by Aileen Fish
Not yet. The time is not yet right.
“You want me to believe you didn’t kill Ursula?”
“I don’t care what you believe. I thought I made that perfectly clear at our engagement party.”
She refused to allow the shame and horror of that night control her actions now.
She laughed. And laughed. The longer she laughed, the louder and more maniacal she sounded. When she finally stopped, she’d put some distance between them.
“Surely you do not mean to threaten me here, my lord, in front of all these people. I certainly did not share your secret with anyone. I am insulted that you would think me so cruel. But then I wonder how many others you might have insulted since your return. Am I safe, even standing near you, if there are men waiting around every corner to answer those insults?” He advanced on her, his jaw flexing. She circled the table, clutched at the shoulders of those men still seated. They seemed to cringe from her touch as she imagined Gordon would. “Please, gentlemen. Be careful. Protect yourselves.”
“You say they need to protect themselves from me? If that is not slander I do not know what is!”
“No, my lord. They should protect themselves from your enemies. I dare not stay. Having my name linked with yours again will doom me.”
And with that, she hurried from the room, putting as many tables as possible between them as she wended her way back to the foyer. Then she paused, looked Gordon in the eye...and blew him a kiss. The man should have been sufficiently enraged by now. And no matter what happened hereafter, he would remember that for tonight, she had played the tune for his dancing.
Once again, she plunged into the smoke-filled corridor. But now it was more crowded. If Gordon followed her, he could find her in this smoke and wring her neck without the people nearest her being able to identify her killer, even if they were so inclined.
She pushed on a shoulder, trying to part the pair in her path. When she tried to slip between them, she was caught by their entwined hands.
“Hey now!”
“Excuse me. Please. Let me through,” she urged, trying not to raise her voice. Finally, she shoved the woman into the man and escaped around her right side. Someone clutched at her cloak and held, then laughed and let go. Others took up the game, eager to torment her by slowing her progress.
She was suddenly surrounded by dark shadows. Not a woman in the lot that she might push aside in order to escape. They plucked at her cloak, turned her in a circle. She reached inside the pocket and pulled the sword from the cane. Allowing herself to be turned, she held out the foot long blade as she went, feeling it slice cloth and something else. Something warm splashed on her hand. The sound of air sucked through teeth. Cursing.
The hands dropped away. Her cloak was nearly freed. The smoke swirled ahead from the opening of the door. She moved toward it.
A hand grabbed the back of her neck and held. Her shoulders shot up to hold the fingers in place. With her left hand, she fumbled at the clasp at her throat. When she relaxed her shoulders, the cloak fell away. The fingers lost their grip. She ran at the oaf, who did not see her coming, then slammed her body hard against his side. The doorway was clear, then filled with the face of a disfigured man. She stifled a scream and moved smoothly around him. With her eyes stinging from the smoke, she was lucky she could see the steps before her. She commanded her feet to move, her skirts to stay out of the way.
And then she was on the sidewalk. The air was clear. There was room to run if she needed it. Men were staring. They stopped to watch her pass. She slowed. Her heart beat too loud for her to discern if someone followed, so she forced herself to look over her shoulder. No one. A dozen black figures were headed for Merrill’s front door, not in her direction.
Dear heavens, what now?
The winter air lay upon her exposed skin like heavy ice, but she welcomed the shock; it served to clear the smoke lingering in her head. She’d lost the cloak, and with it, the cane and her mother’s reticule. Looking down, she realized she still held the sword. Blood dripped from the tip and onto her dress, disappearing in the dark red folds. No wonder they had stared.
No cloak. No money. A hack driver would demand payment first, considering the way she was dressed. If she could only borrow a carriage!
She searched the markings on the parked conveyances as she passed. The Count Germaine’s decidedly French crest was clear. The next, a coat of arms she recognized as the one that might have become her own—Gordon’s!
She glanced up at the driver, but there was no one there. Was he standing with the horses to keep warm? Waiting inside the coach for a summons? Only one way to find out.
There was no one left on the sidewalk. The crowd in front of Merrill’s had forgotten her. She spun around once more. Her sword caught on her skirt. Depending on what might happen inside that carriage, it would likely be unwise to have her father’s blade left behind.
She went back to Count Germaine’s horses. His driver was fast asleep, huddled in a mass of blankets. He took no notice when she bent down and slid the sword onto the tree that ran between the animals. It was flat and the perfect width upon which to rest the handle which was carved in the shape of a horse’s head, Telford was engraved along the mane.
Later, when the weapon fell from the wood, it would hopefully be far away from Gordon’s carriage. No one would have a reason to suspect her father.
Sorry, Papa. But she’d already lost the cane.
She walked back to Gordon’s carriage. Still no sign of the driver.
She opened the door and tried not to think of the fact that she may not make it out of the carriage alive. But hopefully, neither would Gordon.
Chapter 33
Livvy had stumbled upon a perfect plan to see that Gordon would be found guilty of murder; she was going to freeze to death in the darkness of his carriage, and it was going to take only ten minutes for her to do so! The man had been in Merrill’s for the entire evening; so of course there would be no heat. Neither could she find a blanket. Perhaps the driver is curled up beneath it somewhere.
