by Aileen Fish
“Where is what?” Devil take them all.
“The lot.” Ash grinned. At least it resembled a grin, and it was not the most pleasant of grins either. He really must refine his smiling techniques if he was going to make it a regular habit.
“What lot?” North concentrated on not sweating. The library fire was...ah, not lit.
Damn.
It was a lucky thing his current seat was so cushioned and forgiving, since North was determined to back his way out of it. He had been interrogated before and lived. This should be no different.
His friends stepped closer.
“The lot, North. The one you took from the barrel. What did you do with it?” Ash was frightening when he enunciated carefully.
“I burned it. In effigy.”
“Liar. They were made of bone.” His dark friend’s eyes sparkled.
“How could you keep this from us? How could you not tell us?” Harcourt halted, his hands on his hips.
“I do not know what you mean.” Even the chair did not believe him and as he scrambled backward, it dumped him out on his arse.
“Hold him down! Callister and I will find it!” Harcourt rounded the African chair and ran for the door.
Ash jumped over the toppled furniture and straddled North’s chest, trapping his arms in the doing. Ash was gasping for breath and North realized the man was laughing. North was pretty amused himself, watching his fastidious friend wallow about on the floor, hair swinging in his eyes, as if they were back at Eaton, fighting in the dormitory. And he was hardly worried—they’d never find the cursed thing.
He tried his damnedest to unseat his gasping friend, but to no avail. He, too, had little breath with which to fight; any moment he would be passing out. In fact, passing out was not a bad idea.
Something dripped on his face and he stopped squirming. Had he given Ash a bloody nose?
There. Wet. Again.
He shook the liquid from his face. Standing over him with his fingers in what must be his glass of fine brandy, Stanley grinned down at him.
“Chinese water torture should loosen his tongue, do you suppose, Ash?”
“That could take all night to work.” Ash grabbed his chin and held him steady.
“Yes. Yes it could.” Stanley had definitely finished with his pouting, damn him. “Confess, North.”
“I confess nothing.”
Thirty minutes of torture and one soaked Aubosson carpet later, Harcourt rejoined them, a shaking Callister in tow.
“We found it.”
Impossible! He’d chucked it onto the top of his impressive ten-feet-tall wardrobe!
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but you found it. I distinctly remember trying to prevent you from going through His Lordship’s things.”
Harcourt rolled his eyes. At least North thought he did. It was hard to tell upside down with stinging whisky blurring his vision.
“You can let me up now,” he growled. It was a fact he could do little more than growl with all the yelling he’d done. He had laughed a bit, of course, but how could he not? At least during the majority of his torture he’d been quite convincingly furious.
He twisted beneath Ash and caught the man off guard. Before he could launch any kind of assault, however, Ash was out of reach.
Ever-prepared Callister handed him a wet towel. After North got a fraction of the liquor off his face, Ash moved closer to Harcourt, and thus closer to North—careless man. An instant later, he received an incredibly satisfying snap of the towel. At least North found it satisfying.
Stanley snatched the towel from behind and tossed it over North’s head and into Callister’s waiting hands.
“You are all against me,” North said, glaring at each man in turn. At least his butler had the decency to look sorry for it.
“Well, go on. Whose name was on it?” Ash stood out of towel-reach, even though North’s weapon had been removed.
“You will not believe it.” Harcourt grinned at North as if inviting him to beg. North would never beg.
“Come now. We have waited long enough.” Stanley reached for Harcourt’s hand, but the latter pulled it out of reach just in time.
“I think you might wish to sit down.” Still, he grinned at North. Not wanting to tip his hand, apparently.
“Ridiculous. Whose name, man? Who is this fellow who owes the Earl of Northwick his freedom?” Ash grinned.
“I warned you to sit down.”
“You will tell him anyway, so tell him.” North righted the comfortable chair and sat in it.
“Dear God.” Stanley walked to the African chair and sat, dropping his head into his hands.
“Read the name.” Ash’s quiet order was not one any would refuse, even the teasing Marquis of Harcourt.
The latter lifted the tile and read, carefully, simply, “Ashmoore.”
Chapter 4
The Scarlet Plumiere paced.
She paced before the sitting room fire until she grew hot. She paced in her father’s dark gardens until the chill from her toes began moving up her calves, until her nose was so cold she feared it might break off like an icicle if she touched it. She then decided to pace in her own room and hoped the upstairs staff would not consult the downstairs staff and note just how much pacing she had accomplished. She so hated people to worry over her.
After donning her nightdress and wrap, she sat before her mirror and allowed Stella to brush out her hair. She had no need to sort through her thoughts. She was fully aware of the choices before her and the choice she would make in the end. But there was something glorious in standing at a crossroads, with possibilities waving to you from down the lane. Once she turned down her chosen road, there would be no one, and nothing, waving to her again.
Though allowing Lord Northwick to find her and marry her seemed a romantic dream, he was, in reality, her enemy. His honor demanded he find a way to prevent her writing; marriage was merely a means to that end.
