Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03]

by Something Wicked

  His words were no comfort, though.

  “Nothing much to report, milady, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing?” Elf subsided into a chair in disappointment.

  Roberts shrugged. “The earl’s doin’ what an earl does, milady. And the people in ’is house agree with that. Nothin’ fishy at all, really, ’cept that a few nights ago he brought home a doxy who gave him the slip. Or at least,” he added, rubbing the side of his nose, “she wasn’t there in the mornin’ and he seemed put out about it.”

  Elf prayed her cheeks weren’t turning pink. “I can’t see how that is of interest.”

  He took it as a rebuke. “Sorry, milady.”

  “What of watchers?”

  “Nothin’, milady, though it’s a busy street so it’d be hard to tell if they’re clever about it. They might even have a spot in a house nearby. A couple of the girls say they sense somethink. But you know women—” He broke off, diplomatically studying the wall.

  “Indeed I do,” said Elf dryly. “So, they think there might be watchers but none of you has detected them. Is no one watching the house at night? I’d think that would be easy to spot.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, milady, but why would they watch his house at night when he’s in his bed? If anyone’s interested in his doings, I’d think they’d follow him as he goes about by day, and that’s not easy to spot with so many others around.”

  “So there’s nothing.” Elf felt almost sick with disappointment and worry. Perhaps the time had come to go to someone in authority and tell what she knew.

  Tell what, though? That a man named Murray had discussed what sounded like a Jacobite plot to kill the king. And that the Earl of Walgrave was involved. And that she’d learned all this while in the Druid’s Walk at Vauxhall, pretending—for no adequate reason—to be a Frenchwoman called Lisette Belhardi.

  They’d toss her in the madhouse!

  “ ’Cept a room in the cellars the earl keeps guarded.”

  Elf started out of her thoughts. “What?”

  “Seems the earl ’ad somethink put in a room in ’is cellars a few days ago, milady, and ’e’s set two men to guard it. They don’t know what’s there, though. No one does.”

  “Could it be a person?”

  Roberts shook his head. “No food nor water goes in. And it wasn’t no bigger than a baby anyway, wrapped up in heavy cloth. Want us to try to get a look at it?”

  Elf tried to imagine what it might be, and failed. “Could you, without creating a stir?”

  He rubbed the side of his nose again. “It’d be tricky, milady. There’s only one key, you see, and the earl keeps it on ’im. And the men he ’as guardin’ it are honest. But I can ask one of our people in there to try.”

  “Do that, then, but they’re to take no risks. I don’t want the earl to even suspect he’s being watched. Now, what about the Scots? Did you make inquiries at all the inns?”

  “Aye, milady. There’s any number of Scots around—they not being so scarce these days, more’s the pity—but none of ’em match your description of this Murray.”

  Elf puffed out a breath. If a plot truly existed it could be rolling ahead at speed and she was no further forward. She’d been beginning to think it all a phantasm, but that mysterious package at Walgrave House revived her concerns. She tried to imagine what a mighty earl might keep in a locked and guarded room to which only he had a key. It would have to be something important and potentially very dangerous.

  Fort, after all, had servants to handle nearly every aspect of his life, even the most personal. He would only be so directly involved in something intensely secret.

  Something treasonous.

  She had to know what Fort was keeping in that locked room.

  She realized she’d risen to pace the small, cluttered room, and that Roberts was watching her curiously. Be damned to that. Her mind had found an intriguing and dangerous path.

  One person might be able to find out what was in that room—a certain scarlet lady named Lisette. But only if Lisette became Fort’s mistress.

  She stopped, staring sightlessly at the empty fireplace. Her mouth had dried and her heart raced, but a tingle of delicious delight danced along her skin. Almost complete, a plan was forming in her mind that meshed her earlier longings and her duty to the king.

  It promised all kinds of benefits.

  It also threatened danger.

  It required that she do something very wicked indeed, but something she’d been wanting far longer than she’d ever dreamed . . .