Her head was clear, she had the pistol in hand, but she worried she’d be caught off guard at Gordon’s arrival if only from the loud chattering of her teeth. She considered pulling her skirts up over her head, hoping her many layers of underthings would keep her lower half warm, but her decision was postponed when a carriage pulled up alongside Gordon’s. Her hand raised to the curtain, but she thought better of it. The murmurs of numerous men made her consider for the first time that Gordon might not enter his carriage alone. And if he had company, that company might enter the carriage first, giving the blasted man sufficient warning to get away!
She had one shot. She had to be very sure it entered the correct man. Since she might need to do a bit of bluffing before brandishing her weapon, she held the gun next to her leg, concealing it with her skirt. She’d not be using the thick yards of fabric for warmth after all.
The other carriage had not moved. Surely it was blocking the street.
Gordon’s carriage rocked as if the driver might be climbing up to take his position. The time was at hand! She knew it reeked of blasphemy to pray for help killing the man, but she did so anyway.
The door opened slowly, but no one entered. Her heart must have beat a dozen times while she stared at the square of light, waiting.
“Olivia, please leave the pistol on the seat and climb out.”
Northwick? Northwick! Why could it not have been anyone else?
The world got suddenly colder, and it had naught to do with the door remaining open.
“No.” She was lucky to have said it without her teeth knocking together.
She heard a familiar growl just before the carriage rocked again.
“I’m coming in. If you shoot me, I shall wring your neck before I die.”
He deposited himself across from her and unfortunately, someone beside the door held up a lantern. She had to fight to keep from raising the pistol and shooting out the l
ight—or shooting Northwick so she need not endure the look on his face.
“Where is the gun?” He held out a hand.
She lifted a brow.
“Damn it, Olivia. You have surely drawn enough of my blood this evening to satisfy even you.”
She didn’t understand. Drawn his blood? When she had set him aside? Was he hurt so deeply then?
He growled again and turned his arm. Dark drops made a trail across his cuffs.
She met his gaze with confusion, but when she opened her mouth to ask him when she could have done such a thing, her jaw protested. The chattering from her teeth moved into her bones and she lost the ability to control anything.
“Damn it!” Northwick lifted her left hand, then released it and pulled her right arm from beneath her skirt. The pistol was heavy, but she could not release it. She watched, detached, as he pushed the tip toward the floor. “Stand back,” he called to the one who held the lantern.
A fierce shiver racked her body just then and the gun went off. There was a spark of fire, a puff of smoke, and that was all.
The look in Northwick’s eyes was murderous, but it hadn’t been her fault. If he would have left her alone, he would have been in no danger.
He peeled the gun away a bit roughly, then jerked her forward. Shards of pain cut up her fingers, then up her arms when her body slammed into his. She was the ice now, far too thick for his warmth to reach her. One of his arms slid behind her bottom and down to her knees and suddenly she was flying sideways through the carriage door and back into the slightly more frigid air. Her chin was numb and she held it away from him, fearful her face might shatter if it were bumped.
He whisked her around Gordon’s carriage to the one stopped in the street. It was her own. She need not glance up to know that John would be there. His disappointment in her was something she could not bear at the moment. She had to get away. She had to get her pistol back and reload it. She had to get back into Gordon’s carriage. Surely he would be arriving any moment.
“Get inside!” She looked at Northwick’s face, but he was looking at someone else. There was that lantern again.
The lantern went inside.
“Hold her, Harcourt. Get her warm.”
She was tossed into the carriage like a sack of wheat and she feared what bones might break when she hit the floor, but she was caught and lifted onto someone’s lap. She dared not look up to see if it was Harcourt. She was mortified, held like a baby.
The door closed. A heavy blanket was tucked around her. She breathed in warmer air, but then it went cold again when the door reopened and in flew another small blanket.
“Use this as well,” Northwick grumbled. “And do not give her this.” He extended her father’s intact cane to Milton. The dark horse’s head was unmistakable—the handle of the sword she’d placed on Germaine’s carriage. He could not have happened upon it. He had to have been watching! And as Milton spread the smaller blanket over the top of the first, she realized it was her mother’s cloak. The fur trim tickled her lips. The cloak had been taken by... Taken by someone whom she’d possibly cut with a sword.
North had followed her into Merrill’s.
He likely heard every word she’d said, perhaps been one of those to have laughed at her as she fled. Why, oh why couldn’t he have just left her in Gordon’s carriage?
She prayed that when the blankets were lifted away, they’d find no trace of her. Surely her overwhelming sense of ‘nothingness’ would reduce her to dry bits that could be scattered on the wind.
Her face stung, as did her toes, but she did not care. The heat from the man holding her overcame her chills and she stopped shaking at least. Her teeth still rattled, but not incessantly. She held herself away from him until her arms tired. She tried to resist, but the man she believed was Harcourt pulled her close and tucked her head beneath his chin.
“Harcourt?”
“Yes, Olivia.”
“Would you mind running that small sword through my heart?”
“Yes, Olivia. And Northwick would also mind, I promise you.”
“He was there? Inside Merrill’s?”
“He, Milton, and I.”