But nothing could keep her from continuing her work. No temptation would be great enough to leave the ladies of London without a champion. After coming frighteningly close to marrying a monster, she could not live with herself if another young lady endured such a fate if it had been within her power to stop it. It would be as unforgiveable a sin as anything Lord Gordon might have done, or had planned to do, to her.
She would carry on as always. Men more desperate than Northwick had tried to find her before, and failed, as would the earl. If she could refrain from toying with the man, he would become bored and surrender soon enough.
Toying with him in her mind was another thing altogether. It would hurt nothing, harm no one, if she indulged in a daydream or two before she turned her back on temptation. She imagined him thoroughly enchanted by her clever wit, then deliriously happy when he discovered it was she, the woman he had always loved from afar.
She had certainly admired him from afar, in spite of only seeing him twice before; once, when she was eleven; the second time at her last ball where she realized he was a man grown, broad of shoulder, handsome as Satan himself must be. But he had not danced, and he had not appeared happy to be there. Later she’d learned he had only recently returned to England. His friends had forced him to attend. That he had looked at no other women soothed her feelings a bit, after failing to catch his eye all night.
And then Lord Gordon came along and changed everything. She had hardly laid eyes on any gentlemen since. Men in her father’s employ hardly signified.
In her dreams, late that night, her mind forgot the plan, and she found herself running down that forbidden road and into Northwick’s outstretched arms. His kisses began soft, then turned wild, consuming. Then they tapered off to a tiny flick of his tongue on her cheek.
She woke to find her late mother’s dog on her pillow, licking her face. She was perfectly furious she might have had even a tender thought for the little rat, even in her sleep. And The Rat knew it too. He shot off the bed and out the door before she let go of the heavy
pink bed-pillow. Instead, it landed in what was surely meant to be her breakfast. There was not a reasonable doubt in her mind The Rat had planned the whole episode.
“I am so sorry, Stella,” she called as the maid disappeared into the hallway with juice splashed on her face and apron, stoically carrying the tray away with the offending pillow on top, as if she always served breakfast in that manner. “I will break my fast in the dining room, shall I then?”
As she scrubbed at her face, she vowed again that someday she would kill that dog—as soon as she believed her father would survive without it. The man seemed to view the animal as proof his late wife was still about. Often, he would hear the tinkling of The Rat’s collar entering the room and begin talking to the woman. And dutiful daughter that she was, The Scarlet Plumiere would slink away, refusing to discover how long the conversation might have gone on before he remembered.
It had been three years...
Knowing there would be no letter in the paper from the earl, she was in no hurry to go downstairs. Stella returned with a cup of tea and a wink. All was forgiven, but the girl punished her head a bit, trying her hand—three times—at a new hairstyle. The end result was both beautiful and sad. Such a pity no one but her father would see it.
At breakfast, she pushed her food around her plate as she was wont to do on occasion. The footman would never come to collect the mess until she walked away from it. They were that familiar with her oddities.
Finally, four capers remained on her plate. Four little green bumps, like miniature hats for her smallest finger.
She separated them. North, South, East, and West. North was straight ahead, the path she was determined to walk. South was the past so she swallowed it whole. No need to go there. Mother was gone. The only threat from that front was her constant worry she might forget the woman’s face, and voice, and a hundred other things. But that threat was lessened by the knowledge that she would never be leaving her father’s household, and thus never leaving the sights and smells that kept the woman’s memory alive.
The aftertaste of the bitter caper was an apt reminder that her reputation was well and goodly dented. There was nothing for it but to go forward. Spilled milk and all that. Lots and lots of spilled milk. Of course it had been washed away, thanks to her quick thinking and dear friend whose husband owned The Capital Journal, but a stain remained.
She could live with a stain. She could not have lived with Lord Gordon.
And there he was. The caper to the East. Her ex-fiancé was currently hiding abroad, probably waiting for memories and gossip sheets to fade. He may well come home with a wife on his arm, to try and push those memories along, but surely that would not happen while The Scarlet Plumier was still at her post.
Thank heavens the man is afraid of something.
Using her fork, she smashed the eastern caper until it was completely unrecognizable.
That left the caper to the West. The Earl of Northwick. But should not he be the caper to the North?
She turned her plate until West became North. But that left her uncomfortably close to Lord Gordon, so she quickly turned it back. For just a tingly moment, it had looked so easy to go in Northwick’s direction. Just as she had in the dream...
If she allowed herself to be wooed by the caper to the West, the blob to the East would realize she was truly The Scarlet Plumiere and hurry home to murder her. There was no doubt about that. And there were all those girls about to enjoy their debuts. All those fathers happy to marry them off to whomever they deemed worthy. All those future groomsmen who would be, for the majority, as worthy as they seemed. But those few who proved unworthy? Who would call them to justice for their offenses? Who would rescue those innocent brides from the secrets those men kept from Society? If not for The Scarlet Plumiere, then who?
She gobbled up the caper to the West, took a knife and scraped the Lord Gordon blob off her plate completely and wiped it on her napkin. The caper to the North was the only one remaining, so she left the table, confident in her decision to change nothing about her life.
