by L. L. Muir
It was damned Christian of him to add the last.
Hangover or no, he would find Miss MacIntyre and Lord Anonymous. And to accomplish it, he needed only to find a certain vest and an odd pair of boots.
CHAPTER FIVE
Leland had listened closely to his driver, to the route he'd taken the night before. Unfortunately, the location where the Lord X's man had abandoned the younger man had been very near a crossroads. There were three directions they could have gone. For all he knew they could have wound their way back into London as well. There was just no way of knowing.
If he could just remember where he'd seen that man before...
As night approached, he couldn't get Miss MacIntyre out of his mind, or what might be happening to her. It was driving him mad enough to wish someone would coldcock him. At least he would wake in the morning and the nightmare would be over. For a while.
But none took such pity on him, and into the wee hours, he finally slept.
Lord Anonymous was due to return Miss MacIntyre by noon. Leland and half a dozen people with morbid curiosities sat in parked carriages outside Ledford's house before by quarter of ten.
One carriage belonged to the Duke of Redmond, of course. The rest were unmarked. At least the man had the decency to come in a closed carriage and not make a picnic of it with his friends. How mortifying for any woman to descend from a carriage into a leering crowd.
Leland was different. He was there to keep her from going inside her stepfather's house.
The bastard was back on his feet already. Leland had seen him peering out half a dozen windows, on two different levels of the house, in the short time since he'd arrived.
As time wore on, Leland swung like a pendulum, thrilling one minute at the chance she’d gotten away, and despairing the next when he considered the possible reasons why Lord X would not return her.
He tried to imagine a fairytale ending for her, but found he had a tendency to murder each Prince Charming that came to mind.
Quarter of twelve.
The street was silent as if the ticking of a watch were the most precious of all sounds.
Finally, a black carriage made its way down the street, slowly. Necks of the growing crowd craned through open windows. When the conveyance slowed near the baron's home, Leland's stomach plummeted. No matter what had happened, her reputation was destroyed. Only the bleakest future awaited her if he allowed her to enter that house. And as against heroism as he was, he couldn't let that happen.
He descended from his carriage to find Redmond a step ahead of him. Neither ran, but it was a less-than-dignified foot race. Only as they were nearing the carriage did they both slow.
How had he not noticed? The crest on the carriage was his own!
Redmond had murder in his eyes.
Shouting erupted all along the street as the wagering from the previous day came into question. Not many would know what had transpired when Leland had arrived at the townhouse early the previous morning. That would include the detail of his carriage having been 'borrowed' from him.
Leland wanted to laugh.
Redmond marched to the closest side of the carriage and wrenched open the door.
She wasn't inside.
She wasn't inside!
Redmond turned to him, obviously preparing to call him out.
Leland explained as briefly as possible, leaving out the more embarrassing details.
Redmond took it rather well, only nodding, then turning to go. But he paused. "Any idea who he was?"
"None."
Redmond dusted his gloved hands and looked down the street.
"Pity. I would have liked a taste of that."
Leland smiled. Then he laughed. And when Redmond's guard was down, Leland threw his fist at the other duke’s jaw as if he were trying to put an end to another man’s pain. And it worked. Leland felt nothing at all.
He’d even had the satisfaction of seeing the Duke's twisted lips hit the filthy road before his liveried drivers could break his fall.
"Taste that, old boy."
***
A week had passed since Aphrodite disappeared. It was the only way Leland thought of her now. Something of a myth. If he didn't hear a whisper, here and there, as he entered a drawing room, he'd have thought he'd imagined her...that she was a memory for no one but him.
At Lady Chestwick's gala, he indulged his melancholia and made his way to the pianoforte where a plain girl with a beautiful voice was singing something less than cheerful. If she wasn't careful, Lady Chestwick would see that she was punished for the rest of the season. He determined to compliment the hostess on her choice of entertainments, just in case. It would likely be the most heroic deed he'd manage all year.
Lord Fool was now something he called himself.
Glorious peach roses had been arranged in a white marble urn that sat atop the large instrument. Lord Fool leaned forward to appreciate their fragrance and their reflection in the polished surface.
He'd only seen the like of those roses once before...
It was the same place he'd seen a certain pair of boots and a man whose hair had not yet turned white.
***
The Duke of Stromburg arrived at Farrington’s country estate at four o'clock that afternoon. He'd ridden, but a carriage was not far behind, carrying more than a few friends and their favorite weapons. He wanted to face The Duke of Farrington alone. The man had been a dear friend of his father's after all. Leland would spare the man an audience if he could.
Every memory along the road warred with his new disillusion. How could such a man turn so deviant? How could he look upon his favorite memories of his father and extricate Farrington from those scenes?
He could not.
Surely men of Leland’s age could let go of childhood memories without pain. But perhaps he'd held on to his for too long, a splinter left unattended and allowed to swell, now too painful to remove.
He'd take Aphrodite away and wed her, spend the rest of his days trying to make up to her the fact he'd left her by that fountain. But how painful would be those memories of their first meeting, tied as it they were to this splinter in his heart?