Oh, dear lord!
“You were terribly brave, and terribly clever. You reminded me of your father’s dog, though much prettier of course.”
“Barking mad?”
He laughed. “No. Just terribly brave considering your size.”
“If Northwick hates me so, why did he come? And why could he not just leave me in Gordon’s carriage?”
“Because he is willing to sell his soul to see you safe. He does not hate you, Livvy. He hates the risks you take. He fears he will not recover if something happens to you.”
“I cannot allow Gordon to eliminate everyone who prevents him from murdering me.”
“Anyone, man or woman, would be foolish to assume that burden alone.”
The carriage slowed to an abrupt halt. Behind her, Milton cocked a pistol and aimed it at the door. Harcourt pulled her tighter.
Two knocks. “It is Northwick.”
“Come,” Harcourt said.
The door opened and Northwick motioned Milton outside.
“You too, Harcourt.”
“I do not think—”
Northwick gave Harcourt a look that stopped him from finishing.
“Please, Presley,” he whispered.
Harcourt looked at her with regret. Then lifted her away from him.
She shook her head. “No!” But her arms were tangled in the blankets and she could not reach for him before he deposited her on the opposite seat.
“Sorry, Livvy.” Harcourt kissed her head and was gone.
She tore at the blankets and swung her feet to the floor. As soon as Northwick’s bulk was out of the way, she lunged for the door, but he pulled it closed. For the longest time, she stared at his fingers gripping the handle. She would not look at his face; one more fierce look from the man would kill her. She could feel the hardness of his eyes boring into her and turned away from him, into the seat, pulling her legs up, crossing her arms over her chest, willing the great weight of her embarrassment to stop her heart and have done.
Mercifully, he doused the light.
Shivers crashed over her, but she would not reach for the blanket. She could survive the cold until they arrived home. Ten minutes. She could last ten minutes more. Within the darkness, he would never see the silent tears escaping down her cheeks.
There was no need to cry, she told herself, over and over again, but the tears continued.
The blankets rustled and she stiffened, but it wasn’t blankets that touched her—it was Northwick’s hands, feeling her shoulder, wrapping around her waist, sliding beneath her knees. She told herself to resist, but her dread made her boneless.
What can he possibly do to me now?
Once again, she was sitting across a man’s lap. His clothes were cold. She could not sense his customary heat. Again, the blanket came ‘round her, was tucked here and there against the cold air. Another shiver rolled through her and on into him. Was he shaking as well?
A hand touched her hair and slowly moved to her cheek. She held her breath as her head was tilted back, then nearly sobbed when his mouth descended upon her own. In her weakened state, she relished the contact, reveled in his attention in spite of what he might think of her. She needed this, and she reached for his head, to show him just how dearly she needed it.
Her fingers brushed into his hair. Her palm settled against his cheek—his wet cheek. Had the man been shedding tears? Impossible! And yet, there they were.
The thought slipped away, however, lost in the onslaught of warm lips and warmer breath that chased away her shivers. His tongue held her complete attention, demanded it. And there, in the dark, nothing else mattered. There was no yesterday or tomorrow. There was only that moment, and she would have given all the rest to make that moment last.
Their breathing was the only sound. The creaking a
nd clopping of a carriage and horses faded into darkness. He pulled her closer, until she could move no closer. And yet, it would never be close enough.
His lips moved to her jaw, then her neck. His fingers moved across her shoulder, then traveled along her neckline. She moaned as she remembered back to that encounter in the darkened dressing room, how she’d lost her senses there as well.
His hand froze. He pulled back, but only far enough to set his forehead against her own. His breathing slowed along with hers.
“Marry me, Livvy. Set aside your heroics and be my wife. I beg you.”
“When this is over—”
He interrupted by kissing her again and while he did so, he pulled the blanket over her, tucked it between them, then held her close before ending the kiss.
“I would do anything you asked of me, Livvy. But I am taking back my promise. I will not marry The Scarlet Plumiere. She lives too dangerously. Let her die, with Ursula.” He kissed her forehead, then whispered against it. “Marry me, Olivia Reynolds. Marry me.”
There he was, waving to her from that path she wasn’t to take. She had already made this decision. She knew she must resist that beckoning hand and turn away. But her reasons were different now. This time, running into his arms might cost him his life. Turning away from him would only cost him his pride, and perhaps a very small piece of his heart.
He held very still, waiting for her answer.
“How can I?” She could only whisper. “How can I tell Lord Gordon and the world that the surest way to hurt me is to hurt The Earl of Northwick? I will not do it. Do not ask it of me.”
“Then promise me, just here, just now, between the two of us. Tell me you’ll be mine, Livvy. We will tell no one. But you must give me hope. You must tell me you will never do anything so foolish as you did tonight, sneaking away from your own protection. Dear God, if you had not frozen to death, you would have been at Gordon’s mercy!”
“I would have shot him. I might have ended up at the mercy of the courts, but the rest of you would have been safe.”
“Livvy.” His voice changed. “The pistol misfired. If I had not stopped you, it would have misfired when you aimed it at Gordon—if you’d been able to catch him off guard. Then you would have only succeeded in making him more angry than he was already.”