  “I think we should try to draw them out,” she said, amazed at herself.

  “Beg pardon, milady. What did you say?”

  Elf considered the plan again, and sucked in a deep breath. “Tomorrow, Lady Yardley is holding a masquerade ball at her house in Clarion Street. The earl will almost certainly put in an appearance since Lady Yardley is his aunt.”

  How calm she sounded, yet her heart was racing like a mad thing.

  She continued: “A woman will attend dressed in a scarlet-striped gown over a scarlet petticoat and a black, red, and gold stomacher. At some point before the unmasking at midnight, she will leave with the earl. If any of these Scottish gentlemen are watching, they will quite likely try to take some action then, if only to follow the couple closely. This will give you a chance to spot them.”

  Roberts scratched his nose, understandably dubious. “Who is this woman, milady? And why would these Scotsmen come out of hidin’ as soon as she appears?”

  Elf put on a frosty Malloren look. “She is another servant of the Mallorens, that is all you need to know. Just be sure that if the Scots show themselves, you do not lose them. If they should attack the woman, you must protect her. But try to take prisoners rather than to kill.”

  It felt extremely strange to be speaking so calmly of mayhem and violence, but Roberts didn’t seem alarmed. He merely nodded. “Very well, milady. Any other instructions?”

  “Just be sure to note anyone who shows especial interest in this lady and the earl, and find out where they are hiding themselves. Keep a particular eye out for this Murray.”

  “Right. Medium build, mousy-blond ’air.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the woman, the one in scarlet?”

  “Will be merely a decoy. As long as she’s not in danger, you can ignore her further movements.”

  Roberts bowed and turned to the door. Elf remembered a detail.

  “And, Roberts . . .”

  “Yes, milady?”

  “You can ignore that item in the locked room until tomorrow.”

  Did she imagine that he gave her an odd look? Nothing untoward showed in his voice as he said, “Very well, milady.”

  With that, he left and Elf puffed out a long, long breath. What on earth had she done?

  On the surface it was a reasonable plan to draw the Scots out.

  Murray and his men would surely be keeping an eye on Fort. They had to be. When Fort reappeared with a scarlet lady on his arm, they’d recognize the woman from Vauxhall. They’d see a chance to silence her and keep close watch.

  She hoped they didn’t stage an open attack, for that would ruin the other part of her plan—the one that would get her into Walgrave House, enabling her to steal the key and investigate the cellar.

  The one that would make her Fort’s lover.

  Of course, she’d have to insist that he let her keep the mask on, but he’d been hot enough for her to accept any terms.

  She hoped.

  She remembered his kiss, his touch, his splendid body, then covered her mouth with her hand, appalled with herself. She couldn’t suppress the excitement, though. Or the anticipation.

  What a wicked woman she was, to be sure!

  Composing her features, she walked briskly back to the drawing room, despite shivers of guilt. Surely the maid standing back to let her by, and the footman stationed in the hall must see how wanton she was. She felt as if her wicked plan was written on her ba
ck!

  In the drawing room she picked up her embroidery, but immediately threw it down again to sit staring into space.

  How could she? said her conventional part.

  How could she not? asked the rebel who’d once been a hell-born twin.

  Since the only man she wanted would never want her, she seemed likely to die a spinster. She’d be damned if she’d die a virgin. She couldn’t imagine, however, joining her body with just any man merely for the experience. What other chance would she have to lose her virginity to a man so special to her and keep her identity secret as well?

  And, she thought with a sigh, it was more than sex. She wanted so much to be with Fort again in his kinder form, the form he had shown to Lisette, the form she’d glimpsed at Sappho’s. She wanted to see him in a state of joy.

  Surely a man would have to be joyous in sex.

  She wanted to see him naked again. She remembered him inviting her to do to his naked body all the wicked things she was imagining . . .

  Elf waved her hand in front of her hot face.

  Oh my. She now knew why people throughout history had made utter fools of themselves over members of the opposite sex.

