by Aileen Fish
“I assume I am the he to whom you refer,” North said, though he’d just as soon walk out the door and not learn whatever secrets they had seen fit to keep from him for years. In spite of the stone weighing heavily in his stomach, he forged on. “Too late to change your mind now. Let’s hear it then.”
Ashmoore began pacing. That stone got heavier each time his friend completed a circuit. “Try to remember that you made me vow not to speak of France.”
“I never forget that.”
“Good. Then you will understand why we did not discuss this with you before now. You wanted to forget it all. We only wanted to grant you that wish.”
“Not the only reason.” Stanley mumbled.
“Quite right, Stan. I beg your pardon.”
Harcourt spun about and pointed an accusatory finger. “Look here. You have told everyone how heroic we were, to go back for you, to rescue you. You thought we were heroes. It is hard to let someone down who thinks of you as a hero.”
He looked at Ash. “I can understand that. You all thought I was terribly heroic for taking Ash’s place in the lottery. I hated to tell you otherwise.”
“Exactly.” Harcourt smiled. “So you will understand why we did not want to tell you—”
“We aren’t the heroes you believed us to be.” Stanley sounded terribly ashamed. He kept his head down, his hair hanging over his face like a white curtain.
“You saved me. I was there, remember? You never gave up. You found me, after all that time.”
“That’s where you are wrong, my friend.” Ashmoore stopped pacing and backed up to the wall. He dropped his chin to his chest. “We had given up.”
“Then you just happened to break into an armed fortress and check the dungeon for pirate’s gold but found me instead?”
Stanley sat back, but looked at his knees. “We were not far away, actually. We had come terribly close and we did not realize it.”
“We were distraught.” Harcourt was looking down again.
“We were drunk,” Ashmoore barked. “We were never going to find you and we were drowning ourselves in every available drop of liquor in the province.”
“And then? This cannot be the end of the story. Ash?”
His dark friend moved to the fire and leaned his body against a pillar. His face lit up red and yellow as he watched the flames. When it came, his voice was little more than a whisper.
“A woman came to me that night, chiding me for coming so close only to give up.”
“A woman. The Scottish woman?”
“Yes. That woman. She told us where to find you, gave us details.”
“It could have been a trap.”
“We would have gone anyway.”
“I know you would have. So what is this dire confession? Did you somehow decide not to find me, even after you’d been given these directions?”
“Very nearly. We were too drunk to remember, but luckily, this mystery woman attached those directions to my hand—”
“But you came for me when you sobered.” North shrugged. “So this is your sin? A few hours to sober? Please tell me this has not plagued the lot of you for two years.”
Harcourt lunged forward. “Stop it, North. Will you stop it? You are painting us as heroes again. But we were only very lucky friends. That is all. Providence shone on you. The woman saved you. We did not.”
Only two years ago, he would have thought Providence and God had forgotten him, so he’d felt no contrition for taking his revenge on that nest of French vipers. Neither had his friends. But every night he could not stop the memory of each man he’d executed, saw each face.
Ashmoore moved to the couch and dropped onto it.
“You are forgiven for not telling me sooner. But I see you as no less my rescuers. You were there, available for the telling.”
“We were too drunk to leave the country,” groaned Harcourt.
“Well, I will drink to that.”
“North, do not treat this as if it is nothing,” Stanley whispered. “We gave up.”
“Stanley, Harcourt, Ash. I forgive you for it. Now forgive yourselves, for pity’s sake.” He frowned at Ashmoore. “Why tell me now?”
“I did not want you to have too much faith in us. You believe we are more capable than you to guard Olivia. You are wrong. And if something happens to her, it would be best if you know ahead of time that we are not infallible.”
North finally understood what all this had to do with Livvy. They were correct—he’d thanked God every day for his friends, that they would be able to rescue her from any foe. And although it relieved his conscience a bit to suppose he might be worthy to walk among his rescuers, it also chilled the blood in his veins. Livvy was in more danger now, than she had been an hour ago, at least in his muddled mind.
“So, what do we do for Livvy?”
Ash leaned on his knees. “Think like Lord Gordon, I suppose. What would you do?”
“There would be no avoiding his being recognized,” Stanley offered.
“Right. So he could not just slip into town with a sack over his head.” Ash nodded. “Good. What else?”
“Knowing Gordon, he will throw a party,” said Harcourt with a sneer.
“If he does, at least we will know where he is,” Ash said.
North filled his lungs and let the breath out slowly. “It would not surprise me should the monster send us all invitations.”
“The ton will be his alibi.” Harcourt’s frown fell away and his usual enthusiasm attempted to return.
Stanley still looked concerned. “Brilliant. But is Gordon that clever?”
