold his breath to pass by her in Peter’s room. He was too weak to keep his distance at the moment.
And he must!
She was The Scarlet Plumiere, for pity’s sakes. She had taken down men like Gordon for two years and survived. She refused to give up that role for the simple life of an earl’s wife, and one day her luck would run out. With his own bad luck, he’d not be around to save her—or worse yet, he’d be at her side and fail. And after that morning, when the constable said The Scarlet Plumiere had been murdered, he knew just how his heart would react to losing her; it would simply stop. So it was purely for his own survival, as selfish as it was, that he must now harden his heart.
The fact that he was honoring her wishes did not signify.
His luck held, however. It was not Livvy, but her maid that brought in a tray.
“Coffee, gentlemen?”
“Hopkins is as good a mind reader as my man Callister. Give him our thanks.”
The maid smiled and nodded, then proceeded to pour.
“So, North, I see no need to keep it from you now. You were not present when Chester shared with us a bit of news he’d forgotten in the excitement.”
“Yes?”
“Gordon has recalled his staff. You have a footman who once—”
“He cannot have the lad back. I will not have any of my people near the man, no matter how helpful it might be for us.” He took a cup from the maid.
Ash nodded. “I told Chester you would say just that. But there is more. Gordon has been seen...going inside Merrill’s Gentlemen’s Club...tonight.”
“A bit early in the day,” Harcourt observed. “Wanted plenty of folks to see him, most likely. And he will have plenty of witnesses for his alibi, even if the patrons of the place are a bit shady.”
Stanley smiled at the maid and took his cup. She got caught in his charming snare and nearly landed in her own tray trying to walk out the door. But at last she was gone. They could speak more freely.
“There is one thing that puzzles me.” North sat forward and lowered his voice. “If Mr. Wilbur T. Franklin is in Gordon’s employ, and he is trying to find out where we all shall be during the funeral, why move now? Why strike at Livvy in the midst of a well-guarded house?”
“I hate to be the one to suggest it,” said Stanley, “but perhaps Ursula was forced to give Livvy up.”
Ashmoore shook his head. “She was stabbed from behind, surely taken by surprise. My apologies, Stan.”
“Perhaps he has hired more assassins than he can manage,” said Harcourt. “Perhaps he has offered a bounty and plans to remove another queen from the board only if someone hasn’t beaten him to it.”
Ash’s face dropped for a heartbeat before he recovered. North had never seen that happen, through all their years together, and it frightened the hell out of him.
“How many assassins can one man afford?” Stanley asked his coffee.
“You do not want to know,” Ash answered.
“This could go on for a very long time then.” Harcourt held up his hands. “Not that I mind, of course.”
“No. It will not go on much longer.” North took a generous drink of his coffee. “Only until I kill Gordon. Assassins do not work for free, gentlemen.”
“And Marquardt?” Ash watched him over the steam drifting from his own cup. “Will you clean the world of The Plumiere’s victims, as she makes them? Correct me if I am wrong, but I do not remember such an executioner in the tale of Robin Hood.”
“Marquardt will believe The Plumiere has been murdered. He has no reason to come after Olivia Reynolds.”
“If he believes the papers,” warned Stanley.
“I pray he does. But what do you want me to say? That I am willing to send my soul—if indeed there is anything left of it—to Hell to keep Gordon from getting to her? Yes, I am.”
“Even if she won’t have you?” Harcourt asked it gently enough.
“Yes. Even then.”
Stanley set aside his cup. “We cannot sit here and plan a man’s murder.”
“No, we cannot,” Ashmoore assured him.
From that point on, they tossed about an array of possible solutions, including getting Gordon to confess within hearing of the constable, committing Gordon to an asylum, and sending him to the same fate as Voltaire’s Man in the Iron Mask. The most reasonable, and unreasonable option was to catch the man in the act of trying to murder Livvy.
“Oh, please let us think of something else,” North pleaded.
But they could not.
***
Olivia had no time to quibble. She thought she would have to enlist Lady Malbury’s aid to find where Gordon was hiding himself. But her little spy had returned from the study with just the information she sought! Never mind the late hour. She knew where to find the lion, for the moment at least. She had to move quickly. There was no time to plan.