Leaving her that morning had been just like the episode in France, only without the fire. Their barracks were in flames, the timbers collapsing, and he'd not allowed his men to go in after their comrades. It had been too late. The men inside were past screaming. One man disobeyed and died for it, running inside just as the roof collapsed. Leland had resorted to holding a pistol on the rest, to keep them from joining the body count. They'd wanted to be heroes, even if it meant dying for it.
He'd been awarded a medal for saving lives. He'd accepted it. He'd had no choice. But the lives everyone thought he should have saved had been those who’d been off duty. He’d made the schedule. He’d decided everyone’s fate that night. Well, all but the one.
He'd heard the men afterward, mumbling as he passed.
"You saved the wrong lives."
And when he'd left Aphrodite, he'd saved the wrong life too. He'd saved himself, yet again.
Now he wondered if she'd even agree to marry Lord Fool.
The long driveway was covered in a lush green canopy of ancient trees. Noting his favorite trunk to climb shot pain to his stomach, so he stopped noticing anything at all.
He rode directly to the stables and handed his reins to a boy there. A few minutes later he'd made his way past the fountains and into the gardens that lead to the duchess’s courtyard. Surely she'd died, though Leland hadn't been told. Surely Farrington wouldn’t entertain such depravity with his beloved wife still sharing his home.
There in the garden, Leland found the first three items he sought; the boots, the vest, and the old man. The latter knelt beside the path, his back to Leland. His vest matched that of the head thief. The boots were unmistakable. Shiny patches peeked around fresh smears of rich soil.
"Gordon."
The man froze, but did not turn.
"I
wondered how long it would take your memory to catch up with you, Young Wescott."
Ever the rebel, Gordon addressed no man formally.
"On your feet."
The man dropped his head for a breath, then made his way up off his creaky knees. He turned and grinned at Leland as if he couldn't be more pleased to see the young duke back in his gardens.
"You didn’t recognize me at Whites. What gave me away, then?"
"The boots."
"I thought as much. You were eyeing them mighty closely. Good thing you were drunk off your arse yesterday or I'd have been in trouble."
"Yes. Lucky thing."
"Where is he?"
"Where's who?"
"Farrington."
"Oh, now, you don't want to go upsetting His Grace, Wes, do you? He's not so well these days."
"Well enough, I imagine."
"Oh, dear me. Well." The man scrubbed at the back of his neck like the answers to all his problems lie in scratching a deep itch.
"Well, what?"
Leland had a sinking feeling he didn't want to know...
***
Mister Gordon hurried into the drawing room and didn’t seem to notice the dirt on his boots or the whiteness of the rug, marching up to the Duchess of Farrington without so much as a bow.
"Your Grace, come quickly. Young Wescott arrived and called out His Grace. They're dueling on the lawn."
Tempest jumped to her feet and followed the duchess from the room. If she allowed the old woman to take the lead, someone might die before they got out of doors! If she tried to get around the woman's broad skirts, she might knock the duchess over and there'd be nothing left but a pile of bones.
Finally, the hall widened and she pardoned herself as she barreled past the Duchess of Farrignton and headed out the door.
There, at the bottom of the expansive lawn, its growth currently kept in check by a small flock of sheep, stood the Duke of Stromburg with a sword in his hand. Ten yards away stood the bow legged form of Dear Henny, the Duke of Farrington. There was no telling in which decade the duchess had added Dear to her husband’s name, but it stuck as if added to his certificate of birth.
Dear Henny slashed his saber in a wobbly line through the air. His opponent appeared to be stretching his legs and testing the flexibility of his blade.
"Are you ready, Your Grace?" The old man's voice sounded much stronger than he looked.
"Whenever you are, Your Grace." Stromburg was all manners.
"Don't you dare!" Tempest's momentum, having gathered all the way down the slope, threatened to take her through the center of the duel and beyond. Her feet were happy to stop, but her head kept going. She ended by somersaulting. Twice.
By the time her senses settled on which way was up, the men had begun their duel as if they'd never noticed her entrance, nor heard her warning. She dared not wait until she was on her feet to speak.
"Your Grace, put down your weapon. You have no issue with His Grace. It was Her Grace, the duchess who sent Gordon to win the bidding. She was in town and heard what was happening. That night, at my home, I was one of the thieves. So was the duchess. We wore breeches."
Wescott dropped his sword a bit. She wondered if the idea of her wearing breeches was the part of her story that caught his attention. "To which grace are you speaking, my dear?"
"To you!"
"To me, what?"
“I don’t understand.”
"To you, Your Grace,” he instructed.
"What? You’re worried about manners? Now?”
He nodded.
She carefully stood, smoothed her skirts and folded her hands.
“Fine. I was speaking to you, Your Grace."
"Much better. En guard."
Steel blades connected and clanged.
Tempest screamed. It was a straightforward scream. No words.
Both men put down their swords.
"My sweet Aphrodite, if you would please forbear your screaming until one or the other is wounded, I’d be most grateful."
She gave up trying to understand Stromburg and tried to reason with Dear Henny instead.