“Absolutely,” said Ash.
“So we watch for his first public display,” Harcourt suggested.
“And we act as if he has already made it.” Ash was back on his feet. “There is one other thing. Gordon will not make good any threat against Olivia if The Plumiere is still in play. He will go after the writer first.”
“Even so, day and night, Olivia and her father cannot be left alone.” North feared his friend was looking for a break from his watch.
“I have enough men already at Telford’s. No need for the three of you to bring more attention to the place by coming and going.”
“No, of course not.” Harcourt frowned. “We will just have to keep busy, beating the bushes for The Plumiere, making him believe we have not found her yet.”
North bit his lip. Should he tell them? Should he not? Perhaps his friends would be better able to play their parts if they were not told who The Plumiere actually was. For the moment, unless the situation changed, he would keep Livvy’s secret.
Callister returned with four teacups on a tray and passed them around. North took a sip and choked.
“Whiskey, with a shot of tea, my lord.”
“Thank you, Callister.” He had to clear his throat to get his full voice back. “I believe we should pay closer attention to Lady Malbury’s azaleas,” he suggested.
Harcourt moaned for some reason.
“I wonder, though,” said Stanley. “Would it be better for The Plumiere if we did not find her? Would she be safer? Should not North wave the white flag? Let her go?”
“North?” Ashmoore handed the decision to him yet again.
“I suppose it is inevitable. I was prepared to last another week at best.” He hadn’t meant to say the last aloud but was relieved to find his friends nodding their agreement. It was reassuring to know he was not the only one tiring of the game.
Harcourt raised his teacup into the air. “To protecting The Scarlet Plumiere!”
“To protecting The Scarlet Plumiere!” They each repeated.
“Whomever she may be,” Harcourt said, then drained his glass.
Stanley did the same. Then Ashmoore.
The last bit sounded about as sincere as a toast to the Sherriff of Nottingham.
“Damn you all. You know who she is!” His roar echoed against the ceiling.
Stanley choked. Harcourt’s eyes doubled
in size, and Ashmoore collapsed into the chair behind him.
North turned to Stanley. “How long have you known?”
“My dinner party. I admit to tricking her into confirming it. My smile distracted her, I believe. I told no one.”
“And you?” He stepped up to Harcourt.
“You are the one to leave me on that blasted azalea watch. The young man only checks under two pots—those of Lady Malbury and Lady Olivia. I told no one.”
“And you, Ash?”
“The first day you went to see her, I arrived soon after you did, but heard her discussing it with the servants. I asked her not to tell you I had been there. I told no one else.”
“So she knows you know?”
Stanley raised his hand. “She knows I know.”
Harcourt grinned. “She does not know I know.”
“Your turn, old boy,” Ashmoore said. “How long have you been keeping the same secret from us? I notice you didn’t immediately ask for her name.”
“I knew the day I met her. She was a veritable Jekyll and Hyde, trying to act the timid bird incapable of leaving her father’s side one minute, then tormenting her late mother’s dog the next.” He laughed at the memory of the little rat side-stepping away with its lip curled. “And the ribbon with which she tormented the animal matched that scarlet ribbon on Stanley’s gift.”
“The Rat. I do believe it thinks I can protect it from her. Hides beneath whichever chair I choose. So I sit as close to Livvy as possible, just to disappoint it.” Ash laughed.
North suddenly sobered.
“Livvy now is it? And just how close to her do you sit?”
His dark friend raised his arms in defense, then lifted a knee across his seated body when North advanced on him.
“I will have you know she has been driven insane with jealousy! Damn me if she has not.”
North stopped. “I am not an unreasonable man. I will let you say what you have to say before I pummel you.”
“It is not the intensity of her jealousy that drives her mad,” he said in all seriousness. “It is the fact that the woman of whom she is jealous is herself.”
North smiled. It might have been the only thing to save Ashmoore a bit of blood-letting that day. Any denials would have fallen on a deaf ear, but jealousy he could understand. He had been turning green for weeks!
For the remainder of the evening, they fought over which of them was best capable of protecting Livvy. It embarrassed him to admit to his friends that he was, indeed, afraid he might black out at an inopportune moment—as he often had while a captive in France—and wake to find her gone, or worse. He pled with Ash to maintain his guardianship. Ash, in the end, could not deny him.
Stanley gave his reason for allowing North to learn the truth for himself. Harcourt and Ashmoore admitted to the same. He tried to imagine what he might have felt had one of his friends come to him with the news. They had been correct--it would have dealt his confidence a mighty blow. He so prided himself on being clever enough, at least, to be worthy of her.
Harcourt frowned. “Oh, we did not say you were worthy of her, just that we wanted you to believe you were.”