“Stella, I have no alternative. You must go. Say only that John is to bring ‘round the carriage and wait. Then come straight back to me.”
“But my lady—”
“Stella. Lord Ashmoore is not your employer. Nor is Hopkins. Nor any of the rest. You work for me, or not, depending on your next action.”
Her maid stared at her, trying to discern her sincerity. She’d never threatened anyone with dismissal before, and by the stubborn look on Stella’s face, she did not truly believe herself in jeopardy. But she turned and left in any case, not happy to do it, but neither did she quiver a lip or weep.
It usually took John and the groom thirty minutes to ready the carriage and team, so she went first to check on her father. Hopkins was busily chatting away about the excitement of the evening while he tucked Papa into bed. His eyes closed when his head touched the pillow, but opened again when the butler touched him on the arm.
“Miss Olivia has come, my lord.”
Her father gave her a smile. The man was still himself.
“I have come to say goodnight, Papa.” She leaned down and kissed his whiskered cheek.
“Those boys will keep you safe, Livvy. But I am a bit too tired to stand sentry.”
“You were marvelous tonight, Papa. And all the protection I needed.”
“I will rest at ease only when...” He rubbed the back of his head against the pillow and his eyes closed again.
“Only when?” She would not have pressed for the last of his thought had she not been so curious as to what might bring his harried mind some relief.
His eyes remained closed, but he spoke. “Only when I’ve killed Gordon for you, Livvy.”
Hopkins sniffed and turned away.
Livvy might have shed a tear, but she was not Livvy tonight.
She quietly strode to her mother’s dressing room and removed the glorious-but-old crimson cape from its hook. The matching muff was not so large as current fashion, but it would do. The black fur coming out the ends matched the fur lining of the hood, adding just the right touch of drama.
Back in her room, she donned the red velvet gown she’d ordered merely to get Northwick’s attention, to drive him mad wondering where she might wear such a thing. The neckline was cut far too low, far too wide for her to wear comfortably in public, but the opportunity to tease the man had been too much to resist, especially with Ashmoore egging her on. For tonight, it was perfect.
She knew all about Merrill’s. She laughed at the little thrill of fear that she might be mistaken, even for an instant, for a light skirt. But of course, she was counting on a second or two of confusion in order to get her through the door.
She considered wearing her mother’s pearls, but she did not wish to defile them.
Stella stepped back into the room and gasped.
“Close the door,
then come sit in this chair.” She pointed to the little Queen Anne before the fire. She’d just put a log on. The girl would not get cold. “Please do not dally, Stella.”
The maid walked to the chair and sat heavily, then folded her arms, as if to say she would be of no further assistance. But Livvy only needed her to stay quiet for a few moments.
“I’m tying you up, Stella, so the gentlemen cannot be angry at you for not raising an alarm.” She draped soft cords around her maid, cords she had taken from her bed drapings. The knots were secure and she poured water over them to make them doubly difficult for the maid to untie.
“Open your mouth, please.”
In spite of showing Stella the perfectly clean handkerchief, the maid bit her lips and shook her head. Livvy had only to pinch the girl’s nose for a moment to get her mouth open. Then she tied another cord around her head to keep the kerchief in her mouth.
“I am sorry. But you wish to be believed, do you not?”
It was probably for the best she could not understand her maid’s response, and avoided the girl’s gaze while she placed a shawl over her shoulders and a rug across her lap before hurrying to the door.
“Please do not fret, Stella. I’ve got a pistol in my skirt and Daddy’s hidden sword.”
When the maid’s eyes flew wide, she realized those were details she should have kept to herself. The more worried her maid, the more she would try to be discovered. And though she hardly had time for it, Livvy took another moment to secure the woman’s ankles to the legs of the chair. That way she could not merely stomp about on the floor until someone came to discover the source.
She descended the stairs quickly and hurried to Ian, who stood by the front door, peeking out the side window, probably trying to discern why John had brought the carriage ‘round. She only hoped he hadn’t had a chance to rouse the others.
“Ian, you must help me. I need to get into the carriage without being seen. Can you dowse the lights for me?”
“I’m sorry, Miss. Can you tell me where you’re off to at such a late hour? Lord Ashmoore told me nothing—”