  Was she making a fool of herself?

  Probably. And she didn’t care a jot.

  The only snarl in her lovely plan was her disguise. If he recognized her, that would be the end of it. Would powdered hair and mask be enough at even the most intimate moments?

  Hurrying up to her room, she found the loo mask and tied it on, studying her face. Yes, it really was enough. With only her mouth and chin uncovered, no one would recognize her. If she spoke French, he wouldn’t know her voice.

  It had worked before, and would again, particularly since he would be distracted by the throes of passion.

  That reminded her that she had better make sure the strings were knotted very tight. It wouldn’t do to have it come off when she was in the throes of passion.

  Throes of passion. It was one of those phrases she didn’t entirely know the meaning of.

  But she would.

  Tomorrow night.

  The next night, Elf traveled to Lady Yardley’s house in a stew of hot anticipation and chilly doubt. She was dressed as she had been at Vauxhall except for the domino. Tonight she wore a light, cream cloak. In fact, with her white hair and white half mask, she surely looked snowily demure.

  What clear evidence that one should never judge by appearances! Virginal white merely disguised the “appalling” outfit Fort would surely recognize, and the wicked woman who hoped to be very unvirginal come morning.

  “I’m surprised Chantal didn’t leave your service,” teased Amanda as the coach turned into Clarion Street. “She was almost in tears when you insisted on wearing that ensemble to a society affair. You do have dreadful taste, dear.”

  Elf pulled a face at her. “It’s just that you all like to dress so dull. I weary of demure, pale shades.”

  “They suit you.”

  “I don’t think so.” As the coach drew to a halt, Elf flicked open the fan she’d had made especially for this evening. One side was mother-of-pearl, and matched her outer self. The other was red, black, and gold lacquer, the colors of her other persona. “Tonight I am again Lisette Belhardi, mysterious French enchantress, and I can dress as I please.”

  Amanda shook her head. “I still don’t know what you think to achieve by this mischief.”

  Elf had come up with a story for Amanda, and now she repeated it. “I just want to meet Fort again on friendly terms.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that.”

  “More than having fun flirting with my enemy?”

  “Remember, love, I know you. You’re up to something.”

  “Perhaps,” Elf admitted as the coach came to a halt. She let the fan slither shut and descended, assisted by the waiting footman.

  Mounting the steps to the brightly lit house, Elf chose the right moment to prepare Amanda. Once they were surrounded by other guests and attendant maids, she murmured to her friend, “Yes, I’m up to something, Amanda. If I slip away with Walgrave, don’t try to stop me.”

  “Slip away!” Amanda exclaimed, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Elf, do but think!”

  Cloak gone, Elf flicked open her fan, colored side out. “Oh, I’ve thought. Believe me.”

  It hung in the balance, but then Amanda rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s a completely eligible parti, my dear. If you want to conduct your wooing in this outlandish way, I daresay no great harm will come of it.”

  She sounded almost smug, which drove Elf to protest. “Amanda, I have absolutely no notion of marrying the man.”

  Her friend just shook her head with a maddening smile and led the way up to the ball.

  Really, thought Elf, climbing the flower-decked stairs, it was infuriating. Amanda seemed to think she and Fort were lovebirds! Lovebirds did not peck at one another until the blood ran.

  She’d be hard pressed, however, to say what they were.

  Lady Yardley’s ballroom was of moderate size, but well lit and heavily gilded. The glittering chamber swarmed with costumes and masks, both beautiful and macabre, and a wave of chatter and music hit Elf as she walked in.

  Here, in a private home, more people had chosen costumes over dominoes or had merely added a loo mask to their regular evening wear. This should have made a black-clad Earl of Walgrave easier to spot, but Elf searched the room without success.

  Stuff and bother. She’d hoped Fort would attend much as he had at Vauxhall, in ordinary clothes with just that narrow mask. If he were wearing a domino or one of the more cunning costumes, detecting him could be a challenge.