Definitely, absolutely confident.
~*~
North woke late with a hundred emotions churning in his belly, but there was only one he could truly put a finger on—regret. He regretted writing that note to The Plumiere, only because it exposed him to his friends. He never intended for them to learn the truth. And they still did not know the whole of it.
They believed North had sacrificed himself for the sake of a friend. It was probably the first time since France that he had appeared worthy of their circle. But he was worthy in appearance alone. He had always belonged with his fellow Kings due to their lifelong friendship, but whether or not he was deserving of that position was a question he asked himself often. His friends never wondered of course. That’s what made them the most spectacular chums in the world.
How could he crush their newfound veneration by telling them he had decided to call out his own name before he picked his friend’s lot from the barrel? How could he confess he did not actually know it was Ashmoore’s until after he had finally taken a look at the blasted tile, after he was safely ensconced in his own bedchambers?
As it was, they treated him like the most noble of martyrs, apologizing for the whiskey torture, eating their words. It would have been even more satisfying had he deserved it.
Ash had been moved, and Ash was rarely moved. If only he had not been moved quite so immediately, North might have been able to blurt out the truth before it was too late. Now, his confession would only embarrass them all. It might affect their friendship and that was a risk he would not take.
And there really was no reason for them to ever find out. After all, he was the only one who knew his intentions before the lot was drawn. He was the only one who knew how long it had taken before he had read Ash’s name. If he could control his own tongue, he had nothing to worry about. Life would go on. Their admiration would fade back to the weak color it had been. The world would be righted. And perhaps there would be a clever female addition in his life.
His friends had finally quit the place and gone home, deep in their cups. He would have been quite drunk himself if so much of his whiskey had not gone in through his eyes. But he had been careful. A loose tongue was a dangerous thing. And a loose lot. Why the blast had not he destroyed it?
The bright sunlight sneaking through a gap in the curtains told him he had slept late—which meant The Capital Journal’s morning edition should be waiting with his breakfast. He was downstairs in record time. The paper lay on the table, but just in case the staff was watching for their own amusement, he filled his plate first and pretended that the paper was not all he felt like devouring.
The eggs were a bit cold. They bounced around in his mouth until he washed them away with hot coffee. The sausages resisted chewing as well. Was he being punished for something?
He remembered calling Callister a traitor or something to that effect. That was probably it. His breakfast was usually ready and warm whatever hour he happened to rise in the morning, unless he had harmed the feelings of one of his staff. He was always made to pay. They were a terribly loyal bunch, and if he wanted a decent lunch, he had best apologize to his butler and do so before witnesses.
He eyed the paper and decided his butler’s feelings were a bit more important. There was probably no word from The Plumiere inside anyway. Who knew how slow she might be to respond. Or perhaps she would not respond at all. Perhaps his lottery and his missive had frightened her away.
He stood and headed for the kitchens, to search for Callister while he ruminated.
If the lottery had frightened her, she would not have responded to it the morning after the event. Unless she had suffered a change of heart after his first public assault. If so, she might have gone into hiding and his quest might take a very long time indeed. In addition, he would very much miss a lively repartee.
He found his staff huddled over a table, listening as Chester read to them. The boy
had only recently confessed he could not read and so the staff had vowed to teach him. But this was no lesson book from which he read.
“Dear Lott,” Chester read, pronouncing carefully, if haltingly, leaving his audience to strain forward as they simultaneously listened and urged him on. Not a soul noticed their employer’s presence.
“I...suppose...you meant...that last as a pun. Marry, as...opposed...to merry. Does this mean you plan to...elude...the...agreement...of the...gentlemen’s...lottery...and not marry your...quarry? If you find her, that is. She will not run, hide, nor...faint...at your feet...and still you will...never catch her. I also...hear...you did not get a...chance...to show...off your new...ward...robe last even...ing. Pity. The Scar...let Plum...oh, Plumiere.”
The staff erupted in a dissonant chorus of outrage and laughter.
“How the devil did she know about his red drawers?”
“Mary! It weren’t his drawers they made red, it were his cravats and shirts.”
“Sarah, do not be ridiculous,” Callister snapped. “Of course His Lordship did not order red shirts.”
“No more ridiculous than—Cor! Forgive me, Yer Lordship!”
By the time Sarah’s outburst stopped echoing around the room, his staff had lined up, sealed their lips, and turned red, in that order. If they had not re-arranged themselves, he might have been able to separate the outraged persons from those highly entertained so he might give the former a nice bonus for their sympathy. But the thought of disappointing half of them never sat well. He always ended up paying everyone.
But that gave him an idea.
“Well, Chester?”
The lad stammered and shook. If he did not stop his teasing, he would put the boy off reading altogether.
“Do you have an opinion, Chester, as to how I should respond to The Scarlet Plumiere this time?”
Chester’s shaking finally reached his head.
North looked to the rest. “Well?”
Callister came forward and stood like a shield between himself and the nervous staff. “Well what, sir?”