"Your Grace, please don't hurt this poor, addlepated man. He's tried so very hard to rescue me, and he clearly doesn't understand what's going on here."
"To which grace are you speaking, dear?" asked the old man, though he was unable to keep a straight face in the end.
"Your Grace! You're teasing me! How could you?"
In unison, they answered, "To which grace--"
Tempest screamed again. The duchess had arrived quite out of breath, Gordon at her side. Big John was not far behind, his new gardener’s apron looked more like a napkin tied about his neck.
Tempest pointed at the duchess.
"How dare you frighten Her Grace so? She might have died flying to your side."
“Oh, my dear," gasped the duchess. "I didn't quite fly, as you did of course. And Gordon here did wink."
"'Tis true. I did wink." Gordon winked again as if to prove he could do it.
"You winked.”
“I knew the duel was a prank,” confessed the duchess.
“A prank.” Tempest was too weary to do anything but repeat people, apparently.
Suddenly the Duke of Stromburg was at her side. He gave a dramatic, courtly bow.
“Forgive me, my lady. These kind and gentle folks are neither kind, nor gentle. They thrive on pranks like these. They’ve played them on me all my life. I couldn’t resist being on the inside, as it were. Just this once.”
“Forgiven. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see what that tumble has done to my hair.” She could smile for approximately one minute more, but her tears had sent warning; they were on their way. She so envied the relationship these people enjoyed.
Since she’d arrived, she’d heard a lifetime of stories about the Duke of Stromburg, his late father, and the Duke of Farrington. She couldn’t have hoped for a better place to leave her loyal servants, safely out of reach of the injured and insufferable Baron Ledford. Too bad there was no place for her as well. At least they’d help her find a respectable position, until her reputation caught up with her of course.
She turned and started back up the hill much slower than she’d descended.
Stromburg was at her elbow. She kept walking, so he walked backward to face her.
“You haven’t forgiven me. It’s only right. I should be punished. For a week at least.”
She wanted him to go away.
“Ooo, that bad? I must admit my mother was never very fond of such teasing.” He tripped, or pretended to. She refused to react. He caught up quickly. “Please, Aphrodite, at least take my arm.” He held a bent elbow before her. She ignored it. “Come on,” he whispered. “You know you want to take it. There’s a good girl.”
She stopped and faced him. He would not give up until he saw her tears? Well, there they were.
“I am not a dog, sir.”
“I am not a dog, Your Grace,” he corrected and wiped away a tear with his thumb, though he never asked why she was crying.
“I am not a dog, Your Gr--” She knocked his hand away and growled in frustration. “I do not wish to be trained. Please cease instructing me on the particulars of addressing dukes. I shall never frequent your circles again. Your. Grace.” She poked him in the chest with her last two words, then turned once again to her hike. He took her arm and swung her into him, nearly knocking the breath from her.
Slowly, he dropped his mouth to hers.
She soon cared not if she ever breathed again.
“I beg your pardon,” he murmured, between kisses. “I’m just so relieved to find you safe.”
She was just so relieved he came to save her, even if she didn’t need saving.
“Aphrodite?”
“Mmm?”
“Will you take Hercules...”
Her body froze, breath and all.
“...to be your lawfully wedded duke?”
He couldn’t h
ave meant it! He couldn’t! She pushed him away.
“Of course not.”
It was his turn to stop breathing, but it didn’t last long.
“Please? Aphrodite was never meant to be alone.”
“Fine. If you insist.”
He looked a bit disappointed in her choice of words, then took up her gloved hand and sighed. Speechless for once?
She took pity.
“I’ll say yes to you now, but I’m going to wake in a moment and this will have been a nightmare.”
He smiled. “You mean a dream.”
“No. I mean a nightmare.”
“Now who is the one who’s teasing?” He pulled her close and kissed her on the tip of the nose. “You’ll still have to call me Your Grace, of course. Sometimes, in private, you may call me Lord Fool.”
She frowned and tried to push him away. He was having none of it.
“Will it make a difference that I shall also be addressing you as Your Grace?”
“It might.” She grabbed his cravat and pulled him close. “Kiss me, Lord Fool.”
THE END
BLOOD FOR INK
Book One of The Scarlet Plumiere Series
CHAPTER ONE
Capital Journal, Fiction Section, Friday, February the First
A rumor currently circulates among the gentry in Londonberry that the white/blond Viscount of F had a visitor one recent morning, or rather, visitors, as the woman who claimed to be his wife brought with her a pair of identical offspring closely resembling the earl himself. Piercing blue eyes and straight white hair adorned both cherubs whose mother was blessed with the dark hair of her pure Spanish ancestors.
Not believing the woman, or his own eyes it seems, The Viscount of F shooed the little family from his noble steps and into the halls of a certain hotel where they have taken up residence until a higher authority might be able to hear their tale.
It was also rumored that the mistress of Viscount of F has moved out of his grasp as she deemed it unwise to associate with a man who possesses untrustworthy…eyes.
Stay tuned to see if the current fiancée of this poor-sighted creature is also saved from his company.--The Scarlet Plumiere