  What if he wasn’t here, and didn’t come?

  That possibility had plagued her ever since she’d hatched the plan. She’d even considered sending him a cryptic note from Lisette in order to draw him here. The risks to that were too great, however, and surely he must at least put in an appearance at his aunt’s one grand entertainment of the year.

  Still, she couldn’t see him or anyone who might be him.

  She shrugged and made herself calm. If he was here, he would surely spot her. He couldn’t have forgotten this outfit.

  Since everyone was supposed to be incognito, there was no question of greeting their hostess, so Elf and Amanda blended with the crowd to enjoy some anonymous fun. Immediately, a slender Tudor gentleman in tights and puff breeches bowed and begged Elf’s hand for the dance. Though he certainly wasn’t Fort, Elf happily complied. She spent the time plying him with questions to try to establish his identity, and he did the same with her.

  Since it was the custom to act in part at these events, she spoke in French and he did too, though rather clumsily. They parted unenlightened, and Elf suspected he was a member of one of the embassies, probably from Spain.

  Next, Elf accepted the company of a pirate of a century ago. She recognized Sir Cronan Darby, always a jolly fellow. His French was appalling, but his gaudy yellow shirt and lace-frilled breeches appealed to her, and when he teased her into a corner and stole a kiss, she didn’t object.

  Not as good a kiss as Fort’s, she thought as he squeezed her close. Then she sighed over the fact that Fort had become her standard—her unreachable standard.

  Sir Cronan invited her to find a more secluded corner. Elf playfully refused and returned to the ballroom so as to be visible. Though she hoped Fort would spot her, she didn’t stop searching the crowd for tall men of the right build. As she danced with a domino’d gentleman too short to be her quarry, she continued to assess the men around. A number were the right type, but she felt strangely certain that none of them was Fort Ware.

  When the set ended, she glanced at a clock, alarmed by how fast time was flying. It still lacked half an hour to eleven, but at midnight masks would come off as everyone went to enjoy supper. She had to identify Fort and leave with him before then.

  Perhaps he hadn’t come after all.

  A sickening sense of
disappointment settled into her stomach and it had nothing to do with rounding up the Scots.

  Then she spotted a tall man in a brown domino. She supposed Fort might not wear black, particularly if he were trying to disguise himself. With a hasty excuse to her partner, she pursued the man into the small antechamber where drinks were set out.

  As he accepted a glass of wine from a servant, Elf bumped him lightly so a few drops spilled.

  “Oh, monsieur!” she exclaimed. “Je vous demande pardon!”

  He wiped his hand with the cloth hastily presented by the footman and responded in excellent French. “No harm done, my dear. May I command you some wine of your own?”

  It wasn’t Fort. Elf made herself smile. “Oh yes, sir, if you please.”

  Now, she had to waste precious minutes talking to the man in brown. Reentering the ballroom, Elf encountered Lord Ferron in a toga and laurel wreath. He was one of her longtime suitors, but clearly didn’t recognize her. Elf accepted his invitation to dance, thinking it would be a useful test of her disguise.

  Dancing with him turned out to be a mistake, however. He didn’t recognize her, but had great difficulty managing both toga and partner. At one point, the cloth slipped, baring his chest, and Elf noticed with surprise how narrow it was.

  She’d always thought Ferron a well-set-up young man, but clearly he owed most of his charms to his tailor. His hair, she now noted, was thin and receding. No wonder he always wore a wig.

  Really, she thought, as they danced down the line, it was completely unfair that men could keep themselves so modestly shrouded! A woman had to at least bare her chest and part of her arms, which inevitably told something of her form. A man, on the other hand, could hide everything but his face and hands.

  He had to show his legs, she supposed.

  She glanced sideways and saw, as she’d expected from his chest, that Ferron’s naked calves were decidedly spindly and he must normally wear padded stockings. Of course, a spindleshanks with thinning hair could be a wonderful person, but a lady should know what hid beneath the covers.