The marquess’s chair flew backward and the wind was knocked from his lungs.
“What’s that, old boy?” North returned his foot to the floor and lifted a hand to his ear. “You apologize? Well, certainly I forgive you.”
“All joking aside, gentlemen,” said Ash. “I think it is time Mr. Lott sent The Scarlet Plumiere another message.” Then he clasped his hands behind his back and grinned at North. “We need to give him someone to watch besides Livvy.”
Chapter 24
The Capital Journal, February 16, Morning edition, Fiction section
Once upon a time in The Great City, a certain Mr. Lott became unreasonably besotted with a certain witty writer, a woman possessed of both a clever wit and a scarlet pen. But one night he came to his senses and understood the danger he had invited to her door. He had paid no heed to those hounds of Hell who watched and waited for his clever writer to be unmasked. But he is paying heed to them now.
My dear writer. Come to me. Allow me to protect you from those I have brought to your door. Let me make amends. Show yourself to me. Show pity. I admit I cannot find you and should in all reason, leave you be. But there are those hounds, you see. I cannot leave you to them. And I have gone quite insane trying to find you myself, but you are far too clever for me.
Touche, Mademoiselle. Unmask yourself to me at least. Collect my white flag...and all my red ones. –Mr. Lott
Chester brought it to him while he sipped his coffee. North could not even glance at the newpaper without feeling gut-punched. Callister did not force breakfast on him. He was left in absolute, miserable peace.
Ashmoore did not come to tease with tales of The Rat. He and the men he kept at his beck and call were part of Telford’s household now. All the world assumed his friend was courting Livvy. Any hounds from Hell should have taken note that a very dangerous man now watched over Lady Olivia. To approach her was folly. Scandal be damned.
Stanley and Harcourt were off making a show of searching for The Plumiere, in hopes they were being watched and could lead any sniffing hounds on a merry chase.
North was left to man the distraction. The house was being watched. The watchers were being watched. Any woman fool enough to cross his threshold was asking for very real trouble. It was the longest week of his life.
By Thursday, when he had worn the spots off his playing cards and the pattern from more than one carpet, a message came from Ash.
Livvy is going to kill The Rat and feed it to her father for supper if she is not allowed out of the house and away from all these “men.” We will be going to the opera tomorrow night, or Livvy will be going alone—or so I have been informed. Yes, you may greet her. No, you may not sit in the same box. You may not touch her hand, swoon as she walks by, or pull her into a dark alcove. You keep your bloody eyes to yourself or do not allow those eyes within a block of the place. –Ash
Post Script. No, she does not know that you know, or that Harcourt knows, so yes, she is still painfully jealous, though she would cut off her tongue before she would admit it.
Poor Olivia!
Surely there was something he could do.
~*~
Sarah stood on the London dock. Her heart thundered as men and beasts bumped into her in the swirling mist of morning. She might be pushed into the water at any moment, but she dared not move. This is where Maude instructed her to stay and even though she feared drowning, she still feared her aunt a little more.
The woman had refused to leave the ship until the captain returned the fares she’d paid for passage. She’d doctored the leg of his bosen and demanded free passage in return, but the captain insisted he’d only agreed to the terms thinking she meant return passage to France. So all morning, while the ship was unloaded, Maude made a nuisance of herself, hoping the man would simply pay her to go away. Sarah was to stand in the center of the dock and cause trouble as well. She’d been capable of only the first half of her instructions.
If the woman weren’t her last living relative, Sarah would happily run off into the fog and never see the frightening woman again. She’d had a brief taste of the streets of London, however, and she would never willingly return to them. If Lord Ashmoore was displeased with the trouble they were about to bring to his doorstep, she might find herself alone once again. But at least she would be on home soil. Finding herself alone in Paris would have meant the death of her, she was sure.
~*~
Livvy had waited all day for something horrible to come along and force them to change their plans. It was not possible that her prison doors would open for her that night. It was just a cruel joke; everyone went on acting as if she truly needed to prepare for an evening at the opera.
She had not attended anything public for years. If she did indeed escape through the front door on Ash’s arm, she hoped she still remember
ed how to act. The little dinner party at Viscount F’s house had been a simple gathering of friends. Tonight she would need to walk gracefully across foyers, climb stairs without a misstep, smile and say the correct thing to the correct people, and with many of the haute ton looking on.
Perhaps she did not wish to leave the house after all. She had laid claim to a small sitting room in the center of the house that boasted only a small window, then refused admittance to anyone without bosoms. For a precious hour, here and there, she had been able to pretend there weren’t a half dozen men listening to her breathe and routinely checking to see if she had moved from one room to another.
She had enjoyed playing the tyrant, 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.